Still Falling

by Wilkinson, Sheena;

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  She chews her lip. ‘Well, people were having parties with drink and boys and – you know. Real parties. Only me and my friends from church, well, we were still pretty innocent.’

  ‘Like, pass the parcel and Ribena?’

  ‘Not quite. We had a barbecue in the church grounds. Toasted mallows. Singsong – OK, it was probably a bit sad. But I thought it was great. I was so thrilled that I had a friend from school there and everybody was really nice to her and’ she blushes ‘– well, we prayed for her and thanked God for bringing her into our midst – and she sat there and smirked, loving all the attention, and then on Monday someone found – out she’d been at my party and they started taking the piss, and she said she’d only gone because she felt sorry for me. She said I was a religious maniac.’ She shakes her head. ‘I think, looking back, she was desperate to get in with the cool crowd, specially Jasmine, and she knew this was a way she could do it. By laughing at the sad Christian girl. And she and Jasmine have been joined at the hip ever since.’

  I hate the idea of anyone laughing at Esther. I squeeze her hand.

  ‘I’d always just kept my head down at school. It was embarrassing having Dad there. But now – it was horrible. It was actual bullying. Not Jasmine really. Mainly Cassie and a girl called Melissa. Some of the boys.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘In the end I went and told the head of year. I said I was being persecuted for my beliefs. And Cassie got into loads of trouble.’ She smiles, but kind of sadly. ‘So being invited now – it’s like – like I finally get accepted.’

  I hug her, and she kisses me, her lips fluttering on mine, then getting more urgent. Her hand finds its way inside my hoody, fumbles with my jumper.

  I wriggle away.

  ‘What?’ she says. ‘There’s nobody around.’

  ‘You’re very forward for a good Christian girl.’ I keep my voice light, but my heart’s pounding. A weight has settled in my stomach and I know if we go any further there’ll be trouble.

  ‘But I’m not a good Christian girl any more.’ She strokes her hand down my chest.

  ‘Esther – not here. I don’t …’

  She sits up as if I just slapped her. ‘Sorry. I – uh – I thought …’

  ‘So. It’s your birthday soon too. Tell me what you want.’ My voice is high and forced. ‘And we’ll do something – really special. Anything you like.’

  ‘I don’t mind. Please don’t put yourself out.’ She sounds cool.

  I twist away from her and lean against the trunk of the tree, waiting for my breathing to slow. ‘Come on – say what you’d like and I’ll make it happen. Only no ice-skating ponies.’

  She tosses her head and pretends to pout. But something in her eyes has died, and I know she’s only pretending not to be hurt. ‘If I can’t have ice-skating ponies,’ she says, ‘then I don’t want anything.’

  She pulls off her scarf and hits me with it. I grab it off her and hit her back but, laughing, she snatches it and then shoves it safely under her where I can’t get it. But she’s trying too hard. We both are.

  She grins at me, her hair all messed up. ‘So, what did you do for your seventeenth?’

  I hesitate. ‘Nothing special.’ I moved to Sandra’s the day after my birthday so all I did on the actual day was pack my stuff. ‘I got my MacBook,’ I say. I knew when I opened it that it was more than a birthday present – it was a guilt present. And a goodbye.

  ‘Nice! My old laptop keeps freezing, but they’re already getting me driving lessons, so I’ll have to put up with it till Christmas.’

  ‘I can’t afford to buy you a MacBook,’ I say, trying to push down the usual cold frustration I get when someone talks about driving. ‘Choose again.’

  ‘Eejit! You know that’s not what I meant. I’d like a surprise.’ She smooths her hair. ‘Could we maybe go out for a meal?’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘But not anywhere dear,’ she says quickly. ‘I mean – Pizza Express would be fine. I actually love Pizza Express.’

  ‘I’ll take you somewhere nicer than that.’

  Suddenly I’m fired with the desire to make Esther’s birthday as perfect as a birthday can be. I’ll pick her up and take her out to a really nice restaurant. I’ll book a table and everything. I’ll take her home in a taxi, and we’ll both get dressed up and I’ll buy her something gorgeous. I’ll make up to her for not being a proper boyfriend in other ways.

  Nice one, Lukey: keep her sweet with a nice birthday and she won’t notice –

  Shut up.

