Scarlett Part 12

Dad and Holly head off in the Morris Traveller. They're making soap deliveries to craft shops in Galway too, and Dad has a meeting with a business that makes rag dolls from organic wool and cotton, and wants a handknitted website to match. They'll be away all day.

'I'll be in the workshop if you need me,' Clare says curtly. There's no warmth, no sympathy in her voice, just a quiver of hurt, confusion. I know I put that there, and it makes me feel bad.

There's more than one way to say sorry, though. I get out the mixing bowl and make a batch of fairy cakes, icing the tops with b.u.t.tercream and decorating them with ripe strawberries from the garden. I do the was.h.i.+ng up, mop the kitchen floor, then work for a while on my project folder. It's so hot now, even inside the cottage, that a trickle of sweat slips down the small of my back.

What will Kian be doing now? Making hayricks in the scorching heat. It's not even half ten. I don't think I can survive till one o'clock.

I open the fridge and see a jug of Clare's home-made lemonade tucked away at the back. I pour myself a gla.s.s, and, as an afterthought, one for Clare. I add a couple of cubes of ice and take it out to the workshop.

The smell of crushed strawberries and fresh mint hits me as I open the door, and Clare looks up from a bowl of freshly liquidized fruit. This is her territory, and I've been careful to avoid it before today; my eyes flick around the room, taking in shelves stacked with pans, jars of mysterious powders, oils and granules. In the corner, a big pan filled with molten soap is cooling.

'Lemonade?' I say shyly, setting the drink down on the table. 'It's so hot, I thought you'd need something.'

'Thanks,' Clare says, taking a long drink. 'That was thoughtful.'

'Is there anything I can do to help?'

Clare looks startled, then faintly horrified. I have never offered to help her with the soap before. She frowns, then shrugs and chucks me an ap.r.o.n. 'Why not?' she says. 'You can grease the moulds for me it's like greasing a cake tin.'

I set to work while Clare gives the fruit and mint a final whizz. She finishes off her lemonade, puts on rubber gloves and goggles and weighs out a heap of white granules.

'This is caustic soda, pretty strong stuff,' Clare says. 'Open that window as wide as it'll go, would you? And stay over there.'

'Why, what happens?'

Clare ties a scarf over her nose and mouth so that she looks like a pregnant bank robber, then tips the granules into the fruity liquid. A cloud of fumes rise up from the mixture, p.r.i.c.kling my nose.

'You can't put stuff like that in soap,' I protest. 'It'd burn the face off you!'

Clare shakes her head and the scarf slips down round her neck. 'Ah, but when we blend this into the vegetable fat mixture, there's a chemical reaction. The soda gets neutralized it disappears, if you like.'

'I didn't realize it was so complicated,' I say, impressed.

'Ah, it's a real mad professor's laboratory in here,' Clare says.

She pours the strawberry and mint into the cauldron of soap, and starts stirring. 'It'll take a while to reach trace point,' she tells me. 'Meanwhile we can take this little lot out of its moulds...'

She chucks me a pair of rubber gloves and I set to work turning out slabs of what looks and smells like coconut ice the soap has been layered with white on the bottom and pink on top. Clare trims each slab and cuts it neatly into squares with a cheese slice, for me to stack and cover with a blanket to 'cure'.

'I don't like this weather,' Clare frowns. 'It's really close and sticky, even with the window open. I feel like I've done a whole day's work already. I think there'll be thunder, later.'

I give the strawberry mixture a stir. 'Hope not,' I say. 'I wanted to go down to the lough.'

'You love that lough, don't you?' Clare says. 'I have to admit, you've worked really hard on that project of yours, even in the school holidays. That's something to be proud of.'

Would she still think that if she knew the real reason I love being by the lough? So I can hang out with a runaway boy a bad boy a boy I'm going to miss like crazy Nope, she'd think I was bad beyond hope.

'Clare, I'm sorry about what happened with Holly,' I say into the silence. 'Really sorry. OK?'

'I know that, Scarlett,' she says softly. 'OK. That's trace point for the soap time to add the colouring and fragrance.'

