We’d barely been back in the car ten minutes when Chris swiveled around and asked us to stop. Assuming he’d seen another village sign that could be interpreted lewdly, I was surprised to see the sign in question was the brown, oak leaf-sporting one of the National Trust, the organization that owned a good chunk of historical properties and landscapes throughout the UK. It wasn’t something you’d expect an army boy to take much interest in.
“What?” Jeanne asked, stopping in the middle of the road and reversing to catch a glimpse of the sign herself.
“I have a membership there,” Chris said.
“And just like that, I’m ashamed to be your friend,” Ritchie sighed. “Hopefully your uncoolness isn’t contagious.”
To my surprise, instead of laughing the jab off, Chris’s face went red. I glanced at Jeanne, deciding I knew exactly how he felt.
“Do you really?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He brightened and produced a slip of plastic bearing the same logo from the pocket of his jeans. “I won it in a game of poker. We were both stone broke, and this guy, Paul Albury, bet his National Trust membership. I think I bet three cans of tuna and four cans of baked beans.”
“Okay, great,” Ritchie said. “So what?”
“So we should check this place out. We’ve got time.”
“First of all, none of the rest of us are members, and second of all, we literally stopped ten seconds ago,” Jeanne pointed out. She still sat in the middle of the road, causing incoming traffic to honk madly and swerve to avoid hitting her. She didn’t seem to notice.
“We’ll be there too early at this rate. C’mon, they’ll probably have ice cream. My treat,” he wheedled.
“Oh,” I tapped Jeanne’s shoulder. “There’s a police car coming up behind you.”
Just like that, she decided that perhaps a stop at the National Trust wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all. Doing a U-turn, she beamed at the officer on her way past and pulled into the gravel carpark of the property.
The property in question was Hatfield Forest, apparently an ancient hunting ground in use since medieval times. The trees here were massive and twisted and knotted, their spindly branches seeming far too thin in comparison; even I, who’d grown up next to the sprawling forest at Thetford, was wowed. Chris graciously opted to pay for us, given that it was his idea, on the condition that we didn’t go crazy when ordering ice cream.
As with any English icon worth its weight, a Mr. Whippy truck was parked only a few paces inside the gates. Despite having recently eaten, we all ordered ninety-nines—vanilla ice creams with a chocolate flake stuck in the top.
“Is this real ice cream?” Ritchie asked, glaring at his with an expression somewhere between distrust and barely concealed delight. “It tastes . . . odd.”
We were all too busy eating ours to comment.
To pass time, glad to be off of the road again, we wandered through the expansive trail network. There were a few families with children too young to be in school gathered about, and a few elderly couples, but aside from that, we had the run of the place. I imagined it would be a beautiful place in autumn when all the leaves changed, and an eerie place in winter when there weren’t any leaves at all. As it was, on the brink of summer, the canopy glowed golden as sun filtered through, casting speckles of light over the trail. It was the type of wood where goblins and fairies should live, the remnants of what had once spanned the entirety of Britain for longer than anyone could remember.
“We used to play ‘It’ all the time in a forest like this—well, not quite like this—and we’d always get lost,” Jeanne said, licking the bottom of her cone where the ice cream was dripping. “Remember when we went out to Thetford in school, Tree? We played ‘Fox and Hound,’ and I was supposed to be a fox, but I pretended to be a hound so I could hide with you?”
“Only because you forgot your shoes and wanted to avoid running.”
Out of nowhere, the trees melted away to reveal a small lake. It was stiller than a mill pond, perfectly reflecting the woodland around it. We found a bench, sat down, and finished off our ice creams.
“Ritchie and I grew up in cities,” Chris sighed, “so we didn’t really have school trips to places like this. It’s a shame—I loved the outdoors when I was little.”
“You don’t anymore?”
“Well, yeah, but in a different way. ‘Tag’ doesn’t quite hold the same appeal anymore.” He sighed again, like he was genuinely saddened by this. “I can never be bothered.”
