by Lisa Sell
At least she won’t think I’m pregnant. Not spinster Jen.
‘You need to go home. I’ll drive you.’
‘I’m okay, thanks. Tentlebury is out of your way. I’ll take it easy.’
Hilary gives my arm a reassuring squeeze. ‘Don’t come back until you’re ready. Make sure you’ve dealt with things first. I can get cover.’ She knows it’s more than food poisoning and I’m hiding something. Of course she does. She’s a renowned psychologist and a brilliant reader of people.
Still, I must keep up the pretence. ‘It’ll be over soon.’ If only.
Hilary turns around, ready to leave, then faces me again. ‘I picked up the call from Amy. She was in a state, thinking she’d killed her daughter. The child was playing in the front garden and Amy got distracted by a text. Her daughter ran into the road and was hit by a van. Today’s the second anniversary of her death. I told her we sometimes carry guilt that’s not ours. People can hold onto events they mistakenly believe are their fault.’ Veiled advice given, she returns to others who need her support.
…
I realise, as I sit in my car, I have to face the past too. It’s time to take charge. Unlike Amy, I won’t receive absolution. Doreen will have my “help”. She won’t stop phoning until I agree. I’ll pretend to help when really I’ll steer her away from the truth.
I fish a ball of paper from the bottom of my bag and smooth it flat. Somehow, I knew I’d need the phone number the reception temp passed on. I prepare to hurtle into the past while trying to protect my present.
The call connects.
8
16th July 1983
Patricia trailed her fingers around the telephone dial, careful not to snag a nail. Perspiration dared to spot upon her forehead. She dabbed the offensive bodily fluid with a kitchen towel.
‘Felicity, darling,’ she said, ‘is it still 1pm for the soirée?’
In response to the piercing voice emitting from the receiver, Patricia scrunched her nose. Jen pinged marbles across the floor.
‘Yes, dear, I know you sent an invitation,’ Patricia garbled around applying lipstick, ‘but you have a habit of running somewhat late.’
The shrillness became a screech.
‘Of course, Felicity. We will see you anon.’ Patricia replaced the receiver. ‘Bloody harridan.’
‘What’s a harridan?’ Jen dared to ask.
Patricia startled. Her daughter’s existence often eluded her. ‘What you’ll probably grow up to be. Stop denting my units with those marbles.’ She lifted Jen and deposited her on Mike’s lap. ‘Yours, I believe.’ Patricia left.
Jen poked her dad’s chin. She squealed as he pretended to bite her finger.
‘I’m trying to watch the television. Shut up.’ Liam increased the volume to a roar.
Mike turned off the set and placed Jen back on his knee. ‘Get changed, son. We’re leaving soon.’
‘Don’t call me son. I’m not going to the Smiths’. They’re pompous morons.’
Mike considered how to reprimand a child for speaking the truth. He wondered why the Taylors were attending the Smiths’ barbecue considering Patricia constantly bitched about Felicity. The answer was there. They were going because of Patricia. After salivating over a mammoth barbecue in an episode of Dallas, Felicity had purchased one. A select few were invited to coo over it. Desperate not to be outdone, Patricia needed to see the barbecue to know what to order for the Taylors’ garden. A tape measure sat in her pocket, ready for a crafty measuring of the Smiths’ contraption.
Patricia re-entered the room, putting in her earrings. ‘Haven’t you told Liam to get changed yet? You’re useless, Michael.’
Mike didn’t reply. It would only lead to an argument and Patricia’s outbursts were always scathing. Being forced to wear a garish Hawaiian shirt was humiliating enough. The Magnum fetish was bordering on ridiculous. Mike thought he was a decent-looking bloke without intervention, although the emerging beer belly required exercise.
Patricia led Liam upstairs to change. He dragged behind, kicking each step.
Mandy climbed onto Mike’s other knee. He wished it could always be this way; just his two girls and him. Liam was hard work. Patricia was, well, Patricia. Deciding her dad’s shirt wasn’t bright enough, Mandy coloured in a flower on the breast pocket with a felt tip. Mike didn’t protest. Fun rarely happened in their house. Jen widened her eyes then grinned at Mike’s naughtiness. She grabbed a pen and joined in.
