by Sara Barnard
What would the papers have said if it hadn’t been Bonnie, but one of the girls from the council estate I’d grown up in? What would they have said if it was me? What can you expect with an upbringing like that? they’d say. They’d call it a failure of social services. They’d bring up the stats on failed adoption cases, talk about how many kids of addicts leave school without qualifications or end up in prison. No one would say I was ‘good’. No one would even bother to ask if I was.
Or let’s be honest here. They probably wouldn’t talk about it at all if it was me. I wouldn’t get half the press coverage. Me, with my bitchy resting-face and my indeterminate-but-not-quite-white-enough race, scowling from the front pages? No way. I’m not front-page material – not like Bonnie, with her braces-straight white teeth, combed hair and placid smile.
Nothing about realizing any of this is fun. It makes my stomach hurt. And it makes me think of Bonnie in a way I never have before. It makes me resent her. She gets to do something so stupid and yet everyone is still on her side? She gets to be the darling of the front pages? How is that fair? How is any of this fair?
I know that all that matters right now is getting Bonnie home. I know that it’s a good thing there’s so much press coverage of the story and her face, that more people being aware of her and Mr Cohn means a greater chance of finding them. But did it all have to happen in a way that makes me feel so cold?
Here’s what I’m really worried about: when Bonnie comes back and the story fades from the minds of strangers and the newspapers stack up in recycling bins, what will happen to us? Will I be able to look at Bonnie and see my best friend, or will she always be that frozen image from the front pages? How can anything ever be the same?
Conversations That Took on a New Meaning after Bonnie Disappeared
The ‘Missed Out’ Edition: three months before
‘Do you think I’ve missed out?’
‘Missed out? On what?’
The two of us were in Topshop, trying to find her an outfit for her cousin’s wedding. I was looking through the racks while she stood beside me, chewing on her thumbnail. Bonnie can do a lot of things, but she’s completely incapable of shopping alone.
‘On . . . you know. Teen stuff?’
‘Oh, teen stuff,’ I said, rolling my eyes, none the wiser.
‘I’ve nearly finished Year Eleven and I’ve never even got a detention. Is that weird?’
‘Yep.’ I pulled out a bright yellow crop top and held it up, grinning at her.
‘Eeds,’ she whined, for my response or the suggestion, I wasn’t sure.
I shoved the top back on to the rail and moved over to a new display, her trailing me like Daisy in a supermarket. ‘Are you asking me if I think you’ve missed out by not getting detentions?’
‘Not just detentions. I mean the whole lot. I’ve never done anything that’s not exactly what I’m supposed to do. I’ve never even handed in homework late.’
‘So what?’
‘Well, isn’t that bad?’
‘To be good?’
‘To not have experienced being . . . less good.’
‘What’re you basing this on?’ I asked, pausing in my search and focusing my attention on her. ‘You’re freaking out because you’ve never got detention? Cos I don’t see why that’s bad.’
‘I’m not freaking out; I’m just curious.’ This was true – she wasn’t freaking out at all. She was totally calm.
‘You’re responsible, Bon,’ I said. ‘You’re one of the good ones. You worked hard to be that way. You might as well appreciate it.’
She didn’t say anything, her eyes serious even as her mouth smiled.
‘I don’t know what it is you think you’re missing.’
‘Life experiences!’ she said. ‘Getting drunk in a park. Staying out all night. I don’t know . . . Being grounded!’
I laughed. ‘Those aren’t experiences; they’re just crappy mistakes. They don’t sound that great to me.’
‘Yeah, but at least you’ve done them.’
‘Oh, is that what this is about?’ Bonnie and I never really talked about the few months I’d gone ever so slightly off the rails. I’d always assumed that was because the whole idea freaked her out. ‘I wouldn’t call that teen stuff, anyway,’ I said. ‘More like stupid stuff in general.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Bon, I really don’t.’
‘I just . . .’ There was a long pause. ‘I’ve never done anything crazy.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Is it?’
‘Where’s this come from, anyway?’ I asked.
‘Oh, it’s just something someone said to me,’ she said vaguely.
