The Midnight Dress(24)

Rose has to show her where to put her hands and where to put her feet. She has to offer her a hand. When she lets go again the imprint of Pearl’s palm stays burning there. The fifteen-minute climb takes almost half an hour. When they reach the little bay they sit down and dig their toes into the sand.

‘Your dad’s nice,’ says Pearl.

‘Lovely,’ says Rose.

‘I mean it. He’s got really nice eyes.’

‘Thanks,’ says Rose. ‘I feel a lot better knowing you like my dad.’

‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘Nothing,’ says Rose. ‘Everything probably.’

‘Did you go back to see Miss Baker?’

‘Yes.’

‘Has she started making the dress?’

‘Yes.’

‘What colour is it?’

‘Dark blue.’

‘That’d suit you.’

Rose wants to say something about Edie. She wants to say something about her being weird and the huge lonely mildewy house that’s so full but so empty, but she stops, stares out to sea.

‘You should let your hair out,’ says Pearl.

‘You saw it,’ says Rose. ‘It’s an out-of-control afro.’

Pearl laughs. ‘You’re funny,’ she says.

‘I’m not kidding,’ says Rose. ‘It really is. You saw it in the shop that day.’

‘It wasn’t that bad.’

‘I need to dye it black again.’

‘I think you should just let it be red.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s beautiful,’ says Pearl. ‘And romantic.’

She opens her little backpack and takes out The Alchemist’s Daughter. On the cover there is a pensive woman with red hair and a man with an arrogant expression stands behind her in a morning suit.

‘Her name is Miranda,’ says Pearl, ‘and that’s the Baron Selwyn. He rescues her from her evil stepmother, who is totally into black magic and is going to sacrifice her because she is a virgin.’

Rose takes the book and turns to a page that Pearl has dog-eared.

‘He stared at her intently as he spoke,’ Rose reads, ‘and she felt his eyes burn a hole into her soul. When his lips found hers, her mouth was so soft and yielding.’

Rose sighs for effect, gently pants.

‘At first he was gentle but then he felt her press closer to him. He had known many women, but never had a woman’s response moved him to such ecstasy.’

Pearl laughs, lies back on the sand, one arm flung across her eyes, listening. She’s smiling.

‘It’s a good book,’ she says, ‘Really, it is. Have you kissed anyone?’

‘Yes,’ says Rose, lying.

‘Isn’t it funny how I have no father and you have no mother. And your dad is called Patrick and my mum is Patricia.’

‘Hilarious.’

‘No, you know what I mean,’ she says. ‘I’m going to find my dad. It’ll be hard but I’m going to find him. I think I might have sisters. I dream about them sometimes. They have long hair and faces like moonlight. What happened to your mum?’

‘She died,’ says Rose.

‘How?’ says Pearl.

She has told girls before, other schools, other towns, most often to shock them. The telling is always different from any other thought she has about her mother. She doesn’t feel anything when she says the words. It’s like a tape-recording. When you hear the bell tinkle, please turn the page. She tells the story and then waits in the silence for what they have to say.

The waves tiptoe on the sand.

‘When I was five she put me to bed one night,’ says Rose. ‘And when I woke up she was gone, that’s all. No one could find her for days and days. But then she washed up on a beach that wasn’t that far away.’

‘Are you joking?’ says Pearl.

She’s just like all the others, Rose thinks.

‘Do I look like I’m joking?’ Rose replies.

‘What happened to her?’

‘She liked doing crazy things, that’s all. She said, “I’m going for a skinny dip.” She’d had some wine and some joints. She was a free soul, that’s what dad said. She painted and drew and made things all the time.’

‘God, that’s terrible,’ says Pearl.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ says Rose.

She puts her hand up and catches the first of the evening raindrops in her open palm.

After Pearl has called her mother from the phone box and been retrieved, Rose goes home. Her father is there in a fold-out chair, making excited marks in his notebooks. Broad rough marks, working fast. He doesn’t look up when Rose walks past.

‘I know her from somewhere,’ he says.

‘Who?’

‘Pearl.’

‘From where?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says

‘Main Street?’

‘No, not there,’ he says. ‘I think from a painting. She’s in a famous painting.’

‘What?’

‘Do you think she’s Millais’s Ophelia, no not that, it’s too obvious. She’s La Scapigliata. No . . . ’