by Pat Spence
“No, it wasn’t,” she answered sharply. “So don’t waste it. Anyway, you don’t need potions and lotions just yet. You’re only seventeen. Make the most of your youthful skin while you can. You’ll be on the anti-ageing treadmill all too soon.”
“Not me, I’m going to stay young and beautiful for ever,” I told her, confidently.
She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Yes, we all thought that when we were in our teens.”
Granddad gave me a knowing wink over the top of his spectacles. Then with intense concentration, he carried on mopping up the yolk that spilled out of his egg. He was right, mine was rock solid and so I quickly peeled it and put the whole egg in my mouth at once.
“Emily, that’s disgusting,” said my mother.
I pointed at my watch and raised my eyebrows, momentarily unable to speak.
“Gotta go,” I managed to splutter, grabbing my school bag from under the breakfast table with one hand and taking the piece of buttered toast Gramps held out for me with the other.
“If you got your car sorted out, you wouldn’t need to set out so early on the bus,” I heard my mum calling out behind me, “and wipe that stuff off your eyes...”
I let myself out of the front door and walked past my old mini, fondly known as Martha, standing sadly on the driveway. Its failed MOT meant I couldn’t drive it and since I’d left my part time job at the local Garden Centre, I couldn’t afford the new tyres, exhaust, spark plugs and various other items it required. I set off at a brisk walk, eating my toast rapidly.
I glanced at my watch. 7.55am. I would just make the bus if I hurried. Further up the road I saw Seth, my next door neighbour, walking with Tash, who lived just down the hill. We all attended Hartsdown College.
Tash was my best friend in the whole world. We’d met at Tiny Tots when we were both three years old and had bonded instantly. Since that point onwards, we’d been inseparable, through infant school, juniors and senior school. We’d laughed and cried together, fallen out, made up and knew just about everything there was to know about each other. I shared my innermost secrets with Tash and trusted her like no one else.
Seth was literally the boy next door. Funny, annoying, bit of a smartass, just your average boy. I’d known him since I was five years old, when he moved in, and it seemed like he’d always been around. I suppose I’d always had a bit of a crush on him, but that was something I barely admitted to myself, let alone anyone else. Even Tash.
“Tash, Seth,” I called, “wait for me.”
They both turned and looked, shielding their eyes against the early morning sun.
“Hi, Em,” shouted Tash, her long red hair glinting vividly in the sunshine.
She reminded me of a Pre-Raphaelite painting, that one of Ophelia lying in the lake. Slim, pale and interesting, with big green eyes and hair to die for.
“Come on,” called Seth. “Run! The bus is coming.”
Seth, on the other hand, was olive-skinned and dark. Good looking, with a permanent ‘who-gives-a-damn’ slouch, lazy manner and unruly black hair that flopped over his face. He sometimes rode into college on a moped, but generally preferred the bus as it took less effort.
They both started walking quickly up the hill and I reached them just as they reached the bus stop.
“What’s happened to your eyes?” asked Tash, peering at me. “They look odd.”
“Nothing,” I replied, “it’s just this gel I put on. It’s supposed to refresh you but it obviously hasn’t.”
“You can say that again,” said Seth. “You look like you’ve gone ten rounds…”
“Just ignore him,” advised Tash. “If you want to tighten your skin up, I’ve got this amazing beer face-pack you can use. I’ll bring it in, if you like.”
“Yeah, and you’ll end up looking like this,” said Seth, pulling back the skin on his face with his fingers, so his eyes and mouth stretched widely, and staggering around. “Drunk and tight.”
“Stop it, Seth, that looks horrible.”
Within seconds the bus pulled up and we climbed inside along with the office workers, village school kids and other Hartsdown students. Seth, Tash and I went to the back of the bus and, unusually for us, got the rear seat. This prized place was usually taken by the Meriton Mob, a bunch of sixteen-year olds from the next village, but today the back of the bus was strangely empty.
“Where are the usual suspects?” I asked, sitting in the centre, with Tash and Seth either side of me.
