Hidden

by Lisa Sell

  After the previous two wives, who couldn’t keep their mouths shut or their legs open enough, Graham thought Doreen had promise. He liked them young. Catching them when they began formulating ideas, he’d sweep in to show the correct way. Doreen bucked the trend. The cunning minx got pregnant at sixteen. Children never featured in Graham’s plans. Doreen’s militant parents demanded he married her. The wedding was a rushed affair which he left Doreen to arrange. Buying a new suit was Graham’s only concession. Doreen’s cousin was a bridesmaid and blatantly had a thing for him. He dressed to impress the bridesmaid, not the bride. The investment paid off behind the village hall holding the wedding reception.

  Doreen’s unhappiness was her own doing. If she hadn’t got pregnant, neither of them would be miserable. Kelly, the stone around his neck, walked alongside him. He could have tried to love her if she’d been better looking or outgoing. Instead, he fathered in his unique way. Kelly had an advantage over Doreen in knowing that, from the beginning, Graham ruled. It took Doreen too long to learn. She expected romance and intimacy. On their wedding night, when she dared to call him Gray, she learned the true nature of their relationship via his fists.

  Graham pushed his daughter towards the soon-to-be Reastons’ house and left.

  Kelly couldn’t believe he’d accompanied her as far as the few houses along their road. Doreen pleaded with him to do so, aware Kelly might be bullied. Kelly wondered how to gain acceptance when even your mum didn’t consider you passable in a bridesmaid’s dress. If Kelly had asked, Doreen would have told her it was because she looked so different that Doreen feared the estate kids’ reactions.

  As she’d placed flowers within Kelly’s freshly washed hair, Doreen was overcome with pride. Kelly was radiant. Even the leaping pink poodles embroidered on her ivory dress couldn’t detract from the transformation. Being Graham’s wife had made Doreen a realist. She knew Kelly wasn’t a conventional beauty, but was convinced her daughter would emerge to show everyone her attributes; inside and out. Shirley asking Kelly to be a bridesmaid was a kindness Doreen didn’t know she could ever repay.

  Eleven-year-old Kelly was excited to wear full make-up for the first time. Doreen applied light touches Graham wouldn’t notice and demand the removal of the “whore’s mask”. Doreen’s cosmetics bag hid in her underwear drawer, appearing only when having “girls’ time” with Kelly. Feeling rebellious, Doreen coloured in her own sallow face. Graham refused to attend the reception she was helping set up in the back room of a pub. The Pratt girls were free to shine.

  Waiting for someone to answer the door, Kelly braced herself for an insult, as Charlie Pullen cycled towards her. The Pullen boys, from Turner Road, made a sport out of mocking her. Whenever Charlie or Glen were nearby, Kelly’s insides tightened and she willed herself to disappear from their line of sight.

  Charlie skidded to a halt. Kelly waited for the dig. He jerked his head back to assess her.

  ‘You look sort of okay,’ he said, and then pedalled away.

  Kelly would take that. It was preferable to being called a heffalump, his latest barb. She couldn’t swear to it, but Charlie seemed to like what he saw.

  …

  As she held Mandy aloft, Claire wobbled. Claire had complained the five-year-old would be a hindrance, forgetting that wherever Jen went, her sister often tagged along. Claire’s issues with Mandy’s presence soon disappeared. Mandy’s stealthy skills were a bonus as she reached the tops of rose bushes and ripped off petals.

  The girls were making a wedding present for Shirley. She was one of Claire’s most favourite people. Pete and Shirley ran a poodle-grooming parlour from their house. While the neighbours complained about the dogs’ noise, Claire loved being surrounded by canines. Because of her dad’s allergies they couldn’t have a pet.

  Perfume for the bride was a perfect choice. The concoction of petals and water was a favourite, although earlier attempts proved its short shelf life. Claire figured it would be okay for Shirley to dab on for her special day. When first hearing Kelly was a bridesmaid instead of her, Claire sulked. After Shirley explained why Kelly needed this moment, Claire got over it and focused on an amazing gift instead.

