But, as I turn the corner to make my way back to the main building, I see Mrs Kitts. She looks as though she’s been waiting for hours. My first reaction is one of shock: I can’t understand why she’s still allowed on the school grounds. Freya is, after all, a minor. The school are obviously caught up in either trying to investigate before doing anything drastic, or they are trying to bury the whole ugly thing. Either way, Mrs Kitts looks around and, as though she senses nearby danger, quickly pushes me through the wooden door. It slams against my elbow.
‘Josephine.’ She stops herself from any more aggression. Smiles slowly and leans towards me, searching my eyes. ‘Been working hard?’ she says. I can smell the tang of alcohol and mints on her breath.
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘You obviously are too.’ I want to add ‘at seducing younger girls’, but I manage to stop myself. I can tell she is desperate to ask me how much I know about her and Freya, but she can’t risk a full-blown confession. Instead, she asks about my break. ‘Speak to anyone when you were at home?’ she says.
‘Freya, do you mean?’ I reply. Mrs Kitts doesn’t say anything but she freezes for a second and I can see she’s scared she’s gone too far. ‘Freya?’ I say again.
‘Freya? Oh you spoke to her?’ Mrs Kitts feigns concern. ‘How is she doing? Must have been terrible after that whole Lens episode. Poor thing. Nasty, vicious gossip.’
‘Hmmm. Indeed. Surely I should be asking you the same question, Mrs Kitts. If you spoke to her?’
‘No, no, I didn’t.’ As I’m looking at Mrs Kitts, the sharpness of her features and her dowdy clothes, I’m wondering what on earth Freya could have seen in her. She’d never, ever expressed any interest in girls before, was obsessed with that boy, Guy. Or maybe Freya and Mrs Kitts were in love and Freya never trusted me enough to say and I never saw the signs. Thinking about this is too painful – that our whole friendship was based only on what we had in common – our mothers, the fun times we had together, the boys we kissed – is too much to bear, so I am compelled to draw another conclusion about Freya. I wonder if Mrs Kitts has taken advantage of her after the death of her mother. If that’s the case, then what I’ve done seems even worse. Exposed Freya for her vulnerability, shamed her for it, in front of hundreds of people.
Mrs Kitts sits down, wipes her black pleated skirt flat against her thighs. She looks up at me, pleading. ‘How is she?’
‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘We haven’t spoken. Why did you do it?’ I decide to ask her straight. Gauge her reaction.
Mrs Kitts looks deflated. ‘I couldn’t not. You know her. You must know why. Who was it anyway? Who outed us?’
‘I don’t know. Whoever handed in the proof copy to the printer’s.’
‘Does anyone know it’s me?’ she asks, her voice hitching on the last note.
I shrug, keep my face a mask. ‘Not sure.’
‘Will you say anything?’
‘No. I won’t say anything. If you don’t say anything either.’ There’s a pause. I can’t stop myself from wanting to know if Freya’s let anything on to Mrs Kitts. ‘About things Freya might have told you?’
‘About things she might have told me? Where do I start?’ Mrs Kitts stands up, gains confidence that she’s now got one over me, and starts counting on her hand. ‘Drugs, cigarettes, alcohol.’ She’s mock singing. ‘You’ve got it all haven’t you? Head Girl, perfect life yet . . . all this.’ She’s wiping dust off the shelves with her forefinger. ‘And what if that came out?’
‘It won’t,’ I reply. ‘Because no one will believe you after this. Or care. You think people will take your word against mine now that you’ve been having it off with a pupil? Really?’
Mrs Kitts turns and drops her hand. I can’t work out if she’s looking vengeful, or remorseful but she’s piercing me with her stare. I look right back at her.
‘Bye then,’ I say, in the same sing-song voice she’s just been using. I walk to my books, take them off the shelf and leave the room.
