The Unravelling: Children can be very very cruel (A gripping domestic noir thriller)

by Thorne Moore

  But, time for business. ‘Serena Whinn.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The girl I’m looking for. Her name was Serena Whinn. She’s have been studying for A levels 1971 to 1973. And you were there from ’72. Do you remember her?’

  ‘Serena Whinn. Serena Whinn.’ He was trying the name on his tongue, accessing a mental filing cabinet. ‘No. I’m fairly sure I don’t. It’s hard, you know, remembering all those names, all those years. So many Jane Smiths and Mary Joneses. But Serena Whinn. That’s quite unusual. I think I’d remember that name, and I don’t. You say she studied English?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have no idea.’ I sat still, trying not to wail my disappointment.

  ‘If she did sciences, I wouldn’t have known her.’

  ‘No.’ Clutch at a straw, any straw. If not Serena, what about her archangels? ‘Barbara Fulbright?’

  ‘Barbara… Oh. I don’t know. I remember several Barbaras. Was one of them a Fulbright? Might have been. Possibly. Sorry. I really couldn’t say for sure.’

  ‘Denise Griggs?’

  Blank.

  ‘Angela Bryant?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ruth Jefferson?’

  ‘No. Sorry, I… Ah. Wait. Ruth Jefferson. Hang on now.’

  I sat up, like a dog panting for a whistle. Please. Please!

  ‘That name does ring a bell. Yes! Although I didn’t actually teach her. No, that’s right. She left. Bit of a to-do. I’d only just started, ha ha, yes.’ He was chuckling now. ‘The deputy head had been drilling into me what smart, conscientious, well-behaved young people attended Lyford VI Form, and then this girl dropped out because she was pregnant. Seems nothing now, does it? But it was still pretty scandalous, back then. She gave up her A levels and they bundled her off to get married, hastily.’

  ‘Ruth Jefferson? You are sure?’ Of all the girls who circled Serena, Ruth was the one least likely to fall from grace, I’d have thought. She wasn’t a saint, like Serena, but she was a mouse. Very small, very neat, very obedient. Her father was a monster, keeping her on a leash and terrifying us whenever he turned up at school, which he did most days. She would never have dared put a foot wrong, let alone any other part of her anatomy.

  ‘Pretty sure. Because of the name. Jefferson. American president. A grand name, you might say, and I thought it rather sad – well, funny sad, I’m afraid – that on top of everything else, the icing on her punishment, so to speak, she finished up being called – oh, something. What was it now? No, can’t remember, but she married someone with a rather unfortunate name. They did, in those days. Get married if they fell pregnant, I mean. I know…we were way past the Summer of Love and revolution in the streets of Paris, but 1967 got to Lyford the long way round. It’s not the natural home of hardened rebels and free spirits, and she certainly wasn’t either.’

  I could agree with him there. I could picture her father, Mr Jefferson, shouting at her as she cowered, while he pointed a shotgun at the culprit with the unfortunate name.

  ‘Well, sorry I can’t help you any more than that.’

  ‘No, that’s fine. That’s great. More than I had before.’

  I excused myself from David Lamb’s house before he could press me to tea and biscuits. I promised to consider taking his course.

  I didn’t need to go to an evening class to read Victorian novels. I’d probably read them all, anyway. I walked to Gem’s Books, wondering what I was to do with the information I’d been given. It was so little, but it was all I’d got. Ruth Jefferson had got married, in 1972 or 3 to someone with an unfortunate name.

  My newly self-controlled persona was telling me it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to obsess about it. But the worm had already bitten and its jaws were locked on.

  Malcolm was busy with a customer when I went in, so I did my own searching. He let me use the place as a reference library. Finding people – how to. I finished up in the genealogical section and discovered that there was no shortage of advice on finding your great grandmother in the 1881 census, or how to trace distant ancestors through parish registers.

  Malcolm broke free and ambled over to see what I was up to. He was a nice man, Malcolm. No poster boy, that was sure. In his fifties and getting stout, his ginger frizz – real ginger, not like mine ‒ turning grey, his battered features beginning to sag. But his eyes were always kind, the kindest eyes I’d ever seen. And he tolerated me. The fellow book enthusiast.

  ‘How you doing, Karen?’

