The Past and Other Lies

by Maggie Joel

  Charlotte had stared at her.

  Zoe, who at sixteen still had the small frame and fresh unmade-up face of a thirteen-year-old, had looked as though the idea of someone writing anything about her on the wall of the girls’ toilet was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her. Charlotte had pushed back her chair and left the library. ‘Don’t follow me,’ she muttered furiously through clenched teeth. Do not follow me.

  The toilet block loomed ahead on the far side of the playground. The bike rack that ran the length of the wall was crowded with badly parked bicycles and bike chains with elaborate padlocks but was otherwise deserted.

  What would someone write about us? she wondered, and a prickle of fear crawled up her spine. Something bad? Of course it was something bad; people didn’t write good stuff about you on a toilet wall, did they? Had Zoe herself written it?

  ‘Hey, Charlotte, there’s something written about you in the girls’ toilets!’

  Charlotte spun around to see a friend of Jennifer’s—Julie Fanshawe, it was—standing in the doorway of the sixth-form common room, her face a mask of fake schoolgirl concern. ‘You better go look,’ Julie added, and then she smothered a laugh and disappeared inside. A moment later Jennifer herself suddenly burst out of the common room, running—yes, actually running!—across the path, looking up and seeing her and then, with a kind of wild-eyed glance, diving into the toilets, looking like she was being chased. Or about to throw up.

  Charlotte stared.

  According to Jennifer—who liked to exaggerate—the sixth-form common room was awash with bottles of Woodpecker cider and Liebfraumilch that someone’s older brother who worked in an off-licence provided at discount prices. No doubt this accounted for Jennifer’s white-faced dash for the toilets.

  No doubt. It could not be that Jennifer knew anything about what was allegedly written on the walls of the toilets.

  And who else was in there? Who else knew?

  The playground had gone silent. All games had stopped. Every pair of eyes was trained on her, she could feel them crawling over her shoulderblades, down her back.

  She turned slowly around to face them and what she saw was—

  Was Zoe’s mum climbing out of her red BMW, and all thoughts of Jennifer and what might or might not be written on the wall of the toilets vanished.

  Naomi Findlay, in a dark trouser suit and high black boots that clicked on the tarmac, strode from the visitors’ car park towards the school office. A red leather bag was slung over one shoulder and she clasped her car keys tightly before her like a weapon.

  Charlotte stared in surprise.

  Naomi? Here?

  She began to walk quickly over to her, almost breaking into a run. ‘Hello!’ she called, wanting to add, ‘Naomi!’, but suddenly, here in the school grounds, it seemed wrong. Inappropriate.

  Naomi stopped and looked around. She saw Charlotte and seemed to hesitate, head turned towards her, body turned towards the steps of the school office as though she wished to keep on walking. Her eyes were hidden behind large dark glasses but her head moved slightly from left to right and back again, taking in the car park, the bike racks, the playground, the noisy game of football and, last of all, returning to Charlotte.

  Charlotte reached her and smiled breathlessly. Then she realised she didn’t know what to say. She realised that Naomi wasn’t returning her smile.

  ‘Hi,’ Charlotte gasped, wishing she wasn’t so out of breath. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Naomi didn’t take off her glasses and all Charlotte could see was the bright midday sun reflecting off the lenses. She felt a flicker of something cold run down her arms.

  ‘Just came to see the Head,’ said Naomi casually, as though she often popped by for a chat with the headmaster.

  ‘Oh, Zoe in trouble?’ said Charlotte with a grin, because the idea of Zoe doing anything as interesting as getting into trouble was absurd.

  ‘No,’ Naomi replied, taking the question at face value. ‘It’s—’ she paused for a fraction of a second, ‘the move. I’m moving her. To a different school. Well, we’re both moving really. It’s work.’

  Naomi raised her chin, her gaze directed over the roof of the school building towards some distant horizon. The sunlight seemed to melt her lip gloss, turning her lips into pools of liquid silver.

  Charlotte said nothing for a moment, feeling her breath coming in and going out.

  ‘Moving?’ she repeated, and everything seemed to slow down.

