Little White Lies

by Philippa East

  ‘Do you think she’ll manage it?’ he said to me at one point, quietly, so that our children wouldn’t hear.

  I lined the sausages up so that they fitted neatly, perfectly filling the tray. ‘She has to.’ I washed the oil from my hands.

  Sam and Laurie, with their crisps, were excited. At the Bradys’, Jess had taught them a card trick and now they wanted to show Abigail. I watched as Laurie dealt out the cards. So often Abigail would push the twins away, as though their playfulness and exuberance was too much for her, as though it antagonized her seeing them that way.

  When the cards were laid in their piles and rows, Abigail looked down at the spread and gave a sharp laugh. ‘I already know this one,’ she said. ‘I taught this trick to Jess years ago.’ It was cruel of her. She could have pretended, thought of their feelings. As I leaned down to open the oven, I saw Laurie’s face fall.

  ‘Never mind,’ I said over the clatter of the tray. ‘Why don’t you play a game instead? Racing Daemon, isn’t that your favourite?’

  Abigail knew that card game too, she’d learned it when she was little, and now she was older than they were, faster. She played with a grim determination, winning hand after hand until I could see the frustration building in Sam’s eyes and the flush building on Laurie’s cheeks. Her hardness, this ruthlessness, I knew where it led, I knew how it hurt. When Laurie missed yet another card, I saw Sam raise a fist, as though to punch his brother.

  ‘Sam!’ I dropped the serving tongs with a clang. He froze, then lowered his arm. Laurie shoved his brother away.

  Abigail scraped her chair back from the table; for a moment I thought she was going to bolt from the room. I stepped forwards, palms raised like a gesture for peace and found the courage to lay my hands on Abigail’s shoulders. I felt her still under my touch. ‘That’s enough, you three,’ I said. ‘Dinner’s ready for you all.’

  Robert and I sat up in bed again that night. Abigail wasn’t the only one losing sleep. Robert could hug her and ignore the rest; his straightforwardness meant he could pass right over things, cut straight through to what really mattered. But I was so worried about my daughter and so, so frightened of what was wrong.

  Robert ran a hand over the shaved dome of his head. ‘You can’t expect her not to find things difficult. Not to be upset or stressed. This is the worst phase. Let’s see how she is once the trial is over.’

  That felt like decades away. ‘She’s supposed to be starting school next week.’ We’d been so caught up in preparations for the trial, we’d hardly even talked about that.

  ‘I know.’

  I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes, the headboard hard against my back. ‘Have you looked at her, Robert? These last few weeks, have you really looked at her?’

  I wished I could tell him everything I was afraid of: the fact that my phone was ringing again and wouldn’t stop; the way I kept dreaming of DS McCarthy’s eyes. Instead, I lay down flat in the bed in the dark, picturing all those lines I had drawn, all those lines Lillian and I had defended. As Robert beside me whispered goodnight, I tried not to think what would be unleashed if they broke.

  So that night, again, I dealt with her on my own. Robert had fallen deeply asleep, anchored down in unconsciousness. He didn’t wake up at the sound that woke me.

  I sat up in the darkness. Robert had engineered it well and the sliding ladder could be unfolded with barely a sound. I heard it though, and I recognized the swish of metal on metal.

  I pulled on my dressing gown and made my way out to the landing. The trap-door above me was open; cool air was seeping down, filling the house. She had pulled down the ladder and climbed up into the loft above. She hadn’t found the light switch, but she had taken a torch from downstairs; I could see the bouncing light glancing off the walls and beams. I wanted to get back into my bed, climb in beside the reassuring bulk of Robert and pull the warm covers over my head. I didn’t want to confront my daughter; I was so endlessly afraid of what might be said.

  The rustling sounds above me stopped, as though some sly creature up there had gone still. I kept picturing her, hunkered up there. Then: stop it. It’s your daughter, I told myself. Go and see what is wrong.

  ‘Abigail?’ I whispered. ‘I’m coming up.’

  The hem of my dressing gown caught on the ladder and I had to stop halfway up to unhook it. The metal rungs were rough against my bare feet. I never went up here; it was Robert who had clambered up and down this ladder, bringing her belongings down, taking them back up.

