The Starlings Page 5

I shifted uneasily, responding to the tension around us. It must have reminded her that I was still there.

  ‘We’ll talk later, Dad,’ she said. She placed the jewellery box in a shopping bag, stood, picked up her mug, and went into the kitchen. I heard her turn the tap on and rinse the mug. I looked at Grandpa and saw that his hands were trembling. I went to him and put my arms around him and hugged him.

  He patted my shoulder. ‘Good boy, Nicky,’ he said. ‘Good boy.’

  But it was as if I wasn’t there, or I was, but didn’t matter.

  I was all on his side, and Rose’s, and I was slightly ashamed of my mother for creating such a fuss. Rose had been lovely to Didie; Didie had given Rose a present. What could be simpler or more appropriate?

  That evening, while she was stacking the dishwasher, my mother described the episode of the jewels to my father. I overheard them. I suppose eavesdropping is not necessarily an attractive occupation, but when you’re a child, and people persist in not telling you things, it’s the only way to find out what you need to know. The sunroom, where I did my homework or watched television or sometimes played, was next to the kitchen. This was helpful for the gathering of information. I listened with particular concentration to the discussions about me, especially when my mother told my father he was too hard on me, and he would rejoin that she was turning me into a sissy. Occasionally one of my parents—usually my father—perceived my preoccupation with other people’s conversations and I was told off; but on the whole nobody noticed.

  ‘So what on earth can I do?’ my mother asked, clattering a bunch of cutlery together.

  My father made a grunting noise.

  ‘I know what I’m saying, Frank. There is no way—no way—Didie would have given that brooch to anyone but me. Not that brooch.’

  Another grunt, followed by something that sounded from its tone—upward-pitched, sanguine—like a suggestion.

  ‘Bullshit,’ said my mother. I could tell from this that she was upset: she did not customarily swear.

  My father moved elsewhere in the kitchen, and, when he next spoke, I could hear him more clearly. ‘Is it valuable?’

  ‘That’s not the point. It has sentimental value, family value.’

  ‘I would have said all your mother’s jewellery is pretty valuable. The pearls alone are worth a fortune.’

  ‘That’s silly, Frank. Don’t exaggerate.’

  ‘Why do you always deny your family’s wealth?’

  ‘I do no such thing.’

  ‘Yes, you do, Jen. You pretend there’s no real money there, and we both know your father is rich as Croesus. I realise you don’t want to boast about it, but there’s no point in denying it.’

  When my mother resumed, her tone was oddly different. ‘Well, they’re diamonds, after all. I mean, they’re not big, but they’re diamonds. And it’s beautifully made, and quite old. So in fact I suppose I would say yes; yes, it probably is valuable.’

  ‘Could she have stolen it?’

  ‘I’d hate to think that of Rose; and anyway, if she stole it, Dad would have no reason to lie. Would he?’

  ‘He might want to shield her.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Dunno,’ said my father.

  ‘Anyway,’ said my mother, but uncertainly, as if she were trying to persuade herself, ‘I like Rose. I don’t think Rose would do something like that.’

  ‘You never know about people,’ said my father darkly.

  I was indignant about this. Rose was somebody I did know about.

  My father said something else, which I did not catch. When my mother spoke, her voice had acquired a dangerous quivery quality.

  ‘It’s not a storm in a teacup to me,’ she said.

  I worried about this episode. I could see, without understanding it, the extent of my mother’s anxiety. There were currents here, the depths of which I could not penetrate. I was inclined to think that the misunderstanding must have been caused by Didie, as I did not want to believe it was the fault of Rose or my mother or Grandpa. Perhaps Didie had forgotten that my mother had a right to the brooch; perhaps my mother had misconstrued something Didie had carelessly said. Perhaps Didie had meant another brooch, and Grandpa had misunderstood? Had Didie acted out of malice? But surely she would not deliberately cause my mother pain.

  I turned it all over in my mind. I told myself that my principal object was to spare my mother pain, but it wasn’t. Rose, who was perfect, was being blamed for something that couldn’t possibly be her fault. I couldn’t bear it that my parents were making slighting comments about Rose.

