I jump again as I hear a door opening upstairs on the landing and footsteps heading for the stairs. I know that Mum is coming down and I don’t want her to see me like this so somehow I drag myself up and into the kitchen. I rip off a piece of paper towel from the roll by the sink, wipe my face and pull myself together. Somehow I get through the evening by painting on a smile. I call Jacob to tell him what’s happened but tell him not to panic, because Finley is fine. I call Ruth to let her know everything’s OK too and that I’ll be back at work in the morning. But as I mechanically go through the evening routine – putting my broken little boy to bed, brushing the tangles from my daughter’s hair, throwing together a quick carbonara for me and Mum, opening some wine, and making inconsequential chit-chat – there’s a sick, hollow feeling in my stomach and no amount of positive self-talk is helping.
Normal. Act normal. Everything is fine. I’ll apologise to Robin tomorrow, ask her to stay, beg her if I have to. It will all be OK. It has to be OK.
At ten Mum hugs me and tells me she’s shattered and going to bed. I pour another glass of wine, turn the lights off, and sit there alone in the dark, the room growing cold around me. At some point my eyes close and I wake with a start sometime after eleven. A noise outside the patio doors rouses me from what is this time a dreamless sleep. As I sit there, my brain foggy, my thoughts confused, and my body stiff and aching, I hear the noise again, a sort of shuffling sound coming from outside. I stagger to my feet, expecting to see a fox or a hedgehog through the glass, a night-time creature on the hunt for food. But as my eyes focus on the wide expanse of glass, it’s not a fox I see, nor a hedgehog, nor any other four-legged animal. It’s a face. A human face, pale and round. And it’s staring straight at me.
Chapter 20
It was just whispers at first.
‘You’re so ugly.’
‘Those girls you think are your friends? They think you’re ugly too.’
‘Nobody likes you. You know that, don’t you?’
Vicious, cruel little whispers. Words I spat into Lucy Allen’s ear as we sat together in class, words that nobody but her could hear.
I wanted to hurt her; it was as simple as that. I wanted her to suffer. And why? Why did I want to inflict such pain on a girl I barely knew? At the time, I had no idea. It was simply a compulsion, something I had to do, something I couldn’t stop myself doing, day after day after day.
Now I know that trying to hurt Lucy in the terrible way I did was my way of coping with the pain I was in. It was almost as if I thought that by increasing her pain I could dilute mine. That somehow it would make me feel better.
It didn’t of course, but I carried on anyway. As I dripped my poison into her ear over weeks which turned into months, I could see her getting more and more withdrawn, becoming sadder, quieter. And instead of disturbing me, it was almost as if as she grew smaller and more diminished, I grew in stature. I began to rise above my pain, as she sank ever deeper into hers.
Then I discovered, quite by chance, that Lucy had a crush. She’d fallen in love with a boy in the year above us called Tony Fletcher. She’d confided in one of her swotty little friends, and they’d told someone else and, well, you remember what it was like at school. Soon everyone knew, even Tony.
And that was when I played my trump card.
I brought a Polaroid camera into school. This was, of course, in the early 90s, long before school kids had mobile phones, or mobile phones had cameras. I hid the camera in my gym bag, and after our Friday morning PE session I hid myself in a shower cubicle and I waited. I knew that Lucy, skinny and underdeveloped for her age was, like many teenaged girls, terribly self-conscious about her body – and even more so now that she had me whispering in her ear every day, telling her how hideous she was.
I knew she dreaded PE, and that afterwards she always waited until everyone else had gone before stripping off her gym gear and slipping her uniform back on. She rarely took a shower, muttering that she’d have one when she got home and saying that she didn’t sweat much anyway.
And so that Friday I hid and I waited. And when, through the gap in the shower curtain, I finally saw her pulling her T-shirt over her head, unclipping her (unnecessary) sports bra, wriggling out of her shorts, and standing there naked for a few brief moments as she searched her bag for her underwear, I slipped quietly out of the cubicle, called her name and, when she whirled around, a horror-stricken expression on her face, took the photo.
‘Beth … NO! PLEASE!’
