There’s a new English teacher at school: Mrs Austin. Her head wobbles on top of a long neck like a nodding Churchill dog. A secret smile sneaks across my face as I imagine her saying, ‘Oh, yes’ in a deep Leeds accent.
Mrs Austin asks, ‘What makes Caliban’s speech so compelling in this scene?’
No one responds. Undaunted by the steely silence, Austin’s eyes roam the room. They rest on me. Heat rises from my toes and devours my neck, ears, face.
Please don’t ask me.
But she asks my name, then glances at the register.
Just leave me alone.
I shake my head. I tilt it forward so my hair falls in two curtains around my face. I have an answer, but the words are locked deep within me and I can’t summon them to the surface. My classmates’ stares bore tiny holes into me. I clench my hands.
Finally, someone breaks the agonising silence. ‘She doesn’t speak, Miss.’ Sadie’s voice is saturated with smugness.
There’s an awkward pause. Someone must’ve told her about me, surely? Mrs Austin nods, gives an answer herself and moves on quickly.
As we file out of the classroom, Sadie flounces up with Lindsay and Grace at her heels, practically salivating on her legs. Sadie makes a big deal of saying, ‘You’re welcome.’ Grace titters obligingly.
My eyes flee to the ground and my arms wrap around my waist, but inside I’m seething. You cow. I still have a voice, even if I can’t use it. One day, when I can speak again, I’ll tell you exactly what I think of you.
Sadie sticks her nose in the air and leaves.
I sigh. One day, when I can speak again … Yeah, like that’s going to happen. Like I’d risk revealing the truth. No. I’ll stay quiet. After all, there’s no one better than a mute to keep a secret.
CHAPTER THREE
When the bus chucks us out in Brookby after school, there are a few sightseers still milling around, clutching bags of sticky fudge. A pony and trap rattles along the road, carrying a couple of Asian tourists who huddle together against the cold, smiles frozen to their faces.
As I pass the café, I peer through the steamy windows to see if Mum’s still there. She’s wiping down a table with brisk, impatient swipes. I bet she’s craving a cigarette – she has that slightly ratty look on her face.
I can’t get used to seeing Mum with her hair tied back. She hates it, but her boss makes her. ‘Man’s a health and safety Nazi,’ she says. ‘Should’ve seen his face when he found a fake nail in the egg mayonnaise. Had the nerve to accuse me! I mean, it was Electric Cherry, for God’s sake, Megan. Who does he think I am?’
Mum brushes a few loose strands of hair from her face. Her roots are starting to show. They’re dark blonde, in contrast to the yellowy colour she dyes it. I must get my brown, wavy mop from Dad, although I’ve never seen a photo of him.
Mum straightens, spots me and waves. I wave back, then turn away and carry on home.
A row of trees lines the main road. I look up, listening for birdcalls and chirps, the rustle and whisper of wind darting through leaves. The branches form a canopy above me, like parents holding umbrellas over their children. The trees have been here all my life, as ancient and sturdy as Grandpa, though they have survived him by three years.
Mr Wexford dodders along the pavement towards me, shuffling and sniffing like a hedgehog. Back stooped, flat cap perched on his head, a walking stick in his trembling hand, he’s the picture of a frail, kindly old man. But I know better.
Mr Wexford – like many locals – doesn’t approve of Scrater’s Close. Brookby is full of thatched cottages and converted barns, gardens that brim with roses, lavender, honeysuckle. Scrater’s is two long terraces of scruffy houses with rubbish-tip gardens, graffitied garages, and several obnoxious residents.
As I pass him, Mr Wexford’s moustache twitches. It’s tinged pink where he’s spilled his medicine. It would be sweet if he weren’t such a horrible old git. ‘Bloody scallywags,’ he spits.
I try to muster a scathing retort.
Don’t be stupid.
I bite back a gasp. As he passes, Mr Wexford glowers at me. Then, with a whiff of TCP, he’s gone.
I stomp down Scrater’s, glaring at the dirt-coloured garages and the burnt-out husk of a car outside Number 5. Why the hell don’t they move it? Or mow their lawn, for that matter?
