On Thursday, I went into my bedroom, closed the door and called my sister. We were speaking several times a week. It was easier now that my estrangement from our parents no longer hung between us, like a conversational minefield.
‘Do you think it’s normal?’
‘Dad told me I once didn’t speak to him for two whole weeks when I was sixteen. Only grunts. And I was actually quite happy.’
‘She’s not even grunting. She just looks miserable.’
‘All teenagers do. It’s their default setting. It’s the cheerful ones you want to worry about – they’re probably hiding some massive eating disorder or stealing lipsticks from Boots.’
‘She’s spent the last three days just lying on the sofa.’
‘And your point is?’
‘I think something’s wrong.’
‘She’s sixteen years old. Her dad never knew she existed, and popped his clogs before she could meet him. Her mother married someone she calls Fuckface, she has two little brothers who sound like trainee Reggie and Ronnie Kray, and they changed the locks to the family home. I would probably lie on a sofa for a year if I was her.’ Treena took a noisy slurp of her tea. ‘Plus she’s living with someone who wears glittery green Spandex to a bar job and calls it a career.’
‘Lurex. It’s Lurex.’
‘Whatever. So when are you going to find yourself a decent job?’
‘Soon. I just need to get this situation sorted first.’
‘This situation.’
‘She’s really down. I feel bad for her.’
‘You know what makes me feel down? The way you keep promising to live some kind of a life, then sacrifice yourself to every waif and stray who comes across your path.’
‘Will was not a waif and stray.’
‘But Lily is. You don’t even know this girl, Lou. You should be focusing on moving forward. You should be sending off your CV, talking to contacts, working out where your strengths are, not finding yet another excuse to put your own life on hold.’
I stared outside at the city sky. In the next room, I could hear the television burbling away, then Lily getting up, walking to the fridge and flopping down again. I lowered my voice: ‘So what would you do, Treen? The child of the man you loved turns up on your doorstep, and everyone else seems to have pretty much handed over responsibility for her. You’d walk away too, would you?’
My sister fell briefly silent. This was a rare occurrence and I felt obliged to keep talking. ‘So if Thom, in eight years’ time, had fallen out with you, for whatever reason – say he was pretty much on his own, and was going off the rails – you’d think it was great if the one person he asked for help decided it was altogether too much of a pain in the arse, would you? That they should just bugger off and suit themselves?’ I rested my head against the wall. ‘I’m trying to do the right thing here, Treen. Just cut me a break, okay?’
Nothing.
‘It makes me feel better. Okay? It makes me feel better knowing I’m helping.’
My sister was silent for so long I wondered whether she had hung up. ‘Treen?’
‘Okay. Well, I do remember reading a thing in social psychology about how teenagers find too much face-to-face contact exhausting.’
‘You want me to talk to her through a door?’ One day I would have a telephone conversation with my sister that didn’t involve the weary sigh of someone explaining something to a halfwit.
‘No, doofus. What it means is that if you’re going to get her to talk you need to be doing something together, side by side.’
On my way home on Friday evening I stopped off at the DIY superstore. Back at my block, I lugged the bags up the four flights of stairs, and let myself in. Lily was exactly where I was expecting to find her: stretched out in front of the television. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘Paint. This flat’s a bit tired. You keep telling me I need to brighten it up. I thought we could get rid of this boring old magnolia.’
She couldn’t help herself. I pretended to be busy making myself a drink, watching out of the corner of my eye as she stretched, then walked over and examined the paint cans. ‘That’s hardly any less boring. It’s basically pale grey.’
‘I was told grey was the in thing. I’ll take it back if you think it won’t work.’
She peered at it. ‘No. It’s okay.’
‘I thought the spare room could have cream on two, then one grey wall. Do you think they go?’ I busied myself with unwrapping the paintbrushes and rollers as I spoke. I changed into an old shirt and some shorts and asked if she could put on some music.
‘What sort?’
‘You choose.’ I hauled a chair off to one side and laid some dust sheets along the wall. ‘Your dad said I was a musical Philistine.’