“How inspiring,” said Ritchie, dryly.
Jeanne stood up, spinning on the spot so her skirt swished around her ankles. “Tree and I still do crazy things, don’t we, Tree? Spontaneity is our thing.”
Like this spontaneous kidnapping? I cringed just thinking about all the “crazy” situations Jeanne had dragged me into, the recent experience in Elm House fresh in mind.
“Greenham Common?” Jeanne pushed, eyes sparkling with mischief. “This very January?”
“That name rings a bell,” said Chris.
“RAF missile base, isn’t it?” Ritchie frowned. “There’s a women’s protest camp that’s been set up there for ages—I’ve seen it on the news.”
Chris laughed. “Yeah, right. Of course you would know about an all-women’s camp, even if they were campaigning for abstinence.”
Ritchie glared at him. “Just because you never bother to read the papers.”
Jeanne coughed, redirecting attention back to her. She had a story to tell. “Anyway, Tree and I were there in January. Only for, like, a day, but we helped take apart the perimeter fence during the night, which was especially funny ’cause the government thought the camp had been dismantled.”
Again, I cringed. American cruise missiles had been kept at RAF Greenham Common since ’81, and the protest had been ongoing for nearly as long. The idea of warheads so close to home was not something I embraced, in fact quite the opposite, but the consequences of being caught were terrifying—jail would’ve been the least of our worries. I think even Jeanne had second thoughts in the moment, but ever since, she’d regained enough confidence to brag every chance she got.
“Wow, if someone tried dismantling the perimeter at Mildenhall, they’d be shot on sight,” Chris said with a nervous chuckle.
Jeanne grinned, twirling again like a child given a gold star. “It was a rush.”
“Might I suggest a roller coaster?” Ritchie sighed, rolling his eyes and rising from the bench too.
“Not a high enough chance of death for Jeanne,” I said.
“You were there too, were you not?”
“I’m always there,” I muttered, “but rarely willingly.”
“It was for a good cause,” Jeanne shrugged.
“So make a poster. Circulate a petition. Don’t dismantle a bloody Army perimeter.” Chris wiped the remnants of ice cream and chocolate onto his jeans, regarding Jeanne with an expression that reminded me that he, ultimately, was part of what we’d been fighting against.
Jeanne must have sensed that the mood was veering away from what she’d wanted, so she gestured for us to follow her through the reeds to the lakeshore. There was barely enough room for the four of us to stand there, sandwiched between the reeds, bank, and water while ducks squawked at our feet. Chris tried skipping a pebble and failed miserably. I copied him and managed to skip three times.
“Overachiever,” he said in mock disgust, nudging my shoulder. My breath caught in my throat, which he wrongly interpreted. “Sorry, didn’t mean to push you in.”
“Oh, that’s okay, I—”
“But I did!” Jeanne squealed, giving me a hefty shove so that I stumbled forward and plunged into the water.
For a second, I didn’t even register what happened. Then, feeling the frigid water seeping into my clothes, my hands several inches deep in what could only be described as goop, I mouthed a curse and started yelling at Jeanne. Well, at least I would have, had she not purposely fallen backward into the wa
ter with me.
“What?”
“Weren’t you all just complaining that you felt too grown up?” Jeanne floated on her back, her hair forming a halo around her head and shoulders. “Besides, it’s far too hot in the sun.”
“Chris was complaining, not me!” I cried, running onto the bank and shivering violently, wringing the water from my own hair. “This isn’t a swimming pool!”
Chris, who had been watching our little exchange with barely concealed amusement, blinked at the sound of his name and gave Ritchie a stiff shove, trying to push him into the lake too. Ritchie, clearly anticipating this, stumbled but didn’t fall over, grabbing Chris’s outstretched arm and attempting to throw him in. A scuffle ensued, comical enough I forgot my anger for a moment.
There was an almighty splash as they both lost their footing at the same time and tumbled into the lake beside Jeanne.
