The Girl Who Wasn't There

by Karen McCombie

  “She had a terrible accident, and her neck was broken, like this,” says Natasha, miming a very dead person, tongue lolling.

  “Ah, but was it an accident?” Libby jumps in. “’Cause maybe—”

  “Maybe you ladies need to get to your first afternoon class!” a voice interrupts.

  Mrs Watson, standing unnoticed just behind some of the gathered girls, has a grin of amusement on her face, even if she’s trying to be stern.

  “But Mrs Watson, we were just telling Maisie about—”

  “I heard what you and Libby were telling Maisie about, Natasha, and you know that it’s just a silly story. So chop, chop … let’s move it out and beat the bell!”

  As Mrs Watson marches off, she gives me a wink over her shoulder. Luckily, it doesn’t seem as if she heard my part of the conversation or she might be dragging me to one side to tell me off for spoofing the other girls.

  But there’s no time to think about Victorian ghosts right now, even though that’s exactly what I want to do, of course. The end-of-lunch bell shrills deafeningly, so I copy everyone around me and screech back my chair, hauling my school bag up on my back.

  I go to follow Hannah and Patience, who are up ahead of me, chatting excitedly together, when a hand on my shoulder stops me where I am.

  Turning, I see a girl I’d vaguely spotted hovering at the edge of the circle of girls who’d gathered around me. She’s smiling shyly, like she wants to say something to me.

  “Hi – I’m Kat. Kat with a ‘K’,” she says.

  Kat with a ‘K’ is pretty, with all this tousled, fair hair just past her shoulders, held back with a silky navy scarf, tied in a cute, fat, slouchy bow at the top of her head. But she is wearing a bit too much make-up – her lashes are thick with mascara and her cheeks are pinked up with very obvious rosy-brown blusher. Won’t she get into trouble for that?

  “I’m Maisie,” I say stupidly, since she’ll know that already if she’s in my class. Then again, maybe she’s not, since I haven’t managed to imprint everyone’s faces in my head yet.

  “I’m not in your form class,” the girl answers my silent fret. “But I just wanted to come over and say…”

  Kat with a ‘K’ hesitates for a second, biting at her bottom lip, shiny with some shimmery sort of balm.

  “…well, you’re not kidding, are you?” she finally whispers. “You really did see a ghost, didn’t you?”

  As Kat’s inquisitive eyes twinkle hopefully, a thought occurs to me.

  “Have you seen it too?” I whisper back.

  “Nope,” she says, linking her arm into mine as the crowds of girls surge us forward. “But I’d love to find out her story!”

  As I feel the surprising closeness of her, another thought occurs to me.

  Could Kat with a “K” become a friend, perhaps?

  A friend I could go on a ghost-hunt with?

  I feel like giving a little skip, but I don’t want to frighten her off…

  It’s Wednesday lunchtime, and it seems that ghosts are yesterday’s news.

  Today, the girls from my class are huddling around the long dining table, discussing just how revolting today’s lunch is and whether or not it’s true that some sixth former I don’t know has been suspended for coming into school with a pierced lip this morning.

  “Well, I guess it’s better than having a piercing in your tongue!” says Libby, wincing.

  “Or one of those auricle piercings – that’s got to hurt!” says Natasha, pulling a face like she’s sucked a lemon.

  “What’s an auricle?” I ask, then feel my face flush, in case it’s somewhere rude.

  All the girls stare at me, then burst out laughing.

  “You thought it was somewhere rude, didn’t you?” Hannah guesses.

  Yes, OK, so they’re right, but I can’t stand being laughed at. I get that enough at home from Clem. And when they weren’t ignoring me at my last school, there was plenty of sniggering going on behind my back too.

  “I’m just going to tidy this away,” I tell them, ready to take my tray – and my red face – to the far side of the dining hall.

  “It’s in the muscle of your ear, Maisie!” Patience calls out.

