by Maggie Groff
‘I’m coming back as your dog,’ I said to Harper, catching up and giving her a hug and a kiss. ‘So sorry I’m late.’
Despite the open-plan design and soaring cathedral ceilings, the house was deliciously cool. It smelled of Moroccan Fig room fragrance, which Harper sprays everywhere because she has four sons and a dog.
Sam, a strapping twenty-one-year-old with wild surfer-blond curls, emerged from the kitchen wearing jeans, a white T-shirt and the pink Stepford Wives apron with the sweetheart neckline that I’d given Harper last Christmas.
‘Aunt Scout, how lovely,’ Sam said, walking towards me with his arms out in welcome. We hugged and he kissed me on both cheeks.
‘Nice apron,’ I said.
‘Thank you, I made it myself.’
I laughed. Sam, as my mother often said, could charm the birds from the trees.
Fergus, aged seven, and the youngest of Harper’s fair-haired lads, ran into the hall to greet me. He was wearing bright red surf shorts and a toothy grin.
‘Hi, Aunty Scout,’ he sang enthusiastically. We high-fived as Fergus doesn’t like kissing any more. According to his classmates, that stuff’s for girls. There’s a big age gap between Fergus and his older brothers and I often wonder if he was my sister’s last chance for a daughter, but I’m not sure. Harps and I have never discussed it.
Max, the eldest of my nephews, is twenty-two and a newly qualified pharmacist in Sydney. Sam, next in line, is in his third year of engineering at Griffith University on the Gold Coast; and Jack, nineteen, is an apprentice plumber by day and a stand-up comic by night. Both Sam and Jack are still living at home. Jack, apparently, was out being funny.
With Angus jumping around our heels, Harper helped me carry my things up to the room I use when I stay. Nothing flash, just a sumptuous big bed with Irish linen sheets and feather pillows, an antique dresser, a complete wall of shelves full of historical romance novels and a white marble bathroom with a spa bath. Angus jumped straight onto the bed and Harper made fruitless efforts to shoo him off. I put down my bags and made a big fuss of him. When he’d had enough, Angus jumped off the bed, shook away girl germs and loped away.
‘Filthy beast,’ Harper said, scowling and smoothing out the bedspread.
There was a pleasant aroma of herbs coming from the bathroom.
‘Andrew said you looked like you’d been crying, so I’ve run you a bath,’ Harper explained. She held up her hand, palm towards me, indicating that I wasn’t to speak, just obey. ‘I’ll bring you a cup of tea. I don’t have to be at work until tomorrow afternoon, so we can discuss the school problem in the morning. I’ve saved you some vegetable lasagna; you can stick it in the microwave when you’re ready. Can you wait or do you need to eat now?’
I put my arms around my sister and held her tight. ‘I’m okay, I’m just a bit overwhelmed, that’s all.’
‘In the tub,’ Harper ordered, pointing at the bathroom door. It’s hard to believe she’s a schoolteacher, isn’t it?
A bath is a real treat for me as I don’t have one in Byron Bay, only a shower. There was a bottle of rosemary and lemon oil beside the bath, which I assumed was responsible for the heavenly smell. I tipped some more into the bath, turned on the spa jets and wallowed in the bubbly water.
In a while, Harper came in and handed me a mug of tea. She bunched up her sarong, perched on the edge of the bath and picked up my white linen suit from the floor where I’d left it.
‘It’s covered in Angus slobber and something disgusting that could be chilli sauce,’ she said, turning up her nose. ‘Do you want me to soak it?’
I shook my head and sipped tea.
‘I may move in permanently,’ I told her, and closed my eyes, balanced the tea on my chest and surrendered to self-indulgence. Images of Rafe crept into my head and, so help me, I wasn’t in any hurry to make them go away.
An hour later, rejuvenated, I was at the kitchen table eating lasagna. Sam had gone over to a mate’s house; Fergus, despite a spectacular protest, had been packed off to bed; and Andrew, Harper and I were sharing a bottle of red wine. Obviously, being diabetic, I’m careful with alcohol and only drink when I’m sure that my blood sugar level is good, as booze can make it dive quite quickly. As long as I test the level before and after, and eat something at the same time, I’m fine to drink a glass occasionally.
