Every Time a Bell Rings. Carmel Harrington

up,’ Dee-Dee tells me. ‘See what they have to say.’

      ‘She’s still not talking. It’s been weeks now since she uttered a word,’ Mrs Reilly sighs. ‘I’m at my wits ends with it all.’

      ‘Sure, is that any wonder? The poor thing must be scared out of her mind. How many times has she been shoved around from pillar to post?’ Tess asks. ‘She’ll talk when she’s good and ready, not a moment before.’

      Mrs Reilly doesn’t answer her question, but I could. I’ve been to four foster homes since I left my mother’s. But I’m only eight and don’t really remember everything so good yet. So I suppose it could actually be more than that. And I’ve learned already that grown-ups don’t really like to talk to me about my past. If I mention my mother, they start to get real jittery.

      ‘I’ve tried everything. I’m on my last nerve trying to make her speak.’ Mrs Reilly moans. ‘I hope you’ve got the patience of a saint, Tess. You’ll need it.’

      ‘You know, you can chase a butterfly all over the fields and you’ll never catch it. But if you just sit still, he might just come over and sit on your shoulder,’ Tess says.

      I don’t understand what that means. I look at Dee-Dee and she tells me she doesn’t know either. But she likes her, and I trust her opinion.

      ‘There was some bullying in her last school, so maybe it’s as well she’s moved from there,’ Mrs Reilly says. ‘Racial slurs, that kind of thing.’

      I don’t know exactly what ‘racial slurs’ mean. But I have a fair idea. Children were mean to me, on and off, calling me names. They kept saying I should go back home to Africa and other such things.

      Both Dee-Dee and me always get confused by those remarks, because I’ve never been to Africa before. I’ve never left Ireland. Dublin is my home. So technically I am home already. It’s just so complicated.

      ‘Oh, God love her. That’s awful,’ Tess replies. ‘You’d think in this day and age we’d be a bit more tolerant. It’s 1988, for goodness sake.’

      ‘She still sticks out, though. Not that many black kids in our schools yet over here. Maybe in the UK …’ Mrs Reilly says.

      Black. There they go again, Dee-Dee. Always going on about me being black.

      ‘Oh and she has nightmares too. She won’t say what they are about, but don’t be surprised if you hear her screaming in the night,’ Mrs Reilly continues.

      My stomach flips again and I start to worry that Tess will tell Mrs Reilly to take me away. She’s not saying very nice things about me.

      I can’t hear what they say next, because they start to whisper really low. But after a moment or two, Mrs Reilly sticks her head into the door of the kitchen, fake smile on again.

      ‘I’ll be back next week to check in on you, Belle.’ And then, like that, she’s gone.

      ‘We can’t wait,’ Dee-Dee says, ‘we miss you already, Mrs Reilly.’

      I giggle, Dee-Dee is so funny.

      ‘So this Dee-Dee, is she your favourite doll?’ Tess asks, making me jump when she walks back into the room. She walks over to me and picks her up. ‘Isn’t she a beauty? What a lovely dress she’s wearing too. Mrs Reilly told me all about her, that you don’t like to go anywhere without Dee-Dee.’

      I nod and I’m happy that she knows the lie of the land.

      ‘Would you and Dee-Dee like to see your bedroom?’ Tess asks and without waiting for me to answer, she beckons me to follow her as she huffs and puffs her way upstairs.

      A white wooden door opens to a small room with a single bed in it. It has a pink duvet cover on it and lots of little pink and purple cushions piled up high over the pillows. A pine bedside locker has a pink lampshade on it and Tess shows me how to switch it on and off.

      I really like the walls. They have little pink roses on them with green leaves and there’s a wardrobe in the corner that looks a bit like the one from The Chronicles of Narnia.

      Tess opens the double doors, but there’s no fur coats in there. Instead there are a couple of outfits hanging up and a row of shelves, with items folded neatly on them.

      ‘I popped into town earlier and went into Penny’s to get a few bits for you. Underwear, socks, pyjamas, a few tops and a pair of jeans. But we’ll get some more things when we work out what you need.’ Tess tells me. ‘I never know what a child will have until they walk through the door. And I think I’ve got your size all wrong. Look at those lovely long legs you have. I might have to get a bigger size in the jeans.’

      I peek at her, expecting to see irritation on her face, but she doesn’t look upset at all by the length of my legs. She’s smiling as she pulls out a dressing gown and a plastic pack with a pair of brand-new pyjamas in it. They are fluffy pink ones with big red hearts on them. I decide I like them a lot.

      ‘I’m pretty sure these are your size, though. Would you like to get all comfy and put them on?’ Tess asks me. ‘I like to do that of an evening. You know, when there’s nobody due to visit, nothing nicer than to get cosy in a pair of pyjamas. Then we can put on the TV and have our tea on our laps. As a special treat to celebrate you arriving here.’ She smiles at me expectantly.

      I blink twice and nod, feeling overwhelmed. She’s being so kind and I don’t know how to respond. I want to cry, but I know without Dee-Dee telling me that I shouldn’t do that. Don’t frighten Tess, she seems really nice. But I can’t find any words to say either. They’re all stuck in my throat.

      ‘Come here,’ Tess says and leads me to the bed. She pats the spot beside her so I sit down on the edge.

      ‘I know you’re scared, Belle. Good Lord, I would be too, if I was in your shoes. But I promise that if you give me a chance we can be happy here. You’ll be safe in this house, I give you my word on that and we might even have some fun together, you wait and see.’ She looks at me and smiles and I am overjoyed. Her smile reaches all the way up to the crinkles in the corners of her sockets. I’ve not seen one of those in a long, long time.

      ‘I like her,’ Dee-Dee whispers to me.

      Me too.

       2

       Don’t let the past steal your present. This is the message of Christmas. We are never alone.

      Taylor Caldwell

      December 1988

      We’ve been putting decorations up for the past four hours, all over Tess’s house. There’s not a single spot in the hall, kitchen, living room, even the bathroom, that doesn’t have something Christmassy pinned to the walls.

      Tess has a lot of stories. Every time she picks up a new decoration, she starts a new tale, all about how she bought it, who she was with, what she was doing. She insisted that we both wear a Santa hat while we hang them all up. Tess sings along to all the Christmas songs which are on a tape deck, on loop over and over, in the kitchen. She’s so funny because she keeps making up her own words to them, getting them wrong all the time.

      Her good sitting room now contains rows upon rows of Christmas music boxes and toys. Snow globes, which when you shake them, reveal little figurines skating on a blue lake, with the soft snowflakes falling at their feet. A Rudolph the reindeer cuddly toy that sings about red noses when you touch his antler. Music boxes that play every Christmas jingle and song I’ve ever heard, over and over.

      My favourite, though, is Santa Claus, sitting on a wooden rocking chair. He’s wearing a green plaid shirt and bright-red trousers with black boots. His long white beard is like snow and he has little glasses that are perched on his nose. There’s these little books and when you clip them into his