The next week blurs by. The stale period just before the Christmas buzz. Two weeks before the holidays and the days are going painfully slowly. I try to avoid speaking to people on a day-to-day basis, and I haven’t seen Freya at all since the magazine came out. I’ve been down to the san, to try to find her. To see if she’ll talk, and to check that, at the very least, she’s OK. To see if she’ll tell me if it was Mrs Kitts who she told about that night, and if anyone else knows. I need to know to make sure I’m not on the back foot. To make sure I’m ready, with all the information at hand, to attack and discredit both Freya and Mrs Kitts, should anything come out. She’s not there, though. She’s not anywhere in the school at all. In her dorm, which I’ve been into a few times, her mattress lies bare and the only thing that’s left of hers is a hair bobble on her bedside table, knotted with blonde strands. She must have temporarily moved house but I’m too proud to ask anyone where she is, so I spend my whole time eavesdropping around huddled girls, trying to pick up her whereabouts amidst the gossip. The rumours about who she was having the affair with are spiralling, becoming ever more ridiculous. There’s a part of me that just wants to see her. To see how she reacts to me. Beneath all the plotting, the deception, the terror of being caught out, I desperately miss my friend.
Verity has been taking charge with a renewed vigour, trying to make a point to the staff and pupils that she’s an upstanding member of the school, despite what’s going on. She’s there at chapel, standing at the front of the school, instructing the Prefects where to stand. She’s there at games, wielding a lacrosse stick as though it’s a sword; she’s there at mealtimes, a whistle around her neck ready to blow at any pitch above regular-talking level. All this time she’s grinning, teeth slightly sticking out. She’s driving me mad. Mrs Pownall and some of the other governors come and go, questioning the girls about who has seen what. They then move on to the teachers. Everybody is questioned. Mrs Artington, Mrs Mayfield, Miss Berrymede, married teachers, single teachers, part-time teachers. No one gets off. There’s still an atmosphere around the school. A strange negativity that’s permeated the walls. Everyone walks round quietly hunched, whispering to each other. Mrs Allen asks to see me to go through school timetable.
‘We’ve still got the governors asking questions,’ she says, putting away the timetable that I’ve given her.
‘And Freya’s father has been on the phone. He is demanding answers. This has got to be kept in the school, do you understand that? If any of his competitors gets wind of this, it’ll be all over the papers. And just . . . Josephine, you know I’ve got to keep the reputation here.’
‘I know,’ I reply.
‘And of course I’ll have to work out what to do about you and Verity. No one knows exactly what has happened but you understand that the buck stops with you. And Verity.’
‘I had nothing to do with anything,’ I say.
‘Well, I’ve called your father. He’ll be here next week. We’ve got a meeting with him and Verity’s parents. We’ve got to get to the bottom of this. Find out who published and who knew what about Freya and this . . . rumour. I’m not suggesting you had anything to do with it but you understand, as Head Girl, you bear the responsibility. We’ve had a staff meeting and decided to wait until we hear if you’ve got an interview at Oxford or not. If you do and you get in and we decide to take punitive action, we’ll have to deal with that then. The governors will all take a vote. But until that point we’ve got to give you all the best possible chance. Understood?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’ve understood.’
‘Good. You can go.’
‘Wait,’ I say. ‘I mean, sorry, Mrs Allen. Freya? Do you know if she’s . . . is she coming back?’
‘At the moment, Josephine, all I know is that Freya’s father has been ringing me non-stop about his daughter being victimised. He’s furious with the school for allowing it to happen and I’m having to calm him down as well as try and sort this whole mess out. I’m hoping she’l
l come back once interviews have finished and everything has calmed down a bit. Mr Seymour, I think, has agreed to that much and I think then we can try and get to the bottom of all of this with all four of you in the school.’
Mrs Allen’s voice is all tight but, at the same time, it’s comforting that she’s confiding in me. It takes the edge off the fact she’s said Rollo thinks Freya is being victimised. When I leave Mrs Allen’s office I’m stopped by three teachers wanting to know answers to things I was meant to have organised weeks ago. It feels like a blessing, the fact I’m kept super busy with the run-up to Christmas. There’s the carol service to arrange, charity functions and, all this time, I have to wait and hear if I’ve got a bloody interview or not, something that Verity doesn’t have to worry about. The pressure has made me silent. Inconspicuous. After school hours, I’ve taken to wearing black. Black leggings, black T-shirt and black plimsolls. I feel anonymous. The badge is still there, though. Glowing and shining. Giving me hope. Power.