In between mouthfuls of lasagna, I filled Andrew and Harper in on the car, Miles, Brian’s commission, Marcia, Tildy, the cults and Chairman Meow.
‘I can’t believe someone stole the Avalon,’ Harper laughed, shaking her head.
‘It’s a good car, Scout, don’t listen to her,’ Andrew said. ‘How’s Toby?’
‘Okay, I think. For a reporter, he’s a lousy communicator. I get the odd email telling me all’s well.’
Andrew raised his glass. ‘To Toby,’ he toasted.
We did the cheers thing and, as I raised my glass, I felt a pang of guilt that I’d been thinking naughty thoughts about Rafe when I was in the bath.
Andrew thinks the world of Toby and is, I believe, a little envious of the glamour associated with being a war correspondent. Toby, in turn, is a little jealous of Andrew being a surgeon. When they’re together, Harper and I watch in amusement as the alpha males puff out their chests and spar from their corners.
Angus trotted over to the table and put his head on Andrew’s knee. They were both big old boys with brown eyes and masses of dark curly hair. Hmmm? Harper saw me looking from one to the other and said, ‘Scout, don’t you dare . . .’
‘Don’t tell me it hasn’t crossed your mind,’ I laughed.
‘What?’ Andrew said.
‘You’d never understand,’ Harper told him. ‘I’m off to bed.’
‘Me, too,’ I said. ‘Thanks for dinner.’
We left Andrew at the table finishing his wine and doing a Sudoku puzzle. As I started upstairs, I heard Andrew say to the dog, ‘Angus, you’re going for a serious haircut tomorrow.’
Harper had thoughtfully left The Queen’s Fool by Philippa Gregory on the bedside table. I read until the print started to distort, dropped the book on the floor and closed my eyes. Two seconds later they flew open again—damn, I’d forgotten to hang out the sheets. By tomorrow they’d smell disgusting and have to be rewashed. Ho hum.
Minutes later I heard the bedroom door scrape across the carpet and Angus padded across the room. He jumped onto the bed, turned round several times and settled at my feet. Shortly, Fergus climbed in and snuggled behind me, nudging me with his knees to make sure I was awake.
‘Aunty Scout,’ he whispered, ‘I have to sleep here.’
‘What’s wrong with your bed, Fergie?’
‘There’s a problem with the pillows,’ he stated firmly.
‘What sort of problem?’
‘They’ve got Sesame Street on them, and I’m too big for that.’
‘Well, you’d better sleep in here with Angus and me.’
‘Will you talk to Mum?’ Fergus asked.
I turned over and hugged him, kissed the top of his head and said, ‘All right.’
Marcia’s grandson, Tommy, was only two years older than Fergus, far too little to be without his mum.
The world’s a total bitch sometimes.
Chapter 13
Harper and I were sitting at the table in her stainless steel and black granite kitchen, drinking tea and looking at a Tattings class photo. Harper was eating toast and marmalade and I was eating toast and Weight Watchers apricot jam. Angus was under the table waiting for spillage.
The class photo showed five rows of boys and girls, aged about fourteen, with their names printed underneath. Each student, in bearing and uniform, bore the hallmark of privilege, and I could practically see the Range Rovers picking them up in the afternoon.
‘They look like a nice bunch of kids,’ I told Harper.
‘Ha!’ she scoffed. ‘Most of that lot are only still alive because it’s illegal for the teachers to kill them.’
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‘Are you sure you’re in the right profession?’ I joked.
Harper grimaced and said, ‘Things ain’t what they used to be.’
She had circled in red the faces and names of the four girls whose underwear had been vandalised—Peony Day, Savannah Robertson, Brianna Berkelow and Kylie Rack.
‘Tell me about these girls,’ I said.
‘They’re mean, spiteful girls who are contemptuous of teachers and spend their days chewing gum, texting and fixing their makeup. Some days I swear they’re hungover. Other days they have red smutty eyes, probably from smoking dope behind the gardener’s shed. They are, unfortunately, old enough and wise enough to know their rights, but not old enough or wise enough to know their responsibilities.’
