by Rosy Thorton
At breakfast today she had uttered scarcely a word beyond the necessary minimum for passing milk and marmalade. Even the winter’s first fine covering of snow, which last year would have seen her galloping through her Weetabix and toast to get to her wellingtons and the glistening outside world, had raised no more than a flat ‘uh-huh’.
‘Aren’t you taking your wellies?’ Laura had asked when they were getting their things together. ‘In case you want to go outside in it at break?’ Play outside, she’d almost said.
A grunt indicated the negative.
‘Don’t people make snowmen any more?’
Grunt.
‘We even made them at university,’ she persisted, even while knowing she should let it drop.
Beth stuck her hands in her pockets. ‘Nobody has wellies.’
On the way to the car, she had not so much as run a glove along a windowsill to gather together a snowball.
At nine the skies over Ninepins were a clear ice blue, but in Cambridge at ten Laura’s desk fell into shadow and she found herself peering from her office window at cloud the colour of wet sand. The first flakes showed at a quarter past and by twenty past the window was a swirling mass; the sky had paled again so that the falling snow appeared in negative, black on white.
With a wary eye to the roads, and in common with most of her colleagues, Laura set off early for home. The pavements in town were white over and pedestrians were stepping with care as afternoon brought down the freeze; the roads were clear, but nevertheless the traffic stood stationary for long spells before edging forward at a snail’s pace. She’d hoped to arrive at the school by ten past three and surprise Beth, who was still in protest about homework club. In fact, the gridlocked roads meant it was after half past four when she finally swung into the drive which led down to Elswell Village College.
As soon as she turned the corner she knew that things weren’t right. The school buildings, usually ablaze with light at this time of day, lay in semi-darkness, with just an isolated light over the entrance and one or two others off in offices or upstairs classrooms. The car park was almost empty. She didn’t bother to turn into it but pulled slowly along in front of the main doors. A whiteboard had been wheeled to just inside the double glass doors, blocking any entrance or exit. On it was printed in red dry marker three emphatic words. SCHOOL CLOSED 2PM.
It was immediately evident that Beth was not here. The glass-fronted reception area where Mrs Warhurst normally sat was shuttered fast; the windows of the homework room were unlit. It was unthinkable that Beth could have remained in the deserted school for the best part of three hours. There was only one answer. She must have gone home.
Two pm, thought Laura as she pulled back out into the drive: when the school rang the office, she’d already have been on her way to the car. At least it would have been daylight when Beth left. The journey would have been safe enough. There would have been none of the patches of metallic black that now glittered threateningly in the melted snow by the kerbsides, obliging her to keep her wheels carefully in the tramlines swept dry by earlier vehicles. The bus would have been full of other children; Ninepins Drove would have been an easy walk. She just hoped Beth would have had the sense to switch on the central heating, which they’d left on the timer, and to stay indoors in the warm.
Beyond the village boundary, the snow lay thicker. At the margin of her headlamp beams the verges loomed lumpily, the dried heads of hogweed and thistle distended out of recognition; her tyres made a different noise here, slushing through a layer of wet snow. From out of the blackness above, fresh flakes began to fall, speckling the windscreen. She hunched lower in her seat and switched on the wipers.
The snow was settling fast on the sides of the road. Laura slowed almost to a halt to take the turn towards Ninepins, feeling beneath her tyres the change from slick tarmac to a creaking coat of white. But the grip seemed sound, so with caution she accelerated to a steady crawl.
Prudence dictated that she leave her car by the gate and mount the dyke on foot. The silence was blanketing; the slow, soundless snow fell about her like a curtain from the world. There was almost no light – except from the snow, which seemed to give out a luminosity of its own, so that colour and orientation were distorted, and the earth was paler than the sky. The square bulk of the house appeared larger than usual, and very black; a curtained square of yellow showed at the sitting room window.
‘Hello, love,’ she called, as she let herself in the front door.
There was no reply. The hall and kitchen were in darkness. But at least it was warm; Beth had remembered the heating.
‘I went round by the school,’ she called from the hallway, picking up a scatter of bills and circulars. ‘I saw the notice. Why didn’t you call me?’ Illogical, perhaps, as there was nothing she could have done, stuck in snowbound traffic. ‘It would have been nice to know – ’
She broke off as she entered the sitting room and saw them. Beth lay stretched along the settee, her feet up on a pile of cushions at one end. Sprawled alongside her head-to-toe, with her feet on a matching pile at the other end was the girl: the tall, skinny one with the artificial, straight blonde hair. Rianna.
‘Oh. Er, hello there.’
Neither of them replied at once. Rianna looked up from under heavy lash extensions, the slide of the eyes just too slow for spontaneity. Beth started and made to struggle up, as if caught with her hand in the biscuit tin or (Laura banished the uncomfortable image) with a boy; then she subsided, resuming her attitude of uncharacteristic langour. ‘Hi,’ she said finally, addressing the cushions.
‘I really think you might have rung.’ Laura tried to sound brisk and keep out the complaining note. ‘Just to say you were OK.’
There was silence. The fake eyelashes narrowed disdainfully; Beth continued to scrutinise the cushions.
