Scarlett - Cathy Cassidy [47]
‘Red was my favourite colour,’ I whisper.
Clare strokes my hair. ‘I think that’s what I was remembering,’ she tells me. ‘All the little red dresses. But you need to keep these, Scarlett – I wouldn’t dream of asking you to cut them up. They’re special, aren’t they?’
My throat is aching, and I can’t quite find the words to explain just how special these bin bags full of memories really are. I just nod and smile and hug the dresses, breathing in a long-forgotten smell of lemony washing powder and happiness.
‘They’re special,’ I say to Clare when I can speak again. ‘That’s why I want to use some of them for the quilt, OK? Please, Clare? It’s the best thing I can give to the new baby. My baby brother or sister.’
Clare hugs me, and I don’t pull away. It’s only when the thunder crashes again, right above our heads, that we break apart. ‘Goodness, if this storm gets any closer it’ll be right inside the attic!’ Clare exclaims. ‘Let’s get back downstairs.’
I pick out two or three of the little red dresses and throw them down through the open hatch, watching them flutter down on to the landing carpet.
I climb down first, hands holding tight to the smooth, paint-spattered wood of the ladder. Once my feet are firmly on the floor again, I hold the ladder steady for Clare. Looking up, I see her legs lowering shakily down, her brown feet in flip-flops feeling about for the rungs.
Then there’s a loud bang from downstairs and the lights go out, leaving us in semi-darkness. A roar of thunder rumbles out above our heads, and suddenly there’s a scream and Clare is falling. I put my hands out to catch her, but my hands close round the crinkly fabric of her skirt, which tears from my grasp. She falls heavily against the ladder, then twists to the side and lands with a sickening thud on the carpet, red velvet and crimson silk all around her.
‘Clare?’ I whimper, my voice so small and scared I barely recognize it. ‘Clare? Are you all right?’
Clare is still and silent. She’s lying awkwardly, her head at an angle against the skirting board, blonde curls spread out around her. She looks very pale.
‘Clare,’ I hiss urgently. ‘Please wake up. Talk to me, Clare!’
Panic rises up inside me, a tidal wave of fear. I don’t know what to do. A voice in my head tells me you’re not supposed to move people who’ve hurt themselves, but it can’t be right to leave her squashed in against the wall like that. I tug her shoulders, pulling her away from the wall so her head can rest more easily. As I straighten the hair at her temple, my hand touches something warm and wet. Blood.
I feel like I’m falling down a deep, dark well, and I know there’ll be snakes and sharks at the bottom. Then, abruptly, Clare speaks.
‘Ow,’ she says, her eyes fluttering open. ‘What the heck happened there?’
‘Clare!’ I gasp, my body slumping with relief. ‘You’re OK!’
I put my arms round her and help her to sit up. She leans back against the wall, a hand pressed against her temple. ‘I don’t feel like I’m OK,’ she says in a shaky voice. ‘I feel like I just got run over by a truck.’ She squints around her in the dim light. ‘I’m on the landing?’ she asks, puzzled. ‘What did I do?’
‘The lights went out – it’s a power cut,’ I explain. ‘Something to do with the storm. You were coming down the ladder from the attic, and you lost your footing. Remember?’
Clare frowns. ‘Not really… I fell off a ladder?’
‘We were in the attic, sorting through clothes for the patchwork cot quilt,’ I tell her. ‘My fault, really. Stupid thing to do in a storm.’
As we listen, there’s a distant rumble of thunder, less angry now. The storm is passing.
I pick up one of Clare’s flip-flops from across the landing. ‘These probably didn’t help,’ I tell her. ‘It’s OK, Clare. You’ll feel better in a minute. It was just a shock.’ I have no idea if this is true, but it sounds reassuring. Right now, both of us could do with that.
‘Every bit of me hurts,’ Clare murmurs. She curves her arms around her bulging tummy and a new fear hits me. My mouth feels dry.
‘Clare, is the baby OK?’ I ask. ‘Can you tell? The