The Exclusives

by Rebecca Thornton

  1996

  When the morning gong goes I get dressed without showering. Mrs Kitts is waiting by the front door for us all to go to breakfast and I tell her I’ve got to go to the printer’s.

  ‘This early?’ She looks up at the clock in the hall.

  ‘Yes. The printer wanted me to have a run-through before they send back the copies.’ She believes me and I make it there in less than ten minutes. I’m knocking again and this time Pete answers. He opens the door wearing a pair of dark blue overalls and heavy black boots.

  ‘Josephine. I got your note. Tried to ring last night – a number for the main switchboard. About nine o’ clock I believe it was. No answer,’ says Pete. I smile and open my mouth, willing him to stop.

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘And then we rang again at about ten. No answer. Then the missus said I’d wake the whole school up if I tried any –’

  ‘Pete. Stop. Have you printed?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, miss. Of course we have. Delivery left. The van goes at six every morning. Thought you wanted early copies? Made an extra special effort to get them done quickly.’

  Oh God. ‘Thank you.’ I rub my face. ‘Where’s the van now?’

  ‘Hmmm. This time? Seven thirty. Should be nearby. You needing them urgently? I can ring and ask where they are? They’ve gone to do one delivery just before yours. Tesco. Leaflets. That’ll be a quick drop, though.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then your delivery, madam.’ He’s grinning at me, waiting for me to show my gratitude, which I can’t quite bring myself to do.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Great, young lady. I’ve billed the school and, in fact, Mrs Cape has already paid the outstanding. Very organised over there.’

  ‘Great. I’ve just got something to change in the magazine,’ I say. It’s unlike me to be so uncontrolled but I’m hoping Pete will help me out.

  ‘Change?’

  ‘I know.’ I force a laugh. ‘Silly. I just printed something I shouldn’t have done. I need to pull out each page.’

  ‘Each one? There’s a thousand copies, madam. Going straight to the school post room to be delivered to all the girls. Just as you requested, love.’

  No one has any way of getting into the post room apart from Mrs Cape, whose study leads directly into it. Mrs Cape, who is only part-time, so she might not even be there. If she is, though, I’ll have to tell her the truth. Tell her something needs to be taken out. It is my magazine, after all. I’m Editor.

  ‘OK, Pete. I’ve got to go now.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Sure. I’m just going to see if I can sort this out. Don’t say anything, will you? My mistake. Need to sort this out myself.’

  ‘Fine. I hope it’s OK, madam. You have my word.’ I wave goodbye to the receptionist who has just arrived. She’s looking at me eagerly, hoping I’ve come to bring some excitement to her day.

  ‘Just last minute things,’ I say to her. She grins at me, holding crossed fingers in mid-air. I run back to school, to Mrs Cape. She’s not there when I knock on her door. I wait for ten minutes and then run back to the school gates to see if the delivery van appears. It doesn’t and, when I finally get back to Mrs Cape’s study, she’s sitting, sipping at a cup of tea from a school mug. ‘Per Asperrimus ad Parnassum’, it says.

  ‘Josephine,’ she says. ‘All excited? They’ve arrived!’

  ‘They’re here?’

  ‘Yup! Arrived an hour ago. Said something about Tesco and how they were doing you a favour. You wanted them early? Delivery man said Pete would be chuffed. Something like that anyway.’

  ‘Oh, wow. Thank you, Mrs Cape. Now I need to take them out, one by one. You’re not going to believe this – it’s totally mad. But the Prime Minister has told me I need to delete something in his interview. Told me we couldn’t publish talk of his new manifesto. I promised I would take it out.’

  ‘Prime Minister?’

  ‘Yes. We got an exclusive with the PM. Didn’t you know? This is why this is so important. Got to do what he says.’

  ‘Oh. Oh dear.’ Mrs Cape is clutching at a white hanky. ‘Oh dear. My dear Josephine. That’s terrible. What can we do?’ She says. ‘They’ve already been taken by the postman to all the houses. They’ll all have their copies by now. It’s past House Meeting time. I know how you all look forward to it for weeks on end. As do the staff. In fact, I’ve got my copy just here!’ She waves her hand over to where she is sitting and indeed, just by her mug, is a copy of the magazine.

