coach, with four pink ‘My Little Ponies’ pulling it. Fleur was so weak she couldn’t even blow the candles out, and she asked Lotte to do it for her.
A week later she died.
Lotte was told what had happened by Mrs Broome, the neighbour she was staying with while her parents were at the hospital. Mrs Broome said Jesus had taken Fleur to live with him because she was very special, and that once Lotte went home, she had to be especially good and quiet because her mummy and daddy were very sad.
Lotte went home later that day, and her dad opened the door to her. He picked her up and hugged her, and she remembered his face was all wet with tears.
He put her down and told her to go and see her mother. Lotte stood for a little while in the doorway of the front room, just looking. It always seemed a cold room because it never got any sun. There was a big three-piece suite which was dark red, and in the alcoves on either side of the chimney breast were black wood wall units. Some of the shelves were open, with ornaments and books on; others had sliding glass doors and the best glasses were kept in there.
Her mother was on the sofa, all hunched up, her head in her hands, and she was kind of rocking herself and making an awful moaning sound.
Lotte went over to her and sat down beside her. There was no response from her mother, who didn’t appear to have noticed she was there. So Lotte knelt up beside her and tried to put her small arms around her shoulders.
‘You’ve still got me,’ she said.
She remembered what she said so clearly, even after sixteen years, because of the way her mother reacted. She flung her arms out, knocking Lotte to the floor. ‘I don’t want you, you little brat,’ she spat out. ‘All I want is my beautiful Fleur.’
Lotte wanted pretty, funny, entertaining Fleur too. There was a big hole in her life where her sister had been; she’d always played with Lotte, read and sung to her. She’d explained things Lotte didn’t understand, did her hair, told her stories, and when they went to the shops together, she knew how much change they should get, and the best places to buy anything.
Why didn’t anyone understand that she loved and missed Fleur too?
There were so many painful memories in the period after Fleur’s death. It seemed as if each day brought new hurts, and Lotte felt bewildered as to why she was constantly being shouted at or punished. But having a belt taken to her backside, and being beaten so hard she couldn’t sit down without pain for a couple of weeks, was one of the worst.
Her only crime was being caught playing with Fleur’s Barbie Dolls.
‘You are not fit to touch her toys,’ her mother screamed at her, her face purple and contorted with hatred as she lashed out with the belt. ‘Don’t you ever go in her room again!’
Lotte’s bedroom was a tiny box room with no room for anything more than a single bed and a chest of drawers. But Fleur’s room next door to it was at least three times larger and until she’d died they’d always played in there together.
Now it was like a shrine to Fleur. Her mother cleaned and dusted it each week and stayed in there for hours sobbing.
When what would have been Fleur’s eleventh birthday came round, all the dolls had their clothes washed and her mother lit candles on a cake and took it in there to sing Happy Birthday to her. She repeated that year after year, but Lotte never had a cake on her birthday, and the present she was given was always just a cardigan or pyjamas. Practical and impersonal.
There were of course no singing or dancing lessons as Fleur had, so Lotte never discovered if she had any talent. Her mother kept her hair cut very short, and bought her very plain, dark-coloured clothes. Young as she was, Lotte soon realized that this was so no one would ever make any favourable comparison between her and Fleur.
Her father wasn’t nasty to her, just distant. As he was a plumber he was often called out on
A week later she died.
Lotte was told what had happened by Mrs Broome, the neighbour she was staying with while her parents were at the hospital. Mrs Broome said Jesus had taken Fleur to live with him because she was very special, and that once Lotte went home, she had to be especially good and quiet because her mummy and daddy were very sad.
Lotte went home later that day, and her dad opened the door to her. He picked her up and hugged her, and she remembered his face was all wet with tears.
He put her down and told her to go and see her mother. Lotte stood for a little while in the doorway of the front room, just looking. It always seemed a cold room because it never got any sun. There was a big three-piece suite which was dark red, and in the alcoves on either side of the chimney breast were black wood wall units. Some of the shelves were open, with ornaments and books on; others had sliding glass doors and the best glasses were kept in there.
Her mother was on the sofa, all hunched up, her head in her hands, and she was kind of rocking herself and making an awful moaning sound.
Lotte went over to her and sat down beside her. There was no response from her mother, who didn’t appear to have noticed she was there. So Lotte knelt up beside her and tried to put her small arms around her shoulders.
‘You’ve still got me,’ she said.
She remembered what she said so clearly, even after sixteen years, because of the way her mother reacted. She flung her arms out, knocking Lotte to the floor. ‘I don’t want you, you little brat,’ she spat out. ‘All I want is my beautiful Fleur.’
Lotte wanted pretty, funny, entertaining Fleur too. There was a big hole in her life where her sister had been; she’d always played with Lotte, read and sung to her. She’d explained things Lotte didn’t understand, did her hair, told her stories, and when they went to the shops together, she knew how much change they should get, and the best places to buy anything.
Why didn’t anyone understand that she loved and missed Fleur too?
There were so many painful memories in the period after Fleur’s death. It seemed as if each day brought new hurts, and Lotte felt bewildered as to why she was constantly being shouted at or punished. But having a belt taken to her backside, and being beaten so hard she couldn’t sit down without pain for a couple of weeks, was one of the worst.
Her only crime was being caught playing with Fleur’s Barbie Dolls.
‘You are not fit to touch her toys,’ her mother screamed at her, her face purple and contorted with hatred as she lashed out with the belt. ‘Don’t you ever go in her room again!’
Lotte’s bedroom was a tiny box room with no room for anything more than a single bed and a chest of drawers. But Fleur’s room next door to it was at least three times larger and until she’d died they’d always played in there together.
Now it was like a shrine to Fleur. Her mother cleaned and dusted it each week and stayed in there for hours sobbing.
When what would have been Fleur’s eleventh birthday came round, all the dolls had their clothes washed and her mother lit candles on a cake and took it in there to sing Happy Birthday to her. She repeated that year after year, but Lotte never had a cake on her birthday, and the present she was given was always just a cardigan or pyjamas. Practical and impersonal.
There were of course no singing or dancing lessons as Fleur had, so Lotte never discovered if she had any talent. Her mother kept her hair cut very short, and bought her very plain, dark-coloured clothes. Young as she was, Lotte soon realized that this was so no one would ever make any favourable comparison between her and Fleur.
Her father wasn’t nasty to her, just distant. As he was a plumber he was often called out on
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