She didn’t say anything, but I had her attention. I cracked open a paint tin and began to mix it. ‘He made me go to my first ever concert. Classical, not pop. I only agreed because it meant he would leave the house. He didn’t like going out much in the early days. He put on a shirt and a good jacket and it was the first time I had seen him look like …’ I remembered the jolt as I had seen, emerging from the stiff blue collar, the man he had been before his accident. I swallowed. ‘Anyway. I went preparing to be bored, and cried my way through the second half like a complete loon. It was the most amazing thing I’d ever heard in my life.’
A short silence.
‘What was it? What did you listen to?’
‘I can’t remember. Sibelius? Does that sound right?’
She shrugged. I started painting, as she came up beside me. She picked up a brush. She said nothing at first, but she seemed to lose herself in the repetitive nature of the task. She was careful, too, adjusting the sheet so that she didn’t spill paint on the floor, wiping her brush on the edge of the pot. We didn’t speak, except for muttered requests: Can you pass me the smaller brush? Do you think that will still show through on the second coat? It took us just half an hour to do the first wall between us.
‘So what do you think?’ I said, admiring it. ‘Think we can do another?’
She moved a dust sheet and started on the next wall. She had put on some indie band I had never heard of, light-hearted and agreeable. I started to paint again, ignoring the ache in my shoulder, the urge to yawn.
‘You should get some pictures.’
‘You’re right.’
‘I’ve got this big print at home of a Kandinsky. It doesn’t really go in my room. You could have it if you want it.’
‘That would be great.’
She was working faster now, speeding across the wall, carefully cutting in around the large window.
‘So I was thinking,’ I said, ‘we should speak to Will’s mum. Your grandmother. Are you okay if I write to her?’
She said nothing. She crouched down, apparently absorbed in carefully coating the wall to the skirting-board. Finally, she stood up. ‘Is she like him?’
‘Like who?’
‘Mrs Traynor? Is she like Mr Traynor?’
I stepped down from the box I was using to stand on, and wiped my brush on the edge of the tin. ‘She’s … different.’
‘Do you think it’s normal?’
‘Dad told me I once didn’t speak to him for two whole weeks when I was sixteen. Only grunts. And I was actually quite happy.’
‘She’s not even grunting. She just looks miserable.’
‘All teenagers do. It’s their default setting. It’s the cheerful ones you want to worry about – they’re probably hiding some massive eating disorder or stealing lipsticks from Boots.’
‘She’s spent the last three days just lying on the sofa.’
‘And your point is?’
‘I think something’s wrong.’
‘She’s sixteen years old. Her dad never knew she existed, and popped his clogs before she could meet him. Her mother married someone she calls Fuckface, she has two little brothers who sound like trainee Reggie and Ronnie Kray, and they changed the locks to the family home. I would probably lie on a sofa for a year if I was her.’ Treena took a noisy slurp of her tea. ‘Plus she’s living with someone who wears glittery green Spandex to a bar job and calls it a career.’
‘Lurex. It’s Lurex.’
‘Whatever. So when are you going to find yourself a decent job?’
‘Soon. I just need to get this situation sorted first.’
‘This situation.’
‘She’s really down. I feel bad for her.’
‘You know what makes me feel down? The way you keep promising to live some kind of a life, then sacrifice yourself to every waif and stray who comes across your path.’
‘Will was not a waif and stray.’
‘But Lily is. You don’t even know this girl, Lou. You should be focusing on moving forward. You should be sending off your CV, talking to contacts, working out where your strengths are, not finding yet another excuse to put your own life on hold.’
I stared outside at the city sky. In the next room, I could hear the television burbling away, then Lily getting up, walking to the fridge and flopping down again. I lowered my voice: ‘So what would you do, Treen? The child of the man you loved turns up on your doorstep, and everyone else seems to have pretty much handed over responsibility for her. You’d walk away too, would you?’
