by Alice Castle
She wished she could say that all that had changed, that the girl had mellowed. And certainly, now that the girl was in the senior school, there was little Miss Douglas could put a finger on. There was nothing, for instance, that she could write to the child’s parents about. They were a daunting couple, even by Dulwich standards, but that would not have stopped Miss Douglas. Yet, though there was no obvious sign that Sophia Jones-Creedy was the instigator, whenever there was any sort of disturbance in Year 9, she was there, in the thick of it, with that smile that so many found beguiling. Miss Douglas certainly itched to slap it off her face. But that was a thought that could never make its way to the light of day, and an action that would put paid to her hard-won career in an instant.
Miss Douglas thought back over the most recent crop of incidents involving Sophia Jones-Creedy’s cohort. As early as Year 6, there had been the first rumblings of concern over weight. As usual, no-one could blame Sophia for planting the seeds of worry, but suddenly a group of girls started weighing each other relentlessly on the school nurse’s scales at lunch time, and teasing the larger members of their gang. Of course, the nurse had reported this immediately, and the scales had been removed forthwith, but it was disturbing to see girls of that age – nine and ten – suddenly so concerned about who weighed what. Sophia, the slim and active daughter of lithe and super-busy parents, had no worries. Others had more sedentary lifestyles, puppy fat, and more indulgent mothers – and had become targets for ridicule.
Anorexia was a huge worry in girls’ schools, particularly competitive, academic establishments like the College School. Girls who felt under pressure with so many deadlines and exams, flexed their muscles where they could. Food was one of the few areas where they could exert some control. It happened all over the country, with or without the likes of Sophia Jones-Creedy to stir things up.
Still, reflected Miss Douglas, she did not feel happy at all that five of that early weigh-in group had gone on to have recurring troubles with the illness. Two had since left the school – one to be admitted to a private clinic; one to be treated at the nearby Wellesley NHS facility. Though they were out of sight, and no longer Miss Douglas’s problem in many ways, she couldn’t avoid hearing on the grapevine how the girls fared. Neither would be going to university at the proper time, exams having been dropped by the wayside as the obsession with weight grew and the girls shrank. One of them would be lucky to survive. Sophia, of course, despite having been overheard saying self-deprecatingly that she ‘had thighs like an elephant’, ‘was never hungry at lunchtime’, and ‘always burned off her supper with a work-out’, had never been in the slightest danger of succumbing to anorexia at all.
Then, there had been the outbreak of self-harming. The group of girls was a little different, though Sophia was never far from its centre. This time, the fetish was shorter lived and seemed to cut – if she could permit herself to use that term – less deeply. Though it was meant to be a secretive business, one girl had slashed her arm at school with some scissors from the art department and been seen dripping blood. A series of stern chats from Miss Douglas herself, a psychologist from King’s College Hospital, and a psychiatrist parent, had shed so much light on the subject that it no longer held any shameful secret thrill for the girls, and the Monday morning excuses that kittens had swiped their arms or rose bushes had snagged the skin seemed to vanish overnight.
In the midst of all this, Sophia had achieved a phenomenal set of results in every test she’d ever been set. She was off the scale, with an exceptional memory, she was highly numerate, and she turned a phrase neatly. Her reports were full of teacher euphemisms – ‘makes a very positive contribution in class’ (never shuts up); ‘not afraid to back up her opinions’ (argumentative); a leading light in the class’ (ringleader); ‘always ready with a view’ (nightmare); ‘full of energy’ (nightmare); ‘always shows an inquiring mind’ (nightmare). But all agreed, she was ‘very able’ (clever as a cartload of monkeys). She would garner a rich harvest of A*s for the College School, and they would all be extremely relieved when she trooped off to Cambridge to make some poor don’s life hell.
Miss Douglas shut the folder with a sigh. Many of the mysteries about Sophia Jones-Creedy were illuminated by a whisk through these pages. But not the central puzzle facing her headmistress now. Where on earth was the blessed girl?
