Jane
Tuesday 12th February
Tuesday dawns – the night of the PTA meeting. I’m dreading it. I dress carefully, a navy blue blouse covered in little white swallows; dark, wide-fitting trousers. Hair back in a bun. So different to how I used to be, before I married Jack. So much more expensive, too.
I didn’t sleep well. I thought a lot about what Sandra said about Ian. Jack was asleep by the time I came up, my mind foggy from the wine I’d had with Sandra. We drank a bottle and a half, in the end. No ice. Harry came into the kitchen when we were about a bottle down, but my memory of him is fuzzy, unsure.
‘Aren’t you looking grown up, Harry!’ Sandra said to him, her voice high and grating, and he flinched away from her, the moment awkward.
‘Where’s Dad?’ he asked me, his eyes piercing into mine.
‘Dad’s asleep, got a migraine,’ I told him, trying not to slur my words, and he nodded, looked at me with that concerned gaze, the one I saw when he confronted me about the spreadsheet from the surgery.
‘Sleep well, darling,’ I said to his retreating back, turning back to Sandra and the wine. It was gone 1.00 a.m. when she left; I slid into the sheets next to Jack as quietly as I could, wincing as my arms brushed the cotton sheets. He was out cold, lost in oblivion.
We had a terrible row before he left for work this morning – Finn started crying halfway through and I rushed to him, my heartbeat throbbing violently in my ears.
‘It’s all right,’ I told him, ‘it’s all going to be all right.’
Except it’s not, is it? Not unless I do something.
I can’t bear the thought of the children finding out what Jack is. I have spent so long trying to cover for him, to distract them, cushion them, give them the very best life. I buy them beautiful, high-quality outfits from the shops in Saffron Walden. I am scrupulous about their school work. I am determined to raise my children in the way I wish I had been – attentive, caring, privileged. But sometimes, Jack and his temper make that hard.
I paint foundation onto my face, covering up the splotches of red. Last night I dreamt of Clare, of the curtains next door, of Rachel Edwards’ beautiful face shattering into little pieces, like fruit splitting under a knife.
‘Mummy, why was Daddy upset this morning?’ Sophie asks as I tie up Finn’s shoelaces, and I stop, my hands frozen still.
‘Daddy’s fine, darling,’ I tell her, but she doesn’t answer me, puts her little head down and looks at the floor.
After I’ve dropped them off at school, I get the chicken from the freezer, set it on the counter to defrost. I have to keep to the routine. Routine is the only thing keeping me sane at the moment. I bake casseroles on Mondays, shepherd’s pie on Wednesdays, steamed fish on Fridays. The children begged for chips at the weekend and despite myself I capitulated, running down to Walker’s shop and grabbing a pack from the tiny little frozen section at the back, and another bottle of white on the way to the till. I could almost sense Ruby’s disapproval, but I was wearing a nice shirt and lots of mascara so I raised my eyes up to hers, readily met the challenge. She knows we’re an important part of this town. She won’t push it too far.
I know I’m drinking too much – all the signs are there, the way they used to be. But there is no one to watch out for me any more. I want to ask Jack about his late-night conversation with Ian Edwards in the garden, what they were talking about. Instead, I go round the house, checking on the shard of glass wrapped up by the matches, the knife in the paperbacks. I look at his side of the bed; the tidy pile of papers on the bedside table, the half-drunk glass of water. His reading glasses, folded neatly. When no one is looking, I slug wine straight from the bottle, my head buried in the fridge, hidden from view. I tell myself it’s okay. The women in the town – well, none of them think twice about having a bit of liquid lunch, of softening the edges of the drudgery of wifehood. If only that’s what it was. Diane’s voice echoes in my head. ‘A dependence on alcohol is often the gateway into much more troubling addictions…’ Not now, Diane. I push her away, force myself to be present in the kitchen.
