by Lisa Sell
Liz joined him in watching Kelly, sitting under the park tree. ‘I invited her but she said she’d never seen the film.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’ Freddie wiped fluff from his tongue.
‘She said they couldn’t afford an outfit. I told Doreen I’d take care of it, but you know how proud she is.’
Overhearing their conversation, Jen looked at her own dress. Liz had worked on it for days. Styling her hair had taken an hour. Jen felt a pang of remorse at wearing what might have been Kelly’s costume.
‘I’ll keep an eye out for her,’ Liz said to Jen, noting the frown. ‘Maybe she’ll come in when everyone’s watching the film.’
The music changed to Madness, singing of House of Fun. Al Priest, from Picasso Way, loved to get a party started. His version of Obi-Wan Kenobi bust some moves, holding R2-D2 and C-3PO aloft. His three-year-old twins made for adorable droids. Liz inhaled the warmth of her home, filled with friends and happiness.
The house of fun toppled upon Anthony Rose’s arrival. Liz always gave him a chance but had to admit he was hard work. At fifteen, he demanded the rights of an adult while resembling and behaving like a child thug. The flabbiness of his baby face contrasted with the skinhead cut.
Freddie took the cans of lager from Anthony. ‘It’s not that kind of party, Ant.’
Anthony scowled. ‘You better give those back before I leave.’
‘I wouldn’t steal from you.’
‘Unlike her.’ Anthony pointed at Carrie Waite, who also lived on Turner Road. ‘Nail down your belongings, everyone.’
Carrie launched her equally generous frame at him.
‘No fighting.’ Freddie stood between them.
‘She is a tea leaf though,’ Claire said, her breathing authentically laboured by the claustrophobic helmet. ‘They caught her in the Co-op last week, nicking steaks.’
The Waites shoplifted to order. Their booty kept the unscrupulous in luxuries they couldn’t afford or were too stingy to buy. Carrie was an established member of the family trade at ten years old, although she needed extra training in not eating the goods she pilfered.
‘Get stuffed!’ Carrie yelled. ‘I have every right to be here and I haven’t taken anything. See?’ She unzipped her tracksuit jacket and turned out her pockets.
‘Couldn’t be bothered to dress up though, could you.’ Claire never gave up on a fight.
‘Neither has he.’ Carrie pointed at Anthony, who had grown bored with the argument and was ready to start another.
The others circled around the Priests, enjoying the performance. The twins swayed on uncertain legs. Liz took photos of the duo, cooing at their cuteness.
‘Nice one, Al!’ Anthony shouted above the music. ‘Your lot always dance good.’
Al stood still. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Black people, innit? You’ve all got rhythm.’
The Priests were the only black residents on the estate and Troddington was a mainly white town. Along with the Hernandez family, who had Spanish roots, the Priests challenged racism and tried to inform the residents of misconceptions. Al always did so with good grace. The union with his white wife, Marie, also drew ignorant comments.
‘Go look up the word stereotype, Anthony. Get yourself educated, boy.’ Al continued dancing.
Knowing when he was beat, Anthony headed for the door. ‘Carrie, do you want to see what’s worth swiping from the dairy?’ He grabbed the six-pack from the counter, cradling it like a newborn. Carrie joined him; both united in a mission and their earlier row a distant memory.
Checking everyone was settled, Freddie left.
…
Kelly recognised the tune coming from the Normans’ flat as from the cantina scene of the film. She jiggled her book on her knees in time with the jaunty beat. When Liz invited her and offered to make an outfit, Kelly was ecstatic. She loved Star Wars. Doreen refused. If Graham discovered they’d accepted charity, there would be consequences.
Kelly drew her costume on a bookmark. She would have been the feisty and beautiful Princess Leia. Seeing Jen going to the party, dressed as the character, deflated Kelly’s ego. Jen wore the clothes she wanted to wear and lived the life Kelly wanted to live.
