A Library of Lemons Page 2

  I’m not quite sure what to say because I’ve never thought about words that way before, and now my brain is sort of sputtering in response to the idea and no sentences come out.

  We match all the rest of the pairs in record time. Miss Spotlin laughs when we call her over. ‘I haven’t got a harder pack,’ she says regretfully. ‘You’ll have to do some reading.’

  Mae seems pleased at this. She and I both go to our drawers and pull out a book. I have given up on Pollyanna because I had a horrible dream about being forced to eat calf’s-foot jelly and it made me feel sick. Now I’m trying Black Beauty, which is a story about a horse, but not a warm, fuzzy story. It’s set in the olden days, and Black Beauty is treated badly by several people. I don’t much like horses, but the story is good, even if the sentences are a bit too long sometimes. After what Mae said, though, I have this great urge to read the words out loud to see how they feel in my mouth.

  Instead, I sneak a glance at Mae’s book. She’s reading something called The Diary of a Young Girl.

  ‘A diary?’ I ask, and I don’t mean to sound suspicious but my voice comes out that way. The only diary book I’ve ever read was about a girl who discovered she was really a princess and I thought it was a bit silly. ‘What kind of diary?’

  ‘It’s about the war,’ said Mae. ‘The girl in the story – Anne, her name is – had to hide away from the Nazis.’

  I know about the Nazis. I read a book about a German boy who made friends with a Jewish boy in a concentration camp run by Nazis. It was a very disturbing story.

  ‘Who wrote the book?’ I ask.

  ‘She did. The girl – Anne. It’s not made up, it’s a true story. She’s really famous now.’

  ‘She published her own diary?’

  ‘No,’ says Mae. ‘She died.’

  I am baffled. ‘Then how come you’re reading her diary?’

  ‘Her father found it, after the war.’ Mae’s eyes fill with tears. ‘It’s so sad, Calypso. She died just before the war ended. If she’d only hung on a bit longer …’ She sniffs and wipes her eyes. ‘Anyway, it’s really good. You should read it.’

  ‘Maybe I will,’ I say, captivated now. I show her my own book. ‘I’m reading this.’

  ‘Oh, I love Black Beauty!’ Mae exclaims. ‘But poor Ginger!’

  ‘What happens to Ginger?’

  She claps her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have said anything! You haven’t got to that bit yet.’

  ‘Got to what bit?’

  ‘I can’t tell you! I can’t tell you!’ She looks almost manic now. ‘Oh, I hate it when someone spoils a book for me! I’m so sorry! Please forgive me!’

  ‘Of course I forgive you,’ I say, slightly alarmed by her fervour. And also now wondering what on earth happens to Ginger. I hope this book doesn’t give me bad dreams too.

  She heaves a sigh of relief. ‘Thank goodness. I won’t say another word, I promise.’ She zips her mouth shut with a gesture. Then she unzips it again to say, ‘I knew we’d like the same kinds of books. I saw you reading Pollyanna yesterday. Hasn’t she got a beautiful name? Pollyanna. Like … lollipop. Or crystalline. They feel so delicious to say. I’d love to have a pretty name, like yours. Calypso. How amazing to be named after music!’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, unsure how to respond.

  ‘That’s why I made your name in twigs, because I like it so much and I wanted to write it on the ground.’

  ‘Well … thank you. I like your name too,’ I say, feeling this is probably the right sort of thing to say in return. ‘It’s kind of … summery. Or hopeful. You know. Dreams may come true.’

  She stares at me with her big eyes. ‘Oh,’ she breathes. ‘That’s so lovely. That helps me like it more. Thank you.’

  I look down, slightly embarrassed. ‘I didn’t finish Pollyanna, I’m afraid. I … er … had a bad dream about calf’s-foot jelly.’

  Mae’s little nose wrinkles nicely. ‘Ew, it sounds horrible, doesn’t it? I looked it up. It’s basically jelly made from boiling baby cows’ feet. But you know jelly in the shops is actually made with it, don’t you?’

  ‘Is it?’ My jaw drops. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I’m not. It’s called gelatine.’

  I shudder. ‘I wish I’d never even started the book.’

