by Chloe Rayban
‘Re-ally!’ I said, trying to sound suitably awestruck.
‘Yeah well, phew,’ he said and rested on his bike.
‘Lift’s stuck. I’ll send it down for you if you hang on,’ I said, turning to start my journey back up.
‘No, wait …’
‘What?’
He took his helmet off. His hair was plastered to the top of his head where the helmet had been, and the tidal wave stuck out beneath like a kind of horizontal halo. He was still trying desperately to get his breath back.
‘What are doing later today?’ he gasped.
I had been planning a really thorough floor-by-floor search for Jane, but there was no time like the present …
‘Clare’s coming over. We thought we might drop by on you. Hear some of your stuff?’
‘Yeah? Great! I’ll get some munchies in.’
‘See you then.’
I ran up the next few flights and called Clare straightaway. ‘Listen, Clare. Confirmation! You’re on. He wants you to come round.’ (A slight exaggeration, but it worked like magic.)
‘Does he?’
‘To listen to some of his stuff.’
‘Really?’ Her voice sounded doubtful.
‘Rule one. Take an interest in his interests,’ I reminded her.
‘I have! He’s already bored me rigid with his bike. And I don’t know anything about … what’s it called?’
‘Jungle.’
‘I don’t even know what it sounds like.’
In the circumstances I thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to suss up on the key elements of the ‘jungle’ scene. I agreed to meet Clare in the high street at Virgin Megastore. The guy behind the counter was so laid-back he was scary.
I cleared my throat. ‘Have you got any “jungle”?’
‘What are you after, mainstream or alternative?’
I exchanged glances with Clare. ‘Alternative,’ she said.
‘Nah, no call for it.’
‘Mainstream, then?’
‘Which artist in particular?’ (Tricky question.) ‘What have you got?’
He reeled off a list of names that meant absolutely nothing to either of us. We had to get him to repeat it twice before we settled on a shortlist. Then we spent ages listening to bits on the headphones. The trouble was they all sounded the same. In the end we settled on a compilation CD with the nicest-looking guy on the cover.
Clare went home to do a two-hour ‘jungle’ crash-course, determined to get to like it.
By four that afternoon we were at Cedric’s place. His mum was out so the coast was clear to play music as loud as we liked. He led us towards a door at the rear of the flat. Throwing it open, he showed us into his room.
I’ve seen lots of boy’s rooms, mostly of the knee-deep in slowly composting clothes variety. But Cedric’s room could get into the Guinness Book of Records for tidiness. The walls were lined with metal shelving units, packed so tight with sleeves that you could hardly fit a credit card between them.
‘All vinyl,’ he said proudly. ‘All original recordings.’
‘Where did you get them?’ asked Clare.
‘Specialists. White-label outlets.’
‘Uh huh?’ she said, raising an eyebrow at me. I shrugged. Neither of us had the faintest idea what he was talking about.
‘Want to hear something?’
‘You choose,’ said Clare.
Cedric shifted a carefully stacked pile of music magazines and made a space for us to sit down. Then he took out a record from a sleeve, wiped it round with reverence, and put it on. A minute or so later the air was filled with some bloke blurting unintelligible lyrics against a backing of clashing saucepan lids. Clare was nodding her head like a noddy dog, in dutiful appreciation. I sat patiently through the first three tracks, then I reckoned the time had come for me to leave.
‘That was great!’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘Look, I don’t want to break things up, but I promised Mum I’d, errm, vacuum before she gets back.’
‘But if you liked that, you’ve got to hear this,’ said Cedric, reaching for another record. I sat through a further track.
‘And this one’s really brilliant,’ he said, climbing on a chair to reach down another.
‘But not as good as Slaphead Sam,’ I heard Clare say.
‘You like Slaphead?’ said Cedric, his face lighting up. ‘You’re the first girl I’ve met who could really relate to Slap. I’ve got one of his early recordings somewhere.’
I looked at Clare in admiration. She’d certainly learned fast. Cedric was already thumbing through his racks. Clare was helping him.
