The Dare, page 10
‘You thanked her, didn’t you? For those flowers.’
He looks bewildered. ‘How do you know that?’
‘I popped into the surgery to use the toilet, the day you flew to Aberdeen. I bumped into her. I told you I didn’t want her sending me flowers. Now you’ve just encouraged her.’
I sound childish and petulant, I know I do, but now that I’ve started, I can’t help it. He shouldn’t have thanked her for them. They weren’t for him, they were for me. And I didn’t want them.
He sighs. ‘I thought it was the polite thing to do. I felt awkward, not saying anything.’
‘I see, so her feelings are more important to you than mine. Well, at least I know where I stand.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Lizzie! Don’t be ridiculous!’
He flings the metal tape measure on the floor so that it bounces up and hits the skirting board. Then he leaves the room without saying another word. He’s never lost his temper with me before. Never.
I lean back against the wall and slide down till I’m in a crouching position, my head in my hands. This should be a happy time for us: a new house and a baby on the way. It should be exciting – the beginning of our life together. Instead it feels spoiled already. Catherine might be a nicer person now, but she’s still managed to fuck everything up.
26
Then: After
Tuesday, 11 September 2007
There’s going to be a special school service for Alice. Mr Davis made an announcement about it this morning, and Mrs Peacock has just given us letters to take home. I can’t peel my eyes away from the heading, underlined and in bold: The Alice Dawson Memorial Service. There’s going to be a plaque, too, and a tree planted in her honour.
It all seems so unreal. I keep expecting – hoping – to wake up and discover that it’s all been a bad dream, that it never really happened and that instead of the empty seat next to me, Alice is still sitting there, her ink-stained fingers fiddling with her pen, or re-arranging the contents of her pencil case. She was really looking forward to Mrs Peacock being our form teacher. ‘Mrs Peacock is cool,’ she used to say, mainly because of the small tattoo of an anchor on her left inner wrist. Alice was mad for tattoos. Couldn’t wait till she was old enough to have one of her own. She would have done, too.
‘Whenever I feel worried or anxious about anything,’ Mrs Peacock explained to us last year in her music class, before we knew that she’d be our next form teacher, ‘I look at my anchor and feel safe and grounded.’
I take out one of my Berol colouring pens – the black one – and draw a little anchor on my own inner wrist right now, but no matter how many times I look at it, I don’t feel in the least bit safe and grounded. I feel dangerously loose and adrift. Cut off from everyone around me.
Melissa Davenport is staring at me from the other side of the classroom. ‘Miss?’ she calls out. ‘I think Lizzie’s trying to slit her wrists.’
Someone, somewhere, whispers the words ‘guilty conscience’.
Mrs Peacock stands up and peers across the classroom. ‘Don’t be silly, Melissa. Lizzie, what are you doing?’
‘Nothing, Miss. Just doodling.’
‘She’s giving herself a tattoo,’ says a voice from behind me. Bethany Charles. One of Melissa’s inner circle.
‘Okay, that’s enough,’ Mrs Peacock says. ‘Time to put your things away, girls. And remember to give those letters to your parents when you get home.’ The bell goes a second later.
As I’m walking out of the classroom, Mrs Peacock taps me softly on the shoulder. ‘Lizzie, can we have a quick word?’
I hope she’s not going to ask to look at my wrist, because it’ll be embarrassing – I’m not very good at drawing and my anchor looks more like a wonky arrow – but she doesn’t. She gestures for me to sit on the spare chair at her desk and then she sits down in her own chair, adjusting it slightly so that we’re facing each other. I can see her knees sticking out from under her skirt.
‘How’s it going?’ she says, and I don’t know whether it’s the question itself, or the kind, gentle way she says it, but my eyes start burning with unshed tears and I know I’m not going to be able to stop them coming out without wiping my eyes with my fingers, and then she’ll know I’m crying. But if I don’t, she’ll know anyway. And now she does. Because here they come. Big, fat, treacherous tears rolling down my cheeks.
