Chapter 9
11 April 1970
Frankie made himself comfortable at the kitchen table and picked up the newspaper, staring at the crossword. I put the kettle on the stove. It was cosy in the kitchen; the two of us in domestic bliss. The sandalwood musk of him, fresh like the woods in spring, zinged at my nostrils.
‘What are you going to make me?’ he asked, pulling a face that was meant to show me he was concentrating.
‘Thora’s left us something, remember? I’m not making you anything.’ I smacked the paper out of his hands.
‘Oi, what are you doing?’ He scrambled to catch the paper.
‘Didn’t your mother teach you to look when someone’s speaking to you?’
‘Not that I remember. She wasn’t bothered what I did.’
‘Well, my mother would be. She said not to pander to boys. I have older brothers, remember.’
‘Your mother sounds like a … um … strong woman.’
‘She is and she … she’s getting married again in September.’
‘Oh. You don’t sound happy about that. Who’s she marrying?’
‘Mr Philips. He’s okay. He owns the supermarket and other stuff. It’s just everything is going to change. We have to live in his big house in the city centre.’
‘Oh, poor you!’ Frankie laughed. ‘The shame of moving from a council house into a private residence. Such a comedown.’
‘You don’t understand. That’s the house where my dad died. The only home I’ve known. Where my friends live. Where I can walk out of my back door and straight into the countryside.’
‘But you’ll be living in a smarter place, and I expect Mr Philips will increase your pocket money.’ He reached for me, but I stepped back. He didn’t understand the seriousness of the situation. He started to say something, but there was a knock on the door, so I made my way through the hallway.
The shape of a man showed through the glass surrounding the front door. Opening it, I came face to face with Erik Schmidt. Fear and confusion mixed at the sight of his smirking face.
‘Hello, Carol. You spend your time here? You have abandoned your art, yes?’
‘No, I haven’t. What d’you want?’
‘I came to see the lady of the house – and you’re not her.’ He looked me up and down.
‘She’s not here. Goodbye.’ I wanted to shut the door in his face but was afraid it would show Frankie how lower class I was.
‘Ah, well, never mind. Please let her know I called and tell her that I’ll see her soon.’ He looked at my chest and pinched his eyes as he pressed his mouth into a thin line.
Shutting the door, I ran into the front room and pulled back the curtain to check that he’d left. He was making his way across the driveway, towards the lane. A car engine vroomed and gears crunched as the sound of gravel spit-pinged at metal as he left.
‘What are you doing?’ Frankie had crept up behind me.
‘Jesus, Frankie, don’t do that!’ I said as I collapsed onto the chair.
‘Do what? Who was at the door and where’s my lunch?’
‘No one.’
‘No one? Well, Mister No One has certainly spooked you. Who was it? Someone selling us Christ the Redeemer? You took His name in vain.’
‘A teacher.’
‘What, Schmidt? Smutty Schmidt?’
How could Frankie know Schmidt? He noticed my confusion and said, ‘Oh God, does he teach you, sweetheart?’
‘Yes … well, no … why?’ The look of horror on Frankie’s face sent my pulse racing.
‘Steer clear of him. He’s one of Auntie’s ex-patients. Pity they can’t lock him up.’
‘Lock him up? I don’t understand.’
‘He’s a paedo. Paedophile, sweetheart.’ He sat on the arm of the chair and put his hand on my shoulder. ‘You don’t know what I mean, do you? Schmidt has thoughts of sex with little girls.’
‘What? He’s a teacher at my school, why isn’t he …?’
‘He has thoughts; he doesn’t act. At least, there’s no proof that he does. You can’t do anything to someone who just has thoughts. When he does something, he’ll be locked up and they’ll throw away the key. At least, that’s the theory. Whether it happens, we’ll see.’
He squeezed me and kissed my hair. ‘Luckily, you’re too old for him, or I would have to keep you locked up. With your small frame and innocent face, he could mistake you for prey, although you’ve grown up since Christmas. I mean, you’re a lot taller.’