‘Jeez, you’re organised,’ she said. ‘These are all in alphabetical order.’ (Is that sad, or what?)
I looked on as Cedric took Clare on a guided tour of his collection from A-Z. They were well into the Bs when I decided that they really truly didn’t need me. So I piled it on about how incredibly urgent the vacuuming was, not to mention the dusting and washing-up, and made my escape.
I didn’t get a total debrief on the ‘jungle’ session until next day when Clare and I met up on the bus. The cross-examination didn’t go exactly the way I wanted.
‘So, how was it?’
‘Fine.’
‘Has he made a move yet?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Body language?’
‘Not unless you count standing on my toe.’
‘Not even a mini snog-ette?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what I did wrong,’ she complained. ‘I kept kind of hinting. He could have asked me out.’
‘Be patient. True love waits.’
‘By the time Cedric gets round to it, I reckon true love will’ve given up and gone home.’
‘Rubbish.’
Clare continued moaning all the way to school. And then it got worse. We were dumping our coats in the cloakroom when Christine arrived. She had a little flock of her fans in attendance. I raised my eyebrows at Clare in the mirror.
Christine set about putting on lip-gloss while talking nonstop to her awestruck audience. A feat that takes some doing. She was describing in minute detail what she was going to wear to the Cranshaw Ball.
The Cranshaw Memorial Ball was held by Cranshaw High – the private boys’ school where her boyfriend Matt went. To receive an invitation to it was a real cornerstone of status in our school. And as it happened, it was Cedric’s school too. I could see that Clare had overheard Christine.
‘It’s got shoestring straps and is really low-cut at the back …’
‘It’s a pretty cheesy affair …’ I whispered comfortingly.
Clare stared at me. ‘Just because you haven’t been invited.’
‘And I’m going to wear those really shiny flesh-tone tights …’ Christine continued. ‘With sling-backs and …’
‘Nor have you … ‘ I whispered back.
Clare looked up with a hurt expression in her eyes. ‘Yet.’
Having finished the task of demoralising us by occupying the central position in the mirror and brushing her perfect fall of glossy blonde hair, so that it kind of whooshed all over us, Christine swept out of the cloakroom, leaving a scent of musk and sandalwood behind her.
Clare turned to me. ‘He’s got to invite me.’
I nodded. ‘Sure thing. We’ll have to put the pressure on.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Think!’
‘An image upgrade?’
‘What’s that?’
‘New clothes, new make-up, new image.’
We agreed on an after-school shopping session the next day. I was determined that Clare wasn’t going to settle for her favourite totally characterless beige. However, despite my protests, she managed to lure me into Gap.
We were sharing a cubicle while Clare tried to decide which of the six different cuts of chinos was the most flattering. The pair she had on squeezed her in at the hips so that a little rim of superfluous Clare
bulged over the top. Catching her reflection at an unfortunate angle, she said in a kind of broken voice, ‘I know what the problem is. It’s because I’m fat, isn’t it?’
‘No way!’ I said. But I don’t think I sounded very convincing. She’d caught me off my guard. I mean, Clare is kind of rounded in places where I’m not, which could be seen as an advantage. No, let’s face it, to be honest, she could do with shedding a few pounds.
‘You’re lovely,’ I tried reassuring her. ‘You’ve got incredible skin …’ (I could hear myself saying it – skin is like the meagrest of compliments) ‘ … and wonderful eyes and hair to die for. If Cedric can’t see that he must be blind.’
But Clare was insistent. She was skewing herself round so she could see her entire back view. ‘Look!’ she said. ‘Check it out. You see all that there? That’s cellulite.’ Her eyes were brimming now. ‘I’m gross. I know it.’
‘That is just so untrue.’
But Clare was adamant. She was groping for her clothes and dragging them on blindly. ‘That’s it. I’m going on a diet. I’m not going to eat another thing until I’m like – ten pounds lighter.’
‘Look, Clare, that’s mad. You don’t need to diet. Just cut out something like, say – chocolate.’
