by Sue Wallman
I wasn’t hungry for any after-school snacks, and neither was he. The most obvious way to be together at this time of day was to go to Davison. I hoped there wouldn’t be many people in there, but I could tell from the noise as we walked up the corridor there was a crowd.
Monro was at the door before me. He could see something through the glass square that shocked him. “Oh no,” he breathed.
I pushed open the door, and saw everybody was standing round Veronica’s collage. I could see the edge of some black spray-paint writing. There was a capital C and then an O. I pushed my way forward, and as people let me through, I saw the whole word: COWARD.
Was it meant for me?
CHAPTER 28
Word must have got back to Pankhurst via someone because the Ghost was suddenly at the door, and Calding too, who I hadn’t realized was back. She looked ill. Her cheeks were blotchy and sunken, and her eyes smaller, as if the skin around them had swollen. The two of them didn’t break their strides – they came in and between them lifted the artwork off the wall.
“Dreadful,” said the Ghost. They eyed it when they had it on the floor. The Ghost touched the large black letters and then checked her fingers. The paint had come off on to them slightly.
“Show’s over,” said Calding to us. “I’ll be having a meeting with the Davison staff about this. I want statements from everyone here on my desk by tomorrow morning telling me everything you know about this artwork and graffiti. OK?”
When we didn’t answer sufficiently loudly, she repeated herself. Monro raised his eyebrows at me but I squeezed the side of my mouth in reply. Churchill boys hadn’t witnessed enough of Calding to know her brusque manner.
We sat around quietly after the Ghost and Calding had left. Everyone seemed to think the graffiti was aimed at Veronica because she hadn’t come back to school. Paige said whoever had done it was spot on, and Monro told her to piss off.
They shouted at each other until I stood between them and screamed for them to stop. Paige stormed out, followed by a few of her crew, and Monro sat at a table, propping up his head with his hands. As I made him a cup of tea, I thought of my trashed sculpture, and noted Bernard was conveniently absent.
Hugo said loudly he’d have got rid of the artwork far earlier if he’d been in charge.
I muttered, “Of course you would.”
As the room got back to its normal level of conversation, Flo quizzed Monro about why he and Veronica had run away, and everyone trailed off talking, waiting for his answer. He rubbed his forehead, and looked at me.
I nodded slightly. Tell the truth.
He told them some of it. Said Veronica knew he was unhappy, and they’d planned to do a road trip, but it had nothing to do with Clemmie’s death. They hadn’t known about Clemmie until they’d seen a newspaper a couple of days ago.
“I regret taking off like that,” he said. “But I can’t change the past, so.” He looked at me as he said it.
We were asked to wear bright colours to Clemmie’s concert. It made me think of Veronica, not Clemmie, who’d always worn more understated colours. In between pieces performed by the choir, orchestra and solo performers, one of Clemmie’s crew recited a poem – which was odd because Clemmie couldn’t stand poetry. Paige read out a speech saying what a fine person Clemmie had been, and Miss Sneller talked about what a great loss she was to the vibrant school community.
I thought of the awful way Clemmie had died and hoped it had been quick.
Staff sat on chairs round the edge of the assembly hall as usual, to keep an eye on students. Several of them were red-eyed and clutching tissues. The Ghost’s beige-with-make-up face was flushed, but she sat with a straight back. In contrast, Calding next to her was hunched over. She didn’t glance round at us once, and it was up to the Ghost and our form tutors to frown at anybody who was whispering. Clemmie’s parents sat at the front. They were with the senior staff, a few adults I didn’t recognize, and Wibbz.
All of us at Pankhurst who’d known Wibbz strained to see her. We couldn’t see her face, but her puffy brown hair was exactly the same. Her head wobbled from side to side during the musical parts. At the end of the concert there was some ceremonial candle lighting and a prayer, and we processed out of the assembly hall in silence for tea and cake in the dining hall.
