The Girls in the Garden

by Lisa Jewell

  The ten-minute round-trip now seemed to have extended itself into a fifteen-minute round-trip. Her mum would be doing tea about now. If Pip wasn’t there when she’d finished cooking, she’d try calling her. If she didn’t answer her phone, she’d come out into the park to look for her. If she wasn’t in the park she’d go to the sisters’ apartment. And if Grace wasn’t there and she wasn’t there her mum would go completely mental. Pip picked up her pace and said, “Okay. Come on, though. I need to get back.”

  Tyler looked at her pityingly. “What for?”

  “Tea,” she said.

  Tyler just tutted and flicked her hair as if she’d never heard of such a silly thing.

  The pavement was dusty and hot, the sun a burning ocher reflection in the shop windows opposite. A swarm of girls from the private school farther up the road were walking toward them, scruffy in short navy and sunshine-yellow skirts, skinny legs, uncombed hair, as loud and territorial as the mums from the halfway house. Pip saw Tyler’s lip curl with distaste as they passed.

  “Posh bitches,” she said under her breath. “They’re all anorexic, you know. I could have got a scholarship, because of my gran being the headmistress there for so long, but my mum wouldn’t let me.”

  They passed the corner shop that Pip had thought Tyler meant.

  “I can’t go in there,” said Tyler, nodding at the shop. “They know me in there.”

  Pip looked at her, wondering what that meant.

  Buses stormed down the bus lane to their right. Tyler stepped off the curb to overtake a woman with a buggy and almost got run down by one. It sounded its horn, long and hard, and Tyler tried to pretend she wasn’t shaken. “Yeah yeah,” she said to the back end of the bus. “Get over yourself.”

  “Shit. You could have died,” said Pip, holding her hammering heart.

  “Whatevs.”

  Pip’s discomfiture increased. She should have said no. She didn’t even like ice cream very much. Finally they stopped at a shop. Tyler held the door for Pip and for a moment they hung over the sides of a chest freezer, gazing into upturned cardboard boxes, evaluating and critiquing the various types of ice cream on offer, like two normal girls. Tyler chose a Magnum and Pip chose a lime Calippo. The time above the cash desk said 5:41 p.m.

  “How did you scratch your arms?” she asked a moment later, as they headed back toward the park.

  Tyler glanced at the injuries. “On my mum’s dress.”

  “What?”

  “Long story. It was sequined. You know, one of those dresses that’s got sequins all over it. And I tried to get it off her because she was asleep in it and it scratched me right up.” Tyler shrugged as if to say: Hey, you know, just one of those things.

  Pip’s skin prickled with the dark glamour of the imagery. It was like something out of one of her Jacqueline Wilson books: the feisty neglected daughter and the beautiful broken mother.

  “Why did your sister lie about your dad?”

  Pip almost stopped in her tracks. “What do you mean?”

  “You know, she said your dad was dead and he isn’t.”

  Pip shrugged. “Dunno.” There was a profound lack of doubt in the tone of the question. She felt it would be futile to try to deny that Grace had been lying. Instead she turned the question around onto Tyler. “What about you?” she said. “Where’s your dad?”

  “Don’t ask,” she said.

  “Have you met him?”

  “Thought I had,” she said. “Turns out I hadn’t. Turns out everyone’s been lying about everything.”

  They were nearing the tube station. A few more steps and Pip would be able to see the mushroom-shaped turret of Rhea’s apartment block.

  “Does your mum ever talk about Phoebe?”

  Tyler scowled at her. “What do you know about Phoebe?”

  “Just that she died. In the park. Rhea told me.”

  “Yeah, we talk about it sometimes.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I think it was Gordon. The sisters’ granddad.”

  “What! Seriously?”

  “Yeah, well, just look at him. He’s a filthy old pervert. And Mum says when he was younger he was virtually a rapist. He was always leering over the young girls and making inappropriate comments.”

  “But that doesn’t mean he’d kill someone, does it?”

  “’Course it does. Maybe he’d been raping her or something and he needed to shut her up. Or, I don’t know, maybe she tried to fight him off and he did it by accident or something.”