  ‘Fine. Frustrated.’

  ‘What you looking for?’

  ‘A girl from school. No, not Serena Whinn.’ I’d explained about my fixation with her. Not why the fixation had arisen, because I didn’t know myself, but I let it stand, as Charlie had suggested, as a fondly remembered schoolgirl crush. How sweet. What a hoot. ‘A girl called Ruth Jefferson. Apparently she married, in the early 70s. I think, according to this, I need to go to Somerset House.’

  ‘Mm.’ He rubbed his chin, looking at the elderly, clothbound book I was holding. ‘Might be a bit out of date. Births, marriages and deaths. All that moved, I think, to St Catherine’s House. Then again ‒ not sure, have to check, but I think it may be somewhere else now. Let’s see.’

  Malcolm had books coming out of his ears, but he had a computer too, and a modem to connect to the internet and Yahoo. ‘The Family Record Centre,’ he said, rubbing his chin. ‘Clerkenwell. Sounds a good Dickensian name, doesn’t it?’

  We consulted a London A-Z and a map of the Underground, which I studied solemnly, as if going to London was something I did all the time. I think I might have been, as a child, on the train, with Mummy and Daddy. To see the Tower perhaps or the zoo. Lyford had been close enough, so we must surely have done, but it was a blank. I knew I’d been once in an ambulance. I’d been twelve and in no position to take note of the metropolis around me, so the experience was no use now.

  I was terrified at the thought of going there now, but if I had to, I had to. My car was in some pound somewhere. It had been scooped up from where I’d abandoned it and the police said it wasn’t fit to drive. I couldn’t afford massive repairs, so I’d have to go to London by train. That was a relief, at least. I’d managed the motorway to Lyford, but London would have been beyond me. I was mad, but not that mad.

  ‘Do you really need to go?’ Malcolm shut the A-Z and handed it to me. A loan. ‘There’s a website, might help. Supposed to bring old friends together. What’s it called now?’

  We were back on the internet, and he found it. Friends Reunited. All I had to do was look for my old school. I was dancing in my head, wanting to laugh out loud, it was so ridiculously easy, after all I’d been through. All I had to do was type Marsh Green Junior School, Lyford and…

  Nothing.

  Hopeless. Two or three names, none of which I recognised. No hint of Serena or any of her friends.

  I stopped wanting to laugh. I wanted to cry instead.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Malcolm. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea. There’s always births, marriages and deaths.’

  There were always births, marriages and deaths. Nothing was going to stop people getting hitched, in their millions, having babies and dropping dead. And nothing was going to stop civil servants diligently making records of it all. Every single one. That’s a lot of records. First I had to get to them.

  I found myself in London, in the jaws of a city deranged in its busyness, traffic everywhere, people everywhere, everything constantly on the move – except me, the professionally deranged one. Mostly, I was standing still, the A–Z and a map of the Underground in my sweating hand. But I found the centre, in the end, a hedgehog of a building, and after that the fun began.

  I knew there would be indexes to consult, but what I hadn’t expected was the risk of broken arms, snapped fingers and bruised feet, as I tussled with other researchers. They all seemed determined to wrestle the vast index volumes onto whichever bit of desk I was standing near. Every one of them was wearing hobnailed bo
ots and knuckledusters.

  I was lucky that I could narrow my search to a single year. David Lamb had started at the VI Form in the autumn of ’72, and Ruth had left, to be married hurriedly, shortly afterwards.

  I found her in the fourth quarter of 1972. No mistake. It had to be her. Married in Lyford, surname of spouse…Smellie. Oh Lord. No wonder Mr Lamb remembered it.

  I checked, to be sure, under Smellie, in the same quarter. Yes. Russell Smellie, surname of spouse: Jefferson.

  If I wanted to know more, I would have to order the certificate and wait for it to come by post, but I couldn’t see the need. I had what I needed – Ruth’s married name. The nightmare journey was worth it.

  Safely home, and after washing the dust and petrol fumes of London from me, I headed for the library and its ranks of telephone directories. It seemed improbable, but I started with Lyford. Smellie.

  R Smellie.

  Could I really be that lucky? She was still living in Lyford?

  I dialled the number, panicked and put the phone down before it could ring. Let’s not be impulsive.

