Sara and the beetle

“A new sister!” said our mum. But I didn’t really understand how it would be.

My strongest memory of those early days was getting to have a sleepover up the road at Dory’s when mum popped Sas out. Dory’s older sister Inga was impossibly sophisticated and had eyes that were slanty and dark like an Indian princess. She smelt of patchouli and used to pinch me when no-one was looking.

In that first year, before my new sister ceased being Boring and slipped into Bolshy, stopping all too bloody briefly at Does What I Tell Her, I translated for her.

“Mummy, Sas wants to share her biscuit with me.” “Mummy, Sas wants us to watch Playschool. “

And, even, “Mummy, Sas says I don’t need a bath tonight....”

Then I’d bend my pudgy four year old legs and stare into those beautiful blackcurrant eyes of hers that didn’t look anything like my own, and catch a whiff of Johnsons baby powder as Sas kicked and wiggled in excitement.

Oh, she was a vivid, multi-layered wonderland of aromatic adventures back then, was Sassybell Maclean: The bitter kick of bile-and-milkshake vomit that hovered around the corners of your mouth and sometimes dribbled onto her chin after feeds. The uncooked, vaguely greenish shit-stink that filled her nappies. And the nappies themselves, swollen and giving off the all too familiar rich ammonia twang of oxidising urine.

By the time I was eight and Sas was half that, dad was working as a casual draughtsman at Chapmans on Battersea Rise, a company that made money printing machines for the Bank of England and those click- over destination signs they used to have in airports and train stations before the digital age.

He told us about going to the Bank of England’s money printing room once. How he felt faint at the sight of all those bundles of new money.

“They checked my bag on the way out like I was a thief,” he said. “I got all sweaty.”

To make ends meet, dad played the working men’s clubs with Jim, whose wife Gwen had breasts so vast and forward reaching I felt sure you could crouch under them to avoid the rain.

Around that time, I remember walking along Macaulay Road on the way home from school and picking up a stag beetle. It had a black, shiny carapace and big, fat pincers that could maul a kitten at 50 paces. I placed it in my black silk purse, a gift from an auntie, a plan beginning to form.

Back home I called Sas into the downstairs bathroom. Loads of brown curls. Some of that morning’s breakfast no doubt hiding under her chin. Those blackcurrant eyes still shining.

“I’ve got a surprise for you in my purse.”

“Is it a sweetie?”

“Maybe. Go on. Put your hand in there and see.”

I watched, smiling as in she dove with one hand, my little sister’s fingers fossicking around in search of whatever treasure I had procured for her.

The beetle took its chance and grabbed hold with an enthusiasm I had not predicted. Sas withdrew her hand at high speed with the beetle still attached to one finger, its boney legs wriggling feverishly.

Oh, how my sister hollered.

I tried to pull the beetle off, but it hung on for dear life, clearly hoping backup would arrive.

So she hollered some more.

“I didn’t mean to!” I cried. “I just wanted to scare you!” And then, at the realisation of the shit I was in,

“Don’t tell mum! If you tell her you’ll be sorry!”

My sister ran from the room, screaming for mum and, yes, I did get a whallop.

And that, I thought, was that.

We grew up, Sara and I, two little girls who turned into two teenagers who found partners (mine a man, hers a woman) and settled into adult life. We kept in contact, but only just. Our lives conflated, and that seemed to be okay.

Until one Christmas, when Sara invited my husband Brian and I for lunch. We arrived promptly at midday, greeted Sara’s wife Crystal, who took our coats, and made our way into the large, light-filled loungeroom.

“Drinks?” Asked my sister cheerily.

“Of course!” I said, and sat back as Sara made us her trademark Mojito, garnished with a fresh cranberry.

Over lunch – prawns, oysters and salad – we chatted about this and that. Sara and Crystal were off to Europe in January to see Crystal’s new grand niece. We told them about our plans for a Spring holiday in Venice. It was all very easy, very relaxed.

When it was time for dessert, Sara brought out a big, glossy chocolate cake decorated with white icing snowballs and a little Santa Clause figurine. It was gorgeous, and I said so.

“Big or small slice, Betty?” She asked me.

“Big of course!” I said, and my younger sister smiled warmly as she sliced into the cake, carefully cutting between two of the snowballs and placing the large slice on a plate.

“There you go.” She was clearly pleased with herself.

I dug into the cake with relish, enjoying its rich, chocolatey flavour, the dark, thick chocolate buttercream that lay between the the two sponge layers.

“It’s delicious, Sas,” I told my sister, who looked up and nodded happily.

After dinner, Bryan and I cleared the table while Sara and Crystal washed up. Then we sat together in the lounge room as the light began to fade, reminiscing about christmasses past.

“Do you remember that time with the beetle?” Sas suddenly asked.

“Of course,” I said. “How you hollered!” Sas smiled, and because it felt like we were sharing a joke, I added

“I couldn’t believe how much fuss you made!”

Sas stopped smiling.

“Sara, don’t…”

Sara ignored her wife’s plea and turned, instead, to me.

“Have you any idea how traumatic that was for a small girl?” Sas was shouting now.

“Have you any idea how much I idolised you?” My sister stood up and bent over me. I could feel the spittle as she shouted.

“Have you any idea how cruel you were?”

Bryan stood and placed a hand on Sara’s shoulder.

“Hey now, wait a minute, Sas, that was such a long time ago…..”

“Shut up Bryan!” Sara railed at him.

Now it was my turn to stand.

“Darling! Sas! It’s okay! I’m sorry! I didn’t realise….”

My sister glared at me.

“It’s too late for apologies, Betty. Way too late.”

“Sara, don’t!” It was Crystal again, but Sara wasn’t listening. She turned and left the room, returning a few seconds later with a small glass jar. Inside was a stag beetle lying on its back, clearly dead.

“You will eat this and I will forgive you,” she said quietly.

“Wait, I’ll get you some more chocolate cake. It’ll go down much easier that way.”