Jane
Saturday 16th February
The PTA mothers got what they wanted.
It’s a nice day, at least; the crisp wintery air is warmer than usual and the sky is a cloudless, azure blue. I must be grateful for that. I put on a brighter than normal pink blouse underneath my coat, trying to get into the spirit of things, then head towards the secondary school with Sophie for nine a.m. I woke up early, spent the best part of forty-five minutes tending to my face, making sure the cut was covered by the expensive make-up I keep in the drawer. It’s still visible, of course, but with all the powder it looks like a thin grey line.
Jack isn’t here yet, he’s with Finn and Harry at home. He said he was tired from a long shift at the surgery yesterday, but he’s obviously hungover. Guilt will do that to you, I suppose.
Finn didn’t sleep well either, so I said they could have a lie-in and join us a bit later, though I doubt Harry will want to come. He normally has football practice on a Saturday morning, but they’ve cancelled it today for the fair. He’ll probably sleep late, appear around lunchtime, the smell of teenage boy emanating from his pores. Jack didn’t say goodbye to me, turned his head the other way as I left the bedroom. I didn’t bother taking him tea. Not this time.
We’re using the sports hall – even Sandra agreed that an outdoor fete in February was pushing it a bit. They’ve been setting things up at lightning speed all week, behaving like dogs on heat: organising the raffle, which has turned into a competition between the mums to see who can donate the best gift; painting giant red hearts in the primary school; setting up lots of wooden tables covered with frilly white cloths.
Tricia Jenkins has been busy-bodying around like nobody’s business, whipping the town up into a kind of frenzy over what is essentially a small fete. A small fete to distract from a dead teenager. Lovely.
Personally, I think a garden on its own would have been perfectly fine. More than fine.
‘Morning Jane!’ Tricia herself is sailing towards me, wearing a top that is bizarrely low cut for a community occasion, one that exposes her slightly crepey, fake-tanned chest. Her husband Hugh is trailing dutifully behind, carrying what looks like a hamper.
‘Last-minute raffle idea!’ Tricia is saying, although I doubt it was last minute at all judging from the size of it. ‘I thought it’d really cheer people up – it’s got champagne, chocolates, special herbal tea, the works! A perfect V day gift for someone special!’
‘Sounds nice,’ I say, forcing a smile and wondering what exactly herbal tea has got to do with it all. Not to mention champagne. It’s bordering on inappropriate at a fundraiser for a dead girl. Plus, I can’t stand the words V Day. Sophie tugs at my arm and I stroke her hair, feeling its softness under my fingers.
We haven’t got long until everyone starts to arrive; for some reason we went for a ten a.m. start. People are already here, coming in dribs and drabs; several of the mums have volunteered to run stalls. Funny how you hardly ever get the dads putting themselves forward for these things. The people start to swarm around the hall: the stifling, all-white crowds of Ashdon. So different from all the variety of London. So different from my past. I swallow. We’re bag-checking on the entrance to the sports hall – Tricia’s idea, of course.
‘Safety must come first,’ she announced to us all seriously, ‘and you never know what might happen. Better safe than sorry, don’t you think?’
‘Of course,’ I said. It was an hour until any of them even noticed my face.
‘An accident with Soph,’ I said, ‘some slightly overzealous playtime.’ Laugh, smile, wince.
‘We were so sorry to not see you at book club,’ Sandra said, ‘it wasn’t the same without you.’
I looked at her, then down at the ground. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘Finn is much better now.’
Anyway, nods all round to the bag checks. So now we have two of the PTA at a little table at the double doors, asking everybody to open their bags as if we’re at an airport, not a fundraiser. We’re getting people to put any big bags and coats in one of the school classrooms; Kelly Richards is taking them all through, looking very self-important. I know why they’re anxious, of course, but honestly, what do they think is going to happen at a school fair? It’s hardly likely that anyone’s got a machete in their handbag.
I decide to hold court with Sophie over by the raffle stand; it’s the most central point, should anyone need me. But perhaps they won’t need me at all.
‘Jane!’ I was wrong. Sandra is accosting me, wearing a tight dress covered in bright pink flowers; she must be absolutely freezing. I look closer and I’m right; her arms are goose-pimpled. She starts talking to me about numbers and crowd control, as if we’re running Glastonbury rather than the town fete. ‘Is Jack not here?’ she says, casting her eyes around hopefully, and I force a smile and say he’s coming in a bit. Her husband Roger is over by the doors, talking to one of the teachers. I’ve seen them together before.
To get away from her, I go and set up the tea stall with Danielle from the doctor’s surgery, losing myself in the methodical actions of laying out the cups and saucers, setting out the glasses of weak squash and even weaker tea. Sophie knocks over a glass of squash and I scrabble around for a tea towel to soak it up. Parochial, parochial. As we fill the glasses, Danni and I chat. Her sing-song voice goes up and down, up and down. She’s so young, really. Easy to talk to.
‘Good turnout,’ I say to her, and she nods, looks around the room. I wonder if she’s looking for my husband.