26
23th June 1984
Sounds of happiness trickled from the Normans’ kitchen window, reminding Kelly she’d always be on the outside. Her resentment towards Graham increased. Without him, Doreen and Kelly might have integrated into the estate. She ground her knuckles into the tree bark, sucking in air as blood seeped. The physical pain dulled the ache in her throat and chest. She hid her wound as a furry form loomed.
‘Why don’t you join us?’ Freddie stepped closer.
Kelly recoiled. Men sometimes scared her, even more so when dressed as wookies.
‘I’m fine.’ She raised the book in front of her face.
‘That’s impressive, reading Wuthering Heights at your age.’ Freddie removed the mask to reveal his usual grin. ‘No one will hurt you when I’m around, I promise.’
‘I might come later.’
They both knew it was a lie. Cautious of applying pressure, Freddie returned home.
…
Liz fixated on Kelly. Ominous clouds descended over the park. Liz opened the window further, seeking fresh air against the cloying mugginess. The plastic costume made sweat pool in the strangest of places. With this distraction, no wonder stormtroopers missed their targets.
Lightning crackled. Thunder became its companion. The twins cowered under Al’s cloak. Ian fronted it out, hiding his fear of thunder. Liz knew of his phobia and how Ian threatened to break limbs if it became known. Mandy huddled between Johnny and Jen. Claire brandished the lightsaber, announcing the storm was a vehicle of her wrath. Still smarting from Claire’s earlier criticism of her recorder playing, Natalie told Claire to stop talking over the film.
Liz ran to Kelly, unable to bear her being exposed to the elements. ‘Come in. It’s dangerous to sit under a tree in a thunderstorm.’
Kelly’s face was wet. ‘It’s safer than going home.’ She shielded the novel under her blouse.
Liz knew a child’s defiance when she saw it. Jen taught her well. She admired it to a degree, but was frustrated at Kelly not listening to reason. Liz sped back inside. She stalled dialling the Pratts’ number when she spotted a figure rushing across the park, covered by a golf umbrella. Doreen temporarily rescued her daughter. They ran from one danger to another.
In that moment, Liz hated the world. The merriment in her flat brought no comfort. She despised men like Graham, who had children they didn’t want. Liz’s attempts at getting the police involved when she saw Kelly’s bruises never came to anything. He was a convincing man who manipulated his wife and daughter to say the right things. Liz watched Freddie, surrounded by youngsters. There was a man who would have been a wonderful father.
She allowed the tears to fall, knowing the mask concealed the hurt. An arm snaked around her waist and she stroked the fur. Husband and wife united in grief at multiple miscarriages and the final diagnosis they would never have children.
They turned together to look at the youngsters in their lounge. Here was their family.
27
Present
The certificates on Nicole’s wall don’t do her justice. She’s more than a set of qualifications. Empathy oozes from her and she can read a person within minutes of meeting them. I like our mentoring sessions. Her room is always inviting. The calming yellows and creams are an informed choice for creating a peaceful environment. I move to Nicole’s chair to avoid the lowering sun hitting my eyes. On the desk, sunflowers spring from a vase.
I’m reminded of when Mandy and I competed with a group of estate kids to grow the tallest sunflower. We entered the Blue Peter competition, certain our green fingers would make the Rembrandt Estate famous. Our sunflower towered over everyone else’s. Perhaps we gloated too much about how the Blue Peter badge would be ours. One morning, we found our sunflo
wer chopped into pieces and scattered over the lawn. No one confessed. We didn’t expect any less on an estate where “no grassing” was a hallowed rule.
Mandy cried for days, mourning her flower friend, Sunny. She lost more than a bloom. She’d nurtured and shared her troubles with Sunny. Liam sang floral-themed songs, accompanied by snipping actions. He hated others having fun. He hated Mandy and me, full stop. I never understood why. It’s not as if we were rivals for our parents’ attention.
When Nicole enters, I move to the other seat and refrain from making a joke about stealing her chair and status. Her expression suggests a sense of humour might be missing.
‘They got the stationery order wrong again,’ she says. ‘I figured you could do without the hassle. You looked upset when you returned from lunch.’
‘I had a headache. It’s passed.’
‘It seems to be more than that. I’m worried about you.’ Caring Nicole switches from Dictator Nicole.
