Kat wakes Freya early, before any of the others have stirred. ‘Freya,’ she says, shaking her gently, ‘Freya, wake up.’
Freya mumbles incoherently and rolls away beneath the covers.
‘Come on,’ she says, ‘budge up, it’s cold.’
Reluctantly, Freya shifts across to make room for Kat. ‘What are you doing?’ she mumbles. ‘What time is it?’
‘Still early.’
‘God, your feet are freezing.’ She scoots up closer to the wall, her back still turned to Kat.
‘Shush,’ says Kat, ‘don’t wake the others.’
Dawn hovers on the horizon. Its pale light filters through the thin rose-covered curtains and stretches in a triangle across the ceiling. ‘Do you remember how we used to do this?’ Freya murmurs from under the covers. ‘You hated that top bunk.’
Kat can’t help smiling. It’s been years since they lay like this in the same bed but somehow it feels familiar, two warm bodies lying on a skinny mattress, the slow rise and fall of their breathing. ‘I didn’t hate it,’ she says. ‘I just said that so that you wouldn’t feel so bad about being afraid. I always climbed back up the ladder as soon as you were asleep.’
‘Oh.’
Silence settles over them both as they remember.
‘It was hard, wasn’t it, those first months, with Margaret and Peter . . . in their home,’ says Freya quietly.
‘Yes.’ There is no need for either of them to say anything else. Freya has put her finger on it with those two simple words: their home. A neat little terrace with double-glazed windows and a trimmed square of grass out the back; it couldn’t have been further from the chaos of the life they’d been removed from. They’d been well cared for by the Brownings; warm baths and healthy packed lunches, fruit in the bowl and freshly pressed school uniforms. Their shoes had always fitted and not once did either Margaret or Peter raise a hand to them or steal their pocket money for booze and cigarettes. Suddenly all the things that marked the dysfunction and chaos of life with their own parents – the mornings when their mum hadn’t been able to get out of bed or had lain on the sofa in her own vomit, or the evenings her dad had walked out, disappearing for days on end – had vanished, to be replaced by a cooler, cleaner, more sterile kind of parenting.
The Brownings were a wholesome couple, big on self-improvement and philanthropy. Charity begins at home was an expression they used a lot, yet it always made Kat squirm because it had seemed to prove that rather than being taken on by a desire to create a family, they saw the sisters as projects, two disadvantaged girls they could offer up to the world as symbols of their own benevolence. She’d heard Margaret talking about them at their late-night dinner parties, Kat seated at the top of the stairs in a freshly starched nightie, as she’d talked about social responsibility in that bleeding hearts voice of hers. She’d heard Margaret’s self-congratulatory tone and known then that they were little more than symbols, a way for the Brownings to measure their worth against the rest of society.
But for all their flaws, they were responsible and steady and they were kind to the girls. Sure, Margaret would have rather ironed a basket-load of washing than had a conversation with Kat about the boys she liked or the confusing things happening to her body through puberty; and the day Kat had summoned the courage to tell Peter about the mean girls bullying her at school Peter had just crouched down on one knee so that their faces were level and told her: Don’t come to me with a problem, my girl, come to me with a solution. It was one of his favourite sayings. Kat understood; he wanted them to be independent, to learn to stand up for themselves, but what he didn’t get was that they were already independent, that they’d had to be on the days their parents couldn’t rouse themselves from bed or the nights when they didn’t come home at all. If they’d sat an exam to test them on some accepted code of parenting, the Brownings would have passed with a steady B-, but she supposed it was better than the resounding ‘fail’ her biological parents would have received.
In the end it was inevitable that Kat had played the mother figure to her younger sister and to a certain extent she’d enjoyed it. She’d been happy to be the one Freya ran to when she grazed a knee or got her first period; it was fun to be the one taken into her confidence about first crushes, the one Freya had wanted to celebrate her exam results with . . . enjoy her first legal drink with. Back then, she would have done anything to protect or help her little sister. So what’s changed, Kat wonders? Why does she find herself lying there on the mattress in the still-warm indentation of her sister’s body, feeling so full of rage and resentment?