  I keep walking, wishing she hadn’t shouted that out. Now everyone will be swivelling their heads around to stare at me. That happened a lot at my old school too…

  “Boo!”

  Kat suddenly appears in front of me, her head tilted, her fat, slouchy bow flopping to one side of her head.

  “Hello!” I say, perking up at the sight of her.

  I’ve been keeping a lookout for her since yesterday morning, since our rushed conversation in the dining hall. No sooner had we linked arms than a crush of Year 7s had run past us, forcing us apart, and she headed off to her class with a wave and a smile over bobbing heads.

  After school, I hovered in the playground, hoping to catch her, but hundreds of girls were pouring out of side doors, back doors, main doors, and she was lost amongst them.

  I hovered again this morning, saying shy hellos to my new classmates as they wandered by, but again, I didn’t see Kat in the crush of navy blazers.

  And at lunchtime just now, I spent all my time gazing around for her, while the girls in my class chattered endlessly about the bogging bolognese and the dodgy lip piercing. (Seems they’re already over the novelty of me, as well as the subject of ghosts.)

  I’d just got up a second ago to tidy my tray away, and here, at last, is Kat, blocking my way with a smile and a boo.

  “Want to come with me?” Kat asks, a mischievous little grin on her face.

  “Um, OK,” I reply, intrigued and excited.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Natasha and Libby – my minders for today – watch me wander away. From the blank expressions on their faces they don’t seem exactly bothered about where I might be going. The girl with the lip piercing beats me hands down when it comes to their interest levels. Actually, the disgustingness of the bolognese probably beats me too, in their eyes.

  “How’s it going with that lot?” Kat asks, throwing her thumb over her shoulder at the crew from 8E.

  “OK, I guess.”

  I give a non-committal shrug as I follow Kat out of the dining hall and across the playground, veering around gaggles of drifting, chatting girls.

  “You don’t look all that sure,” says Kat, throwing me a wry smile.

  “I guess it’s just weird when you’re new,” I say, unsure how I feel about my classmates, how they feel about me, how honest to be with Kat, since we’ve only just met.

  “Hey, it’s weird when you’ve been here for ever too,” she answers, her smile suddenly dipping behind a cloud of a frown.

  Oh. That frown seems familiar – the last few months I saw that exact same expression whenever I caught sight of my reflection in the mirrors in the Park View girls’ loos. Does Kat have friendship hassles too, I wonder?

  It seems too rude, too soon to come right out and ask, so I say something more vague.

  “So what’s your form class like?”

  “I don’t really hang out with any of them,” says Kat, stomping faster across the playground.

  Wow, I was right! Something’s happened, something broke … same as me and my old friends my old school. Wonder what it is? Whatever, maybe it’s all meant to be. Maybe it’s the reason we just clicked – that and the mystery of the face at the window…

  “Where exactly did you see her?” says Kat, changing the subject, same as I used to do when Dad asked if everything was OK when it absolutely wasn’t.

  “The ghost, you mean?” I whisper at Kat’s back, as I half-run to keep up with her.

  “Well, yeah!” Kat turns and laughs at me over her shoulder. “Who else?”

  I check that she’s not laughing at me – like Clem does, like pe
ople at my old school did, like the girls in my form class did just now.

  But her blue eyes are friendly and her smile is all warmth. And it’s great to see the frown gone.

  “It was that one,” I tell her, pointing up to the terrace above the front door, to the long window on the left.

  “I thought that’s the one you meant – let’s go!”

  And so we go: scooting through the main doors of the building, zipping up the swooping staircase, and breathlessly finding ourselves at an open door that leads into the huge art room.

  “What are we doing here?” I ask Kat nervously. The room is full of girls from all year groups, either bent over drawing or yakking with friends. Some kind of classical music drifts from a paint-splattered CD player in the corner, by a collection of half-decorated wonky pots.

  “It’s Art Club here on a Wednesday lunchtime. You just need to go and introduce yourself to the teacher.”

