The Rumour

by Lesley Kara

  ‘Are you staying tonight, Daddy?’

  I look up at Alfie sitting on those broad shoulders, thrilled to be seeing his daddy again so soon.

  ‘Yes,’ Michael says. ‘I’m …’ He catches my eye, suddenly unsure of what to say.

  ‘Daddy’s coming to stay with us to work from Flinstead for a while,’ I say, which seems the most sensible explanation. For now, at least.

  Alfie roars with delight and sticks both arms in the air in a gesture of triumph.

  ‘Be careful, Alfie. Hold on tight!’

  I might just as well be talking to myself.

  Liz’s front-door bell resounds deep within the house. It’s one of those long chimes with eight notes. I wait, expecting any second now to see the shape of her walking towards the frosted-glass panel in the half-glazed door. I’ve never called round unannounced before. I hope she doesn’t mind. As for asking her to put in a good word for Michael with Sonia, I’ve no idea what she’ll say. She might even blame me for what’s been happening. Me and my big mouth.

  I glance at the windows of her front room, but the blinds are closed. Perhaps she’s in the bathroom. I press the bell again. As the last dong vibrates and there’s still no sign of her, I step closer to the door and peer through the patterned frosting. It feels wrong doing this, as if I’m spying on her, intruding on her personal space, and yet I feel sure she’s in. I don’t know why. It’s just a feeling I have.

  The corridor with its dark-green-painted floorboards stretches to the back of the house. I see the fuzzy silhouette of the half-moon console table she keeps her phone on, and the old-fashioned umbrella stand next to it. My gaze drifts past the newel post and the balusters of the staircase on the right to the arrangement of photos on the wall. Arty black-and-white shots of old shopfronts and houses. There’s no sign of her coming downstairs, and I’m starting to feel uncomfortable now. What if her neighbours can see me? One of them might come and investigate. They’re big on Neighbourhood Watch round here.

  I step back. She’s out. She must be.

  I walk up the path to the pavement, pausing at the gate to take one last look. A shadow flits across one of the upper windows that stare back at me. A disconcerting blink.

  I suppose it could have been a strand of my hair caught in the breeze. Or one of those annoying dark spots or filaments that sometimes float across my field of vision.

  And yet I’m sure it wasn’t. I’m sure it was Liz, watching me from upstairs.

  When I first came out I was terrified. It felt like I was wearing a sandwich board with my name on it in big black letters for all to see. The only time I felt safe was when I got back home and locked myself in my bedroom, when I drew the curtains and wedged the chair under the door handle. Only then did I relax. I was used to being locked up.

  I got braver as time went on. Learned how to walk down a street without trembling every time someone walked towards me. Learned how to speak to people in shops. The trick is not to act too shy and awkward. Inhabit your own body, they told me. Own your own voice. But don’t get too confident either. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Appearing normal is a balancing act. Tip too far one way or the other and people start to notice you. The loud woman. The timid woman. The beautiful woman. The ugly woman. The woman who’s always smiling. The woman who never smiles. You’ve got to find the middle ground and stick to it.

  Age helps. It’s definitely got easier, the older I’ve become. Middle-aged women are virtually invisible. Isn’t that what they say?

  But now the cloak is starting to slip. The net is closing in on me. And I’m tired of running scared all the time. Tired of being the hunted.

  They want a monster. I’ll give them a monster.

  21

  Kay lives next door but one to Fatima. I give the exterior of the house a quick visual sweep. It’s a modest semi with pebbledash rendering that needs repainting. If Kay were selling her house, I might say something like ‘within walking distance of all Flinstead amenities’. When a house doesn’t have much going for it appearance-wise, it’s practicalities you have to focus on. Practicalities that will sell it in the end. That and a reasonable price, of course.

  Alfie hops from foot to foot on her doorstep. He’s been restless all day, pestering me to take him to the park, or the beach, or to go and see his grandma and play with Sol, but I’ve had a splitting headache ever since waking up. Not quite a migraine, but worse than I’ve had in ages. All I’ve wanted to do is lie down with the curtains drawn. It’s typical that, having taken a week off for half-term, I’m feeling too ill to fully enjoy it.