‘If things get too much for you, Lizzie, you know you can always come and talk to me.’
I nod, unable to look at her face for fear I’ll break down completely.
‘It can’t be easy for you …’ She points to the letter about the remembrance service and the memory tree. ‘Mrs French said you didn’t go to your counselling session yesterday.’
‘I already see a counsellor.’
‘I know you do. But I think it’s important you have someone here at school you can discuss things with, too. She’s been helping some of the other girls work through their feelings about Alice. If it’s not working out with Mrs French, you’ll come and tell me, yes? We can look at other options.’
‘It’s fine. I had a headache, that’s all. I wanted to go home.’
‘I understand that. But maybe you could let her know next time, yes? Or let me know so that I can get a message to her.’
‘Okay.’ I sniff. ‘Sorry.’
Mrs Peacock nods and lays three fingers on my forearm. ‘I’ll have a word with Melissa if you’d like.’
‘No!’ My head shoots up. ‘It’ll only make things worse. I’d rather you didn’t.’
Mrs Peacock presses her lips together and exhales through her nostrils. I get the feeling she’d like to say more, but is having to hold it back.
Sally Peters is waiting for me outside the classroom when I come out. She’s been nice to me since we started back at school, although not quite nice enough to sit next to me in class. She’s told me she can’t stop sitting next to Heather Langton or it wouldn’t be fair on Heather. Although, apparently, it’s fine if it’s unfair on me.
‘Don’t take any notice of Melissa,’ Sally says as we walk across the playground. ‘She’s a right cow.’
‘Where’s Heather?’
‘Chess club.’
Ah, so that’s why she’s walking home with me. But hey, beggars can’t be choosers. At least I won’t have to face the school gates alone, where Melissa and Co. are bound to be hanging around with the boys. Maybe Sally will ask me back to hers. She lives in the next street along from Riley Road, where Alice lives. Where Alice lived.
A horrible empty feeling comes over me and, for a minute or so, I think I’m going to be sick. Alice and I went to Sally’s house last year, sat in her bedroom with her and Heather and painted each other’s nails. Another time we played catch outside Sally’s house on a summer evening, a whole group of us standing on both sides of the street chucking a big inflatable ball at each other and shrieking with laughter. That kind of thing would never happen where I live. For a start, Birchwood Avenue is a much busier road and, even if it wasn’t, people there don’t let their children play outside.
I know we’re lucky to have a big house and garden, but sometimes I wonder if I’d have been happier living on the estate instead of being stuck out at the edge of town, a long bus ride from school. Maybe then I’d have fitted in and made more friends, wouldn’t have been so reliant on Alice.
But Mum and Dad have never liked the estate. They’ve always said how rough it is, and how it’s gone downhill since the seventies, when it was first built. They were really upset when I failed my eleven plus and didn’t get into the grammar, and since the next-best school was two bus rides and a ten-minute walk away, I ended up here, with all the kids from the estate.
If only I’d passed that stupid test, I’d never have met Alice. She’d still be alive today.
27
Now
‘Love is like wood,’ Mum says when I tell her that Ross and I had an argument yesterday. ‘It expands and contracts depending on the weather. You have to allow for some shrinkage every now and again.’
She’s always coming out with little sayings like this. She’s right, though. I’ve been expecting Ross and me to carry on as though nothing has changed, as though the ‘loved-up phase’ we’ve been enjoying since we met would last for ever.
‘You’ve been through some pretty major life changes recently,’ Mum says. ‘It’s a new relationship, remember. You’re still getting to know each other, learning how to adapt to each other’s moods. You have to work at these things, darling. They don’t just happen.’
I haven’t told her why we rowed. Who we were rowing about. Not yet. I’m working my way up to it. Maybe Ross is right and I do need to speak to a counsellor. Someone to help me sift through this maelstrom of emotions and find a way through. It won’t be like it was before, with Angela Harris. But can I really face being questioned about the past?
