by Wendy Clarke
Mitch frowns, confused. ‘What do you mean moved it?’
‘I’m sure I parked it outside their classroom, just under the covered porch, but when I got back, it had been moved.’ I don’t mention the locket. I don’t want Freya to infect our lives.
‘Where had it been moved to?’
‘The porchway of the classroom next door.’
He bursts out laughing. ‘There you are then. It’s a no-brainer. You mistook one for the other.’
‘It’s not a joke, Mitch. And today, when I came out of the newsagent’s, the brake was off the pram. I always put on the brake when I park it.’
‘You didn’t the other day when we were at the playground. I had to do it for you.’
‘I know but—’
‘Look, Kel. You’re tired. We both are. It’s easy to make mistakes… imagine things.’
I look at him coldly. ‘Don’t patronise me. You don’t know what tired is. It’s me who gets up for Noah when he cries in the night, remember.’
Mitch looks away. ‘Because you never let me. A proper family is all I’ve ever wanted, but you just push me out – do everything yourself. I just wish I knew what was up with you. Lately, you’ve been so distant. So distracted.’
I turn on him, eyes blazing. ‘For Christ’s sake, Mitch. I had a baby three months ago. What do you expect? I tell you I’m worried for his safety and you just sweep it aside as though it’s nothing.’
He shakes his head. ‘That’s what you say, but I know that something else is eating away at you. Something from your past… this thing with your mum. If you tell me, maybe we can work it out together. Please, Kelly.’
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ I say. ‘Don’t ask me again.’
Taking Noah from him, I get up and leave the room. When I reach the hall, I hear the thump of Mitch’s fist as it makes contact with the wall.
26
September 6th
Thought you might like to see this photo I took last week. She didn’t want it taken as she hates the uniform, but I think the blue suits her. You know what they’re like at this age – so fashion conscious! I would have taken a picture of both of them, but a tummy bug is doing the rounds and we didn’t think it fair to spread the germs. Don’t worry, she’s fine. We used to be concerned whenever she so much as caught a cold, but she’s a lot tougher now.
All the best
27
Kelly Before
A few weeks back, when her dad was out and her mother asleep, Kelly had watched one of their DVDs. It was called Groundhog Day, a film about a man who has the same day over and over again. It’s this she’s thinking of as she stands in the shadows of the hallway, waiting for her mum to open the front door. She’s done this many times before; not just with the ones she can visualise: Jade, Mason, Charlene and Jasmine, but also others when she was too young to remember.
And there was Freya, of course. The girl with the pale eyes and translucent skin. The Gemini girl who, like her birth sign, had blown hot and cold, confusing her eight-year-old self. Fascinating and repelling her in equal measures.
Her mum and dad are standing in the doorway so she can’t see properly, but Kelly’s been down this road so many times before, she can picture it anyway: a girl or boy clinging to the hand of the social worker who’s brought them here. Their expression one of bravado or else betraying their distress with a lowered head and a trembling lip.
‘I can’t tell you how happy we are.’ There are tears in her mother’s eyes. ‘Come in. Come in.’
‘We thought of you first.’ The woman’s voice has a London accent. ‘We are so happy you agreed and after our meeting the other day, we knew this was undoubtedly the best decision.’
Kelly looks at her dad. He’s standing behind her mother, his face expressionless. She knows him well enough to guess this was not his idea. It’s something he’ll go along with, just as long as he doesn’t have to participate.
‘Kelly, put the kettle on, would you, darling?’
Her mum’s term of endearment is so alien that at first Kelly doesn’t realise it’s her she’s talking to. She doesn’t want to leave the hall. She wants to stay and see the next child who’ll sleep in the meadow bedroom. But she has no choice. Going into the kitchen, she takes the kettle over to the tap and fills it. The front door closes and she hears them go into the living room.
There’s a cake on a plate in the middle of the kitchen table. It’s chocolate, the icing thick and fudge-like. It looks expensive, nothing like the cheap cake she’d had all those years ago on her eighth birthday. The word welcome is piped in white chocolate across the top as fine as a snail-trail. Bile rises up Kelly’s throat as she remembers the glistening thread the snail had left on Freya’s hand before she’d dropped it to the ground and hovered her foot over it.