  Before they began, Jen stipulated not to touch Patricia’s prized roses. If she discovered they were for Shirley, their lives wouldn’t be worth living. Patricia vocalised her thoughts on Pete and Shirley getting wed and how being unmarried for so long was an abomination. She conveniently forgot her own hidden pregnancy when she married Mike. Unknown to her and the rest of the estate, Shirley kept her baby a secret too. Six months later, Matilda was born. She would be adored by Claire and the inspiration for naming her own daughter.

  ‘Don’t squash them,’ Claire said, watching Mandy drop petals into the carrier bag. They’d managed quite a haul. Renoir Road and Monet Drive provided a bounty because the residents tended their gardens. The girls made a mistake in trying other less civilised roads first. Mandy disrupted the venture by grasping a patch of stinging nettles. Dock leaves rubbed on her palm and a lesson in differentiating between weeds and flowers avoided further errors.

  …

  Holding their creation, Claire decided they had the best wedding present ever. She’d emptied the last of Ellen’s Opium bottle down the sink to hold the new scent. Her mum only used it for special occasions and wouldn’t notice straight away. Jen wrote Shirley’s name on a label in fancy handwriting and Mandy drew a border of flowers. They looked more like raindrops but Claire figured Shirley was too kind to mention it.

  Kelly answered Pete and Shirley’s door. Claire wouldn’t have said Kelly was beautiful but rather that she shone. The confidence of wearing cosmetics, accessories, and a tailored dress changed her.

  ‘Flipping heck,’ Claire said. ‘You look nice.’

  Kelly blushed from neck to hairline. A stranger to receiving compliments, she didn’t reply.

  ‘Can you give this to Shirley please?’ Claire handed over the bottle. ‘Make sure she knows it’s from Jen, Mandy, and me.’

  ‘I will.’ Kelly fanned her face.

  …

  A procession of poodles, meringue dresses, and foil balloons burst forth from the Dean/Reaston house. A gathering awaited the bride, curious if the rumour of a poodle-themed wedding was true. Shirley lingered in the doorway, awaiting instruction from the photographer. Six apricot poodles snapped at each other, weary of being tethered to ribbon leads. Kelly ducked behind Shirley’s princess dress, wary of the onlookers’ judgements.

  The bridesmaids followed Shirley to the limousine. Her adult sisters stood either side of Kelly, creating a spectacle of ivory satin and pink poodles. A real poodle cocked its leg and urinated on Kelly’s silk shoe. She’d been waiting for her moment of glory to end. This was it. Kids sitting on the pavement guffawed. More polite company pretended not to notice.

  ‘She looks lovely,’ Johnny said.

  Jen appraised the scene. ‘If you like poufy wedding dresses.’

  ‘Not Shirley. Kelly.’

  Jen had to agree. Pee-stained shoe aside, Kelly Pratt had turned into a swan, albeit one that shook its foot a lot.

  The photographer rolled his eyes. ‘The youngest bridesmaid, can you stop hopping please?’

  Always ready to obey, Kelly stood still. Urine seeped through her tights and pooled in the bottom of her shoe. Still, she did not move.

  ‘How do they do weddings in your country, Dino?’ Ernie Bowers, from Pollock Road, asked.

  Dino, from Degas Drive, sighed. ‘Exactly the same, seeing as this is my country.’

  ‘I thought you’re Spanish.’

  ‘I’m half Spanish. How many times do I have to tell you I was born here?’

  ‘Oh, okay.’ Ernie moved on. Porsche Smith lingered nearby. When she was around, no one else existed. Ernie affected the sexy smile he’d seen his dad give his mum on Saturday nights. Porsche nudged her sister, Mercedes, remarking on how the boy appeared to be having a stroke.

  People gasped as the br
idesmaids and Shirley’s dad wedged the bride into the waiting car, hoping she’d fit. Dads remarked upon the “sweet motor”. Mums prayed Shirley’s dress wouldn’t rip. Tightly packed, the bridal party left for the registry office; a source of conversation for those divided about the lack of a church wedding. Everyone held an opinion on the Rembrandt Estate.

  ‘I’ll give Pete two months before he kills Shirley,’ said “Porky” Pullen, getting into the party spirit with a can of bitter.

  His spouse, Annette, put on her sunglasses, incensed at being shown up again in public. ‘Killing his wife, indeed. Who ever heard such a thing?’