‘I’m fine. Getting the assignments done is stressful. You know how it is.’
‘I do. Sometimes though, I’d love to go back to that time when I was a student and childfree. Mothers shouldn’t say such things, should they?’
‘Don’t you like being a mum?’ What was intended as a question becomes more of an outburst.
‘Of course I do.’ She breaks eye contact. Nicole’s rarely flustered, and it’s unsettling I made it happen. ‘I wouldn’t give up my children for anything. The past can seem rosier sometimes though, don’t you think?’
‘Maybe.’ Not always. Not much at all.
‘Talking of the past, it was nice meeting Claire. You need more friends. Are you seeing her again soon?’
‘I have to.’ My reply is harsher than intended.
‘Why do you have to?’
I note the counsellor’s tool of repeating what’s been said. To satisfy her curiosity, I decide to share the bare minimum. If I don’t offload some of the recent events I’ll mentally combust.
‘When Claire and I were fourteen, a girl on the council estate where we lived died. Her mum wants our help to find out what happened. It looked like suicide or an accident but she’s convinced it’s something else.’ It’s good to tell someone, even if it’s only the headlines.
‘That’s the most you’ve shared about your past in the seven years I’ve known you. So, you lived on a council estate?’
Pride kicks in. ‘It doesn’t make me a bad person. I’m fed up of people thinking those from council estates are scrounging scum.’
‘Calm down, class warrior. I was taken aback because you’ve not said anything about your background. I only know you lived in Troddington because of your CV, listing the local schools.’
My attempt at making her believe I’m okay is failing. Anger wins again.
‘Sorry, it’s a sore subject,’ I say. ‘Anyway, Claire’s on my case. Her mum and Doreen, that’s Kelly’s mum, the girl who died, are pushing me to help. It’s getting too much.’
My nails embed into my palm and the scar flares. I’ve tried to break the habit but the pain is a distraction. Each time the heat of the scar pulses, I’m transported.
The wound is from cutting my palm on a broken glass while washing up. I cried for help. Mum continued chatting on the phone. Her only involvement was an instruction to bleach the bloodstains from the sink. I patched myself up as best as a seven-year-old could. The sink sparkled. My palm was permanently marked.
Once again, my mind has drifted. ‘What did you say?’
‘Why do you have to be involved?’ Nicole relaxes into the chair and peers over her glasses. I am the naughty student being reprimanded by the head.
‘I used to walk to school with Kelly. Doreen thinks I might know how she landed up on the railway track. I’ve said I don’t, but Doreen’s dying and I feel guilty. I mean, I feel sad for her.’ Nicole’s counsellor radar better be switched off. ‘The coroner’s open verdict hasn’t helped Doreen to have closure.’ We both wince at the therapy cliché. We have a list of “Wanky Words” in this practice. I should’ve added journey and ownership for good measure.
‘Poor woman,’ Nicole says. ‘I can’t imagine dealing with your child being dead, even years later.’
Is that a tear she’s wiping away? She gives a pointed look, defying me to expose her weakness. Out of respect, I let it go.
‘Doreen needs peace before she dies. That’s why I’ve got to help. If it means helping her come to terms with Kelly’s death, in the gentlest way possible, then it’s what we’ll do.’
‘You’re a good person for doing this.’
No, I’m not. If you knew what I am, Nicole, you’d boot me out.
She assumes a prayer position, inviting the confession of my sins. ‘You need to balance it with work and study. Are you drinking again?’
‘Yes.’ There’s no use lying. You can’t fool a woman who’s fluent in body language. My palm is tender.
‘I’m not your mother, but…’
‘You wouldn’t want to be her.’
Her raised eyebrow awaits further details but I ignore it. We continue our usual routine of me being elusive while Nicole chips away.
‘You fought hard to get sober and clean, Jen. Don’t undo it. You’ll be a counsellor, working here soon.’
The threat’s in my poor choices, not with this conversation. Nicole won’t sack me. She’s nothing but kind.
‘I’ll stop. I can stop,’ I say.
