The pot of hand cream on the windowsill is empty. I’m sure Dan uses my toiletries, although he always denies it. I head upstairs into the second bedroom, where I keep spare lotions. When we viewed the cottage we knew we’d ask Charlie to move in, and I still think of it as her bedroom even though she never got to see it.
I find the hand lotion and rub it into my smarting skin. The lavender scent calms me, reminding me of the small bags my grandma made me as a child, when nightmares prevailed every time I closed my eyes. She would pop lavender bags in my pyjama drawer as well as under my pillow; the scent would gently escort me to sleep and watch over me all night. It has been a long time since Grandma’s arthritic fingers could sew, but comfort still smells of lavender to me.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I reach for it with slippery fingers, wedge it between my shoulder and ear and wipe my hands on my apron.
‘Hi Dan. Did you win?’
‘Yeah, three-two. I scored in the last minute.’
‘You must be pleased? It’s been ages since you scored.’
‘Thanks for reminding me…’
‘I didn’t mean…’ I pause. Pretend we’re a normal couple and choose my words carefully. ‘It’s brilliant news. I’ll get some steak and wine to celebrate.’
‘We’re already in the bar celebrating. Come down.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You’ve got to start living again sometime. Why not tonight? Everyone’s here.’
Not everyone. I think of the box resting on the table, part of Charlie – how can I go out and leave her? ‘I’ve got things to do.’
‘Fine.’ I can almost hear the rejection in his voice, and for a split second I wish I was at the club with him, sipping warm cider and laughing at jokes far too rude to repeat. ‘Don’t wait up.’
He cuts me off before I can reply that I won’t wait up. I never do.
The evening stretches before me, long and quiet, and although I haven’t yet eaten, I don’t feel hungry. In the kitchen, I open a bottle of wine. It isn’t like I can have a cup of tea, I justify to myself. I always feel a little strange drinking alone.
It’s dull in the lounge and I switch on the table lamps, dimming the harsh overhead light. The apricot glow is warming, and I sit on the sofa, legs tucked under me, resting my hand on Mittens’ sleeping form. ‘It’s just you and me tonight,’ I tell her. Looking at the box, I know that isn’t true. Charlie is everywhere.
It doesn’t take long to drain my first glass of Chardonnay, the icy liquid settling amongst the butterflies thronging in my stomach. I’m halfway through my second glass before my trembling fingers can open the box. The sheet of sparkly purple wrapping paper lies on the top; the letter’s underneath, I remember. I place the pink envelope to my nose and inhale deeply, hoping for a scent of Charlie. It smells of damp and earth. The lump I’m endlessly swallowing rises again. How many more people will I lose? Sometimes, my jaw clenches when I hear Dan’s key in the lock and I steel myself for yet another argument, but the thought of being alone fills me with horror. Besides, what happened hasn’t broken us, so surely it’s made us stronger?
My fingers curl around my mobile. I search my recent calls list. Dan is number six. I press dial. Our photo flashes up, the one of us dressed as Superman and Wonder Woman at one of Lyn’s parties. She’s more of a friend than a boss, and the picture always makes me smile.
‘I just want to tell you I love you,’ I say.
‘I know.’ His voice is terse.
‘Please be careful tonight, don’t drink and drive.’
‘What? I can’t hear you properly?’
‘I said please be c—’
‘Grace, the signal’s really bad; you’re breaking up. Hang on, I’ll just…’
The phone cuts out. I press redial and a mechanical voice invites me to leave a message. Frustrated, I toss the phone onto the sofa and lean forward to unpack the box.
Myriads of memories flit across my mind as I thumb through a small photo album. There’s Charlie and me posing on the beach, proud in our first bikinis, displaying ironing-board chests; at the school disco, arms covered in silver glitter. There are some of Charlie, Dan and me laughing in the garden as we hose each other down on a scorching summer day, and one of Charlie smiling into the camera as Dan stares at her adoringly. There’s me, Charlie and Dan on our last day of term, laughing as we throw school ties we’d never again wear into the air. How free we felt. Another picture, a group one this time: me, Esmée, Charlie and Siobhan. Our little foursome. How close we were. Who’d have thought we’d turn on each other the way we did?
