Kalpana's Dream (6 page)

It was eight o’clock and Ms Dallimore and Vladimir were dining by candlelight. It was a single candle, and a very small one – the sort you find on birthday cakes – because Vladimir’s eyes were very sensitive to the light. He wore dark glasses, inside the house and out, even in the gloomiest days of winter when the sun hadn’t shone for weeks. Vladimir and Ms Dallimore dined by candlelight and washed up by candlelight and listened to music in the dark. (Television was far too glary for Vladimir.)

Ms Dallimore (whose name was Madeleine) smiled tenderly at her companion across their ill-lit table. He was wearing his painting smock with the big pockets, which he always wore at mealtimes, and washed all by himself, thoughtfully, to save Ms Dallimore the bother.

‘Some wine, my love?’ asked Vladimir.

‘Um, no, ’ said Ms Dallimore quickly, placing her hand across her glass. ‘I’ve got marking to do this evening.’

Vladimir brewed his own wine from an old family recipe. He brewed it in the cellar, a place Ms Dallimore never visited because it was so very black and creepy down there, and the stairs were so steep and frightening. The wine was a very deep dark red, almost black, with a strange taste that was almost – Ms Dallimore shuddered – meaty.

‘Cold, my love?’ enquired Vladimir.

‘What? Oh, no, no.’

‘Perhaps, as they say, a goose walked over your grave.’

‘A goose?’ Ms Dallimore sounded startled.

‘Pardon, my Madeleine.’ Vladimir sighed. ‘Often I forget I am no longer in Europe. Here it would be a magpie, or perhaps a crow.’

‘A crow, ’ echoed Ms Dallimore uneasily, forking up a piece of lamb chop and some peas. She glanced across at her companion’s plate, where the food lay quite untouched. Vladimir ate in the strangest way: one moment his plate would be full, but when you glanced again it would be almost empty.

‘Oops!’ In the gloom, Ms Dallimore dropped her fork. When she came back from the kitchen with a clean one, Vladimir’s chop and peas were gone, only his potatoes remained, right in the centre of the plate.

Ms Dallimore sat down.

‘And how are 7B, Madeleine?’ asked Vladimir.

‘Oh! Oh dear! Vladimir, when I was in teachers’ college, I had such dreams, such ideals! I thought I might encourage children to use their minds, their imaginations, to listen to the heavenly music of their souls . . .’ Ms Dallimore, seeking sympathy, gazed into Vladimir’s dark glasses and saw only her own face mirrored there. She loved him dearly, but– ‘Vlad, isn’t there something you can do about your glare problem? So you don’t have to wear dark glasses all the time? And so we could’, she waved at the shadowy corners of the room, ‘have a little light in here?’

Vladimir sighed. ‘I fear not. Mine is a hereditary affliction, about which nothing can be done.’

‘But Vladimir, surely, in this day and age–’

‘Ah! “In this day and age”, ’ repeated Vladimir. ‘That sounds like a good title for one of your essays, my love. Or even, simply, “Day and Age”.’

‘Why, yes!’ Ms Dallimore exclaimed excitedly. ‘It – it’s wonderful, Vladimir. “Day and Age” – why, they could write about almost anything.’ In her enthusiasm, Ms Dallimore dropped her fork again, as Vladimir had known she would, and when she returned from the kitchen, the pockets of his smock were bulging, and the potatoes on his plate were gone . . .

Outside the window, Ivy Stevenson and Danny Moss crouched among the bushes, trying to catch a glimpse of their Year Seven teacher’s mysterious boyfriend. It was difficult because the room was so dark, full of flickering shadows from that single tiny candle. Dimly they could make out Ms Dallimore’s pale face, but her companion’s back was turned towards them.

‘Can you see him?’ whispered Ivy.

Danny shook his head. ‘Nah.’

And then, almost as if he’d heard them, Vladimir swung round in his chair to face the window.

Ivy and Danny saw a long white face beneath a shock of thick black hair; they saw full wet ruby lips and the spooky gleam of Vladimir’s dark glasses.