I was laughing as I ran from the room, the still wet instant photograph dangling from my fingertips. I was still sniggering as the picture developed and I studied the detail of the image I’d captured.
It was perfect: it captured Lucy’s tiny breasts – little more than swollen nipples – the dark mound of her pubic hair, the curve of her bare buttocks, all there for all the world to see.
And I made sure they were seen. During the lunchbreak, before the halls and classrooms filled up again, I pinned that photo to the noticeboard right outside the door of the room in which Tony Fletcher was about to have his 2pm history lesson.
When the bell went to signal the start of the afternoon session, I waited again, my heart fluttering. It didn’t take long. Did I feel bad? Did I feel any sense of guilt at all when they began, the howls of laughter, the jeers, the screeches of ‘OH. MY. GOD’? Did I feel it when Lucy Allen walked down the corridor and realised what was going on, and started to run, tears rolling down her cheeks, the shrieks of her classmates ringing in her ears? I don’t think I did, not then. Not that day.
But that was when everything changed. Because that was the day I went too far.
So cruel. So stupid.
I never saw Lucy Allen again.
Chapter 21
When I wake up on Tuesday morning I know I’ve been dreaming about her again. As I lie in bed, kicking off the duvet to try to cool my hot, weary body, I remember the face at the patio window, that small white outline, wide eyes staring at me, and my stomach clenches. It had vanished, melted away into the darkness as I took a step towards it, giving me no time to work out who it was, and I’d stood there, confused, heart pounding. Mike again? But he was gone, wasn’t he? It didn’t look like him anyway – too short, not bulky enough. A would-be burglar then? Or a figment of my imagination, once more? I’d gone to bed telling myself that’s all it was, and now I’m not sure if I actually saw anything at all.
It felt real, but I’d been drinking and I was half asleep … or maybe I saw the face later, in my dreams, and it’s all got muddled up in my head. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. Everything feels so strange …
I feel better after a shower, and when I go into Finley’s room to see how he is I find to my surprise that he’s already out of bed and attempting to pull his school shorts on over his bulky bandage.
‘I want to go, Mum,’ he insists when I protest. ‘And I can walk fine. Look! With my crutches it’s fun!’
He’s supposed to keep the weight off his ankle for at least three days and Mum said last night that she’d be delighted to look after him if he was staying home from school, but he’s swinging quite happily up and down the narrow strip of carpet by his bed now, already a competent crutch user, and I don’t have the energy to argue.
‘Fine. OK. But I’m going to ring the school and ask them to keep an eye on you. And you must stay sitting down at break times. Deal?’
He shrugs.
‘Deal.’
I’m pretty sure Robin isn’t going to turn up for the school run, not after last night, and I’m right. Her usual arrival time approaches and then passes, and when, anxiety gnawing at my stomach, I call her number, there’s no reply. I leave a message, but she doesn’t call back. She’s really angry with me, clearly, and I don’t blame her. What possessed me to attack her like that? Now, in the clear light of a fresh morning, it’s glaringly obvious that it’s me who was responsible for everything I accused her of. It must have been me wh
o screwed up the central heating settings, and it was definitely me who made such a cock-up of putting the trampoline together. I need to get hold of her, to apologise, to beg her to come back, but right now I don’t have time.
‘Mum, I’m so sorry about this, but Robin’s obviously not coming today … Would you mind doing the school run? Finley won’t be able to walk so it’ll have to be a cab. I hate to ask, but I can’t be late for work, not today. We have too much on, and—’
‘Shush, shush, of course!’ She’s raising a hand, smiling. I know she heard the argument with Robin last night but when she came downstairs she simply asked me if I was OK, then left it at that. I’m wondering if I should try to explain now but she’s already bustling away, opening the cupboard where I keep the breakfast cereals and asking Finley and Eloise what they fancy this morning.