My eyes prick as I stare into the cupboards, wondering what I can put with the chicken. I reach my hand in and it comes back sticky and red. For a moment, I panic, but it’s just jam, leaking onto the cupboard surface, the lid unfastened from where I made the children’s packed lunches at 7.00 a.m. Jack thinks I make the jam myself but of course I never do; I just peel the label off and stick on a home-made one, stolen from the shop at work. I’m so tired already; Sophie has started having nightmares, quite regularly now. I can feel the exhaustion settling over me every morning, having sat up with her for an hour or so during the night, the little bunny lamp casting its glow in the bedroom, bouncing off the balloon curtains, my hand to her forehead, stroking and soothing to take away the bad dreams. On Friday I brought her home one of the dreamcatchers that Karen at the shop makes, twisted threads forming a rounded net, interlinked with tiny brown feathers and orange beads. We hung it together above the window in the bedroom, and I whispered in her ear that it will take the horrors away. Often when I come into her room she is twisted up in the bedsheets, sweat coating her small limbs, making little mewling noises that strike right into my heart. Sometimes, I think of poor Clare. Did she cry, did she want her mother when she took her last breath? Jack never wants to discuss anything like that.
Occasionally, Jack goes in to comfort Sophie, and I listen carefully, my heart pounding in the other bedroom as he murmurs to her, his deep voice carrying back to me. Finn meanwhile sleeps soundly, his forehead unfurrowed. He is too young to understand the ins and outs of this town, of the way Clare’s death has changed everybody; changed the school, changed the house next door, changed the parents, changed us. Our marriage. How aware are my children of that?
Later that day. The butterflies that have been in my stomach since this morning have galvanised, and as I walk to the school for the meeting, I feel them flutter at my throat and have to force myself to take deep breaths; in for three, out for five, the way Diane used to teach us back in London. It’s a little while since I’ve faced them all together like this; somehow, the women are worse in a pack. I didn’t go to the last meeting; Jack and I had had a particularly brutal row and I didn’t think I could. I spent most of the evening holding an ice pack to a bruise instead. I got told off, of course, by which I mean messages from the other mothers – Sandra’s passive-aggressive text, So sorry to have missed you tonight! Lots sorted though – nothing for you to worry about! Tricia’s faux-concerned phone call, We heard you weren’t feeling well, is everything alright? I often wonder how concerned any of us really are about each other, deep down – who would be there in a true moment of need? Who would help me if I knocked on their door and told them the truth about Jack?
I think that exact thought as I look around the faces tonight. We’re in the big room of the secondary school, all of us sat on too-small plastic chairs that don’t quite cover our middle-aged backsides. Andrea Marsons is holding court at the front of the room, dressed in her usual slacks and cardigan. It’s hard to imagine her cardigan-less; I screw up my eyes slightly, try to picture her in the summer – I must’ve seen her thousands of times over the last couple of years – but an image of her in short sleeves just won’t come to mind.
It’s too cold in here – the window is open, unnecessarily, but no doubt someone will be in danger of a hot flush (a pleasure that hasn’t yet hit me) and I pull my scarf a little tighter around my neck. I feel as if I’m on display, on show, as if all the eyes in the room can see straight through me, into the jumble that is Jack and I, me and Jack. Sandra smiles at me across the table, her bright pink lipstick slightly running into the skin at the corners of her mouth; Tricia taps her pen on her brand new notebook to my right, like a child on the first day of term. Moleskin, black. Only the best for the PTA. I have to sit on my hands to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Andrea is shuffling papers, looking more harassed than she usually does, and I take the opportunity to continue my sweep of the room. Donna, Helen, Kelly, who always looks a bit rough. Most of these women have been to my house, drunk my wine, held the hands of my children and I theirs.
Andrea’s clearing her throat. I switch my eyes over to her, move a hand to my collarbone, underneath my scarf, but my fingers touch a scratch and I adjust my position at the last moment, tuck a strand of dark hair behind my ear instead.
‘Thanks for coming, everyone,’ she says, frowning slightly as she looks at something on the paper in front of her. I haven’t got anything in front of me except a chipped mug full of tea, and I know that when I get to the bottom there will be soft white flakes of limescale, courtesy of the school kettle. It’s not an overly appealing thought. The taste of it reminds me of my mother, of cups of weak tea because we re-used the teabags, of huddling around the oven to keep warm. The old embarrassment floods my face but nobody can see, nobody can tell. I know that now, but sometimes, my body forgets. I’m not who I used to be. I’m Jane Goodwin, the doctor’s wife. And that’s how it has to stay, no matter what he does.
