On these occasions, Peter was the one who got into trouble, and Kate was the one who came out on top. This was how Peter saw it. When he got angry with Kate, he had to think carefully before hitting her. Often they kept the peace by drawing an imaginary line from the door right across their bedroom. Kate’s side there, Peter’s side here. On this side, Peter’s drawing and painting table, his one soft toy, a giraffe with a bent neck, the chemistry and electricity and printing sets that were never as much fun as the pictures on the box lids promised, and the tin trunk he kept his secrets in, which Kate was always trying to open.
Over there were Kate’s painting and drawing table, her tele-scope, microscope and magnetism sets which were as much fun as the pictures on their lids promised, and everywhere else in her half of the room were the dolls. They sat along the window ledge with their legs dangling idly, they balanced on her chest of drawers and flopped over its mirror, they sat in a toy pram, jammed like tube-train commuters. The ones in favour crept nearer her bed. They were all colours, from shiny boot-polish black to deathly white, though most were a glowing pink. Some were naked. Others wore only one item, a sock, a T-shirt, or a bonnet. A few were dressed to the nines in ball gowns with sashes, lace-trimmed frocks, and long skirts trailing ribbons. They were all quite different, but they all had one thing in common: they all had the same wide, mad, unblinking angry stare. They were meant to be babies, but their eyes gave them away. Babies never looked at anyone like that. When he walked past the dolls, Peter felt watched, and when he was out of the room, he suspected they were talking about him, all sixty of them.
Still, they never did Peter any harm, and there was only one that he really disliked. The Bad Doll. Even Kate did not like it. She was scared of it, so scared she did not dare throw it out in case it came back in the middle of the night and took its revenge. You would know the Bad Doll at a glance. It was a pink that no human had ever been. Long ago, its left leg and right arm had been wrenched from their sockets, and from the top of its pitted skull grew one thick hank of black hair. Its makers had wanted to give it a sweet little smile, but some- thing must have gone wrong with the mould because the Bad Doll always curled its lips in scorn, and frowned, as if trying to remember the nastiest thing in the world.
Of all the dolls, only the Bad Doll was neither boy nor girl. The Bad Doll was simply ‘it’. It was naked, and sat as far as possible from Kate’s bed, on a bookcase from where it looked down on the others. Kate sometimes took it in her hands and tried to soothe it with her murmurs, but it was never long before she shuddered and quickly put it back.
The invisible line worked well when they remembered about it. They had to ask permission to cross to the other’s half. Kate was not to pry into Peter’s secret trunk, and Peter was not to touch Kate’s microscope without asking. It worked well enough until one wet Sunday afternoon they had a row, one of their worst, about where exactly this line was. Peter was sure it was further away from his bed. This time, Kate did not need to turn purple or pretend to die, or scream. She clocked Peter on the nose with the Bad Doll. She held it by its one fat pink leg and swung it at his face. So it was Peter who went running down stairs crying. His nose was not actually hurting, but it was bleeding, and he wanted to make the most of it. As he hurried down, he smeared blood over his face with the back of his hand, and when he came into the kitchen, he dropped to the floor in front of his mother and wailed and moaned and writhed. Sure enough, Kate got into trouble, big trouble.
This was the fight that led their parents to decide that it was time Peter and Kate had separate rooms. Not long after Peter’s tenth birthday, his father cleared out what was called the ‘box room’, even though it contained no boxes, only old picture frames and broken armchairs. Peter helped his mother decorate the room. They hung curtains and squeezed in a huge iron bed with brass knobs on.
Kate was so happy she helped Peter carry his stuff across the landing. No more fights. And she would no longer have to listen to the disgusting gurgling, piping noise her brother made in his sleep. And Peter could not stop singing. Now he had a place where he could go and, well, just be. That night he chose to go to bed half an hour early in order to enjoy his own place, his own things, with no imaginary line down the middle of the room. He lay in the semi-darkness and thought that it was just as well that some good at last had come from that vile monstrosity, the Bad Doll.
