by Jane Bailey
Coming home from the really big house one day, we found a rabbit in a hedgerow. It lay very still, its head smeared in blood. George said it was dead and became very interested in it, poking the belly with a stick. But I could see it was moving – a little tremble, that was all, but moving.
‘Stop it! It’s alive!’
‘S’not.’
‘It is! It’s shaking.’
We all looked carefully, and each of us saw a wobble, and then a distinct shudder. I picked it up and held it close to me. It was warm. Through the metallic whiff of blood it had a deep musky smell in its fur. The others were showing signs of disgust, but I walked home purposefully, hugging the soft creature against me. They all followed, eager to see what I might do, but advising against whatever I had in mind. ‘Best to put ’im out of ’iz misery, look,’ and ‘Head’s all mashed up – ee’ll ’ave no brain,’ ‘Best make a pie of ’im.’
I felt confident Gracie would support my plans for its revival, but when she saw me with the bloodied creature she threw up her hands in horror. She said if it lived it would be in great pain, and it would be kinder to kill it. She would not make a pie of any animal whose cause of death was uncertain, even if it did look like a failed trap to her. So we waited for Mr Mustoe to come home, and in that time I cried and cried, and watched the rabbit tremble and open one eye to look at me, terrified. I held it close and kissed it and they all saw I was mad as a donkey, and when Mr Mustoe came home he slaughtered it with a big stone on the head and I couldn’t look. Gracie said I should have left it to die, and so did Mr Mustoe. I didn’t know if they were right or not. I didn’t know whether it would have got better if I’d looked after it, or whether I would have just prolonged its misery. I still didn’t know at bedtime, and it bothered me. I wasn’t being sentimental. I had eaten rabbit lots of times, and with Nipper in the woods I had helped to mesmerize them. I don’t know how he killed them, for I never watched that part, but I knew it was quick, and with the animal’s permission.
Sometimes you just can’t know what the right thing is. And sometimes it can be the difference between a life or a death, or between a life lived in pain or peace at last. And I was troubled by that open eye. Did the rabbit see me as its rescuer or, in the split second as the stone came down on its skull, did it see me as a murderous traitor? But what really stopped me sleeping was this conundrum: at what point can you tell that an injured creature is unrescuable? How much pain can you put it through in order to let it live? How did Gracie and Mr Mustoe know? And if they didn’t know, did they have the right to guess?
18
It was the third week in August. Gracie had not mentioned the gentleman’s offer and neither had I. School would be starting again soon for us, and we were ready for it, in a troubled, excited way. It seemed right, just as nature was thinking of closing down for the year, dropping its fruits, waving its weary leaves and gathering the birds to chatter about leaving, that we should have the chance of new beginnings. The start of a school year, with a new upgraded status for each of us, was a compensation for the end of the summer. There would be no surprise at seeing each other again, for we had spent the long summer days playing in the quarry, building fires, baking potatoes, making potions, digging for treasure, swinging from trees and gates, exploring old sheds, exploring ourselves – our scuffed knees, our friendships, our hurts, our roles in each other’s lives. We had made dens, got married, divorced, died horrendous deaths, murdered, kissed and spied on each other. When we looked at each other across the rows of desks, it was just another role we were playing, just a change of scene.
But before that day arrived, I resolved to see Celia one last time. I had battled with my fears because Gracie had been so adamant about it all, and there was nothing that terrorized me more in the world than losing Gracie. This, I reasoned, could never really happen. Nothing could surely turn Gracie against me to such an extent that I would lose her. This was about some love affair she didn’t want uncovered. But I wasn’t planning on telling anyone. Her secret would be safe with me. And in any case, she need never find out. One last meeting with Celia, that was all. She had said there was something she had to tell me. It would have been wiser to wait a few weeks, to put Mo off the scent, but once school began I knew I would be easier to trace in the dull routine of the days.
I set off for Buckleigh House at around ten. We were building fires in the quarry to try and melt down old lead we had found. I said I needed a wee and hotfooted it back across the village and up the hill.
