by Helen Black
Chapter Eight
Lilly swallowed three aspirins and pushed her hair off her face. Her hand felt clammy.
Sam scowled at his toast. ‘I want some bacon.’
Lilly felt her stomach lurch. ‘How about cornflakes?’
‘I need protein,’ he said. ‘We’ve been doing it at school. It’s what makes us grow.’
Lilly lowered herself into the chair next to Anna.
‘William Mann is four inches taller than me,’ said Sam, ‘and his mum makes him bacon every day. And eggs.’
‘William’s dad is six foot two,’ said Lilly.
‘He probably had a cooked breakfast each morning.’
Lilly sighed and moved last night’s empty bottle. The smell was enough to make her retch.
‘Are you okay, Lilly?’ asked Anna.
She wasn’t about to admit she’d polished off nearly an entire bottle of wine on an empty stomach. ‘I feel a bit off colour,’ she said. ‘Maybe it was something I ate.’
‘Maybe you are pregnant,’ said Anna.
Lilly was too shocked to speak.
‘When women are sick in the morning they often have a baby,’ said Anna. ‘I saw it many times with my mother.’
‘I’m not pregnant.’ She turned to Sam, whose eyes were wide with alarm. ‘I’m definitely not pregnant.’
Sam began to cry.
Lilly put her head on the table. ‘Jesus.’
Anna put her hand on Sam’s shoulder.
‘Don’t touch me,’ he wailed.
Lilly held out a reassuring hand. ‘I know this is tough, big man.’
‘I don’t want her here,’ Sam wailed.
If Lilly’s head were not pounding enough, her son’s anguish was the tipping point. Why had she ever agreed to have Anna here?
Anna looked at Sam, nodded, and got to her feet.
Lilly caught her breath. If Anna walked out, she’d be in breach of her bail conditions and they’d both be up shit creek without a paddle.
‘Anna, please don’t leave.’ Lilly turned to Sam. ‘We can make this work, love.’
‘I am not going to leave,’ said Anna. ‘I make the bacon for Sam.’
Sam wiped at his tears and watched Anna pull a plastic pack out of the fridge.
‘Two pieces?’ Anna asked.
‘Yes please,’ he whispered.
‘How about you, Lilly?’
Lilly took one look at the raw rashers, the pink porkness of it all, and ran from the room.
* * *
Lilly wiped the sweat from her face into her hair. Not a good look. Her mouth still tasted of acid bile. She decided to have a lie down.
‘You haven’t forgotten, have you, Mum?’
Sam stood at the foot of her bed, his mouth greasy from his breakfast.
‘I haven’t forgotten your bad manners, young man,’ she said.
He rolled his eyes. ‘I meant the service.’ He gestured to her dressing gown, the belt lost years ago and replaced by an old school tie of David’s. ‘You can’t go like that.’
The school service for Charlie Stanton.
‘It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to go,’ said Lilly.
Sam threw his arms around him like a windmill. Even watching made Lilly dizzy.
‘But everyone’s going. I can’t be the only one whose mum’s not there.’
‘What about your dad?’ asked Lilly.
‘He’s got to work.’
‘So have I,’ said Lilly.
‘Cara’s going to be there.’ He turned to leave. ‘She said you wouldn’t go.’
Lilly’s spine straightened at the thought of Botox Belle, the most upright she’d been all morning. ‘I’ll see you at eleven.’
This 40 message thread spans 10 pages
[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] ≫
Wake Up and Smell the Coffee Little Lamb at 5.30 I am so excited I can’t sleep.
The shooting at Manor Park must finally alert the people of Britain to what these foreigners are really like.
Every paper and TV station is covering it!
Wake Up and Smell the Coffee Blood River at 5.50 I know exactly what you mean, Little Lamb.
The great Enoch Powell predicted this so long ago but the public wouldn’t listen.
Wake Up and Smell the Coffee Fire Starter at 6.10 They were too busy listening to Red Ken and the rest of the liberal middle-class elite.