“Geography field trip,” said Seth. “They’ve gone to the Blythe Sewage Works. Had to leave early.”
“Let’s hope we lose a few of them,” said Tash. “I can’t think of a better place for Sarah. Or Imogen.”
“Or Micky,” I added. “Mind you, you couldn’t really tell if he fell in. He already looks like the Creature from the Swamp. And his breath certainly smells like it. He’ll probably feel quite at home there.”
“Heard Micky had a bit of a thing for you,” said Seth, looking at me and grinning.
“Don’t even go there,” I warned. “He’s young, spotty and obnoxious. I’d rather wash out my mouth with hydrochloric acid than get anywhere near him!”
“That’s not what he says about you,” persisted Seth.
“Get lost, Seth.”
“Hey, have you heard the latest about Hartswell Hall?” asked Tash, changing the subject, as the bus passed the private road leading up to the village’s Victorian mansion, its imposing gate posts guarding its mysterious entrance like huge stone sentries.
The bus came to a halt at the stop just past the hall entrance and the school kids from the other end of the village clambered aboard. Seth, Tash and I peered through the side windows of the bus, trying to catch a glimpse of the old house, but it remained tantalisingly hidden behind a mass of overgrown vegetation.
“Go on, what’s the story?’ asked Seth.
There’d been a great deal of speculation about Hartswell Hall ever since it came on the market. First it was going to be a care home, then trendy apartments, there was even a rumour it was going to be an animal sanctuary. For years, an old man had lived there as a recluse, allowing the house to fall into disrepair and the grounds to grow wild. As kids, we used to think it was haunted and would dare each other to run up the driveway and look through its small panelled windows, thick with grime, into its crumbling interior. Then the old man had died, adding a further element of scariness to the stories. A midnight raid on the property by a gang of local daredevils ended in terror, when they swore they’d seen something moving on the first floor. They hadn’t stuck around long enough to find out what it was.
“I heard Dizzy Detroit wants to buy it,” said Tash conspiratorially. “You know he used to live in Birmingham? Well, apparently, he wants to come back to this area and is looking for an old place to do up.”
“Could be true, I suppose,” said Seth.
“But how do you know?” I asked.
“The man in the corner shop told my mum,” explained Tash. “He said the other day a long, black limousine with darkened windows drove up the High Street and into Hartswell Hall entrance. Someone told him they saw Dizzy Detroit get out.”
“Cool beanz,” said Seth. “Imagine having a rock star in the village. That’d shake things up a bit….”
“Just what this village needs, shaking up a bit,” I murmured, gazing back through the rear window, as the bus resumed its journey and the grounds of Hartswell Hall gradually disappeared from view.
Hartswell-on-the-Hill was a typical middle class village. True, it had history, as you could see from the High Street with its pretty black and white fronted cottages, quaint old pub and medieval stone church. But a combination of picture postcard appeal and a wide selection of large properties, dating from Victorian times to the present day, along with the addition of a new housing estate of luxury detached homes on the edge of the village, had given it an affluent, commuter-belt appeal.
Someone once told me there were more con
sultants per square inch in Hartswell-on-the-Hill than any other neighbouring village, due to its vicinity to a nearby major hospital, but I don’t know if that was true.
One thing was certain, to live in Hartswell you needed money, as its expanding population of doctors, lawyers, accountants, businessmen and other upwardly thrusting young professionals testified. There was the obligatory council estate at the other end of the village, where Tash lived, and a number of smaller houses in some of the less desirable roads, such as the one where Seth and I lived, but for the main part, the houses were large, expensive and afforded only by birthright, inheritance or a big salary. All of which meant one thing. Desirable as Hartswell-on-the-Hill was from a real estate point of view, it was a fairly boring place to live. Especially if you were young. An infrequent bus service into the neighbouring town meant you were back in the village by 10pm on a weekday, and 10.30pm on a Saturday night, which was hardly conducive to partying. For a few months, until it gave up the ghost, my old mini had been our passport to freedom, but now we were beholden once more on the bus service or our parents, which was not an option we favoured.