  _____________

  I hate asking for advice, but I have to get this right, so later, when I’m washing the dishes and Sandra’s drying, I say, ‘I have to buy a birthday present.’

  ‘For your girlfriend?’

  I feel my face blaze. ‘How did you –?’ I’ve never mentioned Esther.

  Sandra laughs. ‘Luke. I’ve brought up a daughter and you’re our seventh foster child. I know the signs.’

  ‘I didn’t think I was so predictable.’

  ‘So what’s she like?’

  ‘Lovely.’ I smile at the suds.

  ‘Good.’ She hands me back a saucepan. ‘There’s a bit of potato still stuck to that. You can ask her round here, you know, Luke. This is your home.’

  ‘I suppose.’ I scrape at the crevices of the pot.

  ‘You don’t sound very keen.’

  ‘I am!’ But I’m not sure. I saw the shock Esther tried to hide when she found out I was in care, and I can’t imagine her being comfortable walking through this estate. After all, I’m not.

  I must look doubtful because Sandra says quickly, ‘Look, we won’t embarrass you. You can bring her up to your room. As long as we can trust you to – you know. There’s condoms in the bathroom cabinet.’

  ‘Sandra! It’s not – not like that.’

  See? She knows what you’re like. She can tell.

  Shut up.

  She takes the rewashed pot I hand her and rubs her cloth over it. ‘Behind the cough medicine. Just for future reference.’

  I frown into the dishwater. ‘Anyway, it’s her birthday. I wondered if you’d any ideas …’

  ‘Well, you should know what she’d like.’

  ‘She just said a surprise. I don’t – I’ve never – all I can think of is a book.’

  ‘A book?’ She looks doubtful, but then she’s not exactly literary. There’s a few trashy novels in the house, the Guinness Book of Records, a gardening encyclopedia and that’s about it. ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I think most girls’d rather have a nice bit of jewellery.’

  ‘Jewellery! Is that not a bit – I don’t know – much? Like I’m trying too hard?’

  ‘Och.’ Sandra rubs the cloth round inside a big saucepan. ‘There’s no harm in letting her see you’ve made a bit of an effort.’

  Esther doesn’t wear much jewellery. A watch. I try to remember if I’ve ever seen her wear anything else but I can’t think. Is that because she hasn’t got nice jewellery or because she doesn’t like it?

  Sandra picks up a handful of cutlery and fans it out, burnishing each individual piece till it shines like the jewellery we’re discussing. ‘Honestly, Luke. Take it from me. I’ve had three foster daughters as well as our Joanne. There isn’t one of them didn’t love getting a wee bit of bling. Even Megan – and she was a tomboy, never out of a tracksuit. You should have seen her face when she was showing us her engagement ring!’

  Engagement ring.

  Something glitters in the corner of my right eye. Diamond ring. I saw it and I knew. That was it. No hope now. I shiver and close my eyes against the relentless sparkle.

  Water splashes and slops on the floor.

  ‘Luke?’ Sandra’s voice is far away. ‘Are you OK?’

  She thinks I’m about to have a seizure on her.

  I plunge my hands back into the hot soapy water and fish around for the last couple of lurking spoons. ‘I’m fine.’

  I thin
k she’d like a book. Books are safe.

  Esther

  ‘Blasted thing!’ I press a few keys randomly but the screen stays frozen. If I don’t get this essay finished tonight I’ll be in trouble with Donovan tomorrow.

  Usually when you turn it off and on again it’s OK, but this time it won’t even turn off. ‘Damn it!’ I throw my copy of The Great Gatsby – not my laptop – at the wall and the noise brings Mum fussing to my door.

  ‘Esther? Is everything OK?’

  ‘Yes.’ I pick up the book and smooth the bent cover. I never used to throw books at the wall. ‘This stupid laptop’s playing up again. Can I not get a new one for my birthday?’

  Her face creases. ‘What about your driving lessons? You can’t have both.’

  I sigh. ‘I know.’ And I’m excited at the prospect of driving. ‘It’s just – this thing isn’t going to last much longer and I need it to be reliable. I wondered if …’

  ‘I’m sure we could manage a new one for Christmas, Essie, but we’re not made of money.’