***
It was getting on for 7pm when Jo Osborne struggled home with Lewis strapped into the buggy, the handles festooned with the cheap thin carrier bags you got these days since the 5p charge came in. That was 20p she’d wasted just on plastic bags, she was kicking herself, but where was she supposed to keep spare bags at work all day at Debenhams in Oxford Street? Her handbag was small – she was trying to look as though she was on top of things, she didn’t want stuff bulging out everywhere. She wasn’t wearing a big coat now the weather had turned nice at last, so no pockets to stick bags in. Oh well, 20p wasn’t the end of the world. Not quite, anyway.
Lewis was happily chewing away on a Peperami. She’d read in the Metro paper the other day that processed meat was going to kill them, but what wasn’t? Kept him quiet, anyway, on the bus ride back from the childminder’s. It was a trek, but he loved it at Tracy’s and that was worth gold. She’d look for somewhere nearer their new flat, but it was going to take time – something she didn’t have. She could feel the clammy chill of the battered fish she’d brought for their tea swinging against her leg as she powered up the street. She was worrying now that it would have defrosted itself by the time they got back. Was that going to kill them, too? It always said, ‘best cooked from frozen’. Oh well. There were worse things. Like, why did they never sell meals for three? It was either two or four, and two wasn’t really fair on Simone. She liked a bit of fish, and she was at that fussy age. Fourteen. God, Jo remembered it well. Boys. Parties. That had been the start. Well, it wasn’t going to be like that for Simone. Thank God, she was a good girl – and it was going to stay that way.
Christ, Lewis was heavy enough, but with the bags layered on as well, she felt as though she was shoving a tank up the hill in front of her. Nearly old enough for a nursery place, then it would be school… it went so fast. And he’d be her last. She was determined about that. No more mistakes – not that either of her kids were that; she loved them more than her life. But if she wanted to give them a proper start, she couldn’t be distracted again by a load of promises that she half-knew were crap, even while she was taking off her clothes.
No, they were sorted now, with Simone in her good new school, with a full bursary. Could you believe that? Jo’d always known she was a clever little thing, but this? She’d aced that test they set her, then flown through the interviews, too. And now the school were paying for everything. Over fifteen grand’s worth of education – and Jo still couldn’t get her mind around all the people at the school who could actually shell out that much, every single year, to get their kids taught. Where did they get that kind of money? It was a different world.
Well, now it was their world, too. For her bright-as-a-button Simone was sitting pretty with all the rich kids, even getting her uniform and all the school trips paid for and everything. The idea, as the nice Bursar lady had explained, was that Simone should feel every inch a member of the school community. That meant she had everything the rest of them did – as far as the school day went, anyway. There weren’t going to be any skiing holidays… or probably any holidays at all, for that matter. And if she brought friends back, well, Jo would do the best she could; the place was always clean, but it was what it was. They weren’t nobs, and there was no use pretending. But they’d sort that out when it happened. Simone hadn’t asked anyone back yet. Jo knew she should press her, try and help her make friends… but the truth was she did feel a bit daunted. These kids would have big houses, probably second homes, certainly cars and fancy phones, and all the gear that Simone wanted but knew better than even to ask for.
Still, there were more importa
nt things than stuff, Jo told herself. They all loved each other and that was key. It was the three of them against the world, and they were tight. Things were good. Lewis was happy as Larry at Tracy’s, and she was doing well at Debenhams, they’d said so in her last assessment. Life was on the up.
She bumped the buggy backwards up the endless steps to the front door. Theirs was the little second floor maisonette – not much, but it was cosy and she could afford it. As long as she didn’t go mad with the plastic bags. Her key rattled in the door. Usually that was enough to get Simone running to give her a hand with the buggy, with Lewis.
The door swung open. Dark. Silent. The flat had that empty feel. Jo looked around, could see straight into the kitchen, the dishes by the sink, from her and Lewis’s cereal. She had to get him off so early, then get to work herself. She always let Simone sleep in. Well, she needed her zeds, teenagers always did, and the walk to school only took her minutes. But usually Simone tidied up the kitchen, bless her, before she got off for the day.