Mr Wexford is right. Scrater’s clings to the edge of Brookby like a slug on an orchid. A lot of villagers wish that the whole street could be scooped up and dumped in some grotty city. Then Brookby would actually be in with a chance of winning that stupid ‘Village of the Year’ award they’re all so obsessed with.
Do they think we chose to live here? Did they imagine that people looked around loads of houses, weighed up their options and said, ‘Yes, I’ll take the one with the back door that’s been kicked in and the neighbours who chuck cigarette stubs over the fence, just next to the phone box that’s been smashed to pieces’? Idiots.
As soon as I get home, I prise off my shoes and peel the socks from my feet. I set the shoes in their correct place on the floor, aligning them at a right angle to the scuff mark on the wall.
I head to the kitchen in search of food, but the fridge offers nothing more than a sour, gone-off-milk smell and a couple of shrivelled carrots, and the only thing in the cupboards is a packet of dried cheese sauce that’s three months out of date.
Last night’s washing-up festers in the sink, the plates encrusted with dried tomato sauce. Double rank, Hana would say. She never made me feel embarrassed, though. She’d just laugh, grab a sponge, and help me to clean up.
I can’t cope with this. I have to sort it out now. I let the water run until it’s steaming, then squirt a load of washing-up liquid in the bowl. I reach for the rubber gloves, then pause, a gentle smile on my face. Gran taught me to always wear rubber gloves. She said you could tell a lot about someone from their hands. Hers were wrinkled and gnarled with arthritis, but they were so, so soft. She’d taken care of them all her life. I loved the way her skin folded around her wedding ring, as if it had become a natural part of her body.
I practically grew up at Gran and Grandpa’s. They looked after me while Mum was at work. They did everything they could to fill the gap left by Dad, who buggered off three months after Mum found out she was pregnant. They didn’t speak to him after that. They were ashamed to call him their son.
I close my eyes. I can almost smell the sweet scent of Grandpa’s baking brownies. In an instant, I’m back in their house, sitting at the kitchen table. Grandpa’s wearing a pink, floral apron. I know he’s done it just to make me laugh. It never fails.
‘Here you go, chicken,’ he says, setting a hot tray down in front of me and ruffling my hair. ‘Don’t burn yourself.’
I grab a spoon, poking it through the crust to the wonderfully gooey bit beneath.
I blink and I’m back in our own miserable kitchen, staring at the pile of dirty dishes. I leave them to soak. I align all the mugs in the cupboard so the handles face right, then I tidy up the sprawling mess of Mum’s bills and letters. I sit on the sofa and run my fingers through the tassel on the cushion, then I trace the familiar whirls and flounces of the pattern on the fabric.
I need to get out.
I rush upstairs to change. Then I open my top drawer and pull out Grandpa’s camera. It’s in a special, velvet-lined case. A Canon EOS 5 with a 100–300mm zoom lens. It’s one of the old ones you put film in. Grandpa didn’t upgrade to digital. He said his favourite part of photography was the suspense, the uncertainty, as he waited for his ‘snaps’ to be developed.
I leap down the stairs and get my old bike from the utility room. Outside, I pedal furiously until I reach the cattle grid at the top of the street, where I gently bump over the ridges. On the other side, I charge down the main road, my feet whizzing as I swerve past a couple of donkeys.
I see Mum before she sees me. She clicks down the pavement in a pair of ruby heels, an unlit cigarette dangling from her m
outh, which gleams with coral lipstick. When she looks up, she whips the cigarette out and tries to hide it behind her back.
I coast to a stop next to her. Mum’s hair looks limp, and her make-up is just a thin covering for the tiredness around her eyes. I pretend not to notice her guilty expression.
‘Hello, you.’ She gives me a weary sigh. I wonder if I should change my plans and go home with her. She looks knackered. ‘You off out again?’
I shrug and point in the direction of home, as if to say: ‘I don’t have to.’
She doesn’t get it, though. ‘You don’t know if you’re going out? You might be going that way?’
I shrug again.
