Read Online Letters From My Sister by Alice Peterson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alice Peterson
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‘Don’t say that to Sam. It’s his favourite piece of art.’
‘Don’t like Sam.’ She withdraws her hand from the sculpture immediately, as if she is touching something dirty. ‘He says “F” word a lot. We not allowed to say that word.’
‘You don’t know Sam,’ I point out firmly. ‘You mustn’t judge so quickly. Be nice to him, OK?’
‘Don’t like him,’ she states.
‘Bells, this is Sam’s house. He has been kind enough to have you to stay. You need to get to know him. Do you want some breakfast?’
‘In Wales have muesli for breakfast. Make it ourselves.’
‘We need to go to Sainsbury’s. Do you want to come with me?’
*
As we walk into Sainsbury’s I watch us on the CCTV screen. Bells is now wearing her pink frilly blouse underneath a pair of denim dungarees, plus her purple pixie boots and embroidered hat. I’m wearing an orange skirt that clings to my hips, with a pale yellow top and orange beaded sandals. Bells tells me I look like a satsuma.
There’s a delicious smell of fresh bread that makes me feel hungry. ‘Hello, how’re you?’ Bells asks an old lady on a light blue scooter which has a black shopping basket at the front. ‘How old are you?’ She stares at the scooter, which has ‘Bluebird 2’ painted on the back like a number plate.
‘Excuse me,’ the lady says, reaching across to grab an avocado and avoiding eye contact.
Bells comes back to me with two lemons. ‘I wouldn’t say hello to everyone,’ I tell her quietly as we move on. ‘And, funnily enough, people aren’t that happy to declare their age.’
Bells is picking out packets of dried prunes, apricots, sultanas, figs and rolled oats for her muesli. ‘You have to have Diet Coke,’ I tell her when we reach the drinks section.
‘Best of luck,’ I hear a man saying. I turn sideways to see an old bearded man pushing a trolley filled with oranges. He taps another man on the shoulder who is pretending to be absorbed in deciding what brand of tomato ketchup to buy. ‘Best of luck,’ he says again, winking. He’s wearing a knitted jumper with ducks on it and a pair of black fingerless gloves. His eyes twitch when he talks and for a moment he looks at Bells and me, aware he’s being watched. I look down at my feet, hoping the man won’t point his fingerless gloves our way.
‘A mad man,’ Bells says. ‘Poor man.’
‘Shh, don’t stare.’ Swiftly I push our trolley on. Bells fills it with everything organic. The only vegetable that isn’t organic is the tin of mushy peas. That’s the only thing she likes in a tin, she tells me. She puts ingredients I have never even used into our trolley. She wants dried porcini, coconut milk, chillies, coriander, bay leaves, stuffed olives, sesame seed oil, fresh ginger. ‘What are we going to do with all these herbs and stuff?’ I ask her, slowly panicking that the bill is going to be enormous. ‘You cook a lot at home, don’t you?’ I ask her. ‘I bet they love you cooking for them.’
‘Yes, they call me Queen of Kitchen.’
I feel relieved when we finally make it to the checkout desk. The queue is long and we stand behind a tall man with light brown tousled hair. Amongst the shopping in his trolley are a packet of crumpets, runny honey, a ready-made lasagne for two, mini Magnums and a bottle of red wine. The kind of food I normally have in mine. Bells taps him hard on the arm. ‘Hello.’
I look down at my feet.
He turns around. ‘Hi,’ I hear him say, and briefly look up. He’s wearing glasses, a white T-shirt and dark jeans.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, drawing in breath.
‘Hello.’ Bells whacks him hard on the arm now and then holds out her hand.
‘Bells! I’m sorry,’ I say, wincing in sympathy. He manages a pained smile as he rubs his arm and stretches out his own hand to Bells.
‘You like Beckham?’
I’m sure he’s wondering if he heard right, and I nod. If you can imagine talking without being able to touch the roof of
‘Don’t like Sam.’ She withdraws her hand from the sculpture immediately, as if she is touching something dirty. ‘He says “F” word a lot. We not allowed to say that word.’
‘You don’t know Sam,’ I point out firmly. ‘You mustn’t judge so quickly. Be nice to him, OK?’
‘Don’t like him,’ she states.
‘Bells, this is Sam’s house. He has been kind enough to have you to stay. You need to get to know him. Do you want some breakfast?’
‘In Wales have muesli for breakfast. Make it ourselves.’
‘We need to go to Sainsbury’s. Do you want to come with me?’
*
As we walk into Sainsbury’s I watch us on the CCTV screen. Bells is now wearing her pink frilly blouse underneath a pair of denim dungarees, plus her purple pixie boots and embroidered hat. I’m wearing an orange skirt that clings to my hips, with a pale yellow top and orange beaded sandals. Bells tells me I look like a satsuma.
There’s a delicious smell of fresh bread that makes me feel hungry. ‘Hello, how’re you?’ Bells asks an old lady on a light blue scooter which has a black shopping basket at the front. ‘How old are you?’ She stares at the scooter, which has ‘Bluebird 2’ painted on the back like a number plate.
‘Excuse me,’ the lady says, reaching across to grab an avocado and avoiding eye contact.
Bells comes back to me with two lemons. ‘I wouldn’t say hello to everyone,’ I tell her quietly as we move on. ‘And, funnily enough, people aren’t that happy to declare their age.’
Bells is picking out packets of dried prunes, apricots, sultanas, figs and rolled oats for her muesli. ‘You have to have Diet Coke,’ I tell her when we reach the drinks section.
‘Best of luck,’ I hear a man saying. I turn sideways to see an old bearded man pushing a trolley filled with oranges. He taps another man on the shoulder who is pretending to be absorbed in deciding what brand of tomato ketchup to buy. ‘Best of luck,’ he says again, winking. He’s wearing a knitted jumper with ducks on it and a pair of black fingerless gloves. His eyes twitch when he talks and for a moment he looks at Bells and me, aware he’s being watched. I look down at my feet, hoping the man won’t point his fingerless gloves our way.
‘A mad man,’ Bells says. ‘Poor man.’
‘Shh, don’t stare.’ Swiftly I push our trolley on. Bells fills it with everything organic. The only vegetable that isn’t organic is the tin of mushy peas. That’s the only thing she likes in a tin, she tells me. She puts ingredients I have never even used into our trolley. She wants dried porcini, coconut milk, chillies, coriander, bay leaves, stuffed olives, sesame seed oil, fresh ginger. ‘What are we going to do with all these herbs and stuff?’ I ask her, slowly panicking that the bill is going to be enormous. ‘You cook a lot at home, don’t you?’ I ask her. ‘I bet they love you cooking for them.’
‘Yes, they call me Queen of Kitchen.’
I feel relieved when we finally make it to the checkout desk. The queue is long and we stand behind a tall man with light brown tousled hair. Amongst the shopping in his trolley are a packet of crumpets, runny honey, a ready-made lasagne for two, mini Magnums and a bottle of red wine. The kind of food I normally have in mine. Bells taps him hard on the arm. ‘Hello.’
I look down at my feet.
He turns around. ‘Hi,’ I hear him say, and briefly look up. He’s wearing glasses, a white T-shirt and dark jeans.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, drawing in breath.
‘Hello.’ Bells whacks him hard on the arm now and then holds out her hand.
‘Bells! I’m sorry,’ I say, wincing in sympathy. He manages a pained smile as he rubs his arm and stretches out his own hand to Bells.
‘You like Beckham?’
I’m sure he’s wondering if he heard right, and I nod. If you can imagine talking without being able to touch the roof of
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