‘There, you’ve admitted it. You do think I’m fat.’
‘No. No way. I don’t!’
The Gap girl chose that unfortunate moment to intervene. She had just taken a breath and was about to come out with her standard patter of how great Clare looked in her chinos – you know, ‘retail reassurance’, all that ‘confirming your choice’ stuff – when Clare stuffed a waving sea of beige legs into her arms.
‘Is everything all right?’
Clare looked the Gap girl up and down – she was a tactlessly perfect size eight.
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ said Clare, and stormed out of the shop.
Chapter Seven
It was on the way back from the high street in the bus, when I was sifting through my backpack trying to locate my bus pass, that I came across the purple envelope again. Ooops! It made me feel really guilty. With all this involvement in Cedric = Clare, I had totally forgotten about Jane + Henry.
I walked back to Rosemount wondering what they were each doing right now. Jane, I decided, would be sitting at her window, gazing into the sunset wondering why she hadn’t heard from Henry. And Henry … Maybe he was taking Jane’s picture out of his wallet, gazing at it sadly, deciding to tear it up and try to forget her.
The late evening sun was shining on Rosemount, making it look incredibly romantic in spite of its shabbiness. It was so frustrating. The key to finding Jane must be somewhere inside. I hadn’t checked the ground floor yet – flat number one. It belonged to an M. Zamoyski or Madame Zamoyski as I’d christened her – the clairvoyant.
In the gathering dusk her flat looked dark and kind of spooky from the outside. Behind the nets the heavy curtains were almost completely drawn but there was a slight glow inside as if there was a light on low. As I put my finger on her bell I felt a tingle of nerves. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end. This was ridiculous. It was all my imagination – the whole thing about her being a clairvoyant I mean – and partly a joke.
I paused for a moment and then drew a deep breath and rang firmly. I could hear the ringing sound reverberating within. I waited a few moments. Then I heard shuffling footsteps. The door opened. In the half-light, I could see a small, well-rounded woman, her grey hair drawn back into a very clairvoyantish bun and fastened at the sides by two tortoiseshell combs.
‘Yes, my dear? Can I help you?’ Her accent was middle-European.
‘I just wondered …’ My voice faltered as beyond her, in the deep gloom of the room, I caught sight of a round table set with a baize cloth and illuminated by a low-hanging lamp with a leaded glass shade. The dull heavy ticking of a cabinet clock added to the spooky atmosphere.
‘Yes?’
Could I distinguish a slight sulphuric smell in the air? Ether? A whiff of decomposition brought over from the spirit world?
‘I just wondered if you knew of anyone by the name of Seymour, who lives or may have lived here?’ It all came out in a rush.
‘Seymour?’ she said thoughtfully, with her head cocked on one side. ‘I think there were some Seymours here once. Maybe, if you have a moment, I could see if I could call them up for you. Come in my dear.’
(Call them up?) I glanced at the table and shivered. (I don’t believe in ghosts or spirits, no way. But unfortunately that doesn’t stop you being scared of them.)
‘Come and sit down,’ said Madame Zamoyski, beckoning me into the room.
Two thin fingers of late evening sun fell across a grand piano which was stacked with dusty sepia photos of people long dead. The rest of the room was in the deepest shadow.
‘Oh, no, really. I can’t stop.’
‘I am expecting company, but there’s no one due here for a good half hour.’
‘But …’
‘It won’t take a minute …’ She took a key and started to unlock a roll-top desk. There was a sudden shrill buzzing from the further room that made me almost jump out of my skin.
‘Oh dear, there you go. Hold on a second. I’ll be with you in a minute.’ She slipped behind a beaded curtain and disappeared from sight.
From beyond the curtain came a strange hollow tapping sound. The sulphuric smell grew stronger …
I stared after her. The bead curtain quivered, as if some vapour from the afterworld was disturbing the air. At any moment I could envisage some spectral figure coming through. I got to my feet, my knees feeling totally weak. Calling out something to the effect that I would drop by again, I escaped from the flat shutting her door firmly behind me.
