Ronnie & Me

1.

Ronnie’s always going somewhere. Mum likes to joke the reason she was born three weeks before her due date was because she already had plans.

“Busy from day one,” Dad says, rolling his eyes. “Always a partier.”

He’s right about that. Today, when I open the door, she’s standing on the front step with a cigarette in one hand and her camera in the other. Pink cowboy hat, fringed boots, and that wicked, wicked smile.

“About time, Thea. I’m late already!”

She pushes past me into the hall. There’s a swirl of cherry perfume, a rustling in the coat cupboard, then she’s back outside before I can blink.

“Where are you going?”

“The Wild West.” She sweeps off her hat. “Obviously.”

It looks like a flamingo, flying through the hazy summer air. She takes a drag of her cigarette, looking at me sideways and grinning.

“You wanna come? It’d do you good, you know.”

“Can’t,” I say, the words pre-packaged. “I’m revising.”

Ronnie’s expression is textbook. Eyes rolling beneath sharp liner, raising her head to the heavens, asking God how she got stuck with a sister like me.

“Thea, come on. It’s Carla’s hen party! You’ve got to -”

“Ronnie Mackay, if you’re going out again, I’ll have to ground you!”

It’s Mum. Sticking her head out the bathroom window upstairs, mouth pursed.

“Hi Mum,” Ronnie says sweetly. She flicks her strawberry-streaked hair. “I’m a bit old to be grounded, don’t you think?”

Mum snorts.

“You’re never too old for that, young lady. Now, inside. That case isn’t going to pack itself.”

Ronnie swears under her breath, kicking her boot against the doorstep.

“I know, I know.”

“And if I -”

“Thea’s helping me,” Ronnie interrupts, winking furiously. “Aren’t you, Thea?”

I jump, fingers slipping from the door handle. “I am?”

She looks at me pleadingly, eyes darting upwards as Mum leans further out.

“Well, Thea?”

I’m glad I’m under the roof ledge, so she can’t see me. I’m terrible at lying.

“Yup,” I say, looking past Ronnie’s ear at the sky. If I looked straight at her, I’d laugh. “I’m just…heading up now.”

There’s a sigh from above.

“Fine.” Mum clicks her teeth. “But be back soon. We’ve got an early start tomorrow, remember?”

Ronnie twirls her hat in triumph.

“See you later,” she says, patting my shoulder. “Oh, and don’t worry about the packing. I’ll do it when I’m back, okay?”

She dashes to her car and drives off, Electric Dreams blasting from the speakers.

In front of me, her cigarette rolls off the doorstep. I crush it for good measure, then step inside.

*

Ronnie was born early, but I was three weeks late. No surprise there. I was probably curled up in the womb, right in the comfy spot, and thought a few more minutes wouldn’t make a difference. More time to myself, after all.

There’s a shout from upstairs.

“Thea, are you coming?”

Mum’s on the landing. She’s got her hair in rollers, even though Ronnie’s told her a thousand times that by doing that she’s succumbing to the patriarchy. When she sees me, she sighs.

“I do hope your sister wasn’t lying. Are you actually packing for her?”

Ronnie’s left her bedroom light on. I peek around the door and swallow when I see the tsunami of clothes washed across the floor and the empty suitcase in the middle of her bed. Mum peers over my shoulder and huffs.

“Don’t you have schoolwork to do?”

She’s got a point. I think about the books waiting on my desk, open to the diagram of a eukaryotic cell. But then I remember the relief on Ronnie’s face, and her smile as she went to Carla’s party. My chest softens.

“No,” I say, moving into the room. “I promised I’d help.”

*

Ronnie’s always going somewhere, but she always comes back, and always comes back with stuff. That’s why, I think, stepping over her clothes, her room looks like this.

The air smells of incense and cherry and Haribos. Fairy lights are strung across the bed, gold and cream against the black-and-white film posters on the walls. I run my fingers along the frames, mouthing the titles like secret spells.