  Kat gives me a nudge, propelling me and my reluctant legs over towards a woman in jeans and a long once-white apron who’s got one arm deep in a chipped old sink, awkwardly, single-handedly washing brushes.

  “Um, hi – I’m Maisie, I’m new,” I manage to say.

  The teacher turns to me and smiles.

  “Welcome to Art Club, Maisie-who’s-new!” she jokes. “I’m Miss Carrera. As you’ll see, we’re very relaxed here.”

  I can tell they are. And I can see why a girl who maybe doesn’t fit in with her class might like hanging out in here.

  “Just help yourself to paper, pencils, paint … or grab an art book and flick through it for inspiration,” Miss Carrera carries on. “Or you could just sit around and daydream till inspiration comes to you!”

  I nod apologetically and back away, ’cause I’ve just spotted that she’s got a phone in her free hand, and that I’ve interrupted her conversation.

  Quickly glancing around, I see Kat over at the window. I mean, THE window. I snake my way between the tables, past the swaying junk sculpture, the heady scent of paints and chalks in my nose, and join her.

  “What was she doing?” asks Kat, her eyes wide now that she’s here, at the spot of my sighting.

  For a second, I think she’s asking about Miss Carrera and her awkward attempts at one-armed brush-washing, then realize she’s talking about my possible sighting of the ghost girl.

  “Till yesterday, I didn’t even know she was a she,” I say, thinking of the Victorian victim of something-or-other that my classmates are so sure about. “But she wasn’t doing anything really; just standing with her hand on the glass.”

  “Like this?” says Kat.

  She places a hand on the window and affects a sad, lonely expression. With the sudden swoosh of violins soundtracking from the battered CD player, ripples of shivers run up and down my arms.

  “And then she waved…” I say in hushed tones, the strangeness of that moment in my bedroom washing over me once again.

  Now Kat waves – but in the sort of mad, flappy way little kids do.

  She turns to me with a wide, giddy grin … and we both burst out laughing.

  It was just a small, silly gesture that she did with her hand – just one of those dumb, daft, nothing-y moments between friends that crack you up – but it’s like a dam’s burst inside me.

  It’s been so long since I’ve had a friend to share dumb, daft, nothing-y moments with.

  It’s been so long since I’ve burst out laughing over small, silly stuff.

  It feels so good to laugh till I cry that I don’t care if the whole of the Art Club are staring.

  And they are.

  Ha!

  *

  “You look divine, Daddy dearest!” says Clem, glancing up from the homework she has spread over the small kitchen table.

  “Well, I’ve had a shave and put a clean top on,” he laughs, smoothing down the slightly wrinkly front of his three-button Fred Perry shirt.

  “Do you want me to iron that for you?” I ask, wondering where the iron might be, since we’re still surrounded by mounds of boxes. If we had any pet goats they’d be having a ball right now, in clambering heaven.

  “Thanks, but I’m not that useless, Maisie!” says Dad, trying to smooth the creases out just a little more forcefully with his hands.

  He is a bit.

  I mean, he’s great at lots of stuff. He’s great at making food, helping with homework and handing out hugs. He’s great at fixing broken things, remembering PE kits and recording stuff on TV that he thinks we’ll like. He’s great at being cheerful, even those times when he’s probably not feeling cheerful inside.

  He’s just a bit useless at some of the domestic stuff, like ironing. When I was invited to Keira Murray’s eighth birthday party, Dad left the iron on the back of my party dress so long that it melted the lace. It felt like I had an empty crisp packet under the cardie I wore on top to hide the mess.

  He’s not very good with bills either. He gets them, puts them in a purposeful pile, then loses the pile under stuff just long enough to risk the phone/gas/electricity being cut off.

  He’s also useless at telling us very much about Donna.

  “So … is tonight the night?” Clem asks, her lazy cat’s-eye stare fixed on Dad.

  “Wh – what?” he stumbles, unsure what she means.