  “Is that what your mum thinks too?”

  “No. She just thinks Phoebe overdosed.”

  “She was on drugs?”

  “Yeah. Apparently. I don’t know. Phoebe was quite wild.”

  “Rhea told me Phoebe was going out with Leo when she died.”

  “Yeah. I think they had this on-off thing going on. She was going out with his brother too.”

  They’d reached the gates to the park. Tyler pulled a key out of the pocket of her hoodie and let them in. “Oh, wait up.” Her phone had made a noise and she pulled it from her other pocket and switched it on. “There you go.” She turned the phone to face Pip. “I told you so.”

  She wasn’t sure what she was seeing at first. It was a photograph on Instagram, of a boy and girl. He had his arm around her shoulder and their cheeks were pressed together and there was a cartoon heart drawn around them and the words “Me and the gorgeous G.”

  It was Grace and Dylan.

  “That,” said Tyler, pointing at the wall behind them in the photo, “is Dylan’s wallpaper. In his bedroom. And that photo was posted two minutes ago. So.” She pointed at the attic windows opposite. “Believe me now?”

  Dear Daddy,

  Grace and Dylan are going out. It’s properly official. I don’t even know what that means when you’re thirteen years old. Some of the kids in my class say they’re going out but they’re not really, they’re just hanging out, basically. Not even holding hands. It’s really stupid. But maybe it’s different when you’re in year eight. Maybe you do kissing and stuff. They keep putting photos of themselves on Instagram. They have their faces touching sometimes. So, I don’t know. It’s all just really weird. Grace won’t talk to me about it. She’s really changed. Like, a few months ago we were virtually the same and now she’s got boobs, she’s started wearing makeup, she’s taller than Mum, she’s got really thin, and now this. I don’t like it. I feel like I’ve lost her. Like I’ve lost you. I’m feeling sad today. And angry. Angry with you, for doing that stupid thing and leaving us all behind and making us come to this place. And angry with Mum for not letting us see you. And really, really angry with Grace for just kind of walking away from it all and leaving me behind.

  So I’m quite glad you’re probably never going to read this letter because it’s not a very happy one and given the place you’re in right now it’s probably not a good idea for you to read sad letters.

  Love you, Daddy,

  Your Pipsqueak xxxx

  14

  Adele bumped into Cece on the Finchley Road on Friday. It was the first time she’d seen her since their dinner party earlier that month and since her discovery about her summer fling with Leo twenty-three years ago. It was a sunny day, with a warm breeze, and Cece was wearing denim hot pants, a loose gray T-shirt, pink trainers, and black Ray-Bans, an outfit not dissimilar to those her daughter wore. Her long blond hair was tied up in a ponytail. Men turned and stared as she walked past them. She smiled when she saw Adele approaching and stopped, signifying that she’d be happy to chat for a while. “Hello, gorgeous.” She leaned in and kissed Adele’s cheek. She smelled of coconut and stale alcohol. “I keep meaning to drop you a note or something to thank you for that lovely dinner the other week. I’m so hopeless.”

  “Oh, God, honestly, don’t worry about it. It was nothing. Just some curry.”

  “But it was nice. No one ever seems to do that kind of thing anymore. It’s lovely when some
one makes the effort. And I promise I’ll try and return the favor, but you know, work is crazy, and space is limited. It’s so hard to find the time.”

  “I know. I know.” Adele nodded understandingly. Cece was a social worker. In other words she had a real job, a proper job. And she was a single mother. Adele could never hope to compete in a who’s-got-the-least-free-time battle with her. And neither would she want to.

  “How are the girls?”

  “They’re fine,” she said. “Great in fact. Although we’ve still got the dreaded Gordon staying with us. Making inappropriate comments left, right, and center.”

  “Urgh. Gordon. Christ, I forgot he was here. How’s his rancid foot?”

  “Gone. We’re just waiting for the prosthetic. Could be a while.”

  Cece winced. “And you’re playing nurse, I suppose?”

  “To a certain extent. He has people coming in to deal with the foot itself.”