I ran up the stairs as fast as I could with my heart pounding – and bumped slap bang into Cedric.
‘Hold it. What’s the hurry? What were you doing at Mrs Z’s?’
‘Long story.’
‘You look in a state. What’s up?’
‘Shhh!’ We peered over the bannisters. Some people had let themselves in silently through the main front door. Three figures in dark coats were now standing outside Madame Zamoyski’s flat. We heard the echoing ring of her doorbell, and then she ushered them in. The door clicked shut after them.
‘Do you realise what she’s doing down there?’ I whispered.
‘What?’
‘She’s having a seance.’ I explained about the round table and the smell of sulphur. ‘I bet they’re in there now, hands linked, calling up the dead.’
Cedric snorted with laughter. ‘Monday is Mrs Z’s bridge afternoon.’
‘But her flat, everything. She looks just like a clairvoyant.’
‘Mrs Z? No way!’
‘So what about the smell of sulphur?’
‘Probably her egg-and-cress bridge rolls,’ said Cedric dismissively. ‘What were you doing in her place, anyway?’
I hesitated. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t tell anyone. But Cedric was so harmless he didn’t really count. And I didn’t have to tell him the whole story. So I started. ‘If you were sent a letter. Say an anonymous letter from someone. And you wanted to track them down. What would you do?’
‘An anonymous letter?’
‘Well, kind of. A letter from someone who didn’t give their address.’
‘First thing I’d do is check the postmark. Every postmark shows when and where a letter was posted.’
‘Cedric, you know what? You’re brilliant!’ I leaned over the bannisters and spontaneously, totally without thinking, gave him a big smacker on the cheek.
He blushed scarlet. ‘Look, Jessica, if you want to talk about it …I mean, an anonymous letter. If you need any help …’
‘No, it’s OK, it’s nothing like that. I’ve got to go.’ I raced up the last flight of stairs to our flat, raked out the card again and studied it more closely.
There was the postmark. 7-4-02 Forest Vale. Lower d
own, a little hard to decipher, were some letters and numbers.
How stupid of me. I’d been spending all my time looking for Jane. What I should have been doing was searching for Henry.
I hid the card away at the bottom of my sock drawer and thought hard about how to go about it.
Chapter Eight
Forest Vale. I was used to seeing the name on my bus every day, written up over the driver. It was the last stop on the 74 bus route – the one that went back and forth to our school. I’d always pictured it as having loads of tall pine trees with a shady river running up through them. And little grassy clearings. The kind of place you could go to with friends and have a really cool picnic.
So the following Saturday afternoon, since I didn’t have much on, I decided to take a trip down there and check it out. Dad was going to pick up the Harley, so he’d cancelled our usual afternoon together. I told Mum I was going to do some research for my geography project. I even sorted out a clipboard to take with me to look convincing.
I gazed happily out of the window as the bus idled its way through the Saturday morning traffic. I was sure that I’d find Henry in Forest Vale. It couldn’t be too difficult – in a place like that. It would just be a matter of asking around.
Streets full of busy shoppers passed in a kind of daze as I sat daydreaming that I’d actually found Henry and brought him and Jane together. I was at their wedding and Henry was presenting a special toast to me. It was at this really gorgeous house, with massive columns at the front and a park with deer in it. I was chief bridesmaid and was wearing this totally amazing dress – pure silk and floaty, kind of like the dress Gwyneth Paltrow wore in Shakespeare in Love. And Dad and Mum had been invited to the wedding as well. They were standing together holding hands and raising their glasses …When the bus drew to a juddering stop.
‘Forest Vale,’ called out the driver. ‘All change.’
The other passengers were already standing in the aisle ready to get off. This was the end of the route. I stared out of the window in disbelief. This was no leafy vale. There wasn’t a tree in sight. There was nothing but acres of concrete leading up to a brand new shopping mall. The driver had vacated his cab and stood eyeing me. I was the only person left on the bus.