I remove the last photo from the plastic film. Charlie stands in my grandparents’ garden, white-blonde bob ruffled in the wind, wearing an orange tie-dye T-shirt and tiny white denim shorts. She’d got into so much trouble for taking those jeans from her mum’s drawer, then blunting Grandma’s hairdressing scissors by hacking the legs off.
I take down a photo of Dan and me from on top of the piano – we’re dangling the keys to the cottage and brandishing a bottle of champagne – and slip Charlie into the silver frame instead.
My mobile rings. I leap on it, hoping it’s Dan, but it’s an unknown number. My mind leaps to conclusions – Dan’s had an accident and it’s the hospital – and a film of sweat breaks out on my skin. I answer the call and there’s the sound of breathing.
‘Hello?’ I say. Then, louder, ‘Hello? Hello?’
But nobody speaks. Eventually, the dial tone whirrs against my ear. This is the third time it’s happened today and I switch my phone off.
A wave of tiredness washes over me. Alcohol and emotion collaborate, forcing my eyes shut; I rub them, trying to dispel the past. I take the photo and envelope with me to bed and prop them against my bedroom lamp. The photos have stirred up so many emotions, I’m afraid I’ll lose it completely if I open Charlie’s letter tonight. I pop a sleeping tablet out of its foil cocoon, place it on my tongue and swallow it down with tepid water. I slip into patchy sleep clouded by dreams of Charlie and my father.
‘It’s your fault, Grace,’ my dream dad says. ‘I’d still be here if it wasn’t for you.’
‘Open the envelope, Grace,’ Charlie whispers to my subconscious. ‘Don’t let me down.’
I wake in the morning to tangled bed sheets and a damp pillow. Dan hasn’t come home.
3
Then
Little by little, the world stopped spinning and I became conscious of Grandad rubbing my back in small circular motions, his hand warm and solid.
‘Breathe slowly, Grace,’ he urged, as I puffed out clouds of air like a steam train. I inhaled sharply and the ice-cold wind made me cough. Tears streamed down my frozen cheeks as I breathed in and out for the count of five, the way I’d been taught, until I felt calm enough to straighten up and release my grip on the iron railings. I’d clasped them so hard that specks of moss green paint were embedded in my gloves. I slapped my hands together, scattering the flecks onto the pavement, as I surveyed the monstrous construction in front of me.
‘Don’t make me go in there.’
‘I know the move’s been hard on you.’
That was an understatement. It wasn’t just the people I’d left behind, my sunflower yellow bedroom, or my school that I missed. It was the noises that make up a home. Waking each morning to the sound of crashing waves; the creak of the third stair whenever someone stepped on it; the screech of seagulls as I walked to school; the crunch of shingle underfoot as I ran across the beach on the way home, salt air filling my lungs.
I’d always loved visiting my grandparents in the school holidays. Watching the quaint Oxfordshire village grow year by year as red-bricked houses were tacked onto its outskirts, A second pub built, a coffee shop, a Co-op. ‘All the mod cons,’ Grandma said, but still, it didn’t feel like home. It didn’t sound like home. Never again would I huddle under my covers as the wind and rain declared war upon the cliffs, the flash of th
e lighthouse blinking through my curtains.
‘You’ll soon make friends,’ said Grandad, ever the optimist.
‘I won’t if they find out what I’ve done.’
‘Stop blaming yourself. No one will find out anything unless you tell them.’ Grandad straightened my hat. ‘You have to go to school, Gracie.’ He smiled, but it didn’t make his eyes crinkle around the edges like normal, and I nodded, guilty I’d made such a fuss. I’d turned nine now; I needed to act like it. If Grandma had been there I’d have been marched straight in.
‘Come on.’ He proffered a hand, age-spotted and wrinkled. ‘Let’s get you inside.’
I locked my fingers around his and we slid our way across the barren playground. I’d just finished reading Gulliver’s Travels and I felt like a Lilliputian as I stopped at the bottom of the concrete stairs and stared up at the huge red building. It seemed a million times larger than my old primary.
Grandad looked as though he might speak but he shook his head instead, gently tugging my hand until my reluctant feet followed him into the rainforest warmth of my new school.
