I Thought I Knew You

by Penny Hancock

  ‘I suppose I could,’ I say. ‘For a little while.’

  ‘I’m rooting for you, you know,’ Samantha says. ‘Come on, I’ll get you a drink of something and you can leave as soon as you feel like it.’

  It’s colder inside the chapel than out. The old-prayer-book smell mingles with the fresher scent of tea and freshly baked cakes. Several people turn their backs on me as I follow Samantha through the crowd. They may have had sympathy for me when Saul disappeared, but they have lost it now they believe he raped a girl they’ve known since childhood.

  Samantha leads me to a trestle table laden with homemade quiches and cakes. I’ve dressed for the TV interview in my best burgundy jacquard coat over a black dress, bought over ten years ago for a formal ‘do’ I had to attend with Archie, and a silver brooch that belonged to Archie’s mother. I’m wearing more make-up than usual too – some now-smudged eyeliner, a slick of cherry lip gloss. I don’t think I imagine the eyes on me, people looking over and whispering. I hold my head up. I try not to look like a mother whose son is missing. I try not to look like the mother of a rapist.

  Then I see her. Jules. Her blonde hair gleaming, among a group of other women on the far side of the room. Instinctively I raise a hand and automatically start to smile. ‘I have something to tell you,’ I begin to mouth. But as her eyes meet mine, with deliberation, she moves them disdainfully away. She has not smiled. She has not acknowledged me. The hurt takes my breath away.

  It takes some time to track Jules down alone. She’s coming out of the kitchen, two large tin teapots in her hands. When she sees me, she turns, places them down on the counter.

  ‘Jules. I need to talk to you. We said some hurtful things to each other last time we met.’

  Her blue eyes are sad. ‘I know,’ she says. ‘And I’m sorry for that.’

  Encouraged, I plough straight on.

  ‘It wasn’t rape,’ I say.

  ‘I haven’t time for this.’

  ‘No, listen. I’m not saying they didn’t sleep together. I’m not saying Saul hasn’t left Saffie pregnant. But the point is, Saffie loves Saul. And he loves her. She said it was rape to save face at school, or to protect herself from Rowan, or . . . only she knows why.’

  ‘Please, Holly,’ Jules says.

  ‘I found Freya’s diary. She’s written that they both love Saul. Both she and Saff. But what this means,’ I go on, ‘is that after all, I’d like to share everything you and Saffie are going through. Can we talk to her? Together? Get her to tell us the truth?’

  Jules looks at me peculiarly, as if I’ve lost my mind, but I push on.

  ‘If she will admit, just to us for the moment, not to anyone else, that she loved Saul, but panicked when she realized she might be pregnant, so said it was rape, I’ll forgive her for everything she said.’ My voice cracks. ‘And then we can work together, to get her through the abortion, if she wants it, and to find Saul.’

  We will be friends again, I want to say.

  ‘There are so many ways in which what you are saying is wrong.’ Jules gazes at me as if she believes I’ve lost the plot completely. ‘I barely know where to begin. You’re deluding yourself.’ I look at her mouth as she speaks. She’s wearing the lipstick she swears by – Rosebud, it’s called. I got it for her one Christmas years ago. It’s been her signature colour ever since. It says something, doesn’t it, about us?

  ‘Saffie isn’t in love with Saul,’ Jules says. ‘He raped her. He’s left her with a termination to go through. However unpalatable it is for you to accept, it’s the truth. Please don’t make it harder for me.’ Her eyes fill with tears.

  ‘Jules. Listen for a minute. I found Freya’s diary. She’s written that she loves the same person as Saffie does. It’s Saul. She thinks it’s illegal, because he’s her stepbrother. Or because of their age. She’s also written that he loves Saffie. I can show you the diary.’

  ‘Saffie doesn’t love Saul,’ Jules says again. ‘She begged me not to let him come round that night. She’s frightened of him. She and her friends avoid him – for a reason, I see now.’

  Her last utterance leaves me speechless. I’m not sure I’ve heard her right. Saffie’s friends avoided Saul for a reason? Saffie was frightened of him?

