Page 21 of The Pieces of Us

I’m always happy to see him, but I’m especially keen to get to Mr Dunlop’s house today because I had a big fight with Sandra on the walk home from school.

She was acting like she’s four and not fourteen, refusing to walk on any of the cracks on the pavement because it was bad luck.

This meant she kept putting her foot in front of mine and leaping about like an eejit.

When she almost tripped me up, I turned to her and pulled her pigtail, hard.

‘Ow!’ she yelled. ‘What was that for?’

‘For acting like a kid.’ I picked up my pace, trying to leave her behind, but she caught up with me on those long lanky legs of hers and poked me in the back.

‘I am not!’ I shouted at her.

‘Yes, you are. You can’t do anything without Mam’s permission and you don’t even have proper tits yet.’

I felt hot under my layers of school uniform – the stiff white shirt tight round my neck, the burgundy cardigan that gets coarser with every wash, the matching blazer that always smells a bit like wet dog because it rains so much.

‘Well –’ I desperately tried to think of a worse insult – she has bigger breasts than me, a grievance I can’t help but dwell on, so that’s not an option.

‘You’ll never have curly hair!’ I told her triumphantly.

‘Not real curls, anyway.’ In an attempt to rub salt in her wound, I flicked my hair in front of my shoulders in an exaggerated motion.

I glared at her, silently, for several seconds, then turned and stomped down the street.

‘Hey!’ she yelled at me. ‘I could have curly hair if I wanted to!’

It took every ounce of my energy to stop myself from having the last word. But I’m sixteen years old, and far too mature for that sort of thing.

I tell Mr Dunlop what happened, although I leave out the embarrassing details – I know grown-ups do that too – and make sure he gets the message, which is that Sandra is a pain in the neck.

He does, because he listens intently and makes reassuring noises and when I’ve finished talking, he tells me he completely understands and he’s proud of me for standing up for myself and trying to teach my sister an important lesson.

‘You do so much at home, Beth,’ he says. ‘That’s why it’s important for you to have time to yourself, away from your family. You’re absolutely right – you’re an adult now and part of being an adult is exploring new experiences and meeting new people.’

‘My parents don’t think so,’ I tell him. ‘They’re so strict. I have to go to bed at the same time as Sandra and Patrick, and he’s not even thirteen yet.’

‘My poor Beth.’ He lowers his voice. ‘I’m not going to make you do any work today. Let’s just have a drink and relax. Does that sound good?’

‘I feel bad that I’m not doing your letters.’

‘Let me worry about my letters,’ he says firmly. ‘It will be our little secret, OK? I insist. Oh … I almost forgot. I have something for you.’

I watch him get up from his chair and rummage around in a bag under his desk.

I fidget in my own chair, feeling a little awkward.

I’ve been aware of a strange feeling when I’m here sometimes.

Like I’m a little out of my depth. I guess that’s just part of being a grown-up too.

We have a lot more to worry about than kids do.

I feel lots of different things when I’m here, with him, and the happy emotions – when our bodies are close, when he’s stroking parts of me that I didn’t know could feel a certain way, a way I can’t even find the words for – more than outweigh the others.

He’s beside me again, and in front of me are four of my favourite faces in the world: Benny, Bjorn, Agnetha and, of course, my Anni-Frid.

I trail my fingertips across the album cover.

‘ Arrival. It only came out last week!’ I saw it in Woolworths when Janice and I were in after school getting pick and mix.

His smile is wide. ‘I know. I hope you don’t have it already?’

‘Oh, no. I was going to ask for it for Christmas.’

He presses it against my chest gently. ‘Well, think of it as a very early present from Father Christmas.’

‘Thank you so much,’ I say shyly, hugging my precious gift. ‘You’re so kind.’

‘It’s easy to be kind to a lovely young woman like you, Beth.’ He strokes my hair. ‘Let’s put your record on, shall we? Maybe I’ll even show you my dance moves.’

This makes me think of my parents for some reason, although I’ve only seen them dance a handful of times. I don’t want to think about them, so I focus on Anni-Frid’s face again and tell Mr Dunlop, ‘Yes, please.’

We don’t go into his study today, because by the time we’ve listened to the full album it’s time for me to get home for tea.

‘Would you be able to come tomorrow?’ he asks as I’m leaving.

‘Those letters won’t type themselves, and you know what I’m like.

’ He stabs his two index fingers pointing downwards in the air, as if on an imaginary keyboard. We both laugh.

‘Of course,’ I tell him.

‘You’re delicious, Beth,’ he says, before kissing me softly on the cheek. It’s not until I’m halfway home that I realize what the word reminds me of. It’s what Michael says to Katherine in Forever , and I swear my feet don’t touch the ground the rest of the way.