My sister fell briefly silent. This was a rare occurrence and I felt obliged to keep talking. ‘So if Thom, in eight years’ time, had fallen out with you, for whatever reason – say he was pretty much on his own, and was going off the rails – you’d think it was great if the one person he asked for help decided it was altogether too much of a pain in the arse, would you? That they should just bugger off and suit themselves?’ I rested my head against the wall. ‘I’m trying to do the right thing here, Treen. Just cut me a break, okay?’
Nothing.
‘It makes me feel better. Okay? It makes me feel better knowing I’m helping.’
My sister was silent for so long I wondered whether she had hung up. ‘Treen?’
‘Okay. Well, I do remember reading a thing in social psychology about how teenagers find too much face-to-face contact exhausting.’
‘You want me to talk to her through a door?’ One day I would have a telephone conversation with my sister that didn’t involve the weary sigh of someone explaining something to a halfwit.
‘No, doofus. What it means is that if you’re going to get her to talk you need to be doing something together, side by side.’
On my way home on Friday evening I stopped off at the DIY superstore. Back at my block, I lugged the bags up the four flights of stairs, and let myself in. Lily was exactly where I was expecting to find her: stretched out in front of the television. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘Paint. This flat’s a bit tired. You keep telling me I need to brighten it up. I thought we could get rid of this boring old magnolia.’
She couldn’t help herself. I pretended to be busy making myself a drink, watching out of the corner of my eye as she stretched, then walked over and examined the paint cans. ‘That’s hardly any less boring. It’s basically pale grey.’
‘I was told grey was the in thing. I’ll take it back if you think it won’t work.’
She peered at it. ‘No. It’s okay.’
‘I thought the spare room could have cream on two, then one grey wall. Do you think they go?’ I busied myself with unwrapping the paintbrushes and rollers as I spoke. I changed into an old shirt and some shorts and asked if she could put on some music.
‘What sort?’
‘You choose.’ I hauled a chair off to one side and laid some dust sheets along the wall. ‘Your dad said I was a musical Philistine.’
She didn’t say anything, but I had her attention. I cracked open a paint tin and began to mix it. ‘He made me go to my first ever concert. Classical, not pop. I only agreed because it meant he would leave the house. He didn’t like going out much in the early days. He put on a shirt and a good jacket and it was the first time I had seen him look like …’ I remembered the jolt as I had seen, emerging from the stiff blue collar, the man he had been before his accident. I swallowed. ‘Anyway. I went preparing to be bored, and cried my way through the second half like a complete loon. It was the most amazing thing I’d ever heard in my life.’
A short silence.
‘What was it? What did you listen to?’
‘I can’t remember. Sibelius? Does that sound right?’
She shrugged. I started painting, as she came up beside me. She picked up a brush. She said nothing at first, but she seemed to lose herself in the repetitive nature of the task. She was careful, too, adjusting the sheet so that she didn’t spill paint on the floor, wiping her brush on the edge of the pot. We didn’t speak, except for muttered requests: Can you pass me the smaller brush? Do you think that will still show through on the second coat? It took us just half an hour to do the first wall between us.
‘So what do you think?’ I said, admiring it. ‘Think we can do another?’
She moved a dust sheet and started on the next wall. She had put on some indie band I had never heard of, light-hearted and agreeable. I started to paint again, ignoring the ache in my shoulder, the urge to yawn.
‘You should get some pictures.’
‘You’re right.’
‘I’ve got this big print at home of a Kandinsky. It doesn’t really go in my room. You could have it if you want it.’
‘That would be great.’
She was working faster now, speeding across the wall, carefully cutting in around the large window.
‘So I was thinking,’ I said, ‘we should speak to Will’s mum. Your grandmother. Are you okay if I write to her?’
She said nothing. She crouched down, apparently absorbed in carefully coating the wall to the skirting-board. Finally, she stood up. ‘Is she like him?’
‘Like who?’
‘Mrs Traynor? Is she like Mr Traynor?’
I stepped down from the box I was using to stand on, and wiped my brush on the edge of the tin. ‘She’s … different.’
