Boarding School Girls

by Helen Eve

  ‘This is a chance to rectify their mistakes. If we get married, we’ll succeed where they failed.’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘We’ll walk into the same trap.’

  Something tightens in my chest like a corkscrew. ‘You think I’m a trap?’

  He evades the question. ‘I still feel the same about you.’

  ‘You don’t.’ I back away from him. ‘Unless you never cared about me.’

  ‘Of course I cared,’ he says impatiently, his past tense – perhaps unconscious, perhaps not – more painful than any of his other words.

  ‘Care,’ he corrects himself meaninglessly. ‘I care about you. But there isn’t going to be a wedding, and there never was. This is something you and Libby have concocted and given a life of its own.’

  I wonder how emptiness can be so overwhelming; how a void can be so tangible; how a chasm of my entire belief system can take me over with the slamming force of a riptide. I force myself to stand still, even though I can hardly bear to be in my own body, until the clock strike cuts through me as if it’s slicing me in half.

  It’s a quarter to twelve.

  ‘Why are you so obsessed with weddings?’ he says. ‘It’s not normal. Sometimes I wonder if it’s even about me at all.’

  He’s still talking as I try to control the pain in my stomach, but it only ripples outward, weakening my arms and legs and throat as my future, such as it is, realigns itself inside me like a river forced to change course. I’m enduring an endless summer without the diversion of an engagement party; I’m watching my contemporaries flit into finishing school and university and PR jobs and marriage. Jack is part of that exodus, leaving me to stand petrified, without ambition, achievements or human connections, until my future stagnates in replication of my mother’s, who took to bed on the day my father left and has never really risen since.

  ‘What am I supposed to do now?’ I whisper.

  He laughs as if my question is absurd. ‘How can you ask that? You’re seventeen, you’re healthy, and you’re alive. You can do anything you want. Be anything. Go anywhere. Don’t trap yourself in a place like this; in a past that doesn’t even belong to you.’

  Only as he reaches for my hand do I realize I’m gripping the rose so tightly that its thorns are embedded in my palm.

  The clock is ticking like a heartbeat, growing stronger and louder as if it rather than my heart is responsible for pumping blood around my body. I hear nothing but the clock as it ticks closer to midnight, towards a point of no return and no future and no salvation. And because this is my last chance I reach out for him, unsure which of these words are my own, and which are memories from which only his proposal can liberate me.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m trying to show you that this is the best thing for us.’

  My hand stings and I hold it away from him. ‘How can the best thing hurt like this?’

  I tug at the rose, shaking drops of blood across the bodice of my dress.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ he says as I pull out the last jagged thorn as violently as I can; as if it will offset other pain. I stare at my hand as red spreads like poppies.

  ‘We should get out of here,’ he says uneasily. ‘It’s creepy.’

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ is all I can say, but the sounds are indistinct, choked and tremulous as if I’m crying. Putting my hand to my cheek, I feel to my amazement that this is true. I hardly ever cry.

  ‘I don’t want to leave you here,’ he says as he stands over the trapdoor.

  ‘I don’t want you to go,’ I tell him, but he’s too logical for these endless circles. He shakes his head and starts down the ladder.

  ‘Please consider this,’ he says before he disappears. ‘Do you want to marry me because you love me?’

  The last thing I see before he disappears is his watch. It’s hideous, but he insists on wearing it because it was a gift from Edward. Amongst its numerous dreadful features is a glow-in-the-dark facility, which he never remembers to deactivate. I’m mesmerized by its light until he and the watch are gone.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Romy

  Libby has orchestrated a farcical – even by her standards – charade, forcing all students to congregate beneath the clock tower, each holding a pink rose to throw at the happy betrothed when they dismount the stairs. She’d originally envisioned a kiss at the open window, but had fretted about Siena’s hair getting windblown.

  Everyone is in position by the time Madison and I stumble down the line, seeking sanctuary before we’re uncovered and publicly hanged with piano wire.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Cassidy hisses as she grabs each of us by an elbow.