…
‘You’re late. It’s hardly a long trek from next door.’ Felicity seethed at the Taylors standing outside her front door. ‘You could’ve gone straight to the garden.’
‘Felicity, dear, I never enter an abode from around the back.’ Patricia led her clan through the Smiths’ house.
Mike prayed for beer. Liam hoped for rain. Jen reminded herself of the rules of good behaviour. Mandy chewed a crayon.
Like boxers in a ring, the Pontings huddled in one corner and the Smiths took the other. The Pontings’ attendance was unexpected, due to a recent spate of discord between Felicity and Henry Ponting. Jen couldn’t keep up with estate politics.
Felicity sashayed across the lawn, lowering a grey sweatshirt from her shoulder. She was working the Flashdance look despite leg warmers increasing her chances of heat stroke. Patricia enjoyed observing the sweat patch forming on Felicity’s back. Fashion was supposed to work for you, not against you.
The wobbly heated air from the barbecue transfixed Jen. Bricks from the walls altered from rigid lines to dancing waves. She revelled in the magic and swayed to the music.
The track changed to Cruel Summer. Mandy sang along for a while, stopping to ask, ‘What does cruel mean?’
Jen pointed to Patricia. Mandy nodded her understanding.
‘Go away, this is a private party,’ Felicity addressed Kelly, revolted by her clashing outfit of stripes and spots.
Kelly slipped from balancing on the edge of the kerb outside the Smiths’ gate. ‘I’m only walking past.’
‘Weirdo,’ Liam said. He stuck out his tongue and then continued reading Frankenstein. If he had to endure the charade, he would make his own entertainment.
Kelly wiped her runny nose on her sleeve and moved on. The party continued as if she’d never appeared.
Jen carried Mandy to the cool of the Smiths’ dining room. The tapestry lining on the chair made her legs itch. She regarded the scene in the garden. Why these adults insisted upon spending time together when most of them hated each other was puzzling. Jen didn’t play with kids she didn’t like.
Patricia sneered. Felicity’s fretful trampoline eyebrows bounced. Mercedes and Porsche Smith tried to catch Liam’s attention. He kicked a ball to Sylvia and Virginia Ponting. An outsider would call it playing. Fortified by cans of bitter, Mike ignored the situation forming around him.
Jen tired of the oppressive heat, the pretensions, and snobbery. She cast a longing look at the youngsters in the park. Johnny waved his gangly arm, catching it within the chains of the swing. His younger brother, Benny, whooped with glee, demanding Johnny push him higher. There was where Jen and Mandy should be.
A wail disrupted the barbecue’s conversations and latent bitching. Sylvia’s mouth stretched wider to let out her fury. For a four-year-old, she boasted a magnificent set of lungs.
Sally ran to her child, soothing away the hurt. ‘What happened, sweetie?’
‘Hit me with ball.’ Sylvia pointed a podgy finger at Porsche, who was sitting next to Liam.
Porsche gasped. ‘I did not.’ Her eyes pleaded with Liam to intervene. He raised his novel and continued reading.
Felicity placed a territorial arm around her eldest. Porsche was Felicity’s reflection, with a sweatshirt falling off the opposite shoulder. Patricia lay back, sipped her cocktail, and enjoyed the drama.
Henry joined the fray, grabbing Sylvia from Sally. ‘What the hell is a teenager doing attacking a four-year-old?’
Porsche cried. Merced
es lined up with her mum and sister. Her outfit of shorts and a vest top showed she’d missed the Flashdance memo.
‘Porsche didn’t touch the little shit,’ Mercedes said.
‘Charming language, Mercedes Smith,’ Henry replied.
When Jen related the event to Johnny, her imagination conjured a western. Within the hush, a tumbleweed drifted across the garden. The music stopped. Felicity placed a hand on her hip, the other ready to shoot. Henry gave Sylvia back to Sally and prepared to draw.
‘It is Smythe!’ A puce Felicity looked set to combust.
‘It is Smith!’ Henry threw his arms into the air, possibly calling for divine intervention to smite Felicity.
‘Get out of my house and take your shabby family with you,’ Felicity said.