He laughed, looking at my chest. I was nauseous. My God, how did I let Schmidt entice me?
‘What’s wrong, sweetheart? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I have to see him at school … every day … and he … he … has some of my work, my poetry …’
‘Too bad. Stay clear.’ He stroked my hair behind my ear and I shuddered. ‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it?’
‘I went to his house.’ I felt sick. The anxiety that had first started at Schmidt’s house was once again coursing through my veins.
‘What?’ He squeezed in next to me and pulled me onto his lap. ‘Tell me.’
‘I … oh God, Frankie, you won’t believe it … I went to his house. He took me there in his car. I had to hide on the back seat covered by a rug. He … he … bought me all this … art stuff, and he was … well, creepy. He crept around the house when I painted and wrote.’
Frankie’s lips wrinkled in suppressed mirth, and his shoulders shook as he laughed so hard that he ejected me from his lap and said, ‘I can’t believe it. What were you thinking? Men want sex, Carol. That’s all they want. How can you not know that?’
‘But he’s a teacher.’
‘He’s a teacher asking you to go back to his house on your own.’ He slapped his thigh and then wiped tears from his eyes. ‘God, you’re easy.’
‘Easy? You think I’m easy?’ My brothers use that word about girls they call “slappers”, but I’m not sure exactly what they mean.
‘No. Of course not, sweetheart. Stop worrying. You’ll be out of there soon doing grown-up things like making my lunch.’
Men want sex. He made it sound functional, devoid of emotion. Wasn’t love involved? Escaping to the kitchen to get away from Frankie’s mirth, I wondered if I’d known all along, somehow, and my determination to better myself had allowed me to mitigate his, now obvious, sickening persona.
‘Need a hand, sweetie?’ Frankie called after me.
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘Yeah? I’ll have to get him to call round again tomorrow lunchtime.’
The sound of his laughter followed me into the kitchen, where pulling out plates and cutlery and generally moving about helped me to control my anxiety. The world was a strange place, and there seemed to be many rules to follow if you were going to survive. When would I learn them all?
Chapter 10
Sunday, 12 April 1970
Sarah wanted to go to Oaktree House to visit Thora, but I’d persuaded her that we couldn’t go. Frankie was uncertain how long Thora would allow him to stay and was doing everything to keep her on-side. He thought that if Thora felt she could rely on help from Sarah and me, she would send him away. There was no way I was going to put that in jeopardy, so we had to stay away.
She sat at her desk and I slouched on her bed, itching to tell her about my dates with Frankie, although my cheeks burnt with embarrassment at sharing these intimate details.
‘I wrote you a coded letter,’ she said and passed me a piece of paper.
‘We’ve grown out of doing those. You’re sixteen. It’s childish.’
‘Have we? Since when? ’She snatched the paper from me, screwed it up and dropped it on the floor. ‘You don’t want me now you have that Frankie.’
Her slouched shoulders seemed to reinforce that we were growing apart. I had a boyfriend and was making decisions about whether I should let him touch my breasts. She was where I’d left her before I met him.
‘Shall I tell yo
u about my dates with Frankie?’
She sat next to me on the bed. ‘Not interested. He’s ugly and too old for you.’
‘Don’t be like that. He’s really lovely when you get to know him. You’ll get a boyfriend soon. It can happen in an instant.’
‘Oh, tell me then. But not too much detail.’ She collapsed in giggles, and normally her sniggers would make me laugh and I’d join her, but I couldn’t.
‘We’ve been to loads of pubs. Luckily Sadie Fisher wasn’t in the Cleave Inn when we went – that would be embarrassing, getting thrown out like a child. We drive around –’
‘Does he let you drive? You like to drive.’
‘No, but I’m working on him. I tell him that if he wants to drink more than two pints, I’ll drive. But he drinks more than that and still won’t let me.’
‘You should make him.’
‘He’s not one of my brothers.’
‘No, but. Do they like him?’
‘Don’t know. Don’t care.’
‘Bet he knows to take care of you. Matthew says if any boy treats me bad, he’ll beat them up.’