Wake Up and Smell the Coffee Blood River at 6.21 But now the immigrants have taken the struggle to them and bitten them right where it hurts, they can’t ignore this problem any longer.
The leftist press, usually so determined to pretend that multicultural Britain is working just fine, has been forced to recognise that these interlopers are not just a threat to our culture but our safety as a nation.
Wake Up and Smell the Coffee Saxon King at 6.25 But we can’t just sit and gloat or that poor kid will have died in vain.
We must keep the pressure on.
Wake Up and Smell the Coffee Little Lamb at 6.36 Agreed.
Wake Up and Smell the Coffee Blood River at 6.40 Agreed.
Wake Up and Smell the Coffee Fire Starter at 6.42 Agreed.
Snow White didn’t have time to read the other posts but was sure each one would pledge support. Their time had come and each must play their part.
She clucked at the kitchen. The girls had left their oily plates and discarded sausages on any available surface. Grandpa had never allowed her to leave the house until all was shipshape. He would have beaten her for this unholy mess.
She would have a word with the girls when they returned tonight. School discipline would sort them out, as it had their elder brother, but in the meantime it fell to Snow White to whip them into shape. Their father was a good man but was far too soft when it came to children. They would whinge and whine and call her a nag, but they needed to learn about responsibility.
As she wiped a cloth through a smear of ketchup she turned her mind to her own responsibility to the Stantons, and the cause. She held up her chin. She had a duty to her town and country.
‘You’re a good man, Jack McNally,’ said Lilly.
‘I know.’
‘A saint.’
‘I know.’
Lilly rubbed a tea towel over her stiletto-heeled boots. ‘Like Mother Teresa but without the headscarf.’
‘Yep.’
‘Or Padre Pio, without the bleeding hands.’
She was making light of the situation but knew he was placing his job on the line to help her. Sometimes she wondered how far she would be prepared to push him.
‘You’re a martyr,’ she said.
‘It’s nice of you to say but I’m still puzzled,’ he pointed to her footless fishnet stockings, ‘as to where you left the other half of your tights.’
Lilly wiggled her toes. ‘I got them for a sixties party.’
‘But you’re going to a funeral.’
‘Prayer service,’ she corrected. ‘And they’re the only ones clean.’ She pulled on her boots. ‘Besides, you can’t see my feet in these.’ She zipped them up to her knees and smoothed down her skirt. Only a flash of fishnet showed in the split. ‘Whaddya think?’
Jack whistled. ‘I think you should skip the sermon.’
‘Easy, tiger, you’re here to babysit.’
Jack sighed and followed Lilly to the door. ‘Is she upstairs?’
‘Hardly comes down.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘But if she does I’m reliably informed she makes a mean eggs and bacon.’
She jumped in the car, started the car engine and wound down the window. Jack was inspecting the door frame.
‘This seems better,’ he said.
Lilly swallowed a sudden feeling of guilt. ‘I think it’s dried out.’
Jack frowned at the rain that had been pouring all night and showed no sign of stopping anytime soon.
Lilly was never on time. Her mum always said she’d be late for her own funeral. Well, not this one. She pulled i
nto Manor Park with fifteen minutes to spare.
Her pulse fluttered as she passed the cameras and microphones at the gate but she reminded herself that they had no idea who she was. There was absolutely no need to panic. She would glide into the school.
‘Fuck a duck,’ she yelled. The place was already mobbed with cars parked right down the drive. There were so many 4 x 4s it was like an off-road rally.
She drove round the buildings, determined to find a place nearer to the chapel. For one it was still peeing it down, and for another she could barely walk in her heels.
On her second tour she spotted someone pulling out. ‘Oh, baby, come to Mama.’
She pulled onto the gravel, ignoring the ‘Teachers Only’ sign. Surely today was an exception.
She hadn’t even got out when the Amazonian figure of Mrs Baraclough loomed over the windscreen. ‘You can’t park here, Mrs Valentine.’