All this time I’d been gliding along the corridors terrified of seeing Freya, having to look her in the eye, but since Mrs Allen told me she’s not coming back until after our Oxford interviews, I can stop thinking of her creeping up on me in the shadows. It feels like everyone’s forgotten about the magazine, and I feel barely a day has passed when I find out from a weeping Sally that all three of us have got an interview at Oxford. Me, Sally and Freya. I wonder if Freya knows and, if not, who will be the one to tell her.
I don’t have to wait long to find out. Sally tells me that, according to Verity, Freya’s interview was listed for yesterday. Knowing I won’t bump into her in Oxford gives me the resolve to stop thinking of her until the day is over. If I let too many thoughts of her into my head, about whether she could ever forgive me, I’ll screw up my own interview tomorrow. At the same time, the idea of her return charges me up. Whilst she is not here I must take the opportunity to focus on succeeding, so once she’s back I can face her knowing I’ve done my best, in the right frame of mind for any investigations that will take place. Pleased with my plan, I spend a fruitful afternoon in my room studying with the curtains shut, by torchlight, so no one can disturb me. Freya might well return to school whilst I’m at my interview and I want to stay hidden so I don’t see her before I go, which might put me off my stride. The next morning I’m up early, ready to go. It’s five thirty and I’m in the sixth-form study eating an apple and drinking black coffee. I go down to Main School, collect my books and check my pigeonhole. Nothing, although I don’t really know what I was expecting.
By the time I arrive in Oxford, my body is bubbling with nerves but my mind is clear. It’s something to do with the symmetry of the spires, the architecture, the light catching the golden stone. This city. This city that pulses through me. The place I’ve been working towards for so long. Over and above everything else in my life. I can’t help but feel a part of it already. The students, milling around with books under their arms, biking to their next lectures, the little cafes full of people reading, talking, studying. I am made for this place. The energy of it all makes me feel high.
The interview is fine. Without Freya or Verity in my eyeline, I cope much better. Impressively, even. Something to do with being away from any reminders of school that sit heavy on my shoulders. The room smells of books and intellect and the chairs are upright and there’s a thin, blue carpet which reminds me of Mrs Allen’s study. The two interviewers are smiling when I leave, nodding between themselves. My Head Girl badge is on full display. They’ve asked me what being a Head Girl means to me. ‘Leadership,’ I tell them. Although I’ve never thought of the badge that way. ‘Responsibility. A moral guide.’ I remember the words Mrs Allen used when she first pinned the badge to my breast.
‘It is a great honour to be a Head Girl in the top girls’ boarding school in the country,’ says one of the interviewers.
‘It is,’ I agree. ‘Indeed. I hope it honours me with good courage for years to come.’
The hour-long session continues and, all the while, they are totally engaged with me. One of them frowns when I talk about a prominent historian’s take on World War Two and says: ‘I’ve never thought of that before. Impressive.’ I leave the room and spend the rest of the day in a small cafe, steadying myself by reading books and papers and eating a slice of cinnamon cake. At five o’ clock, I ring Father from a payphone. There’s no answer and I leave a message, saying the interview has gone fine and then I meet up with Melody Swaffham, who had her interview straight after mine. We have supper and a glass of wine and get a taxi back to school. I’m still feeling high on the journey home and I’m ready to face Freya, who’ll be back anytime now, and Melody and I don’t stop talking, but when we pull up to the main gates, the darkness is interrupted by the headlights of four police cars, parked in the drive.
‘What’s happened?’ Melody asks.
‘I don’t know. Nothing probably. Or they’re probably still trying to work out what happened with Fr—’ Her name gets stuck in my throat.