We chat for a few more minutes before saying goodbye. The phone rings almost as soon as I’ve put it down.
‘Mum? What did you forget?’
But it’s a stranger’s voice in my ear. A woman with an Australian accent.
‘Hello. May I speak to Lizzie Molyneux, please?’ Whoever she is, she’s actually managed to pronounce my name correctly.
Maybe it’s someone from the community midwife team.
‘Speaking.’
‘This is Ruby Orchard. You won’t know me, but I’d very much like to speak to you about something.’ She has that rising inflection at the end of each sentence. ‘I’m not trying to sell you anything, I promise. I just need five minutes of your time.’
‘How can I help you?’ She’s lying about not trying to sell me anything. It’s the cold caller’s favourite line. Ross would have hung up by now, but I always feel a little sorry for them. It must be a soul-destroying way to earn a living.
‘I’m writing a piece about Elodie Stevens, the poor girl that got killed by a train? I understand your friend, Alice—’
I slam the receiver down in fury. A bloody reporter. How the hell did they find me? I know it’s impossible to have zero online presence – there are news articles with my name in, for a start – but I don’t do social media. Never have. I’ve been on a couple of epilepsy chat forums in the past, but always under a pseudonym. I’ve been so careful never to give away any private details.
It rings again straightaway. I let it go to answerphone and listen, fists clenched at my side, heart racing.
‘Miss Molyneux, I think we might have got cut off there. I’m doing a piece on the debate that’s going on about Network Rail’s programme of level-crossing closures.’
Her voice fills the room, a torrent of words battering my ears.
‘Not everyone agrees with the closures. They think it causes more problems in rural communities. Prevents access and forces people to use dangerous roads instead. I’m keen to get a range of different opinions. I’ve already spoken to a representative of the Dawson family and I was wondering whether—’
The message ends abruptly. The recording time has reached its limit and so have I. I rush to the downstairs toilet, lift the lid and throw up.
28
I tell Ross about the phone call as soon as he comes home. We’ve made up after our argument yesterday, but things have been a little subdued between us since then, so I’m glad of the need to talk to him directly about something else. Giving him a problem to solve is just what I need to get him back on side. Besides, it’s Friday night. I don’t want this atmosphere hanging over us all weekend.
Ross looks furious on my behalf. ‘Don’t feel pressurized into talking to this reporter if she rings back. Put the phone down on her.’
‘I just can’t understand how she’s tracked me down. And why now, after all these years?’
‘Because of this other girl who’s died, I suppose. It’s got them sniffing around for similar stories in the past. As for tracking you down, you know what reporters are like. They have their ways.’
‘I can’t help wondering who …’ I bite my lip and stare out of the window. Now that the thought has occurred to me, I realize we’re probably going to end up rowing yet again.
‘What?’
‘I can’t help wondering who this representative of the Dawson family is. The one she said she’d already spoken to.’
Ross shifts in his chair. He looks about as uncomfortable as I feel. We’ve landed straight back into the same dodgy territory that had us rowing before, but it’s too late now. I have to say what’s on my mind.
‘I can’t imagine Sheena or Mick Dawson would want to get involved with reporters. They must have been besieged by them when Alice died. We certainly were, although Mum and Dad did a pretty good job of keeping me away from all that.’
I look him squarely in the face. ‘What if it’s Catherine she’s spoken to? What if it’s Catherine who’s given her our number?’
Ross closes his eyes. When he opens them a few seconds later, he looks tired and more than a little wary.
‘Would you like me to ask her on Monday? Because you know I’ll have to talk to her to do that.’
I force myself not to react. ‘No. I’ll ask her myself.’