Lilly peered up at the headmaster’s secretary, who seemed even taller and wider than usual in her grey suit. Why did the woman insist on calling her ‘Mrs’? She knew full well she and David were no longer married.
‘There’s nowhere else,’ she said.
‘Back field has been designated for parents,’ said Mrs Baraclough. ‘All the way down to the ha-ha.’
Lilly imagined what a quagmire it would be on the pitches stretching all the way down to the dip that had once kept wild animals out of the mansion house gardens.
‘But I’ll be late if I go back down there now.’
Mrs Baraclough raised one eyebrow and Lilly knew it was pointless to argue. She gunned the engine and pulled out, with the gargantuan woman’s voice ringing behind her: ‘The speed limit on school grounds is fifteen miles per hour.’
Lilly circled the drive, waited for Mrs Baraclough to go back inside and took back her place in exactly the same spot. She jumped out of the car. It was less than five hundred yards to the chapel. If she ran she would be bang on time.
With her head held high she strode off: ‘Who pays the fees round here?’
With less than ten feet to solid ground, her heart sank as the grass gave way to something softer. Her feet sank low in the sludge, her heels making a gassy slurp with each step. She tried walking on her tiptoes but fell forward, only her hands stopping her from falling headfirst into the mud.
‘There is no such thing as God,’ she said out loud. ‘And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.’
She heard tutting from behind and saw the chaplain and his wife huddled under their umbrella. They glared at her before passing.
At last she reached the school, her boots brown to the ankle, her hands desperately in need of a wash. She headed for the loos, but halfway down the corridor collided with Mrs Baraclough.
‘You’re late, Mrs Valentine,’ she said.
‘I need to…’
‘No time for that.’ Mrs Baraclough spun Lilly around and guided her into the chapel.
There was nothing else for it. When she thought no one was looking, Lilly opened her jacket and wiped her hands on the lining.
Alexia hung up her coat. A MaxMara wraparound she had got her father to pay for at London Fashion Week two years ago. It was soft and stylish, yet it felt dated. She’d never before had to wear anything for more than a season.
What she needed was something timeless. Dior or Yves Saint Laurent. She knew she need only pick up the phone and he’d have something sent over, but what would that achieve? All this hard work, this denial, this poverty, would be for nothing. He’d smile in that condescending way of his and congratulate himself that, once again, he’d been right all along.
Alexia couldn’t bear to give him the satisfaction. She’d come this far and she’d stick it out. She’d prove to him that he was wrong about her.
She turned away from the coat and logged on. She’d spent hours in the racist chat rooms, ploughing through the vitriol to find any mention of the girl’s whereabouts. There was a lot of speculation, some less sanguine than others, but no one seemed to know for sure.
She went into her ‘favourites’ and clicked on The Spear of Truth. How on earth had that become one of her most used websites? She didn’t consider herself a left-wing person or anything—God, all that politically correct stuff got right up her nose—but she knew enough black people to know these Internet nutters were spouting a load of rubbish. She had shared a room in school with a girl from Saudi Arabia and was damned sure her parents weren’t on benefits.
‘What’s happening, Posh?’
Alexia sighed and wandered over to Steve’s office. Another day of his carping might drive her over the edge.
He sat on the edge of his desk and struck a match. Alexia pointed to the ‘No Smoking’ sign on the wall. ‘Does the ban mean nothing to you?’
Steve blew a perfect ring that floated to meet the sign. ‘It only applies to public buildings,’ he said.
‘And places of work.’
Steve took a deep drag. ‘This is my home.’
Alexia looked around at the peeling woodchip, the framed clippings on the wall, a Kylie calendar stuck permanently open on May 2002.
‘You do not live here,’ she said.
‘Tell my wife that.’
‘I’ll sue you if I get cancer.’
He dug into his pocket and slammed a fistful of change on the desk. ‘Take it in advance.’
