Robin and Sarah are still lumped together as one: the twins. But in reality they could scarcely be more different. Blonde and brunette; tall and tiny; rigid and rowdy.
When they were very little, their mother, Angela—Angie—had done the usual twin thing. Matching bonnets, dresses and shoes. But Sarah had been so much longer and acted so much older—almost from day one—that the coordinated clothes only highlighted how different they looked. There were even times—as had gone down in Marshall family folklore—that perfect strangers had argued that the girls could not possibly be twins.
“I should know,” Angie would say with a pantomime sigh. “I had to squeeze them both out.”
“My little runt,” Robin’s dad, Jack, calls her as she sits by his side on the sofa, swinging her feet, which cannot yet reach the ground. Or when she spends long Sundays contentedly passing him bits of wood, nails or glue in the garage while he fixes household objects that Angie would prefer to just replace. “I’m not made of money, Ang,” he says. “Ain’t that the truth,” she agrees with another of her sighs, for show.
—
Robin and her sister have just started walking home from their first day of the new school term. Their heads sag on their shoulders, lunch boxes rattling with sandwich crusts. Their talking fades into yawns and complaints. The first day back is always tiring after six weeks of playing and watching TV. They won’t usually be collected by their mum—they’re big girls now, nine years old—but this is a first day back “treat.” Robin has already been told off twice, so she can’t wait to be left to trudge her own way back tomorrow, albeit with her sister acting as substitute adult. Amazing the difference that sixteen minutes can make. “I’m the oldest,” Sarah says all the time while Robin rolls her eyes. It would be different if I were taller, Robin thinks, frowning.
Up ahead, there’s a shiny black BMW parked partially on the pavement, its hazard lights blinking on and off. The mums who have younger kids in buggies are huffing loudly as they exaggerate how hard it is to negotiate this intrusion to their paths. The driver’s door springs open and a woman glides out. She has bouncy, shiny hair and wears an expensive-looking coat. “I’m so sorry,” she says in the general direction of other mothers. “I didn’t know where to park.”
As the women ignore her, the shiny, bouncy BMW mum sees someone and waves excitedly. It’s the new boy from Robin and Sarah’s class. As soon as he sees her he runs up to her, his backpack bobbing up and down. His hair must have gel in it, because it doesn’t move. He climbs into the front seat, and the car eases off the pavement and whooshes away almost silently. Robin is unimpressed.
SARAH|1989
There is a new boy in our class. He’s as good-looking as Jordan Knight from NKOTB and as quiet as a mouse. He has blond hair and dark eyes, cheekbones like a male model. Our new teacher, an elegant old lady with long silver hair called Mrs. Howard, who Robin says is a witch, made him stand at the front of the class and introduce himself. His ears went pink and he opened his mouth but nothing came out. Eventually Mrs. Howard pursed her lips and said, “This is Callum Granger; he’s new to the school. I hope you’ll make him very welcome.”
I wrote “Callum” in my exercise book and drew a heart around it so I’d remember his name. As if I’d forget.
At lunchtime, I saw him sitting on the friendship bench by himself. His knees were clamped tight together and he was reading a book, The Ghost of Thomas Kempe, while he ate an apple. The boys skirmished around nearby, kicking and stamping on a tennis ball, but every time they got near to Callum, he’d just tuck his knees out of the way and continue reading.
“Hi,” I said, smiling in as welcoming a way as I could manage. “I’m Sarah.”
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Callum.” I thought for a moment that he might extend his hand for me to shake.
“Do you know this is the friendship bench?” I asked.
His ears went pink again but he said he didn’t realize.
“It’s where you sit if you’re feeling lonely and want to play with someone,” I explained. I always find it a thrill to explain the rules and rituals of our school. I’ve been here since I was four and I know all of them.
I offered to show Callum around. He looked at his book, closed it carefully around a bookmark and followed me as I showed him the field where we have games, the leaking swimming pool that isn’t used anymore, the caretaker’s shed that’s haunted and—to make him laugh—the outdoor girls’ toilets. He went pink again.
He told me that he’d moved to our village, Birch End, for his dad’s new job. His dad is something important at a cola company in Reading, but Callum probably can’t get any free pop, because his dad doesn’t like to be asked for things. He sounds very strict.
—
It’s home time now and Mum has already had to tell Robin off. She’d been scraping her new shoes along the wall and I’d chosen not to tell on her, but then she started spitting for no reason and Mum had to tell her off. I don’t know why she does these things, because she always gets caught. It’s like she wants to get in trouble. I don’t know why anyone would want to get in trouble. Everything’s so much nicer when you’re good. I try to be a good girl, always.
Dad calls me his little swot. Mum calls me her golden girl.
Mum likes to pretend that she’s really fed up of Dad and he likes to clown around and call Mum things like “her indoors” or make jokes about nagging, but I think they still like each other. They’ll curl around each other on the sofa when we watch Wheel of Fortune or Roseanne, Mum’s blond hair fanning over his chest, his hand resting loosely on her leg. When we’re in the car, they talk nonstop like they’ve not seen each other for weeks, and Robin and I give up trying to interrupt them to ask for more sweets. We play I Spy or Yellow Car, where whoever sees a yellow car first yells “yellow car!” and punches the other one on the arm. It always ends in tears, but while we’re playing it my sister and I laugh maniacally and press our noses to the glass and it’s the most fun in the world. My sister drives me crazy, but if there’s one thing she always knows how to do, it’s have fun.
THREE
ROBIN|PRESENT DAY