In the end, we have a quiet, cosy weekend, and for that I’m grateful. Ross finds several websites that compare the size of a developing foetus to different types of fruit and vegetables. At just under twelve weeks, our baby is currently the size of a plum, or a lime, or a small peach, depending on which website you look at. We look at them all. We also make plans to visit my parents in two weeks’ time, by which time Peach Murray will be the size of a large lemon. We don’t mention Catherine Dawson once.
But when Monday comes around and Ross has driven off to work, I retrieve her card from my coat pocket and compose a short text message. Just because Ruby Orchard didn’t phone back over the weekend doesn’t mean she won’t try again, and I’m determined to find out if it was Catherine who put her on to me.
‘I need to speak to you about something. Tell me a good time to call.’ As an afterthought, I add my name.
Her response comes almost immediately.
‘I’m free now. Let me call you?’
‘Okay,’ I text back, heart thumping.
The sudden ringtone on my mobile makes me jump, even though I’m expecting it. This is all happening so much faster than I’d anticipated. Why didn’t I wait till later in the day, when I’d composed myself more?
‘Hello?’ My voice sounds high and nervous.
‘Lizzie,’ she says. ‘I’m so glad you messaged me. I didn’t think you ever would.’
I clear my throat. ‘Nor did I, but … I’ve had a phone call I need to talk to you about.’
‘Go on.’
I pause, unsure how to continue. It would be better to have this conversation face to face, so I can see her expression when I tell her. That way I’ll know if she’s telling the truth.
‘I was wondering if …’
What? What am I wondering? If she’ll come round for a coffee and a chat? No, the thought of her in this house again fills me with dread.
‘Would you like to meet somewhere?’ she says. ‘There’s a café in Charlton Park. Do you know it? I could be there in half an hour?’
‘You’re not at work?’
‘No, it’s one of my study days.’
‘Okay. I’ll see you at the café in thirty minutes.’
The café is full when I arrive. It’s a quirky little place with pictures of Henry VIII and other notables on the outside. Inside, it’s set up like a quaint tea shop. Small tables and odd chairs squeezed into a rectangular space that can’t be more than eight by four metres. There’s a noise of chatter and the clattering of teacups, the hiss from the coffee machine. Catherine isn’t here yet and, unless someone vacates a table, we won’t be able to sit inside, which is probably just as well, because the smell of bacon is turning my stomach.
I hang around near the doorway, unwilling to settle at one of the outside tables even though there are blankets thoughtfully folded over the back of each chair. It might be less than a month till summer, but there’s a cold wind blowing today. Maybe we won’t have a coffee. It might be better to walk round the park instead.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and spin round.
‘Hi, have you been waiting long?’ she says. She’s wearing a navy coat that hangs open over jeans and a white jumper. The tip of her nose is pink.
‘No, I’ve just arrived. There aren’t any free tables inside.’
‘Let’s sit here then,’ she says, and I find myself agreeing, even though I’ve just convinced myself that walking would be preferable.
‘What will you have?’ she says. ‘My treat.’ She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
‘An Americano, please. Decaf.’
She nods and smiles. ‘Wise choice. I should switch to that, but I’m a terrible grump without my shot of morning caffeine.’
She goes inside to get them and I sit down at one of the round metal tables, spreading a pale blue check blanket over my knees and feeling faintly ridiculous. Why on earth am I doing this? It’s crazy.
Then I think of Ruby Orchard’s phone call, her proposed article on level-crossing deaths, and I know I have to find out if it’s Catherine she’s spoken to, and what she might have said.
Five minutes later, when Catherine is sitting opposite me, her elbows planted on the table, her long, slender fingers cradling her mug of coffee in front of her chin, I finally pluck up the courage to broach the topic.
‘I had a phone call on Friday. From a reporter.’
Catherine lowers her mug and places it carefully on the table. It might just be the chill in the air, but I could swear that her cheeks are getting redder.
‘Did you give her my number?’ The directness of my question takes us both by surprise.
‘No! Absolutely not. I would never—’
‘Only I don’t understand how a reporter has found me after all this time. It seems rather a coincidence.’