  She almost blinded me with the torchlight when I reached the top; I don’t think she meant to, she was just trying to see. ‘It’s only me,’ I said. ‘Can you point the light away?’

  She set the torch down on its end so that it made a column of white light to the low beams above. I pulled my feet up the last few steps of the ladder and knelt on all fours. I could feel plywood splinters and flecks of fibreglass under my knees. ‘What are you doing up here?’

  ‘My clothes. Aren’t they up here?’ The way the torch was shining, I couldn’t see her face properly, only a white circle with black holes where her features were supposed to be. She was wearing a dark T-shirt, a dark pair of shorts and her white limbs stuck out from them at odd angles; I couldn’t tell how she was sitting.

  ‘Your old clothes?’ I asked. ‘But why do you want those?’

  ‘I need to see – to check … Are they up here or not?’

  I couldn’t understand what she was after, only sense her agitation and I didn’t know what to say, I had no idea what she needed to hear.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Hang on, let me show you.’ I didn’t know how else to calm her. I edged my way to the three black bin bags we had stored up here. ‘Angle the torch,’ I said as I untied the first. I could have switched on the lights, bathed us both in an orange glow, but for this strange task she was set upon, I sensed she needed us to be in the dark. The whole thing felt dream-like as though I’d been swept up in some sleep-walking mission of hers. She was awake though, I was sure. I lifted out a bundle of clothes, grey and white in the dim light, their colours lost to the darkness. Little jumpers, dresses, skirts, no doubt she would recognize them. These were the eight-year-old clothes I had stupidly filled her bedroom with when she first came home.

  She yanked at the bag with her free hand, spilling out more items in a slippery avalanche. ‘No, not these ones. These are all too big.’ She tugged at the second bag, picking at the knot with her blunt fingers.

  ‘Here, let me.’ In this sack were her winter clothes: woollen socks, hooded coats, thickened vests. As soon as she saw them, she pushed them away, grabbing for the third bag, the beam of the torch swinging erratically. I drew a breath in through my nose, my lungs itching from the dust we had disturbed. In the third bag – all of her had fitted into just three bags – were her party dresses, crisp, shining things. She pawed through them, then let them slide messily to the floor.

  ‘Where are the rest of them?’

  I thought I could hear her teeth chittering, whether from chilliness or agitation I couldn’t tell. ‘The rest? This is all of them.’

  ‘No! My other clothes, from when I was even smaller. These are all from when I was eight.’

  I had to steady myself with my fists pressed to the splintered floor. What was this? Something else entirely. I was so out of my depth – her trauma, her psyche, I could find no way to grasp what she needed.

  ‘I had dungarees, didn’t I, red, can’t you remember? I had other clothes, you know I did, when I was four, five.’

  I’ll ask her therapist, I told myself. I can call her first thing tomorrow. For now, I did my best to steady myself – and her – with simple facts. ‘Dungarees? Maybe, yes – you could have. You had lots of clothes, honestly so many. But Abigail, ones from that age, you would have outgrown them.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So … so we would have thrown them away, passed them to neighbours, given them to charity. Abigail, stop a moment. Wha
t is this about?’

  I saw her withdraw into herself then, curling away from the mess of clothes between us, letting the torch slide from her grip so that its light spread like a staining puddle across the floor.

  ‘Of course. Of course you did,’ she said, an echo of my own words and there was such a bitterness in her tone. ‘But I saw it, didn’t I? Jess said I imagined it, but I didn’t, I couldn’t—’ I couldn’t make a shred of sense of what she meant, only hear the wrenching in her throat, as though all her walls had suddenly crumbled. Agonized, I reached for her, biting back my own tears. What on earth was I supposed to say, how on earth was I supposed to help her?

  ‘Am I going mad?’ she said. ‘I’m remembering, and trying to remember, and sometimes I feel I’m just going mad!’

  My fingertips finally found hers. I laced our fingers and drew her towards me, like hauling something up from the sea, right up from the deeps, hand over hand. She came slithering into my lap and allowed herself to curl against me. All I wanted to do was hold her; it was all that I could do to hold her because there did seem something half-crazed in her at that moment.

