Secrets and Scandals in Little Woodford

by Catherine Jones

  ‘That’d be wonderful. Perfect. And I’ll save you some buns. You’ll have earned them.’

  *

  Getting Alfie to the diggers was a doddle but tearing him away was a whole other issue. Obviously, in his mind, because the battle had been so hard fought he wasn’t going to give up his victory lightly. Lewis, normally a placid child, began to get cross and whiny and resentful because every second spent watching earth-moving equipment meant a second less at the play park.

  ‘Come on, Alf. I’m bored.’ Lewis kicked at the security fencing surrounding the site, then he grabbed it with both hands and shook it in frustration. The fencing sections were secured by the metal vertical posts being driven into hollow breeze-blocks. As Lewis shook the fencing the breeze block split and the section of fence sagged rather alarmingly.

  ‘Stop it, Lewis,’ said Megan aghast. ‘Look what you’ve done!’

  Lewis looked shocked. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘Mean to or not, we need to go before someone sees the damage you’ve done and wants to have a word with us.’ Megan grabbed Alfie’s hand and dragged him away. Alfie must have picked up on the tension because this time he didn’t protest.

  ‘Play park,’ said Megan. ‘Twenty minutes on the swings for being patient and good.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ mumbled Lewis. ‘I broke the fence.’

  ‘You didn’t mean to, I know that, really. It was an accident.’

  ‘Accidump,’ repeated Alfie.

  ‘Yeah, an accidump,’ said Megan.

  When they got to the park, Megan had a quick scan of the skate ramps to see if she could spot Ashley and felt a pang of disappointment that he wasn’t there. Then her heart sank further; Zac was. She quickly turned back to the slide to pretend she hadn’t seen him and concentrated on looking after the boys – not that Lewis needed her but Alfie always wanted a helping hand or a push or someone to ‘watch me!’

  ‘Hiya, Megan. Thought it was you.’

  Bugger. She turned. ‘Oh, hello, Zac.’ She hoped she sounded surprised.

  ‘Poor you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Getting stuck with your kid brothers. That’s a bummer.’

  ‘Actually, I really like my kid brothers.’

  Zac gave her a look like he didn’t believe her for a second. ‘Whatever,’ he said.

  ‘Look, just because you don’t seem to like your family very much—’

  ‘Very much? Ha. I hate them.’

  ‘If you’re going to be like that, I’m off,’ said Megan.

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Then stop being horrible about your mum and dad.’

  ‘But you’ve met my mum.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So you’ve seen what a cow she is.’

  Megan turned around. ‘Alfie, Lewis, we’re going home.’ The boys, queuing for the stairs to climb to the top of the slide, looked over towards her.

  ‘No!’ said Lewis.

  ‘Come on,’ said Megan, walking towards them.

  ‘Stop,’ said Zac. He grabbed her arm.

  Megan stared at his hand and frowned. Zac let her go.

  ‘I’m sorry, don’t go. I need... I need someone to talk to.’

  He sounded so miserable that Megan relented. ‘OK, boys. Ten more minutes.’ She turned back to Zac. ‘What about?’

  ‘I’m in deep shit.’

  ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I can’t tell you but... it’s bad.’

  ‘If I don’t know what it is, I don’t think I can help.’

  ‘Have you got any money?’

  ‘Not a lot. Why?’

  ‘I owe someone some money. I need to pay it back.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  There was silence for a few seconds as Megan and Zac watched Alfie zoom down the polished aluminium of the slide. Megan thought about her savings. She hadn’t been lying when she told Zac she didn’t have much cash but she did have a building society account – her grandparents had put in a hundred pounds each birthday so she’d have a nest egg when she got to eighteen. She knew where the book was – in the desk drawer in the study.

  ‘If I did get some money, when would you be able to pay me back?’

  ‘I thought you said you didn’t have any,’ Zac groused.

  ‘“Thank you” and a straight answer might be nice.’

  ‘Sorry. Yes, thank you and I’ll pay you back out of next month’s allowance.’