  ‘How long were we supposed to stay up there?’ whines Madison. ‘The room’s tidy … the ball’s over…’

  ‘Yes, but…’ Cassidy glances fearfully around. ‘She didn’t say you could leave.’

  Libby is in full throttle, marshalling students into miserable submission as she empties a sack of roses and loose petals onto the stone slabs.

  ‘Where did she get all those?’ I ask.

  ‘Siena’s mother sent them.’ Cassidy reaches reverently for a flower. ‘Do you know that Siena’s father had these roses named for her? They represent her so perfectly.’

  The roses are pale pink with a rippling swirl. I don’t tell Cassidy that I agree with her, but it’s true that the pale colour is that of Siena’s cheeks when she’s happy; the brighter swirl when she’s riding.

  ‘We should all be so lucky to have a father like that,’ I say instead.

  Cassidy blushes. ‘She doesn’t see him very often,’ she says carefully. ‘But whose father wouldn’t do anything for them?’

  Libby zooms back into view before I can answer, patrolling like a sergeant major lumbered with a particularly dim-witted troop.

  ‘Stop trying to create symbolism,’ she hisses to an unfortunate Shell who drops a moulting rose in sheer terror. ‘Pick off one more petal and you’re out.’

  I look up to see flickering lights gradually extinguished. In darkness, the tower merges into the moonless sky, and I squint as I think I see a figure at the window. But it’s too high, and too dark, and the clock has begun to strike.

  ‘Ready, everyone?’ Libby raises her voice and there’s silence as everyone gives her their full attention. ‘She’ll be out at any second.’

  The clock strikes as if it’s splitting in two, and I feel every one of the vibrations in my bare feet.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Siena

  I’m aware of my movements as I approach the window, but still I climb out onto the ledge. Gripping the clock is only instinct and habit. Falling is easier than clinging on, and falling is my only remaining course of action. I’ve never learned another way out.

  My breath clouds before me and I suck in April air so cold that it hurts my teeth. My dress flutters in the wind, giving the illusion of a swelling shape beneath the fabric. I’m thin enough that my hip bones protrude, and yet I put my hand to my stomach as if it’s swollen. I see my father’s car on the ground below as clearly as if this is real; as if I’m not on the edge of the clock tower but back at home, on the balcony outside my parents’ bedroom window, exactly seven years ago.

  And just as my parents’ clock begins to strike, so does the clock in the tower.

  One.

  ‘Come back!’ my mother screams as my father’s rear lights fade into darkness. Staggering to the balcony rail, she grasps at freezing air with one hand and her stomach with the other.

  Two.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ she’s saying over and over again, her voice breaking and smashing until the words are unintelligible.

  I’ve listened, hidden in the curtains, as she begged my father not to leave; as he packed his bags as calmly as if he were leaving for just another conference, placing a dispassionate hand on her stomach while telling her to look after this one before removing it hurriedly, as if he’d received a kic
k. She continued to beg as he disappeared down the stairs, reappeared outside and got into his car; even as the engine revved and the car moved down the drive, out of sight and sound.

  Three.

  Gripping the balcony, she climbs onto the edge and reaches out as if she can still touch him.

  ‘No!’ I scream as I fight my way out of the curtains.

  Four.

  My appearance is at best too late or too slow; at worst, the cause of everything. She turns to me for an instant and I see many things in her face. I see despair, and resignation, and a strange kind of triumph as she surrenders to gravity and to my father, propelling herself towards the place he’s just vacated. Before I’ve moved a single step, she’s gone.

  Five.

  My legs shake uncontrollably as I force myself to look over the ledge. She fell silently and I have a dumb, childish hope that by some miracle she’s landed, Persian cat-style, on her feet. Or even that she’s defied gravity altogether and soared upwards, somewhere far from me but safe.

  ‘Mum.’ I try to speak her name out loud but manage only a whisper, and she never answers to that word anyway. ‘Mother…’

  Six.

