Doll. Nicky Singer

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СКАЧАТЬ I listen.

      Downstairs there is noise. Grandma, who has never slept well, is up already. I hear the clatter of her in the kitchen. She will have laid a table, put out napkins. What else will she have done?

      I rise silently and get dressed for school. We all need things to be ordinary. This is the game Grandma and I play. I tuck the doll into my skirt pocket and move with agile silence along the corridor to my mother’s room. The door is ajar.

      And of course, I do not want to enter there. I do not want to see again anything that I have seen.

      “What are you then?” my mother says. “A mouse?”

      So I go in.

      The room is tidy and the bed made, which alone proves that my mother is dead. For if my mother lived there would be mess everywhere. Drawers agape, clothes on the floor, lids off lipstick. But there is no mess. There are no candles. No cinnamon sticks. Even the flowers are gone. The window is wide open and the morning air abrasively clean. In the night, Grandma has scrubbed the carpet. Got down on her stiff knees with the disinfectant. If there were stains – if there were spots – on that carpet last night, there won’t be now. But there were no spots. There were just rose petals, red rose petals. That was all. I was there. It was a good death, the death she would have wanted.

      “Always tell the truth, Tilly,” says my mother. “The truth is important. Yes?”

      “Tilly.” It’s Grandma calling. “Is that you?” I move quickly into the corridor, pretend that I’ve just come from the bathroom.

      “Oh, good, you’re up. Breakfast’s made.”

      The smell of bacon fat curls up the stairs. I go down to the kitchen. Grandma is also frying sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms. As I come in she cracks two eggs.

      “You know I don’t eat breakfast.”

      “Well, you should. You must. Breakfast sets you up for the day.”

      We have had this discussion a thousand times. I don’t want to have it this morning. I make for the fridge, for juice. Then I see the breakfast table. It’s laid for three.

      I round on her. “You’ve told him, haven’t you? You called him.”

      “Of course,” my grandmother says. “What did you expect?” And then: “He’s family.”

      As if in confirmation of this fact, the doorbell rings.

      I watch her unyielding walk to the porch.

      “Margaret.” My father steps into the hall, greets my grandmother and then turns immediately to me. “Tilly, I’m so sorry.”

      He walks straight down the corridor and, uninvited, puts his arms around me. As I stand like a stone in his embrace, I think: this is what it must be like to be hugged by a stranger. Although he’s not a stranger. I see him most weekends.

      Then he says something else. He says: “Grandma told me. Grandma says it was you who found her.”

      And I feel a pricking hotness in my face, as though he’d accused me of lying. And something in me wants to shout, but I put my hand on the doll and keep my mouth clamped shut.

      He releases me. He’s a small man. Small and mobile and the colour of sand. How could my huge, dark mother have loved him?

      “Tilly …” he begins.

      “Don’t worry, Richard,” says Grandma. “I’m here. I’ll be here. I’ll look after her. We’ll be fine, won’t we Tilly?”

      “Yes,” I say then.

      He looks relieved.

      “There’s coffee, Richard,” says Grandma. “And breakfast if you haven’t eaten.”

      “Of course he hasn’t eaten,” I say. “He eats at the restaurant. That’s why he’s always gone so early.” I say it on autopilot, like my mother used to say it, half bitterly, half to explain why he was never here of a morning.

      My father looks at his watch.

      “I expect you’re busy,” I mimic. “I expect you’ve got a lot on.”

      “Tilly …” warns Grandma.

      “It’s OK,” says my father. “It’s the shock.”

      “Hardly a shock,” says Grandma.

      My father sits down. My mother’s mother brings him coffee, serves him a man’s breakfast. The plate steams.

      “How can you eat?” I say.

      “Everyone has to eat,” says Grandma.

      “I’ll let the school know,” says my father. “I’ll drive you in, Tilly. Speak to the Head.”

      “No!”

      It sounds like a gasp. Grandma looks at me, moves to my side, takes my hand.

      “No need, Richard,” she says smoothly. “I’ll deal with all that.”

      “But—” he protests.

      “It’s fine, Richard. It’ll be fine. You have enough to do.”

      “Enough” means work. Grandma likes a man to work. Her husband always worked, Gerry. Worked long hours, worked long distances, was a travelling salesman. Good commission, until he ran his car into a tree. Still got Salesman of the Week though, even though he died on the Thursday. Had more Tupperware receipts in his pocket that day than most salesmen got in a month. That’s what was said, proudly, at his funeral. His daughter, my mother, was fourteen at the time. The same age I am now.

      “Well,” says my father, “if you’re sure.”

      “I’m sure,” she says.

      He looks uncomfortable. Says to me, knife poised, “Aren’t you having any?”

      “I’m not hungry.” He should put down that knife. The light on the blade is bouncing in my eyes.

      “She’s a stick. A rake. How can she be the daughter of a restaurateur and be so uninterested in food? You should feed her up, Richard.”

      “She knows she’s welcome in the restaurant any time.” He looks up at me, blade still upright. “In fact, you can come back with me, Tilly. Stay until – well, you know.”

      “Put down the knife,” I say.

      “What?”

      “The knife. Put it down!”

      Grandma moves swiftly, pushes my father’s knife into his bacon, as though he were a child.

      “What—”

      Then she backs off, stands against the counter. “Sorry, Richard,” she says and half nods at me. Adding quickly, “And don’t worry СКАЧАТЬ