Casablanca.

Rebecca.

Roman Holiday.

There’s a stack of Polaroids on her desk, with a couple already pasted on the wall. Ronnie and her friends dressed like flappers. Ronnie dancing with an elderly man in Granada. Ronnie and me, eating ice cream on the pier.

That was the best ice cream I’d ever had. I can taste it now: all gold and cinnamon and twinkly on my tongue. Ronnie went for Neapolitan, and licked her cone in sharp, rigid lines to stop the flavours from blending.

We were visiting Nan and Grandad in Bournemouth for the bank holiday weekend. Sunburnt shoulders, summer tiredness, and the heavily-denied longing to go back to school. Ronnie was in Year 9 then, and had just learnt how to straighten her hair. If you look at the photo for long enough, you’ll see where she missed a bit on the side.

A smile crosses my lips, before it falls to the floor. No matter what anyone says, I’ll miss her.

In the doorway, Mum sighs.

“She doesn’t half know how to make a mess. Good luck, love.”

As she disappears, I crawl across the bed to the suitcase. A tang of leather fills the air, before vanishing. The case is old and worn, rips lining the edges, and I’m not surprised. Not after everything Ronnie’s put it through. Three months in Granada; two weeks Interrailing. A year, volunteering in Cambodia.

Lola and Bhavna say they don’t know why I’m making such a big fuss.

“After Cambodia, how’s London a problem?” Lola said, when I told her Ronnie’s plans. “It takes what…forty minutes on the Tube?”

Forty-three minutes and thirty-seven seconds, to be precise. I timed it, the last time we visited the MET Film School. Ronnie got annoyed that I kept looking at my watch, saying that the flash was giving her a headache.

“Are you in Alice in Wonderland?” she snapped. “Let it go, for Christ’s sake.”

When I told her what I was doing, her expression softened.

“Idiot. You haven’t factored in how slow Nan walks, anyway.”

I start to pack her clothes. You can tell a lot about a person from their clothes, and Ronnie’s no exception. Printed tops with stills from B&W films, checked shirts, half-cut culottes. A denim jacket bought in Camden, with badges I sewed across the shoulders. Ronnie couldn’t do it herself, of course. She was too busy searching for a place to live.

“I’ve got to live there, Mum,” she said, when her acceptance letter for MET came through. Her eyes were wide with excitement. “Think of the life in London…all the material, right on my doorstep!”

“And think of all the bills on my doorstep,” Mum said, her tone rumbling. “That’s my issue, here.”

“Please,” Ronnie said, meeting her gaze. But she was looking straight through her, to the crowded pavements on Oxford Street and the unsuspecting subjects on the Tube. Lights, camera, action. “You won’t regret it, I promise!”

Something crinkles beneath the denim jacket, and I find a sheaf of envelopes tucked under the sleeve. Foreign stamps printed in the corners; wobbly, childish writing. I recognise them immediately. I used to write to Ronnie when she was in Cambodia. Every week without fail, even when I had nothing to say. Like this one:

Dear Ronnie,

I don’t know if you’ll get an advent calendar over there, so I’ve saved you a chocolate from all the odd days of December. Don’t forget to bring back the wrappers!

I lift the envelope to my nose, inhaling the sweet scent of chocolate and tightly-rolled metal. She did bring back the wrappers, and we spent Christmas Eve pasting them into my scrapbook. My cheeks warm, nostalgia filling my chest.

The next letter is dated a year later.

Dear Ron,

Did you know your hair curlers are CRAP?

Mum says she’ll buy me new ones for Christmas, but only if you come home.

Are you coming home?

With very straight hair,

Thea

I cringe. What did she think, when she read these all those miles away?

“You always knew how to make me smile, T.”

Ronnie’s voice echoes from the door. I jump, the letter falling from my hand. She slips into the room and retrieves it from the carpet, her cowboy boots wobbling. When she’s read it, she giggles.