Inside the entrance, an unsmiling receptionist sat behind a desk. ‘Greenfields Learning Community Welcomes You!’ was painted in daffodil yellow on the wall above her.
‘Grace Matthews.’ Grandad patted my shoulder. ‘It’s her first day.’
The receptionist gestured us to salmon-coloured chairs that could have once been red, and I sank gratefully into the softness. My feet dangled above the floor. I thunked my new plastic lunch box onto a wooden table etched with: ‘Miss Markham is fit’.
‘I wonder if Miss Markham is the PE teacher?’ mused Grandad.
I picked at stray bits of thread on my fraying seat as I looked around. No drawings or crafts adorned the scuffed walls. A forlorn Christmas tree stood in the corner, its branches almost bare, a too-short string of gaudy coloured lights twisted around its middle. I never wanted to celebrate Christmas again. A few weeks ago I’d felt like any other nine-year-old, and now I had my own counsellor, Paula. I hated the weekly therapy sessions, talking about my feelings – as if that could ever change anything. Now I wished I were in Paula’s office, with its walls so blue it made me feel like I was drowning. I wished I were anywhere but here.
The smell of citrus cleaning products was cloying and my stomach lurched as I was overcome with longing for my old school: the smell of plimsolls and poster paint; my old friends; hopscotch and kiss chase. I rested my head back and closed my eyes. It was eerily quiet. We’d been told not to come until after registration so I wouldn’t be quite so overwhelmed, but to me it felt worse. I’d have to join a lesson once it had started. I breathed in deeply, the way Paula had taught me, and tried to transport myself to a happy place. I imagined myself in my bedroom, my real bedroom, the one I’d probably never see again. My fists gradually unclenched and I must have drifted off because the click-clack of high heels roused me. For a second, I had actually believed everything was normal. I was back home and Mum was cooking supper for Dad.
‘Here’s Mrs Beeton,’ said Grandad. ‘She’s the one I saw when I registered you.’
‘Grace, it’s lovely to meet you.’ The headmistress stood before me, complete with a sympathetic smile. I’d been seeing a lot of those lately.
I stared silently at her, my lips straight and serious.
‘If you’d like to follow me, Mr Roberts? I have some paperwork. Grace, we won’t be long.’
They hunched over the reception desk, heads close together, and spoke in hushed tones, occasionally throwing worried glances my way.
‘I’ll see you later, Pet.’ Grandad’s voice was a little too loud as he waved goodbye a short time later, his smile a little too wide. His footsteps echoed loudly, marching to the drumming of my heart, as I watched him walk out the door.
I trotted after Mrs Beeton through a warren of identical corridors, slowing each time we passed a window, longing for a glimpse of Grandad, head bowed against the wind, gloveless hands thrust into corduroy pockets. My smart new Clarks shoes squeaked on the linoleum and I could already feel blisters forming on my heels.
‘Here we are.’ Mrs Beeton pushed open a classroom door. A sea of faces turned towards us and I’d never felt smaller than I did in that moment.
‘Grace, this is Miss Stiles.’
Miss Stiles pushed her glasses onto the bridge of her nose. She was wearing trousers and was younger than my last teacher, who’d always worn a dress. I prayed she wouldn’t ask me to introduce myself.
‘There’s a spare seat at the back, Grace.’
Heady with relief, I scampered towards the empty chair faster than I should have in my not-yet-broken-in shoes. I splayed my hands to cushion my fall the moment I felt myself slip. My lunch box clattered to the floor and I was sprawled next to it, wishing I could die.
I didn’t make eye contact with anyone as I tugged down my skirt to preserve what little dignity I had remaining, and scrambled around retrieving my lunch. My yoghurt spoon was missing, but I didn’t care. The lid of my new lunch box hung at an unnatural angle, one of the hinges broken, but I thrust everything back inside and cradled it to my chest. My ankle hurt as I stood and I bit back hot tears.
‘I think this is yours?’
A boy tilted his chair towards me, thrusting out a piece of paper.
I shook my head. Limped forwards.
‘Don’t forget how much we love you, Gracie.’
I froze, as the words that could only have been lovingly written by Grandad were mockingly read aloud.
I snatched the paper as the class sniggered.