I can see Tricia neatly writing the date in the top-right corner of a brand new page in her notebook, underlining it laboriously in wet black ink. I imagine her mind – orderly, underlined, everything in its place. Not like mine. Not like Jack’s.
‘There are a few things on the agenda for us to discuss today,’ the headteacher says, clearing her throat again. It looks to me as though she is tired; there are bags underneath her eyes that could even rival mine, and if I look really closely it almost looks as though one cheekbone could be twitching. I feel a pang of sympathy – the bags under my own eyes are covered in Chanel foundation, a product which I somehow feel is not sitting in pride of place in her own make-up bag. Like I said, I’m the doctor’s wife. I have to look smart.
‘First up, and I may as well start with the obvious, is the ongoing investigation into the Clare Edwards case. As some of you already know, I called in a police presence,’ (I catch Sandra nudging Helen and rolling her eyes – we all know that ‘police presence’ just means Madeline Shaw) ‘last week and the students responded well to DS Shaw’s presentation. She reminded the children about safety, the importance of communication and the importance too of refraining from gossip, from the spreading of false information.’
Something in Andrea’s tone feels like a warning, as though suddenly we too are the pupils, as though her words are directed just as much at us as they were at the kids. I don’t blame her – some of the women in this room could give the Daily Mail sidebar a run for its money. They probably have, in their time.
‘This was a useful morning,’ Andrea continues. ‘However, we of course remain disappointed that the investigation has not yet been resolved. I think I speak for everyone in this room when I say I have absolutely no wish for this case to be closed without resolution; however, as the PTA of the school we do have a duty to decide when to begin the more formal healing process.’ She pauses, looks down briefly at her paper. Thank God Rachel Edwards never became a member of the PTA. Also, Andrea looks quite pretty when she puts her mind to it.
‘Having spoken to several other teachers, we would like to put forward tonight the idea of a memorial garden for Clare, which would be planted to the left of the school, just in front of the sports field. If everyone is in agreement, we will speak to the Edwards family and of course gain their consent. My wish is that they will be involved in the process, as much as they would like.’
I can see Tricia scribbling away unnecessarily in her notebook, dotting a defiant question mark after the words ‘memorial garden’.
‘The garden will hopefully be called “Clare’s Garden”, and will be used as a space to remember her, honour her memory and – we hope – will also become very much a part of the school as the primary pupils will be encouraged to use a part of it to learn – growing vegetables and the like.’
I can see Sandra raising her eyebrows at this – she was moaning the other day that Natasha never gets taught anything at the primary. Privately, I think this is more to do with Natasha than it is with the school; Sophie never seems to have any problems. I didn’t say that, of course, but she brought home some cress last week, so she’s obviously learning something, even if it is only basic science. It’s sitting on the windowsill at home; in fact, I think I’ve forgotten to water it.
‘So,’ Andrea is looking around the room expectantly, ‘does anyone have any thoughts on this?’ It’s obvious she’s only looking for reassurance, and I’m about to give it when Kelly pipes up. She’s wearing far too much eyeliner for a PTA meeting; the dark flicks outline her eyes like a cat’s.
‘I don’t mean to be the voice of doom here,’ she says, quite loudly I think, ‘but are we sure this is a good idea? I mean—’ she looks around the room as if for support, but if I’m honest Kelly isn’t particularly popular so no one says anything yet, ‘I mean, we’re talking about a murder. It’s not as if that poor girl died in a car crash or something. There’s somebody out there who could attack again, who might love the attention a garden would create. I watched a TV show about a man like that. On the BBC.’
She says BBC as though the branding makes her sentence believable, and there were noticeable winces around ‘that poor girl’.
Next to me, Tricia opens her mouth. ‘What is it you’re suggesting here, Kelly? That we forget about Clare? I personally think a memorial is a lovely idea. Although,’ she looks down at her notebook, ‘I’m not quite sure a garden is the best way to go – what about something a bit more permanent? A statue, or something? Stone? Something with a touch more class?’