Mum rustles a carrier bag. ‘I’ve got some bits here. I don’t think we have much else in.’ She frowns, as if she’s disappointed. It’ll be leftovers from the café: hard baguettes stuffed with sweaty cheese and wilting salad, or a couple of stale slices of lemon cake. I want to tell her it’s all right, I don’t care that it’s not proper food, but we both know that Grandpa would disapprove.
‘Well, I’ll see you at home then.’
One of Mum’s hands is still behind her back. I point at it and raise my brows.
‘What?’ she says, widening her eyes in fake innocence.
I make a grab for her arm, just as she’s about to flick the cigarette into some bushes behind her. She laughs and tries to twist away from me. ‘OK, OK! You caught me.’
She waves the cigarette in my face. I giggle and try to snatch it from her, but she’s too fast. ‘Just one, Megan,’ she pleads. ‘I need one today. Some silly tart thought she saw mould on one of the sandwiches. I tried to tell her it was just a bit of flour, but she went off on one. Made a right scene.’
I smile, then push off from the pavement.
‘Be back before dark!’ she yells as I fly downhill.
I stop at the village green, where a small herd of cows has gathered. There’s a ripple of twitching tails and waggling ears as they try to dislodge flies. I take out Grandpa’s camera and frame a shot of a frisky new calf with its mother, a grand beech tree sweeping into the sky above them.
Soon I’m pedalling along a road that cuts across the heath. I feel like I’ve barely been able to breathe until now. I gulp in lungfuls of air. I’m moving so fast the wind whips tears from my eyes and nips at my knuckles.
I leave my bike in a car park off the main road, then set off down a trail. As I walk, I reach out to touch everything. I want to feel it all: the bristle of a gorse bush, the gentle tickle of leafy bracken, the scratch of tree bark. My limbs loosen and lengthen, my shoulders drop, and my heart rate slows.
Twenty minutes later, I reach a small patch of woodland. A stream darts between the trees, filling the forest with its gentle laughter, and a squirrel spirals down a tree trunk like it’s a helter-skelter. I take a photo of the waning sun shooting spears of light through the leaves.
I settle on a bridge, place the camera down and swing my feet over the edge. I reach into my pocket and draw out a notebook and a pen. After sucking on the lid for a few seconds, I begin to write.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dear Hana,
Today was the first day back at school. It was pretty rubbish. Sadie’s being an über-bitch at the moment. If there were an Olympic sport in bitchery, she’d be a champion. I wish I could’ve told her so. I know you wouldn’t have taken any crap from her.
Jayne’s got this new haircut that makes her look like Prince Harry. I swear, if you could see it, you’d laugh your head off.
What else? We’ve got a supply teacher for Maths. I can’t remember her name but she has rancid breath and you can see her leg hairs poking through her tights. It’s gross, but still more interesting than quadratic equations.
The first tourists arrived a few weeks ago. They were wearing shorts. Shorts! Even though it was frigging freezing. They had bumbags and stupid caps on, and were taking pictures of everything. You’d think they’d never seen a post box before.
I should go now. Mum will be stressing if I’m not back soon.
I’m sorry about what happened. If I could change it all, I would.
I miss you.
Megan xxx
CHAPTER FIVE
Halfway through a spectacularly dull PSHE lesson about Internet safety, I raise my hand and show my permission slip. A quick nod from the teacher and I leave, making my way to the stationery cupboard where I have my sessions with Ms Cole, the psychologist who visits once a week. I imagine she’ll be shuffling her battered deck of cards, ready for me to beat her at rummy again.
The door is usually ajar, but it’s closed today, so I knock and wait. It opens. But the person inside isn’t Ms Cole. I can’t quite believe who it is. Clearly, the feeling’s mutual, as there are a good ten seconds of silence before he manages to speak. ‘Ah, Megan. This, er … explains a lot. Come in, come in,’ says the nice man with a dog called Jasper.
I stay put.
‘Oh, sorry,’ he adds. ‘I’m Mr Harwell. Ms Cole’s replacement. Didn’t you receive the letter that was sent home?’
Evidently not.
Mr Harwell takes a deep breath, pushing it out through his teeth. ‘I thought it would’ve been explained to you. I’ll be taking your sessions from now on.’
I don’t move.
‘I hope that’s OK?’