Jo looked at the pool of milk on the plastic tablecloth, the cereal box with its untidily torn corner, a few Cheerios lying there, stuck to the surface, shrivelled. All as it had been this morning. It wasn’t right. Jo started to feel the cold clutch of dread. Thought back to the night before. Then fast forwarded to the morning. Realisation crashed in on her, shivers down her arms.
‘Simone?’ she called out. ‘Simone?’
Katie had just dropped off Charlie and Ben. She’d waved hello to some of the mums, and had a brief – very brief – chat with the determinedly smiling Belinda McKenzie, and was turning to wander back down Court Lane. Belinda always tried to corner her when Beth wasn’t around. It was no secret that Belinda and Beth didn’t exactly mesh. Beth worked, and was a single parent, and was not groupie material. But when she was out of the picture, Belinda perpetually cozied up to Katie with little plans to show her what she was missing out on. It was as though she couldn’t bear to have Katie outside her herd. Katie, perpetually sunny, deflected the woman so kindly that Belinda always thought it was worth another go.
Katie shrugged it all off. She didn’t mind Belinda, but she didn’t want to spend all day being held to ransom by her stories, which always seemed to be on the theme of the marvellous things Belinda had done for other people, and the terribly unjust things that had happened to her in return, with a smattering of semi-evil gossip thrown in. It wasn’t really Katie’s thing. Especially not on a day like this.
It was another beautiful morning, the skies above Dulwich as blue as the cute little aertex shirts sported by Wyatt’s prep school kids. Yet again, she wondered whether they’d done the right thing, putting Charlie into the non-fee-paying Village Primary. Michael had wanted him to go straight to the prep, which, barring any catastrophic results, would have seen him sailing effortlessly on to a place at Wyatt’s secondary school. But Katie had loved the quirky little Village School as soon as she’d seen its Hansel and Gretel buildings. And besides, staving off the fees for a few years meant that Michael’s hair could stay on his head, not fall out in handfuls as some Dulwich husbands’ did, as they scraped together multiple sets of school fees from toddlerdom onwards.
Just then, she heard footsteps behind her, and turned to see Maria Luyten, her new neighbour. Maria, with her beautifully cut, swingy dark hair, was wearing what Katie recognised as a Euro casual uniform – designer polo shirt with a logo; jeans which clung to her slim form; and a small Prada bag worn messenger-style across her body, which managed to be both eye-wateringly expensive and relatively low key. The only giveaway to its price tag was the distinctive triangular shape of its tiny nameplate.
Katie wondered how Belinda MacKenzie was reacting to the new arrival in their midst. Today, Belinda’s own bag had been about the size of a full Moses basket, and screaming as loudly as usual about money and status. And not only did Maria feel less need to show her wealth via labels, she was also a doctor.
Belinda was a bit iffy about working mums. Though she had been something huge in PR before having her babies, she had dropped work like a hot coal as soon as she’d seen a blue line on her pregnancy test. Now she lapped up Daily Mail stories about the dire consequences of neglecting your offspring for a career, while her au pair kept the children amused. A doctor would call her bluff, though. Like most Dulwich parents, she’d adore her brood to become doctors – even the girls.
‘Ha! I am glad to have caught up with you. Or should I say, caught you up?’ Maria said.
Katie smiled diplomatically. ‘Either! Your English is perfect, a thousand times better than my Italian, or French, or Dutch or… well, you know what I mean. Typical English person, here, who just points at things on the menu on holiday.’
‘Ah, no, I can’t believe that. But English is very kind to foreigners; anyone can pick it up. Spelling it, that’s a whole different matter. Don’t ask me ever to write down borough, thorough, through or throw, please!’
‘Promise I won’t,’ laughed Katie. ‘Do you have time for a quick cuppa?’ She’d just had a text from Beth, putting off their coffee at Jane’s but requesting a full run-down of last night’s activities, including what Ben had eaten and whether he’d had a good night’s sleep, plus how he’d looked this morning, as soon as Katie had time.