‘Someone told you you’re missing out on teen stuff? Who?’
‘Not like that. More like, maybe I should test my own boundaries a bit more, you know? Push myself instead of always playing it safe and doing the right thing. Be braver. More bold.’
‘Sure,’ I said, shrugging. ‘That sounds like good advice.’
‘So you think I should?’
‘Push yourself? Sure,’ I said again. ‘Go for it.’
Well done, me.
Wednesday
School Ignored Runaway Teacher’s Ex-Girlfriend When She Warned of Inappropriate Behaviour with Pupil
Disgraced teacher Jack Cohn could have been stopped in his tracks – before absconding with 15-year-old schoolgirl Bonnie Wiston-Stanley – if school authorities had listened to a warning from Cohn’s former partner.
That’s the firm belief of Rebekka Bridges, 27, Cohn’s ex-girlfriend of three years, who has spoken exclusively to The Mirror of her anger at her former lover, and hinted that the opportunity to intervene was missed by Kent comprehensive Kett Academy.
Bridges, a fellow teacher, met Jack Cohn when both attended the same training course five years ago, when he ‘seemed very normal’.
‘He was sweet and shy at first,’ Bridges recalls. ‘But mostly kind. I remember him offering to help me with my work as an attempt to get to know me better.’
Their relationship ended ‘amicably’ a year ago, Bridges says, and since then the pair have remained on good terms – until two months ago.
‘Jack and I had arranged to meet for coffee on a weekend – and when I arrived he was saying goodbye to a girl who was clearly of school age,’ Bridges reveals. ‘I questioned him about it, but he shrugged it off as a pupil who had happened to see him in town.’
Bridges thought little more of it until they met next, a month later, when Cohn was ‘completely distracted’ by messaging someone on his phone.
‘I asked him about it – I have moved on and I was honestly pleased that it seemed like he had too – but he declined to go into detail. That was fine – Jack had often been a private person.
‘But then while showing me a document on his phone, I saw a text message come through from an unregistered number saying, quite clearly, “Can’t wait to see you in class tomorrow xxxx.”
‘He was clearly embarrassed and tried to make out like the message had been a joke. Then he suddenly changed his story and said it was another member of staff who he had started a relationship with.’
Bridges contacted Cohn’s school the following morning to report her suspicions, but could not confirm the pupil’s identity.
The school appears to have taken no action – and Cohn continued to teach the girl he would flee with just weeks later.
Bridges is a popular English teacher at the nearby Normandy High School and says she has stayed in contact with Cohn after growing close to his family.
‘I know Jack’s parents Graham and Dorothy well – both are lovely people and neither deserve what Jack is now putting them through. I spoke to them this week and both of them share my view he has acted appallingly. He has abused the bond of trust that is expected between teachers and their pupils.
‘I never expected he would ever do anything like this.’
13
On
Wednesday morning, I wake up with a heavy weight in my stomach. I lie on my back for a while, staring at the ceiling, listening to Daisy’s chirpy voice from the hall. She’s going on about some ingredients she’s taking to Food Tech to make a trifle, something about sponge fingers and jam. Food Tech is one of the only subjects Daisy likes at school, and Carolyn is going in hard, trying to fan the flames, hoping to turn her into a budding chef.
‘Are you allowed to put sherry in it?’ Bob asks. His voice is more distant, like he’s calling from the bathroom.
‘Bob!’ Carolyn exclaims, and I smile.
I pull out my phone and open BBC News, but there haven’t been any breakthroughs while I’ve been sleeping. I do a quick search of Bonnie’s name on Twitter and find a lot of links to the same article from the Daily Mirror, an interview with Mr Cohn’s ex-girlfriend, Rebekka. I scroll through the article, feeling a frown scrunching up my face. I read the paragraph about her calling Kett three disbelieving times until there’s a knock at my door and Carolyn’s voice telling me to get up.
When I go downstairs, showered and dressed but no more prepared for my coming exam, Daisy is still in the kitchen, taking her time over a bowl of cereal.
‘Hi!’ she says, bouncing up.