Celia wasn’t there, but climbing the wall in the secret place, I could see the car was gone. The garden was completely empty and still. I waited for about ten minutes, and then grew afraid Mo might come after me, so I climbed over. Cowering in the yew trees I waited another ten minutes, and then I saw a face come to an upstairs window. It looked directly at me. From where I was I couldn’t tell if it was Celia’s or someone else’s, and it disappeared almost straight away. I began to panic. If I was caught climbing the wall I would look like a burglar, and also Mo might even now be coming up the hill or wandering about on the other side. I started to run towards the sheds. No one would find me in the den, Celia had said so herself: no one ever went in there except her. I pushed the latch and dived towards the chest of old comics. There was no room in there for me, so I hid behind it as best I could, crouching in the musty corner, my nose in a pile of mildewed curtains that were rotten to the core.
Outside I heard footsteps thumping on the grass. The metal latch rattled as the door was slung open. I tried to stop my heavy breath, but it was impossible.
‘Joy! Is that you?’
I raised my head and closed my eyes in relief. ‘Celia!’
‘Gosh, that was brave! Wizard timing though! Mother has just gone out to town – but you knew that, you’ve worked that out by now, haven’t you?’
I sighed, my pulse still racing, and took in her peachy cheeks and the little dip in the centre of her lips. She was wearing a violet-coloured dress with a huge white collar.
‘You don’t mind, then?’
‘I should say not! We can’t really go inside though, Elsie is doing the rooms and Mrs Bubb is clucking around her.’
I was more than happy to stay with Celia in the shed, and we sat there exchanging bits of news like old friends. I loved to hear her speak, the easy way in which she put words together and made them sound so elegant, her bizarre phrases which belonged to the realm of posh people, the way she held her back so straight – even when sitting on a sack – and the cleanness of the little white curves across the tips of her nails.
‘How is your mother?’ I asked, hoping that she might get ill and die and then Gracie could marry Celia’s father and Celia and I could be sisters.
‘She’s quite well, thank you,’ said Celia. ‘Although she does loathe it here, and it plays on her nerves.’ She lowered her voice suddenly and touched my arm. ‘She has a lover in Monte Carlo!’
I said nothing, stunned by this announcement, and not quite sure what it meant for Mr Buckleigh.
‘Does Gracie have a lover?’
I was shocked. ‘No!’ As soon as I said it, it seemed to make Gracie somehow inadequate.
Celia was studying me, smiling with one half of her mouth. Then she sighed and said with renewed enthusiasm, ‘I can’t wait to have a lover, can you?’
Suddenly she lay down, put her wrists together and asked me to grip them. I did as I was told. They were remarkably solid for someone who seemed so elegant.
‘Tighter!’ she commanded.
I gripped tighter.
‘Harder!’
I gripped tighter still, afraid of hurting her.
‘Harder!’ she hissed. ‘Hurt me!’
Reluctantly, I tried to seem like I was gripping tighter, without actually hurting her. Her face was pink now, and she was panting, almost in exasperation.
‘Come on! Hurt me! Tell me you’ll have me one way or another!’
I felt ridiculous. It w
as far worse than being Buster because I didn’t know if I was supposed to be anybody, except myself. I mumbled the words to the floor, then she wriggled free and slapped me on the face.
I let out a muffled howl, which I instantly disguised as a cough. My cheek smarted so badly I could feel my eyes welling up and I furiously willed the tears away.
Celia was radiant.
‘That’s what they do at the pictures,’ she beamed. ‘I’ve always wanted to know what it was like.’
I hadn’t.
‘I hope I didn’t hurt you,’ she said.
I shook my head.
‘You hurt me quite a lot actually. But it was worth it!’ Then she sat back on her heels as if nothing had happened. ‘Mo’s very quiet, isn’t she?’