  On Sunday evening I knocked on Pippa’s door. She had Madonna playing so loudly that she did not hear. I beat at the door more forcefully; she opened it, and impatiently turned Madonna down.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  I closed the door behind me. ‘I might go home on my own tomorrow,’ I said, with a casualness that belied the gravity of the statement.

  I always caught the tram home with Pippa, an arrangement that both of us resented. On Mondays she had choir practice after school, and I was supposed to wait for her. This was an unbreakable rule.

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘What are you up to, Nicky?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I just want to get home early.’

  ‘There won’t be anybody here.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘You know you’re not supposed to be at home on your own. You know what the parents say. You might burn the house down. A murderer could break in. There might be a bogeyman. Anything could happen.’

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen.’

  ‘You’re just coming straight home?’ She was disbelieving.

  ‘I need to stop off somewhere first.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Nowhere. Nowhere in particular.’

  ‘If you’re not home by the time Mum and Dad get here I’ll be in heaps.’

  ‘I’ll be home ages before then. I’ll probably be home before you.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘If I agree,’ she said, with a casualness at least as deceptive as my opening gambit, ‘you owe me one, Nicky. Okay?’

  I nodded.

  ‘What do you want to do, anyway?’

  ‘Nothing, really.’

  My mother hadn’t mentioned the missing brooch to Pippa, and I felt she was best kept out of it.

  ‘You’re such a funny little boy,’ she remarked, irritatingly. ‘Anyway, I don’t care what you do. Just make sure you don’t get me in trouble, that’s all.’

  I backed out fast before she changed her mind.

  On Monday afternoon I boarded the tram alone, then got off one stop early. I raced down Grandpa’s street, nervous, although I had at least an hour before I had to be home. I was a biddable child and I felt uncomfortable to be caught up in disobedience—even when it was driven by an undeniably splendid motive. It was a cool, bright autumn day and the scarlet pin oaks along the street were spilling their leaves all around me; my feet made rushing noises through them and my heart thudded.

  Rose’s Datsun was there, as I had hoped, and I ran around the back. They were both in the garden room, sitting in the big old armchairs that looked out to the roses. They looked up in surprise as I came dashing in. Out of breath, I hugged both of them, and whispered in Rose’s ear, ‘We need to talk. Alone.’

  Rose stood. ‘You’ll have to forgive us, Dan,’ she said. ‘Nicky and I are going to take a turn in the garden.’

  Rose was always good like that. She didn’t tell me to be patient or to behave myself or to cut it out. If she saw I had a need, she responded to it. She didn’t treat me as a child.

  We went to a bench in the garden and she turned to me, smiling. ‘Now, Nicky. I’m all attention. What on earth is it?’

  ‘It’s the brooch,’ I said. ‘Rosie, do you have Didie’s brooch?’

  Her face changed. Her green eyes were intent. ‘I’m not sure what you mean. Explain it to me properly, Nick.’

  ‘We were here on
Saturday,’ I said. ‘Mummy and me. And Grandpa gave Mummy Didie’s jewels. And there was a brooch missing. And Mummy said it was a special brooch.’

  ‘A special brooch?’

  ‘Mummy said that Didie meant it for her. It belonged to Mummy’s granny. Mummy said, she has to have it. She didn’t mind so much about the other things, but the brooch was special. And Grandpa said you had it, and he got cross. And, I thought, you probably didn’t know it was special, and, if I told you, you would understand.’

  Rose joined her hands in her lap and looked at them. ‘So it’s special to your mum.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Grandpa was cross.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nicky, we’d better go and talk to Grandpa about this.’

  ‘No,’ I said, in panic. My plans hadn’t included Grandpa. ‘I’ll be in trouble then.’

  She put her arm around me and gave me a hug. ‘Nicky, darling, you haven’t done anything wrong and there’s no reason at all for you to be in trouble. I’ll make sure of that. But we have to talk to Grandpa about it.’

  So we went back inside and Rose related to Grandpa what I had told her.

