by Clare Boyd
While Barry slept upstairs, she discarded one snapshot after the other, her mind stuck in the unpleasant groove of a day that she had wanted to forget.
PC Yorke and PC Connolly had left hours ago. They had asked many questions. At first she had felt important, and then empty. She had wanted to talk to Barry before he went to bed but the words never came out. She had wanted to ask him if she had been mistaken. She didn’t feel confident about any of it anymore, and she was fretting about the role Deidre had played. Her sister had always been the strong-minded, unwavering one of the two of them. While Mira shilly-shallied over which biscuit to choose from an assortment box, Deidre would snatch the one she wanted without hesitation. There seemed to Mira to be so many considerations and uncertainties and options in an average day; she found it hard to get through without prevaricating over something or other. If Deidre hadn’t been there, would Mira have actually made that call?
Before Deidre had squeezed herself back into her car to return home – most definitely over the limit after three gin and tonics – she had praised Mira for ‘doing the right thing’ and she had reminded her of all the little babies who had died because people turned a blind eye. Nevertheless, ‘the right thing’ was beginning to feel like a grey area. Was it too late to take it back? Would it be worth calling PC Connolly again, and talking through her doubts? She couldn’t imagine police people looking kindly on doubts.
Uneasiness hung in the air around her. The Bradleys’ house next door, which had for so many years sat benignly next to theirs, seemed now to have an iniquitous glow. Every time she thought about Gemma, her stomach jumped into her throat.
By interfering, she had thrown everything off balance.
Her involvement did not sit well in her heart. Mira was sifting urgently through the photographs for answers. There was a score to settle in her past. She knew, logically, that there was no connection between her own childhood and Rosie’s. Rosie’s was privileged and elitist and cosseted. Rosie was unaware that private schools, like New Hall Preparatory, only educated 7 per cent of the country, and she would definitely be unaware that 93 per cent of the country did not call toilets ‘loos’. Whereas Mira’s childhood had been normal. She had been educated at the local state comprehensive, whose pupils thought the children at the private school down the road were a ‘bunch of knob-ends’. And she had a mother who called a toilet a toilet, and cleaned it herself, by the way. They had been brought up in different worlds. But at the same time she knew there was a deep-seated tug from the core of her that drew her to Rosie. The protective urge was fierce, as though she had known Rosie in previous lives. Before Rosie had moved in, Mira had thought Chloe, with her long locks of rusty red hair, was unique, especially beautiful. When Chloe had sent her goodbye note in the blue plastic bucket, Mira had cried.
The muted colours of the faded Kodak moments in front of her were becoming like pieces of a jigsaw, where the bigger picture on the front of the box was forever mutating into another scene. The emerging picture scared Mira, but she was too curious to stop looking now. Her memory was on rewind, hurtling towards her younger self again, to see that girl whose wide eyes had been as vulnerable as Rosie’s once upon a time.
The cream cardboard of the first page of the album was still blank. She was forever indecisive.
There was silence next door now as she opened the next envelope of photographs, sticky as though fresh from the developers.
The first photograph in the pack was a collision on her senses. The curled edges of a nightmare lay in her fingers. Craig Baxter. The pulse at her throat throbbed. His smooth forehead, his overgrown crest of black hair, the turned-up upper lip, feminine, contrasting with his muscled forearm that wrapped around Deidre’s neck. This, Mira had hidden under her mattress all those years ago. Every night, she had reached for it, snapped on her torch, and gazed at him in the circle of light.
The dining room grew hotter. There was a crease across his middle where Mira remembered folding the photograph in half to hide it properly. She studied Craig’s features, hungry for a morsel. His limbs, slouched onto the beige leather couch, the length of them, the bulk of his thighs, the broad shoulders. A packet of cigarettes rolled up into one sleeve; keys to his car in one hand, the other behind his head; one eyebrow raised towards the camera. At twenty-two, he had been a real man, with a job, a Ford Grenada with two exhausts, and money in his leather wallet. But her sister had him.
There was an ache in her belly as her eyes rolled over his body under the white T-shirt. The cotton had smelt of the smoke which had billowed from the barbeque that day. When the wind changed direction, they had shuffled their chairs round the small patio, like none of them had legs. Craig closer to Mira each time, their thighs almost touching. She had locked her legs together, stared down at her bare feet, at the flecks of rain disappearing into the warm patio slabs. Aware of his hands so close to her body, she sipped at her soda pop too frequently.
‘Mira, get the kebabs going, will you?’ Her mother’s voice, her back to them, eyes in the back of her head.
Everything had belonged to Deidre, even their mother’s love. Mira had been angry, and, in the light of Craig’s attention, entitled to get something of her own. Craig’s attention was revelatory.