  ‘Maybe it could be a kind of early Christmas present? I need it for school. I don’t just use it for social networking and crap.’

  She frowns at the word crap.

  ‘What’s going on down there?’ Dad appears behind Mum, his glasses pushed up on his forehead. He lowers his voice. ‘We’re trying to have a prayer meeting in the living room. Pamela – we’ll want tea in about twenty minutes.’

  ‘All right, Alec.’ Why doesn’t she tell him to get his own bloody tea? Then I think of the way I am with Luke – don’t I pussyfoot around him a bit? No. I’m just – I respect his privacy.

  ‘Dad – it’s this bl– flipping laptop. It keeps freezing and I’m trying to type up this essay for Mr Donovan, and the deadline’s tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, use mine,’ Dad says, ‘but quieten down. You’re not helping to create a very prayerful atmosphere. And Esther – keep my laptop in the study; I don’t want you lugging it round the house, and remember, no tea or coffee anywhere near it.’

  Using Dad’s work laptop is not exactly the treat he imagines. It’s ancient and about the size of a grand piano.

  The study is a tiny box room; Dad’s desk takes up more than half of it and there’s a huge IKEA bookcase all along the opposite wall, stuffed with the most boring books you could ever imagine, mostly about the bible, some of them about teaching RE, a few shiny new ones about pastoral care.

  The study also whiffs a bit. Dad doesn’t believe in opening windows. The first thing I do, when I go in with my sheaf of notes, is to fling open the window even though it’s a blustery autumn evening.

  The essay isn’t that hard – ‘Is Fitzgerald’s presentation of the women characters in The Great Gatsby misogynistic?’ I think they’re all pretty horrible but then so are the men, so that’s what I write. I get it done before ten and I can hear from their chatter that the praying men are still here. Their voices rise and fall, all very sure of themselves and their God.

  I send the document to the printer, which decides at first it doesn’t want to print it, so I have to do a bit of faffing around and, while I do, I scan Dad’s boring list of documents. All to do with RE or church stuff – PAUL; ETHICS; MEN’S GROUP; GCSE, that kind of thing. I cast my eye over them idly.

  And then I see it. PASTORAL CARE/CONFIDENTIAL.

  My finger hovers over the keyboard.

  I can’t. I wouldn’t.

  The men’s voices rise and fall. I recognise Ruth’s dad’s laugh. If he respects you he should be more honest with you, Ruth had said.

  If I respected Luke I wouldn’t be thinking of hacking into private pastoral care folders, just because of some ridiculous hints Dad dropped.

  It’s not hacking. Dad knows I’m using his computer. If there was anything sensitive he’d have it password-protected. It’s not my fault if he left this lying open for anyone to see.

  There are three subfolders – JUNIOR; MIDDLE; SENIOR. I click on SENIOR. I don’t know what I expect – lots of documents with people’s names maybe, containing all kinds of private info – but it’s not like that. There’s only a couple of documents. One is called POLICY-PAST/CARE and I ignore it; the other one is simply labelled 2014/15 – PC NOTES FOR STAFF. If it’s for staff, I argue, that means all the teachers, it can’t be confidential.

  You’re not staff, Esther Wilson.

  So? I’m more entitled to know things about my own boyfriend than some random teacher who doesn’t even know him.

  You’re entitled to know what he chooses to tell you.

  I click on the file.

  It’s a spreadsheet. The first column is just a list of names. I can see at once that it’s all of our year group in alphabetical order. The second is labelled HEALTH ISSUES; the third OTHER ISSUES. Most of the names don’t have anything beside them.

  Mihai Antonescu – Adopted (from Romania)

  Rosie Arnold – Allergic penicillin – father dec. 2011

  Dec. must mean deceased. I remember Rosie’s dad dying; we all raised money for lung cancer for our charity effort that year.

  I only need go as far as the Bs, though it’s tempting to imagine what he’s got on Cassie. Personality disorder (incurable). Pathological jealousy.

  Ha!

  Luke Bressan – Epilepsy (occasional tonic-clonic seizures) – mother dec. 2014; local authority foster care 2008

  Well. My shoulders slump in relief. Nothing I didn’t know. Nothing he’s lied about. And then the date thrusts itself at me, mocking my naivety.