Cripes! I’d never met these girls and already I didn’t like them.
Harper pointed at Peony Day, who had classic features, wide-set eyes, full lips and long black wavy hair.
‘Peony, as you can see, is quite beautiful and has a lot of male admirers in the upper years. I believe that nailing her is known as “plucking a peony”.’
‘Nice,’ I muttered.
‘She’s smart and could do something with her life. It’s a shame,’ Harper mused. ‘Her father’s an industrial chemist in Singapore. Her mother’s a GP and lives in Broadbeach. Peony’s main aim in life is to leave school and sit around being admired.’
‘What about this one?’ I pointed to Savannah Robertson.
‘Savannah is pretty, slim, has rich parents and is as dumb as a doornail. She always has lovebites on her neck so we call her the battered sav.’
I couldn’t help laughing. ‘She looks a bit like Marilyn Monroe.’
‘I know. Her parents own a trucking company and I imagine that she’ll have a private income one day, so she doesn’t need to try.’
‘Brianna Berkelow?’ I said.
Harper drew in a deep breath. ‘This is her third school in as many years. I’m aware that she was asked to leave her last school, Heathlands House Academy, but I don’t know why. It’s an exclusive girls’ school in Sydney.’
I nodded. ‘I know it. I’m pretty sure that Miles’s daughter teaches there.’
‘Brianna is fifteen, a year older than the others. She behaves as though she’s been everywhere, done it all, seen it all, and everything at Tattings is lame. There’s a permanent sneer on her face, which, as you can see, is quite ordinary. She’s disruptive in class and not averse to swearing at teachers and ancillary staff. Her mother works at a department store in Robina and her father’s a lawyer.’
‘And Kylie Rack? She looks very thin.’ Kylie was in the front row. She was a pretty girl and had what my dad calls Wednesday legs—as in, when’s dey gonna break?
‘Sadly, she has anorexia,’ Harper said. ‘I think the others only tolerate her because it’s considered rather an exotic disease, and it affords them an excuse when needed. You know, we had to wait, as Kylie was feeling faint. We have to go with Kylie, blah, blah, blah.’
The memories flooded back. I knew exactly how this worked as I, too, with my diabetes, had been considered a friend with a useful excuse at school.
‘Is she being treated?’ I asked.
Harper nodded. ‘Apparently, though I’ve taught her for two years and she hasn’t changed size in that time, except maybe grown a bit taller.’
‘What about her parents?’
‘Her mother’s a hospital administrator and her father trains horses.’
‘Is she any good at schoolwork?’
‘None of them are. The only one with any smarts is Peony, and she doesn’t use them.’ Harper sounded exasperated.
‘Are there others in their group of friends?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. The other girls in the class avoid them, and the boys are positively scared of them. Older boys hang around with them, probably hoping for a share of the cigarettes and drugs the girls’ money provides. And, no doubt, an occasional BJ.’
‘They’re fourteen!’ I screeched.
‘Get with the program, Scout. There’s fourteen and there’s fourteen. Some are in the Girl Guides, bake cookies, do their homework, say please and thank you and have sleepless nights if they lie to their parents, and others are growing weed in the ag plot, smoking, drinking regularly, truanting, shoplifting and having sex during recess.’
I was beginning to understand what Harper had meant when she said things ain’t what they used to be. This was scary stuff.
‘Are drugs a problem at the school?’ I asked.
‘There are drugs at most schools, but it certainly isn’t all kids doing it. It’s the same with sex. Many will say that they do it just to gain street cred. Some do it sometimes, some never do it.’
Angus stood up, stretched and trotted over to the back door and disappeared through the dog flap into the garden. Harper refilled the kettle for more tea, then opened her briefcase, extracted a piece of paper and handed it to me.
‘Here’s a copy for you of the list of what was damaged and when. It’s more comprehensive than the other list I gave you, which I think only has names, dates and times.’
