up by doctors so she looks like bacon. I’m scared if I draw anything it’ll be her with metal stalks and tubes coming out.
I look up at the high ceiling and I have the idea I could float up to it like a balloon and that Grandad might reach up and try and grab my string but I’d be way, way too high. The only time I’d float down again is when they said Mum’s better and I can go home. I do some crying again, with myhead on the crayons, so the snow globe’s not working. Its stuff is leaking out.
*
The first I know that Dorothy’s come back is when I hear her calling, ‘Carmel, Carmel. Where is she?’
‘In here, in here.’
She comes into the apartment with masses of carrier bags. She’s got red lipstick on and a yellow blouse with bright pink roses. ‘Provisions,’ she says and soon the table’s covered with tins and lemons and boxes of cereal.
‘Tonight is feast night.’ She laughs and flings her hair back like a horse does with its mane. Her eyes look shiny and excited as if going out made her quicker and more awake.
‘Dorothy,’ I say carefully, because you never know what’s going to make grown-ups act in funny ways or make them say no – no way, José. ‘Next time you go out, can I come with you?’
She laughs and says, ‘Maybe.’ I pick up a tin of beans and it’s silly, it makes me feel a bit wobbly and teary because it’s such a relief seeing something so familiar: the same blue colour and the 57 varieties.
‘Now then, Carmel, something just for you.’ She picks up the bag that says British Heart Foundation on it in red writing and starts taking out piles of lace dresses – six of them, like dolls or bridesmaids wear. They make a frilly mountain of lace in between the shopping, all ice-cream colours: yellow, peach, pink and white – made of nylon, that Mum never buys. Then she shows me another bag that’s got new tights, knickers, a nightie and shiny patent shoes.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Um – thank you Dorothy.’
‘Don’t you like them, Carmel?’ Her face looks disappointed. ‘This is how girls dress where I come from. When they go to church on Sunday morning they look like dozens of little flowers dancing down the street.’
‘Usually,’ I say, ‘I wear things like jeans and T-shirts with pictures on them. And trainers.’
‘Oh. But those things you’re wearing are so dirty.’
I look down: it’s true. The leggings have gone baggy at the knees and my cuffs are crispy with dirt from outside. Even my socks have started itching.
‘Maybe just for now,’ she says.
‘Alright,’ I say, trying to keep polite, even though the clothes look exactly like how Alice dressed at the Mad Hatter’s tea party. ‘I will till I can go home.’
Grandad comes in rubbing his hands together.
‘She’s back,’ he says and he puts his arms round Dorothy’s waist and they do a funny little dance together round and round that’s extra funny because of his limp. He settles back in the biggest chair at the head of the table, smiling his head off, like a king expecting presents. ‘And what is there for me?’
‘There, your favourite.’
He twists open the top of the bag and takes out a peanut in its shell.
‘We give those to the birds sometimes,’ I say.
He frowns, as if I’m spoiling his lovely snack. ‘Now that would be a crying waste of good food.’ He makes a sound like bones cracking as he splits open a peanut between his fingers and thumb.
Dorothy says, ‘Come, child. It’s about time you took a shower and washed that grub and dirt away.’
She leads me up the stairs towards their bathroom and behind me I can hear the crack, crack, crack that Grandad makes, splitting open peanut shells.
*
When I come back down Grandad folds up the newspaper he’s been reading and tucks it under his bottom so he’s sitting on it. ‘There she is,’ he says. ‘As pretty as a picture. As cute as a bunny rabbit.’
My old dirty clothes are in a ball in my hands with trainers
I look up at the high ceiling and I have the idea I could float up to it like a balloon and that Grandad might reach up and try and grab my string but I’d be way, way too high. The only time I’d float down again is when they said Mum’s better and I can go home. I do some crying again, with myhead on the crayons, so the snow globe’s not working. Its stuff is leaking out.
*
The first I know that Dorothy’s come back is when I hear her calling, ‘Carmel, Carmel. Where is she?’
‘In here, in here.’
She comes into the apartment with masses of carrier bags. She’s got red lipstick on and a yellow blouse with bright pink roses. ‘Provisions,’ she says and soon the table’s covered with tins and lemons and boxes of cereal.
‘Tonight is feast night.’ She laughs and flings her hair back like a horse does with its mane. Her eyes look shiny and excited as if going out made her quicker and more awake.
‘Dorothy,’ I say carefully, because you never know what’s going to make grown-ups act in funny ways or make them say no – no way, José. ‘Next time you go out, can I come with you?’
She laughs and says, ‘Maybe.’ I pick up a tin of beans and it’s silly, it makes me feel a bit wobbly and teary because it’s such a relief seeing something so familiar: the same blue colour and the 57 varieties.
‘Now then, Carmel, something just for you.’ She picks up the bag that says British Heart Foundation on it in red writing and starts taking out piles of lace dresses – six of them, like dolls or bridesmaids wear. They make a frilly mountain of lace in between the shopping, all ice-cream colours: yellow, peach, pink and white – made of nylon, that Mum never buys. Then she shows me another bag that’s got new tights, knickers, a nightie and shiny patent shoes.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Um – thank you Dorothy.’
‘Don’t you like them, Carmel?’ Her face looks disappointed. ‘This is how girls dress where I come from. When they go to church on Sunday morning they look like dozens of little flowers dancing down the street.’
‘Usually,’ I say, ‘I wear things like jeans and T-shirts with pictures on them. And trainers.’
‘Oh. But those things you’re wearing are so dirty.’
I look down: it’s true. The leggings have gone baggy at the knees and my cuffs are crispy with dirt from outside. Even my socks have started itching.
‘Maybe just for now,’ she says.
‘Alright,’ I say, trying to keep polite, even though the clothes look exactly like how Alice dressed at the Mad Hatter’s tea party. ‘I will till I can go home.’
Grandad comes in rubbing his hands together.
‘She’s back,’ he says and he puts his arms round Dorothy’s waist and they do a funny little dance together round and round that’s extra funny because of his limp. He settles back in the biggest chair at the head of the table, smiling his head off, like a king expecting presents. ‘And what is there for me?’
‘There, your favourite.’
He twists open the top of the bag and takes out a peanut in its shell.
‘We give those to the birds sometimes,’ I say.
He frowns, as if I’m spoiling his lovely snack. ‘Now that would be a crying waste of good food.’ He makes a sound like bones cracking as he splits open a peanut between his fingers and thumb.
Dorothy says, ‘Come, child. It’s about time you took a shower and washed that grub and dirt away.’
She leads me up the stairs towards their bathroom and behind me I can hear the crack, crack, crack that Grandad makes, splitting open peanut shells.
*
When I come back down Grandad folds up the newspaper he’s been reading and tucks it under his bottom so he’s sitting on it. ‘There she is,’ he says. ‘As pretty as a picture. As cute as a bunny rabbit.’
My old dirty clothes are in a ball in my hands with trainers
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