Sarah Lean - 3 Book Collection

Luke was waiting to speak to Dad when we got home, his voice was shaky, his eyes wide and glassy.

“A couple of blokes from your work came round. They said they wanted to speak to you. Has something bad happened?”

Dad hid behind his hands, rubbed round his face and took his time before he spoke. “They’ve all lost their jobs.”

Luke’s voice cracked. “Does that mean you too? Are we going to have to move again?”

“It’s not that …” Dad moved quickly, hooked his elbow round Luke’s neck, pulled him in.

“It’s OK, I’ve still got my job. It’s just I promised I’d look after them.”

28.

DAD WAS HANGING OVER A CUP OF COFFEE IN the kitchen, resealing a white envelope. He said he needed to go and talk to a few people. His voice was frosty; he looked more crumpled than ever.

“There’s some money on the table. Luke, get anything you need from the shop. Mrs Cooper said you could both spend the day with them.”

“My friend Rachel is coming over,” said Luke.

Dad muttered he was sure Mrs Cooper wouldn’t mind, and something about her taking in any waifs and strays.

Luke waited by the front door for Rachel. I banged twice on the drum and Mrs Cooper called out to come on in. Sam’s blue bag was on the floor by the door as usual. I looked inside it. It was Sam’s swimming stuff: swimming shorts, a towel and goggles. It made me think Sam was the kind of person who’d never give up.

We knew when Rachel had arrived because of the sound coming from the door. Me and Sam leaned against the back of the door and felt the drumming through the wood, the rhythm thumping something bright and strong, like a dance, against our skin. It was as if someone important had arrived, like when the music starts before the show begins.

I opened the door. It was the girl I’d seen twirling round the tree on the common.

“That’s my sister,” said Luke. He looked embarrassed. Like we should be avoided. “Cally doesn’t speak. She can, but she doesn’t. And that’s Sam. I don’t think he speaks either.”

“I like your drum,” Rachel said.

Luke shook his head, muttered, “I don’t think he can hear you.”

She breezed in. “Anyone want to do face paints?”

I could see straight away why Luke liked her, but why she wanted to hang around with him I don’t know.

Mrs Cooper laid out packets of food and recipes on the table while we sat on the floor and painted our faces (except Luke of course). Sam painted his blue and he looked like an alien; my face was the yellow sun with the rays going down my neck and out to my ears; Rachel drew flowers on her forehead. She blew on her fingers, painted like grass, danced them around in front of her face. She looked like she was made of music, the way she swayed.

Mrs Cooper said, “Seeing as it’s raining, how would you all like to do some cooking?”

Luke rolled his eyes, but Rachel smiled at him over her shoulder, made him want to.

I fetched one of the boxes from the shed. There was a food mixer, a whizzy thing and a chopping machine. There was a set of red plastic mixing bowls and spoons that Dad gave Mum for her birthday. They fitted inside each other like Russian dolls. I thought we could just borrow them.

Me and Sam made cakes (but he was mostly interested in licking the bowl under the table), and Luke and Rachel made two pizzas while Mrs Cooper put her feet up on the sofa and read a book. Rachel pretended we were in a restaurant, calling out orders for extra chocolate and more cheese.

Mrs Cooper hummed away to the radio while she washed the equipment and wiped up the mess.

I wrote a note for her and put it on the box: For Mrs Cooper.

“It was a very good idea of yours, saved a lot of stirring and chopping,” she said, drying a mixing bowl. “But I think we should check with your dad first.”

Well, what would be the point of that?

She put the clean machines back in the box, with one eye on me. Before she closed the lid she leaned against the kitchen counter while she wrote a note with me watching: Did these belong to your mum? I nodded. Dad must have told her. She left the point of the pen on the dot under the question mark. She was thinking hard, you could see it in her eyebrows. She might have been thinking that I would want to talk about Mum. Then she wrote: Do you miss her? She didn’t look very sure she should have written that either. But it was all right.

I shook my head. I didn’t miss her like I used to. Not now I’d seen her. But it suddenly made me think that was all I did – see her. It’s not the same as being with someone. You might just as well have a photograph. It made me think of Homeless. What was so nice about him was that he went with you and he moved; he smelled like your oldest teddy bear that nobody is allowed to wash. The wiry fur on his back was warm scrunched in your hand.

Mrs Cooper gave me a squeeze and said, “I can’t quite imagine your dad’s into making buns and fairy cakes!”

She smiled and wrote again: If he says yes then I would like them very much.

“Food’s ready!” she called.

We had a picnic on the floor. Afterwards Rachel and Luke went to beat Sting on his computer racing game and Mrs Cooper went outside to hang out the washing.

Sam drummed on the floorboards with his hands, tried to find the rhythm Rachel had made. His breath rattled and whistled in his throat. And then everything went quiet. He lay down; I saw the blue paint on his face, I saw his blue lips.

“Find Mum,” he whispered.

I ran out to Mrs Cooper. The sheets wrapped round her like ghostly clouds.

“Hello, sunshine,” she said, quickly looking at my yellow painted face while she grappled with the flapping clothes.

The breeze dropped the sheets. Mrs Cooper saw me frozen. She ran into the flat before I could tug at her sleeve.

29.

MRS COOPER GAVE SAM HIS PUFFER, ROCKED him on her lap.

“I’m supposed to look for the pink colour returning to your cheeks,” she said, trying to laugh. “Oh, Sam,” she whispered. “What’s going on? This seems to be happening more often.”

She saw he was getting better, puffed up some pillows and patted the window seat, saying, “Just do something together quietly.”

Sam was by his calendar, whispering to himself. He found today’s date and ran his fingers across the squares one by one. I thought he might be reading or maybe counting days. He stopped at the square with the red sticker.

I picked up Sam’s skinny white hand. He had blue stringy veins on his wrist and chocolate under his fingernails. I pointed to each finger, trying to remember what I’d seen Mrs Cooper do. Sam smiled.

We were there for hours. Mrs Cooper gave me a laminated sheet that had pictures of hands showing what you had to do. She said she thought it was a great idea for us two to have a chat.

It took ages to learn the deaf-blind alphabet and I had to keep looking at the pictures to check what to do, but it was really easy. My name was: scoop from thumb to first finger, touch the thumb, touch the middle of the palm twice for two Ls, and touch the pad below the thumb. Sam’s name was easy to remember because it only had three letters: hook the little finger (a bit like make friends, make friends, never ever break friends, except with your pointing finger), touch your thumb, and then put three fingers on your palm. Sam showed me on my hand. At first I had to write down the letters he was making one at a time so I could keep up. Sam was very patient. It’s hard to say what’s happening when someone’s touching your hand and making letters. It’s sort of feeling-listening.

Then Sam spelled out a question. Just like that, he came out and asked me. “Why don’t you speak?”

I’d only ever heard his voice awkward and trapped in his throat. And he had never heard mine. It was like meeting him all over again, but also, somehow, like he was my oldest friend, who I had known forever.

I didn’t know what to tell him. So slowly I tapped on his hand, “I don’t want to.” But Sam doesn’t give up.