  On the other hand, what was the point of all my angst, my trip to London, my research, if I didn’t follow it up? I took a deep breath, stilled my nerves and dialled again.

  It rang, kept ringing. How long could I let it ring before I was justified in giving up? I was just about to when the phone was picked up. A woman’s voice said ‘574881. Yes?’

  She was abrupt. Maybe just breathless. Not the squeaky little girl I remembered, but then she wouldn’t be.

  ‘Excuse me, are you Ruth…’ I couldn’t bring myself to say it. ‘Jefferson?’

  ‘Was. Ruth Melly now.’ That was how she pronounced it. I didn’t blame her. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘I’m – I don’t suppose you remember me. We were at school. I’m Karen. Karen Rothwell.’

  There was silence. It went on so long, I thought we must have been disconnected. But we weren’t. Just as I was wondering if I should jab the receiver button and shout ‘Operator? Operator?’ like they do in films, she spoke.

  I heard her say ‘Karen,’ very faintly, as if she was mouthing the impossible to herself. Then she spoke aloud.

  ‘Shit.’

  — 5 —

  I was on my way to Lyford again, by train this time, so less fraught, and my mind, thanks to therapy, less kamikaze. Which didn’t mean I was expecting an easy, pleasant day. Ruth Jefferson/Smellie-with-a-silent-S wasn’t expecting me. Quite the reverse. When I’d suggested that we meet, she’d flapped and flustered in undisguised horror and finished with a firm no. No, because she was far too busy. Today and tomorrow. All this week. In fact, all this year. A meeting just wasn’t possible.

  I was banking on the hope that, once she’d put the phone down and recovered from the immediate shock of my call, she’d be more reasonable. She wouldn’t slam the door in my face, would she?

  Maybe she would, but I’d have to try. Something had happened back in 1966, I was convinced of it. It was something I had blocked out, not because it represented halcyon days of innocent normality before the trauma of my accident, but because it had been too horrible to bear. Something worse even than the accident. Something that was creeping up on me at last, slithering around in my memory, waiting to piece itself together, and until it did, I knew I was never going to be right. Even with my medication and my watchful guardian, and my interminable talks with Miles, I was always going to be on the brink of what Charlie called ‘an episode.’ There was a big black hole, waiting to be filled.

  It required a sort of surgery, and that was always painful, whatever the lying doctors promised, but you don’t get well without it. At the moment I was sane enough to appreciate that pain was going to be essential, if I wanted to survive. Which proves I was feeling pretty sane. When I wasn’t, I didn’t want to survive.

  I had a street map of Lyford. I knew how to find Ruth’s house, in Farnham Drive, on the south side of town, at the edge of the Marley Farm estate. An old lady at the train station told me which bus to catch, which was as well, because the town centre was a mystery to me. I might have been to town on the bus with my mother, but it wasn’t this town. Not this pedestrianised way with artistic benches and miniature trees, or this looming mass of shopping centre, or this multiplex cinema of steel and glass. No Lyons Corner House any more. Not even the corner it had stood on.

  I caught the 27A bus, and felt easier once I was trundling into a district I’d certainly never known, riding up on to the knees of the downs. If I’d never known it, I couldn’t be disturbed by the mismatch between memory and reality.

  The ease wore off rapidly as I approached No. 32, Farnham Drive. It was the garden that jostled tiny fibres of memory. A neat garden. A garden I couldn’t possibly ever have known, and yet, somehow, I did.

  *

  ‘You’re to come to tea,’ says Ruth.

  I follow her, obedient but nervous. Ruth doesn’t usually make me nervous, though I puzzle over her. I puzzle over how she’s always so neat. Her hair is always parted so perfectly you can see a straight line of scalp, like chalk along a ruler. Mine is always a mess by the time I get to school, but Ruth keeps hers smooth. She has a little comb she carries with her.

  Her socks never fall down, either. Mine do. They always finish up looking like ankle socks, even though they’re supposed to be up to my knees. I pull them up hastily as we turn in through her gate. I don’t want to be shouted at.

