by Lisa Sell
‘Bastards, ruining my kip. I hope you told them where to go.’
Graham heaved himself from the faded corduroy sofa and sparked a cigarette. He gave a throaty cough and scratched his groin, inadvertently shifting his Y-fronts to give a less than pleasant view.
Kelly looked away at a framed photograph of her parents’ wedding day. When did the handsome man with the natty suit become this thing? Back then, Graham had been well preserved, considering he was nearly twice Doreen’s age. Kelly couldn’t reconcile the man who posed in the photo with the aged husk, trying to ease his crotch rot. Brylcreem slicked his steel grey hair, appearing greasy rather than styled. His wolfish sideburns gave him a sinister edge. Sweat stains yellowed a white vest no amount of hot washes could remove.
Kelly resolved she’d never marry a man who treated her how Graham behaved towards Doreen. She wondered if every male eventually became manipulative. Her mum may not have been clever but she had common sense. Had Graham deceived her when they’d met? Kelly hoped not all men began as charming, only to become beasts. She had little evidence to draw upon, beyond Graham. There was only the one of her dreams. Surely he wouldn’t hurt her? She thought about him often. No, he’d never turn into a nightmare. An explosion in her head halted the fantasy.
‘Listen to me when I’m talking to you.’
Cigarette ash spilled, blackening the front of Kelly’s blouse. Graham unfortunately still had a good aim, even at a distance. A stone ashtray landed at her feet. Kelly had taken her eyes off the threat, when usually she made sure she was prepared. She rubbed underneath her fringe and removed her glasses, relieved not to be bleeding. Blood made a mess. Graham despised mess. She resisted soothing the pain. Graham detested weakness too.
‘Get that tidied up.’ The cracking of his knuckles made Kelly flinch.
Ash marked her tights as she knelt. Cigarette butts merged with the rug’s circular pattern. Kelly filed the dream about her beau away. It wasn’t the time for fantasising. In the future it would become a reality and Graham a figment of the past. She needed one male in her life and it wasn’t the slob that had been snoring on the sofa.
One day, Kelly decided, she would be free to be with the only one who mattered.
11
Present
I’ve cleared away my broken teacup from Doreen’s kitchen floor. It delayed the conversation while I made a show of retrieving every piece. The time for stalling is over. Questions must be asked.
‘Why do you think I can help with what happened to Kelly?’ The edginess of my voice betrays attempts at confidence.
Doreen tilts her head back. The meds are working. ‘You walked to school together. I’m sure you’ll remember something important. Maybe someone who was mean to her?’
It would be easier to sift out those who’d been civil to Kelly. ‘You know Kelly wasn’t liked by many people?’
I wait for tears or an outburst. Neither comes.
‘I’m not stupid. I know what most people on the estate thought of us. As soon as Graham died, I asked for a transfer. He saw it as a matter of honour to stick it out where we weren’t wanted. As soon as he passed, I went to the council offices, played up the widow and bereaved mother thing, and demanded to be housed elsewhere.’
Doreen isn’t as dumb as we decided she was. We cast her as the estate’s cautionary tale of a feeble woman who allowed a man to beat her, and her daughter to be bullied. We knew nothing of her life. Underestimating Doreen could be dangerous. I need to watch her more carefully.
‘Kelly was called names, spat on, and hit. I dealt with the aftermath.’ Doreen’s volume rises.
Rather than being afraid, for the first time, I admire Doreen Pratt. This is how anger is channelled positively; by protecting your own. I consider sharing with Nicole what I’ve learned, seeing as we discuss anger so often in our mentoring sessions, but she doesn’t know about this and never will.
‘Someone might have taken it too far.’ Doreen twiddles a ring that threatens to fall off her finger. ‘Their hatred of Kelly could have made them kill her. I don’t want to think it but it could’ve happened. It’s hard, knowing the child you doted on was rejected and used as a target.’
The striped wallpaper pulls inwards, trapping me within the room. The air is thick. Against the fugue of Doreen’s last meal, I catch breaths. This isn’t the time to falter. I have to stick with the plan.