‘Daze, you’re going to be late for school,’ I say, realizing how much like Carolyn I sound and almost wanting to take it back.
‘What a tragedy,’ Daisy says, but she sits back down.
Bob is sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper and sipping coffee. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asks me with a smile.
‘So weird,’ I say. ‘Do you think Kett will get in trouble for not doing anything about it?’
Bob rolls his eyes. ‘I meant about your exam.’
‘Oh, that. Fine. Do you think Rebekka is telling the truth?’
Bob sighs, like Aren’t Eden’s priorities so backwards? ‘Who’s Rebekka?’ he asks.
Carolyn walks into the kitchen, notices Daisy and looks in horror at the clock on the wall. ‘Why are you still here?’ she demands. ‘You’re going to be so late.’
‘Not if you drive me,’ Daisy says.
‘Mr Cohn’s ex,’ I say. ‘She sold her story to the Daily Mirror.’
‘Daisy, I’m leaving in three minutes,’ Carolyn says. ‘If you’re not down here ready to go in two, then you’ll just have to be late.’
‘She says she told Kett that she thought Mr Cohn was getting close to a student,’ I finish. Daisy crams the final spoonful of cereal into her mouth and bolts from the kitchen, leaving the bowl on the table.
‘Oh dear,’ Bob says. ‘That won’t go down well.’
‘Is this the Rebekka story?’ Carolyn asks, already in motion, picking up the bowl and opening the dishwasher. ‘Smart woman.’
‘You think?’ I say, surprised. ‘Isn’t selling your story a really cheap thing to do?’
‘That depends on your point of view,’ Bob says. Valerie comes into the kitchen as he says this, and he smiles at her. ‘Morning, love.’
‘It’s a sensible way to control the narrative,’ Carolyn says, eyes on the clock. ‘Daisy! I’m walking out the door!’ She leans over to drop a kiss on my cheek. ‘I have a meeting with a client, so I have to go now,’ she says, tying her hair up into a ponytail as she speaks. ‘I’ll be here when you get back after the exam, though, and you can tell me all about it. But I’m sorry I can’t take you to school.’
‘That’s OK, Connor’s coming and we’re going to walk together,’ I say. The exam is due to start at 9.15 a.m., and I’m meant to get to the gym for 9 a.m. If I really wanted to, I could get a lift with Carolyn and Daisy and get there early, but I try to spend as little time on Kett grounds as possible.
‘What?’ Valerie says, startled, from where she’s pouring coffee from the pot into a mug. ‘I was going to take you, wasn’t I?’
Bob and Carolyn both look at me, and I squash down the automatic guilt, shrugging. ‘No, Connor’s coming.’
Daisy comes back into the kitchen, her backpack hanging off one arm, stepping into her shoes as she goes. ‘Good luck!’ she says breathlessly, hugging me. ‘Hope it’s not too shitty.’
‘Daisy,’ Bob says warningly, but I’m smiling as I hug her back.
Valerie closes the fridge, empty-handed. ‘I could drive you and Connor,’ she suggests.
‘We can walk,’ I say. ‘It’s not far.’
‘But—’
‘Let them walk, Valerie, love,’ Bob says gently.
She looks from me to him, the hurt on her face unmistakable, then shrugs, turning away from us both. ‘Fine.’
Bob glances at me, raising his eyebrows slightly, and I know I should say something to ease the sting in the air, but at that moment there’s a knock on the door, and thank God for that.
Connor is on the doorstep, his hair still rumpled, and a smile lights up his face when I open the door.
‘Good morning, Connor,’ Bob says from behind me.
‘Hi,’ Connor says. ‘I’ve just come to pick up Eden.’
‘You mean you’re not here to see me?’ Bob asks, all innocence.
Connor blinks at him, and I laugh as I lace up my brogues and stand to pull my bag over my shoulder. ‘See you later, Bob.’
‘Good luck, Edie, love,’ he says. He only breaks out ‘Edie’ on very special occasions. ‘You’ll be smashing.’
‘Did you see the article with Mr Cohn’s ex?’ I ask as we head down the road.
