Killing The Girl

by Elizabeth Hill

  When Thora invited us back that day, I fell in love with Oaktree House. The children on the council estate had always referred to it as ‘the witch’s house’ because trees surrounded it and someone had said that children disappeared if they entered the grounds. All a load of nonsense but Sarah found it hard to relax whenever she visited.

  Now it is my home and I remember first walking along the beautiful floors and a feeling of déjà vu nestling in my bones. Oaktree House reminded me of another home, my grandparents’ home, the home my dad rejected so that he could marry my mum. His parents didn’t approve of her.

  There are two front rooms, one each side of the hallway, furnished with sofas. One has several floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and a piano, with a stool. There’s a dining room with a massive table. And a kitchen three times the size of what was then my home, with easy chairs by the range. The place is big yet homely. Back then it was a place to dream about living in.

  When Sarah and I first arrived, we waited by the front door while Thora fetched us some water. There was a hall-stand at the bottom of the staircase, with a telephone on it. I’d flipped through a pile of letters, guilt-tripping through my fingers, compelled to find out more about Thora and this house. Some had the address of her old workplace, Maytree Hospital. The city hospital headed another, and then the words ‘oncology department’. But there was another, more interesting letter, handwritten with blue ink on thick cream vellum. The heading was ‘Blanchard Place’, and seemed to inform of something interesting, a secret accidentally revealed.

  On the Saturday before Christmas, we were in Thora’s kitchen teaching her to make a Christmas cake. She smiled with pride as she hovered near the oven itching to take it out.

  ‘Don’t open the door,’ I warned. ‘It needs three hours, or it’ll sink in the middle.’

  She sat next to Sarah. ‘Can’t believe I’ve done this! My mother never cooked and I haven’t a clue. We had a housekeeper. I’ve lived on hospital food most of my life; it’s a wonder I survived.’ She smiled, and her features softened. A beautiful woman shone through as years melted from her face.

  ‘Let’s do this washing-up and then we can have a piece of your birthday cake, Sarah. And let’s have coffee instead of tea.’

  Sarah went to the sink. ‘I’ll wash. I’m fed up of writing. Wish I was smart like Carol.’ She picked up the washing-up liquid. Sarah had turned sixteen the previous Thursday, and the Victoria sponge cake she’d made sat waiting on the table, its sixteen candles in pink icing a confusing mix of little-girl and grown-up girl.

  ‘Carol is smart because her father left her the gift of books when he died, and she made good use of them.’ Thora smiled at me. ‘He ensured that she enjoyed what he enjoyed – books and learning.’

  Thora had been appalled that I had lost my dad, and at every opportunity she brought him into our conversations. I’d told her that his books and encyclopaedias took pride of place in my bedroom bookcase.

  ‘Is that why she gets all A’s and knows big words?’ Sarah said as she sloshed water.

  A knock at the door startled us. This house is in the middle of nowhere and at that time did not have secure fencing and locked gates around it as it does now.

  ‘I’ll go.’ I made my way along the hall, brushing at my hair to get rid of any stray flour.

  Dull afternoon light spooked the hallway. A figure darkened the leaded light glass panels surrounding the door. The body shifted; fluid movement; male maybe. I opened the door and caught my breath. Standing outside was a gorgeous young man. I closed my mouth, conscious that I was gawping at him.

  ‘Who is it?’ Thora stepped forward. ‘Oh.’

  My face heated at my inability to say anything. Thora had noticed the change in my demeanour and bristled with irritation at it.

  ‘Hi, Auntie.’ He smiled; he was an absolute dream.

  ‘Frankie.’ Thora stepped to the door. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘Thought I’d see how you are.’ He shrugged. ‘Are you going to leave me on the doorstep? I’ve been driving for hours.’

  He winked at me. His strong shoulders, clearly defined under his open jacket, caused a thrill through me and I crossed my fingers and prayed, ‘Let him in, let him in, let him in.’ He was at least six foot tall, with shoulder-length hair dropping in soft rats’ tails from a jagged parting. Tensing to stop my quaking nerves, I’d let my breath out softly through open lips as Thora spoke.

  ‘Come in if you must. This is Carol.’ Thora turned and walked back to the kitchen.