‘Well, she was a bit, when she was here … it was all a bit …’
‘Hmm! Tell me, what’s it like being poor?’ I couldn’t believe for a moment that she meant me. ‘You don’t mind me asking, do you?’
‘Well … Mo and me, we’re not what you’d call poor – we’re sort of … just medium.’
‘Oh, I know. I don’t mean you’re starving. I just mean what’s it like not being able to have lots of clothes – that kind of thing?’
‘Well … you don’t really notice it, like …’ I wasn’t sure whether I was irritated by her assumption that I was poor (if she wanted poor she should see the MacNallys or the Hoggards or the Crumptons) or whether I was flattered to be asked my opinion, in a position to teach her something. ‘It was lovely to have those dresses. But if we hadn’t’ve seen them, then we wouldn’t’ve never noticed not having them, sort of …’
‘Mo was clearly so thrilled with that cream dress, wasn’t she?’ She tossed her head back and smiled, and I noticed how white her skin was, all the way down, without a trace of suntan. I wondered when she was going to tell me her important piece of news, or if she had forgotten.
‘We’re very grateful – it was ever so kind of you, Celia – I loved my dress too – oh, it was so … oh …’
‘Please, don’t be such a goof! I told you, they’re all going out, anyway. And even this one (which is new, by the way – do you like it?), even this one will hardly be worn, what with school and everything.’
I studied the soft folds of the cotton as it draped over her knees. ‘Too nice to wear to school, I s’pose.’
And then Celia laughed. She laughed in a way I somehow knew she would. It was a laugh that was so nearly excusable, so nearly just a surprised laugh. But that little trace of – what was it? authority? contempt? – was still there.
‘School? Heavens, I have to wear a dreadful uniform with a horrid green tunic and a horrid green hat and stockings the colour of pea-soup.’
I felt foolish for not realizing that Celia did not attend a school anything like my own. I had seen children in uniforms when I went shopping in town with Gracie, and I had always hated the way they hung around in clusters, talking too loudly with pigtails too tightly woven and piping around their blazers. I had hated the way they never met your eyes, as if you weren’t there, as if the town belonged to them and the shops existed solely for them to buy buns and chocolates.
‘Still, you can always wear it at the weekends,’ I suggested.
She put her head on one side and considered me sympathetically. ‘I shan’t be coming home at weekends. I’m boarding. That’s what I was going to tell you.’
‘Boarding?’ I began to feel my heart quicken again. ‘Are you going away on a ship?’
‘No, silly. Sleeping in a dormitory. It’s supposed to be fun, but it sounds dreadful.’
‘A dormitory …’ I found myself breathing fast – panting, almost, in panic. ‘Does that mean you won’t be coming back?’
‘Not till Christmas.’ She looked me in the eye as she said it, as if testing its effect.
‘Christmas!’
‘Well … there’s half-term, of course. And exeats. I shall have two exeats but Mother might just come to me and we might stay in a hotel and shop or something. I’m not awfully sure yet.’
‘Oh, Celia!’ It was a jerky utterance, and she must’ve heard the emotion in my voice.
‘Oh, Joy! I’m going to miss you terribly!’
Then she got down on her knees, with no concern for the pretty frock, and put her arms around me. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I put my arms around her too, hoping she didn’t mind, hoping she wouldn’t slap me again. She smelt of posh soap, and felt as soft as Mrs Mustoe’s new baby. I was surprised to find that she was warm though, and that her neck, deep in the forest of her plait, smelt as oily and musky as a woodland animal.
We stayed clasped together for some time. My temples ached with the tears I held back. I felt I was breathing in something of what she was, and for some reason I wanted plenty of it. I didn’t realize it at the time, but she was doing the same to me.
* * *
We stayed in the shed and played shops for the next hour or so, but we were too old and too sophisticated just to buy comics. Instead we were lovers, buying clothes and luxury items for our honeymoon. It allowed us to call each other ‘darling’ and to dream up interesting purchases: orange-flavoured toothpaste, banana and fig marmalade, see-through dressing gowns, diamond-studded knickers. With a definite role I was on familiar territory. The shopkeeper was invisible, and we took it in turns to speak for him or her, but we used real wallets and purses, old ones which had belonged to Celia’s mother and father and which, like everything else old but in perfectly good condition, had been thrown out.