  She goes on: ‘And I blame myself for letting him come to our house while we were out. I’ve been tormenting myself for being such a fool as not to listen to Saffie. Or to Rowan. Even if he thought they were in some kind of a relationship – which is not the case – he still raped her and I would still be taking her for a termination tomorrow. Hasn’t it occurred to you how ghastly this is for me? Love, I’m afraid, doesn’t come into it. The pregnancy is the result of a violent act that has left my daughter traumatized. I can’t put Saffie through any more anguish by questioning what happened to her again. I would have thought you’d understand that, Holly. With your Rape Crisis work and your consent workshops and your articles in the papers.’

  I have to reach deep within to find the resources to reply without shouting. I try one last time.

  ‘If Saffie admits she loved Saul, at least his reputation won’t be sullied.’

  ‘Is that what you’re most worried about?’

  ‘I care that Saul isn’t thought of as a rapist! Of course I do! But, Jules, it isn’t only that. If they love each other, then . . . Look, this is our grandchild Saffie’s carrying. We’re in it together. Don’t you remember what we used to say? Grandma Holly and Grandma Jules.’

  We’re in the cramped area to the side of the kitchen, but people are beginning to push through and it’s getting hard to talk.

  ‘If I begin to think of the pregnancy in that way, I won’t be able to do what I have to do to give Saffie her life back,’ she hisses. ‘Please stop this, Holly. Now, excuse me. I have an event to help run.’

  Jules picks up her teapots and pushes past me. I turn to leave, elbowing my way past the villagers, people I’ve sat with in the pub, Tess, Jenny, Fiona and her partner. All barely acknowledge me. I spot Saffie, handing out trays of tea and snacks with the other young people. Her eyes rest on me for a second; then, in an uncanny mimicry of her mother’s, they swivel downwards in disdain. Or perhaps it’s something else. Guilt? She bustles over to some other young people and they all giggle, their heads together.

  It doesn’t take me much longer to realize I’m not wanted here. I pop to the loo on my way out. As luck would have it, as I come out of the cubicle, Saffie’s standing there, leaning in towards the mirror, putting on mascara, eyes downturned as she brushes her lashes.

  ‘Saffie.’

  She drops her hand, startled.

  I shuffle past her, so my back’s to the exit. I don’t want her to slip out and avoid me. ‘Listen, sweetie,’ I begin. ‘We need to talk. You realize that, don’t you?’

  She stares at me, her mouth open, her mascara wand held halfway to her eyes. I see the rings under them, that she’s tired, and pale, and has lost the childish bubbliness that used to define her.

  ‘All I’m asking,’ I say, ‘is that you admit Saul didn’t rape you. That you wanted it too.’

  I try to smile at her. To show her I understand. ‘Freya wrote a note about it, left it in her room. She loves him as well. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, though, Saff. I understand you don’t want your school friends to know, so we won’t tell anyone. Except perhaps the police, because it might help them find Saul. They can let him know you’re sorry for what you said. That you still love him.’

  Saffie has blanched. She holds on to the washbasin with one hand. For a second I’m afraid she might faint.

  ‘I don’t love him,’ she says, backing away from me. ‘He’s . . . Ugh, he makes my skin crawl. He made me do things I hated and I never wanted to.’

  ‘Saffie! This is Saul we’re talking about. He would never do those things. He’s my son. Your godbrother.’

  ‘There’s no such thing as a godbrother.’

  ‘Odd brother, then.’ I want to make her smile. But she
says nothing.

  ‘Please. I understand you don’t want anyone to know you love him, but I need to know. I have to. Because . . .’

  I’m breaking down. I don’t mean to, but it’s rising through me. The terror that I’ve lost Saul. That this accusation might have driven him to suicide. The way he’ll be remembered forever unless Saffie confesses. The whole village, the whole country have labelled him a rapist. A rapist who was such a coward he ran away instead of standing up to his own actions. They have no sympathy for me. I’m the hypocrite feminazi who won’t recognize rape when it’s right in front of her eyes. My son! A rapist! The word makes me feel sick.

  ‘Confess that you and Freya love Saul. I’ve seen it,’ I repeat, ‘in her diary.’ I move closer to her, wanting to slap her. For being a liar. For putting her reputation with her stupid peer group before the way my son will be judged for eternity. For taking the person I love most on earth from me.