  Frankie stepped in front of me. ‘Well, hello, Carol.’ Heat rippled between us, causing my blood to flow quickly through every part of me.

  ‘Hi.’ My voice caught as he turned away.

  ‘Don’t try flirting with her; she’s too smart for you.’ Thora sounded irritated: his arrival was obviously not wanted.

  ‘I’m sure she is.’ He turned towards me and whispered. ‘Doesn’t suffer fools gladly, my Auntie.’ He smelt of musk and something else intoxicating that I breathed in deeply.

  ‘I know,’ I said, embarrassed at my agreement.

  We followed Thora into the kitchen. Sarah packed her homework into her satchel. Frankie flopped down onto the chair opposite.

  ‘This is Sarah,’ Thora told him as she picked up the kettle.

  ‘Hello, Sarah.’ Sarah blushed and nodded at him, fussing inside her bag before dropping it and kicking it out of sight. I watched him look at her. Did he like her? His jaw was square with soft stubble. His high cheekbones thinned out his cheeks. As he turned, his face, although angular, had a soft covering of flesh stopping him from looking gaunt.

  ‘Bloody hell, that’s a drive.’ He looked around noting and appraising things. ‘Those roads out of London are getting worse.’

  ‘You should’ve phoned. A lot easier.’ Thora was not happy, and I wanted to distract her from her negativity towards this dream of a man.

  ‘What car have you got?’ I asked.

  ‘MGB,’ he said with a note of arrogance that should have made him sound offensive but instead thrilled me.

  ‘MGB! Can I see it?’

  He followed me out of the house. The blue car sat on the drive emitting soft ticking noises as the engine cooled. Walking around it, I ran my fingers along the wings and wished for the clouds to clear for better light.

  ‘Wow, it’s new.’ The car was amazing.

  ‘Yes.’ He grinned at my delight and tilted his head as he looked at my hair.

  ‘Can I have the keys?’ A surge of desperation to get inside it pushed aside my shyness.

  ‘The keys? You look all of thirteen, so, no.’ He pulled the keys out of his pocket and gripped them tightly as though to keep them safe.

  ‘Why not? I can drive.’ I reached for his hand, holding his gaze. His fingers unfurled as a glint of devilment crossed his eyes. He wanted to see what would happen if he surrendered them to me. I knew at once that he liked the thrill of the unknown. His hand was smooth, and he registered surprise as I took them from him saying, ‘I’ve got three older brothers. They’ve taught me about cars. And how to drive.’

  That should reassure him, I thought as I got in and moved the seat forward. The engine throttled into life with a deep-throated rhythmic vibration. ‘Get in, or I’ll go on my own.’

  He slid in, stretching his legs out and relaxing back into the seat saying, ‘Sorry, no petrol. And I’m broke,’ with a wicked grin kissing his lips.

  ‘How are you getting back to London?’ The irresponsibility of his situation evaded me as the thought that he’d have to stay caused my heart to race.

  ‘Not sure.’ He ran his fingers along his jaw and looked towards the house. Thora would have to bail him out, obviously. She was already annoyed, so maybe she wouldn’t give him money. Then he would stay. Excellent.

  ‘I’ll just go around the driveway. It’s big enough.’

  He laughed as I pulled away. ‘So you can drive.’ His thigh was close to mine.

  �
��Course I can. Why lie about being able to drive?’ I steered around the oak tree that stood in the centre, exactly where it is now.

  ‘You don’t look old enough to have a licence.’ He looked at my legs; my short skirt had ridden up and I didn’t feel an urge to pull it back down.

  ‘I haven’t. I only drive up here, in the countryside. Sometimes round the estate – mostly vans, Transits, tractors, whatever my brothers are fixing. They’ve got a garage in the village. Needs pulling down but they like it.’

  ‘So how old are you?’ There was a note of expectation; of wanting me to give an age older than my fifteen years. I couldn’t do that.

  ‘Tell me how old you think I am, Frankie.’ I spoke his name, and the sound of it softened my tongue.

  ‘Well, you look thirteen and act thirty.’

  ‘Thirty? That’s ancient!’