  ‘Yes. Didn’t Zoe mention it?’

  Mention it? No, Zoe had not mentioned it. And neither had Naomi. The coldness had reached Charlotte’s fingertips. She couldn’t feel her hands. Around her the playground had faded away. The game of football continued but no sounds reached her ears.

  ‘Yes, I’ve got a job at Granada. Newsreader.’ And Naomi hitched up her bag and glanced ever so casually at her wristwatch.

  Granada? Charlotte swallowed. Surely that was in...?

  ‘So naturally we’re moving to Manchester. During the school hols. End of August.’

  Charlotte found her heart was pumping so fast she couldn’t quite draw breath. She couldn’t speak.

  Naomi glanced a second time at her watch. ‘I’m afraid I have to go. I’ve got...there’s a lot to do. I need to...’ And only now did she finally, seem...what? Embarrassed? Awkward?

  And Charlotte thought, I bet she wishes I hadn’t come over. Hadn’t seen her. That she could just pack up and leave and not have to say anything. That she could pretend nothing ever happened.

  But something had happened.

  A football sailed over their heads and from far away a cheer went up.

  Would Naomi have done that? Just packed up and gone?

  ‘But I—’ Charlotte began.

  Naomi interrupted with a tight smile. ‘Well, I expect you and Zoe will remain friends.’

  Charlotte fell silent, appalled. Why is she pretending? she wondered. Why is she making it sound as though I came round every night to visit Zoe?

  Something had happened.

  ‘I thought you—I thought we—’

  She found that she couldn’t locate the words. That she was no longer sure what the words were, or what she thought about anything.

  ‘Please, Charlotte. Don’t let’s make a fuss.’ Naomi reached over and touched her arm lightly, the way you might touch someone at a funeral whom you knew only slightly. Then she smiled gently. ‘Let’s be sensible, shall we?’ She half turned her head as a teacher walked close by, her eyes following until the teacher was out of earshot.

  ‘Sensible?’ Charlotte repeated, not knowing what such a word meant in this context but knowing it wasn’t good.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll stay in touch.’

  But that was what you said to people when you had no intention of ever seeing them again.

  ‘I do have to go,’ said Naomi again. ‘But look, your exams. You have one today, don’t you?’

  Did she? Charlotte couldn’t remember.

  ‘Well, best of luck. I’m sure you’ll do well. I really do have to go,’ and she reached out and squeezed Charlotte’s arm. Then she turned and walked with a click of her boots up the steps.

  Charlotte watched until she had disappeared inside the office.

  Something had happened.

  Three weeks ago she had gone round to Zoe’s house but Zoe had been away at her dad’s and Naomi had said, Stay Charlotte, stay for a drink!

  Naomi had been in high spirits, something had happened at work. She had been talkative, excited.

  And Charlotte, who had never once gone around to Zoe’s house because she wanted to see Zoe, had stayed. Had drunk a glass of champagne from an expensive bottle with a French label, had drunk a second glass, had followed eagerly as the party had moved upstairs to Naomi’s bedroom. Here she had found that she was really quite drunk and that her first sexual encounter was therefore both blurred around the edges and startlingly lucid in the middle.

&nb
sp; At around midnight Naomi had silently driven her home and, dropping her a block away, had said, Best not mention it. Not to anyone, not to her parents, least of all Zoe.

  As if she would mention it to her parents.

  Then for three weeks Naomi had worked late at the television studio, sometimes not returning till eleven o’clock or midnight, and Charlotte knew this because she had sat in the park opposite the house, waiting. And it turned out that what Naomi had meant was: Don’t mention it to anyone—including to me.

  And the reason for Naomi’s excitement that day—her high spirits, the expensive champagne with the French label, the silent drive home at midnight—was now clear. She was moving to Manchester.

  Now it was the last week of the summer term and the final exam was maths in the gymnasium in half an hour.

  Take me with you.

  But Naomi had gone and the words hung in the air as heavy as a death sentence. Then they were gone and no one had heard them except Charlotte.