‘Geez, he’s wearing shades in the middle of the night!’

‘Oooh, look at his mouth, his lips are really red, like – like blood!’

Danny grabbed Ivy’s hand. They scrambled from the bushes and ran – ran with their hearts thudding, across the lawn to the gate, out into the street, down the road, and they didn’t stop till they’d rounded two corners and were hidden in the prickly safety of old Mrs Peterson’s hedge.

‘Think he saw us?’

‘Nah – too dark.’

‘He might be able to see in the dark. It’s the light that bothers them.’

They crouched together, listening. After a few more minutes Danny said, ‘He’s not coming after us, anyway. There’s no footsteps.’

‘He mightn’t
have
footsteps.’

‘Ah, come on!’ said Danny. ‘Let’s go down the reserve.’

‘Do you think he is?’ asked Ivy a few moments later as they hurried on through the streets. ‘Do you think he really is–’

‘Count Dracula?’ Danny thought for a moment. ‘He does look a bit like him, with that spooky white face, and those shades–’

‘And those lips, ’ shivered Ivy.

‘Except, ’ said Danny, ‘Count Dracula’s not–’

‘Not real, ’ finished Ivy, with a little sigh.

‘Yeah. He’s only someone from a fairy story. Know what? I reckon it’s all coincidence, see?’

‘Coincidence?’

‘That Ms Dallimore gets round with some weird guy who happens to look like a vampire, and that she’s so pale. Red-haired people
are
pale.’

‘And getting paler, ’ whispered Ivy.

‘She’s probably got some kind of vitamin deficiency.’

‘Iron, ’ said Ivy knowledgeably, ‘or maybe B12.’

They walked on a little further. ‘He’s handsome, but, ’ said Ivy.

‘Handsome? That weirdo? You think so?’

‘Sort of – distinguished. Romantic.’

‘Romantic!’ scoffed Danny, but a moment later, he put his arm around her. ‘Hey, Ive, guess what?’

‘What?’

‘I’ve found this really romantic place that no-one else knows about. How about we go there one day?’

Ivy smiled. ‘Where is it?’

‘The zoo.’

‘The
zoo
?’ Ivy wrinkled her nose.

‘Not
in
the zoo, exactly. You know that bushy bit, down behind the monkeys’ enclosure? Well, there’s a track through there, right down the hill to the beach at the bottom, and round the rocks there’s this other little beach, really small – a sort of secret beach. It’s got this great sand, really white, and sort of, uh – pearly.’

‘Pearly, ’ echoed Ivy.

‘So, wanna go there one day?’

‘I might, ’ replied Ivy. And then she sighed, because somehow she couldn’t imagine Ms Dallimore’s distinguished companion taking a lady anywhere near a zoo.

Ms Dallimore woke suddenly in the very middle of the night. She pictured Vladimir’s dinner plate as it had been the first time she’d gone out to the kitchen in search of a fresh fork: she saw the untouched chop, and the potatoes, and the peas. She remembered how when she’d come back the peas and the chop had vanished, and when she’d come back the second time the potatoes had gone too – the plate was bare. Completely bare.

The question was – and it worried Ms Dallimore a little, as such things do in the middle of the night – what had happened to the chop bone?

9
‘Is That Your Homework?’

‘Is that your homework? Is it?’

Kate sat at her desk and Lucy hung over her shoulder, her warm breath tickling the back of her sister’s neck.

‘Yes, ’ said Kate shortly. She’d hardly done a thing: only printed the title and begun to circle it with a border of bright green ivy leaves.

Lucy pointed a stubby finger at the words inside the leaves. ‘What does that say?’

‘Who am I?’

‘Is that what you have to do? Write about who you are? Is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I could do that! It’s easy!’

‘You can’t write.’

‘But when I can, when I go to Big School, next year, I’ll write heaps and heaps. About me! About who I am!’

She would too, thought Kate.

