I Thought I Knew You

by Penny Hancock

  ‘Dad gets so angry, though,’ Saffie muttered.

  ‘Understandably. What’s happened is very upsetting.’

  They sat quietly for a while until Saffie’s breath slowed.

  ‘I wanted you to sort it out, Mum,’ Saffie said quietly. ‘Because you’re Holly’s friend. I thought you’d tell her you weren’t going to invite Saul over anymore. And Holly could teach Saul about the stuff she lectures on, consent and everything. Make him understand when a girl wants sex and when she doesn’t. And then you could both be friends again.’

  ‘If only life were so simple,’ Jules said.

  ‘Why couldn’t you, though, Mum? Why couldn’t you and Holly have sorted it out without telling anyone else?’

  ‘Because . . .’ Jules didn’t know how much she should disclose to Saffie about Holly’s reaction. Holly had implied that Saffie was a liar. Holly was someone Saffie was supposed to trust. Her guardian if anything happened to her and Rowan. It would undermine Saffie’s faith in the adult friends who had always been there for her. And Saffie wasn’t old enough to understand that when a mother’s own child was accused, her rationale went out of the window.

  ‘Holly’s taking a little time to talk it over with Saul,’ was all Jules said. ‘It’s difficult for her too. To hear what he did. But we’ll get there, darling, we will.’

  ‘And Dad won’t go to the police?’

  ‘Not if I tell him not to,’ Jules said. ‘He does as he’s told where I’m concerned.’ She smiled and hugged her daughter to her.

  ‘You didn’t tell Dad my period’s late?’

  ‘Of course not. It still hasn’t come?’

  Saffie gave a small shake of her head.

  Jules thought of the pregnancy test upstairs, tucked into her underwear drawer.

  ‘Sweetie, I think it would help if we found out for certain whether you are pregnant. The sooner we know, the better. If it’s negative, we can relax about that at least.’

  ‘What if I am, though?’ Saffie clutched Jules’s hand with her own hot, damp one.

  ‘Donna will know what to do. And she’ll find someone you can talk to about what you’ve gone through.’

  At last Saffie nodded and, looking as she did at six, or seven or eight, followed her mother upstairs.

  *

  In the bathroom, Saffie did as Jules instructed, weeing on the little stick, and Jules put it back in its case to wait for the test to work. Saffie shut her eyes tight. Jules put her arm round her.

  ‘Whatever happens,’ she whispered into her ear, ‘I’m here to help you. You’re not to worry.’

  When the stick had stayed in its case for the required two minutes, Jules felt her pulse quicken. She was about to discover whether or not her daughter was pregnant. She tried to repress the other thought that slipped out anyway: if the test was positive, it would prove to Holly once and for all that Saffie was not ‘a devious little troublemaker’. That Saul was so obviously the one with serious problems, not Saffie.

  How on earth, Jules wondered with a shock of misery, had a potential teenage pregnancy turned into a weapon between friends?

  5

  HOLLY

  I’m still in Saul’s room on Saturday morning while he’s out on his bike, staring at the words ‘Rape Me’ on his iTunes, when the blare of the landline interrupts me and I run downstairs to answer it.

  It’s Jules. She tells me if I don’t ask Saul outright, Rowan is threatening to ‘beat the living daylights out of him’.

  Once, in the days when Jules was trying and failing to get pregnant, she had sat in my kitchen weeping. Saul must have been barely two years old. He came in with the baby doll Archie and I had given him for his second birthday and placed it on Jules’s lap. We hadn’t told him why she was upset. He knew. He was intuitive and generous-hearted and had – still has – extraordinary empathy. A year or so later when Saffie was born and we went to visit her, a little bundle wrapped in a cellular blanket, Saul, just three, placed his own teddy bear in her Perspex hospital cot for her to keep.

  ‘A boy like Saul is gold dust,’ Jules had murmured, picking up her baby and crooning in her ear. ‘Saffron, my girl, Saul is perfect husband material. Don’t ever forget it.’