Alexia shook her head and headed back to her computer.
‘Got anything for me?’ Steve called after her.
She ignored him and went into the site. The forums were frenzied with hysterical predictions for an all-out race war. She scrolled down the page, hoping to find something—anything.
Wake Up and Smell the Coffee Snow White at 9.55
I truly believe that every one of us has a part to play in the bringing about of change to this great nation. We will all be called upon to fight, each in our own way.
Today I am going to a memorial for the poor child whose death brought about this momentous battle, and I ask you all to offer your prayers.
‘There’s a service,’ said Alexia. ‘For the boy.’
‘I’ve seen it on the telly,’ he said. ‘It’s locked up tighter than Broadmoor.’
‘That’s why I’m not there.’
Steve ran his nicotine-stained fingers through his hair. ‘I had thought you could get in this place?’
‘In the dead of night, maybe,’ Alexia rolled her eyes.
‘If it were me,’ Steve bared his yellow teeth. ‘I’d at least give it a fucking try.’
Lilly looked up at the super-sized picture of the dead boy that hung from the rafters. Such a handsome boy. Such a waste. His mother sat on the first row, flanked by Luella, head to toe in black. She turned and glared at Lilly.
Mrs Stanton gazed into the middle distance, her face a portrait of anguish. That’s how I would look if it were Sam, thought Lilly.
Charles’s house master, a wiry man who Lilly had always suspected to be gay spoke at length. ‘We shall all remember him as a fine boy who gave of his best,’ he said. ‘A boy of whom this school and his family were rightly proud.’
He droned on and Lilly tried not to watch as his mother swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand.
‘I could think of a hundred things to say about him,’ said the house master. ‘But I think it better if I leave that to his best friend.’
He put out his hand and beckoned a boy to the stage. He was one of the boarders Lilly had seen at the shooting. He was smart in his house tie, and the lapel of his blazer gleamed with honours for football, rugby, swimming and athletics. His carrot coloured hair was smoothed against his skull, as befitted the occasion, yet he still walked with an undeniable swagger.
‘I’m sure every teacher at Manor Park will tell you that Stanton was a fine pupil.’ The boy’s voice boomed with a clarity that belied his age. ‘But I want to tell you about the real Charlie, a fantastic mate and a top man. The sort you could rely on, the sort who’d stand by you.’
He looked at the giant picture behind him and smiled. ‘He was one of the lads to the end—and in an age where people change their opinions as often as their socks, his steadfastness is to be celebrated.’
Lilly stretched out her feet under the pew in front, her heels following the grooves in the oak-panelled floor. The boy clearly loved an audience and Lilly’s backside was getting numb.
‘And those who came here and snuffed out Charlie’s life probably thought he deserved it,’ he gazed across the congregation. ‘That he was just another posh kid with no idea about the world. But I can tell you, and them, that he knew perfectly well about what mattered in this world.’
He paused, holding every eye upon him.
‘Because, ladies and gentlemen, Charlie Stanton had integrity.’
When the organist struck up the chords to the final hymn, Lilly sighed with relief. She was desperate to stretch her legs.
Everyone stood. Everyone except Lilly.
Her left heel was caught between two boards. She tugged at her foot but it was caught fast. She tried to reach underneath the row in front to release it but, short of crawling on her knees, she couldn’t reach. When the man next to her glared she pulled herself upright, her right leg bent, her left still stretched in front of her.
‘Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,’ Lilly warbled as she tried to balance.
At last, when she could hold her pose no longer, she gave a frantic pull that sent her prayer book into the air. Her foot came free, but only after she heard the snap of her heel.
The headmaster thanked everyone for coming and released the pupils back to class. The parents would be offered refreshments in the Great Hall. Lilly decided to wait until everyone left before hobbling back to her car. Marilyn Monroe had famously shaved off half an inch from one heel to achieve her famous wiggle, but Lilly was not a fifties film star and this was not half an inch.