The bus pulled up outside Hartsdown High, the local red brick senior state school, with its assortment of add-on Portakabin classrooms housing a growing population of fifteen hundred plus pupils, and the majority of passengers alighted. The campus also housed Hartsdown College, the post-16 educational facility, and it was to this more exclusive area that we headed.
We settled noisily into our tutor group, more interested in discussing the previous weekend than the forthcoming lessons, and very glad this was the last week before the Easter break. There was one piece of news to make these last few days a little more interesting. A new student was to join us, according to our tutor, Mrs Pritchard, and we waited expectantly while she took the register.
“She’s taking English Literature, Art, History and Philosophy,” said Mrs Pritchard, studying the file, “so any students enrolled on those courses, please help her to settle in.”
“Same as us, apart from Philosophy,” I said to Tash, who nodded back. We’d both attempted this mind-expanding subject, but after sitting through one tutorial had decided it was far too mind-boggling and altogether strange for our liking. Instead, Tash had opted for Geography and I’d chosen Business Studies, both solid, down-to-earth subjects you could get your head around.
By 9.10, the new girl had failed to show, and Seth, Tash and I went down to our first class, double English Literature, wondering when she would arrive. There was an unmistakable buzz of excitement in the air, based on a sense of expectation that something new was about to happen, and as hard as we tried to concentrate on Shakespeare’s use of language in Macbeth, it proved increasingly difficult to focus on Miss Widdicombe’s monotone voice. A general sense of disinterest settled over the class as we all tried and failed to follow the lesson.
“Where is she?” Tash mouthed to me, turning round from the row in front.
I shrugged my shoulders and started to mouth a reply when Miss Widdicombe zoomed in on me.
“Emily, would you like to explain the difference between Shakespeare’s use of an iambic pentameter and trochaic rhythm as found in Macbeth, and give an example of each?” she asked pointedly.
“Er, trochaic rhythm is, er, where Shakespeare, er…..” I floundered, and struggling to answer, looked down at my textbook for inspiration, my cheeks scarlet. I hated being picked on, especially when I didn’t know the answer.
“Yes?” asked Miss Widdicombe. “Can anybody help Emily with this?”
The whole class looked at her blankly and she tutted in irritation, about to launch into yet another diatribe on our lack of appreciation of the subtleties of the English language, when her attention was distracted by a knock on the door. It opened almost immediately, revealing Mrs Pritchard followed by the long awaited new student. Suddenly we were all interested.
“Sorry to interrupt,” said Mrs Pritchard quickly to Miss Widdicombe. “I have a new addition for you. Everyone, this is Violet de Lucis.”
The new girl stepped out from behind Mrs Pritchard and there was a sharp intake of breath on the part of the whole class, followed by a stunned silence as we gazed at the vision before us. I don’t think anyone knew quite what to say.
She was unbelievably beautiful. Her long blond burnished hair was straight out of a fairy story, tumbling gracefully over her shoulders. Her blue eyes were piercing and large, her nose small and elegant, and her lips pink and full. She wore a pale blue sweatshirt, faded skinny jeans and high-heeled black boots, and with her slim figure, looked more like a fashion model than a college student.
We stared at her and she stared back without smiling, her look neither hostile nor unfriendly, but simply sizing us up, selectively examining each one carefully.
Then two things happened simultaneously. Somebody wolf-whistled from the back of the classroom, breaking the tension and causing everyone to giggle, and at the same time her eyes met mine and I felt as if I’d been pierced with a laser beam. I’m not kidding, I felt like she was looking inside my head and turning me inside out. I stared back, locked into her gaze, feeling something I can only describe as a magnetic pull linking us together.
For an instant, time stood still, the classroom faded away and there was only her and me, staring at each other. Then she smiled a dazzling, friendly smile and the moment was gone. The classroom came back into focus and I took a deep breath, feeling exhausted and energized at the same time. I looked around, expecting everyone to be watching me, but no one appeared to have noticed.
