Page 16 of From Now On

‘And it wasn’t like he didn’t provide for us. He got aproperjob, didn’t he? In the end. So what if it didn’t pay a lot. We managed.’

‘I think Violet just wanted more thanmanagedfor Mum. After my dad… I don’t know, she just wanted better.’

‘Better?’ Nina knows she is directing her anger at the wrong person.

‘Sorry. That came out wrong. Look. Let’s not fight. Violet is Mum’s sister and she has a right to know.’

‘Please don’t call her.’ Nina hears the desperation in her voice but the last thing she wants is that… cow here. She’d overheard Mum talking to Dad about her before, how she’d always said ‘she knew it would end in tears’. It would all end in tears. ‘She’ll gloat.’

‘Nina, she won’t gloat. She’ll be devastated.’

Nina glares at him.

Charlie sighs. ‘Let’s just put a pin in Violet—’

‘Like a voodoo doll?’ Nina asks.

‘Like we’ll talk about her later. Now who else is there?’

‘I can’t think of anybody. There’s no family and… God, that’s pitiful. Work, home-ed and Aunt Violet are basically all the people Mum knew.’

‘I don’t believe that. There was a mantlepiece full of Christmas cards.’

They read each one, mostly common names that could belong to anyone,a few that Nina recognizes but she doesn’t know how to contact them.

She has seen her parents for every single day of her fifteen years but, when it comes down to it, it’s sad how little she knows them.

‘Does Mum have an address book?’ Charlie asks.

‘What’s that?’

‘You know. Before the days of technology people would write down their contacts somewhere.’

‘Oh. I dunno.’

‘I’ll look downstairs. Can you go and check her room?’

‘I don’t want—’

‘Please, Nina.’ Charlie sounds so tired. So desperate. ‘Okay,’ he says when she doesn’t answer. ‘I’ll do it.’

‘No,’ she snaps. As much as she doesn’t want to rummage through her mum’s things, she doesn’t want anyone else to touch them, ever.

‘Thanks,’ Charlie says.

‘Whatever.’ She tries to stomp up the stairs to demonstrate she is still not happy but she doesn’t have the energy.

Sickness swells in her stomach as she stands outside of her parents’ bedroom. She has to take three deep breaths before she can even push open the door. Her eyes are drawn to the bed she would clamber onto as a toddler, a Beatrix Potter book tucked under her arm, often dragging her cuddly Peter Rabbit by the ear. He wasn’t really a proper Peter. She had fiercely, vocally and repeatedly expressed her desire for one but her parents couldn’t afford branded merchandise. Instead, Mum had picked up a plain-looking bunny from a second-hand toy stall on the local market.

‘No,’ Nina had stamped her foot. ‘Not Peter.’

Her mum had smiled and paid for him before dropping him into her bag.

‘I hate him,’ Nina had said.

Later, she had seen him, pegged on the washing line, water drip-drip-dripping from his fur. Her memories are hazy but she knows that while she had lain in bed that night there had been the thrum of the sewing machine coming from downstairs. She recalls her delight when she had woken in the morning to find the rabbit on the end of her bed, wearing a smart blue jacket – looking very much like Peter. She had pressed him to her chest, whispering that she loved him into his long ears. What she can’t remember now is whether she said thank you to her mum. Whether she told her that she loved her with as much enthusiasm she’d shown her soft toy.

She collects Peter now from the bottom of her wardrobe where she had stuffed him when she grew too old to have him on display but didn’t quite feel ready to throw him away. She pads back to her parents’ room and this time she crosses the threshold. She climbs on the bed and curls her knees to her chest, her arms wrapped around the rabbit.

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