  ‘Oh, it’s a shame you didn’t get to the end,’ says Mae. ‘The ending made me cry! But then,’ she adds, ‘I cry at the end of most books. Don’t you?’

  ‘N-no, not really.’

  There’s a pause.

  ‘Oh – just me then.’ She gives me an uncertain smile, and the conversation stops, just like that.

  After a pause, we both start reading our books again.

  I feel odd, and a bit upset, like I’ve made a mistake, but I’m not sure what it is or how to put it right.

  At home, I stare at the contents of the fridge. Dad has forgotten to go shopping again. We have half a block of cheese, two out-of-date yoghurts and a jar of pickled onions. The bread is going mouldy, but there are a few greenish potatoes. Cheese and onion and potato go together, don’t they? I could boil up the potatoes and mash everything together. It might taste nice.

  All of a sudden I feel very tired, like something is pressing down on my head and shoulders. I don’t want to think about cooking supper. I overhear other children sometimes in the playground, talking about food at their houses. They have roast chicken with potatoes and carrots and beans and gravy – and they don’t have to make any of it themselves. They can carry on playing or watching TV or whatever they do, while their mums or dads cook the dinner. Scarlett Callahan says she never even has to empty the dishwasher or washing machine. Her mum does it all! That reminds me – I don’t have any clean socks for tomorrow. I should put a wash on, but I can’t bear to drag myself upstairs to collect the laundry and scrabble around on the floor of Dad’s room for the clothes he never remembers to put in the basket.

  I sit down on a kitchen chair and stare at the table. The surface is scratched and dented from meals over the years. There are several sticky patches of jam or honey. I should get a cloth and wipe the table – it would only take a minute. But somehow I can’t persuade my legs to move or my arms to reach for the cloth.

  My mind has slowed. Why is this moment so hard? I could go up to my library. Read; breathe in the faint smell of oil paints; be comforted. But it’s like I’m made of lead. What happened at school today? Mae and I … it feels strange to say ‘Mae and I’, even in my head … we had a conversation. A connection. And then it broke. Did I break it? I don’t know. Sometimes the rules of conversation are too hard to work out. It’s easier to stay silent, or alone.

  I’m not sure how long I sit like that. The only sounds are the tick, tick, tick of the kitchen clock and the faint hiccupping of the fridge. I feel empty.

  Then Dad wanders in and switches on the light. I blink, confused for a moment. Did I conjure him up out of a wish for company?

  ‘Hello,’ he says in surprise. ‘Why are you sitting in the dark? Is everything all right?’

  I bite my lip because I feel like crying and I know he wouldn’t like it. I can’t speak, so instead I shrug.

  Dad comes and sits down. ‘You look sad. Can I help with something?’

  And then the tears run down my face and I can’t stop my lip doing that childish quivering thing, and it feels like there’s a piston in my chest heaving the sobs out.

  Dad looks quite alarmed. He reaches out to pat me on the shoulder. ‘Dear me, Calypso, are you ill?’

  I shake my head, unable to speak.

  He looks relieved. ‘Oh good. Well, cheer up. I’m sure it can’t be that bad.’

  I want to be wrapped in his arms so I can sob into his shirt and feel safe. But his arm is outstretched, leaving space between us, and when I lean forward slightly, he moves a fraction backwards, away from me. I know he is probably trying to remind me about inner strength, but I wish so hard that he would just hug me, like I’ve s
een other parents do when their kids are crying in the playground.

  I sit on my chair, rigid and shaking, while the tears come and he pats my arm and looks worried. And I cry that bit harder because I’m angry that he can’t just do this one thing for me – and then I cry because I feel guilty that I’m not strong enough to hold myself up.

  After a few minutes, I get control of myself again, and Dad nods. ‘Well done. Now we can talk. Shall I make a cup of tea?’

  ‘There’s no milk,’ I say, and it comes out sharply.

  ‘Isn’t there? Oh!’ He realises. ‘I didn’t go shopping. I’m sorry, Calypso. I forgot. I was reading this fascinating article online about a lemon grove in Sicily and their radical experiments with hybrid plants.’

  I don’t care, I want to say. You didn’t go shopping and you promised you would. You said Scout’s honour. And I’m trying so hard to find inner strength but I’m not sure where to look.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘I’m just not sure what to have for supper and I’m a bit hungry.’