  Saul was only ten years old when his dad died. And yet through those weeks when I walked around in a mist of grief, he comforted me. He burst into tears once when he saw a man with a terrible speech impairment begging on the street and insisted on giving him all the pocket money he’d saved for Match Attax cards. He was, and still is, one of the gentlest and most compassionate boys I have ever met. He has at last found something in his life to look forward to.

  Jules and now Rowan must not be allowed to spoil Saul’s future. I won’t let them. I make a vow to find out what lies behind Saffie’s accusation. Whatever it takes, I decide, I will do it.

  *

  When Jules met Rowan during our final year at university, she fell so head over heels in love with him I was willing to put any reservations aside. But there was always something in Rowan I felt uneasy about. A kind of brutishness. An intolerance.

  Rowan wasn’t as smart or perceptive or sensitive as Jules. He would take offence sometimes at benign comments people made and got embroiled in drunken student fights. Then there was the time he actually hit someone – broke his jaw – and was given a caution. But Jules loved him and was attracted to him physically, and would do anything, it seemed, to please him. And as I got to know Rowan better over the years, I began to understand what she saw in him: apart from his obvious good looks, blond hair, naturally golden skin, clear blue eyes and brawny physique, he had some very appealing characteristics. Affability. Warmth. Hospitality. Things that overrode the attitudes I found distasteful. Such as his pejorative remarks about immigrants, which I hoped he meant semi-ironically since Jules’s family were from Poland and he himself had a Serbian grandmother. He was successful too, working in the City in some software business where he made, if not millions, a good deal more than Pete or I would ever see in our lifetime. Recently Rowan had been made redundant, but it hadn’t dented his pride too much. He’d continued to provide Jules and Saffie with the lifestyle they loved.

  He had a great sense of fun, welcoming everyone into his home. And he had been determined to build a beautiful house for his wife and daughter, and to give them the best life he could. He loved Jules, and so I had grown to love him. Besides, I suspected that if I expressed my reservations, Jules would choose Rowan over me. In spite of the violent temper that had occasionally upset her. (He’d never hit her, of course, but had been sent on an anger management course after the incident in the pub. Jules didn’t talk about it. So I didn’t either. It was a silent agreement between Jules and me that we overlooked Rowan’s flaws.)

  Rowan was obsessively proud of Saffie. He would gloat over her beauty. The emphasis he put on her looks when she was still barely pubescent seemed at times excessive to me. And he spoiled her, in my opinion, buying her, even as a small child, anything she asked for. I remember Christmases we shared, when Archie and I gave Saul one or two small gifts, something old-fashioned or educational such as a chemistry set once, or a children’s encyclopaedia, while Jules and Rowan lavished Saffie with the latest crazes: Barbie dolls and fancy-dress outfits, scooters or roller skates, craft sets and accessories for her bedroom. Her present-opening went on for hours, while Saul’s was over in seconds. But I knew that behind Rowan’s adoration of Saffie was a sadness. Rowan and Jules had planned a big family. ‘We’re banging out at least four kids,’ Rowan used to crow when they first married. But that hadn’t happened. And so Rowan, and Jules to a certain extent, put everything, all their hopes, dreams and ambitions, onto Saff.

  After they first moved to the village, when I was still in London, Jules met a microbiologist called Rob, a single parent, and began an affair with him. Only I knew about it. This man sounded like Rowan’s opposite, a quiet academic whom Jules found intriguing and gentle. Then Rowan found something, a card fro
m a restaurant Jules had been to with Rob, that raised his suspicions. Jules had come to me in abject terror that Rowan might have found out, and that he might hurt – seriously hurt – Rob. I agreed to cover up for her, to say she was with me the evening she’d spent with this man. She finished the affair, and repaired things with Rowan. We hadn’t spoken about it since, and I respected her decision, even while secretly wishing she might have left Rowan for Rob. So when she tells me about Rowan’s threat, I don’t take it lightly. I know what he’s capable of. I know how intense his feelings are towards Jules and his only daughter.

  There was no way Rowan’s response was ever going to be calm and measured.

  His default way of dealing with strong feelings is to lash out.