Simon.
It all boils down to Simon. Kat has finally opened her heart to someone, finally trusted herself to fall in love and Freya has swooped in and stolen him away. She could have put up with many things from Freya, but sleeping with Simon is the worst thing she could have done. Freya could have had anyone. Why did it have to be him?
Her sister is still lying with her back to her, but she can tell from the rhythm of her breathing and the slight tension in her body that she is properly awake now. She swallows and realises she’s going to have to speak. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asks at last, breaking the silence. ‘You can’t ignore it, you know. It’s not going to just go away.’
Freya sighs and rolls onto her back. ‘I wish it would.’
Kat sees the single tear sliding down her sister’s pale face. It drops onto the pillow between them, hitting the fabric with a faint thud. ‘That night. It was early October . . . you’re over three months along.’ Kat has worked it all out in her head.
‘Don’t you think I know that?’ Freya asks, turning to her at last.
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘What can I do?’
‘You could leave. Get an abortion. Get rid of . . . it.’ Neither of them wants to use the word baby.
It makes sense in Kat’s head, but Freya just gives a bitter laugh. ‘Yeah? And where would I go?’ She shakes her head. ‘I’ve got no money. No home. I can’t go back to college in this state and it’s not as if I can return to Margaret and Peter either. Imagine.’
Kat does imagine; she sees the shame blooming on Margaret’s cheeks and Peter’s cold, hard stare. Don’t come to me with a problem, come with a solution. Freya is right. There is no way she can go there.
‘And I know you don’t want me here.’
Kat remains silent.
‘Face it,’ says Freya, ‘I’m out of options.’
‘What if I could get you the money . . . you know, so you could go somewhere nice, a private clinic . . . just enough to pay for the procedure and to help you get back on your feet again afterwards? Enough for transport, a few weeks’ food and rent?’
‘And where would you get that kind of money from?’
Kat swallows. ‘The tin.’
Freya goes quiet for a moment. ‘But that money belongs to everyone. What would you guys live off? We’re barely scraping by as it is. What would the others say?’ She hesitates. ‘What would Simon say?’
Kat shrugs. ‘We’d manage. We’d have to. Besides, by the time anyone has noticed, you’d be long gone. I’d take the blame.’
Freya studies her for a moment. ‘You’d do that for me?’
No, she wants to answer. I wouldn’t do it for you, not this time. She’d be doing it for her and Simon; to return things to the way they were just a few short months ago, before Freya ever arrived at the cottage. ‘Yes,’ she says, convinced at last about what she’s offering, ‘I’d do it . . . on one condition though: if you promise me you’ll go . . . and never come back. If you promise me you’ll leave Simon alone.’
Freya’s gaze snaps back to Kat’s. There is a fire in her eyes but her words, when they come, are like ice. ‘Me leave him alone?’
Kat nods.
‘You think I seduced him?’ In the pale morning light, Kat sees her sister’s eyes blaze. ‘You think I stole him from you?’
Kat swallows. ‘I understand. Bel
ieve me, I understand better than most. He’s a charismatic guy. I saw the effect he had on girls at university when he turned his spotlight on them. Honestly, I don’t blame you for getting swept up in that.’
‘You don’t blame me?’ Freya is wide-eyed with incredulity and shock. She shakes her head. ‘Kat, I didn’t seduce him.’ She swallows and looks up to the empty space above their heads. ‘He raped me.’
Kat stares into Freya’s perfect blue eyes. She waits for them to crinkle with amusement, for that smile to creep across her pretty china doll face. Got you! But Freya’s eyes stay fixed and still, staring at the ceiling. ‘Come off it,’ she begins, ‘I really don’t think—’
‘Don’t!’ says Freya. ‘Don’t tell me I’m wrong. Don’t take his side.’
‘Freya, I’m not taking sides. I just think you’re wide of the mark here. That night was crazy. We were all off our heads. But saying Simon raped you? Come on. We’d all seen the way you’d been flirting and flitting around him.’