  I’m fairly sure I will be, though, because that’s what Mr Jefferson does. He shouts. It’s more like barking, really. He always seems to be at the school, or outside the gate, even though he’s not a teacher, or anything like that. He stands watching, ready to bark at anyone who runs or pushes or crosses the road without looking properly. He has very short hair that stands up on end, and a moustache that bristles like a broom when he’s barking. And he has a camera. He takes pictures if we’re naughty.

  ‘I’ve got you on camera, boy! What will Mr Cutler say when he sees this photograph, eh? Eh? What do you say to that?’

  I think he’s called a governor. That’s why he’s at the school all the time. Must be a bit like being a lollipop lady. It’s not just us children who are afraid of him. The other parents who come to the school gate are a bit wary too. My dad sniffs when Mummy mentions him and says, ‘Ex-army.’

  Meaning Mr Jefferson was in the army in the war. Which is probably true because most of our fathers were in the army, during the war or after it. My dad was. I’ve seen a photo of him in uniform, by a great big gun guarding the viaduct. That was when he was in the Home Guard, he says. Then he was called up and went to all sorts of places. Catterick. Andover. Barbara Fulbright’s father went to Burma. Denise Griggs’s went to Italy and got shot. Not properly. Not killed or anything and he’s still got arms and legs, but it’s still exciting, except that he won’t talk about it. None of them want to. My Dad just says, ‘Well, you know, that was then.’

  None of them want to remember it, except Mr Jefferson. I think he’d like us all to be in the army, everyone drilling, marching, stamping to attention, while he barks orders. ‘What you need, boy, is a spell of army discipline. Bring back National Service. That would knock you into shape.’

  He wasn’t at the school gates today, which means he’ll be at home, waiting for us, and I don’t really want to go to tea with Ruth but I suppose I have to.

  Mr Jefferson is in the garden, holding an inspection of his roses. They are in straight lines, not daring to flutter a petal and the grass is standing to attention. There aren’t any weeds in this garden. The hedge is cut like a brick wall. He turns to look at us, shears in hand.

  ‘What’s this, what’s this? Who have you got there, Missy?’

  Ruth looks at me, reluctantly. ‘She’s Karen, Daddy. She’s coming to tea.’

  ‘Oh is she, indeed? And who gave you permission to invite this Karen to tea? Did you ask Mother?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy.’

  ‘Very well, then. B
ut no noise. And no messing up the lawn! You know the rules!’ He glances at my school bag. ‘What have you got there? Gym clothes, I hope. All children must carry gym clothes. Right, up you go and change, at the double. No wearing best blouses in the garden!’

  We go upstairs, but we don’t get changed. We don’t want to play in the garden. I wouldn’t dare because it might mess up the lawn. We don’t do anything really. We hover in the bedroom Ruth shares with her sister, and we very quietly look at her dolls of different nations, arranged with great precision on the window sill.

  I don’t like it there. It’s too quiet. I can hear creaking on the stairs, like a monster creeping up, and then I can hear a funny noise, like someone breathing through the crack in the door, and I think maybe the monster’s just outside. Ruth doesn’t seem to hear, but I stick close to her, just in case.

  Breathing.

  ‘Ruth! Your tea’s ready. Bring your little friend down.’ Mrs Jefferson is twittering up the stairs, and immediately Ruth jumps up as if she can’t wait to go down. Me too. We race to the bedroom door and open it, and there isn’t any monster there, just Mr Jefferson, with his bristling moustache.

  ‘Hurry up, girls. Don’t keep Mother waiting. Have you washed your hands?’

  No, we haven’t. Mr Jefferson doesn’t trust us to do it properly. He follows us into the bathroom and insists on scrubbing our hands for us, holding our wrists. I don’t like the feel of his skin. His fingers make me shiver. I want to be out of there. I want to go home.

  But then it’s teatime, with fluffy Mrs Jefferson in her frilly apron and it’s all right because there’s jelly and real tinned cream.

  *

  I only went once. I never dared go to Ruth’s door on my own. I might have disturbed Mr Jefferson’s regimental roses.

  Now I was looking at Ruth’s own garden. Not a rose in sight, but there were salvias and lobelia, arranged in brutal, geometric precision. An exact square of perfect grass. Not a hint of moss on the tarmac leading to the garage and the front door. Maybe Mr Jefferson was living here too, with his daughter, in charge of the garden and ready to photograph that salvia if it shifted out of line.