‘Well. Never mind. You’re nice and warm in here, anyway. It’s snowing again, outside. Coming down quite thick, and freezing, too, so it’s going to settle, for sure. There’s already a couple of inches. I shouldn’t be surprised if school is closed again in the morning.’ She winced to hear herself, the way the words tumbled out, the edge of desperation. ‘Did they say anything about it?’ she continued. ‘About tomorrow?’
The direct question at least produced a shrug from Beth and a mumbled ‘Not really’.
‘I suppose they don’t know yet, do they? I mean, it will depend on the weather overnight.’
With an effort, she gathered her wits. What was it Vince had told her? Have them round. Get to know them.
‘So, Rianna, are you staying for supper? You’re very welcome, if you’d like to. I can run you home afterwards. I shouldn’t like to think of you waiting for a bus in all this – besides, they might be late, or not running at all. But do stay and have something to eat with us first, won’t you? There are lamb chops in the fridge.’
At least it wasn’t kippers, she thought, and almost raised a smile. But Beth had sat up and was chewing her lip; Rianna, still horizontal, was smirking.
‘Actually, we had them earlier, Mum.’
‘Earlier?’ It was barely five o’clock.
‘We were starving. And Caitlin was here.’
‘Caitlin … ?’
‘She went home. She was meeting someone.’
Laura swallowed. Of course Beth was welcome to the food, she chided herself. It was cold, and kids got hungry in the cold. And she wanted Beth to feel she could bring her friends home, didn’t she?
‘What about Willow? Did she eat with you?’
‘She went off, soon as we got here. In the sitting room while we were in the kitchen, I think, then off upstairs.’
‘Oh, well, I’ll do some pasta later for Willow and me. Would you like a cup of tea, Rianna?’
Whether or not in response to this invitation, finally, unhurriedly, Rianna sat up.
‘I’ll get going, I think.’
‘But I’ll give you a lift? It’s perishing out there.’
‘S’all right. I’ll text my brother. He’s got the van.’
‘Well, if you’re sure …’ But Rianna was already thumbing buttons, holding the phone hip-high, barely glancing at the display. They’re just children; that’s what Vince had said. Absently, she retrieved the TV remote from the floor and began to right the disordered cushions. As she returned one to the armchair, her eye fell on a handful of blackened matchsticks lying on the side table. No cigarette butts, though, which was something. She swept the matches into her hand and closed her fingers.
‘Where’s Willow now?’ she asked Beth.
‘Dunno. In her room, I s’pose.’
Laura nodded, frowning. ‘Could you go up and ask her if she’s hungry, please?’
Beth turned to Rianna, but she gave a swift shake of the head. ‘Liam’s coming straight over. I’ll go out and meet him.’
‘Then let Beth walk with you, at least,’ said Laura. ‘And do take a torch. You can give it back to Beth at school. Have you got a hat? I’m sure we could lend – ’
Rianna, though, was heading for the hallway, with Beth following close behind. Laura let them go.
Alone in the kitchen, she dropped the matches in the bin. She hung up her daughter’s school fleece, extracting from one pocket the wet gloves, unballing them to lay out flat on the back of the Rayburn. She picked up the school bag which lay upside down on the floor, and opened it. On the top lay Beth’s uneaten packed lunch.
Willow lay on her bed and stared at her toes. She let her feet grow leaden and then her legs, heavy as stones, as heavy as if there were rocks piled on top of them, or cold, wet sand. Then she let the heaviness spread to her hips and back and the rest of her body, sinking deep into the duvet until, slowly, the weight in her stomach merged with the weight of her limbs. Then she could relax.
It was still difficult to distinguish between the two feelings: being full and being empty. Between this feeling now of the bulk of Laura’s pasta inside her and the other one, the aching heaviness of hunger. The stretch of one and the tug of the other – they were so hard to tell apart.
This was the way to make it go away, the emptiness: she had learned that when she was very small. Turn yourself into wood or stone and let the weight spread and take you over until the hunger drains away.
Not that she had to do it so very often – or not all the time. Sometimes not for months on end. There were times when her belly was the other way, crammed to bursting, when she could look down along the angular lines of herself and see it mounded there, tightening her T shirt. Her belly was full of amazing things, sometimes, like Ayodele’s curries, or something outlandish her mother had cooked, sweet and syrupy or stinging with spice. There were whole packs of trifle sponges, crusted with sugar, and cold cling peaches eaten from the tin. They ate silver balls meant for cake topping, swallowed by the handful; they shared peanut butter straight from the jar, taking turns with the spoon.
In foster homes you were fed, at least, with no stinting and at regular meal-times. It might be chips and junk, but it was never not there. But Ninepins was different. Here at Ninepins food seemed to have an extra, hidden meaning, some moral substance that was completely foreign to Willow. Laura acted as if fresh vegetables and proper home-cooked meals could solve every problem, could make things whole again when they were broken. But they couldn’t. Nothing could.
She wriggled her toes, releasing them from their weight of stone. She loosened her legs and arms and let her body feel again its own life and lightness. And there in her middle the solidity stayed: that solid, spreading warmth which meant being full.
