Ry?’ says Ry.
‘Ry. Why?’
‘We’re identical twins.’
‘No, you’re not. You have dark hair
and Cy has fair. You don’t even look very similar.’
‘I mean our names!’ says Ry.
‘Oh I see,’ I say. I did think it a
little peculiar of Joanna myself, actually. Not just the rhyme, but the names
themselves. Unless they see it written down, everyone thinks Cy is short for
Simon, so Ry gets asked if he’s short for Ryman. It creates problems they could
do without. She wanted Cy because she thought it was the sort of name cool
American artists from the 1950s were called. She had a bit of a shock when
someone told her it was short for Cyril. I wonder what Ry’s short for? I don’t
think she’s dared ask.
Joanna, of course, doesn’t know what
it is like to have an odd name. Not that my name is particularly odd nowadays
because it’s in fashion, but I was the only one I knew when I was growing up,
and I was Lydia Dustbin for so long, that in the end everyone forgot that it
was a puerile joke, not my real name, and shortened it to Dusty, or Bin, if
they didn’t like me. Nobody has called me that for some time, thankfully,
especially in the wake of September 11 th .
‘What do you say?’ I ask Cy, when
I’ve finally got them strapped in the back seats and eating Creme Eggs, which
they spotted as they went through the glove compartment.
‘What?’
‘I’ve come all this way across town
to pick you up from school. I’ve given you chocolate. What do you say?’
‘Were you going to eat them all
yourself?’
‘Not all at once,’ I say.
‘Four Creme Eggs all by yourself?’
The petrol station had an offer on a
box of six.
‘You might say thank you. Or sorry
for hiding.’
‘We didn’t know it was going to be you picking us up,’ says Cy, not unreasonably.
‘You shouldn’t treat Jana any
differently from the way you treat me,’ I tell them, all politically correct.
‘It’s not Jana any more,’ says Ry.
‘It’s Nadia,’ says Cy.
‘Nadia, then.’
‘But she hits us.’
‘Have you told your mother that Nadia
hits you?’ I ask, feeling suddenly protective. They are just seven years old
after all.
‘Yes, but she doesn’t believe us.’
The cruelty of my sister!
‘Well, she’ll believe me.’
Seven years old is not quite old enough
to know about rear-view mirrors and the fact that you should leave your
exchange of triumphant grins until your attentive aunt is concentrating on the
road ahead.
‘Only kidding,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘Well, you were only kidding, weren’t
you?’
‘How did you know?’
‘I have eyes in the back of my head,’
I tell him, which is a mistake because then they’re both scrabbling through my
ponytail.
Is there anything more indulgent than
sitting on the toilet reading glossy magazines listening to the chink and
murmur of a dinner party going on downstairs? It takes me back to my childhood,
only then I was hiding in the only room with a lock, with a copy of Jackie and curls of vanilla-flavoured tobacco smoke from my parents’ Christmas cheese
and wine party drifting up through the bathroom floorboards.
Even then, Joanna was the
sophisticated one who knew how to hand round prawn and mushroom vol-au-vents
and little bowls of silverskin onions. I never seemed to have enough hands to
offer the grown-ups a cocktail sausage and a napkin at the same time. Where are
you supposed to put the bowl while you hand over the napkin? Not the arm of the
sofa, anyway.
Nowadays, Joanna gets a waitress to
hand round the canapés, but even as a guest, I can’t do glass, handbag and food
altogether, especially if there’s dipping sauce involved. If I do manage
without spattering a pair of shoes, I’m bound to be the one who’s chatting away
with a flake of filo glued to my top lip, or a porcini-speckled incisor.
Cy and Ry are in bed competing for a
five-pounds-for-the-one-who-goes-to-sleep-first prize, which I think is worth
it for the peace,
‘Ry. Why?’
‘We’re identical twins.’
‘No, you’re not. You have dark hair
and Cy has fair. You don’t even look very similar.’
‘I mean our names!’ says Ry.
‘Oh I see,’ I say. I did think it a
little peculiar of Joanna myself, actually. Not just the rhyme, but the names
themselves. Unless they see it written down, everyone thinks Cy is short for
Simon, so Ry gets asked if he’s short for Ryman. It creates problems they could
do without. She wanted Cy because she thought it was the sort of name cool
American artists from the 1950s were called. She had a bit of a shock when
someone told her it was short for Cyril. I wonder what Ry’s short for? I don’t
think she’s dared ask.
Joanna, of course, doesn’t know what
it is like to have an odd name. Not that my name is particularly odd nowadays
because it’s in fashion, but I was the only one I knew when I was growing up,
and I was Lydia Dustbin for so long, that in the end everyone forgot that it
was a puerile joke, not my real name, and shortened it to Dusty, or Bin, if
they didn’t like me. Nobody has called me that for some time, thankfully,
especially in the wake of September 11 th .
‘What do you say?’ I ask Cy, when
I’ve finally got them strapped in the back seats and eating Creme Eggs, which
they spotted as they went through the glove compartment.
‘What?’
‘I’ve come all this way across town
to pick you up from school. I’ve given you chocolate. What do you say?’
‘Were you going to eat them all
yourself?’
‘Not all at once,’ I say.
‘Four Creme Eggs all by yourself?’
The petrol station had an offer on a
box of six.
‘You might say thank you. Or sorry
for hiding.’
‘We didn’t know it was going to be you picking us up,’ says Cy, not unreasonably.
‘You shouldn’t treat Jana any
differently from the way you treat me,’ I tell them, all politically correct.
‘It’s not Jana any more,’ says Ry.
‘It’s Nadia,’ says Cy.
‘Nadia, then.’
‘But she hits us.’
‘Have you told your mother that Nadia
hits you?’ I ask, feeling suddenly protective. They are just seven years old
after all.
‘Yes, but she doesn’t believe us.’
The cruelty of my sister!
‘Well, she’ll believe me.’
Seven years old is not quite old enough
to know about rear-view mirrors and the fact that you should leave your
exchange of triumphant grins until your attentive aunt is concentrating on the
road ahead.
‘Only kidding,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘Well, you were only kidding, weren’t
you?’
‘How did you know?’
‘I have eyes in the back of my head,’
I tell him, which is a mistake because then they’re both scrabbling through my
ponytail.
Is there anything more indulgent than
sitting on the toilet reading glossy magazines listening to the chink and
murmur of a dinner party going on downstairs? It takes me back to my childhood,
only then I was hiding in the only room with a lock, with a copy of Jackie and curls of vanilla-flavoured tobacco smoke from my parents’ Christmas cheese
and wine party drifting up through the bathroom floorboards.
Even then, Joanna was the
sophisticated one who knew how to hand round prawn and mushroom vol-au-vents
and little bowls of silverskin onions. I never seemed to have enough hands to
offer the grown-ups a cocktail sausage and a napkin at the same time. Where are
you supposed to put the bowl while you hand over the napkin? Not the arm of the
sofa, anyway.
Nowadays, Joanna gets a waitress to
hand round the canapés, but even as a guest, I can’t do glass, handbag and food
altogether, especially if there’s dipping sauce involved. If I do manage
without spattering a pair of shoes, I’m bound to be the one who’s chatting away
with a flake of filo glued to my top lip, or a porcini-speckled incisor.
Cy and Ry are in bed competing for a
five-pounds-for-the-one-who-goes-to-sleep-first prize, which I think is worth
it for the peace,
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