“Violet, why don’t you sit next to Emily?” suggested Mrs Pritchard. “There’s an empty desk there.”
“Thank you,” said Violet, in a voice as clear as crystal, and came to sit alongside me. She turned and smiled once again, although not with the previous intensity, and this time, I grinned back.
“We were just examining the difference between …’ began Miss Widdicombe.
“Shakespeare’s use of trochaic rhythm and iambic pentameters?” said Violet, smiling confidently. “I know. I heard as I came in.” She then proceeded to give a detailed explanation of each, backed up by examples from the play, and we all stared once again, mouths agog in disbelief.
“I was just about to say that,” Seth called out, and we all laughed.
The rest of the lesson passed in a haze, as we all gawped at Violet, quite unsure what to make of her knowledge, her composure or her dazzling beauty. Miss Widdicombe might just as well have been teaching us Chinese as English, for all the notice we took of her and when the bell came for the end of the lesson, she gathered her books with an exasperated sigh and swept out of the room muttering something about the end of term not coming soon enough.
I turned to Violet. “It’s break time, do you want to go to the café for a hot chocolate?”
“That would be nice,” she started to say, before she was literally mobbed by the rest of the class, all asking questions at the same time.
“Where do you come from?” “Where are you living?” “Where do you get your skinny jeans from?” “What are you doing tonight?” The questions came thick and fast and Violet looked at me, shrugging her shoulders. She held up her hands for silence and, miraculously, everyone stopped talking.
“My family has come to live here from Egypt,” she said in her crystal clear voice. “We had to leave with all the trouble that’s going on. It was getting too dangerous to stay. We’re going to be living in Hartswell-on-the-Hill, at Hartswell Hall, which we’re turning into a luxury hotel. There’s me, my mum and dad, and my older brother Theo, who will also be coming to college. He’s already done A-levels, but he wants to do a refresher course.”
Thirteen female minds did the same equation at exactly the same time. She had an older brother. Coming to college. If he was anywhere half as gorgeous as his sister, he was going to be an absolute heartthrob.
“Now, if you don’t mind, Emily and I are going to get a drink,” she said,
and linking arms with me, literally pulled me towards the door. “Sorry,” she muttered under her breath, “I simply can’t stand all the attention, it really freaks me out. Now which way do we go?”
I guided her down the stairs as if in a dream, realising too late that I’d left Tash behind. Never mind, I’d see her at lunchtime. We could talk later.
For the next twenty minutes, Violet and I sat in the café, sipping hot chocolate, talking and swapping stories. She exuded a natural warmth and radiance, and I felt totally at ease in her presence. As our body chemistries meshed, I felt re-energised and refreshed, glowing in her reflected glory, and I remember thinking that she was a better tonic than any pills or potions.
I told her about life in Hartswell-on-the-Hill, which didn’t take long, about my family and friends, and about Hartsdown College. She told me of her life in Egypt, of the heat and the dust, the markets and bazaars, the colours and the spices, and the fabulous house that her family owned, with its outdoor pool, many rooms and servants.
“Servants,” I repeated. “I can’t imagine what it must be like to have servants waiting on you.”
“Oh, you get used to it,” Violet answered glibly. “Every house has them over there.”
“Did you go to school?” I asked.
“No,” she answered, “there was a school for foreigners, until it closed down. Then my mother arranged home schooling for us. It was okay, just a bit boring with only Theo for company. ”
“What’s Theo like?” I ventured to ask.
“Well, he looks like me, said Violet. “Blond hair, blue eyes, although taller. Put it this way, he never has a problem attracting women. Not that he’ll be interested in the girls here. It’ll take a very special girl to catch Theo’s eye.”
My interest was aroused immediately, although I doubted very much he’d notice me. For a start, he was two years older and I guessed a lot more sophisticated. He was obviously very handsome and while I was passably pretty, I could never be described as beautiful, certainly not in Violet’s league. Nonetheless, I was intrigued and couldn’t wait to meet him or, as was more likely, admire him from afar.