I stir in diluted red colouring and watch the soap change from speckled pink to deep, vivid red. Next, I measure out strawberry and peppermint oil, mix it up and stand back as Clare ladles the liquid soap into the moulds. A film of sweat glistens on her brow and she catches her lip as she dips and pours the mixture. She is almost eight months' pregnant, and she shouldn't be doing this, not in this heat.

'Let's call it a day,' I suggest when the last mould has been filled and the cauldron, ladle and measuring jug have been set to soak in the sink. 'It's way too hot to work.'

'Perhaps you're right,' Clare says uncertainly.

Outside the window, the first crash of thunder booms out across the valley.

The rain starts then, slowly at first, big drops of rain that spatter my hand as I reach out to pull the window closed. By the time Clare has tidied the workbench, it's pelting down, hammering against the workshop's tin roof.

'This has been threatening all week,' Clare says, draping blankets over the freshly poured trays of soap. 'At least the storm will clear the air.'

I frown. 'I hope Dad and Holly are OK in Galway.'

'Might not even be raining there,' Clare says. 'The valley has much more dramatic weather than the rest of the area, because of the lough and the mountains. We get these storms sometimes. It's not really surprising after all that hot weather should have known it wouldn't last!'

We pull the door shut behind us and run across the gra.s.s to the house. The rain lashes us with icy fingers, pelting our hair, running down our bare arms in tiny rivulets. By the time we get inside, we're drenched. Clare chucks me a towel and I rub at my hair, heading upstairs to change. I pick out a black top and a short, red, wraparound skirt. When I come back down, Clare has the patchwork cot quilt spread out over her knees and a bag of sc.r.a.p fabric spilt out across the table. Two more lemonades sit side by side next to the sc.r.a.p-bag.

'Thanks, Clare.'

I pick up my drink and drift over to the window. The rain is sluicing down so fast I can barely see out my plans to spend the afternoon by the lough with Kian are not looking good. A new crash of thunder makes me step back from the window.

'It's getting closer,' I say. 'I hope the chickens will be OK.'

'They've coped with worse than this,' Clare tells me. 'They won't like it, of course, but these storms never last too long. Don't worry, Scarlett.'

It's silly, I know, but I was really scared of thunderstorms when I was a kid. Now I know that there's nothing really to be scared of, but still, each flash of lightning and crash of thunder twists my insides a little. I sit down at the table, sipping my drink, and open my maths book at a fresh chapter.

I've been staring at the first problem for a whole five minutes when Clare takes the book away and closes it gently.

'Help me, instead,' she says. 'It'll take your mind off things.'

'I'm fine,' I protest.

'I know you are,' Clare says lightly. 'It's just that I could do with some advice. I've almost finished this, but it still looks a bit flat and ordinary. It needs something else I just don't know what!'

I spread the quilt out across the table. It's beautiful a tiny patchwork of random shapes and colours, overst.i.tched with bright embroidery threads. I can see the pale blue stripes of Holly's outgrown school dress, a washed-out sc.r.a.p of denim from an old pair of Dad's jeans, a pastel floral print that has to be cut from something of Clare's. Bits and pieces of their lives are st.i.tched into this quilt, pieced together to make the new baby warm and welcome.

'It needs more colour,' Clare says decisively. 'Something strong and vivid to frame the paler sc.r.a.ps. A border red maybe?'

The thunder booms again outside, rattling the windowpanes.

'I I'd like to put something into the quilt,' I say softly. 'I know I'm not a proper sister, but...'

'Scarlett, you are!' Clare exclaims. 'You're going to be this baby's half-sister, exactly like Holly. I'd love love you to contribute something to the quilt. I've wanted to ask you a hundred times, but I was scared you'd say no...' you to contribute something to the quilt. I've wanted to ask you a hundred times, but I was scared you'd say no...'

'I would have said no,' I admit. 'I didn't want to be part of this family, or part of this project, not to start with. But well, I feel differently now. It's not too late, is it?'