Finley requests ‘a huge bowl of porridge, please Grandma’ and, injured ankle clearly not affecting his appetite or his mood, starts chattering to his sister about something to do with Spiderman. Mum smiles indulgently, then her eyes meet mine across the room and she says quietly, ‘And don’t worry about Robin. I’m sure you can sort it out, whatever it was, if you really want to. But I did say from the beginning I wasn’t sure about her, love. So if you want to let her go, I’m more than happy to step in and help, you know that. Now you get off to work and stop stressing.’
‘Thank you so much. I really don’t know what I’d do without you at the moment,’ I say, and she blows me a kiss.
‘Lucky you don’t have to, then,’ she says. ‘Now, scoot!’
I scoot. I’m still feeling fragile, but the relief of knowing Mum’s happy to take over while I sort this mess out means that when I get into the surgery I find myself able to focus on work; the job is once more a welcome distraction. I need to organise maternity cover for Ally, one of our part-time receptionists, so I draft an advert and send it to the local paper, then pop the details on the surgery Facebook page too. At lunchtime I go into the staffroom to make a cup of coffee and find Ruth and Deborah sitting at the table, lunchboxes open in front of them. I saw them briefly first thing for just long enough to reassure them that Finley was well and cheerful this morning, but I have a few minutes to spare now so I sit down at the table, ready for a chat.
‘Hey, you two,’ I say. ‘Mmmm, is that lemon drizzle?’
Ruth grins. She’s wearing a black silk blouse today with a pussy bow tied neatly at the neck.
‘It is. Made by my own fair hands. Want a bit?’
I’m tempted – the cake looks moist and delicious with a light lemon glaze on top of fluffy sponge – but I shake my head reluctantly.
‘Better not. Too much cake going into this belly recently.’
I pat my stomach and Ruth raises her eyebrows.
‘Shut up, you look fine. But hey, all the more for me.’
She picks up the slice of cake and takes a bite. I turn to Deborah, who’s poking what looks like a tuna sandwich with a finger in a desultory fashion, a blank look on her face. She looks pale and tired; her hair is scraped back from her face in a tight little bun and her skin is free of make-up.
‘You OK, Debs? Going to eat that or just irritate it?’
She looks up abruptly, as if surprised to hear my voice, then gives me a small smile.
‘Oh, sorry, Beth. I was miles away. No, not very hungry. In fact, I might just head back to my room and get sorted for this afternoon. I’ll see you both later, OK?’
She closes the lid of her plastic lunchbox, picks it up, and leaves the room. I frown.
‘Ruth, what’s wrong with her? She’s been acting oddly for ages now. Do you know what’s going on?’
Ruth opens her mouth as if to speak, then closes it again. There’s a moment of silence, then she says, ‘I think she’s just knackered, needs a holiday, you know what it’s like. And now I’ve got to go too, sorry. Want to get some filing done before the afternoon rush. I’m so glad Finley’s OK though. And kids bounce back so quickly … Oh, gosh, no pun intended. Probably a bit early for trampoline jokes!’
‘A bit, yes!’ I say with a grimace. She pats my hand and then stands up, gathering her belongings. Moments later she’s gone too, and I sit there for a minute, sipping my coffee and thinking.
Why was Ruth being so evasive there, because she was, wasn’t she? I don’t care what she says, there’s definitely something going on with Deborah, and it’s more than her just being tired and needing a break. If she doesn’t want to talk about it, though …
I sigh and head back to my office. I’ve only just settled again, trying to get my head round the latest plans for the surgery renovations, when my phone rings. It’s Jacob, and he’s not happy.
‘Beth, why has Finley gone to school? You said last night he’s supposed to keep the weight off that ankle for a few days, but when I rang the house to talk to him your mother said you asked her to take him to school! And what’s this about you falling out with Robin?’
I sigh.
‘He didn’t want to stay at home, and he’s already a pro on the crutches, honestly. He’ll be fine. I rang the school earlier and the head promised they’d keep an eye on him.’
‘Well, it doesn’t sound like a good idea to me. And Robin?’
‘It’s nothing. Just a silly misunderstanding. I’ll speak to her later and sort it out.’