“And to think I was worried about finding you a Christmas present,” she says. “When the only reason you wanted me home was to get new curlers!”

“Hey,” I protest. “You know that’s not true!”

She throws herself onto her bed, upsetting my last neatly-folded pile. She smells of boy hairspray and tequila, birthday cake and wine.

“Your letters always kept me going, you know.” When she rolls over, I’m surprised to see tears in her eyes. “I’ll miss you. I’m just down the road, but…I’ll miss this.”

Her eyeliner starts to smudge, trickling down her nose. There’s a lump in my throat. I stare at Casablanca, trying not to cry myself.

“But you’ll come home, won’t you?” I fiddle with her denim jacket. “And actually call?”

Ronnie’s not very big on communication. She catches my eye, looking guilty.

“I’ll…try.”

Forty-three minutes and thirty-seven seconds. That’s how far away she’ll be. But why does it feel like I’m never going to see her again?

She scoops up the rest of the letters and puts them in her suitcase, shoving them beneath her thongs and fluffy socks.

“I’ll keep them with me. Then you’ll always be there, won’t you?”

When I nod, sniffling, she hits me with a pillow.

“No crying, please.” She turns back to the suitcase, laughter on her brow. “Now, do you want to zip it up, or shall I?”

2.

For the first time in her life, Ronnie’s up the next morning before her alarm goes off.

I hear her pottering about in the kitchen. Cupboards opening; the flick and crackle of the stove. She’s normally a toast-and-tea kind of girl, thrown back in an enormous bite before she dashes off for an early shift at Asda.

The sun’s starting to creep through my blind, but I don’t want to get up. If I stay in bed, maybe today won’t happen. Maybe Ronnie won’t leave and she’ll still be here at dinner and we’ll be able to watch Netflix this evening.

“Don’t worry,” she said the other night. “We’ll still do all those things, won’t we?”

A wink; a flick of her hair. “Besides - it’s not like it’s Cambodia.”

At least that’s true. No more phone calls once a month, the signal crackling and bouncing like a disco ball. Garbled snatches of excitement, talking about her projects, her children, her happiness to be doing something good.

Now, she’ll just be a Tube ride away. That’s not too bad, is it?

When I go downstairs, she’s by the toaster.

“There you are,” she says without turning around. “Your eggs are getting cold.”

There’s a plate on the table, with our old Mickey Mouse cutlery next to it. My chest knots, tears twisting behind my eyes.

“Where’s yours?”

The toaster sings. Ronnie turns around, holding two slices of toast between her fingers like a crab.

“I’m not hungry.” She slides the toast beneath the eggs and looks at me expectantly. “Go on, then.”

I sit. I didn’t think I was hungry either, but suddenly my stomach roars and I’m ravenous. She laughs, watching me shovel eggs into my mouth.

“I bet you’ll miss my cooking, right?”

As I nod, her eyes film with tears. I swallow, wanting to comfort her, but before the eggs have even reached my stomach her face is bright again.

“I can’t believe it’s today,” she says, whispering the word like a Siren. “I’m moving today.”

She dances around the kitchen. Wearing her Scream nightie and monster slippers, hair falling out of a loose bun. I can’t believe it either. The air feels shiny, like a bubble projecting dreams. I keep expecting it to pop as I go through the shower and help her carry her case downstairs. Is she really going?

We wait for Nan and Grandad to bring the car. Ronnie wants to wait on the doorstep, but Mum’s adamant we stand in the hall.

“It’s five bloody degrees, Veronica - do you want to get ill?”

That shuts her up. She stands there, jiggling from foot to foot, mumbling under her breath. When Nan gets out the car holding a box of flapjacks, Ronnie’s out of the door and hugging her before Mum can speak.

“Just a wee summat for your flatmates,” Nan says. “Make sure you pop it in the fridge, aye?”

As Grandad tries to reteach Dad how to drive in thirty seconds, Ronnie opens the tin and sniffs appreciatively.