  ‘I haven’t started reading. Was waiting till I’d done Mrs Allen’s post. Even saved myself a biscuit.’ I walk over, pick up the magazine. It is beautiful. Thick, glossy paper with a picture of the PM on the front. The title font is in gold curlicue. ‘The Lens’, it says. And underneath:

  Exclusives!

  Prime Minister talks to Josephine Grey

  A look at the school 100 years ago

  We talk to AKA Letz, the latest teen boy-band sensation

  Guess who! We have the latest scandal from Greenwood Hall, right here!

  I can’t bring myself to open it. It sits, right there in my hands, for what seems like hours.

  ‘Josephine?’

  ‘Mrs Cape.’

  ‘Shall I ring around the house mistresses? We can tell the girls to rip out each page from their own copy?’

  ‘No. No, don’t do that. Don’t worry.’ I manage to place one foot in front of the other and end up in the Mann Library. There’s a little alcove with two green beanbags. I know everyone will still be getting dressed and making their way to breakfast, so I’ll get some quiet. I prop one of the beanbags up against the wall and sit down with the magazine. I don’t open it. I just stare at all the books around me, dazed. An hour later, I haven’t moved and it’s still in my hand. I’m wondering what to do. I walk to breakfast. Gauge everyone’s reaction.

  The dining hall is silent when I enter. Not one person is talking. Every single head is buried in a copy of The Lens and I cannot cope. I leave. Go straight to chapel. I’m doing a reading today, in place of Mrs Allen, who has gone down to London for a headmistresses’ conference. I sit at the front of the pulpit and force myself up straight. My badge is skewed so I unpin it, rubbing it clean. I put it back on and press it against my chest in an effort to stop the shrivelling near my breastbone. Freya will be coming to chapel in about ten minutes with all the other Prefects, ready to station themselves at the end of each aisle before the younger years file in. I will stand straight. Pretend nothing has happened. Pretend I don’t know anything. That I am not to blame for any of this. Verity. It’s all Verity. And I get ready to do this, when the Prefects arrive.

  They are all silent. White. Margot Jones is nudging Alice Montgomery as they walk in and looking in my direction. They catch me watching and snap their heads back down. White. They are all white. Stand straight. I must stand straight. An invisible force seems to be pulling me towards the ground, tucking my legs underneath me like a broken string puppet. I manage to steady myself on the wooden bench in front of me. All I can hear is the whisper of Freya’s name.

  ‘Where is she?’ Margot is asking.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Kate Millington replies. Not one person can look at me. Margot has the magazine stuffed up her jumper. I can see the gold writing and the little logo – a magnifying glass – sticking out near her collar. The rest of the school come in, silently looking at me. Burning stares that crush my ribcage. Surely the entire school can’t have guessed who it is that quickly, I think. I’d made it obvious, but not that obvious.

  ‘Girls, do sit down.’ My voice comes out louder than I expected.

  ‘As you all know, Mrs Allen is away today, so I’m taking over chapel.’ The girls sit. At this point, the Prefects are having to shush the younger years but, today, I can hear the echo of my voice from across the walls. I can hear Mrs Chambers’s breathing. That loud, crackly, open-mouthed breath. I nod to Mr Cavendish to start the hymn and everyone br
eaks into ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. I still cannot see Freya. And then I look to the back of the room and Verity is looking at me. Slowly moving her head up and down, as if to say: ‘I knew it.’ And then Scarlett Templeton’s copy of the magazine slides to the floor right in front of me.

  ‘All creatures great and small,’ everyone sings. All I can see are the words: ‘Freya’s Dirty Little Secret’. I have forgotten to edit out her name. I have forgotten. I had read over the piece so many times I had missed the most obvious thing about it.

  ‘All things wise and wonderful . . .’