There’s a moment’s silence on the other end of the line, then he says, ‘Beth … this thing with the trampoline. I’m trying not to blame you … Accidents happen, but I’m sorry, you can’t have put it together properly, and when our children’s safety is at stake …’
Well, I didn’t hear you offering to come round and put it up for them, I think, and wonder if I should say that out loud, but he’s still talking, his tone increasingly irate.
‘And you seem to be away with the fairies recently, by all accounts. Eloise told me you keep losing your keys and having to get cabs to work, and that you’ve fallen out with your neighbours too … What’s going on?’
Shit. I hadn’t realised the kids – or Eloise, at least – had picked up on the fact that something’s happened with Brenda and Barbara. They bloody notice everything, don’t they?
‘Nothing’s going on,’ I say. I know I sound angry and defensive now but I can’t help it. It’s how I feel. Angry, defensive, and ashamed too.
‘I’ve just had a lot on my plate, with Dad being ill and Mum turning up like that, but everything’s fine now. Just leave it, Jacob. Finley will be OK, and if I think being at school is delaying his leg healing I’ll keep him off, right? And now I have to go. I have work to do. I’ll see you later in the week.’
He’s still muttering, something about me ‘needing to get it together’ as I end the call, and for a moment I sit there, staring at the phone, a sick, hollow feeling in my stomach. He’s right, I do need to get it together. Why have so many things gone wrong recently? The past two weeks, since Mum reappeared in my life, should have been the happiest ever, and instead …
I take a deep breath and then another. I just need to try harder, to concentrate on what I’m doing, to be more organised at home and to stop blaming other people for my own failings, I decide. I get back to work and an hour later I’m so engrossed in trying to sort out everyone’s summer annual leave requests that when my mobile rings I jump. I grab it and instantly my heart rate speeds up.
Mum. Oh no … Now what?
But this time, it’s good news. The best news.
‘Liv’s coming to visit, darling! On Friday, is that OK? She’s so excited to meet you all. She’s got a half-day so she thought she’d get the train up on Friday afternoon. She has to go back on Saturday evening because she’s working on Sunday but, well, it’s wonderful, isn’t it? My two girls, together for the first time!’
‘Oh Mum … that’s amazing!’
I’m grinning from ear to ear.
‘I’ll move Eloise in with me and Liv can have her room. I’ll ask Robin …’
I pause,
remembering.
‘Well, anyway, I can sort that out. Mum, thank you, that’s cheered me right up. I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you in a few hours, OK?’
‘See you later, darling. I’m off on the school run shortly. Is it OK to tell the kids their auntie is coming?’
‘Of course. They’ll be thrilled. See you all later!’
It’s hard to concentrate after that. My head is full of plans for the weekend, what to cook for dinner on Friday, and what to wear when I meet my little sister for the first time.
‘How much weight can I lose in three days?’ I think, as I run a hand over the rolls of fat emerging from the waistband of my trousers, then grimace and vow not to worry about it. If Liv is as nice as she seemed to be during our FaceTime call, she won’t care that her big sis is carrying a few extra pounds, and I have more important things to worry about. I need to patch things up with Robin, urgently now, and I leave another voice message, telling her I’m so sorry about last night and that I really want to speak to her. Then I remember the trampoline lying drunkenly in the garden and call the council to arrange a bulky item collection. It’s a terrible waste – I’m sure it wasn’t cheap, and I’m going to have to try to persuade Mum to let me reimburse her – but I can’t bear to see it out there for much longer. To have it taken away is going to cost me twenty pounds but they can do it tomorrow, which is a relief.
The rest of the day passes quickly, and when I arrive home just after six the house is buzzing. Eloise – her school’s Easter play is, it’s emerged, a musical take on the life of Shakespeare, and she’s playing the Bard’s assistant – is boogying around the kitchen, accompanied by an upbeat dance tune (which, to my ears, sounds distinctly un-Shakespearian) blasting from the speakers in the ceiling. Finley is sitting at the island, his bad leg propped up on the stool next to him, tapping away at the iPad on his lap, engrossed in some sort of driving game. Mum is at the cooker stirring something in a big saucepan, and the room smells deliciously of garlic and spices.
The Happy Family Page 14