  *

  Saul comes in just after midday. I hear his footsteps on the stairs and the slam of the bathroom door and the hiss of water as he starts up the shower. I wait until I’ve heard him go back to his room and give him time to dress. It isn’t because of the things I’ve found in his room, or that I have begun to believe Saffie’s claim. That’s not why I am driven up the stairs, my heart racing. It’s the fear that if I don’t, now Jules has told Rowan, things could get worse, a lot worse, for all of us.

  ‘Saul?’

  I stand outside his room. The weather’s changed again: the sky has become overcast, and the rain’s pattering on the roof. Sometimes this house is like a cave. It’s something to do with the fact the Fens were once under water, the houses built on land that is only just above sea level. Whereas in our London house you went up steps to reach the front door, in this house you step down to go inside.

  There’s a light shining from beneath Saul’s door.

  I knock again. There’s the sound of rustling, of things being moved about or put away. A grunt: ‘What?’

  I push open the door. He’s on his bed, headphones on, iPad resting against his thighs. John Donne is open, face down on his duvet.

  ‘Saul, we need to talk.’ He takes his headphones off and closes whatever he’s doing on the iPad. I sit on the bed. ‘Where did you go? On your bike?’

  ‘Down the river. Bumped into the park runners.’

  ‘The park runners? Did you meet anyone?’ I know Jules was probably there.

  ‘Nah. Why?’

  ‘No reason. It’s just some of your school chums do the park run.’

  ‘School chums? Mum, I don’t have school chums.’ Then he adds, ‘And especially not ones who do the park run. I saw Jules, but I don’t think she saw me.’

  ‘Ah.’

  He doesn’t elaborate.

  ‘Do you want some lunch? A cup of tea?’

  ‘Ate a doughnut from the park cafe,’ he mutters.

  ‘Sweetie, you need to eat healthily. You can’t revise on carbs alone.’

  ‘I’m not revising.’

  My knee-jerk reaction is to say, ‘Well, you should be.’ Instead, I bite my lip.

  ‘Saul, I don’t know how to put this. There’s something I need to talk to you about. I’m bringing this up for your own good – you must believe that. I want to stem any rumours that might be flying about.’ I sit down next to him on his bed.

  ‘Now you’re freaking me out,’ he says, blinking. When he smiles, two little lines like brackets appear at the side of his lips. He’s had these since he was tiny. For a few seconds, the little boy I know and adore rises to the surface. He is still fundamentally that child, no matter what anyone says about him. Deep down, he’s the sweet-hearted, adorable, loving boy he always has been. No matter what’s going on for him at the moment. However difficult he’s finding adjusting to life here, or to the changes that are turning him from child to adult.

  But I can’t ignore Rowan’s threat. I have to find out if anything went on between Saul and Saffie that night. Whether it was just a teenage fumble or whether – though I still can’t believe it for a moment – some demon got inside my son and possessed him to push her further than he meant to. And so I plough on.

  ‘The night you went round to Jules and Saffie’s,’ I begin, watching him for a reaction. His expression reveals nothing. He just frowns and looks down at his screen. ‘To use the internet . . .’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Did you . . . Have you and Saffie been having any kind of a relationship?’

  ‘You’re kidding me, aren’t you?’ he says, looking up at me, disbelief written across his brow. ‘She’s in year eight.’ The corner of his lips twitch as if he wants to laugh, but then his expression changes as he sees mine.

  ‘It’s not unheard of,’ I say. ‘But that’s not really the point. What I need to know is if you tried to perhaps kiss Saffie that night.’

  I’m making a mess of this. Why would I ask him if he’d tried to kiss a girl, for goodness’ sake? It would, in any normal circumstances, be none of my business.

  ‘Mum, I just said, she’s in year eight. She’s thirteen. I can’t believe you’re asking.’

  ‘It’s not me,’ I say, floundering now, wishing Pete were here, with his experience in dealing with all kinds of difficult situations through his counselling. ‘It’s something Saffie told Jules.’

  ‘What did Saffie tell Jules?’ His voice is not even broken properly. It still occasionally goes up several decibels and he flinches, embarrassed.

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Not if you don’t tell me. How could I?’