  ‘How much do you need?’

  ‘Fifty.’

  ‘How much?’ Megan was flabbergasted; she’d thought he say a tenner at the most. ‘How much is your allowance?’

  ‘Two hundred.’

  ‘A month?’

  ‘So?’

  And yet he couldn’t manage his finances despite being given so much. ‘What the hell do you spent it on?’

  ‘Stuff – games, music, phone. I don’t know, it just goes. If you can’t manage fifty, forty would help. Anything...’ He sounded desperate.

  ‘And you’ll promise me you’ll pay it back.’

  ‘I said so, didn’t I?’

  ‘It might take me a few days to get it. I’ll have to go to Cattebury to draw the money out. It can’t be before Saturday.’

  Zac sagged with relief. ‘Thanks, Megan. I’ll make it up to you. Promise.’

  *

  Later that evening, Olivia took her place at the semicircular table in the council chamber and poured herself a glass of water before she switched on her iPad. She’d had a shit day, what with the row with her son, and now the planning committee meeting was due to discuss the new development and she was going to have to show her hand. And when she did... She just knew she’d be the subject of speculation and gossip. People would pry. She shuddered.

  The other councillors drifted in and took their seats round the table, nodded greetings to each other, checked their iPads, and engaged in chit-chat. Olivia made an assessment on how they were each likely to vote on the new estate. She was pretty certain the promise of 40 per cent affordable housing would mean a block vote from the Labour councillors but there were precious few of them. She had a feeling a couple of the independents would go along with them too. Which left the Greens and the Tories... and herself. The developers had made a point about sustainable living with solar water panels to be installed on each roof, triple-glazed windows and high-spec insulation so the Greens might vote in favour too. On the other hand, it was another housing development, more farmland lost, so they might not. Olivia added up the votes. It was going to be tight.

  Her calculations were interrupted when the chairman of the committee took his place at the head of the table and switched on his microphone whilst bashing his gavel on the wooden block.

  ‘I declare the meeting open,’ he said.

  The first couple of items on the agenda were dispensed with and then came the moment when statements from the public were called for.

  Len McGregor approached the microphone and rustled his papers. The town clerk started the stop watch for his allotted five minutes and Mr McGregor put his case as to why the land was ripe for development. As the five minutes neared the end he said, ‘And it’s no good for grazing,’ he said. ‘And it’s my understanding it’s a brownfield site.’

  The chairman held his hand up to stop him as the clock ticked to zero. ‘Thank you, Mr McGregor.’

  Len McGregor wandered back to his seat in the main body of the chamber and the chairman looked around the councillors.

  ‘Any comments?’ The mayor stared at Olivia. Everyone on the council knew what a Rottweiler Olivia was when it came to protecting Little Woodford from unwelcome developments. Surely she’d have a really strong view over this one.

  Olivia looked at her hands. She was itching to point out the proposal for sixty houses would mean overdevelopment of the space, that the traffic during construction would be detrimental to the town, that, when the houses were occupied, parking in the town centre – already tric
ky – would become impossible, that the doctor’s surgery would be stretched... God, so many things to be said that justified refusing planning permission. Olivia took a deep breath and raised her hand. She might as well make her position plain now rather than at the vote.

  ‘Councillor Laithwaite?’ said the mayor.

  ‘I propose that the council recommends that planning permission is approved.’

  The other councillors stared at her open-mouthed. Even Len McGregor looked gob-smacked.

  *

  Megan waited until Bex was upstairs reading Lewis a bedtime story before she tiptoed into the study and headed for the desk under the window. She stopped and listened before she opened the top drawer, hearing only the occasional creak of the old house and the very soft murmur of Bex’s voice. Slowly and carefully she pulled open the drawer while still keeping her ears strained for any change in the ambient sounds. She was confronted with a stack of papers which had obviously been chucked in there. Carefully, she pulled them out in a thick wodge and there underneath was her bank book.

  And the memory book.