  I think it’s the result of Michael moving in. It’s been wonderful having him here, but it’s had a terrible effect on my sleep. Before now, we’ve only ever spent the odd night together, so trying to adjust my sleeping routine to his is taking its toll. I’m sure I’ll get used to it soon, but I’m really looking forward to the next few days when he’s in London sorting his flat out, even if Alfie isn’t. It’s all right for those two – they seem to be able to fall asleep whenever and wherever they choose.

  I’d have rung Mum and asked her to come round and take Alfie out for a bit, but she’s got an all-day rehearsal with her choir today. Then I remembered Kay’s offer about bringing Alfie over to see her tropical fish. He’s ridiculously excited.

  Kay opens the door wearing a stripy cook’s apron. Her face breaks into a welcoming smile. ‘Good timing,’ she says. ‘I’ve just made some fairy cakes.’

  Alfie shoots in past her legs and into the living room. ‘Where are the fish?’ he says.

  ‘Alfie, that’s very rude. You don’t just run into people’s houses without being asked. Come back and take your shoes off.’

  Kay laughs. ‘It’s fine. Really. Come on in and I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Five minutes later I’m sitting in Kay’s front room watching her pour the tea. It’s too weak and watery for me, but I don’t like to say anything. The decor is dated and as far from minimal as it’s possible to be. Patterned seventies carpet, chintzy three-piece suite and occasional tables that gleam with polish. In need of some updating but offered with no onward chain.

  I have a sudden flash of recall: my grandparents’ sitting room in Romford. Me perched on the edge of the settee, a plate of fish-paste sandwiches balanced on my knees, and Grandad’s guide dog, Pepper, a chocolate Labrador, sitting to attention in front of me, waiting patiently for a dropped crumb. Nana would be in one armchair, her permed hair sprayed into a silver helmet, and Grandad would be in another. I can still see those opaque eyes that veered and rolled in their sockets. I couldn’t stop looking at them. Even though I knew he would never see again, I always prayed for a miracle.

  Kay’s curtains match the suite, just like Nana and Grandad’s did – although their house was much messier than this – and there’s a scalloped pelmet with a fringe. Glass-fronted display cabinets stand either side of the small tiled fireplace, teapots in one, porcelain figurines and framed photographs in the other, one of which I recognize as Ketifa in her school uniform.

  The aquarium has pride of place on the sideboard. Alfie perches on a stool in front of it, his eyes glued to the magical underwater scene playing out before him. I’ve never seen him sitting so still.

  ‘It’s Nemo and Marlin,’ he says in wonder, as two orange clownfish glide past. Kay crouches down next to him and points out some of the others. ‘See that yellow one at the bottom, the one with the funny mouth? That’s a yellow watchman goby. And look at the shiny gold one next to that rock. You’ll never guess what that one’s called.’

  Alfie taps his finger gently on the side of the glass and the fish darts away and disappears into the fronds of a plant.

  ‘It’s a liquorice gourami,’ Kay says.

  Alfie giggles. ‘Grandma likes liquorice.’

  ‘And so do I,’ Kay says, ruffling Alfie’s hair. ‘But I wouldn’t want to eat my lovely gourami.’

  I sit on the armchair opposite and notice how natural sh
e is with him. He seems to have taken to her straightaway. Probably because she’s talking to him in a very sensible, matter-of-fact way and not using that silly high-pitched voice some people use when talking to children.

  ‘Here, let me show you something,’ she says. She eases herself off the floor. Then she walks over to a table by the window and picks up a chart with pictures of different tropical fish and their names underneath.

  ‘See if you can find any of these in my tank,’ she says, spreading it out on the carpet. Alfie leaps off his stool and studies it intently.

  Kay and I try not to laugh as we watch his little head bob from the poster to the tank and back to the poster again. A wistful expression comes over Kay’s face.

  ‘I’d have loved to have been a primary-school teacher,’ she says. ‘I think I’d have been good at it.’

  ‘What stopped you?’ I say.

  She laughs, but there’s a bitter edge to it. ‘It wasn’t really an option, love.’

  ‘Why’s that, then?’

  She shrugs. ‘Oh, you know how it is. Didn’t work hard enough at school. Married too young. Had Gillian.’ A shadow passes over her face. Then she smiles, becomes brighter. ‘Talking of Gillian, let me show you some photos.’