  24

  Present

  ‘Graham killed his wife?’ I wonder if I’ve heard Claire correctly. My hangover is still in force and I was focused on getting back to work until she dropped the bombshell.

  Claire leaps to her feet, demanding full attention. ‘Graham hit his two previous wives too. He lived with both, consecutively, in Troddington, so was known to the local police. Kev said they barred him from his house after the second wife’s legs were broken. Nasty bastard ran over them in his car. You’ve gone pale.’

  A few bottles of wine the night before will do that to you.

  ‘I’m fine. Carry on.’

  ‘Graham said he didn’t see her standing behind the car. After totalling her legs, he drove off and left her there.’ Claire’s face reddens.

  I wish I could say Graham’s level of evil is unique, but I’ve lived with it. My mind flits to Mum moving a stepladder away when I was in the loft. I was looking for my missing medical textbooks, desperate not to lose the route to escape. When I came back down, the ladder disappeared and I fell. My arm cracked on impact with the floor. Mum’s only response was to command I never go into her loft without permission again. I screamed in agony. She stepped over me and left. Dad took me to the doctor, explaining how the resulting fracture was from accidentally knocking the ladder away. We knew Graham’s type of nastiness and covered it up in our own house.

  ‘Wow,’ is all I can manage, in response to Claire’s telling of Graham’s violence.

  ‘I don’t think Doreen knows he killed the first wife.’

  I pat the bench, inviting Claire to sit. The constant pacing is making me giddy. ‘Are you sure he killed her?’

  Claire gives a heavy sigh as she takes a seat. ‘Yes, Jen. Their house blew up.’

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘Gas explosion. Graham played the grieving widower but Kev and the other coppers never bought it. Graham told them he’d gone to the corner shop to get dog food, heard the bang, and ran home.’

  ‘I don’t see how it makes him guilty.’

  Unable to settle, Claire stands again. ‘Graham and his wife didn’t have a dog. The neighbours swore to it.’

  She gives me a moment to process the information, but Claire can’t be silent for long. ‘The cooker’s hobs were on. It was early morning, and his wife died in bed. She wasn’t making breakfast. Someone else must have turned on the gas. A man on their road also found a box of matches discarded in his front garden.’

  ‘Was Graham arrested?’

  ‘Nope.’ The word darts from Claire’s lips. ‘He worked the police a charm. A few pints down the pub, a duff investigation in the days when forensics were virtually non-existent, and Graham got off scot-free.’

  ‘It makes you wonder what he put Doreen through.’

  ‘Kelly too.’

  This new prospect of Kelly’s dad as a villain could be to my advantage. ‘We need to investigate Graham more.’

  ‘I’m on it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had something to do with Kelly’s death.’ Claire’s taken the bait. Graham was hardly a saint. I try to convince myself it’s not as devious as pointing the finger at a living person. My conscience doesn’t like me very much.

  My phone rings. When I see who the caller is, I end the call. It rings again. I’m not quick enough to move it from Claire’s sight.

  ‘You’d better get that,’ she says.

  How do I explain why I don’t want to answer? I swipe to accept.

  ‘I know what you did, Jennifer. Be at my house tomorrow, at eleven. No excuses or I’ll go to the police.’

  The call ends.

  I make hurried apologies to Claire about needing to return to work immediately. The disbelief on her face is clear but I don’t give her a chance to protest. I seek shelter around the back of the toilets and slump against the wall.

  It has come to pass.

  Doreen knows I killed her daughter.

  25

  23rd June 1984

  ‘She’s murdering it.’

  ‘Be nice, Claire,’ Liz said.

  Natalie Baker, from Renoir Road, gave her interpretation of London’s Burning, in Freddie and Liz’s flat. After spending the earlier part of the school year as a target for her recorder teacher’s baton, she had to nail the tune.

  ‘Why is she playing anyway?’ Claire’s volume was always set to maximum. ‘It’s Star Wars night, not amateur evening.’

  Liz noticed Natalie’s bottom lip tremble and hoped a situation wasn’t forming. The determined girl came to the Normans’ flat every day, desperate to play well. The Bakers’ ears were saved by the intervention. Liz decided, as her teeth tingled at the screeching, Natalie was tone deaf. Freddie clapped vigorously. His guests joined in weak applause.