Clare puts a hand out to touch my cheek. 'It's not too late at all,' she says. 'How could it be? Thank you, Scarlett.'

'You could have a bit of this,' I say, pulling at my red skirt. 'Or maybe my burgundy combats? What d'you think?'

'Ah, no,' Clare says. 'You can't cut them up, it'd be such a waste!'

I shrug. 'I don't have any old clothes with me, though.'

'Unless... Well, there's the stuff in the attic,' Clare says.

The thunder crashes again, and the kitchen light flickers slightly and then steadies. 'What stuff in the attic?' I ask. 'There's nothing of mine up there.'

Clare hesitates, biting her lip. She can't quite meet my eye.

'Clare?'

'Actually, there is,' she says at last. 'Sacks and sacks of stuff that your Dad's kept hold of for years, since you moved out of the house in Islington. I think he was supposed to be taking it to the charity shop, but he made the mistake of looking in the bin bags, and he just couldn't bear to part with it.'

My head is spinning. What was in those bin bags, all that time ago? Toys, clothes, books bits and pieces of my childhood. When Dad left, I threw out everything I could from the old days. Getting rid of the memories wasn't so easy...

'He kept it all?' I ask. 'Everything?'

'I think so,' Clare tells me. 'I'm sorry, Scarlett. He should have told you.'

The lights flicker off and on again, and I rub my forehead, trying to clear the fog from my mind. My childhood, neatly bagged up, is sitting in the attic above our heads. It's not lost, after all.

'Can I see it?' I ask. 'The stuff in the attic?'

Clare grins. 'Of course, Scarlett. Fetch that stepladder from the back porch, would you? I'll show you exactly where it is...'

We go up the stairs, carrying the wooden stepladder between us. On the landing, Clare opens up the rickety stepladder below the square wooden hatch in the ceiling and climbs up, pus.h.i.+ng the hatch door open to reveal a dark, cavernous s.p.a.ce.

'Lucky there's a light up here,' she calls, flicking the switch on.

'Come down,' I call. 'It doesn't look safe. You hold the ladder and I'll go up.'

'Nonsense!' Clare laughs, tanned feet in flowery flip-flops disappearing up the rungs of the ladder. 'I'm pregnant, not ill. Come on!'

I follow her up into the floored loft s.p.a.ce, piled high with boxes, tea chests, rolls of carpet and black bin bags. My heart starts to thump.

Clare is already kneeling beside the black bin bags, opening the knots at the top and checking inside them. 'That's them,' she says. 'One, two, three... four. Do you want to see? It's your stuff really, so if there's anything you want we can throw it down.'

I look inside the first bin bag, fis.h.i.+ng out school books, plimsolls, a stack of dog-eared pony books. There's a bundle of home-made cards tied up with string, carefully coloured with stubby wax crayons or scratchy pencils or garish felt pens, endless sketches of ponies, a green potato-shaped car that has to be the Morris Traveller.

Inside the second I find a bag of Barbie dolls, a black Barbie horse with red wool plaited into the mane, my very first pair of satin ballet shoes and an impossibly tiny pink leotard. The third bin bag is stuffed with soft toys a fleecy brown bear, a ragged panda with only one ear, a knitted donkey that Gran made me back in the days when I was still her favourite granddaughter and not the problem child from h.e.l.l.

How did it all go so wrong?

I'm taking big breaths in, yet the air seems thick and soupy and I can't quite fill my lungs. I'm trying hard to stop my hands from shaking, and my eyes sting, either with dust or tears, I can't tell.

'Scarlett?' Clare puts an arm round me, and I wipe a hand against my eyes. The fourth bag holds clothes. On top there's the red velvet dress I wore on my eighth birthday, then the cerise silk crinkle-skirt I wore on holiday in Corfu. There's a red fluffy jumper, the one I wore when we went to see The Nutcracker, The Nutcracker, the Christmas I was six, and the crimson corduroy pinafore dress I loved so much when I was five. We pull out dress after dress, a dozen different kinds of red, shades of scarlet, ruby, burgundy, crimson, each one soft velvet or thick wool, embroidered cotton or crumpled linen. the Christmas I was six, and the crimson corduroy pinafore dress I loved so much when I was five. We pull out dress after dress, a dozen different kinds of red, shades of scarlet, ruby, burgundy, crimson, each one soft velvet or thick wool, embroidered cotton or crumpled linen.

