The Book of the Banshee Read online

  ‘You and Mum can’t have it both ways. Ever since I first started at that school, you two have been going on about what a waste of time it is, and how little I learn. Now I’m agreeing with you! And you still want to shovel me out of the door! How hypocritical!’

  Again, I thought she had a point. Dad didn’t, though.

  ‘Hypocritical or not, you have to go to school.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘No, I don’t!’

  BANG!

  Dad didn’t let himself get rattled under fire. Calmly he poured fresh tea into the mugs, picked up the tray and strode over to the door, standing in front of it until I thought to reach out and pull it open. Then he walked through.

  Still desperate for lunch money, I snatched up my bowl of cornflakes and followed him up the stairs. As he neared the bathroom, he slid the weight of the tray onto one hand, and beat on the panels of the door with the other.

  ‘Hurry along in there, please! There are other people waiting.’

  The door opened. Mum’s arm reached out and lifted a mug off the tray as it passed by. I trailed in after it, like someone following the Holy Grail, and sat on the edge of the bath with my cornflakes.

  ‘Mum—’

  She wasn’t listening. There was someone else on her mind. In between lipsticking and eyelash blackening, she called out:

  ‘How’s it going, George?’

  He showed up in the doorway.

  ‘It’s not. I mean, she’s not. She says school’s just a cosmic waste of time.’

  Mum gave herself a little ‘so tell me something new’ shrug in the mirror. ‘She’s right there.’

  ‘And she says she doesn’t learn anything.’

  ‘No more she does,’ agreed Mum.

  ‘And when they do something interesting, which isn’t very often, Mark Hanley and Rich Sheens always muck about and spoil it.’

  ‘Right.’ Mum nodded. She’d heard that often enough before.

  ‘So she’s not going.’

  Mum took a fit.

  ‘Oh yes, she is! She’s certainly not staying home all day. I’d go mad!’

  ‘You’re out at work.’

  ‘Well, you’d go mad.’

  ‘But I’m out at work too.’

  Mum tugged her jacket on, and buttoned it up.

  ‘Then that settles it, doesn’t it?’ she said firmly. ‘She certainly can’t spend the whole day in the house by herself.’ She turned and made for the banisters. ‘Estelle! You just get dress—’

  She never got any further. Dad sprang on her from behind. Clapping his hand over her mouth, he pulled her away from the banisters.

  ‘Sssh!’ he hissed. ‘Stop it! Don’t draw her fire! Give us a minute to re-group. Re-arm. Get dressed.’

  Still covering her mouth, he hauled her back with him, into the bedroom.

  I followed them.

  ‘About my lunch money—’

  Neither of them was listening. He was rooting through drawers and cupboards, throwing on clothes as fast as he could. She was checking the papers in her briefcase. Then she looked up and noticed me for the first time since 07:52 hours. (It was now 08:07.)

  ‘I do wish you wouldn’t walk about the house eating,’ she told me. ‘Go downstairs at once, and finish those cornflakes in the kitchen.’

  I didn’t argue. Since it was obvious I wasn’t going to get a proper lunch, I thought I’d better have another breakfast anyway. Downstairs, Muffy was dressed and sitting at the table, spooning granola from her china rabbit bowl. I took the seat beside her and poured myself another round of cornflakes. She shunted the milk towards me, and we ate in companionable silence till she tipped her bowl for the final spoonful of milk, and revealed the three bunnies that spend their rather risky china lives scampering around the bottom. Seeing them reminded me of when I took a short cut back from next door over our rabbit hutch and, hearing a sob from inside it, looked in to find Muffy sitting all squashed up under the netting roof, squeezing poor Thumper till his eyes were nearly popping out of his head, and weeping noisily into his fur.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ I’d demanded.

  She didn’t speak. She just wiped a slug trail off her nose onto Thumper, and looked up with brimming eyes.

  ‘Come on, now, Muff,’ I said. ‘If you don’t tell me what’s wrong, how can I sort it out?’

  She did it for Thumper, you could tell.

  ‘Stelly!’ she said.

  I prodded her along a bit.

  ‘Did Stelly do something to Thumper?’

  She shook her head, and squeezed him even more tightly. Hastily I said:

  ‘Did she say something, then?’