‘That’ll be one million five thousand pounds, please, sir,’ said Celia, in a very deep voice. ‘Cash, please.’
I opened my wallet and slid my fingers into its luxury soft pocket, but I had run out of the notes we had made from cut-up comics.
‘Hmm,’ said Celia, unruffled. ‘I’m afraid the gold-plated swimsuit will not be Sir’s, after all.’
‘Wait – I have something.’ I could feel some paper through the lining of the pocket, and eased my fingers into the slight tear in the taffeta. ‘I’ve got it!’ A little white corner emerged and I tugged gently. ‘I can pay!’
But as I drew out the rectangle of paper, my elation turned to curiosity, for it was not a piece of comic at all. It was a photograph. And it didn’t take me long to realize where I had seen the person in the photograph before. Celia leaned over and took it.
‘Gosh. Whoever’s that?’
‘It’s Gracie.’
It didn’t matter how hard Celia tried to convince me this must be Mr Rollins’ old wallet – and yes, she could remember it now, he had given her his old wallet – I knew people like Mr Rollins didn’t have wallets like these. I knew, and what made it worse was that I knew – from the way she flustered and flushed and panicked – that she had always known, and that the Mr Rollins idea had been a red herring, and that she had known right from the moment she selected me from the line-up in our ball game outside the wall. That was why I had been the chosen one.
My nose was very much put out of joint. I certainly didn’t consider murder as a revenge, but things have a way of getting out of hand.
First I had a few questions to ask Gracie.
19
Gracie wouldn’t tell me. She wouldn’t say if she’d ever been in love or whether there was something going on between Celia’s father and herself. Instead she gazed at the mantelpiece and told me a different story.
‘When I was a little girl my parents gave me a valuable and beautiful figurine: a shepherdess. They told me it had been my mother’s, and before that my mother’s mother’s, and so on, and that one day it would go on my own mantelpiece. Well, I suppose they weren’t wrong there. I suppose this amounts to my own mantelpiece now. But, you see, I had envisaged a change. I thought, all the while I was growing up, that one day that little shepherdess would stand smiling on a fresh mantelpiece, one that I dusted every day while my husband was out at work. That’s what they led me to believe, and that’s what I thought.’
The importance of handing it down to her own daughter was also emphasized. This was another thing that made her own, separate mantelpiece and the accompanying husband a certainty. ‘And if I was still in any doubt, there were the umpteen little trinkets, deemed of great value by my parents, which were to be “kept in the family”.’
A small bugle, for example, which was of no use to anyone, was feverishly guarded when a boy down the road wanted to learn the instrument; a second sewing machine – which was never used because the bobbin was broken – was considered a secret in case a neighbour borrowed it and never gave it back; a wooden tractor that could’ve made many a little boy happy over the years, was policed by her father in the spare room cupboard; a perfectly good wireless set, endless clocks and watches, mountains of unimaginative antimacassars crocheted by ancestors, chipped china, a set of pistols, moth-eaten cashmere rugs, her own used baby clothes that might once, long ago, have been of use to one of our poorer neighbours – all these, shielded from the world at large (clearly clamouring for this bounty) had to be kept in the family. Because one day it would come in handy for her own children.
‘But they didn’t stop there. They kept me in the family too, like one of their precious trinkets. It didn’t seem to occur to them that in order to hand on these treasures I would have to have a husband, and to have a husband I would have to meet a man.
‘All the time I was growing up there was never anyone good enough. Even when I was very small, the children I played with were “too common”, and when I invited a little boy round to play he was told to “stop trying it on with folks like us”, and sent packing to the little half-door shack he lived in up by the pub. Eddie Dunn, his name was.