  He laughed and shook his head as I parked.

  ***

  On the walk back home with Sarah, Frankie consumed my every thought. As we reached Dawnview Wood, where the other oak tree grew, I tripped and crashed to the ground. Perry’s laughter boomed out. Scrambling up, I turned to find a makeshift loop of metal sticking out across the path.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Sarah placed a hand on my shoulder. I shrugged her off and headed for Perry.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing? You could have killed me.’

  He jumped down from the oak tree and walked towards us. ‘Stop fussing. You’re fine. You weren’t looking where you’re going. Something distracting you, maybe?’

  ‘What d’you mean, you idiot?’

  ‘I saw you driving that dickhead’s car. What a slapper you are. Did you give him one?’

  He turned and let out a shriek as I raced towards him, fists clenched. He weaved through the copse and headed across Dawnview Field to the lane. For a moment I gained on him, but then he vaulted the gate and sprinted away.

  ‘Let him go, Carol. He’ll hit you.’ Sarah paced by the trees, rubbing her left arm. ‘We shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous up here on our own.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Sarah. We can do what we want.’ She looked away. ‘We can come up here if we want to. Take no notice of your dad. My dad said I was better than my brothers at everything. Girls can do what boys do, remember. We can even beat them at some things.’

  I took her hand, and she smiled. ‘I’d like to beat Perry.’

  ‘And me. He’s a wanker. I’ll smash his face in next time.’

  She flushed and giggled as I looped my arm through hers and turned us towards home. My dad had always told me that I was as strong as any boy, but he didn’t say that one day I’d meet a boy who I didn’t want to be stronger than.

  ‘D’you like Frankie?’ I asked, although I didn’t care what she thought.

  ‘’S all right. Do you like him? He’s old.’

  ‘No he’s not.’ The world turned out of step as I scraped my foot along the ground.

  ‘Bet he’s got a girlfriend in London. Bet she likes long, girly hair. We don’t like boys with girly hair, do we?’

  I jogged ahead not wanting to listen to her. ‘I’ve got to get back. Sammy and Valerie are coming over with Julie. She’s pregnant again already.’ My middle brother, Sammy, wanted to father a football team, but his first child was female. Valerie seemed happy to let him have his way.

  ‘Slow down. Can I come round to see Julie?’ Sarah was already talking about having a baby, yet failed to note that she needed a boyfriend first.

  ‘Yeah, of course.’ Letting Sarah play with Julie would save me from having to coo at the milky little sick-bag.

  The hill sloped down, as it does now, at a low gradient for a quarter of a mile before meeting the estate. Sarah caught up as I stopped to take in the view of the city below. The familiar landmarks and buildings shimmered in a pale-yellow glow from the low winter sun. Looking towards my home with its familiar surroundings, I’d felt a shift of perception towards an unknown kingdom. There was a king, with silky, shoulder-length hair, a shirt rippling across tight muscles, and an upper lip carrying the honey-coloured sheen of a moustache. His kingdom was seductive and made me question where my home was.

  But I knew where my heart was all right.

  Frankie had my heart.

  Chapter 4

  Friday, 13 March 1970

  The back of Erik Schmidt’s car smelt of toffee and earth but mainly of mildew. He’d said he’d be late, and told me to make sure that no one saw me get in, and to cover myself with the rug – the usual warnings. The staff car park was empty, but I was wary of teachers making their way home. Josephine Francis seemed to have the hots for Schmidt. She flounced over whenever she could, her perfume so strong that it seeped into the car. Someone needed to tell her that being a drama teacher didn’t mean that you had to ham it up all the time. One day she would force her way into the passenger seat and get a massive shock to find me hiding in the back.

  Another person to worry about catching me there was Sally Major, my nemesis. She wasn’t happy that I’d smashed her head against the wall the day before. She’d seemed to think I’d hand her my dry socks because hers got wet. Some kids thought others were around simply to do their bidding. Not me. If she had a problem, I’d set my brother Denny on her.

  The wind was getting up, and the chill hit my bare legs below my short skirt. Mum had promised to buy me a coat that weekend; I couldn’t do mine up. My brothers gave me money if I babysat or something. It was a Friday: the day Mum went out with her workmates. She’d been going out a lot.