  I had forgotten. I am Head Girl. God, how could I make such a stupid mistake?! No, stop it. Remember it is not my fault. Verity Greenslade – she took it to the printer’s. Her name is on it too. Oh God, Freya – I am so sorry. Freya, please, forgive me. I glance over, reading the upside down words.

  ‘Freya’s Dirty Little Secret’

  Female teacher and Upper-Sixth former’s Naked Romps!

  It’s not often you find yourself staring at a member of staff and a pupil getting hot and heavy in the san’s isolation room. The Upper-Sixth former and the married lady teacher were locked in an embrace that can only be described as ‘erotic’. The teacher apparently wanted to ‘See More’, but was told no. They were later overheard talking about their ‘relationship’. It has been ‘nearly eighteen months’, according to the breathless pupil, who shall remain nameless.

  Who would have thunk it!

  Can you Guess Who?

  As I’m reading, I can see how brash the whole thing is. How utterly despicable. This thing with Freya and Mrs Kitts can’t be that serious. Freya has never shown any inclination like that . . . I was just so desperate to get back at her I would have believed anything. But then Sally was so convinced . . .

  As one side of my brain is breaking down, the pragmatist with the voice of my father keeps telling me that it’s a good move. It must have been Mrs Kitts who Freya told all about that night. It can’t have been Verity, as she would have told everyone already. So if anything came out, no one would listen to them. This would mean I was in the clear. My future wouldn’t be compromised. Oxford, my career. All intact. As the two sides battle each other, I can’t stop the shaking in my legs. The realisation that, in spite of my excuses and my blaming Verity, I can never, ever look Freya in the eye again.

  I carry on singing, loudly. ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful.’ No Freya. Not even in the back. Mrs Kitts is nowhere to be seen either. I look at Verity again and she is belting out the final verse of the hymn, looking up at the ceiling and smiling. I do the reading, which takes all of two minutes. We normally have reflection and prayer time but, today, I finish chapel early and tell everyone to have a good day. The girls leave, still silent. Still white. A few backwards glances from the Sixth-Formers.

  Freya. What have I done?

  And the pain is all over me. My hair, my bones. Inside. Everywhere. I can feel my skin cracking with it, but still I keep going.

  ‘Right, girls, hurry up.’ I clap my hands outside chapel and shoo a bunch of girls into the school. I walk, fast, to our English lesson. A week until my Oxford interview. A week. How can I get through the next second?

  There is no one in the corridors, which is strange. Straight after chapel, everyone rushes to their lessons so loudly I can barely hear the school bell. The Science classroom door is ajar as I walk past and there’s a crowd of Lower Fives, huddled and whispering around a copy of the magazine. Helen Graham is all puffed up in her white science apron, standing next to the Bunsen burners. ‘A female teacher and Freya?’ she’s laughing and shouting, to no one in particular. ‘What the hell? Can you believe it? This has to be the gossip of the century.’ She catches my eye and shuts her mouth, shrinks back down. Whispers from the girls echo through my mind and it’s hard to know whether the voices are real or not. Whether they are all talking about me or if my mother’s illness is starting to take hold. I want to hold my hand over my ears and hide in a small corner where no one can reach me, but with all my effort I walk past and arrive at my English lesson. There are only two other girls in the room. Margot and Cressida.

  ‘Morning,’ I say. Neither of them reply. Just look straight down at their desks. Cressida is doodling and Margot is pretending to read. ‘Morning,’ I say, a little louder. Nothing. I sit down and take out my English file and my pencil case. Freya should be coming soon and I sit up, feeling a little sick and physically bracing myself for her reaction. What will she do to me? What I fully deserve. Mrs Bailey comes in – we all stand up.

  ‘Sit down, girls,’ she says, putting down her bags. ‘Right. I understand a lot has gone on this morning. I know you’ll all want to be discussing it. But please. You’ve got your interviews soon. Some of you as soon as next week. So we’ve got to concentrate. OK? Everyone here?’ No one answers but we all make a big show of turning round and counting the people in the room.

  ‘One, two, three . . . Ah, Freya. She’s not here.’ Mrs Bailey looks towards the door.