  I held her tight and rocked her, saying, ‘It’s all right, Abigail, you’re just exhausted. You haven’t been eating, you need your sleep.’ I chanted the words like a shielding mantra. ‘It’s all right, Abigail, you just need to sleep.’

  Chapter 24

  Tuesday 3rd September:

  Day 100

  JESS

  Summer was over. The holidays had wound up.

  I’d said nothing more about my aunt’s email. Coming home to find my parents’ lives like that, I couldn’t do it. It felt like I’d already risked too much. See? I told myself. That’s what happens when you start asking questions. That’s what happens when you try to pull things apart. I had to forget about it, I had to trust Dad. Had to believe my parents still knew what they were doing.

  My alarm clock shrilled at 7:15. I hadn’t woken up this early in weeks. After the summer, Abigail would say when I was staying with her. It was a phrase she used all the time then, like some kind of spell. There are things I’ll need, for after the summer. I’ll be getting up earlier, after the summer. I’ll be out every day then, after the summer. She made it sound like that time marked a boundary, after which everything would be all right. Sometimes the phrase would modulate and blur in my ears, and it would sound like a place, some mystical and far-off country, a promised land. After the summer.

  I imagined her now, waking in her own bed, the clock on her nightstand shrilling out the same time as mine. As I stripped out of my pyjamas and climbed into the shower, I imagined Abigail standing under her own warm stream. I had seen the uniform that they had bought for her, hanging in slippery see-through plastic bags in her wardrobe. The kilt, the blazer, the crisp white shirt – all identical to mine. Mum had ironed my uniform for me last night, and the wool and cotton was comfortingly familiar as I pulled them on.

  I ate breakfast, ignoring the way Mum and Dad slid past each other like ghosts. I turned my eyes and ears off to them, the only way I knew how to cope. Instead, I imagined Abigail yawning over her own plate of toast. Smeared with cherry jam, her favourite.

  I made the bus just in time, and all the way there, I pictured Abigail on her own route, riding in the car with Auntie Anne and the twins. First, they would drop off the boys at primary, Sam and Laurie landing kisses on their sister’s cheeks as they scrambled out. Then she and my aunt would head on to our high school. Maybe Abigail would be feeling a bit anxious, such a big step for her, such a big new thing. Perhaps she would have to keep wiping her damp hands down the wool of her skirt. I pictured her craning out of the front window to catch sight of me at the top of the school lane, where we’d always agreed that we would meet. I pictured her clambering out of the car, waving goodbye to Auntie Anne. I saw myself coming up beside her, linking arms with her, the two of us walking into school just like that.

  My bus reached the school road at 8:25. My legs were shaky as I climbed down. The sun was supposed to be out, but it kept disappearing behind blankets of cloud. I hitched up my school bag as I headed down the lane, still imagining my cousin hitching hers.

  Lena was waiting for me by the school gates, like she’d done so many times before. With a jolt of déjà vu, I remembered meeting her here that very first time after Abigail came home. She looked a little bit taller now, since the summer. Taller than ever compared to me.

  I’d hardly spoken to her all holidays. I’d been so wrapped up with Abigail instead. Now I wished I’d gone to see her, even once. She could have come with me and Abigail to the cinema, but I hadn’t even thought to invite her. I hardly knew what she’d been doing all summer, only that she’d spent most of it with Tom.

  By the time I reached her, the first bell for registration was already ringing, high and shrill, more like an alarm. As I stopped in front of her, pulling tight the straps on my bag, her eyes went flitting past me, searching. I knew exactly what she was looking for.

  I tried my very best to act casual. I shrugged one shoulder, looked off somewhere in the distance.

  ‘Well?’ said Lena. ‘Where is she?’

  The whole pretence of my morning dissolved, falling apart like the daydream it was. I shook my head. ‘She isn’t coming,’ I said.

  I’d hoped up until the very last minute that the adults would change their minds. But they just kept saying she wasn’t ready yet, even though I kept telling them I would look after her, I would be there, I would make sure she was fine.