‘Yes. Sure that’s it,’ she says. She’s looking at me now, eyes wide and fearful. I don’t want to leave the embryonic warmth of the taxi. It swings in to the school drive and we both catch a glimpse of an ambulance. It’s careering up towards the boarding houses. It comes back down and swerves into the main driveway. Three men rush out, whilst Melody and I frost the car window with our breath. It’s coming thick and fast and we have to keep wiping it clean with our sleeves.
‘Josephine?’ she says.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m scared.’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’ I feel faint, my heart sticky in my chest.
‘It’s fine. It’s just – it’s just nothing I’m sure. Maybe a fire alarm?’ I can hear windows sliding open. Girls are now hanging out of their dormitory windows, T-shirt nighties falling down their shoulders, hair wild, as the siren continues wailing.
‘No. It’s not. What’s going on?’ says Melody, again.
‘Shhhh.’ The paramedics throw their doors open and run into the school with a stretcher and first-aid paraphernalia. Someone has opened the door to them, we cannot see who.
‘Shall we go out?’ Melody asks.
‘No. No, let’s wait. We don’t want to interrupt.’
In truth I am frozen. I cannot move. I am torn between getting the hell out of there and going to help but my limbs have solidified. I am still and everything around me hums. We are there for no less than five minutes and it seems like forever. We hold our breaths; there is no more frosting on the window. The door opens again and it is Mrs Allen, looking green. She is wearing a thick, plaid dressing gown, hair in rollers. It is an odd sight, the Headmistress in her night gear. I’d never imagined she needed to sleep. Mrs Kitts is behind her, I can see her gasping, hand up by her mouth. They are running and, behind them, flashes of green as the paramedics hold up the long stretcher. There is someone lying on it. Oxygen pumping into them. I can’t see their face, or hair. The paramedics are leant right over her. There are shoes, though. Shoes, hanging off. They are grey shoes. Grey suede trainers. New. I’ve never seen them before. It’s a strange thing at a girls’ school: everyone is recognisable by their shoes. The only sartorial identity amongst the navy uniforms. These ones though, I do not know.
The laces have been taken out and replaced with fluorescent string. The ankle is small, delicate. And Mrs Kitts is holding a note, waving it in the air and screaming. ‘She’s left a note. She’s left a note!’ She is hysterical, clawing at her top. She’s also holding something else. What looks like a yellow rope, mixed with red. I can’t work out what it is because Mrs Kitts is swinging it in the air like it’s a shot put. As she comes nearer though, I can see the bit of paper she’s holding. There are only three lines on it. And although it is not close enough for me to read, I have a distinctly uneasy feeling about who is beneath that oxygen mask.
2014
I have to play Gracie carefully. Last night, at supper, I had
reminisced about school, trying to get information about Freya and what questions she had been asking. All Gracie had wanted to do, though, was talk about herself, compare our lives and be best friends.
Tonight, too, she’s the same. We’re at supper again and the atmosphere in the room is buoyant, as we’ve been told it is film night, with popcorn in the day room and that we get to vote on what we all want to watch.
‘It’s funny, isn’t it? Where life has taken us. I mean . . . who would have thought, you in here? I always thought how clever you were but deep down you and I were both struggling, weren’t we?’
‘Hmmm. I suppose,’ I say, silently praying for her to shut up. ‘So what other memories do you have from school?’ I ask.
‘I just remember working really. Working and working and trying to keep up. I never could quite keep up. I found it difficult. Not like you.’
‘Yeah, me and Freya – everyone thought we had it easy,’ I say, hoping it will help her open up.
‘Really? Didn’t you?’ Gracie leans back from the wooden dining table, pushes her plate away and crosses her legs.
‘Oh no. You know people expected a lot from us. We were so close and people wanted to know why we worked. As friends, I mean. We are . . . were, rather, quite different.’
I look at Gracie, expecting her to say something but she doesn’t. Then she starts crying. ‘You were lucky to have each other, you know?’
I’m embarrassed that she’s crying in front of everyone, so I quickly offer to go and get her some pudding.
‘Yes, please,’ she says. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s OK.’
When I return she shovels down great mouthfuls and glugs back a plastic tumbler of water.
The Exclusives Page 20