‘What? I was being friendly. Trying to make your friends like me. To accept me. I was no different with Simon than I was with Ben . . . or Mac.’
‘So you were flirting with them all? Throwing yourself at them like some cheap tart? Simon . . . Mac . . . Ben too, eh? When Carla wasn’t around?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Freya looks genuinely confused.
‘Don’t play the innocent. You knew what you were doing . . . flicking your long blond hair, fluttering your big blue eyes. You just couldn’t help yourself. You knew how I felt about Simon and yet you still went ahead and slept with him.’ Kat is struggling to keep her voice to an angry whisper. ‘You took him from me.’
‘I took him from you? Oh yes,’ Freya gives a bitter laugh, ‘I lay down, passed out on the floor, off my head with mushrooms and spliffs and beer and just stole him away.’ She hisses the words at her. ‘Kat, I’m sorry to burst your bubble but none of this is about you. This is about Simon. About his power trip. He’s loving lording it over everyone here. Don’t you see that?’
Kat shakes her head. ‘Just for once in your life, Freya, would you not play the victim?’
‘But I am the victim. He took advantage of me that night. I came round and there he was—’ Freya bites her lip. ‘It was horrible.’
‘Is that right?’ Kat shakes her head. ‘Well excuse me if I just can’t quite believe you when you seem so happy to stay here . . . to spend your time with someone so forceful, so manipulative.’ She gives a low, bitter laugh. ‘You with your flirting and your fawning over him.’
‘Is that what you see?’ Freya shakes her head. ‘God, Kat, open your eyes. Why do you think I leave the room or move away, whenever he comes near? Why do you think I spend so much time out of the cottage now? I can’t stand it. He’s always watching me, touching and pawing at me.’ Freya lowers her voice to a low whisper. ‘He’s not a nice man. I really think – I think he could be dangerous.’
Kat bursts out laughing, a high-pitched sound that makes her clap her hand over her mouth as soon as it is released into the room. Dangerous? Simon? No. Freya is just lashing out. She’s in denial, can’t face the truth of the situation she has got herself into. ‘Why don’t you leave then? If it’s so awful here, just go. Take the money I’m offering you. There’s your way out.’
Freya glances about the room. ‘There is – there is another complication.’
Kat raises an eyebrow.
‘Mac.’
‘What about him?’
‘I can’t be sure . . . it was such a strange night . . . I don’t think we, you know. But everything is so mixed up in my head.’ She turns to Kat, spots of colour burning on her cheeks. ‘It might have been him. The baby could be his.’
‘Well there you go then,’ says Kat with relief. ‘Of course you can’t be sure. That’s exactly what I was saying. We were all out of it. You slept with Mac. You slept with Simon. You don’t even know who the father is.’ Kat can’t hide the disgust in her voice. ‘Freya, trust me, just take the money. Go. Get an abortion. Get on with your life. It’s your best option.’
‘But I need you to believe me.’ Freya looks close to tears. ‘I need you to know that I wouldn’t do that to you, Kat.’
Kat studies her sister’s face. She can’t believe her. She won’t, because if Freya wouldn’t do that to her, it means her story about Simon is true, and she knows in her heart he would never do that. Not to Freya. Not to her sister. Kat turns to study the vacant space above their heads. The silence that hangs over them is her answer.
‘OK,’ says Freya, finally. ‘I’ll go. Get me the money and I’ll leave. Right away.’
Kat nods. ‘Fine.’
They lie there beside each other a moment longer, but the camaraderie of earlier has dissipated. There is no sisterly feeling any more, just the cold light of day creeping through the curtains and a bitter taste burning at the back of Kat’s throat. Rape? She won’t believe it of Simon. She just won’t.
Kat is agitated for most of the morning. Rain splatters on the windows and everyone is stuck inside the house, bored and fidgety. Freya stays huddled upstairs on her bed and the biggest excitement of the morning comes when Ben croaks hoarsely down the stairs that the roof has started leaking, sending Kat and Simon scurrying upstairs with an array of plastic bags and saucepans in a vain attempt to stem the flow. It really is the worst kind of day.