‘I’ll help you.’ Knowing I’m a rubbish liar, I look away. Mum saw through it in an instant. Doreen is smarter than I gave her credit for.
‘That’s great, Jen.’ She envelopes me within her bony frame.
Who is this woman? Her drive to want to solve what happened to Kelly is disturbing. The past is not a good place to return to. Why can’t she let it go? Shame gnaws at me. I caused this. If I confess, she can stop searching, but I have too much to lose.
‘Claire and Ellen are on the team too, as I said in my e-mail. Ellen’s been such a supportive friend, even after I left the estate. Claire’s worried you’re annoyed with her for passing on your details. Go easy on her. She was helping, like you are too now.’
After spending hours duping a sick woman, sipping tea, and being force-fed pink wafers, I leave Doreen’s exhausted. There’s no going back. I’m equipped with Ellen Woods’ address and instructions to follow the breadcrumbs to her home for the next instalment of “The Kelly Chronicles”. This is no cosy murder mystery though. This is death in its violent glory.
12
7th August 1986
‘George Michael doesn’t love boys.’ Mandy’s wailing travelled from the park.
Darting from their house across the road, Jen came to the rescue. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
Mandy grabbed Jen’s legs, smearing chocolate onto her sister’s trousers. Jen didn’t mind. The washing was one of her many chores. She encouraged Mandy not to fear getting dirty when playing. Her sister would never have to stick to Patricia’s rule of remaining spotless. As much as she hated doing the laundry, Jen liked finding grass stains on Mandy’s jeans or holes in her jumpers. They signified her freedom to be a child, something Jen never had.
Claire joined them, shoving misbehaving shoulder pads back into place. A teenager wearing an oversized purple velour jacket on narrow shoulders wasn’t a successful combination. Jen grinned at her friend playing a martyr to fashion.
‘You must be sweating your arse off.’ Jen tried to remain serious. ‘If you’re not, your mum will definitely kick your backside for raiding her wardrobe again.’
Claire squared her shoulders. At least someone noticed the outfit. Style was lost on the other kids.
‘Mum won’t find out. She’s working, as usual. I’ll return it before she gets home. The reporter image suits me. I’m Mum’s prodigy.’
Claire thrived on learning new words, except she didn’t always use them correctly. Her favourite part of the day involved joining Ellen after dinner to seek complex words from the thesaurus.
‘It’s progeny, you wally,’ Jen said.
Claire looked down at her mum’s slingbacks. She wanted to be a reporter, like Ellen, except Claire focused on the nationals, not the Troddington Echo.
Holding back an apology for questioning Claire’s word skills, Jen decided Claire needed to realise life was tough. Parents didn’t always love their children unconditionally and nurture them into rosy futures. Jen felt conflicted for thinking it. Claire was daft but with a generous heart. Ellen had the positive attributes Patricia lacked. Jen offered a strawberry lace to make peace. Claire’s frantic chewing signified her forgiveness.
Jen addressed a pitiful Mandy. ‘What’s upset you? I’m trying to watch EastEnders. If I can hear you inside, Mum can too.’ She tried to avoid speaking publicly about Patricia’s dominance but Jen needed Mandy to learn the lessons for a quiet life sooner than she had.
‘Claire said George Michael loves boys, not girls.’ The statement shattered Mandy’s seven-year-old world.
Claire screwe
d up her face at the snitching Mandy. ‘It’s best you find out. I’m doing you a favour. Imagine how stupid you’ll look if you tried it on with him in the future.’
Mandy blushed at the discovery of her fantasy. Ever since she’d first heard Bad Boys on the radio, George Michael had captured her heart. Andrew Ridgeley was too quiet. When she grew up, George would meet her, fall in love, and become her husband.
Jen pierced Claire with a look that made wonky shoulder pads the least of her worries. ‘All kinds of inappropriate going on here. She’s only little, for goodness’ sake.’
Claire kicked the swing in a show of fake defiance. Seated on the swing, Mandy took it as a double blow and began to cry again. Claire was the breaker of dreams and possibly limbs.
‘When did Mandy become so needy?’ Claire asked.
Jen pulled her aside. ‘Please tell her George Michael isn’t gay.’