Conversations erupted as soon as there was some distance from the assembly hall, and we were funnelled into the main dining hall, past tables of cups and saucers, and plates of piled up cake. Squirrel was behind a table in a green dress pouring tea out of a large teapot: I don’t think I’d ever seen her out of her Pankhurst kitchen uniform. Clemmie’s bewildered parents were being escorted by two sixth-formers who had probably never snuck out to the beach at night and had certainly never been to any boarding-house parties. They were the sort of students Clemmie would have mocked behind their backs.
“I hate this,” said Zeta, suddenly by my side. Her teacup rattled in its saucer as she held it. “I want to go back to Pankhurst.”
“You don’t need to stay long,” I said. “Let’s say hello to Wibbz.”
She was easy to spot. There was a crowd of Pankhurst girls around her. She was squeezing cheeks and exclaiming loudly at everyone. When she saw me, she said, “Here’s the beautiful Kate Jordan-Ferreira!” and took my hand. “How are you doing? How’s the top floor? Do you miss me?”
I smelled alcohol on her breath. “I’m OK, thanks,” I said.
“Fantastic!” she said. “You girls must tell me everything. I’ve missed you.”
She didn’t seem like the amusing Wibbz character I remembered. She seemed desperate, hanging on to girls’ arms and leaning in too close. Her laughter seemed false, her questions veering towards intrusive. Has your mum remarried? Did I hear your dad’s warehouse caught on fire? How do you like the new housemistress? What did your brother get in his exams?
She took a sip of tea from her cup, and said in a loud voice, “I must say I’d rather have something stronger at such a sad event. What a terrible thing to happen to a lovely, lovely girl.”
The Ghost, who was circulating with a plate of mini Victoria sponges, thrust the plate towards Wibbz, who took one, nodded her thanks, and said, “Clementine was one of my favourites.”
The Ghost gave a professional smile, and said, “All Pankhurst girls are your favourites, aren’t they, Miss Wibberton?”
“Oh yes,” said Wibbz. She stopped to take a bite of the cake. Cream oozed out on to her mouth. She wiped it with the back of her hand, and licked it. Instead of catching someone’s eye and smiling, I felt repulsed. “I loved every single girl,” said Wibbz. “Clemmie was a real pal, though.” She took another bite of the cake and cream dripped on to her silky blouse. While she searched for a tissue in her handbag, I slipped away to find Monro. I’d go back to rescue Zeta if she needed it later.
I reached Monro at the same time as Miss Sneller’s assistant. I was close enough to hear her say, “Monro, the police would like you to answer a few more questions. If you walk back to Churchill, I’ll phone ahead for one of your house parents to give you a lift to the police station.”
“Oh great. More questions,” said Monro, his shoulders slumping. “When is this going to end?”
“I’ll walk back with you,” I said, standing next to him, and tucked my hand in his.
It was a relief to be outside, away from the pretence that Clemmie was the greatest Mount Nortonian to walk England’s green and pleasant land. I would have savoured this time with Monro down the empty drive on any other day. The huge lawns either side had been freshly mown, and at the gates, the huge terracotta flower tubs had been replanted for today with sombre purple plants and bluey-green foliage.
“What d’you think the police need from me?” asked Monro. “I’ve told them everything I know.”
I shrugged. “Don’t panic, it’s probably just paperwork. Routine double-checking stuff.”
Monro shook his head and looked up at the sky. “When I left the
station before, they said I was free go home or come back to school. My parents gave me the choice.” He squeezed my hand. “I chose you.”
Everything swelled inside me. This was almost what it felt like to be insanely happy, except I couldn’t be because I’d just been to a memorial concert for a dead fifteen-year-old, and because Monro wasn’t happy either. He was frightened.
“The police do that,” I said. “They check, then they check again, to see if they’ve missed anything.” I had no idea about police procedures but saying that seemed to calm him a bit.
At Churchill’s front door, we kissed, and I burrowed my head into Monro’s neck, inhaling the scent of his warm, clean skin.
The front door was then opened by a housemaster who said, “No dawdling outside, lad.”
“Is that what you call it, sir?” said Monro, and he went inside.