Laura was wrong, though, just the same. Food was just food, and had no special magic. All it did was take away hunger. Feeding someone and loving them were not the same thing.
There were many telephone calls which Laura, in moments of private torment, had imagined receiving. This, however, wasn’t one of them. It came not from the hospital nor the police but from the school, and at ten past nine in the morning. She had scarcely had time to take off her coat and scarf and boot up her computer, and her mind was full of last night’s e-mails. It was a voice she did not recognise at first. Mrs Leighton, the deputy head.
‘Dr Blackwell.’ Nobody at the school, to her recollection, had ever used her proper title before. ‘We’d be grateful if you could come in, please.’ No apology, no noises of reassurance. A simple summons. Laura’s screen leapt out of focus; her stomach crawled.
Of course, she tried to say.
‘I have Mr Burdett here, with Beth. And Sergeant Peverill from the Cambridgeshire police.’
Police. Flashing blue lights filled her vision. But Beth was there with Mr Burdett. Beth was all right; it must be all right.
‘So, if you could make arrangements to come into school as soon as possible, Dr Blackwell …’
During the drive to Elswell she kept her mind carefully closed. She filled its surface with radio phone-in chatter and allowed in no other thought. Such journeys were supposed to be unending, but it seemed no time at all before she was checking in with Mrs Warhurst – whose face betrayed nothing – and walking the short distance to Mrs Leighton’s office.
‘Come in,’ she called promptly at Laura’s first knock.
The office was a small one and crowded by an oversized desk. Behind it, Mrs Leighton did not rise. In front of it, four upright, upholstered chairs were grouped, so close together that the knees of the three occupants were almost touching. Beth sat very still beside her form teacher, Mr Burdett, and didn’t look up. The police sergeant was a woman, and the only one of the four who smiled.
‘Dr Blackwood,’ began the deputy head. ‘Thank you for coming. Mr Critchley is not in school today, or he should have been dealing with this himself. In his absence, I hope you will understand, it has fallen to me. Do please take a seat.’
Dumbly, Laura sat down on the fourth chair. There was a smell of perspiration.
‘This is Sergeant Peverill, as I mentioned on the phone.’
Laura glanced at the police officer, who was no longer smiling.
‘I shall leave it to her to explain why we are here.’
As the sergeant began to speak, Laura looked not at her but at Beth. She appeared small and shrunken sitting next to Mr Burdett. There was mud on her shoes.
‘… received a call at around twenty to nine this morning from Mr French who runs the newsagent in the High Street here in Elswell …’
Must they have the heating on so high? How did Mrs Leighton work in this oppressive heat? Or maybe it was all the bodies in the room.
‘… shop has a policy of notifying the police of every instance of shoplifting.’
The immediate feeling was of detachment, almost of dislocation. It was as if she could both be here and yet at the same time also miles from here, when all this was in the past; it was as if she had absorbed and understood it all in a moment, and already put it behind her. I know, she could almost have said. I know it all; I’ve known all along. But then she saw Beth, the top of her bowed head, and the present rushed back up at her, putting her in a fury to deny the charge. She wanted to pull her daughter close and shout at them that they were wrong. Not Beth. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t; it’s not her, not my Beth.
‘… items of relatively low value,’ the policewoman was saying. She picked up a padded envelope and tipped its contents on to Mrs Leighton’s desk. Two KitKat Chunkies, a Dairy Milk and a small box of matches.
Not my Beth. Not unless … unless they …
‘Beth has admitted to taking the things. She told the truth straight away, and apologised to Mr French, and that has helped matters immensely. Her frankness and co-operation in this respect is greatly in her favour. Mrs Leighton tells me that Beth has never been in any trouble at school for taking other people’s things, or for dishonesty.’
‘No.’ Laura’s throat wa
s so constricted that speaking pained her physically. But she had to; she had to speak, for Beth. ‘She’s never been in any trouble, not here, and not at primary school either. Believe me, this is completely out of character for her. She has always been completely trustworthy.’
Beth still wouldn’t look up at her, so she turned her eyes to Mr Burdett for support. He looked uncomfortable, but at least he was able to meet her gaze.
‘Yes. Er, quite. It’s true, I’ve never known Beth to be dishonest. In fact – ’ he cleared his throat ‘ – she is normally a very responsible girl, and a valued member of the class.’
‘Indeed,’ said Mrs Leighton. ‘There have been no problems at all. Until now.’
Laura thought of the choir and the cigarettes and offered silent thanks to Miss Chapman.
‘In these circumstances,’ said Sergeant Peverill, ‘with a first offence, and in view of Beth’s young age and her previous good record of behaviour, we shall be taking the incident no further.’
At this, for the first time, Beth’s head came up; Laura glimpsed her face, flushed scarlet, for just a moment before it was buried again.
‘This is not, therefore, an official police caution. Nothing will be formally recorded on any file. However, I hope that you understand the seriousness of what you have done, Beth, and that you can give us your assurance now that it won’t happen again.’
Beneath the crown of the bent head, Laura saw her daughter’s throat working, saw what it cost her to produce the words. ‘Y-yes. I mean, no. I promise.’