‘What’s gay?’ an innocent voice enquired.
‘We’ll talk later, bat ears.’
Mandy shrugged. Claire was given “the look” again. Jen had perfected it after being on the receiving end from Patricia for years.
Claire stopped Mandy mid-swing. ‘Okay, brat. George Michael likes girls, not boys, and one day he’ll marry you.’
Jen took charge. ‘Go and get ready for bed. I’ll be there in a minute.’ She lifted Mandy from the swing and gave her a pat on the backside to move her along.
Mandy’s delight that George could still be hers spread across her face. She skipped towards the house, stopping to talk to children sitting on the pavement and swapping football stickers. Mandy explained to them how George Michael was king even if Wham! was over. One thing at a time, she thought. She couldn’t handle dealing with two disappointments in the same day. George was free from the band and had more time to find her. Life was sweet.
‘Get indoors!’ Jen shouted.
Satisfied Mandy was inside, Jen knew she should follow. First, she needed to sort out Claire. ‘Stop teasing her. You know how delicate she can be.’
Claire sat on the swing. ‘I’m toughening her up. It’s a hard world out there.’
‘So much wisdom for a thirteen-year-old.’ Jen kicked Claire. The steel caps of her boots made an impression on Claire’s shins.
‘Ouch. You’ve got dirt on the bottoms. Mum will lose it if she sees this.’
‘The outfit isn’t working for you, is it.’
‘I’d better clean them before Mum gets back.’
Claire jumped off mid-swing and performed a gymnastic landing. Jen admired the unfamiliar show of grace.
‘Oh, and Claire,’ Jen raised her voice as her friend walked away, ‘George Michael? Totally gay.’
13
Present
‘Hello, twonk.’
‘Hello, wazzock.’
Despite my annoyance with Claire for sharing my contact details with Doreen, I can’t resist falling into our old routine. On Ellen’s doorstep, Claire draws me into a stifling hug. I swallow the lump in my throat. Open emotion is weakness. She’s not my kooky friend Claire, anymore. She’s someone I need to deceive.
Claire doesn’t overshare on Facebook. I’ve never seen any pictures on there. For the first time in decades, I’m seeing her. If you took a fourteen-year-old girl, stretched her out, and stuck on boobs, it would result in adult Claire. She’s hardly changed.
The difference between my tallness and her short height remains. She hated being small and loathed her jug ears even more. For most of the eighties, Claire sleeked her hair with gel to cover her ears. Age has brought confidence if the high ponytail is any indication.
Her jumper with its fancy appliqués and soft cashmere is probably a designer label. It jars against the casualness of utility trousers and a bare face. Claire has always been a mass of contradictions.
She frowns. ‘You’re making me look like a munchkin, being so tall. Stop gawping and come in.’
Ellen has upgraded from Renoir Road. Houses aren’t cheap in this chocolate-box village. Being a reporter must’ve been lucrative. The Rembrandt Estate is a slum in comparison.
‘You’re wondering how Mum could afford this.’ Claire used to know me well. It freaks me out she still might. How does it bode for keeping things from her?
‘No.’ I try to convey I’m a mystery to her.
Deciding this posh abode merits it, I remove my trainers and follow her into the lounge. It’s a display of neutrals and good taste.
‘My parents got it for a song in the nineties,’ Claire says. ‘This house and the one they bought next door were a wreck. It gave Dad a project until he took off with another woman.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Alex was her hero. I envied their relationship. He used to raise her onto his shoulders. She looked how she must have felt; like royalty.
‘Don’t worry. It happened ages ago. Dad never could keep it in his pants. I’m astounded Mum stayed with him so long, but she struggled with breaking up the family. Much as I love Dad, I told her to leave. He’s living in Birmingham and on wife number three. I go there a fair bit. Birmingham’s got great clothes shops.’ Claire sighs, probably at the thought of future shopping trips. The clothes obsession hasn’t waned.
Photos of various people adorn every wall. Knick-knacks are assembled into groups, according to the countries Ellen has visited. The arms of chairs and backs of seats are worn, a sign of the regular company of guests. This is a home, not a house. It’s what I’ve always wanted. I walk towards the mantelpiece, needing a distraction. Claire’s staring is unrelenting.