I liked Ms Cole. Why did she have to leave?
‘Um, look. I didn’t mean to spring this on you. If you just want to come and sit quietly with me, that’s fine. In fact, it would give me a chance to catch up on some notes!’
I risk a quick look. Mr Harwell smiles. It’s a good, genuine smile. I step into the stationery cupboard. A broken photocopier lurks in the corner, draped with dust and cobwebs. The bowing shelves are mounded with boxes, some battered and shabby, others new and almost overflowing with precious supplies of biros and pencils. There’s barely space for the tiny coffee table and chairs that have been crammed in. I sit in my usual seat and start to pick at a hole in the material, digging my finger into the springy foam padding.
While he’s faffing around with paperwork, I sneak another glance at Mr Harwell. He’s clean-shaven, though there’s an overlooked patch of stubble near his wiry, brown sideburns. His eyes are grey and serious, almost too old for the rest of his face. I’d guess he’s in his early thirties.
When Mr Harwell pulls a pen out of his pocket and turns to a new page in his notebook, my gaze flicks back to the floor. What happens now? My breaths become shallow and laboured. Sweat dampens my palms.
‘You’ll be pleased to know that Jasper’s doing fine,’ he says.
Before I can stop myself, I look up and offer a small smile.
Mr Harwell nods, but doesn’t write anything down. ‘Well, thank you once again for coming to the rescue.’
He leans back in his chair and crosses one leg over his knee, like a psychologist in a film. He’d just need to steeple his fingers and rest his chin on them to complete the cliché. ‘I understand you’re quite the expert at rummy?’
I should be, the amount of practice I used to get.
‘Rummy aside, is there anything you particularly enjoyed about your sessions with Ms Cole? Anything you’d like us to continue?’
I shrug.
‘Her records say that you were sometimes able to write to her. There’s no pressure, but if you’d like to write me a note, you’re always welcome to.’
I nod, but make no move towards the blank writing pad he’s left open on the table.
‘I’m afraid we won’t be playing cards today, Megan.’
I glance up, suspicious. This wasn’t how Ms Cole worked. I liked our silent card games. Never mind the fact that, in seven months, I never said an entire word. Why does he want to change everything?
Wait! What if he changes me? What if he tricks me into talking? What if he finds out?
He can’t EVER find out.
No. I can’t! I need to leave!
I start to get up, just as M
r Harwell says, ‘I’d like to try some breathing techniques.’
I stop by the door.
‘It’s OK, Megan. There’s no need to feel self-conscious. We can do them together.’
Just breathing techniques? Nothing more?
‘If you sit down again, I’ll show you.’
I take a few unsteady steps back to my chair.
‘We’re going to start off by taking a nice, deep breath in through our noses, and back out through our mouths. Can you do that with me?’
Mr Harwell has a stray nostril hair that wiggles every time he exhales. He must mistake my smile as a sign that I’m going to join in, because he nods encouragingly. Guess I don’t have much choice now. I lower my eyes and start to match my breaths with his. Slowly in, and slowly out again.
‘Good! Now, what I want you to do, Megan, is start to feel your ribs moving in and out, so it’s a really deep breath. If you put your hands on your stomach, you shouldn’t feel it move at all.’
I try this. For a few moments we fill the room with the sound of our breathing. Mr Harwell’s breath smells of strawberry yoghurt. I suddenly fancy a Fruit Corner. Hana’s mum used to give them to us as a post-school snack on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Wednesdays and Fridays were ‘treat’ days, when we’d get to choose a chocolate bar from the old cream-cracker tin.
I’m just starting to feel like a balloon that will burst if I take any more air in, when Mr Harwell announces that we’ve done enough. Really? That’s it? I just have to sit here and breathe? Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
But then he says, ‘Next week we’ll try some other relaxation techniques.’
He can try. You still won’t talk.
I wince. Mr Harwell doesn’t notice – he’s scrawling something on his notepad. ‘If you’ve got any questions in the meantime,’ he says, tearing the page out, ‘here’s my email address.’
I stare at it for a moment. Ms Cole never gave me her email address. I fold it neatly into four, say thank you in my head, and leave.
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