  She unlocks the door of one of the display cabinets and lifts out two framed photographs, brings them over for me to look at.

  A tanned, freckle-faced young woman with dark blonde hair streaming in the breeze beams at us from a wide expanse of white sand, the turquoise ocean in the distance. She’s leaning in towards an extremely good-looking young man in a pair of Bermuda swimming trunks.

  ‘That’s my Gillian,’ Kay says. ‘With her husband, Carl.’

  ‘What a lovely couple.’

  ‘And these two little terrors are my grandchildren, Callie and Marcus,’ she says, smiling indulgently.

  ‘They’re beautiful. How old are they?’

  ‘Callie’s three and Marcus is six.’

  ‘Ah, so he’s the same age as Alfie,’ I say, knowing full well what’s going to happen next and, right on cue, Alfie’s head spins round. ‘I’m six and a quarter,’ he says, indignantly.

  Kay laughs. ‘That quarter makes all the difference, doesn’t it?’

  ‘What’s in there?’ Alfie says, pointing to a basket on the floor by Kay’s chair.

  Kay puts the photos on the coffee table and lifts the basket on to her lap. She unties the bows securing the lid. ‘This,’ she says, proudly, ‘is my sewing basket.’

  ‘Mummy uses an old ice-cream box for her sewing things,’ Alfie says.

  I laugh. ‘Yeah, a couple of old needles and a handful of cotton reels. I can just about sew on a button, and I even manage to mess that up sometimes.’

  Kay takes out a beautifully embroidered needle case and strokes it with her thumbs. ‘I learned from my mother,’ she says. ‘Before …’ Her breath catches. She unpops the case, which opens like a book. ‘… before she got ill and couldn’t hold a needle any more.’

  Alfie watches with interest as she turns each felt page to reveal different-sized needles neatly inserted in each one.

  ‘And of course, we learned at school. The girls did needlework and the boys did woodwork.’ She grins. ‘None of this gender equality in those days.’

  Alfie’s attention returns to the fish tank and my mouth arranges itself into the obligatory smile. Kay and I don’t really have much in common, but she’s a nice woman. I don’t mind sitting and looking at her photos and drinking tea with her. It’s a neighbourly thing to do, and Alfie’s just loving those fish. He’s particularly taken with the little skull embedded in the sand at the bottom. Tiny fish like turquoise slivers keep darting in and out of the eye sockets. It’s mesmerizing.

  ‘To be honest, I’d like to be a bit handier with a needle.’ I lower my voice. ‘Alfie’s been invited to Liam’s Halloween-themed birthday party next week. I’ll probably end up ordering some overpriced rubbish online.’

  Kay puts the basket on the floor and reaches for her tea. ‘Why don’t I make something for him?’

  ‘Oh no, that wasn’t what I meant at all. I couldn’t possibly …’

  ‘It wouldn’t take me long.’ Kay’s gaze settles fondly on Alfie. ‘Unless, of course, your mum wants to run something up?’ She looks pensive all of a sudden. ‘I know I would, if Marcus or Callie were around.’

  I laugh. ‘The only thing my mum could run up is a hill.’

  Kay pats my knee. ‘That’s settled, then. All we need to do now is decide on the outfit.’

  ‘Darth Vader!’ Alfie shouts. ‘I want to go as Darth Vader.’

  Kay’s brow creases as she thinks. ‘Have you got some black clothes, Alfie?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You’ve got your black sweatpants and a long-sleeved black T-shirt, haven’t you?’

  Alfie nods. ‘I’ve got black gloves too.’

  ‘And your new wellies,’ I say. ‘They’re still lovely and shiny. They’ll look just like Darth’s boots.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Kay says. ‘I’ve got an old tablecloth we could dye black and I’ll make a cloak out of it. I’ll put some padding in the shoulder part, give him some bulk. It’ll be easy. Then all Mummy will have to do is pick up a mask.’

  ‘Kay, that would be brilliant. Thank you so much.’

  But she doesn’t respond. She’s lost in a reverie, gazing at Alfie. Poor Kay. She must really miss her grandchildren.