‘You’ve been busy, unless you kidnapped some beautiful people off the street.’ I hold up the photo of her with a toothpaste advert smiling man and a teenage girl who’s undeniably Claire’s daughter. I know Claire’s married with a child, but small talk makes the situation less awkward.
‘Cheeky cow. That’s Seb, the husband, and my daughter, Matilda; we call her “Matty”. Mum made us do a portrait session. I took the mickey the whole time. My two scrub up well though.’ Love oozes from her. It’s nauseating in other parents. With Claire, I find it endearing.
This is the girl who would never marry or have kids because, apparently, feminists don’t. She read it in a seventies textbook from the library. I said I wasn’t sure it worked that way. She advised I was setting back the cause with my “concessions to patriarchy”. It was the first time she’d used a complicated set of words in the right context, if not with wisdom.
I take a seat, jolting upwards when she dives next to me. The closeness is stifling. We’re not those girls who huddled up anymore. Claire’s never respected boundaries. I shift along until the lowered wooden edge digs into my hip.
‘Mum will be here in a sec,’ Claire says. ‘She’s waiting for the plumber, next door.’
‘Does she still own that too?’
‘Yes. We live there: Seb, Matty and I. Mum’s playing good landlord. Toilet keeps getting bunged up and there’s crap everywhere.’ This is Claire; always straight-talking and never one to use the plethora of words she spent most of her childhood digesting.
‘So, you became a reporter too?’
Claire smooths her hands over her ears. My mean streak rejoices in them still being a hindrance. I’d rather not be the only one here with issues.
‘I’m freelance and have had some blinding stories in the odd newspaper. Got a website too, where I report on local news. There are loads of followers but I’ve not hit the big time yet. The Guardian will soon be knocking down my door.’
Her self-belief was always admirable. There’s no doubt she’ll keep chasing her aspirations. I’m a little jealous I had to give up on mine. Doctors need decent qualifications. They also save lives rather than take them. Still, I’m proud of what I’ve achieved. Becoming a counsellor isn’t a poor second.
‘Cooee.’ The owner of the exuberant voice used to share pear drops with me. She made dinners that warmed my stomach and soul. I remember a wide and caring smile. The past collides wit
h the present when Ellen enters the lounge.
‘Jen, it’s so wonderful to see you.’
I forgot the bear hug is a family thing. A flowery scent tickles my nostrils. As I come up for air, I’m greeted by a welcoming face. Time has been kind to her. There are more wrinkles and her hair is shorter, but she’s still the same Ellen.
She always dressed in a distinguished way. The trouser suit she’s wearing has a sharp houndstooth pattern. Her motto was: it’s best to dress up rather than down. If you begin smart, you can take it down a few notches, but it’s harder to scrub up if your baseline is unkempt. I wonder what she makes of my tatty jeans.
Ellen takes a seat. ‘I said you’d grow up to be a stunner, like your mother. Isn’t she a looker, Claire?’
Claire seems to be cringing at how mums can fixate upon their daughters’ looks. I stretch my hoodie out of shape, wanting to hide under it.
‘Did you make Jen a cuppa, love?’
‘We got chatting.’ Well-trained, Claire gets up.
‘I see you’re wearing my jumper again,’ Ellen says. Claire’s pilfering habits haven’t disappeared. The girl is playing dress-up again.
‘Laundry day tomorrow,’ Claire offers. ‘I’ll get Jen a brew.’
‘I’m fine. Doreen’s already plied me with tea.’ I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to.
‘Poor woman. She’s been through so much.’ Ellen speaks in the quiet respectful tone reserved for talking about the dying or dead. ‘The least we can do is to help her find out what happened to Kelly. You’re a good girl for joining us, Jen.’ Ellen pats my thigh and draws in so close our knees touch. Don’t these two value personal space?
If she really knew me, Ellen would realise I’m far from good. I stopped being a good girl in 1987. I’ve been trying to redress the balance since. What is good anyway? I help people, donate to charity, and floss my teeth. Does it mean I’m good? Can you ever be good if you’ve done something incredibly bad?