  “Or the remains of the foot?”

  Adele couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes. The remains of the foot. And Leo’s been taking as much time off work as he can. But yes, essentially I’m caring for him.”

  “And teaching your three girls.”

  “Yes, and teaching the girls.”

  “God.” Cece shook her head wonderingly. “I don’t know how you do it.” There was no irony in her tone and Adele was struck by how often women undervalued their own efforts while being endlessly impressed by those of their peers.

  “Oh, by the way . . .” Adele laughed nervously. “Such a funny thing. You know I’ve been editing Rhea’s memoirs and—ha—she mentions something that happened that summer, the summer you lost your sister. Something between you and Leo. Ha! And I honestly had no idea that you and he had . . .”

  “Oh God. That.” Cece put her hand to her mouth. “How embarrassing. You know, I think I’ve actually edited that out of my psyche. I made such a total tit of myself.”

  Adele laughed as though she were in on the joke.

  “Poor Leo,” Cece continued. “I decided that he was it. You know. The sun and the moon and the universe. And I basically stalked the poor guy until he caved. And, God, you know nothing happened, right? He just let me hang out with him. Let me be his pretend girlfriend. I mean—I was only thirteen or something ridiculous. There was no way anything untoward was going to happen. I mean, obviously.” She stopped and put her face to the air as if feeling for the direction of the wind, then turned back to Adele. “Did you talk about it with Leo?”

  Adele nodded.

  “What did he say? Did he even remember it?”

  “Yes. He remembered it. And he said what you said. That it was just a bit of fun. A bit of harmless snogging.”

  “Oh. God.” Cece dropped her face into her hands. “Did he tell you that? I didn’t think . . . I’m surprised. It was a bit weird, really, when you think about it. I was so young. He was virtually a man. But at the time—I mean, you know what that park’s like. Things happen in that park differently to how they happen in the real world. Different rules apply. And when you’re thirteen, I don’t know, you just can’t wait for it all, can you? You want it all to start now.”

  Adele smiled tightly. She thought of thirteen-year-old Fern, thirteen-year-old Tyler, almost-thirteen-year-old Grace. With their breasts and their waists and their attitudes. Did they want it all to start now?

  “Did your mother know?” she asked.

  “God no. She was up in arms enough about Phoebe. Thought Phoebe was out of control and I was the least of her worries. Not”—she clasped Adele’s forearm—“that there was technically anything to worry about. Five minutes of nothing. That’s all it was. But I don’t think she’d have liked it. I don’t suppose I’d like it, if it was Tyler.” She smiled wanly. “Anyway”—she glanced beyond Adele at the shops ahead—“I’d better get on. But, I meant to ask: what did you make of the new neighbor? What was her name? Clare.”

  “She seems perfectly nice, I suppose. A bit quiet. A bit cagey.”

  “Did you find out about the dad thing? Was I right? Christ, I was burning to ask her.” She stopped as the inappropriateness of her choice of words dawned upon her. Then she laughed. “Excuse the pun. But I so wanted to ask her. Did anything come out that I missed?”

  “No. Nothing at all. She didn’t mention the father. Nobody asked. And according to the girls, Grace said he’s dead. I don’t suppose she’d say that unless it was either true or more palatable than the truth.”

  “Poor girls,” said Cece vaguely. “If it was their dad who did that to their house, they must be so fucked up.”

  They both shook their heads sadly and then Cece straightened and said, “Right, really must get on. I’ve got a date tonight. Have to get my eyebrows done. And a wax. But, look, I know you’ve got a lot on your plate right now, what with Gordon the octopus and everything, but would it be okay if I sent Tyler down to yours? Just until I get home? I won’t be late. Elevenish?”

  Adele smiled and swallowed a sigh. “Sure,” she said. “No problem.” And there it was. Classic Cece. No doubt if she hadn’t bumped into Adele in the street she’d just have sent Tyler down anyway, on some kind of flimsy pretext. Either that or left Tyler alone for the evening. Phoebe’s unexplained death had left so many bruises and scars on her family and as the younger sister she’d had to carry most of her hurt in the small soft core of herself. Tyler had been the result of some kind of mistake, never quite explained, and she’d never really worked out how to mother her properly. Thought parenting was something you could opt in and out of, depending on your mood.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Absolutely. In fact”—a thought occurred to her—“our new tent arrived this week. Maybe I’ll put it up and let the kids muck around out there this evening. Invite some of the other children. The weather’s meant to be good. What do you think?”