  Muffy nodded. Her mop of hair shook violently.

  ‘Make with the words, Muffy,’ I said impatiently. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Stelly said she was going to cook him!’ wailed Muffy.

  For heaven’s sake! I’d put her right on that. I dried her tears. I prised poor Thumper safely out of her grasp, and settled him down on his straw. Then, out of curiosity, I’d asked Muffy:

  ‘Tell me, can you remember how things used to be?’

  She didn’t answer, but I knew she was listening hard.

  ‘What I mean,’ I said, picking my words carefully. ‘What I mean is, can you remember what things were like in this house before Estelle went all funny?’

  She gave me a look. It was impenetrable, but since she’d used up her word hoard for the day filling me in on Estelle’s culinary threats, I didn’t press her. I just carried on.

  ‘If you remember,’ I told her, ‘things used to be very different. We all got up and lived our lives peacefully, and then went to bed again. There was none of all this—’ I hesitated. ‘All this—’

  I couldn’t think of a word. William Scott Saffery had that trouble once when the sun shot out cleanly from behind a cloud and flashed on the metal of his gun, dazzling him for a moment and making him see the hell’s wilderness around him with a fresh eye, and wonder what sort of force it was that could make so many million men vie with one another to make their world such a shambles. What was the name of it? What was it called?

  And I don’t know the word either. But, like the great-aunts, I think someone Muffy’s age should have a peaceful summer on a beach, and, like Mum, I don’t want Muffy to grow up without some memories of pleasant breakfasts. So:

  ‘Remember how it used to be,’ I reminded her. ‘Estelle used to sit in this seat next to you. I sat in the one over there across the table. And we had a race every morning to see who could empty their bowl first without being told off for gobbling.’

  She smiled, so I knew she remembered. But she didn’t speak. And something wistful in me made me spoil it all by adding bitterly:

  ‘Now look at us. Estelle doesn’t eat breakfast at all unless someone stands over her and watches. I’ve moved round to this seat. And the two of us don’t bother to race because it’s not so good without Stelly.’

  Mistake!

  ‘Don’t call me Stelly!’

  She’d slid through the door so quietly we hadn’t heard. Muffy snatched up her spoon and pretended to be busy eating. She knew Estelle wasn’t snapping at her. (Muffy is still excused from this particular page in Estelle’s Book of Rules.) But she gets nervous when Estelle’s in a mood.

  I tried to draw the fire.

  ‘You’re still not dressed.’

  ‘That’s because I’m still not going.’

  Muffy looked anxiously from one of us to the other. She may think the world of Estelle, but she does live here so she knows the rules. Unless you’re dying, you are sent to school.

  ‘She’ll have to go,’ I whispered, to stop Muffy worrying.

  Estelle has ears on stalks.

  ‘No, I won’t.’ She turned her back on us and started pouring boiling water into her coffee mug. ‘They won’t let me get my ears pierced like everyone else. So why should I go to school like everyone else? Fair’s fai
r, after all.’

  She had a point, I thought. But Muffy didn’t.

  ‘Got to get dressed, Stelly,’ she warned, looking so anxious it would break your heart. ‘Got to go to school.’

  Mum came in just in time to hear the end of this. Her own way of telling Estelle what she ought to be doing may not have been quite so straightforward, but it came out a good deal more firmly.

  ‘Goodness! Look at the time. It’s after a quarter past eight already. Now hurry and put on some clothes, Estelle.’

  You notice she didn’t actually say, ‘Get dressed for school.’ Mum’s like the gunner at the end of William Saffery’s line, who learned exactly how often and how much he could spatter the enemy with machine-gun fire without provoking a great barrage back.

  She judged it right, too. Estelle didn’t flare up. She just muttered darkly into her coffee.

  Mum pushed her luck.

  ‘What was that, darling?’

  ‘I haven’t got anything to wear!’ snapped Estelle.

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Nothing to wear? Estelle’s wardrobe is groaning with clothes. You can’t shut the door! Her floor’s knee deep in them. She has all of her own clothes, half of mine, and several of Mum’s that she’s borrowed. Dad can never find any of his woollies. She’s always got them too. I reckon, when it comes to clothes, Muffy’s the only one round here who’s halfway safe. I sat at the table with my mouth open. I was shocked. Nothing to wear indeed!