  I could read the look on Lena’s face, even if she wasn’t saying anything. I knew what she was thinking. Told you so.

  ‘It’s not like that,’ I said. ‘They just want to get the trial out of the way first. It only means she’ll start a few weeks later, after half term, maybe even before then.’

  Lena began walking, heading for our form room. ‘Whatever. But we’ll be late if we don’t hurry up.’ I followed her inside and along the corridors. Did she have to walk so fast?

  ‘Honestly, Lena, my aunt and uncle are just being overcautious, and anyway, she just needs a bit more time.’ I could hardly keep up with her. ‘Lena, slow down.’

  She stopped and turned for a moment to face me, then she was climbing the stairs to our form class, taking them two at a time. ‘I wanted to invite you along to a party,’ she said.

  ‘A party?’ I hurried to keep up.

  ‘It’s one of Tom’s friends. You should come. Bring Abigail too, if you want.’

  She pushed her way through the landing doors, turned the corner to the next flight. The doors swung awkwardly, almost trapping me between. I tried to imagine it: Abigail at a party, amidst boys, amidst booze.

  ‘So will you come?’ Lena said to me over her shoulder.

  ‘When is it?’

  ‘Next Saturday.’

  I came to a halt, and she stopped too. I was about to say yes, of course I would come. Of course I wanted to hang out with Lena, with Tom, with all of his friends, because I did, I had never wanted to be left behind. And of course I was glad she’d invited Abigail too. But then I remembered. A week on Saturday.

  ‘What date is that?’

  ‘September the fourteenth.’

  My heart sank. ‘I want to, Lena, I really do. But it’s Abigail’s birthday. We’re going out to celebrate.’

  Now the second bell rang, a shrill racket. Lena carried on climbing, but slower now. ‘So you don’t want to.’

  ‘Of course I do, Lena, but—’ Why, why, did I always have to choose? ‘Wait. Wait.’ I grabbed for her arm. I was breathless from all the trying to keep up. I tried to organize my thoughts, work out a plan. ‘Can’t we do both? I’ll go to dinner first with Abigail, and afterwards I’ll come to the party, with you.’

  Lena turned and looked at me. ‘And what about Abigail?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to bring her to the party?’

  I felt my cheeks burn. She had caught
me out. A slip of the tongue; I’d left my cousin out, unable to picture her in that place. I went on holding onto Lena’s arm. I tried to tell myself that Lena was jealous. The only reason she would be saying all this. Testing me, tripping me up. I’d gone off with Abigail for the whole of the summer, barely spoken to Lena, that’s what it was.

  ‘I’ll bring Abigail, if she wants to come.’

  Lena had nothing but scepticism in her face. Behind her, up the corridor, I could see a group of our classmates lingering by the form room doorway. Girls who had done stuff like Lena, tried things, laughed about it, had the marks and scars to prove it. ‘You don’t know, do you, what happened with us and Tom?’

  With Tom? I couldn’t understand.

  ‘You remember. At the music festival.’

  I let go of her arm. I felt everything inside of me go cold.

  ‘We were all talking about you, how happy Abigail must be seeing you again.’

  I remembered them standing there, not speaking, almost frozen. ‘What?’ I said. ‘Go on. Tell me.’

  ‘I was telling your cousin how much you loved her …’

  ‘And?’ The awkward smile on Tom’s face, the flush on Lena’s cheeks.

  ‘…Yeah, but sometimes I hate her, was what your cousin said.’

  Chapter 25

  Tuesday 3rd September:

  Day 100

  ANNE

  When it came down to it, she wasn’t in any kind of state to go to school. On that first day when she should have gone, her uniform stayed in the wardrobe and she slept in late instead. She wasn’t awake to wave Robert and the twins off, and the house felt far too quiet when they had gone.

  It was close to midday when I finally managed to rouse her and get her dressed and down to the car. We weren’t going to waste the day, I’d decided, and even if school was going to have to wait, there were other things that couldn’t be put off.

  We could have gone into Nottingham, or down to London even, and we would certainly have found something there, but the thought of the train journeys and the crowds and how long a day it would make it, meant I chose to drive her to Lincoln instead. Not the best, but I hoped it would do.