  He looked grimly at me. ‘That was very bad, Nicky. This is none of your business and you had no right to tell Rose about it.’

  ‘No, Dan,’ said Rose, with a calm authority that surprised me. I was used to Rose sounding coaxing and charming and sweet. This was a crisper, tougher Rose. ‘It is Nicky’s business, because he was here when it happened, and the brooch belongs to his family. Nicky has done nothing wrong.’

  Grandpa and I digested this. I thought Grandpa looked a little startled by being spoken to so decisively.

  ‘You should have told me, Dan,’ she said, in a different tone, not so firm, more pained. ‘This isn’t how we want to do things.’

  Grandpa spread his hands. ‘I was angry,’ he said, almost pleadingly. ‘I didn’t want you treated like that.’

  She shook her head. Her wonderful hair was loose and it rippled and shone; her sea-coloured eyes sparkled. I gazed at her with adoration. I had known it would be like this. I had been certain Rose would fix everything.

  ‘Don’t worry, Nicky,’ she said. ‘You’re not supposed to be here, are you? Well, you weren’t here, okay? You hop off home and we’ll fix this up so that your mum isn’t upset anymore. It’ll work out. Your grandpa and I will make sure of it.’

  I hopped off home with a light heart. That evening, as we were clearing up from dinner, the doorbell rang. My mother went to it.

  ‘Hello, Jenny,’ said Rose’s clear voice.

  There was a murmuring I couldn’t pick up (straining my ears though I was). I sidled through towards the front door and hovered at the edge of the hall, watching. Rose had come over the threshold, but now she hung back, smiling.

  ‘No, I won’t stay,’ said Rose. ‘I only came to give you this, Jenny.’

  She held out a small black box and my mother made an incoherent noise.

  Rose caught sight of me and nodded. ‘Hello, Nicky,’ she said, as if surprised to see me. She turned back to my mother. ‘I feel bad about this, Jenny, because I realise I’ve made a mistake, but I hope you’ll understand I didn’t mean it. Dan spoke to me, told me about this, how important it is to you. Of course you must have it back.’

  My mother opened the box and glanced inside. ‘Oh, Rose,’ she said. Her voice quavered. I thought she was about to cry. ‘This is good of you. I’m so sorry—I don’t know what Dad said—I didn’t—’

  Rose touched my mother’s hand. ‘Dan said just what he needed to, what he ought to. It was a misunderstanding, pure and simple. I hope you’ll forgive.’

  She turned, but my mother reached her hand out. ‘It wasn’t so much the brooch itself,’ she started, and then seemed lost.

  Rose waited.

  ‘Not so much the brooch. But I didn’t understand—it had always been something, we knew, that it would come to me. Please, Rose, tell me how it happened? I couldn’t bear it—do you see what I mean?—if Didie had forgotten her promise to me, or she thought it didn’t matter. Dad said she got confused, but I couldn’t understand how she could give it to you—not just to you, Rose, to anyone. It hurt so much, to think she had forgotten me. I mean, did she give it to you, really? Or did Dad give it to you? I’m grateful to have it, Rose, and I don’t mean to be difficult. But I just need to know how it happened.’

  Rose hesitated. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Look, Jenny, Didie let me choose.’

  ‘She didn’t say anything when you chose that?’

  ‘She wasn’t there,’ said Rose. ‘How it happened was very simple. Didie said she wanted to give me a present. She said she would let me choose something from her jewellery. And I thanked her, and then I forgot about it. People often want to give things to nurses, especially dying people. It’s one of the things that happens, and normally I find ways of sidestepping it. And then, one evening near the end, Didie was asleep, and Dan brought out the box, and told me to choose, and he was insistent. And so I did, but I didn’t realise I’d chosen something special. And I was going to tell Didie about it, and show her what I’d chosen. But then—well, then there wasn’t time. Do you see?’

  My mother flung her arms around Rose and kissed her. ‘Bless you,’ she said, her voice still trembling. ‘Oh, Rose, if you knew how I’ve gone over it and over it in my mind. That explains it all. Thank you: thank you so very much. And you must have something else. You must choose something else.’