‘I can’t think of anything more morbid than a statue,’ Sandra says, which is actually along the lines of what I was thinking; the notion of walking past an immortalised Clare every day might be too much to bear. Concrete features blaze into my mind and I feel suddenly sick, take a sip of my limescale tea in spite of myself.
‘Statues aren’t morbid, Sandra,’ Tricia says, and I can hear a little edge of annoyance creeping into her voice, an edge I’ve heard before when she’s had a couple of Sauvignons round mine. ‘Statues are things to be revered, respected – and crucially, they last a lifetime.’
Given the subject, lifetime was a poor choice of word and I do think revered is taking it a step too far. I can tell Andrea agrees because she’s pursed her lips, the way she always does when she’s not convinced.
‘Any other thoughts?’ she asks hopefully.
‘I like the idea of a garden, it feels right somehow. What Clare would have wanted,’ I hear myself offering, and the headteacher flashes me a smile, as does Donna across the room. I can feel Tricia bristling a bit, but she won’t cross me. I don’t think any of them will. They never really do.
The minute I say I like the garden idea, it’s like a light switches on in the room and Sandra jumps in, saying what a lovely thought it is. They’re all always so desperate to ingratiate themselves with me, and with Jack. I’ve heard them talking about him, giggling about how good-looking he is. Well, he is better-looking than most of their husbands, but nothing comes without a price.
Andrea gets us to do a show of hands in favour of the garden and all bar Kelly vote yes.
‘I really think a fundraiser would be a good idea too though,’ Tricia is saying now, looking up from her posh notebook. ‘It’ll cheer everyone up, the kids can dress up—’
‘Can we dress up too?’ Donna Philips interjects, grinning naughtily, and there is a titter of laughter that circles around the room. I don’t laugh, but I smile, a tight little smile that doesn’t show my teeth. The thought makes me shudder – all that flesh on show. They’d see every little hurt.
‘Well,’ Andrea says, clearly trying to change the subject, ‘as always, we’ll be having the annual Easter concert on the Thursday evening before the school holiday, and that usually raises a little bit of money—‘
‘But that’s not until March! Don’t you think this year we ought to do something special? Something to really bring the community together?’ Tricia asks, warming to her theme. ‘We could give the money to charity, set up a foundation for Clare.’ She looks at me. ‘As well as the garden, of course.’ I stare back at her. Tricia’s voice rises. ‘Or the money could fund the garden?’
Clare, Clare, Clare. She is almost like a presence at the table. What must her family be going through now, while we sit and talk about dress-up and money and gardens? None of it will bring her back.
‘The concert might remind people of a funeral,’ Sandra Davies is saying, lowering her voice as though funeral is now a dirty word. ‘You know, with it being in the church and everything…’
‘Where else would we hold it?’ Kelly snorts, and I’m inclined to agree. The Easter concert is always in St Mary’s. It’s actually one of my favourite nights of the year – the children dress up in white shirts and black bottoms, the choir sings beautifully at the front by the altar, surrounded by tealights, and Jack and I stand on best behaviour with all the other parents. It’s lovely.
‘The Easter concert needs to stay where it is,’ Andrea says firmly. ‘We can discuss the possibility of an extra fundraiser but it would require quite a lot of planning, and timings are tight now—’
‘A Valentine’s fair!’ Tricia sparks up, and there’s a little ripple of excitement around the room.
Valentine’s Day. It’s this week – we’re not doing anything. I remember last year and an unfamiliar panicky feeling builds inside me, as though the women are rising up and over me, a tidal wave that I can no longer control. I’d made Jack dinner; it had gone wrong.
‘Andrea,’ Tricia is saying, one hand stretched out slightly towards the headteacher, nails shining in the harsh overhead school lights, ‘we all know you’ve had an awful lot to handle at the school recently. If you’d like, I’d be more than happy stepping up and taking ownership of this one. The girls can help me! Can’t you, ladies?’
Assenting nods. Smiles. The protest sticks in my throat.