After another measly lunch, Simon and Mac sit together on beanbags, playing chess while Carla flits about the house, up and down the stairs, carrying hot drinks and blankets to Ben. They can all hear his coughing but it sounds different, somehow looser, easier. Simon, more than once, throws Kat an I-told-you-so look. For Kat, though, the day is torture. She sits curled by the window re-reading a well-thumbed copy of Pride and Prejudice, her eyes glazing over the same few paragraphs, her attention drifting frequently to the kitchen doorway. She thinks of the money in the tin and of Freya’s whispered promise to leave if she steals it for her, and knows she will have to pick her moment carefully.
‘Checkmate,’ says Simon at last, breaking the silence of the room. He topples Mac’s king over and it falls onto the chequerboard with a loud clunk.
Mac gives a small nod. ‘You win . . . again.’
‘Come on,’ Simon says, stretching like a cat. ‘I’ve had enough of this.’
‘You want to go out in this weather?’ Mac asks, incredulous.
‘What’s the problem? Scared of a little rain?’
‘No . . . it’s just . . . well, where are we going?’
‘Get your coat. I’ll tell you on the way.’
Mac raises an eyebrow at Kat but she just shakes her head; she doesn’t know what Simon’s up to, but she watches with relief as they gather their boots and coats and minutes later step out into the blustery day. It will be easier now, with them gone.
She waits for a minute or two, wanting to be certain they have gone, watching the rain streak across the windows and obscure the lake completely from view, until eventually Carla appears on the stairs with an empty tray in her hands. ‘Is Freya OK?’ she asks. ‘She’s been in bed all day.’
‘Yep, I think so,’ says Kat, turning from the window. ‘Probably just got her period.’
Carla looks worried. ‘I hope she’s not coming down with Ben’s bug.’
‘Mmmm,’ murmurs Kat. ‘He sounds a bit better.’
‘Yes,’ agrees Carla, but she won’t meet her eye and Kat knows she’s still angry with her for taking Simon’s side.
Carla heads for the kitchen. Kat hears her clattering around, then the slam of the back door as she heads outside to use the toilet. She thinks of the money and seizes her chance.
It’s quiet in the kitchen. As she tiptoes across to the shelves she justifies what she’s doing. With Freya gone things can carry on as before, as if she’d never even been there in the first place. They’ll find other ways to raise money. They could sell eggs, or vegetables in the spring, when things begin to grow again. Yes
, she thinks, get rid of Freya and everything will return to how it was before.
She is just reaching for the tin when the sound of footsteps behind her makes her start. ‘Oh!’ she exclaims, jumping around, one hand to her heart, to see Ben standing in the doorway in his bobble hat and pyjamas with a blanket draped across his shoulders, his face pale beneath his wild, ginger beard. ‘You made me jump.’
‘I can see that,’ he says, shuffling into the kitchen. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes,’ says Kat, flustered, ‘although shouldn’t I be asking you that? What are you doing out of bed?’
‘Water,’ he says, shaking his empty glass at her.
‘Here, give it to me.’ She takes the glass from his outstretched hand, fills it and returns it to him, watching him down the contents in several large gulps.
‘Steady on,’ she says and waits, hoping he will take himself back upstairs but instead he pulls out a chair and slumps at the kitchen table.
‘I’m so sick of lying up there staring at the ceiling. There’s only so many times you can count the cobwebs or read back issues of Melody Maker. I wish we had a few more books. Or some music. Anything.’
She smiles and waits, thinking of the tin on the shelf behind her. ‘Want some aspirin?’
‘No thanks, Carla has been force-feeding them to me. I swear if you shook me I’d rattle.’ He runs his hands across his straggly beard. ‘I feel like a piece of crap.’
‘You don’t look much better,’ admits Kat.
‘Probably don’t smell too good either,’ he grins.
‘Want a cup of tea?’ she relents, and when he nods she knows the money will have to wait a little longer.
‘None of that rosehip shit though. Just give me a proper brew.’
Kat nods. ‘Coming right up.’
The Shadow Year Page 24