  Fighting my way back through the curtains, I run downstairs. The house is full of half-burned candles, my mother having prepared for quite a different evening, and I snap on the light switch as I wrench open the front door.

  Seven.

  She hasn’t disappeared or landed like a cat. She’s motionless on the stone floor right underneath the point she fell, one hand still outstretched.

  But there is blood. Her lace and chiffon dress, pure white only moments ago, is now red with poppies that blossom across its skirts.

  Eight.

  I take her hand; I test her pulse; I beg her, uselessly, to wake up; I don’t prevent Stella from sitting beside me, even though I know she shouldn’t see this.

  ‘She’s coming,’ Stella tells me.

  Nine.

  ‘She can’t be coming!’ I can think only of the due date seared across our collective consciousness, more than six weeks away.

  Stella takes my hand and I feel the baby kicking and kicking and kicking, as if she’s striking out at the parent who’s left her.

  ‘Stay there, baby,’ Stella says, leaning further until her hands and white nightdress are wet and sticky with blood. ‘We aren’t ready to meet you yet.’

  Ten.

  As people converge on us, Stella holds her hands where the baby’s ears might be.

  ‘Is the father here?’ someone asks.

  ‘We don’t have a father.’ I look up wildly as I realize that the low voices surrounding us are wondering which of the casualties to save first.

  ‘Mother,’ I whisper as fiercely as I can through tears that stream down my cheeks. ‘Mother, of course.’

  Eleven.

  Beside me Stella is perfectly silent and still, and yet I hear her words reverberate through the very core of our beings; as rhythmical as the clock that fails to drown her out.

  * * *

  I’m no longer in Hampstead. I’m on a narrow ledge in the clock tower, and I’m losing my balance. I feel for the open window behind me and fall backwards through the gap, knocking against the electric light switch and landing painfully on wooden floorboards.

  The glow of the candles is replaced by the yellow glare of a bare bulb, vulgar in its garishness. Stripped of enchantments, the room is debris and litter and hopelessness. Something tugs me from the window and down the ladder; down the stairs; out of the school.

  Sister, Stella said that night over the peal of the clock, in a voice that existed only inside her, inside me, and inside a cord that flowed between us like a lifeline.

  Just as there’s only one voice I can hear, there’s only one place I can go. Stella’s voice chimes as penetratingly as the clock’s final strike.

  Save my sister.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Romy

  I count the doleful peals, craning my neck as the door opens and a ripple runs through the crowd. Everyone’s been prepped – on pain of death – to throw their rose at the correct moment, but they lower their arms instead, looking around in confusion.

  I step out of line far enough to see Libby accost Jack as he approaches alone, and then I duck out of my place to join them.

  ‘Go away, Romy,’ Libby says frostily, apparently too preoccupied to ask how I’ve escaped. ‘This doesn’t concern you.’

  ‘Stop speaking to people that way,’ snaps Jack with uncharacteristic venom.

  She looks outraged and he gives me a slight smile. ‘I’m not under her jurisdiction anymore,’ he explains. ‘You should try it; it feels great.’

  ‘This is just cold feet,’ says Libby agitatedly. ‘Get back up there and apologize. Here, take her some roses.’

  Jack recoils as she thrusts a handful at him. ‘I’ve seen enough roses to last me a lifetime. I’m not going back up there. I’m going home.’

  ‘What about the proposal?’ Libby blocks his way. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been leading her on all this time. Don’t tell me we organized that ball for nothing.’

  Jack is staring at her in disgust. ‘You know what? If there’s one good thing about what’s happened tonight, it’s never having to tolerate you again.’

  Predictably, she ignores this insult and homes in on what she considers most important. ‘What do you mean? What has happened tonight?’

  Jack turns to me. ‘You know what, Romy? There’s something I should have done a year ago. Out of misplaced respect, I didn’t.’

  He takes my hand and shakes it firmly. ‘That’s for giving Libby what she deserved. Next time, push her harder, and off something higher.’

  And then he’s gone.