CHAPTER 29
I let myself into Pankhurst. The boarding house was never left empty during term time. I could hear the television in the junior common room.
“Hi,” I said as I pushed the door open. The Furball was asleep on the velvet sofa with her mouth open. Her breathing was more laboured than usual, her nose was red and sore at the sides, and there were a couple of screwed-up pieces of kitchen towel next to her on the sofa, and a mug of what looked like cold Lemsip.
She stirred and woke up. “Kate,” she said groggily. “Has Clemmie’s concert finished?” She stared at the TV – the jaunty title sequence for a house makeover programme was playing. She looked even worse now she’d woken up.
“Yes, but I came back early from the tea. I’m going upstairs. Are you OK?”
“I should be in bed, but there are staffing issues.” She reached for one of the pieces of kitchen towel and attempted to find a dry section to blow her nose on.
“I’ll see you later,” I said and scarpered.
I looked into the dining hall. The shutters were down in the kitchen, so I checked the folded invoice behind the Pankhurst portrait. It was still there. I’d never been on my own in Pankhurst before, or as alone as this. It gave me a small, unexpected thrill, and it occurred to me that as Head Prefect I could change the sad atmosphere in Pankhurst. What better tribute to Clemmie could there be than smashing one of the open house challenges? I would break into the kitchen to find where Squirrel hid her hairnets and take a selfie, or search for the key to the filing cabinet in the office to look inside. If I succeeded, I’d be able to picture her both impressed and furious, rather than broken at the bottom of the cliffs.
The shutters were impenetrable. People had tried to prise them open before. I went outside to see if any of the windows had been left open. There was one, but it was far too small for any human to squeeze through.
Taking a photo of the inside of the filing cabinet in the office might be easier; it was just a matter of finding the key, and with nobody else around I could have a thorough look. I’d already noticed the office wasn’t locked when I’d come in. That was unlike Calding. When I went inside I could see why. It looked as if she’d left to go to the memorial concert in a hurry. She’d been in the middle of packing up her things. There were two cardboard boxes on the desk, partially filled with her personal possessions: a hairbrush, handcream, a black cardigan, pens, calculator, phone charger and science textbooks. She was leaving. That was good news.
The shredder bin was full. There were piles of plastic sleeves crammed with spreadsheets. I glanced at them. Budgets. I opened the drawers of her desk. Envelopes, post-its, a hole-punch, clumps of dust … and in the bottom drawer two keys. The bigger one looked like a spare key for the office door, and the smaller looked exactly like a filing cabinet key. I ran across the room with it. It fitted perfectly. It turned, and I said, “Yay,” out loud. It had been so easy. I wished there was someone with me to share the moment.
The rumour had always been the cabinet was full of snacks. It wasn’t, and I supposed I’d expected that. Even if there had been any left from Wibbz’s era, Calding would have chucked them out when she arrived. There were loads of cardboard folders in there. Student files, I guessed. I took a quick photo on my phone for proof that I’d smashed the challenge.
I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity of looking in my file. I listened to check the Furball wasn’t moving around, then went to the window to see if anyone from Pankhurst was about to come in through the front door. Off in the distance, at the end of the road I saw a navy puffa jacket. Damn. Calding. I’d only have a few minutes to check out what was in my file. The Js were in the third drawer down. My folder was surprisingly thick. As I pulled it out hastily, the flap tore a little, but I didn’t let that worry me. I took the folder over to the desk and pushed the cardboard boxes away to give some space, and pulled out the wodge of paper inside.
There didn’t seem to be any chronological order to the paperwork. The first page was a photocopy of vaccinations I’d had last year. I plucked out the original form my father had filled in after I’d been given a place at Pankhurst from somewhere near the middle. And … what the hell … reams of information about my plastic surgeries: printed-out email correspondence about what was then relatively recent plastic surgery, and follow-up appointments I needed to attend. There were photos of me before and after for reference, and notes about how I shouldn’t play any contact sports for a while. There was an article about my father, torn from a newspaper, and photos of my parents in celebrity gossip magazines.