So the months passed, and Peter and Kate became used to having their own rooms and no longer gave it much thought. The interesting dates came and went – Peter’s birthday, fire- work night, Christmas, Kate’s birthday, and then Easter. It was two days after the family Easter egg hunt. Peter was in his room, on his bed, about to eat his last egg. It was the biggest, the heaviest, which was why he had saved it until last. He peeled off the silver and blue foil wrapper. It was almost the size of a rugby ball. He held it in two hands, gazing at it. Then he drew it towards him and pushed into the shell with his thumbs. How he loved the thick, buttery cocoa aroma that poured from the dark hollowness inside. He raised the egg to his nose and breathed in. Then he started to eat.
Outside, it was raining. There was still a week of holidays. Kate was out at a friend’s house. There was nothing to do but eat. Twenty minutes later, all that was left of the egg was the wrapper. Peter got to his feet, swaying slightly. He felt sick and bored, a perfect combination for a wet afternoon. How strange it was, having his own room was not exciting any more. ‘Sick of chocolate,’ he sighed as he went towards his door. ‘Sick of my room!’
He stood on the landing, wondering if he was about to be sick. But instead of heading to the lavatory, he walked towards Kate’s room and stepped inside. He had been back hundreds of times before, of course, but never alone. He stood in the centre of the room, watched, as usual, by the dolls. He felt peculiar, and everything looked different. The room was bigger, and he had never noticed before how the floor sloped. There seemed to be more dolls than ever with their glassy stares, and as he went down the slope towards his old bed, he thought he heard a sound, a rustling. He thought he saw something move, but when he turned, everything was still.
He sat on the bed and thought back over the old days when he had slept here. He’d been just a kid then. Nine! What could he have known? If only his ten-year-old self could go back and tell that innocent fool what was what. When you got to ten, you began to see the whole picture, how things connected, how things worked … an overview …
Peter was so intent on trying to remember his ignorant younger self of six months before that he did not notice the figure making its way across the carpet towards him. When he did, he gave out a shout of surprise and scrambled right on to the bed, and drew his knees up. Coming towards him at an awkward but steady pace was the Bad Doll. It had taken a paintbrush from Kate’s desk to use as a crutch. It hobbled across the room with bad-tempered gasps, and it was mutter- ing swear words that even a bad doll should not use. It stopped by the bed post to get its breath. Peter was surprised to notice how sweaty its forehead and upper lip were. The Bad Doll leaned the paintbrush against the bed and drew its only fore- arm across its face. And then, with a quick glance at Peter, and taking a deep breath, the Bad Doll snatched up its crutch and set about climbing on to the bed.
Scrambling up three times your own height with only one arm and a leg takes patience and strength. The Bad Doll had little of either. Its little pink body quivered with the effort and strain as it hung half way up the post, looking for leverage for its paintbrush. The gasps and grunts became louder and more piteous. Slowly the head, sweatier than ever, rose into Peter’s view. He could easily have reached over and lifted the creature on to the bed. And just as easily, he could have swatted it to the floor. But he did nothing. It was all too interesting. He wanted to see what happened. As the Bad Doll inched its way up with cries of ‘Oh blast and hell’s teeth!’ and ‘Damnation take the grit!’ and ‘Filthy custard!’ Peter became aware that the head of every doll in the room was turned in his direction. Pur
e blue eyes blazed wider than ever, and there was a soft whispering of sibilants like water tumbling over rocks, a sound which gathered into a murmur, and then a torrent as excitement swept through five dozen spectators.
‘He’s doing it!’ Peter heard one of them call.
And another answered, ‘Now we’ll see something!’
And yet another called out, ‘What’s fair is fair!’ and at least twenty dolls shouted their agreement.
‘Yes!’
‘That’s right!’
‘Well put!’