  She stared at it, tears welling up as the book did what it was designed to do – bring back memories. The trouble was, the memories it was supposed to bring back were ones about her father, not ones that had been caused by the memory book itself. The book, a large, beautifully bound notebook, had been filled with mementoes, photos, pieces written and drawn by Megan, Lewis and Alfie and was designed to help them come to terms with their dad’s death. But then Megan had taken it to her old school – ‘bring your favourite book to school for World Book Day,’ her previous form teacher had instructed. So Megan had and the consequences of such an innocent action had had completely unforeseen repercussions; repercussions more ghastly than anyone could have imagined.

  Shocked, Megan grabbed her bank book, threw the papers back in the drawer and pushed it shut, before she hurled herself up the stairs and into the sanctuary of her attic eyrie.

  *

  Olivia’s decision seemed to be the talk of the town by the next morning. Amy was full of it when she came to clean for Bex.

  ‘How do you know?’ Bex was certain that the last place anyone would find Amy on a Thursday night was in the town hall, attending a council meeting.

  ‘I heard it off of a mate whose husband is a chum of the chairman of the planning committee.’

  Almost first-hand then, thought Bex. ‘But surely it can’t be such a big deal how Olivia voted?’ she queried. ‘Everyone knows there’s a massive housing shortage.’

  ‘You don’t know Olivia like I do,’ said Amy. Which was indisputably true. ‘She never does nothing for no reason.’

  It took Bex a second or two to pick the sense out of what Amy had said from the storm of double negatives.

  ‘You mark my words,’ said Amy, ‘she’s voted for those houses because there’s something in it for her.’

  ‘Really? I’d say that Olivia is the one person I’ve met so far – with the possible exception of Heather – who would put the interests of this place way ahead of her own.’ Not, thought Bex, that she’d met that many people, but Olivia’s obvious commitment to Little Woodford was rock solid. ‘And,’ she added, ‘I’d be a bit careful who you say things like that to.’

  Amy sniffed. ‘Whatever.’

  When Bex got into work the conversation at the pub was much the same, with the lunchtime regulars speculating about the council’s decision. In some respects Bex found it slightly comforting that this little town had little better to worry about than how a councillor had voted. Frankly, she thought, if a few new houses was the worst thing that the townsfolk had happen to their town then they should think themselves blooming lucky.

  26

  Megan knew there was something wrong when she got to the door of her tutor room after lunch, ready for afternoon registration. The few classmates who had preceded her were unusually silent and were staring alternately at the whiteboard and then at each other with looks of consternation. Megan looked around to see what the cause of such anxiety was. In massive red letters, written across the width of the board was:

  MEGAN MILLAR IS A KILLER

  For a second, Megan was as dumbfounded as they were but then the awfulness of the accusation hit her and she turned and ran, barging through the other pupils crowding to get into the room.

  ‘Megan,’ yelled Ashley who had just seen the words. Behind him, Lily and Summer gave each other a high five.

  But Megan was oblivious to everything. Shocked, horrified and scared she wanted out of the classroom, out of the school, out of everything. She raced past teachers in the corridors, she almost bowled over Mrs Simmonds who was standing in reception, before she cannoned through the front door and ran till she was out of breath.

  The stitch in her side was so intense she bent double to ease it and then, when she straightened, she took in where she was; by the gates to the park. She knew she was already in trouble for leaving school without permission so she didn’t think it was going to make much difference if she was absent for only five minutes or for the rest of the afternoon.

  The play park was almost empty so she wandered over the grass and sat on one of the swings, her feet scuffing on the rubberised matting beneath it as she swayed to and fro.

  She thought she’d be safe here in Little Woodford. Bex had promised no one would know. How on earth had anyone found out? Tears welled up and plopped onto her lap as terrible events, events that she’d thought she had left safely behind in London, began to crowd into her mind again.

  It was the memory book. The memory book was to blame for everything. It was like it was cursed. She hadn’t even looked at it since they’d arrive in Little Woodford, she’d almost forgotten all about it in the chaos of the move and the business of settling into a new school. But she’d touched it last night and now look what had happened. And it had been the memory book that had sparked everything in the first place.

