by Harriet Tyce
“She should be winning the scholarship. You know she’s earned it. And I don’t trust anyone but myself,” Julia says. “What score did her daughter get?”
Mrs. Grayson looks at me. I shrug. She goes through the papers on her desk and looks up. “Eighty-two percent. The first maths paper. It’s a very good score. Both of them are.”
By now Julia is bright red. “This. This is what I mean. It’s outrageous. It’s going to be unbelievably unsettling for Daisy to have someone challenging her in this way. How am I going to calm her down now?”
I’m trying to show no expression on my face, but I’m aghast at the performance that Julia is giving. I look over at Mrs. Grayson and for a moment our eyes meet. For the first time since I’ve had anything to do with the school, I feel in perfect accord with one of its players. Then she looks away and the sense of agreement between us fades.
“Mrs. Burnet, I understand that you’re anxious about these test results, but I can assure you that you don’t need to be concerned. Daisy is performing very well indeed. She just needs to be left to get on with it. We really do know what we’re doing, you know.”
“Looking at that result, I doubt it very much,” Julia says, pushing herself up to her feet. “I am extremely unhappy about the situation. The school had no right to introduce any new pupils so late into the process, and I will hold you entirely responsible if she doesn’t go through with flying colors. She should be first in line for the scholarship. And if this, this interloper takes it from her, you can expect to hear from my solicitor.”
“We haven’t applied for any scholarship,” I interrupt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t apply,” Julia says with fury. “It goes to the girl at the top of the class. Daisy’s rightful place.”
Mrs. Grayson raises an eyebrow. “I would seriously recommend that you calm down and stop shouting in this way.”
Julia actually snorts at this comment. She tosses her head and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind her. But a split second later, she charges back into the room.
“I’m going to make sure she’s a social pariah for the rest of her time here.” She glares straight at me. “No one is going to give you the time of day by the time I’ve finished with you. They won’t even know you exist.” She swirls around to face the headmistress. “And you—you should be ashamed of yourself, too, letting this girl join so late. Ruining everything. I don’t know how you can live with yourself.”
“That’s quite enough, Mrs. Burnet. You’re taking this too far now. I must insist that you calm down,” Mrs. Grayson says.
Julia snorts and turns on her heel, flouncing out of the room for a second time, the door again closing with a loud bang.
Mrs. Grayson looks down at her hands for a moment, then up at me.
“I hope that Robin is starting to settle in well,” she says, “and that she won’t let this unfortunate business upset her. We are not going to let her feel isolated at any stage, I can assure you.”
“Does someone coming in late spoil everything for the rest of the class?”
There’s a very long pause. “Mrs. Burnet has an unfortunate turn of phrase on occasion,” she says. “It really doesn’t. It’s fine for children to join us at any stage—the class is completely adaptable. And, of course, you’re an old girl too. We always like to continue family associations in this way.”
I force a smile. “It doesn’t feel like my old school, I have to say. It’s changed a lot.”
“For the better, I hope,” Mrs. Grayson says.
Just then, there’s a knock at the door and the receptionist sticks her head round. The headmistress nods at her, turns to me. “Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to get on. Try not to worry about this too much. It’s just noise, you know,” she says, leaning forward with an earnest expression. “They don’t mean half of what they say. It’s heat of the moment. They get terribly worked up, and then it passes.”
“I haven’t seen anything like it before,” I say. I want to feel reassured, but I don’t. Other than Nicole, every time I’ve had anything to do with the other mothers, it’s been a disaster, and now Robin is even more out in the cold, as if things weren’t bad enough already.
“Should I be worrying about the senior school entrance exam?” I ask. “It all seems very stressful. I need Robin to be able to stay on here.”
Mrs. Grayson leans forward. “You have nothing to worry about at all. I can assure you of that. Robin’s marks speak for themselves—she will certainly be going through to the senior school.”
I nod, reassured in this, at least.
“If you have any problems, please don’t hesitate to let us know,” Mrs. Grayson says, “but I would advise keeping your head down for a bit, and it will all pass. It always does.”
She’s looking at a piece of paper in front of her as she speaks, and I know I’ve lost her attention. With a feeling of dread lying heavy in my gut, I leave the room.
Robin is sitting on her own in the waiting room. She looks tired but not overly tearstained. I go over and take her hand, pulling her up.
“You OK?”
“Can we go home now?”
“Yes. Let’s get out of here.”
We leave. The school is empty now, everyone else gone home already at the end of Friday afternoon. The feeling of dread starts to shift a little inside me. At least we can get out of here without any further interaction, have the whole weekend to ourselves.
I look at Robin. She is still in the uniform Nicole found for her. “I guess we’ll need to wash that kit and bring it back,” I say.
Robin shrugs. “At least it was better than spending the day in that sheet. I should have had my uniform with me in a bag,” she says.
“Oh, God, I am really sorry. I’ve made a complete mess of it all. I thought it might be a good costume. Today’s been a bit of a fail.”
“It has a bit,” Robin says. “I’m sorry, Mom, but please don’t have any more good ideas about owls.” She stops and takes hold of my arm again. “It was funny, though, in a way. Did you see Daisy’s face when the feathers exploded?”