“Join us,” Jeanne said in a dead serious tone, reaching out a muddy hand toward me. “Complete your initiation.”
I bent down and flicked water at her. “Thanks, but I’ve already been baptized into your church of stupidity. Driving to London is going to be freaking uncomfortable now!”
“I have clean clothes.”
“No towel.”
“I shall hang myself to dry in the sun, then.” Jeanne stood up, her hair in rattails and her skirt heavy with dirty water. She flicked a glance at Chris and Ritchie, who also stood up and glowered good-naturedly at each other, and laughed. “Sorry, guys. I couldn’t resist.”
My jeans were tight enough that on occasion I’d had to undo the stitching and literally sew myself into them, so having them sopping wet was unbearably uncomfortable. We wound our way back through the woodland, brightly aware of the curious looks we were getting, and used the public bathroom to change into spare clothing. The boys didn’t have that luxury, so they were forced to stand in the sun until they were as dry as possible. It really was something of a miracle that by the time we returned to the car, we were laughing about the episode rather than giving Jeanne the cold shoulder. Perhaps it was because despite all my previous doubts, the idea of looking like a drowned rat in front of the others wasn’t something awful anymore.
Signs for London popped up all over the place, the distances ticking down bit by bit. Fields gave way to industrial estates, and antiquated villages were swallowed by full-sized towns. Eventually they would all bleed together to form one mass, a collection of council estates and factories and warehouses and condominiums that hid London proper in its heart.
And if the amount of larking about was anything to go by, despite my fears, we’d arrive bonded like we’d all been friends for ever and ever.
IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON WHEN WE PASSED HARLOW, one of the last major towns unconnected to London on this side of the city. We were singing along to U2’s “With or Without You” at the top of our lungs—minus Ritchie, of course, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else—causing other drivers to stare whenever we were stopped at traffic lights. The windows had jammed again, this time fully down, and so no one was spared from hearing our warbling.
“Whoops.” Jeanne had been tapping the steering wheel in time to the beat and missed, accidentally slamming the horn and startling a nearby cyclist. “But seriously guys, we should start a band.”
“Who the hell would be on vocals?” Ritchie drawled, sounding even more disdainful than usual. “I think that performance knocked years off my life.”
Jeanne thought about this. “We’re hot enough nobody’d care. I’ll front, Tree can be my backup girl on the bass, and Chris can go crazy on the drums. We’ll call ourselves . . . ”
“Genie Goes to Stonehenge?” I suggested.
“J, T, and C.” She sighed, ignoring me. “No vowels. No cool acronym possible.”
“You’re excluding Ritchie,” Chris pointed out. He sounded hoarse from singing so loudly. “And, as a side note, No Cool Acronym Possible might work.”
Ritchie turned to the window, chewing his gum aggressively.
“The funny thing is, he can actually sing,” Chris mused. Ritchie shot him a death glare, but he continued, “No, really. Karaoke night down at Mildenhall. He just grabbed the microphone and belted his way through half the charts on a dare once. And the reason nobody stopped him was because he is amazing.”
I twisted in my seat to face the boys, the crueler part of me enjoying having someone feel more awkward than me. Unfortunately, he did seem more irritated than awkward, but there were easy ways of fixing that. Jeanne hopped right to it.
“Sing for us!”
Ritchie tensed. “Um, no.”
“Please!” I begged, squashing a smirk.
“Go on,” Chris added. “For the ladies.”
“What song? This one? Or this one?” Jeanne reached over and skipped through the tracks on her cassette player.
Ritchie’s face continued to sour. “No.”
We needled at him for a good while, until we realized it was a futile cause and left him alone. However, after we’d drained our colas and begun bellowing out more songs, if I listened carefully, I could have sworn I heard him quietly singing along, too.
Inevitably, after consuming so much cola, my bladder soon felt fit to burst. By now there was almost no open countryside visible, only shopping malls and commercial buildings filling up spaces between houses, as though we’d started in the past and were steadily travelling farther and farther into the future as we approached London. In my opinion, everything was also growing uglier. Grayer, colder.