‘Says the woman who named her daughters after cars?’
‘Says the pretentious prick who named his after characters in books?’
Loyal to her husband but petrified of Felicity, Sally mumbled, ‘They’re named after authors.’ She picked at the hem of her purple twinset.
The kids in the park couldn’t believe their luck as they applauded and heckled the free show. Johnny mouthed, ‘Can I help?’ to Jen who was creeping alongside the Smiths’ shed, seeking an escape. She shook her head and held Mandy close as the Pontings drilled past.
‘That’s the riff-raff taken care of.’ Patricia clapped. ‘Let’s get this party properly started.’ She entered the dining room and dropped the needle on a record.
Tears for Fears declared it’s a Mad World.
Yes, yes it is, Jen thought, hoping she wouldn’t always be part of it.
…
Kelly returned, continuing to walk tightrope on the kerb, her face serious with concentration. Way past its time for a cut, her fringe fell into her eyes. As she slipped, she noticed Jen and Mandy inching towards the gate.
‘Are you okay?’ Kelly asked, aware the girls’ movements were unusually cautious.
‘Shh.’ Jen hoped she would take the hint. Kelly’s big mouth could get her into trouble.
Jen was silent as they crept out of the garden. What could Kelly Pratt do to make it better? She didn’t understand Jen’s life at all.
9
Present
I haven’t been to Aylesbury since I was a child, when a trip there was a day out. A group of estate kids caught the bus to spend our pocket money in a town with better shops than in Troddington.
Mandy always rushed to get a seat at the front of the top deck. From there she could watch as the “dragon bus” ate cars. She had a theory that when the bus pulled up behind vehicles, they disappeared into its mouth. Bus rides were an adventure.
On approach to the gyratory, I recall its legend. Drivers who’d passed their tests reinforced the myth of how the gyratory system defeated learners. I realise this is the first time I’ve driven on it. Deggsy, a ropey ex-boyfriend, taught me to drive around the busy streets of Oxford. At least he was good for something.
Whitworth Road sounds elegant. Driving along it, the reality begs to differ. Doreen has swapped the dereliction of Pollock Road for its cousin. Crude graffiti daubs walls. The sign is cracked, with letters missing. Holes and leeching moss riddle fencing panels.
I curse myself for judging this area. My beginnings were similar. Living in a middle-class Oxfordshire village doesn’t alter my roots. Sometimes I wonder if I’m becoming like my mum. Earthier, “normal” Jen rails against it.
Doreen’s front door is peeling blue paint, revealing a base white layer. At least it’s not coated in dog crap. When she lived on the estate, Doreen scrubbed the mess spiteful kids smeared there. She never complained. Her Marigolds were snapped on and she cleaned. It wasn’t right she had to do that.
I take a breath and push away indignation. My anger has never done me any favours. When I joined the Headway Practice as Practice Manager, Nicole offered counselling, as she does for every employee. Keen to make a good impression, I accepted. She uprooted my hidden anger and encouraged directing it positively. I couldn’t tell her where the fury originated. She was fobbed off with sob stories of being bullied as a child. I didn’t add how the bullies were my mum and, more harmfully, me.
No longer meek Jennifer, I bang my fist upon the door. I’d suggested a coffee shop, but Doreen insisted on meeting in her home. I figured she wanted the advantage of being on her territory. Standing in front of me, it’s obvious Doreen has other reasons.
People age and change. We can usually see hints of who they once were. I look at individuals on social media and spot dimples that can’t be erased, teeth never straightened or the sharpness of blue eyes that never dim. Doreen is a stranger.
Loose skin hangs from her jaw, indicating a previously nourished woman. Doreen was slim but now she’s verging upon skeletal. Her eyes have shrunk into dark circles and her wispy hair is a symptom of the ravages of chemotherapy. I came here to control her. My resolve weakens. She extends clawed hands for a hug but I can’t reciprocate. Better she thinks I’m repressed than to know my fear of embracing death.
‘Come in, Jennifer.’ The birth name, as always, jars.
I follow along a narrow hallway, frozen in the seventies. Swirls of brown and orange whirring across the carpet and wallpaper make me giddy. Doreen unwittingly leads her daughter’s killer into her home. My heart hammers out guilt with each step.
