Free The Year of the Rat by Clare Furniss Page B

moment I almost want him to be right.
    It’s the smell that does it; as soon as we’re inside the hospital, I think I’m going to be sick. My clothes stank of it, that hospital smell, for days after Mum died. I washed
them and washed them, but I couldn’t get rid of it. In the end I put them in a black bin bag and chucked them out with the rest of the rubbish. But the weird thing was the smell didn’t
go; for weeks it was like it was on my skin, or in my hair.
    I follow Dad, but all I can think about is the last time I was here, running along these same corridors, and the nausea rises in my throat and I start to feel faint.
    ‘I can’t go up with you,’ I call to Dad.
    He turns round. ‘What?’
    ‘I can’t. I’ll wait outside.’
    His face changes from surprise to disappointment.
    ‘Why are you doing this, Pearl?’ he says, and I can see how hard he’s trying not to raise his voice. ‘Why do you have to make everything so difficult?’
    I stare at him. He doesn’t understand. He’s not thinking about Mum. Just about The Rat. I turn and run. I run back along the corridors, past nurses and shuffly old people and anxious
relatives and trolleys with people on and trolleys with medicine on, through the foyer with its coffee shop and horrid plastic plants, and out into the car park.
    Outside, I lean against the wall, trying to catch my breath, surrounded by all the people who have come outside for a cigarette: doctors, visitors, patients in wheelchairs, all congregated on
the little paved area outside the entrance.
    I close my eyes for a moment, trying to clear my head.
    ‘Hello,’ says a voice. ‘It’s Pearl, isn’t it?’
    When I open my eyes, there’s a very old, frail-looking lady standing in front of me. It takes me a moment to recognize her: the old dear from next door.
    ‘Dulcie,’ she says, holding out a tiny fragile hand. Her eyes are unexpectedly blue and alert in her lined face. ‘Your next-door neighbour. We haven’t met properly, have
we? Though I’ve spoken to your father a few times. I hope everything’s OK? You’re not ill?’
    ‘No,’ I say. ‘Dad’s just here to—’ I break off. I can’t even bring myself to talk about The Rat. ‘To pick someone up.’
    She looks at me with a curious expression, then covers it with a smile.
    ‘The baby?’ she says. I feel my face flush, aware that she knows I was trying to avoid mentioning The Rat. ‘He said last time I saw him that the doctors were hoping she’d
be well enough to come home soon.’
    I try to smile. ‘Yes. That’s right.’
    ‘Well, you must bring her round to see me soon. You’ll do that, won’t you?’
    ‘OK,’ I say, not meaning it.
    ‘And perhaps you can meet Finn again,’ she says. ‘My grandson. He’s coming to stay with me over the summer after he’s finished his exams, before he goes off to
music college in September. He’ll be helping me out with the house and garden now I can’t cope with it all. Such a good boy. You met him once before, I think, when he was down for a few
days?’
    I’m about to say no, thinking perhaps she’s a bit senile, when I realize who she means: the horrible, wild-haired gardener, who overheard me shouting at trees. He’s her
grandson.
    ‘Oh,’ I say, going red. ‘Yes. I did meet him once.’ The memory of it makes me cringe.
    ‘Well, you must pop round when he’s here. I’m sure he’d be delighted to see you.’
    I doubt it somehow.
    ‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘I’d better go. I’m keeping the consultant waiting again.’
    She grimaces slightly as she says it, as though she’s in pain, but she covers it well.
    ‘Are you all right?’ I say. ‘Do you want me to walk with you?’
    ‘No, dear,’ she says. ‘You wait here for your sister. I’ll be fine. This place is my second home; I’d know my way blindfold.’ She smiles. ‘See you soon
I hope.’
    I watch her make her way inside, so slight, her back bent, her movement slow and pained. Once