  ‘You must have something, dear,’ said Mum.

  Estelle scowled.

  ‘I hate my clothes. All of them. They’re ugly and boring and stupid and out of date, and I’ve worn all of them a million times.’

  ‘Once more won’t matter, then, will it? Go up and put some on.’

  ‘I’m not going to school in them,’ Estelle warned her.

  But Mum had suddenly had enough. She glanced at the clock. (08:21 hours.)

  ‘Just go up and get dressed, Estelle! Before I lose my temper . . .’

  Slopping her coffee, Estelle flounced out. Mum sank down at the table for a moment, to gather herself together before the next round of fire. Muffy took to patting her. Mum patted Muffy back. The two of them were still patting one another when Dad peered round the door.

  ‘Masterly!’ he praised Mum. ‘Masterly! A shrewd manoeuvre, Bridget. Once Estelle’s dressed, the battle’s practically won.’

  ‘I’ve got a headache,’ said Mum.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Dad. ‘This is no time to crack up. We have to work out the details of our plan of attack. Are we going to barricade the door against her, or let her back in for another argument?’

  I thought I’d try one last time to get a look in. (I do live here too.)

  ‘It takes her ages to get dressed,’ I said. ‘That gives you a bit of time to find me some lunch money.’

  They only heard the first bit. It set them both off, looking at the clock.

  ‘Twenty-five past!’ cried Mum. ‘It’s nearly time for Muffy’s car pool!’

  Muffy slid off her chair, and went to fetch her jacket. She hates being late for the car pool.

  Mum stood at the bottom of the stairs, listening.

  ‘I can’t hear a thing,’ she said. ‘It’s absolutely silent up there.’

  ‘That’s Estelle dressing,’ I said. Mum gave me a look, but I wasn’t trying to be funny. I meant it. Some people are noisy dressers. Some people aren’t. I’m quite loud myself. Every time I tug at my sock drawer it shoots out and lands on the floor. My cupboard door has to be slammed shut. And I often drop my shoes, or bang my head on my bookshelf. Estelle’s much quieter. She floats around her room, trying a million things on, taking them off again, and silently dropping them on the floor.

  ‘Who’s going to hurry her up?’ said Mum, mentioning no names but looking directly at Brigadier Flowers.

  Like William Saffery’s last company officer, Dad suddenly wasn’t so keen to go over the top.

  ‘You go.’

  ‘No, you go.’

  ‘You’re her mother.’

  ‘You’re her father.’

  Dad had an inspiration.

  ‘Muffy can go.’

  But Muffy had just seen a car pull up at the gate. Her face crumpled with worry.

  ‘Got to go to school . . .’

  Dad picked up her plastic Snoopy lunchbox and handed it to her as if it were a spotted handkerchief on a stick, and Muffy had just announced that she was going off to see the world.

  ‘That’s my Muffy!’ he said proudly. ‘There’s my girl! Did you hear what she said, Bridget? “Got to go to school”! It’s music to my ears. I’m proud of you, Muffy!’

  He gave her a huge kiss and chummed her out the door and down the path. (This wasn’t anything special. He hasn’t got round to taking the childproof lock off the gate yet, so Muffy always has to be chummed to the end of the garden.)

  Mum used the time up staring at the clock.

  ‘My God!’ she said. ‘It’s twenty-five to nine!’

  Dad came back fortified by a few lungfuls of fresh air and a word with Mrs Cuyugan, his favourite car-pool mother.

  ‘Right, Bridget,’ he ordered. ‘The last push!’ He put his hands on her shoulders and propelled her firmly through the door to the bottom of the stairs. ‘You go first. I’ll give you cover from behind.’

  ‘While you’re up there,’ I said. ‘Do you think you could borrow some cash off Estelle for my lunch money?’

  But they weren’t listening. They were busy going up the stairs. I say busy, because Mum kept clinging to the banisters, losing her nerve, and Dad had to keep sticking an imaginary gun in her back to keep her going.

  Mum made an effort.