  There was still time. She could run after her. She could wait until Naomi came out. She could go round tonight, tomorrow night. They wouldn’t be leaving immediately, would they? Naomi had said the end of August. It took ages to plan something like this. Perhaps Naomi had been planning it for ages? Perhaps this was the final phase? Perhaps she was just waiting till Zoe’s final exam and then they were off?

  She found herself walking across the playground but it was as though she wasn’t really there. There were people moving all around her, their voices muffled as though heard from another room. She reached the gym and stood in the doorway staring at the rows of desks, each with a chair behind it. She must ask Zoe, find out the exact date they were leaving. Why had Zoe said nothing? Had she not known?

  It was because Naomi had told her to say nothing. Best not mention it.

  The gym filled up and Charlotte sat down at a desk. Someone put an answer booklet in front of her, then after a while another person placed an exam paper on her desk. Someone at the front of the room spoke, everyone turned over their papers and the room fell silent.

  ‘A man walks five miles on a bearing of 092 degrees and then three miles from M to N on a bearing of 345 degrees—’

  Naturally, we’re moving to Manchester.

  ‘...calculate the distance NQ...’

  Let’s not make a fuss.

  ‘...and the bearing of Q from M. Show your working out in the space provided.’

  I’m sure we’ll stay in touch.

  Charlotte pushed back her chair so that it fell with a thud on the parquet floor. She stood there for a second, two seconds, aware that every head had turned to stare at her, and as she stumbled out three invigilators started up after her, but no one tried to stop her.

  She fled the hall, escaping across the quadrangle and through the teacher’s car park to the side gate and away. Then she turned left, in the opposite direction to home, and only stopped when she had reached Beechtree Crescent. There was no For Sale sign outside the Findlays’ house. It looked exactly as it always did.

  Perhaps it had all been a mistake, a joke?

  But you could sell a house after you’d moved out. You could do anything you liked, once you were an adult with a job and a car and an income. You could make decisions, do things, play with other people’s lives if you wanted to.

  Let’s not make a fuss.

  And Charlotte thought, If I hadn’t run into her just now. If I hadn’t seen her crossing the playground. Would she have told me? When? Would I have gone round there one evening and found them gone? The house deserted, empty. Boarded up.

  She went home. Went upstairs and shut herself in the room she shared with Jennifer. If Mum had been in the house she might have wanted to know why Charlotte was home at three forty-five when the maths O-level wasn’t scheduled to finish till four o’clock. But Mum was out so when Charlotte arrived home with her school jumper tied around her waist and her face pale and carrying only a pencil there was no one to notice.

  Let’s be sensible, shall we?

  And soon after dinner Darren McKenzie had come round and Charlotte had stood on the landing staring down at his silhouette through the frosted glass. The door to the lounge was ajar and on the television Naomi Findlay said, ‘...a sheep dip in Tower Hamlets.’

  Darren McKenzie had come round in search of Jennifer and then he had left, never to return.

  ‘Can I help ye?’ said the man at the ticket office at Edinburgh’s Waverley Station, speaking through a microphone and a glass partition.

  Charlotte stared at him blankly. ‘Oh, yes. Day return to Skipton, please.’

  ‘That’ll be via Leeds. Ye’ll have to hurry now. Leeds train is just now boarding,’ the man replied helpfully. ‘Platform six.’

  Thanks for nothing, thought Charlotte. Make me queue for half an hour then tell me to hurry.

  She grabbed her bag and walked quickly out of the ticket hall, glancing, despite herself, at the station forecourt where Ashley had parked. The silver Audi had gone. But it hardly seemed to matter. She set off across the concourse for platform six.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘I’M SORRY, MR GASPARI’s phone is unattended at present. May I take a message?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  Jennifer jabbed at the disconnect button and threw her mobile down on the passenger seat beside her.

  Still unattended! No one could be in the office but away from their desk all week. She was being screened, that was the only explanation. The board had clearly read her letter about that stupid television appearance and was still deliberating about what action to take. She was going to receive a pathetic letter of reprimand, she was certain of it. Why else would Gaspari and the rest of his geriatric cronies be avoiding her? It would probably be waiting in her in-tray Monday morning. Gloria, no doubt, would have opened it and read it and gleefully passed it around the department, never mind it would be marked confidential.