“Robin…” I say, ready to lecture her about the potential severity of allergies, but Robin’s laughter is infectious, and Julia’s reaction was so ridiculous that I start laughing too. Together we walk out of the school gates, arm in arm, two days of peace stretching before us till the next Monday.
18
Saturday morning is calm. No school run. We do more work on the house together, clearing bags of junk out into the back garden, leaving shelves and surfaces clear at last from the clutter that’s built up over decades. Afterward, Robin gets on with her homework, and as she sits at the kitchen table, I wash the crockery she’s found piled in the back of the living-room dresser.
“This is pretty,” I say, holding a flowery bowl up to Robin, who smiles when she sees it. “I don’t know why your grandmother kept it squirreled away.”
“I like it,” Robin says. “It’s starting to feel like home. Though I wish Dad was here.”
I don’t have a reply to that. I keep washing up and Robin keeps working. We have pizza for lunch, and when we’ve finished, Robin goes upstairs before immediately coming down again.
“Can I have a look in your old bedroom?” she says. I jump, dropping one of the teacups into the sink with a splash.
“Why do you want to go up there? It’s going to be grim.”
“I want to see where you slept when you were my age,” Robin says. “And I want to see what toys there are.”
It’s unanswerable. Although I desperately want to say no, Robin’s words are still ringing in my ears. I wish Dad was here. I don’t want to disappoint her any more.
“I’m not sure there will be any toys still there. But OK. We can go up. Let me just finish this.”
I wash up the rest of the cups in the sink, moving slowly, putting it off. But try as I might, I can’t ignore Robin’s presence behind me, hoveri
ng with intent.
“OK,” I say again. “OK, let’s go.”
Robin runs up the stairs first. I’m behind, my steps slow. Again, it’s like I’ve gone back thirty years, running upstairs to hide after Lydia yelled at me again for not doing well enough at school. I arrive on the landing and gaze up at the second set of stairs. I last climbed them over ten years ago, the time Lydia told me to choose; having a baby, or her. It wasn’t a hard choice.
I had climbed to my room, packed the few possessions I’d brought with me for the short visit, and walked out of the front door without saying goodbye. I knew it was the last time I’d see my mother. I thought it would be the last time I’d set foot in the house. But here I am.
Robin’s at the top of the stairs now. I’m a flight behind, every part of me wanting to turn and walk away. But Robin’s opening the door. I hear the turn of the knob and the creak of the door as it opens, instantly recognizable, the familiar sound running deep into my core. I steel myself. But then, sounds I’m not expecting. A gasp, sobs. Robin flings herself headlong down the stairs, straight into me. I stumble backward, grabbing on to the banister with both hands.
“What on earth is the matter?”
“Your room, Mom. Your room…” Robin forces the words out before starting to cry in earnest. “It’s horrible.” She runs down to her own bedroom. I’m about to follow her but something draws me up the last stairs, remembering by instinct which creaking board to avoid. I stand on the threshold of the low doorway, liminal, caught between then and now, a hurt child—a scared adult. I look ahead.
It’s carnage. Dust lies over everything, thick layers of it. There are spiderwebs in the corners, dead flies speckled black across the floor. But that’s not what catches at my throat, chills my fingers as I close them into fists, arms rigid at my sides. Everything in the room has been destroyed. Every book, every piece of paper, every toy; all of it, all my childhood, has been torn into tiny shreds, ornaments smashed, clothes ripped.
On top of the pile, like a grim parody of the toys left at the sites of fatal accidents, there’s the head of my favorite old teddy bear, the torso lying separate, stuffing spilled out from its slashed guts. I wanted to take it that last time before I left the house for good, but I didn’t have room in my bag. I reach my hand out toward it, then pull it back, unwilling to touch anything in the pile.
The air is thick and musty, unaired for years, but heavier still is the sense of malice that overlies it all, palpable in the gloom. My mother standing behind me, her breath heavy on my neck. Thought you’d get away, did you? No chance.
The pile of destruction is a red scrawl on the manuscript of my past—the desk I worked at, the bed I lay on, the window I stared out of for hours. But the original is still there, underneath all of this, despite Lydia’s best efforts to score it all out. I decide then and there. I’ll clear the ruins of my childhood, shovel it all into bin bags, reclaim the space and start again.
My vision clears as I continue to assess the damage. My old doll’s house is over in the far corner of the room, still intact. Some warmth returns to my face, hope springing that perhaps there’s something to be salvaged. I go over, picking my way through the detritus on the floor, and kneel in front of it. I used to play with it all the time when I was small, arranging and rearranging the figures inside on their miniature furniture. A mother, a father, two children and a cat, the family structure I longed for so much.
I reach out and put my hand to the front of the doll’s house, ready to open the panel to reveal the rooms within. But the moment that I set my hand on it, the structure collapses. Inside, every tiny item of furniture has been smashed, and the heads ripped off the four human figures.
The malice is back, Lydia’s breath heavier still, a cold blast that’s now too strong to withstand. I bolt from the room.
Robin is tucked underneath her duvet reading a book. Or at least, pretending to read, holding the book in front of her face when I enter the room.