“Golden syrup. Yum!”

Dad stalls the car, making us jump. Ronnie snorts.

“I can take the train, you know?”

There’s a huff of determination from the front. On the pavement, Grandad wriggles his caterpillar eyebrows.

“Good luck, Ron.” He taps her window. “We’ll see you soon, yes?”

“Of course,” she promises. Grandad says something in Norwegian, making her laugh. “Yeah, I know, don’t worry.”

When we’re on the motorway, I ask her what he said. I’ve always been bad at languages. Grandad tried to teach us Norwegian when we were small, but the words were clunky and wouldn’t quite fit in my mouth. I like things that make sense - knowing the number of metatarsals in each foot, or naming the different parts of the brain. Ronnie laughs at me when I say that, but she doesn’t understand. Languages flow from her mouth like she’s drunk them from the kitchen tap.

“He told me not to get into trouble,” she says, her eyes sharp with laughter. “As if.”

Trouble should be Ronnie’s middle name. She’s always doing something she’s not supposed to, or telling people exactly what she thinks of them. I sometimes wonder how she hasn’t been arrested yet, but with a flick of that hair and a tease of her smile, she’d get away with anything.

I stare out the window, remembering when she told Mum she wanted to volunteer in Cambodia.

“Cambodia? What’s wrong with volunteering at the youth centre in Guildford?”

Mum looked like one of those cartoons, with bright red cheeks and swollen eyes. “And what about uni? You can’t back out now!”

“I’m not backing out,” Ronnie said calmly. “I’m deferring.” She raised her eyebrows, hopeful. “But when will I get an opportunity like this again?”

Mum came round eventually. She couldn’t resist Ronnie, especially when she gave her a folder with the programme details and where she’d be staying and the type of health insurance she’d get. When we dropped her off at the airport, Mum shook her head and pulled me into her arms.

“Don’t you dare follow your sister,” she said, her voice thick with sadness. “She’s nothing but trouble, do you hear?”

I said nothing, watching Ronnie head to the baggage desk with an enormous grin. Maybe she was trouble, but it always worked out. For Ronnie, it always did.

*

As we navigate the streets to her new flat, the smile starts to appear on her face. Practising, experimenting, trying to figure out how best to greet her flatmates. Her eyebrows pucker a little, then smooth out again. Nerves, banished in an instant.

She sees me looking and smirks.

“You’re gonna visit soon, aren’t you?”

I’m about to reply, when Dad stops the car.

“We’re here.”

Ronnie’s out of the car with a sunshine beam across her face, but when I get out, I don’t understand why. We’ve parked outside a block of flats, stucco grey with occasional flashes of red, like an unusual case of measles. The windows are dark, doors shut, and there’s no one in sight. My hopes rise when I see a string of fairy lights across a balcony, then a gust of wind sends them clattering to the floor.

Mum leans on her car door as if she could push us back to Surrey. There’s a flicker of worry on her face, but when she sees Ronnie’s anxious expression, she brushes it away.

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” she says, clutching her handbag. “Now, which number was it?”

It really is that bad. The wind buffets us into a corridor smelling of weed and urine. The lights are bright, clinical, and the doors to each flat fold away like they’re nursing a hangover. A large rock lands in my stomach and I stumble, banging into Dad.

“Watch it,” he says, but his voice is low and his eyebrows pulled together. He can see it too, I know. But Ronnie unlocks the door to her new flat and whoops in delight when she sees her flatmates standing in the kitchen. There’s chatter, laughter, croaky voices spilling out to the corridor where Dad and I wait with the bags. I see Ronnie flick her hair and pout, but then she appears in front of us, eyes sparkling.

“Can you believe they got up early just to meet me?”

Dad mutters something about an industrial-strength alarm, but Ronnie’s already halfway down the hall. Then, she reappears and grabs my hand.

“Come on, T. Don’t you want to see my room?”