Reading through the list, I registered that each of the four girls had reported three sets of damaged bras and briefs, which totaled twelve sets in all. And only Kylie had reported damaged tights. What was extraordinary was that they really were sets, as in matching bras and briefs. Even more extraordinary was the brands—Mossimo, Agent Provocateur and Davenport. Not a single item from Target.
‘Is this for real?’ I said. ‘Did you see the damaged undies?’
Harper scowled. ‘Unbelievable, isn’t it. I don’t think we had any matching underwear at fourteen, and certainly nothing as extravagant as Agent Provocateur.’
‘What was the damage like? Was it frenzied slashing?’
‘No. It didn’t seem sexual either. By that I mean they hadn’t cut holes over the nipple area of the bras or holes in the crotches of the briefs. The bras were cut through the straps and between the cups, and the briefs were all cut open on one side, and not at the seam. Each time it was just enough damage to make the garments irreparable. The legs of Kylie’s tights had been chopped off—she wears tights because she feels the cold, even in summer. It’s interesting, though, Kylie’s tights were only vandalised the first time.’
‘Were the undies . . . you know . . . wet?’ I asked, grimacing.
‘As in, had the perpetrator jerked off into the undies?’
I nodded.
Harper shook her head. ‘Nothing so gross. I told you, I don’t think it was sexual.’
‘Have you done a bag search?’
‘Yep. It was voluntary and they all let me look in their bags. They all had scissors, and kids doing art had box cutters.’
‘Has any other student in the school reported vandalism of their clothes? Any boys?’
‘No, only these four girls, and the incidents occurred to each one of them on the same three occasions. Each time was a Tuesday morning while male and female students were swimming in the school pool. It’s about the only class, along with modern dance, that these four girls are interested in. The pool is about fifty metres from the change rooms and you can’t see the change rooms from the pool.’
‘Do they leave their things in lockers?’ I asked.
‘No, we don’t have lockers in the change rooms, but the kids all have lockers around the school for books and stuff. For sport, everyone hangs their clothes on pegs in the various change rooms. The rooms aren’t locked so anyone could sneak in while the students are in the pool.’
‘Do they have an allocated peg?’
‘No, they grab any one.’
‘And would they have their uniforms labelled with their names?’
‘They’re supposed to,’ Harper said, ‘but from the “found property box” it’s obvious that they don’t. Either way, they certainly wouldn’t have their underwear labelled.’
‘Found property box?’ I questioned.
‘
Yep, the principal considers the term “lost property” a misnomer. She says the things aren’t lost, they’re found.’
‘Good grief,’ I huffed.
‘You have no idea.’ Harper sighed, shaking her head.
‘Who took the swim classes?’
‘Me, and I checked that all the male and female students were present for class, and I’m absolutely certain that none of them went back to the change rooms before class ended. The boys’ change room is next to the girls’.’
‘You think it’s a boy?’
Harper nodded. ‘Don’t you?’
‘It would be difficult for a boy to know which underwear belonged to all four girls, and get the correct underwear each time. The odds of that are slim,’ I reasoned. ‘The only person who would get it right each time would be another girl who saw them change.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ Harper looked up at the ceiling and tapped a finger on her lips. ‘So, using that premise, it would also be difficult for a male teacher to target the same four girls.’
‘I think so,’ I told her.
‘There’s been a fair bit of finger-pointing at Robert Arnold,’ Harper said.
‘Is he the new science teacher you told me about?’
‘Uh-huh. He’s new, he’s young and he’s good-looking. The perfect target for suspicion and malicious rumours. I’ve seen how the girls’ behaviour changes when he appears, how they flirt with him and ask unnecessary questions. It’s not unusual for spiteful girls to exact revenge if their advances are spurned.’
‘And the undies vandalism is a chance event on which to vent their spleen?’
Harper nodded. ‘I know you were dismissive of me saying that I didn’t think Robert had anything to do with it because he’s married with kids. But I’m sure he didn’t. These days male teachers are so careful to make sure nothing they do or say could be considered inappropriate. You’ve no idea how devious and evil some of the female students can be.’