‘Yes, well, my brothers aren’t like Matthew.’ She was going to say something, but I cut in. ‘I mean, they don’t care as much.’
‘Has he got brothers?’
‘No, he’s an only child and goes to private school. He’s pretty rich. He’s got a cleaning lady for his student digs.’
‘A cleaning lady?’ She sat up. ‘Amazing.’
‘He says his mum doesn’t know how to clean.’
‘Really?’
‘And he plays piano and guitar. He’s taking Music at university, though he’s going to jack it in. He could be moving here if Thora lets him.’
‘Oh.’ Sarah got up and went to her desk.
‘He’s a bit of a joker. Always teasing me, and if I react he says I’m “too cute for words” and “a challenge”. Anyway, thanks for doing my nail varnish, Sarah. Frankie thought it was great.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes. He said he’d never seen nails like it.’
Sarah smiled and asked, ‘Are you coming to Alice’s party with me?’
‘Not sure. Depends on Frankie.’
‘Tell him you’re going. You’re my best friend and we need to do stuff together.’ There was disappointment in her eyes, and I felt estranged from her
‘I … can’t … I have to see him every chance I get because if I don’t see him, he might dump me and get another girlfriend. And Thora could ask him to leave any day …’
‘I wish she would. I hope he buggers off tomorrow.’
‘Sarah! Your mum could hear!’
‘Don’t care. Don’t care anymore. Anyway, homework to do. You’d better go. I’m not the one in the A stream getting A’s.’
Before I could protest, she went to the bathroom leaving me to see myself out.
***
Back home I select one of the books of my dad’s that I’d claimed after his death. I tried to concentrate on reading, but the text swam in and out of focus. Thoughts whirled in my head about telling Sarah how Frankie looks at other girls all the time, about his incessant teasing; that he wasn’t interested in my three brothers, or my driving, or the fact I could change a tyre and strip an engine.
Sarah needed to know that I felt stupid stumbling around in heels and wearing make-up that gave me spots, so that she could help me.
And how he smelt of musk and woodland and the fresh smell of spring water trickling through peat-lined streams ...
That he lied to us about his age because he was twenty.
That the hair at the back of his head flowed down past his collar, a golden mane like ripples of sand etched on the beach by the receding tide.
That he had a leather tie around his wrist with the word ‘peace’ etched into it.
That he wasn’t afraid of my mum, and was going to convince her that we were good together.
And how he rested his hand on my thigh as though it was natural, and kissed me with so much passion that I couldn’t breathe, or think, or remember who I was.
And how I was going to die, if he returned to London.
I threw the book at the wall. Sarah couldn’t help me. No one could. It had always been my dad’s dream that I’d go to university. Mum had always shrugged and said ‘we’ll see’. As I ran my fingers over dad’s wonderful books the way that he had, I longed for him to come back and guide me. But my dad’s dream of me making something of my life crumbled in the pull of Frankie’s magnetism. Frankie was winning because Frankie was with me. He was the man in my life now.
Chapter 11
Saturday, 25 April 1970
Frankie’s bedroom was at the back of the house. He’d been at Thora’s since Easter. His clothes filled the wardrobe and his shoes lined the wall. He’d brought his record player and records down from London. His aftershave sat on the dressing table, along with his car keys, lighter and a cigarette packet.
Listening to records was our excuse to go to his bedroom. Thora didn’t like it but relented, treating me more like an adult than my mum did. Besides, she was ill and didn’t have the strength to argue. Her visits to the hospital left her drained, and for some reason she’d started wearing a wig.
Frankie selected a record and put it on the turntable. He never asked what I’d like. His bedroom was three times the size of mine. An art deco theme ran throughout the house. A mirror with square bevelled edges sat on an oak dressing table that also had squared edges. The headboard matched the rest of the furniture. (This room is the same even now.) The room was feminine because Thora’s mother was an interior designer. Interior design was a career I’d not heard of, and, after quizzing, Thora promised to investigate which exams were needed as interior design was my new career aim. This house inspired and delighted me, as it still does.