  Dad leans forward and smiles at me. ‘Well, we can’t have that. Let’s see what I can do about it.’ He gets to his feet and starts opening cupboards. ‘Hmm, not much in here, is there? Ah! Pasta! And … hmmm …’ Packets and boxes appear on the table, most of them nearly empty. ‘We should have a proper clear-out, shouldn’t we?’

  ‘I don’t think there’ll be much left,’ I say, gazing at the ancient packet of green lentils. I pick it up. It says: ‘Best Before 2006.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t want to worry about those,’ says Dad. ‘Best Befores are a guideline. They have to put those on for the law, but food can be fine for years after that date.’

  ‘Even so, Dad. This is out of date by a long time. I think we should throw it away.’

  ‘All right. Probably best. What else have we got?’

  After I have discarded all the packets and jars that are out of date by two years or more (Dad insists on keeping the others), along with the mouse-nibbled packet of Rice Krispies, we are left with a small pile of sorry-looking items.

  ‘Hmm,’ says Dad, his face falling as he looks at them. ‘Not sure what I can make with these. But I’ll give it a go.’

  He grabs a pan and the bag of potatoes and begins to hum – something I haven’t heard him do for a long time. The atmosphere lifts, and I find a candle in a drawer and stick it on a chipped saucer and light it, just like I’ve read in books. Now it feels like we’re in wartime, struggling to cope with rationing and air raids. It’s a game, like ‘let’s pretend’, and I like made-up games.

  ‘Dad,’ I say, remembering something, ‘have you heard of a girl who wrote a diary in the war and then died? And her father got the diary published a couple of years later?’

  ‘Anne Frank,’ says Dad, filling the kettle with water and searching for the potato peeler. ‘She and her family hid in an annexe in an office building in Amsterdam during the war. They lived there for two years.’

  ‘They couldn’t go out?’ I ask.

  ‘No. Jews weren’t allowed to walk the streets, buy anything or be in public places. They were arrested if they did.’

  I nod. ‘So she was real?’

  ‘Oh yes. She wrote a diary all the time she was in hiding. And then the family was betrayed and they were sent to a concentration camp. Anne died there.’

  ‘Oh.’ I recall Mae wiping her eyes as she told me about the book. I can see why now. It is very sad, just like the one I read about the German boy. ‘Did Anne like reading?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, she was very keen on reading. And learning. She wanted to be a journalist.’

  I nod. Anne was my sort of person, by the sound of it. I must definitely read her book next.

  Dad says, ‘Ta-dah!’ and serves up dinner. My plate is heaped with something that looks lumpy and yellow with pink bits mixed in.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask cautiously.

  ‘Potato surprise!’ he says, beaming.

  I smile back. It’s nice to see him so happy. And the food, once I start eating, isn’t all that bad really. There are some squidgy bits and some crunchy bits, but there’s cheese and potato and some tomatoes, I think. And it’s hot and filling and I eat it all. ‘Thanks, Dad. I like it a lot.’

  ‘You like it very much,’ he corrects me.

  ‘Is there any more?’

  He laughs. ‘Sorry. The cupboards are bare. And I will go to the shop tomorrow.’

  I give him a look.

  ‘I will! I will – I finished the proofread of the journal today, so I can go first thing in the morning. You can help me make a list, so I don’t forget anything.’ He gives me a look of barely suppressed excitement. ‘And … I wasn’t going to tell you, but … I’m preparing my manuscript to send out to publishers!’

  ‘Your History?’ I say, amazed. ‘It’s finished?’

  He nods. ‘It is. It needs polishing, and of course there are always new scientific discoveries that will impact on lemon growing, but I feel now is the time.’

  ‘Oh, Dad!’ Impulsively, I get up and hug him.

  He flinches slightly, then gives me a couple of light pats on the back, as though not quite sure what to do with his arms.

  ‘That’s brilliant, well done you!’

  Carefully, he pushes me away from him again. ‘I am very pleased with it,’ he says. I almost don’t recognise him, he’s smiling so much. His face looks completely different. If you’d shown me a photograph of him at this moment, I’d have asked, ‘Who’s that?’ I think maybe he used to smile more, before Mum died, but it’s so difficult to remember.