Well, he was her one and only, and Katie understood all too well how much love could be poured into one small boy. She also had a 10.30am class to teach at her yoga studio, and she’d been planning on running through some stretches first, so she could help others without her own joints creaking like unoiled doors. But she wanted to be friendly. It would be great to get to know Maria a bit more.
‘That would be lovely. I am a little concerned about something, you see… and of course, I wanted to thank you so much for having Matteo round last night. He had a such a great time, he was thrilled to be included. It’s not so easy, making new friends, even for little ones.’
‘It was a pleasure. He’s a lovely boy.’ In fact, looking back on it, they’d had a few tricky moments last night. Katie hadn’t been that surprised. Ben and Charlie were such partners in crime, it was a little awkward to slot a third party into such a well-established double act. She’d wanted to help Beth out, and knew her friend had very limited childcare options at such short notice – plus she did mischievously wonder what might happen if Beth and York kept being thrown together – but the timing could have been better.
As it was, things had worked out in the end. Once they’d finished Charlie’s allotted PlayStation time, they squabbled solidly, until Matteo had come up with a role-play game. He’d been the doctor; the others had been patients. They’d all been happy enough with this for a while, though she’d had to draw the line when she found he was trying to get them to drink cups of shampoo in the bathroom to cure ‘stomach aches’. But it had certainly kept them busy, to her relief.
Now Katie ushered Maria in and, a couple of minutes later, she was perched on a stool in Katie’s breathtaking kitchen – all sweeping, pristine pale marble countertops, leading the eye past the family dining table, to the green swathe of lawn stretching outside floor-to-ceiling doors. Today, they were cracked open a few inches, but when the weather truly warmed up – if it ever really did; this was England, after all – the doors would be shoved right out of the way and they’d be living the dream, with the garden becoming a greener, tuftier extension of the kitchen. Katie would have to think of a way to ensure that no football, ever, got kicked inside the house. But other than that little wrinkle, it was perfect.
Katie fiddled with the many levers of her shiny chrome coffee machine, then realised whatever she produced wasn’t going to be a patch, realistically, on the coffee Maria had been brought up on. She passed over the little espresso cup with a moue of apology. ‘This is the best I can do,’ she shrugged.
Maria took a sip, and smiled. ‘Delicious,’ she said generously. ‘Mm, Katie,’ she said, putting her cup down precisely. ‘I must ask you. My daughter, Chiara. She is at the C
ollege School. We were very pleased when she got the place. Of course, we didn’t really know then that it is said to be very hard to get in. We just applied when it turned out Theo was being transferred here. It was, well, all a big scramble.’
Katie nodded sympathetically. She’d heard from other ex-pat wives who’d been uprooted from homes and lives at a few weeks’ notice, and were expected to create some sort of future in a new place without much time, information – or help. It was tough. And when it involved children of school age, there was a whole new side to the problem. It was quite possible for some of these families that they would be on the move again soon, so although the school solution didn’t have to be permanent, it still had to be good enough.
Katie, who felt as though she’d spent years of her life trying to get the stars into the right alignment for Charlie’s upcoming assault on Wyatt’s, could only imagine how much she’d hate to be thrown into Maria’s position.
‘We were so pleased with Chiara at first. She hasn’t done entrance exams before, and the school seemed so good… Miss Douglas, she is a bit, hmm, scary, but it seems she cares for her girls. But it is a big place. It’s not easy for Maria. She was in a quite small school in Kuwait; the international population is not huge. And some of the girls here in the UK…’
Katie, sensing they were getting to the nub of the issue, peered over the rim of her coffee cup at Maria. The woman’s dark hair shaded her face, her large dark eyes lowered. There was something negative here that she was reluctant to say.
‘Chiara is, what? Thirteen, fourteen?’ said Katie gently.
‘She was fourteen in March.’