  Libby stares after him, her mouth opening and closing, and then she gets to work, dismissing students line by line. ‘Siena and Jack appreciate your good wishes but value their privacy,’ she repeats. ‘They ask you to join them in celebration at a later date.’

  The students disperse, Madison concealing herself amongst them, until only Cassidy and Phoebe linger. ‘You too,’ Libby says ruthlessly. ‘Time for bed.’

  ‘What’s wrong, Libby?’ asks Cassidy. ‘What happened up there?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing,’ Libby says. ‘Everything went entirely according to plan. But you know Siena and Jack are a very private couple. Siena would prefer to see only me tonight.’

  Like the lobotomized victims they are, they leave the scene, while Libby turns on me. ‘I didn’t say you could leave Siena’s room. Get back up there and keep tidying!’

  ‘Pick the clothes up, Cinderella,’ I say. ‘Make the dinner, Cinderella. I don’t think so, Libby.’

  ‘You’re not Cinderella,’ she says. ‘Don’t forget it.’

  We turn as Siena’s silhouette appears. She seems smaller, even though that’s impossible, and her dress more cage-like. She pauses in the doorway, leaning one hand against the frame and holding the other to her waist as if she’s short of air.

  ‘I need you, Henry,’ Libby is now barking down the phone. ‘It’s an emergency. I know I always say that … but it always is.’

  Up close, Siena’s face is tear-streaked and her hair untidy, but the most shocking aspect of her appearance is how dazed she seems.

  ‘Siena?’ I extend my hand as I’d approach an unbroken horse, and, when she doesn’t spook, I hold it to her cheek. She’s crying silently and almost indiscernibly.

  ‘What are you wearing?’ she asks.

  I’m almost surprised to see that I’m still in Madison’s dress. ‘You said you didn’t want it.’

  She reaches for the fabric, combing her fingers through its shimmering yellow drapes. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she says. ‘Perfect.’

  She looks from me to Libby as if she’s seeing something she hasn’t before. Listen to your instincts, I will her. Listen to me.

  She says nothing else before she walks away. She moves as slowly and painfully as if the dress
is made of thorns; she’s almost doubled up by the time she reaches the car.

  ‘This would never have happened if you hadn’t come back,’ says Libby. ‘Either we rectify this, or I’ll make sure every person in this school knows the truth about you.’

  Then she’s gone, and I’m alone.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Siena

  Neither Henry nor I speak as I fall into the back seat of the car, and he drives away from the gloom of Temperley High into a new kind of darkness.

  Some time later he pulls up before my house, but, when I make no effort to move, he drives around the back and opens the windows as if he’s trying to help me reacclimatize. The headlights sweep the garden, illuminating austerely mowed lawns, symmetrical beech trees, and, finally, the rose garden that forms the centrepiece. I hold my breath as a phantom scent fills my nose and throat.

  ‘Is anyone home?’ he asks.

  ‘Of course.’ I sound more confident than I feel.

  ‘Good,’ he says dubiously. ‘Then … enjoy your holiday.’

  * * *

  I’m hardly at the door before Stella appears. She’s a candle of golden hair and white nightdress, her face lit with happiness. ‘You’re home?’ she says in wonderment, bouncing up and down. ‘You’re really home? With us?’

  When I pick her up and whirl her around, she wraps her arms so tightly around me that I can hardly breathe; so tightly that I hardly mind; so tightly that I can believe I’m still her centre and her core and her beginning and her end and the only sister whose roots are intrinsically entwined with her own.

  I try to put her down but she won’t let go, so I walk with her bare feet on top of mine, as our father used to dance with us. She’s twelve now, but so small that it doesn’t hurt to do this.

  ‘You remembered Syrena’s birthday!’ she says when she finally moves away. ‘We weren’t expecting you.’

  She gestures at the little shadow behind her that had escaped my notice. I should have known that Syrena would be up past midnight to see in her seventh birthday, but it was easier for those first few seconds with Stella to imagine that, not only are we still two, but that Stella is content for us to be that way.