  Cece shrugged. “Sounds good to me,” she said, as, of course, she would. And then she squeezed Adele to her, told her she was a star, and disappeared up the Finchley Road leaving behind her a back-draft of unhappiness.

  Tyler arrived at seven o’clock with Dylan in tow. Grace arrived shortly afterward. Gordon sat in his wheelchair in the living room tutting at each arrival.

  “Mrs. H.,” he called to her in the kitchen, “can’t you put a lock on this door? This house is filling up with waifs and strays.”

  “I invited them, Gordon,” she called back, “we’re doing a campfire.”

  “Oh good Christ. What on earth for?” He appeared at her side a moment later. “Hook me up to Skype, will you? I want to talk to my wife. And get away from all those bloody teenagers.”

  Adele looked up at him from the laptop. She’d been researching something for a project she and the girls were working on for their history module. She thought about protesting but couldn’t find the resolve. “Fine,” she said, bringing up Skype and clicking on Affie’s number. She pushed her chair out of the way and helped Gordon negotiate his wheelchair into the space.

  “Any chance of a glass of red?” he asked, tapping his fingertips impatiently against the tabletop as he waited for Affie to answer. “And maybe a square or two of that posh chocolate you’ve been hiding from me.”

  Adele rolled her eyes. The posh chocolate was an attempt to control Gordon’s appetite for cheap sugar. Leo had bought it for him and was rationing it out, square by square. “If he’s going to insist on eating sugar, at least let it be good-quality sugar,” he’d said.

  She snapped off two squares, poured him a small glass of Pinot Noir, and set both in front of him. He growled at her by way of thanks and then Affie’s face appeared on the screen. She looked tired. And displeased.

  “Gordon, you look thin.”

  Gordon turned from the screen and beamed at Adele. “There”—he laughed, pointing at Affie on the screen—“did you hear that, Mrs. H.? Affie,” he yelled at the screen, “look at this!” He showed his wife the two squares of chocolate. “Look
what they give me here. They call this a ‘snack.’ They keep telling me I’m too fat! And trying to starve me!”

  Adele groaned, took some bowls from a low cupboard, and filled them with crisps she’d bought specially. Then she took them into the living room and laid them in front of the children.

  It alarmed her slightly, the sheer size of all these children. It felt like only yesterday that her flat had been filled with small, muddy-footed children, running in and out, leaving a trail of toys and leaves and crumbs in their wake. Now those small children were static, adult sized, seething with unspoken thoughts and warped emotions. They pounced on the crisps, as though they’d not been fed in days, thank you, Adele, thank you very much. So polite; all those years of being reminded and cajoled into please-and-thank-yous by their parents finally paying dividends.

  Adele sat at a remove, not wanting to be in the kitchen with Gordon yet not feeling quite like she belonged in here either. There was something heavy and peculiar in the atmosphere. Tyler was sitting, as she usually did, curled into Dylan on the sofa. Catkin sat cross-legged on the floor, a piece of schoolwork at her feet, a pen in her hand, her ears plugged with buds attached to an iPod. Fern and Grace sat side by side, slightly awkwardly, as though they didn’t know each other. Willow sat on the window ledge, feet kicking back and forth against the radiator, bangbangbang, chatting stream-of-­consciousness style to Tyler and Dylan about something someone had said about someone else that someone else had said to her that was just so shocking, her mouth falling open, her eyes widening every few words to better communicate the horror of the thing.

  “What happened to your arms, Tyler?” asked Adele, noticing a pattern of fine red scratches over both her forearms.

  Tyler touched her arms, protectively. “Oh. God. Nothing. Just did it getting a football out of the blackberry bushes for some kid.” She shrugged and smiled.