In the end, she couldn’t resist his continual advances, the stolen moments, the comforting grip of his hot hand holding hers under the table. The slow steps, to drag out their time together, the fluttering in her stomach. Her shoulder socket pulling as he led her by the hand, the path underneath her feet becoming soft, the smell of the damp leaves, the noise of other school friends passing by so near, unaware of their presence a few feet away. The feel of his lips on hers, mingled with the musty reek of her uniform. She sprayed perfume on her neck and in between her legs in the toilets before meeting him. Thursdays after school became a regular date. Her self-consciousness, the thrill, the greedy joy in his blue eyes, flicking from her chest to meet her gaze as he unbuttoned her school shirt. Mira swooned at the memory. The euphoria of that weekly tryst came back to her as if it was yesterday. After their fumble in the woods, they would walk and talk, like a normal boyfriend and girlfriend, or maybe even like a brother and sister. Nobody questioned them; he was Deidre’s boyfriend.
‘I’ve got to stop off at the newsagents to get more milk. Mum went mad at me when there wasn’t any this morning.’
‘Your mum blamed you for that?’ he asked incredulously, ruffling the tip of his quiff lightly. Mira admired the flattering angle of his face, as he dipped his chin, pouted a little, like a model.
‘Yeah, course. They blame me for everything.’
‘I saw Deidre knock that milk over with my own eyes.’ At last, there was someone to bear witness. He might not have spoken up for Mira at the time, but he had registered her mother’s bias. Craig was rooting for the underdog, but hadn’t quite found his voice yet; like her, she supposed.
‘I’m used to it.’ This wasn’t true. Mira never got used to it. Every injustice carved a sharp groove onto her heart.
‘You should stand up for yourself.’
‘No point,’ she shrugged.
He picked a strand of her waist-length hair, and twirled it in his fingers, a habit of his that sent waves of pleasure through her. When he did this, she mapped her future out with him: her place lying next to him in his bed, the shiny tiles of his flat that she would clean for him, the meals she would prepare for two. The fantasy had kept her going, helped her to get up and out to school in the mornings.
Before Craig, Mira had been in the background, blending in, efficient without a fuss. She had kept it simple, let the days roll by, pottered along unnoticed.
They never made reference to the mammoth nature of their betrayal. Their kissing and fondling existed in a moral vacuum, exempt from any possible consequences, desire burning out any guilt. Mira learned that cheating could take place in a special mental compartment. Her judgement and outrage at others who cheated was as solid as ever. Her own
situation was different. Every cheater wants to justify their cheating, to diminish their wrongdoing, and Mira was no different. At fourteen years old, she was naive about the cost of that denial. However much she hated her sister, she had never consciously set out to hurt her.
Now, in her stuffy dining room, all grown up, she contemplated a life with Craig, whom she had loved, and wondered how life could have been if it had not gone so spectacularly wrong.
Mira heard the door behind her open. Barry stood behind her, hair ruffled, in his stripy pyjama bottoms and T-shirt.
‘What are you doing still up?’
‘Couldn’t sleep.’
He sat down on the chair next to her, glancing briefly at the table of photographs.
Mira lugged the album across the table to show Barry. ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’
‘Are you feeling all right about all that stuff today?’
‘The police said they’re dealing with it, so that’s that.’ The embarrassment of her overreaction pinched and plucked at her cheeks.
He let out a breath, as though relieved. ‘As long as you’re okay.’
‘Rosie’s being looked out for now.’
‘Good. I’m back off to bed.’ He kissed her on the forehead.
Tears stung her eyes. She had a sliding feeling, as though she was slipping into the shadows, again peripheral and insignificant, a nuisance. She bit her lip and her eye caught a photograph of herself standing in the infamous brown-flowered dress, when it was too big for her. Almost belligerently, she stuck it down slap-bang in the middle of the first page of the album, a little wonky. She would be the star of this album. She could own her own story. Perhaps she was sick of being in the background, of questioning her decisions, of questioning her very existence. It was time to put herself at the very centre of her own life. And if that meant upsetting a few people along the way, then so be it.
Strangely, the very decision to be proactive, to stick that first photograph down, diminished the angst she felt about Rosie, and it helped her to find some peace that day, and finally some sleepiness too.
Chapter Fifteen
TOP SECRET
* * *
Dear Mummy,
* * *
Noah told me he wanted to put the policemens and policewomans – SOOOO CUTE – in the Worry Box at school. I laughed at him and I told him how to say it properly without the extra ssssss. But I think I do too. Not actually put them inside, like DUH! they wouldn’t fit, but put my thoughts about them inside. I have never put anything in the Worry Box. I bet Noah hasn’t either. I think the teachers would guess it was my writing and then call me into Mr Roderick’s office to tell me off for being a liar-liar pants of fire or something and I would want to kick Mr Roderick in the nuts (that’s what Max in Year 4 says every time he gets told off, which is A LOT).
* * *
If I did put it in the worry box then this is what I would write.
* * *
INVISIBLE INK ALERT: I almost hit Mrs E (can’t spell it or say it) with my silver shoe. Was she the one who called the police? I did NOT tell PC Conerly that you slammed the door on my wrist. I know you are worried that I did. You would be really, really, really, really, really, really cross if I had told her. Like this :((((((. But you always tell me to tell the truth. You say you’ll be very disappointed in me if I don’t tell you the truth. BLAH BLAH BLAH. See? Sometimes mummies are wrong. Sorry you got told off, mummy.