“That was horrible,” she says. “Why was it like that?”
“I don’t know. But your grandmother could get quite angry.” I’ve recovered myself a little now, though the chill of it still runs through my bones. I take hold of Robin’s hand, the warmth of it comforting.
“Why?”
“She wasn’t a very happy person.” I pick my words with care. “She wanted to be a barrister, you see, but she got married and had me instead. I don’t think she ever forgave me for it. She had to give up her career—that’s how it was. So she was really keen for me to be a barrister instead. She hoped I’d go all the way to becoming a QC and then a judge. Do it for her. But I met your dad and we decided to get married and then we had you and moved to the States, so being a barrister stopped happening.”
“What did she do?”
I take a deep breath. I can’t tell her the full truth, that her grandmother was so angry about Robin’s very existence that she cut me off when I said I was going through with the pregnancy.
“Well, when I said I was going to marry your dad, she made me choose. She said if I married him, I could never talk to her again.”
“Wow.”
“Yes, wow. So I guess she did that to my room sometime after that.”
Robin is looking distressed now, her face flushed. “I think it’s a horrible thing to do,” she bursts out, almost at a shout. “I think it’s really mean.”
“Yes, I suppose it is. Sometimes when people are unhappy, they do nasty things. They don’t mean them, but they get so emotional they can’t control it.”
“I don’t care,” Robin says. “I think it’s horrible.”
“It is,” I say. “You know, it’s not the first time she’s smashed something up of mine. There was a Russian doll, you know, those nesting dolls? My father had got it for me on a visit to Moscow when I was a baby. I loved that doll—one of the few things my father gave to me before he died. Anyway, I failed an exam. Just a normal test. And she took it and she smashed it into pieces in front of me, with a hammer…” My voice trails off as I remember the expression on Lydia’s face as she wielded the hammer, a combination of satisfaction and grim determination. Robin reaches forward and touches me on the knee, nothing but sympathy to be seen in her expression. “That’s when she told me to call her Lydia. She didn’t want me to call her Mummy any more.”
I hug Robin, the child solid in my arms. For a moment I inhale the warm familiar smell of her scalp, and the tightness in my chest subsides, warmth rising back in my cheeks as the blood returns. But only for a moment. Maybe it wasn’t when I got married that she smashed up the room. Maybe it was when she found out I had given birth to Robin, all her dreams for my future career then broken for good.
19
I call Zora.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t I tell you what?”
“What Lydia did.”
“What has she done?”
“My… my bedroom. It’s… it’s completely smashed up. I think it was Lydia.”
“Jesus. I’m sorry. I never looked up there. Do you want me to come over?”
We agree on lunch the following day. I decide to do some work for a bit, to distract myself, but it’s hard going; images from the destruction keep jumping up unbidden in my mind. Digging through Freya’s life is beginning to get under my skin, my hands grimy as I paw through her messages.
I don’t even understand the language properly, all the strange abbreviations and the failure to properly punctuate or use capital letters, emojis scattered across the pages like grapeshot on the screenshots of Facebook messages that comprise one of the files. There must be a key to teen speak, a way of understanding. I grit my teeth and get on with it.
As I delve deeper into the files, and my nerves calm, the sense that I’m being intrusive fades. I’m interested in nothing but the evidence. And after a while, I’ve broken the back of two more files; still nothing to tie Jeremy to the girl, still nothing to tie Freya to any ma
n or boy whatsoever. I yawn. I should pause now, make some dinner for Robin—I’ve done quite a bit, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to stop, but now I’ve started… I open a third file and start reading.
By half past seven my eyes are dry and itchy. Fifty thousand messages printed out onto over two thousand pages. Page after page, I skim down the text in front of me, words dancing one into the other. I’m about to give up for the evening, when my attention is well and truly caught. I’ve struck gold. Marking the section with Post-it notes, I take a careful note of the page, relief coursing through me. I might not know much about teenagers’ use of acronyms, but I do know when I’ve read an exchange that will go a long way to undermining Freya’s credibility.
I make a coffee and keep reading, time forgotten, until Robin comes down complaining of hunger, and I realize with a start that it’s nearly nine o’clock. I put together one of Robin’s favorites, pasta and pesto and peas, and we eat it in front of a rerun of Friends on Netflix, neither making much conversation, the tension of the day seeping away.
All through Sunday we both pretend that Monday isn’t going to come, don’t mention the shut door upstairs. We go out to the supermarket and buy food to cook a roast for Zora for lunch. I take special care over the meal, parboiling potatoes and making batter for Yorkshire puddings.
I wash and dry Robin’s uniform at the same time. When it’s done, I fold it up and take it in to her. She’s lying on her bed, looking at her phone. When she sees the clothes in my hands her face falls.
“I don’t want to go in tomorrow. I hate it.”
“It will get better. I promise.”
“You can’t promise that,” Robin says. “I know it’s not going to happen. It’s a horrible place and the people are horrible, too.”
“Just give it a bit more time, darling. It might improve,” I say, but I don’t expect her to believe it. I don’t believe it myself. Robin’s face is pale, sad, and a rush of anger surges through me.