‘I can write my name – nearly. I can write “L” for Lucy.’ A chubby hand reached out towards the box of pastels. Kate pushed it away. ‘Don’t touch! You know you’re not allowed to use them! They’re my special ones!’

For once Lucy didn’t argue, but she kept on standing there, close up beside Kate’s chair. Why did Lucy always have to
follow
her? Ten minutes ago Lucy had been in the kitchen, pestering Mum to take her to the zoo. A bout of pestering from Lucy could go on for hours, yet the moment Kate sat down at her desk to
think
, here she was again.

‘You’ve hardly done
anything
!’

‘That’s because I’ve only just started, ’ said Kate, struggling to keep her temper down. ‘I’m making the heading look nice, see?’ She reached for the green pastel, to finish her ivy leaves.

It wasn’t there.

‘Where’s my green pastel?’

Lucy’s hands were hidden behind her back.

‘Did you take it? Did you?’

‘No!’ Lucy held her hands out, empty. ‘It’s there!’ She pointed to the desk. Kate’s crayon had rolled behind her pencil case.

‘Oh.’ Kate picked it up and drew more leaves around her heading.

Lucy watched. ‘Now are you going to start writing? Writing about who you are?’

Kate’s scalp began to itch, as it often did when Lucy started to annoy her.

‘Are you?
Now
?’

Kate scratched wildly at her head. ‘In a minute. But I can’t do it with you standing there watching me; I can’t think when you do that. Why don’t you go somewhere else?’

‘Mum told me to come up here.’

Kate clenched her teeth. Trust Mum.

‘It’s my room too, ’ said Lucy. ‘Half of it is mine.’

‘You go over there, then, ’ said Kate. ‘Play with your Noah stuff.’ She pointed to a far corner of the room, where the ark and its little plastic animals lay scattered on the floor. Lucy stomped towards it. ‘You’re
mean
! That’s what you should write! “My name is Katie and I’m
mean
!”’

Kate didn’t answer. She bent her head over her desk.

‘Make notes of your thoughts, ’ Ms Dallimore had told them. ‘Do it quickly, before they fly away. That will get you started.’ But what if you didn’t have any thoughts, let alone flying ones? Kate chewed grimly on her pen.

‘Look! Look, Katie!’

‘What?’

Lucy was back by the chair, the tiny figure of Mrs Noah clutched in her hand.

‘See how she’s got no head? Guess what happened? Mrs Lion said to Mr Lion, “I’m feeling very hungry, darling, because I’m going to have a cub.” And then Mr Lion said, “Don’t be sad, my dear. I know where there’s a most delicious lady–”’ Lucy planted a foot on the rung of her sister’s chair, and swung on it. ‘And then–’

‘Get off!’ roared Kate. ‘You’ll tip the chair over!’

‘No, I won’t! You’re sitting in it, and you’re so big and fat it can’t fall down.’

Kate pushed her off and got up from the desk. She marched to the door.

‘Where are you going?’ demanded Lucy.

‘To the bathroom. At least I can be private there.’

Kate sat on the edge of the bath and dreamed about her sleep-out. She imagined the little room all finished and ready for her – pictured the windows in place, the floor polished, a rug put down and curtains hung, her bed along one wall, her desk against the other – she imagined privacy and peace, and falling asleep without the sound of Lucy snoring.

When she’d calmed down she went back to her real room, and Lucy was still there.

She was lying on her bed with her eyes closed, but Kate could tell from the tiny glimmer beneath her lashes that she was still awake.

Kate sat down at her desk and at once she saw something funny had happened there. It was so very odd that for a moment Kate couldn’t quite take it in. And then she did. Her pastels – her beautiful, special pastels that Aunty Marie had bought her from the art shop – were laid out in a long neat line beneath her workbook. And every single one of them had been neatly broken in half.

‘Lucy!’

Lucy’s eyes snapped open.

‘Did you do this?’

Lucy nodded.

‘You wicked, wicked–’ ‘Girl’ was too nice a word for Lucy. ‘You wicked little
pest
!’