The Bad Doll had got its arm on to the bed and had let go of its crutch. Now it was clawing at the blanket, trying to get a grip so it could pull itself up. And even as it was doing this, on the other side of the room there arose an almighty cheer, and suddenly the dolls, all the dolls, were making their way towards the bed. From window sills and from on top of the mirror, from Kate’s bed and from out of the toy pram, they came springing and leaping, spilling and tumbling and surging across the carpet. Dolls in long dresses shrieked as they stumbled and tripped, while naked dolls, or one-sock dolls, moved with horrible ease. On they came, a wave of brown and pink and black and white, and on every moulded pouting lip was the cry ‘What’s fair is fair! What’s fair is fair!’ And in every wide glassy eye was the anger that Peter had always suspected behind the pretty baby blue.
The Bad Doll had made it on to the bed and was standing, exhausted but proud, waving to the crowd gathered below. The dolls pressed tight together and roared their approval, and raised their chubby, dimpled arms towards their leader.
‘What’s fair is fair!’ the chant began again.
Peter had moved down to the far end of the bed. His back was to the wall, and his arms were clasped round his knees. This really was extraordinary. Surely his mother would hear the racket downstairs and come up to tell them to be quiet.
The Bad Doll needed to catch its breath, so it was letting the chant go on. Then it picked up the paintbrush crutch and the dolly rabble was suddenly silent.
With a wink for the benefit of its supporters, the lame doll hopped a pace or two closer to Peter and said, ‘Settled in nicely, have you?’ Its tone was very polite, but there were titters in the crowd, and Peter knew he was being set up.
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ he said.
The Bad Doll turned to the crowd and did a good imitation of Peter’s voice. ‘He’s not sure what I mean.’ It turned back to Peter. ‘I mean, comfortable in your new room, are you?’
‘Oh that,’ Peter said. ‘Yes, my room is terrific.’
Some of the dolls down on the carpet seized on this word and repeated it over and over again, ‘Terrific … terrific … terrific …’ until it began to sound like a very stupid word indeed, and Peter wished he had not used it.
The Bad Doll waited patiently. When all was quiet again it asked, ‘Like having your own room, do you?’
‘I do.’ Peter replied.
‘Like having a room all to yourself.’
‘Yes. I just told you. I like it.’ Peter said.
The Bad Doll hobbled one pace closer. Peter had the feel-ing that it was about to come to the point. It raised its voice. ‘And have you ever considered that someone else might want that room?’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Peter said. ‘Mum and Dad share a room. That leaves only Kate and me …’
His words were drowned out by a roar of disapproval from the crowd. The Bad Doll managed to balance on one leg while it raised its crutch in the air for silence.
‘Only two of you, eh?’ it said, nodding towards the crowd.
Peter laughed. He couldn’t think of what to say.
The Bad Doll came even closer. Peter could have reached out and touched it. He was sure he could smell chocolate on its breath.
‘Don’t you think,’ it said, ‘that it’s time someone else had a turn in that room?’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Peter started to say. ‘You’re only dolls …’
Nothing could have made the Bad Doll more furious. ‘You’ve seen how we live,’ it screamed. ‘Sixty of us squashed into one corner of the room. You’ve passed us a thousand times, and you’ve never given it a thought. What do you care that we’re piled on top of each other like bricks in a wall. You just don’t see what’s in front of you. Look at us! No space, no privacy, not even a bed for most of us. Now it’s someone else’s turn with that room. What’s fair is fair!’
Another great roar went up from the crowd, and once again, the chant was taken up. ‘What’s fair is fair! What’s fair is fair!’ And as it was bellowed out, the dolls began to swarm up on to the bed, standing on each other’s shoulders to make ladders of their bodies. Within a minute, the whole crew stood panting before Peter, and the Bad Doll, who had retreated to the far end of the bed, waved its crutch from the back of the crowd and shouted, ‘Now!’
Sixty pairs of chubby hands took hold of Peter’s left leg.
‘Yo-ho heave-ho!’ sang out the Bad Doll.
‘Yo-ho heave-ho!’ answered the crowd.
And then a strange thing happened. Peter’s leg came off. It came right off. He looked down at where his leg used to be, and instead of blood there was a little coiled spring poking out through his torn trousers.