  22

  It’s Tuesday morning. Half-term is over and, for once, Alfie is looking forward to school. He’d have happily gone in yesterday if it hadn’t been an inset day, or rather an ‘insect’ day as he insists on calling it. Having Michael move in and Liam’s party to look forward to has made all the difference. And thanks to Kay’s efforts, his Darth Vader outfit is now hanging up in his bedroom ready to wear.

  ‘Have you seen the funny picture on the school noticeboard?’ Fatima says as she meets us on our way across the playground. ‘It’s really good. They’ve Photoshopped the class photo for Halloween. Made all the kids look like zombies and skeletons. Miss Williams has got a pair of devil’s horns.’

  She laughs. ‘I can see by your face, Joanna, that you’re not a great fan of Halloween.’

  I lower my voice. ‘It’s the thought of spending this evening at Debbie’s house with fourteen six-year-old boys high as kites on too much food colouring and sugar. Then we’ve got to tramp around in the cold knocking on people’s doors. I can’t wait.’

  Fatima laughs again.

  ‘Come on, then, Alfie,’ I say. ‘Let’s go and see what you look like as a zombie.’

  The hall has that smell peculiar to primary schools everywhere. Plimsoles and plasticine. School dinners and PVA glue. The musty reek of all those little bodies. Alfie tugs me towards the L-shaped area outside Mr Matthews’ office. There’s a small crowd clustered in front of the noticeboard, pointing and laughing. We wait till there’s space to squeeze in, and take a look.

  Good grief. They’ve really gone to town with all this. The normally professional headshots of each member of staff have been doctored to include witches’ hats and hideous warts and blood-stained fangs. Mr Matthews, the headmaster, has had his eyes whited out, but he still manages to look as sexy as ever. I’m sure I’m not the only mum to have had the odd passing fantasy about getting summoned to his office for being naughty.

  Alfie is pointing to his class photo and shrieking with laughter. ‘Look, Mummy. Look!’

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ I say. Someone must have spent ages doing this. Each child’s uniform has been replaced with some kind of Halloween outfit. My eyes scan all the little zombies and vampires and skeletons for Alfie. Normally, it’s easy to pick him out, with his distinctive frizzy hair, but their faces have been altered to make them look paler and more ghoulish. If my memory serves me right he’s in the second-from-back row over to the left.

  ‘There I am!’ he shouts excitedly. ‘Can you see me, Mummy? Can you see me?’

  At l
ast, my eyes pick him out, and my heart stops. My breath freezes in the back of my throat. I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing. No skeleton costume or zombie suit for Alfie. He’s still in his school uniform, but his white shirt is splattered with blood and there’s a knife sticking out of his chest.

  I try to swallow but can’t. I make myself look at each and every child in the photo, work my way systematically along each row to see whether any of the others have knives sticking out of them, but none of them does. A tight pressure spreads across my chest like a band. My heart races. Why has he been singled out like this? Why is Alfie the only one with a knife sticking out of him? What kind of school would put something like this up on their noticeboard?

  Alfie has started staggering about like a zombie with his fists clenched round an imaginary knife in his chest. The other kids are copying him and laughing.

  ‘Who did this?’ I ask one of the dads standing next to me. My voice comes out shrill and accusing, and I’m aware of my entire upper body stiffening in rage. ‘Who made this photo? Was it one of the teachers?’

  He gives me an odd look. ‘Why? What’s wrong with it? It’s only a bit of fun, innit?’

  I hear a muttering behind me. The phrase ‘one of the PC brigade’ reaches my ears and I swing round, furious. ‘So you think it’s perfectly acceptable for my son to be shown with a knife sticking out of his chest, do you?’

  ‘Now hold on a minute, love. No need to get all aerated over it. It’s only Halloween. It’s not like it’s real. Jeez, some people.’

  The door to Mr Matthews’ office swings open and Mrs Haynes, the school secretary, comes out. ‘Everything all right here?’ she says.

  ‘No, it isn’t all right. I want to speak to the headmaster.’

  She opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again. ‘Why don’t you come and sit down and tell me what the problem is.’

  People are staring at me. They’re gathering round as if I’m some kind of spectator sport. Alfie’s lurching about with a couple of boys, in a world of his own. He’s still pretending to be a zombie, oblivious to the scene I’m causing. I grab his arm and pull him to my side. My jaw tightens and I look Mrs Haynes in the eye, keep my voice as low and calm as I can.