Pulling herself together, she reaches into the cupboard above her head and gets out five plates, which she puts on a tray along with matching cups and saucers and the bone china teapot. Adding the cake to the tray, she walks carefully into the hall.
It’s the social worker Kelly hears first as she nears the living room. This one sounds older than the others, her strident voice carrying easily.
‘You have all the recent notes we sent?’
Her mum says something back that she can’t hear.
‘And this time we’re looking longer term.’ There’s a pause. ‘You were pleased with the decision, weren’t you, dear?’
‘Yes.’ It’s a girl’s voice. That’s good. She’s missed having a sister.
Wondering if they’ll get on, Kelly pushes open the door with her shoulder. Walking to the table, she puts the tray down and takes her first look at the new arrival.
The first thing she notices about the girl is her height. Even sitting down, she’s nearly a head taller than her mum, her hair scragged back in a rough ponytail. But despite the unbecoming hairstyle, the bone structure of her face is arresting – the cheekbones high and sculpted like a model’s. It’s not her cheekbones Kelly’s looking at, though, or the delicate mouth with its smile all for her. It’s not even the row of silver studs that follow the curve of her ear or the one that adorns her nose. No, it’s none of those things. What makes Kelly catch her breath are the pale blue eyes. Eyes she knows only too well.
Eyes that belong to Freya.
She drops a teaspoon and it clatters onto one of the saucers.
‘For goodness’ sake, Kelly,’ her mum says. ‘Whatever’s got into you?’
Realising she’s staring stupidly, she busies herself with pouring out the tea, feeling tongue-tied and stupid. Unable to process her feelings at this new development in her life. For six years she’s wondered what had happened to Freya and now here she is – sitting at their dining room table as though she’s never been away. This girl and her terrible secret.
‘Where did you go?’ It’s all she can think of to say.
Freya says nothing, just puts her fingers to her lips and smiles. She doesn’t seem surprised to be here. In fact, she looks very much at home.
‘Don’t bother Freya now, Kelly. She’s only just arrived. Let her enjoy her tea.’
Her mother’s cheeks are flushed with pleasure. Taking the knife, she cuts a slice from the cake and puts it on one of the plates. The fudge icing oozes and Kelly has to look away.
‘You’ll have a piece, won’t you?’ Her mother says, offering the plate to Freya.
‘Of course, Mrs Harding. It looks delicious.’ Taking the plate, she lifts the piece of cake with difficulty and takes a bite. ‘Hmm. It tastes it too.’
‘Mrs Harding?’ Her mum looks at her in mock horror. ‘Please… it’s Karen. It isn’t as though we’re not acquainted, after all. I’m glad you like the cake. It’s only shop-bought, I’m afraid. I would have made one, but I’m a bit out of practice.’
Freya places her hand over Kelly’s mum’s. ‘I wouldn’t have expected you to.’
‘That’s very kind of you. I just know that we’re all going
to get along brilliantly. What do you say, Andrew?’
Kelly glances across at her dad, ready to share a conspiratorial look, but instead, he gives Freya a warm smile. ‘I’m sure we shall.’
They make a pleasing tableau – Freya at the head of the table, flanked by her mum and dad. Hovering beside the table, Kelly feels awkward and out of place. Unsure of where to sit. What to do. In the end, she takes a seat beside the social worker.
Her mum turns to her. ‘Isn’t it wonderful that Freya’s returning to us after all this time?’
Realising it’s not a rhetorical question and that it requires an answer, Kelly mumbles that of course it is.
The social worker is speaking now. ‘We’ll give her a day or two to settle down and then she’ll be joining you at your school. Isn’t that exciting?’
Kelly can’t stand it any longer. ‘How long for?’
‘I’m sorry?’ the woman says. ‘How long is what for?’
‘How long is she… Freya, I mean, staying this time?’