  Well, there was no time to worry about it now, she had a funeral to attend.

  Jennifer studied her face in the car’s rear-view mirror, reapplied her lipstick, adjusted a strand of hair and took a deep breath. Here goes nothing, she thought, opening the car door and getting out.

  She was parked in the street outside Aunt Caroline’s bungalow beneath a bare and leafless yew tree. She would have parked in the driveway where she’d parked—was it really only last Thursday?—but Mum and Dad’s Vauxhall was already there.

  It was eleven forty-five. The funeral was at twelve fifteen at St Luke’s parish church. Presumably Mum and Dad knew where St Luke’s was as she had no idea herself and she owned no map that extended further north than Watford.

  It was bitterly cold though a clear, brilliant blue sky made her reach for her sunglasses and blow the dust off them. It had snowed up here again in the last few days and small drifts and unmelted patches glistened in the sunlight on people’s lawns and in the gutter. On the neighbour’s lawn stood the melting remains of a dwarf snowman lopsidedly sporting a woolly blue, white and yellow Leeds United hat and a broken clay pipe. The snowman stared sightlessly at her through eyes made from two small stones.

  Lucky I came up to visit last week, thought Jennifer, approaching the house. She nearly hadn’t but something—probably guilt—had made her, and she must have been the last one of them to see Aunt Caroline alive. It was important to make the family aware of this point.

  Aunt Caroline’s front door opened before she had gone two steps down the garden path and Dad emerged, followed closely by Mum.

  ‘Hello, love,’ he said, meeting her halfway up the path and touching her elbow, which was about as tactile as anyone was likely to get today. Dad was in his old dark-grey work suit that still fitted him perfectly eight years after retirement and, despite his slight stoop, seemed to give him an air of authority that his usual cardigans and BHS permanent-press trousers didn’t. ‘Good trip up?’ he said, because it was expected.

  Jennifer shrugged, ‘Contraflows round Newpor
t Pagnell but otherwise okay. Hi, Mum.’

  ‘Oh, hello, dear,’ said Mum vaguely, scrabbling in her handbag for something.

  Mum was wearing her 1980s black skirt suit that had done many a funeral in its day, the skirt horribly pleated and shoulder pads that would have looked more at home on a Denver Broncos’ quarterback.

  ‘Did you end up in the centre of Leeds?’ said Mum. ‘We always do. Where are they? Eric, have you seen the car keys?’

  ‘I’ve got them,’ said Dad, holding them up as proof.

  ‘Oh,’ said Mum, looking a bit peeved. Then she pulled herself together and held up a map. ‘I’ll navigate. We’ll all go in the one car, saves petrol.’

  ‘Is this all of us?’ said Jennifer, looking back into the house and imagining a funeral with only three people—four if Charlotte bothered to turn up—sitting in a vast, empty church. And where was Graham?

  ‘No, no, no. Ted’s sister Iris and her husband are here.’ Mum jerked her head back towards the house. ‘And the neighbour, Mr Milthorpe. He’s gone on ahead. Graham and Su are meeting us there.’

  Iris and her husband, Arthur, emerged from the house. Iris, an elderly lady with a pink tinge to her hair who walked with the aid of a stick, and Arthur, who followed one step behind, carrying her bag and sporting an ancient trilby hat, allowed themselves to be shepherded by Mum into the back of the Vauxhall. Jennifer fled to her own car, calling out, ‘I’ll follow you.’

  ‘Oh, all right, dear,’ said Mum, clearly not pleased by this deviation from her plan.

  They set off in convoy, Dad driving, Mum navigating with wild gesticulations, Iris and Arthur wedged patiently in the back and Jennifer behind, keeping a safe distance in case of sudden and unexpected turns.

  Where’s Charlotte? she wondered irritably, as the Vauxhall indicated right and Mum pointed vigorously out of the window as though she didn’t think Jennifer could work out where they were going. Perhaps Charlotte was going direct to the church?