That’s funny, he thought. I never would have guessed …
But he did not have much time to think about how funny it was because now the dolls had grabbed his right arm and were pulling and yo-ho heave-ho-ing, and his arm was off too, and sticking out from his shoulder was another little spring.
‘Hey!’ Peter shouted. ‘Give those back.’
But it was no use. The arm and leg were being passed over the heads in the crowd, back towards the Bad Doll. It took the leg and slotted it on. A perfect fit. Now it was putting the arm in place. That arm could have been made specially, it fit- ted so well.
Odd, Peter thought. I’m sure my arm and leg would be too big.
Even as he was thinking this, the dolls were on him again, and this time they were scrambling up his chest, pulling his hair, ripping at his clothes.
‘Get off,’ Peter shouted. ‘Ouch! That hurts.’
The dolls laughed as they yanked out nearly all his hair. They left one long hank sticking out of the middle of his head.
The Bad Doll tossed Peter its crutch, and leaped up and down to test its new leg. ‘My turn for that room,’ it called. ‘And as for him, he can go up there.’ It pointed with what Peter still thought of as his arm at the bookcase. The Bad Doll leaped nimbly to the floor, and the crowd swept forwards to seize Peter and carry him off to his new home. And that is how it would have ended. But just then, Kate stepped into the room.
Now, you have to try and imagine the scene from where she stood. She had come home from playing with her friend, she had walked into her bedroom, and there was her brother, lying on the spare bed, playing with her dolls, all her dolls, and he was moving them around, and doing their voices. The only one not on the bed was the Bad Doll, which was lying on the carpet nearby.
Kate could have got angry. After all, this was against the rules. Peter was in her room without her permission, and he had taken down all her dolls from their special places. But instead, Kate laughed to see her brother with sixty dolls piled on top of him.
Peter stood up quickly as soon as he saw Kate. He was blushing.
‘Oh … er … sorry,’ he mumbled, and he tried to edge past her.
‘Wait a minute,’ Kate said. ‘What about putting this lot back. They all have their own places, you know.’
So, while Kate told him where they belonged, Peter put every single doll back in its place, on the mirror, the chest of drawers, the window sills, the bed, the pram.
It seemed to take for ever to get them all in place. The very last to be returned was the Bad Doll. As Peter set it down on top of the bookcase, he was sure he heard it say, ‘One day, my friend, that room will be mine.’
‘Oh, damnation take the grit!’ Peter whispered to it. ‘You filth
y mustard!’
‘What did you say?’ Kate called out. But her brother had already stepped out of the room.
Chapter Two
The Cat
When Peter woke in the morning, he always kept his eyes closed until he had answered two simple questions. They always came to him in the same order. Question one: who am I? Oh yes, Peter, aged ten and a half. Then, still with his eyes closed, question two: what day of the week is it? And there it would be, a fact as solid and as immoveable as a mountain. Tuesday. Another school day. Then he would pull the blankets over his head and sink deeper into his own warmth and let the friendly darkness swallow him up. He could almost pretend he did not exist. But he knew he would have to force himself out. The whole world agreed it was Tuesday. The earth itself, hurtling through cold space, spinning and revolving around the sun, had brought everyone to Tuesday and there was nothing Peter, his parents or the government could do to change the fact. He would have to get up, or miss his bus and be late and get into trouble.
How cruel it was then to drag his warm dozy body from its nest and grope for his clothes, knowing that in less than an hour he would be shivering at the bus stop. On television the weather man had said that it was the coldest winter for fifteen years. Cold, but no fun. No snow, no frost, not even an icy puddle to skate on. Only cold and grey, with a bitter wind that reached into Peter’s bedroom through a crack in the window. There were times when it seemed to him that all he had ever done in his life, and all he was ever going to do, was wake up, get up, and go to school. It did not make it easier that everyone else, grown- ups included, had to get up on dark winter mornings. If only they would all agree to stop, then he could stop too. But the earth kept turning, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday came round again, and everyone went on getting out of bed.