She sees the social worker’s eyes slide over to her mum’s. ‘It’s not possible to say for certain, Kelly. We’ll just see what happens, shall we?’
Like they did last time, she thinks. Never telling her anything. Always so vague. Just when she was getting used to the idea that Freya would be staying, she’d left and never come back – until now, that is.
Why hadn’t they told her Freya was coming back? Why did they think it wasn’t important for her to know? But why would they? It wasn’t as if they’d bothered to tell her anything the day Freya left. Explain why she’d gone.
She wants to sweep the stupid tea and the vile cake onto the floor. Watch their faces as Ben licks the chocolate icing from the carpet, treading tea and crumbs into the pile. But she doesn’t, of course. She just bites the inside of her cheek and waits.
‘Are you not having any cake?’ Her mum’s frowning.
‘No, thank you. I’m not hungry.’ So as not to appear rude, she pours herself some tea and drinks it as quickly as the hot liquid will allow. She wants to be on her own – not in this living room where everyone’s focus is on Freya. She needs space to work out how she feels about what’s happening. There’s no escaping, though, so she remains where she is until at last her mother fixes her eyes on her.
‘Why don’t you take Freya up to her room, Kelly? Show her where everything is.’ She flashes a smile at the social worker, who is dabbing at her mouth with the serviette she’s been given. ‘I went out and bought her a few bits and bobs. I wasn’t sure what she’d be bringing.’
Kelly glances over at Freya. She’s wearing a pair of very worn denim dungarees that look too big for her, the legs rolled up over her delicate ankles. Underneath is a simple sleeveless white T-shirt. Nobody she knows would be seen dead in dungarees, but on Freya they look good – like she’s stepped out of the pages of a magazine where the photographs have been shot on a ranch in California. Her skin is still as pale as it ever was, but the sun they’ve had recently has brought out a sprinkling of freckles on her white shoulders.
She meets Kelly’s eye. ‘Shall we go?’
‘If you want.’ Without waiting for her, Kelly leaves the room and walks across the hallway to the stairs. Her mum’s voice follows her.
‘I do apologise for my daughter. She can be difficult sometimes.’
Kelly climbs the stairs, digging her nails into her palm until the desire to cry passes. How can she say that, when all she ever does is try to please them in the hope that they might love her just a little bit? It’s never been about her. About what she wants. For all they care, she might just as well have not been born.
‘Hey, slow down.’ Freya is behind her, pulling at her sleeve. ‘What’s your problem?’
Yanking her arm away, Kelly shoves open the door to Freya’s room. ‘I don’t have a problem.’
‘Then why are you being so weird? I thought you might actually be pleased to see me.’
Is she pleased? She can’t decide. It’s all too much of a shock. Kelly goes over to the window and rests her elbows on the sill. She looks out at the meadow where they played all those years ago. ‘It’s all happened so suddenly, that’s all.’
Freya remains in the doorway, her slim body leaning against the frame. ‘What do you mean? Surely you knew I was coming?’
‘No.’
‘Why not? They’ve known for ages.’
Kelly turns her head to look at her, trying to hold back the tears. ‘They don’t tell me anything. They’re more likely to tell Ben than they are me.’
Freya regards her for a moment. ‘I think that’s pretty shit.’
‘I do too.’ Although her eyes are still shiny with tears, Kelly manages a smile. There’s something about this exchange that’s cut through the resentment she’s been feeling. Going over to the wardrobe, she opens it and takes out a pair of pink pedal pushers.
‘Look.’
Freya takes the stretchy material between her fingers. ‘Fuck me! Your mum doesn’t expect me to wear those, does she?’
‘Pretty hideous, aren’t they?’ She doesn’t want to admit that she likes them. That she’d thought about hiding them at the bottom of her own clothes drawer and hoping her mum wouldn’t remember she’d bought them for Freya.
‘About as hideous as this,’ Freya says, unhooking a turquoise spaghetti-strapped top and holding it up to her.
Kelly thinks she looks cool – like Zoe Ball – but says nothing.