'Red was my favourite colour,' I whisper.

Clare strokes my hair. 'I think that's what I was remembering,' she tells me. 'All the little red dresses. But you need to keep these, Scarlett I wouldn't dream of asking you to cut them up. They're special, aren't they?'

My throat is aching, and I can't quite find the words to explain just how special these bin bags full of memories really are. I just nod and smile and hug the dresses, breathing in a long-forgotten smell of lemony was.h.i.+ng powder and happiness.

'They're special,' I say to Clare when I can speak again. 'That's why I want to use some of them for the quilt, OK? Please, Clare? It's the best thing I can give to the new baby. My baby brother or sister.'

Clare hugs me, and I don't pull away. It's only when the thunder crashes again, right above our heads, that we break apart. 'Goodness, if this storm gets any closer it'll be right inside the attic!' Clare exclaims. 'Let's get back downstairs.'

I pick out two or three of the little red dresses and throw them down through the open hatch, watching them flutter down on to the landing carpet.

I climb down first, hands holding tight to the smooth, paint-spattered wood of the ladder. Once my feet are firmly on the floor again, I hold the ladder steady for Clare. Looking up, I see her legs lowering shakily down, her brown feet in flip-flops feeling about for the rungs.

Then there's a loud bang from downstairs and the lights go out, leaving us in semi-darkness. A roar of thunder rumbles out above our heads, and suddenly there's a scream and Clare is falling. I put my hands out to catch her, but my hands close round the crinkly fabric of her skirt, which tears from my grasp. She falls heavily against the ladder, then twists to the side and lands with a sickening thud on the carpet, red velvet and crimson silk all around her.

'Clare?' I whimper, my voice so small and scared I barely recognize it. 'Clare? Are you all right?'

Clare is still and silent. She's lying awkwardly, her head at an angle against the skirting board, blonde curls spread out around her. She looks very pale.

'Clare,' I hiss urgently. 'Please wake up. Talk to me, Clare!'

Panic rises up inside me, a tidal wave of fear. I don't know what to do. A voice in my head tells me you're not supposed to move people who've hurt themselves, but it can't be right to leave her squashed in against the wall like that. I tug her shoulders, pulling her away from the wall so her head can rest more easily. As I straighten the hair at her temple, my hand touches something warm and wet. Blood.

I feel like I'm falling down a deep, dark well, and I know there'll be snakes and sharks at the bottom. Then, abruptly, Clare speaks.

'Ow,' she says, her eyes fluttering open. 'What the heck happened there?'

'Clare!' I gasp, my body slumping with relief. 'You're OK!'

I put my arms round her and help her to sit up. She leans back against the wall, a hand pressed against her temple. 'I don't feel like I'm OK,' she says in a shaky voice. 'I feel like I just got run over by a truck.' She squints around her in the dim light. 'I'm on the landing?' she asks, puzzled. 'What did I do?'

'The lights went out it's a power cut,' I explain. 'Something to do with the storm. You were coming down the ladder from the attic, and you lost your footing. Remember?'

Clare frowns. 'Not really... I fell off a ladder?'

'We were in the attic, sorting through clothes for the patchwork cot quilt,' I tell her. 'My fault, really. Stupid thing to do in a storm.'

As we listen, there's a distant rumble of thunder, less angry now. The storm is pa.s.sing.

I pick up one of Clare's flip-flops from across the landing. 'These probably didn't help,' I tell her. 'It's OK, Clare. You'll feel better in a minute. It was just a shock.' I have no idea if this is true, but it sounds rea.s.suring. Right now, both of us could do with that.

'Every bit of me hurts,' Clare murmurs. She curves her arms around her bulging tummy and a new fear hits me. My mouth feels dry.