‘D’you think Rachel and Ian Edwards will come?’ she asks, pouring another glass of squash absent-mindedly. ‘I don’t know what I’d do, if I was them.’
‘No,’ I say, ‘I can’t even imagine. I haven’t seen them yet.’ I smile at her, place my hand on her arm. ‘Steady with the squash.’
More people are arriving, and the babble of chatter fills the air, but this day feels all wrong to me. As though we are making a mockery of Clare, of her memory, as though we are glossing over the fact that there might be a murderer wandering around – we’ll all be too busy eating Candy Hearts to notice.
Danni’s disappeared suddenly, leaving me with the tea stall, and I look through the open doors of the hall, out to the school playing field. Someone has attached heart-shaped bunting to the trees that line the edge of the grass; the bright flags flap in the breeze. Despite the hot air blasting out from the sports hall vents I feel chilly, as though I’m behind a cloud.
As I’m finishing up the teas, there’s a sudden shout from across the hall and I look up, my head snapping too quickly on my neck so that I get a pain, shooting down my tendons and into the top of my collarbone. Wincing, I squint across the crowd of people, trying to see what the commotion is for.
It doesn’t take me long.
Nathan Warren is standing in the corner near the bric-a-brac table, manned by one of the teachers – Emma Garrett, who looks as though she might be about to cry. Nathan is standing, helpless, dressed in the same neon jacket he always wears, pulled over a stained black jumper and baggy blue jeans. On his feet are boots: large, workmen’s boots.
‘You’re not welcome here!’
The shout is male; I don’t recognise it at first. Hurriedly, and ignoring the increasing pain in my neck, I move closer, gripping Sophie’s hand, abandoning the tea stall to the clutches of Lindsay Stevens. It’s Daniel Jones. It’s Owen’s dad.
He is standing two feet away from Nathan, his feet set apart, a completely different man to the somewhat meek, disinterested guy who sometimes shows up at parents’ evenings. As I approach, I see the anger writ large across his face; a vein in his forehead is throbbing and his fists are tightly clenched. A little crowd has started to gather. Somewhere, the wail of a baby starts up: high, piercing, shattering the air. Sophie’s grip is vicelike on mine. There are lots of kids here. This should not be happening.
I look around to see if Jack has appeared, or if any of the teachers are nearby – it’s quite a big hall, and not everyone has noticed what’s going on. Miss Marsden, Head of Reception, has both hands to her mouth, eyes wide as she stares at the scene unfolding before us. Anna Cartwright who coaches the hockey team is standing with both arms held out in front of a group of Year Sevens – a bit over the top, granted, but her heart’s in the right place. We need someone who can step in. I see Mr Carter the PE teacher on the other side of the hall, supervising the children as they enthusiastically kick slightly deflated footballs into a makeshift board, 5 points for a big hole, 10 for a small. I should call him over.
Nathan is still standing, mute, and I feel a flash of fear.
A couple of other parents are beginning to form a little circle around Daniel. I can’t see Owen anywhere and my neck is hurting too much to swivel around. Doesn’t Nathan know that coming here wasn’t wise, after everything? Personally, I’ve always thought it unlikely that they’ll blame him for Clare’s death – he doesn’t look like he has it in him. He’s simple, that’s all. But there’s no denying it; he’s an easy target. Suddenly, I feel sick.
Sophie’s fingers are clenched so hard against mine that I’m worried they might break. My ring presses into my skin. I have a sudden, rare desire to have Jack with me, to not be alone as Daniel Jones shouts at Nathan Warren.
Sophie is scared, I can feel it and I know I ought to pull her away, I know that we’re standing too close to two grown men, one of whom has his fists clenched, but somehow I can’t, I can’t tear my gaze from Nathan’s face. Kelly Richards has abandoned her position as bag-checker and pushed her way closer to Daniel.
‘You might think you can get away with it, but you can’t,’ she hisses, and there are murmurs of assent from the other parents as Nathan stands there by the bric-a-brac, blinking. His hands are held behind his back and his face looks impassive, blank.
‘Go home!’ Daniel says, clearly gaining confidence from his supporters. He takes a step forward, towards Nathan. ‘Did you know my son’s been hauled over hot coals because of you? Because of what you did?’
Nathan moves, one quick movement, stepping closer to the bric-a-brac stall. As I watch, his large fingers land on a pile of cheap beaded necklaces, gathered in a makeshift display at the end of the table, and he grabs for them like a child, lifts them up for the crowd to see. Sophie used to do that when she was a baby; grasp at shiny objects like a small, loud magpie. I was forever finding my jewellery in with her soft toys, my coins tucked into her pram. I used to panic that she’d swallow something, choke to death while I was looking the other way.
‘Pretty lady,’ Nathan says, and his voice is desperate, pleading, as though he’s trying to explain something but none of us are listening. Beside me, I feel Sophie tugging at my hand, her little fingers growing slippery with sweat.
Kelly is shaking her head.