  The next day, I’m in an art lesson with Mae when I say, ‘My dad’s written a book and it’s going to be published.’ Then I take a sharp breath in. My own words have surprised me. Why did I tell her?

  Mae’s paintbrush, halfway between paint pot and paper, stops in mid-air. She looks very impressed. ‘Really? What kind of book?’

  ‘It’s an important historical one,’ I say. I blush slightly. ‘It’s called A History of the Lemon.’

  ‘The lemon?’ asks Mae, looking puzzled. ‘Which lemon?’

  ‘The lemon,’ I say. ‘I mean, all lemons. It’s about lemons through history: where they came from, what they’ve been used for, all that.’

  ‘Wow. It sounds big.’ She puts the paintbrush back into the pot.

  ‘It is. He’s been working on it for years.’

  Mae nods. ‘That would be really amazing, to have your name on the front cover of a book.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I want to write books when I’m older,’ Mae says.

  I blurt out, ‘Me too!’

  I’ve never told anyone that before. We stare at each other, bound by this invisible ambition.

  Mae looks very serious now. There is something in her eyes. Recognition. ‘I knew you were a kindred spirit,’ she whispers.

  I take a breath and let it out very slowly. ‘You’ve read Anne of Green Gables.’

  ‘Of course I have. We’re like Anne and Diana.’

  ‘I want to be Anne,’ I say quickly.

  ‘I think you are,’ she agrees. ‘Because you have red hair and you read a lot. And I have dark hair and cry at everything, like Diana.’ She grins suddenly, and it’s like the sun has come out.

  We have become friends and I didn’t even mean to.

  It becomes unspoken that we sit together. We go into the playground together at break. We take our books and go to sit in a quiet place. If it’s raining, we go to the school library. Mr Simmons has known me a long time and even though we’re not supposed to be in the library at lunchtime, he’s been letting me in since Year Three. Now he smiles at me when I come in with Mae, and nods, as though he knows something we don’t.

  Mae lends me her copy of Anne Frank’s diary. It is gripping. I barely eat or drink for the time it takes me to read it. I would skip the lessons at school if I dared. When I finish it, I almost cry. There is a hot, tickly feeling at the back of my throat, but
I swallow it down. Anne had inner strength – a lot of it. There’s no use me crying over her story when she’s been dead for years. Instead, I should be learning to be more like her.

  Anne had ambitions and dreams – lots of them. She wanted to be a writer, so she started her diary as practice. There was so much she wanted to do with her life – and she didn’t get the chance.

  What if I die before I can become a writer?

  Mae and I discuss this seriously.

  ‘We should start writing now,’ she says. ‘So that we have a legacy to leave if we die young. Like Anne.’

  ‘Actually,’ I say cautiously, ‘I have already written some stories.’

  Mae’s eyes light up. ‘That’s cool! Can I read them?’

  The next day, I bring one in to show her. It’s about a girl and her friends who survive a huge nuclear war. They have to rebuild society and make new laws and find out how to kill and eat their food and everything. It’s fifty-three pages of my notebook. My hands feel slippery when I give it to Mae. What if she doesn’t like it? Could we still be friends?

  She reads it over lunch break, her eyes never leaving the words, turning the pages steadily and in silence. I watch her as she reads, trying to work out what she thinks, feeling my heart skip every time she smiles or her eyes open wide in surprise at something in the story. And then I try to look away, because I hate people watching me while I read – but I can’t help glancing back all the time, to see if she’s nearing the end.

  Eventually, she closes the book and sighs. Then she gives me the biggest smile, and relief floods through me.

  ‘I love it,’ she says. ‘It’s so exciting. And the scene where they have to kill the rabbit gave me the shivers! The ending is perfect, but I want to know what happens next. Are you going to write a sequel?’

  I hesitate. ‘I was going to. But then I had an idea for a different story, so I started writing that instead.’

  ‘Well, I think there should be a sequel to this one,’ she says. And then she adds impulsively, ‘We could write it together! I’ve got loads of ideas of what they could do next!’ She stops. ‘Unless … I mean, it’s your story … you might not want me to join in.’