“Jeanne.” I poked her. “Code yellow.”
“Can you hold it? We’re like twenty minutes out.”
“Actually,” Ritchie said, in the same deadpan tone, “I second that code.”
“Well, in that case.”
In this part of the country, it was more a question of choosing facilities than finding them. We were staying with distant cousins of Jeanne’s in Watford, on the western side of London, so we’d taken a route that guided us northward rather than directly through the chaos of downtown. That meant there were plenty of suburban conveniences dotted all over the place. Pulling off the motorway, it wasn’t long before we found a block of public toilets crammed between a treed park and an alley of derelict shops.
“Classy,” Chris whistled. “Tell you what, why don’t I stay with the car. I’m sure the locals are lovely people and all, but given the windows are open . . . ”
“You’re an angel. I think I’m going to stretch my legs in the park for a bit.”
Jeanne had been complaining about her legs cramping up these last few miles, but I knew it was useless offering to take over. She’d never let anyone else drive.
The toilets were absolutely foul, covered in peeling paint, graffiti, and all manner of questionable substances. I was in and out as quickly as possible, not even bothering to check my makeup in the mirror. I even beat Ritchie. Chris was loitering outside the car, Ray-Bans perched on his nose, winking at a group of girls tottering past.
“I think they were giggling at the car, not you,” I pointed out.
He jumped. “Probably.”
I reached in through the passenger window and grabbed the map—we were exactly halfway to Stonehenge. Even though we’d only left Castle Acre yesterday, it felt like we’d been on the road for ages. In a good way, of course.
Time passed. Chris was giggled at by another group of girls. I maintained my focus on the map for much longer than was necessary. Without Jeanne, the awkwardness between us increased tenfold.
“Ritchie must have fallen in,” I observed.
“Yeah. Maybe I should go save him.” He didn’t move. Then, “Why does Jeanne call you Tree?”
“It’s short for Teresa,” I shrugged.
“Which do you prefer?”
Huh. I’d never been asked that before. I answered that I didn’t mind either way, but given the choice, I liked my full name.
Chris nodded. “All right. Teresa, then.” With that, he sau
ntered into the men’s toilets.
He pronounced it teh-REEZ-uh as opposed to TREE-suh, like everyone else. Catching my reflection in the window, I realized I was wearing a stupid little smile.
Chris came back within seconds and announced Ritchie was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t seem very concerned, and so neither was I. I volunteered to do a sweep of the surrounding area—for Jeanne as much as Ritchie—while he stayed with the car. I tucked the map away and moved toward the park.
It wasn’t a particularly nice park. The trees were scraggly and partially dead, sporting just as many brown leaves as green ones, and a metal playground was being used by more squirrels than children. An overgrown trail wound its way past the crumbling brick exterior of the toilet block to a field, where two preteens were kicking a ball and ducking behind a bush whenever an adult walked past. Having graduated, it was funny thinking that most kids were still in school.
“Jeanne?” I called, causing the football players to freeze. “Where are you? I need you to help me find Ritchie.”
Nothing. The park was a few acres at most, so I was surprised I couldn’t see her. I yelled again. Scanned for a colorful flowing skirt, long blond hair, or abandoned boots. Nothing. It was like she’d vanished. Though perhaps we’d missed each other; she’d probably headed back to the car just as I’d set out to find her.
I made my way to the car again, enjoying the fresh air and shade. Then I saw her over by the wall, half obscured by an electrical box.
“Jeanne, you—”
I broke off. She wasn’t alone.
Ritchie was there. With Jeanne, kissing her like there was no tomorrow. And she was kissing him back with enough fervor to make me automatically look away. Peering at them again, cheeks burning, I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but no sound came out save for a squeak. Both their eyes were closed, like those mushy movie couples. Should I do something? Say something?
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