  Why was life so unfair? Why her? But there didn’t seem to be an answer.

  ‘Megan?’

  Megan looked up. ‘Mrs Simmonds.’

  ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

  Megan wiped her nose on the back of her hand and used both palms to wipe away her tears.

  ‘If you want.’ She knew she sounded less than gracious but was past caring.

  ‘Do want to tell me what happened?’

  Megan shook her head.

  Mrs Simmonds pushed herself backwards a few inches with her feet and let the swing arc forwards. ‘I can’t remember the last time I sat on a swing. I was probably about your age. So... centuries ago.’

  Megan gave her a wan smile.

  ‘I like this park,’ said Mrs Simmonds. ‘I love the way everyone uses it. The old folks who live in the bungalows over there use it as a short cut, the mums bring the little ones here for picnics and the older kids all hang out here – well, apart from the ones on the alcopops down at the nature reserve.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ mumbled Megan.

  ‘I should hope not,’ said Mrs Simmonds. She pushed backwards again, this time more vigorously, and the swing zipped forwards so that Megan’s hair was ruffled by the breeze it created. She let the momentum run its course. When the swing finally stilled again, Heather said, ‘Have you texted your mum to tell her that someone upset you?’

  Megan shook her head. ‘Who said someone upset me?’

  Heather stared at her. ‘So what was it? A B minus for your science homework? I don’t think so. You left school like the hounds of hell were after you and I knew that something really serious had happened – something at afternoon registration. I’m not stupid, Megan. Someone in your tutor group has said, or done, something really mean, haven’t they?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘So... have you told your mum?’

  ‘I don’t want to worry her.’

  ‘Don’t you think, when the school tells her that you took an unauthorised leave of absence...’ Heather smiled at her. ‘That�
��s the official jargon for bunking off, by the way – that your mother will want to know what’s at the bottom of it?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any sort of “maybe” about it.’ The pair sat on the swings in silence for a few seconds, using their feet to rock backwards and forwards a few inches while Megan considered her options.

  ‘When will the school tell her?’

  ‘I think it’ll be quite soon. You missed afternoon registration.’

  Silence fell again and the pair swung gently to and fro.

  ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ said Heather. ‘I’m a good listener.’

  ‘I...’ Megan sagged. ‘It’s all to do with my old school. Bex said that no one here would know.’

  ‘And now someone has found out, found out about whatever it was you didn’t want anyone to know. Is that it?’

  Megan nodded. ‘And told the rest of the class.’

  ‘That was mean.’

  ‘They wrote it on the board.’

  ‘What did they write?’

  Megan turned sideways and looked Heather Simmonds straight in the eyes. ‘“Megan Millar is a killer.”’

  ‘They wrote what?’

  Megan nodded and repeated the phrase.

  ‘Is it... is it true?’ The incredulity in Heather’s voice rang out.

  A tear ran down Megan’s face. ‘Kind of.’

  ‘Kind of?’

  ‘A girl... Stella... died. Some of the kids blamed me.’

  ‘But that’s awful. I take it you weren’t at fault.’

  Another tear plopped onto Megan’s school skirt. Heather pulled out a wad of tissues from her sleeve and handed one to Megan. ‘It’s clean,’ she promised.

  Megan wiped her face and blew her nose. ‘Thanks.’ She scrunched the tissue in her hand.

  ‘Do you want to tell me about it? I’d like to hear your side of the story then, if I hear anything else, I’ll know what the truth is. I might even be able to persuade people not to listen to ugly rumours.’

  ‘I suppose.’ Megan stared at her hands in her lap as she pulled at the tissue, tearing little bits off which drifted away like snowflakes. ‘When Dad died, Bex suggested we should make a memory book – some counsellor told her it would be a good idea. So we bought this lush notebook and began to fill it full of things about Dad – a piece of his favourite sweater, a CD he really liked, pictures, photos... just stuff, really.’