I’m soon brought down to earth. While Mr Dunlop’s home is calm, elegant and spacious, ours is bursting at the seams even more than usual. The clamour of voices jars in my ears as soon as I step into the house. I know what Father means when he says he can’t hear himself think.

There are two extra bodies today – my older cousin Mary and my Auntie Jeannie, who is my father’s older sister.

We don’t see them that often – they live up near Glasgow and sometimes come down our way on Boxing Day, with Mary’s quiet husband in tow.

We all went to their wedding last year, but we left the reception as soon as the music got too raucous.

Mary is nearly six years older than me and she’s always been friendly.

‘She’s a character, that one,’ I heard Mam say under her breath one Boxing Day – there might have been raucous music involved then too.

Mary and Auntie Jeannie have a completely different relationship to me and Mam.

She and my aunt are more like friends than mother and daughter.

I feel a bit sad sometimes, when I see them laughing together.

But Mary’s not laughing today. Amid the racket going on around her, she’s sitting quietly on the sofa, her face pale. It takes her a moment to notice me, but when she does, she smiles. ‘Hi, Beth. You look nice. Your hair is so long. I love your curls.’

I can’t help but look at Sandra, sitting on the floor with Reenie and a jigsaw, to see if she’s heard Mary’s compliment. Whether she has or not, she’s not looking at me. But she knows I’m here. I can tell by the way her jaw is clenched. That’s the way it goes with sisters.

I sit beside Mary. I wish I could take her upstairs to listen to Arrival , but Mr Dunlop and I agreed that it was best if it stayed at his house. Our little secret.

I’m finding it hard to relax; I’m still thinking about Mr Dunlop and his gift. Nobody has ever bought me a gift just because – when it wasn’t my birthday or Christmas.

‘What are you smirking at?’ Sandra demands, throwing herself down on the sofa next to Mary and me.

‘Talking to me now, are you?’ I say smoothly.

She shrugs. ‘I hate jigsaws.’ One good thing about Sandra is that she doesn’t hold a grudge. She leans closer to me. ‘Shall we escape upstairs?’

I’m better at dragging out an argument than she is, but I’d rather be friends with my sister than sit and listen to Mam and Auntie Jeannie’s stilted chat. ‘Want to come?’ I ask Mary.

‘Yes please,’ she says.

In our room the three of us sit cross-legged on Sandra’s bed and it’s as if Mary’s one of us and not a married woman.

‘Your mam tells us you’ve got a wee job, Beth,’ she says to me.

‘I’m doing letters for Mr Dunlop,’ I tell her. ‘He’s … an important businessman.’

‘What’s his business?’ Sandra demands. ‘Why’s it so important?’

‘I don’t know,’ I snap at her. ‘It just is.’

‘Well, what’s in the letters?’

‘Important business,’ I hiss through clenched teeth. ‘Sorry, Mary. My sister just doesn’t know when to keep her big mouth shut.’

Sandra slides off the bed and stalks out of the room. ‘I’m telling on you.’

‘Sorry,’ I say again. ‘Do you want to listen to music?’

‘Sure,’ Mary says. ‘And don’t worry about it.’

‘You’re lucky you don’t have a sister.’

She doesn’t say anything. I decide to put my Joni Mitchell Court and Spark record on, because Mary doesn’t look good at all and ABBA is probably too lively. ‘Are you OK? You’re so pale.’

Mary shrugs. ‘I was at the hospital today for some tests. I’m OK. They took a lot of blood, that’s all.’

I turn the volume down. ‘Are you sick?’

‘Sort of. I’ll be all right, though. Don’t worry.’ She forces out a laugh. ‘Anyway, tell me more about your job.’

I tell her about the stained-glass window and all the books, and the heavenly lemonade, and the chats we have about everything. I don’t tell her about our little secret.

‘Is he married? Does he have children?’

‘No children, but he’s married. He’s not happy, though. He and his wife have very separate lives, he says. It makes him feel lonely.’

‘They don’t have kids. Why don’t they get a divorce?’

I stare at her. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘It’s not such a big deal these days,’ she tells me, and I wonder whether people have different ideas about things in the city.

‘Tell that to my mother,’ I say.

‘So you’re there with him when his wife isn’t there?’ Mary says it casually, but I’m suddenly feeling under pressure.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘He’s a good, kind man.’

‘Oh, I’m sure he is,’ Mary says quickly. ‘I like Joni Mitchell.’

For some reason I’m annoyed that she’s changed the subject.

There’s so much more I could have told her to make sure she doesn’t have the wrong idea.

Then Sandra runs back into the room, all fired up, and tells us we’ve to come back downstairs right now because Mam and Auntie Jeannie have decided we’re getting the bus to the beach to get chips and fresh air, to put the colour back into Mary’s cheeks.