  Erik Schmidt had approached me the first week of the new term. He wasn’t one of my teachers, but he’d raved about my published poetry in the Christmas edition of the school magazine. Said that I must go to university. I had talent, and he would ensure that I’d not be like other girls, abandoned to fall into marriage and children, wasted on servitude and reproduction. I was special and must fulfil my potential. When I’d said that I wanted to paint in oils not write poetry, he said that was just as good.

  Each Friday evening and Sunday afternoon I’d work at his house under his supervision to complete a portfolio of artwork. Sarah didn’t know. She didn’t like that I was better at Art than she was. She didn’t like that I was better at everything. She needed to study more, but she’d already given up. I’d had a weird dream that her new curves would expand until she spewed out half a dozen babies, all snot-covered and wearing acid nappies.

  Schmidt insisted we drove even though he lived a short walk away. The novelty was getting tiresome. It was ridiculous. I wasn’t going to hide in his car again. He wasn’t going to dictate to me. I was fifteen, not five.

  ***

  The car stopped, and he got out. The garage door swung up with a grating creak. I froze, hidden under the blanket, as the usual chorus of children’s voices shouted, ‘Hello, sir,’ as they gathered around him.

  Schmidt said, ‘Hello, boys. Are you going somewhere nice?’

  ‘Up Oaktree Cleave, sir. Do you want to come, sir?’

  ‘No thank you. It’s too cold for me. Anyway, I’ve homework to mark.’ He got back into the car and drove it into the garage and got out.

  ‘Have you got any spare change you can give us, sir?’

  ‘Oh, Samantha. I didn’t see you there.’ He seemed flustered, and I wondered why she had asked for money. ‘Not today. Now run along and have a good time and don’t forget to tell your parents. And don’t talk to strangers or get into strange cars.’

  ‘We won’t, sir. We’re not daft. We know what perv’s look like.’

  I got out as soon as the garage door rattled back into place, determined to tackle him about having to hide in the back.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, sir – Erik – but I don’t want to hide in the car anymore.’

  He walked away. ‘Let’s put the kettle on to make some of your nice English tea.’

  The house is still there on the posh estate where people buy, not rent, the houses. The kitchen was also a dini
ng room and was tiny. It had imitation wooden doors on the kitchen units. They needed to be brightened up with yellow paint or something.

  He put teabags in cups, his back to me, stiffness in his shoulders. He didn’t want to discuss the car. He was adamant that other children shouldn’t see me. He said they would make it impossible for him to give me his full attention. He said I needed to be more logical and insightful. I could understand his reasoning. But still.

  ‘I’ll knock on the door like anyone else. Who cares what people think? They’re all going to know soon.’

  ‘You haven’t told anyone, have you?’ He turned, his hand reaching his chin, stroking it softly.

  ‘No, but I don’t –’

  ‘We’ve been through this Carol. People will talk.’

  ‘Let them.’

  He stirred the tea then placed the cups on the table. The smell reminded me that I was hungry. As if reading my mind, he got out some chocolate biscuits and crisps. ‘People are funny, Carol. You know you’re painting and I know you’re painting, but others won’t understand. People get jealous.’

  The smell of lemon soap wafted. We stared into each other’s eyes for a moment before I looked away, unable to hold eye contact. He stepped toward the sink as I continued, determined not to let the subject go.

  ‘I can’t see a problem. I mean, what’s strange about a teacher teaching. Okay, so it’s outside school time but – oh, I’ve got an idea: we can use the school building.’

  ‘We can’t. The head won’t allow it.’

  ‘Well, what do they expect us to do, then? If anyone wants to say anything, they’ll have to say it to my face. They don't want to mess with me...’

  He turned around; a muscle twitched in his cheek. ‘No need to get so excited, Carol. Try not to over-analyse it. You’re getting stressed. That is bad for an artist.’ He picked up his cup and studied the rim. ‘You haven’t told your brother, have you?’

  ‘No. We said it would be our secret. Surprise them when I get into uni. It’s what’s going to happen, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, of course. That’s what will happen. Why don’t you go on up now? We’ve wasted enough time.’