Frankie’s hair was tied back, damp from washing. I was allowed to see him ‘look like a girl’. He shuffled through his records, and I imagined the flow of his hair when he removed the band. He was an absolute dream.
It was hot in there in the April sunshine. He turned and smiled and said, ‘Sit down then.’
As I sat on the chair in front of the dressing table, I said, ‘Don’t shut the door.’
He let out a long sigh. ‘You’re a spoilsport.’ Then he threw himself onto the bed as music played quietly.
‘Thora’s downstairs. I don’t like the door being closed.’
‘She won’t mind; she’s very open-minded.’ He put his hands over his face in mock dismay. ‘You worry too much.’
‘I’m not worrying too much. I don’t like it.’
This room was nothing like Schmidt’s bedroom, and Frankie was the absolute opposite of Schmidt, yet that same queasiness stirred in my stomach. Men only want sex. But surely women liked sex as well?
‘No one gives a monkey’s what we do. We don’t have to tell anyone.’
‘I hope not. Have you told your parents about us yet? Your friends, anyone?’
‘No, not yet.’ He shifted to sit up.
‘So your mum and dad don’t know about me? You didn’t tell them when you went home?’
‘No. I’ll tell them next time they phone.’
‘Every one of my family and friends knows.’
He shrugged in casual dismissal, which grated. My dating a posh boy from London, who lives in the witch’s house on the hill, had fuelled the grapevine.
‘So, we’re not serious?’ I sat on the dressing-table stool.
‘Oh no, not that old chestnut. You are important to me. You know that. But I don’t tell them everything about my life. Never have.’ He lifted his arms, inviting me in. Who tells their parents everything anyway, I reasoned as I stayed put, wondering about chestnuts. His eyes clouded in dismay.
‘God, Carol, you think too much. Does your pretty little brain hurt?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That pretty little brain whirling around.’ He grinned, and his fingers patter
ed the top of his head.
‘Huh, how can it be pretty? It’s hidden in my skull.’ Maybe I was too standoffish. I went to him and flipped my hand across his shoulder, ‘And it’s not little.’
‘You’re exasperating, darling. Always starting rows over nothing.’
‘I’m not starting rows.’
He made a grab for my arm but missed as I stepped back. ‘You’re lovely when you’re angry.’
‘I’m not angry. Why would I be angry? After all, I have a pretty, and pretty big, brain.’
‘Come here and let me kiss you better. I’m sorry for saying your pretty brain was little.’ He pulled a sad face and wiped a pretend tear from his eye.
‘Frankie, I’m going to hit you in a minute!’
‘You won’t hit me when you know what I’ve found out.’ He looked away towards the window, his face solemn. I thought of Thora’s ill health and dreaded what he was going to say. ‘I’ve found out that my mother isn’t my mother.’
‘She’s not your mother?’ I leant forward to take his hand, but he shook me off.
‘No,’ He wriggled away towards the window. ‘Forget it. Forget I said anything. I shouldn’t have told you. I’m not allowed to tell anyone. You won’t say anything, will you? Promise me.’
‘Of course I promise you.’
He knelt next to me, taking my hand, and pulled me down to kneel beside him as he whispered, ‘It’s nice talking to you. These last months have been hard. I’m not allowed to talk to anyone in London. If it got out that my father had an affair, it could ruin him. Not that Mother will let that happen.’
‘She raised you even though you’re not hers?’
‘She can’t have children, and she wanted a child so …’
‘Are you saying that your real mother gave you away?’
He sobbed at my thoughtless words.
‘Do you know who your mother is?’
‘Yes. But I can’t tell you, or I’ll be disinherited, damned to hell, or whatever. Would never have found out but I needed a passport. They hadn’t thought about that.’ He pulled away and plucked at his leather bracelet. I pulled him back, and he cried on my shoulder. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone. Promise me you won’t say a word. Mother and Father don’t care about me. They only care about their “position” and their friends.’
Killing The Girl Page 5