I sit at the table. Doreen is of the old school. Important matters take place in the kitchen where the tea and biscuits are. When I was a child, women chatted for hours in their kitchens; feeding on juicy gossip and salacious stories.
Doreen rummages around a high cupboard, picking up a teapot. The effort of lifting makes her wince. I take the teapot and am rewarded with a smile. I don’t want tea. I don’t want to be here.
‘You were always such a kind girl, Jennifer.’
‘It’s Jen.’
‘Of course.’ She measures tea leaves. ‘I keep forgetting how you young ’uns shorten your names. Can’t say I’m a fan of it, but each to their own. I’m glad Kelly never shortened it to “Kel”.’
“Kel” rhymes with tell. Something I will never do. It also rhymes with smell. Poor girl never stood a chance. Smelly Kelly, from “Pillock” Road, who was a Pratt, had the naming odds stacked against her.
Doreen completes the ceremony of making tea. I add a splash of milk and three sugars. Normally I have one. The sweetness will cushion any shocks to come. In true Jen style, I’m prepared.
‘Thank you for speaking to me, at last,’ she says.
I’ll let her earlier harassment go but I need to be firm. As much as I can be with a woman who’s a shade more than a corpse.
‘I’m not sure how I can help. Wasn’t it sorted out back then? Everyone said she’d killed herself.’ I wince at my bluntness.
Doreen doubles over and splays her hands across the laminated table. The squares resemble graph paper. She’s on a downward curve.
‘What can I do?’ I ask.
‘Grab those pills please.’ She points to a collection of boxes by the sink.
Doreen has more medication than Boots. Not knowing which ones to bring, I drop the lot in front of her. With barely a glimpse at the labels, she opens a box and swallows a few tablets.
‘The cancer came back.’ Her shoulders droop. ‘I thought they’d got it. Even had my boobs lopped off. The blighter worked its way through and set up home in my spine.’
I was prepared to be firm but how can I when she’s dying in front of me? I have to get out of this. Shame will trip me up and my mouth will blab the truth.
Rubbing her shoulder is an ineffectual form of comfort. I don’t want to be here, touching the mother of the girl I killed.
‘The tablets will kick in soon.’ She tries to straighten.
I never appreciated how strong Doreen was. I admire her resolution to fight this illness, if not her determination to find out what happened to Kelly.
‘Kelly wouldn’t have chosen suicide,’ Doreen say
s.
‘Why?’ It’s all I have. The tough persona isn’t working.
‘She hated violence because of what Graham did to us. She wouldn’t inflict more harm upon herself.’ Doreen takes a sharp breath. ‘I did some digging around back then. One of the PCs said Kelly’s head injury seemed odd. It didn’t appear to be from the train. They couldn’t say for certain though. I need proper answers. I won’t rest until I find out who murdered my daughter.’
‘Murder?’
Doreen leans over the table. The squares shrink.
‘I’m convinced Kelly was murdered and you know something about it.’
The cup slips from my grasp and smashes against the stone tiles.
10
8th April 1986
‘I know.’
‘Know what?’
‘I know where you live. Freddy is coming to cut you up. Sleep well, Smelly Kelly.’
A chorus of jeers followed the threat. Kelly placed the receiver back in its cradle and prepared to move on. She accepted constant ridicule; such was the lot of the Pratt family. The Freddy Krueger impression was new though. Maybe Freddie Norman, from Picasso Way, received a similar call if the idiots were on a roll that afternoon.
‘Who was on the phone?’ Graham’s voice boomed across the house.
He’d been sleeping off a hangover, coupled with fatigue from working as a bin man. Kelly cursed the caller for awakening the slumbering ogre. She’d have to explain. For Graham, answers were given in person and he always expected answers.
Kelly tiptoed from the hallway and into the lounge, trying to avoid standing on the carpet’s circles. If she missed them, maybe Graham wouldn’t be too harsh. She knew it was foolish for a thirteen-year-old to rely on made-up superstitions for survival but it was worth a try.
‘Just a double-glazing salesman,’ she said from the doorway, safe from his lair. Saying it was a prank call would only rile him.