  “Can you please – finally – arrange a date for us and Donna to get together?” says Clem, affecting weariness, though I know she’s just as keen as I am to meet Dad’s girlfriend.

  “Maybe … well, maybe it’s still too soon, eh?” he blusters.

  “Six days is too soon, Dad. Six months is plenty,” I jump in to point out.

  “I know, I know – but let’s not rush into anything,” he says, agitatedly rubbing his head now.

  “He’s ashamed of us, Maisie,” Clem says matter-of-factly, and turns back to her work.

  “Hey, do you suppose he hasn’t told her he has children?” I suggest, trying to keep a straight face.

  Clem glances up at me as if she can see inside my head, sees the new lightness in there.

  “Enough, enough!” says Dad, backing away from the double-trouble teasing. “See you later, girls…”

  I follow him out, and watch as he goes down the path and through the iron gate in the tall railings.

  “Have fun!” I call out after him.

  Dad gives me a wave in reply, climbs into his car and slams the door shut.

  I go to close the front door, then change my mind and lean against the frame, idly gazing at our battered silver Vauxhall Astra.

  Dad knows and we know we’re just fooling around with him, I think to myself as I stand there, but it IS starting to get kind of silly, how little we actually know about Donna.

  In fact, here’s all we’ve found out so far…

  Dad met her through a dating site.

  In the early days, Dad misled us. All the times he asked Clem to look after me because he was “having a pint” with a new friend called “Don”? Well, he was actually in cafes, bars or at the cinema with Donna.

  Three months; that’s how long Dad had been seeing her before he decided he really, really liked her and should really, really tell us that she existed (and wasn’t a bloke called Don).

  He thought we might flip out at him when he made his announcement, and was completely surprised and blown away when Clem and me started shrieking and clapping our hands together like overexcited seals.

  She apparently has curly auburn hair, is very nice, and works in a doctor’s surgery as a medical receptionist.

  “Hey, don’t be late – you’ve got school tomorrow!” I joke at the last minute, but Dad doesn’t hear me – he’s in the car with the window up – and the radio on, I bet.

  Then – just before he drives off – he stops and rubs his face with both hands.

  That�
�s odd…

  “Clem?” I say, going back into the house.

  “Mmm?” she mumbles, sounding as uninterested as possible.

  “You know that thing Dad does? When he’s stressing?”

  What I’ve just said makes her look up straightaway.

  “What – the manic face-washing thing?” she asks.

  “Yeah. He was doing it just now, in the car. He didn’t know I was watching.”

  “Wonder what that’s all about?” says Clem, leaning back in her chair and tucking her dark hair behind her ears.

  “Can’t be his job – he loves it,” I reply. It’s only Wednesday and he’s already saying it’s the best job he’s ever had, with the staff and the students being so friendly.

  “And it’s not this dump,” says Clem, wafting a hand around to indicate the cottage, “since he finds the place ‘charming’ for some unknown reason.”

  “We were talking about meeting Donna just before he left…” I point out, wandering if it’s relevant.

  Clem now rattles the top of her pencil between her teeth, like it’ll help her think better.

  “He knows I wouldn’t be rude to her, right?” she finally says.

  Wow. Is that almost an admission of guilt from my sister? I wasn’t sure she was even aware how rude she is on a daily basis to me and Dad…

  “He knows,” I reassure her. “We wouldn’t be joking around with him if we felt weird about Donna, would we?”

  I suddenly realize how nice it feels to say “we”. There hasn’t been a lot of “we” about me and Clem for years, and I miss it. Our only “we” times happen when we join together to tease Dad about his love life.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Clem says with a nod. (Now that’s a phrase I don’t hear from her very often, or ever.)

  “Maybe he’s just a bit tired,” I suggest, pulling out a seat at the table and joining her, since it seems she’s not going to growl at me to get out of her space.

  “Or maybe things are rocky with him and Donna,” says Clem.