* * *
Why am I always such a peanut brain? Why peanut? Why not pine nut brain or a pumpkin seed brain or a raisin brain. Answers on a postcard!
* * *
Love,
Rosie xx
* * *
P.S. Will they come back?
Chapter Sixteen
My brain was packed full of worry. I barely had any space left to focus on small decisions. As soon as I brushed my teeth, I questioned whether I had or not. I stared into my drawer for my pyjamas before realising I was looking in the wrong drawer. I read my book in bed but I didn’t take in a word of it.
Unable to sleep once I had turned the light off, I climbed out of bed and crept in to see Rosie.
Her duvet was bunched up around her head. I pulled the duvet away, down over her splayed limbs and saw that her pink electronic diary lay across her open hand. The door of the diary was open. When I gently removed it from her, she frowned in her sleep.
I studied her features. They were neat while mine seemed untamed. Her nose, long and straight, like Peter’s, her black hair, as thick as a tree trunk in a ponytail, while mine disappeared to nothing. Her pale skin would freckle in the sun, while mine burnt. The muscles on her calves were stronger, shapelier than the spindles I had inherited from my mother. Rosie looked nothing like me. Had anyone else noticed?
I closed the pink plastic door shut on her secret scribblings, disciplined enough not to peek, in spite of my curiosity, and placed it by her bed. All of our secrets safely under wraps.
* * *
‘Rich and the kids are out on a ride. They’ll be back in a min,’ my sister said, plonking the meat on her over-cluttered surfaces and clattering around the copper pots and pans hanging up to bring down the largest boiling pot and two colanders, one plastic and one metal. Jackie pushed some old bills and colouring books from one end of the kitchen table to the other to make room for the colanders. Her kitchen was as haphazard and charming as mine was tidy and sterile.
‘Do you know how to use this?’ Jackie quipped when she handed me the peeler.
‘Of course I do. I use it to peel the carrots for my power shake every morning,’ I joshed.
‘Ha ha.’
Armed with a potato peeler each, the Aga warming our backs, we sat at the table with the colanders in our laps and peeled. I relished in the mundane task, realising how little time I made for cooking, or for my sister, for that matter.
‘How was Rosie this morning?’
‘Bit quiet. Bit too nice.’
‘When Stella is feeling guilty about something, she compliments me on my hair,’ Jackie said, raising an eyebrow.
I laughed.
‘I don’t know what you’re laughing at?’ Jackie grinned, flicking a straggle behind her back.
She was thin and dark, like me, but her thinness was more muscular, her arms had defined sinews visible under her skin, and her hair was permanently windswept, like my hair on a very bad day. She probably used washing-up liquid to wash it. Her pale skin was ruddy in circles on her cheeks and deeply lined around the eyes and across her forehead. She was older than me by two years, but most people would probably guess ten. Her concern about this was at zero. Unless it was horses she was grooming, she didn’t care about appearances. The eldest of her four children, Stella, learnt to French plait her own hair at five years old.
‘And how are you?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure. I read a story online last night that was about this woman whose kids were taken away from her when her husband accused her of hitting them even though he was the nutter, not her.’
‘It does happen,’ Jackie replied, without looking up from her potato.
‘And once she got into the system, she couldn’t get out of it. She lost both her children. And her family and friends turned against her.’
Jackie’s hands stopped peeling for a second before she answered. ‘If you start reading stuff online, you’ll only freak yourself out.’
‘But what about Social Services?’
‘If they do get in touch, you have nothing to hide. It’ll be fine.’
But there was something niggling me, at the back of my mind, telling me it wasn’t fine, and I certainly didn’t want Jackie to think it was fine. None of it felt fine.
‘You reckon?’
‘Stop worrying. That woman next door has obviously got major issues.’
‘But Rosie does scream a lot,’ I said, quietly.
‘All kids scream.’
‘What if Mira calls the police every time she doe
s?’
‘You can’t live like you’re stepping on eggshells.’
‘What do I do then? I can’t gag Rosie.’
Jackie paused, wiped a strand of hair from her eyes with the back of her hand and looked at me.
‘Do you ever think about going part-time?’
It was like a nasty little kick in the shin.
‘Do you really think her tantrums are about that?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think she tantrums because she’s a pain in the arse.’
‘Keep your voice down, Gem,’ she said, even though she knew Rosie and Noah were well out of earshot, playing on the swings outside with Peter.
‘I give her everything any child could dream of and she throws it back in my face.’
‘I know she’s hard work.’
‘Hmmm,’ I said, doubtfully. ‘But you think I neglect her.’
‘Neglect her? Oh come on, Gemma, don’t put words in my mouth. I know how much you love Rosie, and so does Peter, and Mum. Don’t go getting all paranoid about us, of all people.’ Jackie was shaking her head at me.
‘You’d be paranoid too if you had the police asking you about whether you abuse your kids.’
Jackie placed her hand on mine, and spoke gently, ‘Let’s forget about it.’
A curl of isolation wrapped itself around my head like a dense mist, separating me from Jackie. There was so much she didn’t know. Everything she said would fall short of what I needed from her.
‘You would support me though, wouldn’t you, if it came to it?’