‘So, what’s been going on while I’ve been away?’ The way Freya says it, it sounds as if she’d just popped to the shops for a couple of hours, rather than out of her life for six years.
‘Not a lot.’
‘What do you do? For fun, I mean.’
‘I run. Cross-country, mostly. I’m a junior in the athletics club.’
Freya looks her up and down. ‘That figures. What else do you do?’
‘Swim… at the sports centre.’
‘I never swim.’
Her arms fold across her stomach and Kelly’s taken back to that day in the changing rooms. A discarded sock on the windowsill, a plaster under the bench. A swathe of shiny puckered skin. She shivers and changes the subject. ‘What year will you be in when you start at my school?’
‘Year twelve. What year are you in?’
‘Ten.’
Freya studies her. ‘You’re pretty tall for your age, aren’t you? Is that why you’re a good runner?’
Kelly shrugs. ‘Maybe.’
‘I remember when I was here before, how I wished I could be strong and healthy like you. You always had so much energy.’ She sighs. ‘I find it’s an effort just to stay alive.’
Kelly looks up, shocked. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t mean anything. Just that life can be a drag sometimes.’ She pokes Kelly in the ribs. ‘Don’t look at me like that. It’s just an expression. I’ve probably read too much Sylvia Plath. I think I should have been born in a different age when it was fashionable to be melancholy.’
Not wanting to admit she doesn’t know who Sylvia Plath is, Kelly just smiles, but there’s something she has to ask. Something that’s been eating away at her.
‘Where did you go?’
Freya’s back is to her now. She’s sliding the hangers along the rail in the wardrobe, looking at the dresses and trousers that are hanging there. Muttering under her breath when she sees something particularly bad. ‘When?’
‘Before. When you were ten.’
Freya’s hand pauses for a second and then the metal hooks slide again. ‘Here and there. Let’s not talk about it. It’s boring.’
‘But nobody—’
Kelly jumps as the wardrobe door slams. She thinks she’s angered Freya, but when the girl turns, she’s looking pleased with herself. ‘I got you a present.’
‘A present?’
‘Yes.’ Freya gives an exaggerated sigh. ‘Surely you don’t need me to explain what a present is?’
Dipping her ha
nd into the pocket of her dungarees, she brings out a thin square of tissue paper and hands it to Kelly. ‘Go on then, open it.’
Carefully, Kelly unfolds the tissue, gasping when she sees what’s inside.
‘It’s a locket!’
‘Of course it’s a locket and it took bloody ages to find one the same as mine. See what’s inside.’
Sliding her thumbnails down the join, Kelly unclasps it and sees her own face looking back at her. In the other side, is a picture of Freya. The pictures were taken when they were both children.
‘You can thank me if you like.’
‘I’m sorry. Thank you. It’s lovely.’ Her face flushes. No one’s given her a present in friendship before… or love.
Downstairs her mum is calling them and Freya frowns. ‘Jesus, what do they want now?’
Kelly glances nervously at the door. ‘I suppose we’d better go down, or they’ll wonder what we’re doing. The woman you came with will want to know you’re okay.’
‘What, nosy cow Lawson? She couldn’t give a shit about me. None of them do. She’ll just be glad to be shot of me.’
‘You don’t mean that?’
‘Don’t I? What would you know? With your precious mum and dad. Living in your lovely house in its chocolate-bloody-box village. Never having to worry about where you’ll be going next. Not knowing if there’ll be some stupid girl asking her bloody stupid questions.’
The atmosphere has changed. Freya’s fingers have formed into fists, her skin stretching white where the points of her knuckles press.
Kelly stares. The outburst is shocking. ‘I… I didn’t mean—’
‘Of course you didn’t. Little miss goody two shoes.’
The injustice of what Freya’s said, brings stinging tears to her eyes. Freya’s sudden changes in mood are no different to when they were children. She’s still able to turn things around to make like it’s Kelly who’s in the wrong. But what does Freya know about her life? What does she know about living with parents who don’t want her? She catches her breath as a thought occurs to her. But of course, she does know. If not, why would she be in foster care?