  2008.

  Six years ago.

  ‘Esther!’ It’s Dad’s voice. ‘Have you finished in there?’

  I close the file. Close the folder. ‘Just printing my essay.’

  I take the three sheets of A4 as the printer spits them out and, hugging them to me, I shut down the computer, close the window and go out into the hall. The front door is open and Ruth’s dad’s broad back is moving down the path. Mum and Dad are waving.

  Mum closes the door and smiles at Dad. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘Jim was in good form, wasn’t he, Alec?’

  ‘He was saying you were over with Ruth the other night,’ Dad says, looking at me with something closer to approval than I’ve seen for a while.

  ‘Why don’t you invite her over for your birthday, love?’ Mum asks. ‘I could make you a cake and you could have a sleepover?’

  ‘Mum! I’m not seven. I’ve already made plans.’

  ‘With this Luke, I presume?’ Dad still says Luke’s name as if it’s in speech marks.

  ‘Yes.’ I turn to Mum, as the one more likely to be supportive. ‘He’s taking me out for dinner. He’s booked a table at Boccaccio’s.’

  They exchange glances.

  ‘Boccaccio’s is lovely, Alec,’ Mum says.

  ‘Not cheap.’

  ‘No, Dad. Luke’s not cheap, whatever you think about him.’ 2008. Six years in care. Why not just say? And of course that’s what Dad meant by unfortunate background. Not just having no parents.

  ‘We’re going out anyway,’ Dad says. ‘Remember, Pamela? The missionaries?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Mum turns to me. ‘Some missionaries from Kenya,’ she says. ‘They’re home on a visit and they’re going to give a presentation about the orphanage they look after there. There’ll be a supper and a promise auction – bit of a fundraiser for them. I wasn’t going to go, love, on your birthday, unless you wanted to come too?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘But if you already have plans …’

  ‘It sounds great,’ I say with a big smile. ‘You should go.’

  Dad gives me a look as if he thinks I’m being sarcastic but actually I’m not. It is great that they are going to be out on my birthday, leaving me free to go out with my boyfriend.

  My lying boyfriend.

  _____________

  In bed I think I’ve worked it out.

  Maybe his mum had something wrong with her for years, something that eventual
ly led to her death in January and meant she couldn’t look after him since 2008. Multiple sclerosis maybe. My thoughts dash and flit like the birds waiting for Mum to put bread out on the bird table.

  OK. But didn’t he say My mum died so I went to live with Sandra and Bill? How long has he actually been with Sandra and Bill?

  I’m back where I started when I first began to worry about all of this, except now I know for sure he’s lied. Or at least not been very forthcoming with the truth.

  But haven’t I done that too? Edited my past? I’d told him about leaving church but I’d never admitted how much I’d loved it, and how I still kind of miss its certainties.

  But editing out six years?

  I sleep badly, waking up every hour or so, and arrive at tutor group late, gritty-eyed and edgy. I stand for a moment at the door and look through the glass panel. Luke is sitting alone at the desk we’ve shared ever since Baxter put me there on the first day. Jasmine leans across the aisle and says something to him, her long blond hair sweeping the desk. I wonder what they’re talking about.

  I push open the door and the moment I do he looks up and catches my eye and smiles, and my heart skips and I wonder how I could ever have doubted him.

  ‘I thought you must be sick,’ he says as I slide into the seat beside him.

  ‘Slept in.’ I yawn. ‘Sat up too late doing that Gatsby essay.’

  ‘Me too.’

  At lunchtime we go to the war memorial, which we pretty much always do now, though it’s starting to get cold and we always keep our blazers on.

  ‘Luke, can I ask you something?’ I turn towards him on the bench and a blast of cold air sneaks up inside my blazer.

  ‘Yes. As long as it’s not what I’m getting you for your birthday, because that’s a secret.’

  ‘How did your mum die?’

  He frowns and leans back. ‘Oh. A car crash.’

  ‘A car crash?’ My careful theory skids off the road.

  ‘On New Year’s Eve.’ He says it very casually but a tiny muscle twitches in his jaw.

  ‘I thought – well, I just wondered.’

  New Year’s Eve. Didn’t he say his epilepsy started in January? And epilepsy can be caused by a head injury.