  ‘No,’ said Rose, gently pushing my mother away. ‘No, honestly not. I’d be unhappy. I must go, Jenny. I didn’t come to stay.’

  When my mother returned to the kitchen she was gripping the box in both hands, half-smiling, half-crying.

  ‘What was that all about?’ asked Pippa. She looked pale, as if she were unwell.

  ‘I told you it would all work out,’ said my father.

  ‘Nicky,’ said Pippa, appearing at the door of my bedroom one evening later that week while I was reading in bed. ‘Would you do something for me?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, regarding her. She was a pitiful sight. Her hair was draggled and her face blotchy. She was in her dressing-gown and had her hands dug in its pockets.

  ‘You know I’ve got this gastro thing? I’ve been home throwing up all day.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said warily, foreseeing an appeal to my sympathies. ‘Please don’t come any closer.’ I had learned in the past that it could be dangerous to feel sorry for Pippa.

  ‘I need to get a message to someone,’ she said.

  ‘Can’t you ring them?’

  ‘I don’t know their number.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s someone at school.’

  ‘Can’t you ring one of your friends and tell them?’

  ‘No, I can’t. Nicky, it’s a little thing I’m asking. I want you to give this to somebody.’

  She extracted an envelope from one pocket.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s just a boy I know at school.’

  ‘I’m not supposed to go to your campus,’ I said. This was not strictly true. Visiting another campus at our school fell in a grey area. There were three campuses, lying side by side—junior, middle, senior. No rule prevented students at one campus going to another, but it was not encouraged. Further, my mother taught on the senior campus, which Pippa attended, and if she caught sight of me she would be certain to want to know what I was doing.

  ‘You don’t have to. I’m supposed to be meeting him somewhere else. Not on campus.’

  I considered this. ‘Is he your boyfriend?’

  Pippa’s mottled face blushed and she gave a sickly smile. ‘Don’t be silly. You know I don’t have a boyfriend.’

  ‘Where are you supposed to meet him?’

  ‘At the café down on the corner.’

  ‘You mean our café? The one in our shops? The frog café?’

  ‘That’s the one. He lives near here.’

>   I thought about it. ‘I don’t want to get into trouble.’

  ‘You won’t,’ she said. ‘Honestly, Nicky, there’s nothing wrong with it. But I feel so shitty and you can see how I look and I can’t possibly go out. You walk past it on your way home. And you owe me one, remember?’

  I was silent, weighing the matter. I liked it when Pippa used bad language to me: shitty was seductive, not only because of its forbidden status or intrinsic force but also because its use implied equality. She was speaking to me as she would speak to her friends. I wasn’t sure whether she realised this.

  ‘Nicky, please. I mean, I wouldn’t ask you to do anything if it was going to get you into trouble, would I?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, recalling previous occasions.

  ‘Well, this time I’m not. I promise you. And I let you go home by yourself, didn’t I?’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Will you do it?’

  ‘All right,’ I said.

  She gave me the envelope. ‘Adam Pascoe,’ she said.

  ‘Adam Pascoe,’ I repeated, in disbelief.

  Adam Pascoe was the head of the school, the captain of the football team, the legendary champion whose celebrity had filtered down even to my junior level. He was the hero of the boys in my class who puddled around on the muddy oval after school and on Saturday mornings. His orbit occupied a glittering dimension far from my humdrum existence, and it had never occurred to me that Pippa (although she had that year entered the senior school) would know him in any sense other than recognising his lofty person from a distance. I had seen photographs of him: I wasn’t sure that I’d ever actually laid eyes on him.

  ‘How will I know who he is?’

  ‘Well, if you go to the frog café around four o’clock and you see a guy there in our school uniform and he’s looking around as if he expects to meet somebody, it’s probably him.’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘Tall, dark and gorgeous,’ said my sister promptly.

  I put the envelope on the bed.

  ‘Put it in your schoolbag,’ said Pippa.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t want you to forget.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Put it in your schoolbag, Nicky. I don’t want Mum to see it.’