said she would be, I don’t worry. I don’t even worry at six o’clock. Instead, I put a frozen cottage pie into the oven and set the dining table ready for when she does get home. I fold the paper napkins in two and arrange them smartly in the glasses like they do at restaurants. I put a bottle of white wine in the fridge.
At seven o’clock she still isn’t home. When I call her mobile, she doesn’t answer.
‘Where is she?’ Rain asks even though she knows I don’t know. I feel like telling her to shut up, but I don’t. It isn’t her fault Mum’s late.
‘Have you got any of her friends’ phone numbers?’ I ask.
‘Do you think something bad has happened to her?’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ I say. But my belly’s becoming a ball of dough that feels like it’s rolling around inside me – heavy and raw. ‘Why don’t you give Jenny a bath? I’m sure Mum’ll be back before bedtime,’ I say. I try to sound convinced.
I distract myself from thinking about Mum being hurt by cleaning the kitchen. I shine the taps and the hob and the fronts of all the cupboards. I empty the crumbs out of the toaster.
I’m on my knees under the table with the dustpan and brush when Rain comes back in. Jenny is wrapped in a towel. Rain looks in the fridge then slams it.
‘We’ve no milk, and Jenny’s hungry,’ she says.
I look up and bump my head on the corner of one of the chairs. ‘Jenny’s fine. Give her some water,’ I snap. I rub my head.
‘She won’t sleep without milk.’
‘Rain, come on . It’s dark and drizzly outside, and Mum’s still not home.’
‘Fine. I’ll go get it myself.’ She puts a hat on Jenny and clambers into her jacket.
‘Get back here.’ I crawl out from under the table and catch hold of her hood.
‘Hey!’ She screeches much louder than she needs to. ‘You jerked my neck. And you’ve upset the baby.’
I feel my eyes well with tears. I press my knuckles against my lids and take a deep breath. ‘Jenny will catch a chill. I’ll get the milk,’ I say.
‘You have to say sorry for hurting me, or I’ll tell Mom.’
‘Tell her whatever you like,’ I say.
I run all the way to the corner shop at the bottom of our road. It smells of raw chicken and dust. The fridges are almost empty. The only milk they have is a really big carton of skimmed. I dig in my pocket and pull out the money left from the tenner Mum gave me this morning – ninety-five pence – not nearly enough. ‘Excuse me,’ I say to the woman who is stacking shelves with boxes of dishwasher tablets behind me.
‘What?’
‘I need a small milk.’
‘If it’s not out, we haven’t got it.’
‘I don’t have enough money for a big one.’
‘And?’ She clicks her tongue.
‘I need to feed a baby,’ I say.
A man in a grey suit reaches over me and picks up two fruit corner yoghurts. I wonder if I could ask him for a pound, but I don’t want him to think I’m a beggar.
I leave the shop and stand outside. I won’t go home empty-handed. I can’t handle Rain when she has a meltdown. The dough ball in my belly starts to swell and I think I might scream into the sky. Jenny isn’t even real but I’m standing outside some smelly shop in the dark wondering how I can feed her real food.
And maybe that’s my own problem. Because she doesn’t actually need real food. We could feed her seawater mixed with chalk dust and she’d be OK. There’s no reason for me to be embroiled in Rain’s fantasy.
So I go back into the shop and buy a small bag of plain flour which costs ninety-five pence exactly.
I sneak into the flat and mix the flour with water, shaking it up in one of Jenny’s bottles. Then I tip the rest of the flour into an empty, airtight tub for cereal and pop it into the cupboard. ‘Rain!’ I call to her.
She comes out wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt and Christmas tights with snowmen down the sides. Jenny is dressed in a onesie. ‘What took you so long?’ she says. Her eyes and nose
At seven o’clock she still isn’t home. When I call her mobile, she doesn’t answer.
‘Where is she?’ Rain asks even though she knows I don’t know. I feel like telling her to shut up, but I don’t. It isn’t her fault Mum’s late.
‘Have you got any of her friends’ phone numbers?’ I ask.
‘Do you think something bad has happened to her?’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ I say. But my belly’s becoming a ball of dough that feels like it’s rolling around inside me – heavy and raw. ‘Why don’t you give Jenny a bath? I’m sure Mum’ll be back before bedtime,’ I say. I try to sound convinced.
I distract myself from thinking about Mum being hurt by cleaning the kitchen. I shine the taps and the hob and the fronts of all the cupboards. I empty the crumbs out of the toaster.
I’m on my knees under the table with the dustpan and brush when Rain comes back in. Jenny is wrapped in a towel. Rain looks in the fridge then slams it.
‘We’ve no milk, and Jenny’s hungry,’ she says.
I look up and bump my head on the corner of one of the chairs. ‘Jenny’s fine. Give her some water,’ I snap. I rub my head.
‘She won’t sleep without milk.’
‘Rain, come on . It’s dark and drizzly outside, and Mum’s still not home.’
‘Fine. I’ll go get it myself.’ She puts a hat on Jenny and clambers into her jacket.
‘Get back here.’ I crawl out from under the table and catch hold of her hood.
‘Hey!’ She screeches much louder than she needs to. ‘You jerked my neck. And you’ve upset the baby.’
I feel my eyes well with tears. I press my knuckles against my lids and take a deep breath. ‘Jenny will catch a chill. I’ll get the milk,’ I say.
‘You have to say sorry for hurting me, or I’ll tell Mom.’
‘Tell her whatever you like,’ I say.
I run all the way to the corner shop at the bottom of our road. It smells of raw chicken and dust. The fridges are almost empty. The only milk they have is a really big carton of skimmed. I dig in my pocket and pull out the money left from the tenner Mum gave me this morning – ninety-five pence – not nearly enough. ‘Excuse me,’ I say to the woman who is stacking shelves with boxes of dishwasher tablets behind me.
‘What?’
‘I need a small milk.’
‘If it’s not out, we haven’t got it.’
‘I don’t have enough money for a big one.’
‘And?’ She clicks her tongue.
‘I need to feed a baby,’ I say.
A man in a grey suit reaches over me and picks up two fruit corner yoghurts. I wonder if I could ask him for a pound, but I don’t want him to think I’m a beggar.
I leave the shop and stand outside. I won’t go home empty-handed. I can’t handle Rain when she has a meltdown. The dough ball in my belly starts to swell and I think I might scream into the sky. Jenny isn’t even real but I’m standing outside some smelly shop in the dark wondering how I can feed her real food.
And maybe that’s my own problem. Because she doesn’t actually need real food. We could feed her seawater mixed with chalk dust and she’d be OK. There’s no reason for me to be embroiled in Rain’s fantasy.
So I go back into the shop and buy a small bag of plain flour which costs ninety-five pence exactly.
I sneak into the flat and mix the flour with water, shaking it up in one of Jenny’s bottles. Then I tip the rest of the flour into an empty, airtight tub for cereal and pop it into the cupboard. ‘Rain!’ I call to her.
She comes out wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt and Christmas tights with snowmen down the sides. Jenny is dressed in a onesie. ‘What took you so long?’ she says. Her eyes and nose
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