My heart was thudding. Put the folder back, I told myself. Calding’s on her way. But I was confused. Who had added the extra things that definitely didn’t need to be there? It came to me: Wibbz. She had been obsessed with our lives.
It clicked. This was where Clemmie must have found all her blackmail material. Somehow she’d had access to these files, and that maybe wasn’t as hard as I thought when she was one of Wibbz’s favourites and Wibbz was often drunk. Clemmie had smashed the open challenge long ago but hadn’t told anyone because what she’d discovered was too valuable to let anyone else know.
I glanced out of the window. Calding was nearer but I still had another minute. I’d leave the office as soon as I heard her walk past. I went back to the files and selected Zeta’s, keeping well away from the window so I couldn’t be seen. I flicked through and saw there was information about her mother living abroad in a commune that didn’t allow contact with the outside world. Someone had highlighted the name of the commune, and there were two articles about the commune, one a printed-out blogpost, and the other a more in-depth feature from an American newspaper.
I felt slightly sick. We were a kind of hobby for Wibbz, and Calding should have got rid of half this stuff.
I heard the brittle sound of shoes on the pavement outside. I had to leave. There was no time to look for anyone else’s folder. I shoved the cabinet shut, and the key jammed as I turned it. I wrestled with it, yanking it out and running to the desk. I threw it into the drawer and ran out of the office and up the stairs as I heard Calding’s key in the front-door lock. I’d made it out of sight just in time. I’d hide away upstairs and call Maria to see how Elsie Gran was doing.
Going along the second-floor landing and passing Clemmie’s old bedroom, I thought of Ms Calding lurking nearby the evening I hid the delivery note. Had she been packing up Clemmie’s stuff for her parents? I opened the door to peek in. It was bare, apart from the items every room possessed: bed, locker, chest of drawers, wardrobe and desk. The mattress had a quilted cover, which was creased and dented along one edge, as if someone had been sitting there. I didn’t like being in that room. I almost had the feeling Clemmie might saunter in and catch me.
The door to my own bedroom was ajar. The cleaners had probably left it that way. That’s what logic told me, but I was uneasy. As I touched the door to push it fully open, I knew in my core something was wrong.
My lungs flattened as I took in the devastation of my room. Someone had gone crazy in here. Everything had been swept on to the floor or smashed against the wall
. Liquids and creams had been spilt on to my bedding, clothing had been ripped with scissors or destroyed with black marker pen, every drawer had been turned upside down, every photo ripped from the wall. My laptop screen was smashed and jewellery broken. This wasn’t a burglary. This was a mad rage. I ran to Meribel’s room. The contrast with my own was stark. Hers was exactly as she’d left it when she’d gone away. I moved on to Lo’s room. It was orderly and perfect too. My heart beat faster and faster, and my mind swirled. Had somebody been looking for something? Was this about the delivery note? Or did someone do this because they hated me?
I was too shocked to cry yet and I couldn’t face my own room again. I took my phone from my skirt pocket, and the piece of paper with Veronica’s landline on it. I tapped in the number carefully, with shaking fingers, and sat on the top stair once it was ringing. It went to an answer service on the fourth ring. “Hello,” I said. “This is a message for Veronica. It’s Kate Jordan-Ferreira from Mount Norton. Please can you phone me back when you get a chance.” I left my number and rang off.
I still had the number in my phone of the online pharmacy. If a different person answered, I’d ask again. I’d ask better.
“I wonder if you can help,” I said after pressing four for “a problem with my order” and a man with an energetic voice had answered. “I’m a house mistress at a boarding school, and I have a problem which is rather delicate.” I did my best to sound both authoritative and slightly gossipy.
“Oh yes?” said the man.
“Some girls have done a very silly prank with some stick-on sweat pads bought from your website.”
The man at the other end of the phone made an “mmm” sound.
“I’m trying to deal with this in a sensitive manner without letting the whole boarding house know, so I’m contacting you to see who ordered them, so we can replace them. If I tell you the delivery address, would you be able to give me a name?”