  ‘She won’t be coming. I’m sure,’ says Margot. ‘Let’s just start the lesson.’ At this point, I feel like running out the door. And then my whole body starts to feel totally weightless and I have the strangest impression that I’m completely drugged up – that familiar prickle in my scalp, my blood; that rush. That . . . that night. It’s all coming back to me in a tsunami of panic and pain.

  ‘Stop.’ I realise I’ve spoken out loud and Mrs Bailey looks up from her desk.

  ‘Sorry, Josephine? Are you alright? You’re sweating. Shall I open the window?’

  ‘Sure. That would be good. I’m fine. Thank you.’

  ‘OK. If you’re sure.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ The rest of the class goes by without incident and no one looks at me. I’m alright with that. I do not want to be looked at. We all leave when the bell goes and there’s still this strange, disassociated feeling about the school. Post-apocalyptic. Like nothing really exists anymore and . . . and . . . as I walk down the corridor, I can see Mrs Allen outside on the school grass. She is not meant to be here. She is meant to be at the Headmistresses’ Day today. What is she doing here? She is talking to a grey-haired lady, who I recognise as one of the governors. And then it hits me. This whole Freya business, her relationship with Mrs Kitts – she is probably going to be classed as a minor and, and . . . it is only then that I’m embraced by the full horror of what I’ve done.

  2014

  Father, against my wishes, comes to visit me. He asks if we can sit somewhere light and have a coffee. It’s a nice day so we walk outside to the garden.

  ‘You seem on edge?’ he says, as we find an empty bench.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Really? Well, if you were fine you wouldn’t be in here in the first place. But you seem particularly on edge today. Why do you keep looking behind you, as though someone’s going to attack you?’

  ‘Do I?’ I turn back to look at the hospital.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Sorry that you’re in here. I should have talked to you more about your mother. I’m truly sorry.’ He takes my hand and squeezes. My fingers all hot and rubbery between his.

  ‘It’s not just her,’ I reply. ‘It’s everything.’ I look out beyond the grounds of the centre. A child on a swing keeps coming into view. Up, down. Up, down.

  ‘Heard from Freya?’

  ‘Freya? Why would I have heard from her?’ I sound defensive and Father looks worried.

  ‘I don’t know. No reason. Just wondering. After the funeral and everything. Rollo said she was trying to get in touch with you. I told him no, that you wanted to be alone. Just as you asked.’

  ‘Great,’ I say, light-heartedly, to stop any tension.

  After that, we stick to talking about news, politics, what’s going on in his job, and then he comes out with it.

  ‘Josephine, I’m seeing someone.’ He clears his throat and looks at me. I don’t turn to look at him. My
initial thought is that it’s been a matter of weeks since Mother died. But the situation isn’t as clear-cut as that. I should be supportive, as he is being to me now. ‘Who?’ I sound weary.

  ‘Aren’t you angry?’

  ‘No.’ I’m actually not. I’m surprised by my feelings about it all but then, I figure, I don’t have the energy to be angry. I don’t even have the energy to be upset about her death, really. I mean not consciously so. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘She’s someone I work with.’

  ‘Oh. Were you seeing her before Mother died?’

  ‘Yes. Sort of. Your mother had been in and out of hospital so many times I just . . . we went for a few dinners. I needed someone.’

  The admission of neediness makes me feel curiously better. That my mother’s memory needn’t be so frightening to me because I wasn’t the only one who was fearful. Dr McKinnie’s reassurance that I’m not going mad like her has also made me see things differently. I try to recall any times I had with Mother that were happy but I can’t. Without warning I start to cry. Father sits next to me holding my hand.

  As we’re walking back, that girl appears again. Father walking tall, me totally emptied out.

  She walks up to us and stops. What does she want? And, as she comes closer, I can smell her and, once again, the memory becomes sharper and more vivid and I’m almost bowled over by the force of it and I’m one hundred per cent certain it is who I think it is.

  ‘Here, want me to take this to the bin?’ she asks, holding out her hand for my father’s cup.