  ‘Estelle! Are you ready yet? It’s time to go, dear. If you hurry, Daddy can give you a lift as far as the garage. Estelle? Estelle . . .?’

  There was no answer. Mum moved up closer to Estelle’s bedroom door, with Brigadier Flowers diligently bringing up the rear.

  Mum pushed the door with a fingertip. It swung open. Together they peered in. I didn’t need to come any further up to know what they were seeing. I’ve been in Estelle’s room often enough, sifting through the mess to try and find things of mine. It’s a dark tip. I once cut my toe on a tin of condensed milk, picking my way across to my best denim jacket through piles of abandoned woollies and her old tights droppings. Muffy’s mouth organ was lost in here for a week, under a drift of knickers. And Dad says if she ever borrows any of his tools again and leaves them lying in her sink with the tap dripping, he’ll personally bring his wrench down on what’s left in her empty teenage skull, and cheerfully swing for it. But I was interested to see what Mum made of the sight. Usually she won’t go near it. She says it’s too upsetting and she can’t stand it. It bothers her because, for hours afterwards, each time she looks at Muffy all she can think is: ‘One day this child might go like this as well.’

  So this was probably the first time for days that she’d even glanced in Estelle’s room. I came up close to watch. Her face went grim, and then it crumpled like Muffy’s.

  ‘Oh, it’s horrible, George. Horrible!’

  He tried to bury her head against his shoulder, so she wouldn’t look at the details. I think he was worried she’d notice the stains on the wall where Estelle squidged her mauve Paris Chic spray glitter at me in a temper, or the bright rock-hard lumps on the surface of the dressing table where she and Flora propped the dripping brushes when they were varnishing their nails in coloured stripes.

  ‘Shut your eyes,’ he ordered her. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

  She shuddered in his arms.

  ‘I can’t help it,’ she said. ‘I keep remembering how it used to be. Do you remember, George? Those sweet little bunny rabbit curtains blowing in the breeze. Cheerful posters on the walls. Furry toys on the bed. And everything was picked up off the floor every night.’ She let out a little moan of anguish. ‘Now look at it!’

  He set his jaw like granite.<
br />
  ‘A heap of smoking rubble . . .’ he agreed.

  Mum tried to twist out of his arms.

  ‘It’s all right. I don’t want to look any more,’ she assured him.

  ‘Quite right. Best not to look.’ He straightened his imaginary cap. ‘Some day this senseless, senseless war will be over. Till then, let’s just close the door and tiptoe quietly away . . .’

  They got as far as the banisters. Then there was the most appalling noise from inside Estelle’s room. It was extraordinary. It sounded as if the walls were caving in, one after another, and the ceiling was falling on top of them. It could just have been a shelf shearing away from its bracket, I suppose. But it sounded a lot worse than that. It sounded like an avalanche.

  Mum and Dad clutched one another.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Quick, George!’

  Dad pushed the door open again.

  Mum was beside herself.

  ‘What is it, George?’

  He drew his head back, and shrugged.

  ‘Hard to tell, Bridget. It looks just the same as it did before to me. Probably just a landslide. There’s so much junk in there, you just can’t tell. It was so messy anyway . . .’

  Mum took one of her fits. Sometimes, you can tell, the thought flashes through her mind that this house is half hers, and she’s going to run it her way. Striding along to the bathroom, she rattled the handle like someone demented, then beat on the door with her fists.

  ‘Estelle! Estelle! I don’t care whether you’ve washed your face or cleaned your teeth. I don’t even care what you’re wearing. I just want you out of this bathroom in three seconds flat, and off to school out of my sight!’

  She put her hands on her hips. She meant business.

  ‘One!’

  Inside, a tap was turned off.

  ‘Two!’

  The door handle swivelled.

  ‘Three!’

  Out sailed Estelle.

  Now I’m not known for a natty dresser myself. And the person I end up looking at most often on the average day is probably Chopper, who goes round, frankly, looking like walking jumble. But still the sight of Estelle gave me a bit of a shock. She floated out wearing a shocking pink tank top full of holes through which acres of skin showed. The hem of her skirt looked as if a gang of starving ferrets had been chewing it. And on her head there was a woolly bobble hat.