  My muscles soften. My shoulders drop. If he doesn’t know what I’m referring to, then it can’t be true. It didn’t happen. So I can say it and clear the air and tell Jules Saffie has fabricated this story to get at Saul for some reason of her own. As I first suspected. That Jules has to find out why. I close my eyes.

  ‘She says . . . Saffie says . . . Saul, just reassure me, will you? That you didn’t try to . . . sleep with Saffie that night?’

  ‘I’m not going to answer that.’

  ‘You do know about consent? What it actually means?’

  ‘What do you think of me, Mum? That I’m some kind of monster? That’s so insulting.’

  ‘Sometimes the lines can seem fuzzy. Sometimes a girl might look as if she wants it when she really doesn’t and it can be . . . hard . . . or . . .’ This is not how I’d have put it in the past. I’d have put it straight. Only ‘yes’ means ‘yes’. And as Saul seems to realize, Saffie’s too young, legally, to consent anyway. ‘It can be easy for boys to misinterpret what a girl wants. By the way she dresses, or by her manner . . .’

  ‘Fucking hell. I can’t believe you’re saying these things.’

  ‘If you just tell me nothing happened between you, we can find out why Saffie said what she did. We can work out where the misunderstanding occurred and—’

  He balls his fists. ‘If Saffie’s been raped, then she was asking for it. She dresses like a slag.’

  ‘Saul, I—’

  ‘Get out of my room. Just go.’

  I shut the door and stand with my back to it. His words echo through my mind. The very words Jules reported.

  Asking for it.

  And he hasn’t done what I wanted him to do. He hasn’t in so many words denied raping Saffie.

  *

  It’s Saturday evening and Pete is back. I’m angry with him for abandoning me. We’re in the kitchen, a roast chicken still in the oven. Saul has refused to come down even though I’ve called out that supper’s ready.

  ‘I could have done with you here to help me talk to Saul,’ I say. ‘I didn’t deal with it very well. He’s gutted that I suggested he might be in a relationship with Saffie, let alone have forced her to have sex with him. He was disgusted, actually. I don’t know what to do, Pete. He won’t speak to me.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Upstairs. He’s been up there all day. Won’t come down.’

  ‘Normal, healthy teenage behaviour, I’d say.’

  ‘How can you say that? He’s been accused of rape! That’s hardly normal. He’s upset. With me. He’s offended and hurt.’r />
  ‘You did the right thing. You had to confront him. You couldn’t just hope this would blow over. He’s taking time to assimilate what Saffie’s said. He’ll be processing a whole gamut of emotions.’

  Pete goes over to the cupboard, rummages about and draws out a bottle of gin. Then he goes to the fridge and takes the bag of ice cubes to the sink and bangs it on the draining board. He drops the ice into two glasses and sloshes in a large measure.

  ‘We both need a drink,’ he says.

  ‘I thought he’d say he hadn’t gone near Saffie. That we could tell Jules, and she could find out why Saffie made it all up. Instead of which, he said I was insulting him and Saffie shouldn’t go around dressing like a slag.’

  ‘He said what?’

  Pete bangs the freezer door shut with unnecessary force.

  ‘That Saffie dresses like a slag. I told him that had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Holly, I know you don’t want to believe Saul has it in him, but that’s misogynistic language.’

  ‘It’s just words, Pete.’ I don’t tell him he also said she was asking for it.

  ‘You know very well language is not just words.’

  ‘He was being a sixteen-year-old. Deliberately provoking me. Us.’

  There’s a fizz as he pours tonic into the glasses and the ice crackles satisfyingly. He cuts a lime into quarters and drops it in. He hands me a glass and takes a long draught of his. ‘I’ll have a word with him.’

  ‘To say what?’

  ‘I’ll explain we can sort this out but that we need him to be open and honest. That it’s not on to call any girl a slag. That using that kind of language is inflammatory. I’ll ask what happened that night and tell Saul it’d be better to be absolutely clear in the long run.’

  ‘He’s not going to confess to something he hasn’t done.’

  Pete sighs, as if I’m beginning to frustrate him.

  ‘We have to get the facts straight. For all our sakes. We’re his parents, Holl. Of course we don’t believe he’s capable of rape. But we have to ask him what might have motivated Saffie to make this claim.’