  ‘Why did you lie?’ I ask her. ‘Why are you afraid of admitting you love Saul? Is it because of what your friends will think? Were you afraid your dad would be angry that you’d had a loving relationship with my son? Because the people around here think he looks a bit different? What does that matter? It would be so much better if you tell the truth and then we can all be friends and perhaps Saul will come back and . . . tell me. Or I’ll show the diary to your mum and dad. And then they’ll know you and Freya have both been fighting over him . . . that you lied. That you’ve continued to lie and that he’s disappeared because you lied.’

  I’ve said what I swore I wouldn’t say. I wanted to keep Saff on side and now I’ve told her she’s responsible for Saul’s disappearance. She backs away from me.

  ‘Stop it,’ she wails. ‘Stop going on and on at me. It’s frightening me. Leave me alone. We don’t love Saul. I don’t love him and neither does Freya. If she wrote she loved someone, it must have been Justin Bieber. Saul raped me. He did.’

  With horror, I see I’ve made her cry and I move to comfort her, but there’s a harsh rapping on the door. Saffie moves aside and the door opens.

  ‘Hey,’ says Samantha, looking from me to Saffie and back again. ‘Holly, I’ve been looking for you.’

  Saffie ducks away and rushes out to her friends.

  Samantha says, ‘I want you to talk to my husband. Saul’s tutor. He wants to know what’s happening with him. Come on.’ She drags me by the arm to the man who spoke on the TV about Saul being a good student. Who I met briefly at a parents’ evening at the beginning of term. When things were normal. When Saul was simply a withdrawn adolescent boy.

  ‘Harry. Meet Holly.’

  I breathe deeply. My hand trembles as he takes it in his. I can’t believe the strength of feeling that almost made me hit Saffie in order to get her to confess to something she is going to such lengths to hide. I went too far, I know I did. I think perhaps I’m going – or have gone – mad.

  Harry scoops their little girl into his arms. ‘I want to offer my condolences. Oh my God, is that the right word? For what you’re going through. As a dad myself, I can’t imagine how horrible this is for you.’

  ‘Daddy?’ A small boy comes up and tugs at Harry’s jacket. ‘Could I have another cupcake?’

  ‘Just a minute, Freddie. I’m talking.’

  ‘I know it’s awkward for people,’ I say. ‘I do appreciate you mentioning it.’

  ‘Saul’s a good lad,’ Harry says. ‘Quiet in class. But interesting. We’re all keeping our fingers firmly crossed that he’ll be found safe and well.’

  You don’t think he’s a rapist? You don’t think he deserves it? I want to ask.

  ‘Everyone wants to help,’ Samantha agrees, putting her hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Holly’s the lecturer I’ve told you about, Harry. We met again at Tess’s drinks do at the Plough.’ She looks up at Harry, her eyes shining. She’s so obviously deeply in love with her husband. For a second I remember feeling that way with Archie.

  Love struck. Those are the words that come to mind. Blinded by love. Smitten. I envy her that feeling. I want to rewind time, to rediscover the woman I was when I gazed as adoringly at Archie. When I believed I’d struck gold. When I believed everything could only get better and better. When our future seemed to spread before us, brimming with possibility. I loved everything about Archie, his voice, his hands, his smell, his gentle, courteous manners. We were both smitten with Saul, too. Or that’s what I thought.

  Now everything’s changed. My once clear-eyed view of the past has misted over. Everything’s turned opaque, unreliable.

  ‘Holly’s a creative writing lecturer,’ Samantha’s saying. ‘In London.’

  ‘Yes, I think I knew that. Samantha’s interested in doing a degree as a mature student, aren’t you, Sam? You two have a lot to talk about,’ Harry says, looking from me to Samantha. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Nice to meet you, Holly. At last. We’re praying for you. For Saul too, of course.’

  Saffie approaches with her tray of iced cupcakes. Her wide eyes, with their long mascaraed lashes, her erect posture, the way she’s able to carry on as if our exchange never happened, tugs at my heartstrings. But when she spots me, she pauses, turns and goes the other way. It’s not her fault, of course, not really; she doesn’t understand the enormity of what her claim has set in motion. She’s too young. I should never have harangued her just now.

  Harry and Freddie wander off. Desperate to get away from a grieving woman, I think.