‘Let’s not talk about anything to do with that right now,’ Connor says. ‘Get into exam-mode.’
‘But—’
‘Seriously, you have to try to not think about it for the next, like, two hours. All that shit will still be going on after the exam.’
My stomach gives a nauseating little churn. God, I hate exams. Sitting in a silent hall and having to face the fact that I know sweet fuck-all about biology is right up there with the worst ways to spend an hour.
When we get to the school, my stomach drops. I hear Connor mutter, ‘Oh shit.’ The place is swarming with journalists. It’s nothing like the handful that were there on Monday; this is more a full-on siege on the school. There’s even a camera crew, complete with a woman I recognize from the local news. ‘Er . . .’ Connor says. ‘What were you saying about an article with Mr C’s ex?’
‘She told the papers that she’d warned the school and they didn’t do anything,’ I summarize.
‘Oh,’ he says again. He makes a face. ‘Oh shit.’
We brace ourselves and head for the gates. Mr Petrakis, our Deputy Head, and Mr Townsend, the Maths teacher, are trying to create a clear pathway for the students coming in for the exam, and that seems hard enough. I wonder what it was like a little earlier for the start of the normal school day.
Connor puts an arm around my shoulder and steers me through the gates and into the car park. I hear some of the journalists calling my actual name, which makes me feel panicky and exposed. I think about Bonnie, hidden and safe and cocooned in her little love nest with Mr Cohn, and for a second I actually hate her.
As we walk towards the school, a crazy part of me seriously considers turning around and screaming ‘SHE’S IN YORKSHIRE!’
I don’t.
Maybe I should have.
But you know the really stupid thing? I mean the really stupid thing? There’s still a part of me that is expecting to see her. I actually look for her in the crowd of my classmates that is gathering outside the gym where we’ll be taking the exam. I look for the curve of her high ponytail – wilfully forgetting that she’s cut her hair short – and the curve of her cheeks in profile. I know her face so well, I’d know it in an instant, but still I look, so carefully, so stupidly, at everyone I see.
Because I don’t think I ever really believed that she would miss this. The first of the exams she’d been preparing for since she was ten years old. The first step in the sequence that would make up the rest of her life.
But she’s not here.
&nbs
p; She’s not here.
We file into the gym together, everyone strangely quiet, and take our seats at our individual desks.
‘Good morning, everyone,’ Mrs Berwick says, smiling at us from the front of the room. ‘We’ve just got a few minutes to go.’ She glances behind her at the clock on the wall, which confirms it’s almost 9.15.
My head whispers, There’s still time.
The exam papers are waiting face down on the desks. We’re allowed to turn them over to write our names and candidate numbers, and I fill in the boxes slowly, my heart drumming, one eye on the door. ‘MCKINLEY’, I write. ‘EDEN ROSE’. The paper has a big fat F on it and, even though I know it stands for ‘Foundation’, it feels like a bad omen.
I think about the journalists, no doubt still gathered outside the school gates. All the noise that’s going on outside this cold, silent room.
Two rows across, Connor is looking over at me. Our eyes meet and he smiles.
The second hand edges closer to 9.15.
The door hasn’t opened, and there is no Bonnie.
‘Good luck, everyone,’ Mrs Berwick says, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. ‘You may begin.’
14
The exam goes very, very badly. I answer the first question on food webs and then the follow-up question after it, but the third, fourth and fifth questions are beyond me. I waste time panicking on number six, staring at the two diagrams that apparently have something to do with the circulatory system, waiting for sense to come, but it doesn’t.
I close my eyes and conjure an image into my head of Bonnie and me, not even two weeks ago, revising in her bedroom. She’d tried to explain double circulation to me. It had made sense when she explained it.
What was it she’d said?
‘Do you ever think about running away?’
No. No, Eden. Concentrate.
‘Pulmonary is the one for the lungs, see the diagram with the sideways arrows? Think, like, “pulmonary” has an L in it, OK?’ She’d exaggerated the word, sticking out her tongue on the L. ‘Pullllmonary.’