  ‘Thank the gods of good taste that’s over,’ Claire said.

  ‘Don’t be nasty.’ Freddie’s bushy eyebrows furrowed. ‘Just because you’re Darth Vader, doesn’t mean you have to be cruel.’

  Claire always behaved around the Normans. They were kind to her and she’d never cause problems for them. ‘Bloody brilliant outfit, Natalie.’

  Natalie blushed under green face paint and squinted to see Claire through her sunglasses. Her attempt at dressing up as Greedo was more successful than her recorder playing. She’d been looking forward to this event for weeks. An invitation to one of the Normans’ themed evenings was an honour. The events were so popular, Freddie and Liz invited groups of children in rotation, their flat being too small to entertain the hordes.

  Stars and planets floated from the ceiling. The Star Wars soundtrack whirled on the record player. A spread of space cupcakes, honeycomb moon rocks, and fizzy rocket fuel for the Millennium Falcon, soon disappeared.

  Each partygoer chose a character. Mandy desperately wanted to be Luke Skywalker, but Patricia wouldn’t allow her daughter to dress as a male. Surely there were pretty girls in the film? Jen being the main woman, with a nifty hairstyle, was a coup. They reached a “compromise”. Mandy left dressed as a “pretty girl”. A quick change into a white bathrobe and grabbing the lightsaber she’d made at the Normans’ kept her happy. The cardboard tube, covered in foil, struck Claire’s legs.

  ‘Watch where you’re swinging that thing!’ she shouted.

  Mandy chuckled. The fight was on.

  ‘Call that a lightsaber?’ Claire brandished Alex’s replica weapon. Her dad was a Star Wars geek, with a cupboard stuffed full of memorabilia. He insisted on buying Claire an authentic Darth Vader costume. No child of Alex Woods would be half-arse joining The Dark Side.

  Claire’s weapon whooshed and its light strobed towards Mandy. Her makeshift version bent on interception.

  Johnny gave Mandy a hug. ‘Don’t worry. I can mend it. Besides, you win by slaying Darth Vader.’

  ‘I thought tonight is based on New Hope,’ Johnny’s older brother, Ian Rose, said. ‘Darth Vader doesn’t die in the first film. It’s about the details, thicko.’

  Jen stuck a misbehaving hairgrip into her left bun. ‘If details are so important, then you should’ve made an effort. What are you supposed to be?’

  Ian tightened the bandages across his shirt. ‘A stormtrooper, of course.’

  Johnny stood by Jen’s side. ‘I said I’d help you with an outfit, Ian.’

  Johnny’s sibling did nothing he could make others do. Ian not only resembled
a weasel with his beady eyes, elongated head, and thin frame, but adopted their wily ways too.

  ‘Get a load of Han Solo rescuing his Leia. So touching.’ Ian bared yellowed teeth, from a gobstopper-sucking habit. Johnny wished gobstoppers were literal.

  Jen had enjoyed playing the other half of a well-known love story with Johnny. She hid her upset as he edged away in response to Ian’s comment.

  Johnny cursed himself for putting embarrassment above his secret infatuation with Jen. At eleven, he was hardly a smooth romantic, and anyway, they’d always be just friends.

  Liz joined Ian on the sofa. Her more accomplished stormtrooper outfit, purchased from a fancy dress shop, cast him in her shade.

  ‘When’s your mum due?’ she asked the Rose boys.

  Their heavily pregnant mother begged them to go to the Star Wars night. Swollen ankles made kicking Ian and their other brother, Anthony, up the backside for their mouthiness, a challenge.

  ‘Any day soon.’ Johnny’s glee spread across his face. He hoped it would be a girl this time and not obnoxious, like his siblings. Being the child of the objectionable Rob Morgan didn’t offer the best odds though. Rob decided it was definitely a boy and they would call him Benny. Rob usually got his way.

  ‘She’s outside, alone again,’ Freddie said, his fluffy arm holding the cord on the kitchen blind.

  Freddie’s natural hairiness meant he could only ever be Chewbacca. Claire was disappointed he hadn’t styled his own body hair, but had to admit the costume, made from a shaggy rug, was incredible.