Free Reckless by William Nicholson Page A

supposed to be married to Rupert’s sister, but now they were getting a divorce, which meant Larry wouldn’t be married any more.
    Pamela found Rupert in the room called the study, that was full of her father’s books. It still had her father’s smoky smell even though no one used it now. Rupert was gazing at the bookshelves.
    ‘Hello,’ said Pamela.
    She wasn’t shy with grown-ups. It was one of the things everyone remarked about her.
    ‘Hello,’ said Rupert.
    ‘Are you looking for a book?’
    ‘Not really. But there are some very interesting books here.’
    ‘I’m not really interested in books,’ said Pamela.
    ‘I am,’ said Rupert.
    This surprised Pamela. Her response had been of the kind that usually elicited a smile, a knowing glance, as if to say: She’s very sure of herself for her age. But Rupert simply took it at face value.
    ‘Why?’ she said.
    ‘Books help me make sense of my life,’ he said. Then he added, ‘Well, some books, anyway.’
    This rather impressed Pamela. She felt he had raised the stakes of their conversation, and it was up to her to follow suit.
    ‘My daddy died,’ she said.
    ‘Yes, I know,’ said Rupert. ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘You could marry my mummy if you want.’
    She had learned that this sort of suggestion caused a subdued consternation among the grown-ups, which added to her prestige. But once again, Rupert took her seriously.
    ‘Your mother’s a wonderful person,’ he said, ‘but I’m quite sure she doesn’t want to marry me.’
    ‘But she’s sad,’ persisted Pamela. ‘And you’re sad.’
    Rupert gazed at her through his spectacles in a way that made her feel he was thinking not about her but about what she’d said.
    ‘Sometimes I’m sad,’ he said, ‘and sometimes I’m happy. Isn’t that how it is for you?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Pamela. ‘But I’d rather be happy.’
    His words stayed with her. Simple though they were, they seemed to her to be important, perhaps because of the serious way he looked at her when he said them. She wondered if they were true. Then it struck her that although she was often cross she was rarely sad. In fact, sometimes she wasn’t nearly as sad as she should be. Her father dying was very bad, and everyone looked at her sorrowfully, but the truth was that for most of her young life he had been away. He was always going away. This dying felt like just another going away.
    Already she was forgetting him. That showed that deep down she was a bad person, which she had long suspected. She made herself cry because of forgetting him, but then realised she was crying for herself, not for him, and stopped and wiped her eyes.
    There was a little house at the end of the yard that had been an outside lavatory, which she had taken over as her secret place. She would often sit there on the warped wooden seat and listen to the rain on the tin roof and watch the spiders in their webs in the single-paned window. She wasn’t sure why she likedgoing there, it was boring and she never stayed long, but it was while perched in that musty-smelling gloom that she wondered about her own badness. The main form her badness took was only really caring about herself. Good people cared about other people. She pretended to, but she didn’t. It was just one of those things about her, like her brown eyes and her skinny legs, and being pretty like her mother. It never struck her that there was anything she could do about it.
    Her five-year-old sister Elizabeth kicked at the closed door of the outhouse.
    ‘Pammy? You there?’
    ‘Go away, Monkey.’
    ‘Mummy says Rupert’s going and you’re to say goodbye.’
    ‘I said go away.’
    She waited until her sister had gone back into the house and then emerged. That was an example of her badness. She wouldn’t come out when told to by her sister, even though she wanted to come out. Now why was that?
    Rupert shook her hand to say goodbye, which she liked better than the grown-ups who expected to be