The boy jabbed a finger at me. ‘Look, Ginger’s face is as red as her hair!’
‘That’s enough, Daniel Gibson.’ Thankful for Miss Stiles’s intervention, I hobbled to my seat, staring at the floor as if it could turn into the Yellow Brick Road, take me to see the Wizard. There’s no place like home.
It was two to a desk. I didn’t acknowledge my neighbour as she slid her textbook to the centre so I could share it. Hostility I could cope with, kindness would make me cry. I’d done enough of that lately.
I tried to calm myself by imagining I was on a beach, but that made me think of home, and I wanted to rest my forehead on the desk and howl with the injustice of it all. It seemed like hours before the bell rang for lunch.
Miss Stiles pushed her way to the back of the room as the class swarmed towards the door.
‘Charlotte,’ she said to the girl next to me, who was shoving things into a pink rucksack. ‘Can you please take Grace and show her where we eat?’
‘OK,’ said Charlotte.
‘Where are you from?’ Charlotte asked, as we weaved through a maze of corridors. She was tall. I had to half run to keep up with her. My ankle throbbed but I didn’t complain; I was grateful not to be alone. ‘How come you’re late starting?’
I’d been expecting this question, but the lies I’d been practising in front of my bedroom mirror seemed to stick in my throat. Charlotte stopped walking and I swallowed hard, thinking she was waiting for my answer, but then I realised we were there, at the canteen. The hall looked like a clip of the prison I’d seen on TV once: rows of plastic grey tables and orange chairs. Lunch had only just begun, but crisps and crusts were already scattered over the parquet floor. I was stung by a sharp longing for my old school, where we had eaten lunch in our classroom, swapping Club biscuits for Penguins, yoghurts for cake.
‘Well, this is the canteen. “Hardly the bleedin’ Ritz,” as Mum would say, but you know…’
I nodded, even though I had no idea what she was talking about.
Charlotte waved to two girls hunkered down in the corner. ‘That’s Esmée and Siobhan; I’ll introduce you later. I usually sit with them, but not today. C’mon.’
I scurried after Charlotte, straining forward to hear her.
‘You can come round my house if you like after school, yeah? I can do your hair and make-up. My
mum’s a singer and has loads of cool stuff. She’s hardly ever home so she won’t know.’
I couldn’t. Grandad was picking me up; besides, Grandma would have a fit if I came home wearing make-up.
‘Maybe,’ I said, not wanting to sound like a baby.
‘Let’s sit here.’ Charlotte plonked her things next to the boy who’d humiliated me in class. I hesitated, told myself it was better than sitting alone, but I felt my cheeks heat all the same.
‘Take a pew.’ Charlotte stared at me. Her bright green eyes reminded me of our old cat, Bessie, and something told me I could trust her.
My throat always felt like it was closing whenever I was anxious, but I sat and unpacked my lunch anyway. If I’d still had a spoon I might have managed to swallow some yoghurt. It was apricot, too: my favourite. I scowled at the boy, Daniel, then pierced my carton of apple juice with a straw and took small sips. Charlotte shook her bottle of banana milk.
‘Could you fetch me a straw?’ Charlotte flashed Daniel a brilliant smile.
‘Yeah.’ He flushed, scraped back his chair and swaggered across the hall in an I’m-too-cool-for-school kind of way.
‘Keep watch.’ Charlotte snatched Daniel’s half-eaten sandwich and removed the top slice of bread. She grabbed the ketchup bottle from the condiment holder and squirted tomato sauce on top of the strawberry jam, then reassembled the sandwich.
I stiffened as Daniel returned, picked up his lunch and took a large bite. He chewed once, twice, before spitting everything out and rubbing at his mouth with his sleeve.
‘Oh, look!’ Charlotte pointed at him. ‘His face is as red as his sandwich.’
‘Who did that?’ Daniel stood up, hands fisted by his sides.
‘I did. It serves you right for being so mean to Grace on her first day.’
‘You’re a bloody bitch, Charlotte Fisher.’ Daniel swept his lunch into his rucksack, glaring at me, and I flinched. ‘I’ll get you for this.’ He stormed towards the exit.
The Sister: A psychological thriller with a brilliant twist you won't see coming Page 2