‘I shouldn’t have insisted on dragging you to the pub after work.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’m more controlled than that. I can even watch a junkie on the TV without wanting a hit.’
‘It’s not funny. I’m worried about you.’
‘I’m fine. The booze is out of the house and I’m teetotal again.’ Not by choice, I don’t add, but because it was finished off last night. My mouth salivates at the imagined crispness of Prosecco dancing on my tongue. I replace desire with pain, jabbing my palm with my nails. I mustn’t drink again. While this investigation into Kelly’s death is ongoing, I need a clear head. If the truth comes out, my life is over.
‘Scout’s honour.’ I give a salute. ‘No more alcohol and lots of study. I’ll be focused at work and not do too much investigating.’
‘Good. Let’s go for ice cream later. A mahoosive sundae with sprinkles, chocolate, and anything else we can get on it. I don’t see why we can’t still have a treat.’
‘Sure.’
I was planning to catch up on sleep but she’s trying to be a friend. I could do with one. Besides, I’ve always been partial to ice cream.
28
29th July 1981
‘When can I have ice cream?’ Jen asked.
‘Later. At the party. Stay still.’ Patricia jabbed in another pin.
Jen stamped on her mum’s foot as a reflexive action to the stab in the head. Patricia’s slap resounded against Jen’s naked thighs.
‘How the hell am I supposed to get this finished if you keep wriggling?’ Patricia shouted.
Spittle landed on Jen’s face. She dared not wipe it. More movement would make her mum angrier. The lure of promised ice cream helped Jen to focus.
Even an eight-year-old knew it was madness to create an elaborate fancy dress outfit in an hour. Until that morning, the Taylors weren’t going to the estate party, held in honour of Charles and Diana’s wedding day. It wasn’t due to lack of patriotism. Patricia was a staunch royalist and Lady Di fan. She dedicated mirror viewing time to lowering her head and looking upwards, trying to capture the soon-to-be Princess’s shyness. For a bold woman, it required plenty of practise.
Patricia initially proposed an estate celebration. She shared a vision of a civilised tea party for the adults, dressed in their finest. The opportunity to be admired for the resemblance to Diana motivated her. Her hair was recently coloured and the flicked fringe held in place. Children weren’t invited, she explained. It wouldn’t be a raucous shindig like those happening in other areas of Tro
ddington. Selected adults would be “encouraged” to volunteer their services in looking after the youngsters and sacrificing their time for the sake of others’ enjoyment.
At hearing Patricia’s ideas, the women at the coffee morning prepared to riot. Cake was left uneaten and coffee went cold. The party couldn’t take place without their offspring. They wanted family fun involving costumes, a buffet, booze, and an old-fashioned knees-up. For the first time, they outnumbered Patricia. Suddenly remembering other plans previously made, she withdrew. The others accepted the lie, knowing the wisdom of placating Patricia rather than appearing on a future hit list.
On the day, Patricia reversed her decision. Next door, Porsche and Mercedes strutted in patriotic outfits. Felicity’s exclamations of how her daughters were a dead cert to win the fancy dress competition piqued Patricia’s interest. She peered over the fence separating their gardens. The Smith girls were walking Union Jacks, in matching flowing blue wigs and white shift dresses adorned with red crosses. Felicity made everything by hand, working on the outfits for months. Patricia yawned whenever she had to hear about it.
Deciding it wouldn’t do, Patricia crawled below the height of the fence to avoid Felicity. She grabbed Jen from the armchair, ignoring the cries that Jen was watching cartoons. Patricia got to work. Mike’s T-shirts were ripped and transformed into flowers. She didn’t care if he still wore them. The fight was on against the Smiths, and sacrifices were necessary. Patricia would never lose out to a woman who couldn’t pronounce her own surname correctly.
Felicity and Patricia were often in each other’s houses. Theirs was a grudging friendship, fuelled by one-upwomanship. If one got a kitchen gadget or piece of furniture before the other, the world officially ended and the purchase had to be matched. When Jen had the misfortune to enter the Smith household, she could see how people would think they’d gone to the Taylor house by mistake.