  ‘I have to go. But do text me,’ I say to Samantha. ‘Please. I’d be happy to talk about degree courses. One of the worst things about what’s happened with Saul is the isolation, in fact.’

  ‘Come with me,’ Samantha says. ‘Let’s sit down and I’ll check I’ve got your details.’

  She’s being so kind to me, and I could use a friend. I sit in the lobby with her while she checks my number on her phone. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ she says. ‘Thanks, Holly. And good luck.’ She looks at me for a few moments, sadly, and then goes off to find her young family.

  When I return to the hall, it’s cleared of people. I look around but can’t see Jules. More morose and lonely than ever, and guilty about the way I’ve upset Saffie, I step out into the night. I’m passing the pub a few doors along from the chapel when I hear my name and turn.

  ‘Holly.’ It’s Rowan. ‘Just the woman I was hoping to see.’

  ‘I . . . Rowan, is Jules with you?’

  ‘She’s gone,’ he says, standing squarely in front of me, blocking the pavement. ‘Wanted to get Saffie home and safe.’ He glares at me. Saffie’s name hangs in the air between us. After a significant pause, he asks, ‘Where’s Pete? Or are you on your own?’

  ‘He’s away.’

  ‘Not escorting you? A bit foolish of him, with you looking so attractive.’

  I can hardly speak. I feel exhausted and wish again that I had gone straight home after the television appeal.

  ‘He had to go over to Deepa’s. To be with the girls.’

  ‘So you’re off home now?’

  ‘Yes. I’m tired.’

  ‘I’ll walk you.’

  ‘There’s no need. I’m all right on my own.’

  ‘Not saying you’re not. But it’s on my way and I was going home now too. And you know, a woman on her own on a dark night in a slinky black dress, you can’t be too careful. Not with all that’s gone on.’

  ‘What about Jules?’ I ignore what I assume to be a reference to the phrase ‘asking for it’, which Saul allegedly used. ‘She was presumably on her own?’

  ‘She was driving,’ he says, ‘and I wanted a drink. They don’t allow alcohol in the house of God next door. I’ve had enough now. I’ll walk you.’

  I don’t want this man near me. He’s the one whose threats prompted me to ask Saul if he’d forced Saffie to have sex. The reason my son’s disappeared. But I’m too exhausted to argue, and so say nothing. As I stride ahead, I can feel Rowan behind me. His footsteps follow me up the street and along the short
cut to the green, a road of new-builds. Security lights flick on as I pass, illuminating perfectly manicured front lawns, white garage doors and casting Rowan’s shadow over me. I turn.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘You can go. I’m perfectly capable of walking on my own from here.’

  ‘It’s my duty to protect you,’ he says sarcastically.

  There’s nothing I can do to shake him off. He walks alongside me now, over the green towards my house, the great big elephant of Saul and Saffie lumbering along between us. He’s waiting for me to bring it up. But I am not going to mention it. I don’t want to talk to the man who said he wanted to beat the living daylights out of my son.

  At my house, I take out my key and the door swings open. I turn to thank Rowan. My thinking is, by remaining civil, he will be forced to do so as well.

  ‘Goodnight. Thank you for accompanying me.’

  He wedges his foot in the gap as I close the door.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’

  ‘Rowan, I’m tired. I’ve had to do an appeal for Saul on local TV and I’m done for, to be honest.’ Reminding him that Saul’s missing, I imagine, might garner me some sympathy.

  ‘Interesting he disappeared just after being found out. Is it cowardice? Or a clever bit of guilt-tripping?’

  ‘What?’ I stare at Rowan, aghast at his skewed logic. ‘I don’t think anything was further from his mind.’

  Rowan shoves the door. I lose my balance and stumble backwards. He moves in and steps towards me.

  ‘You’re despicable,’ he says, slamming the door behind him. ‘You and your son. As far as I’m concerned, you and he deserve everything that’s come to you. But I’m not allowed to say it. I’m not supposed to say what everyone else is thinking. That you’ve been bellyaching about all men being potential rapists but refuse to see when your own son’s one. That Saul deserves . . .’ He swipes a finger across his throat.

  ‘What do you mean?’ In spite of myself, I begin to tremble. ‘Rowan, can we please be adult about this? Saul’s missing. Isn’t that satisfaction enough for you? If you still insist on believing it was rape.’