‘It’s disgusting,’ she says, ‘people like you coming here, being close to our girls. I don’t care what the police say. It’s obvious to anyone with half a brain that you’re guilty as sin. It’s not as if it’s the first time you’ve followed a girl home, is it?’
There is a sort of hissing noise from the little crowd, more whispers on the breeze.
A hand reaches out, touches my arm and I gasp involuntarily, release Sophie’s hand. She buries her head in the folds of my skirt and I turn to see Sandra at my side, her face undeniably one of joy at the hideous drama in front of us.
‘Sandra,’ I say, but at that moment Mr Carter appears, stepping quickly between the two men and holding out his hands, as if that ever really stopped anyone.
My heart is thundering in my ears and as the PE teacher starts trying to disperse the small crowd, I can’t look away from Nathan’s face, and as I stare, he shifts his gaze from Daniel Jones and stares straight back at me. Fear goes through me, cold and deep, and I am the first to break the spell, turning away from him as he shuffles off, out of the open sports hall door, away from the fair. I watch his back retreat, and my breathing doesn’t fully slow until he is completely out of sight. Pretty lady. The words make me think of Rachel. The beautiful ice queen next door.
Sweat coats the back of my neck and the cut on my face itches. It’s hot now, the sports hall is full; those who were not here for the incident with Nathan are swiftly being filled in, I can hear the murmurs, Chinese whispers on the wind. Sophie cries a little bit after Nathan leaves, then makes a quick recovery when I give her a chocolate bar from my handbag, wrapped in extra tin foil so as not to spoil the lining. She starts to drag me around the stalls, pleading with me to buy her a giant chocolate bunny holding a bright red heart between its paws. I’m just deliberating, on the verge of giving in, when hands slide themselves around my waist and Jack’s breath is in my ear.
‘Think of the E numbers in that,’ he whispers, then kisses the side of my neck, too passionately for a school fete on a Saturday afternoon, especially when he wasn’t even speaking to me this morning. Something inside me stirs, replacing the rod of fear that lodged itself when I saw Nathan. What is he trying to prove? When I look at him, his eyes are dead. Completely at odds with the show of affection. The performance for the crowds. For a moment, I remember how we used to be, back at the very beginning; tearing each other’s clothes off, legs touching underneath the table. Secret glances on Albion Road. In amongst the crowd and the noise and the heat, I am overwhelmed by the need to cry.
‘Made you jump?’ Jack says, and I swallow hard, shake my head and look around. A couple of the mothers are looking at us, their eyes flickering over Jack and I, their faces almost unreadable. I can read them only because I am used to it – the look of jealousy. The green-eyed monster. I push the phrase out of my head as quickly as it came. It’s what my mother used to say when I complained to her about the holes in my shoes, the rips in my coat. She’d tell me I mustn’t covet the belongings of those more fortunate than myself. That the green-eyed monster would get me if I did. Along with God, of course. My family were quite big on God too. Diane used to say it made me repressed.
‘Where’s Finn?’ I say, looking back towards my husband. He sees the way the women look at him, I know he does. He must do.
Jack nods in the direction of the football nets, and I see Finn’s familiar figure clad in his favourite football shirt, kicking a ball towards the makeshift nets. ‘He wore his footy T-shirt specially. Harry’s at home, didn’t fancy a fair, surprisingly.’
He seems remarkably chirpy today and I pause, wrong-footed. I stare again at his eyes – this time, they glimmer at me and I remember the old attraction, the desperate sense of urgency I felt, that need to be with him, part of him, owned by him. It’s still there, just about, but now it makes me feel afraid. I think of last night, him sitting on the end of our bed.
‘Do you want to go find your brother, Soph?’ Jack asks her, pointing over at Finn, who is now standing next to Mr Carter, watching another boy take shots – the first of which misses.
‘Can I have the rabbit?’ Not one to be deterred, my daughter. I suppose she must get that from me. Instinctively, my hand goes to my handbag, the reassuring solidity of the gold lock.
‘Maybe, if you’re good,’ Jack says teasingly and I force a smile. Sophie runs off; I watch her spindly legs in their white cotton socks make their way towards the football nets. We are left alone, save for the bunny.
‘So,’ Jack says, and I feel it again, the glint of fear, the horrible sense of unease.
‘Nathan Warren was here earlier,’ I say in a low voice, and as I say his name I feel sweat begin to prickle again at the back of my neck, dampening my pink blouse. Jack opens his mouth but a tannoy begins to boom across the hall, the headteacher’s voice infiltrating our conversation. They’re announcing the raffle.
‘I’m just going to check on our tickets,’ I say, and I slip a hand into my bag, angling my body slightly away from Jack’s.
The purple tickets are flimsy in my fingers; I grip them tightly to try to stop my hands shaking. I don’t want Jack to notice. The numbers are read out; the hall is quieter now, everyone consulting their tickets. My eyes circle the crowd: I see Sandra with Natasha, and Sophie standing with Finn by Mr Carter. Quickly, I beckon the kids over; we should be keeping our children close. What am I thinking letting them run off away from me?
Jack has been accosted by one of the other teachers, all of whom love him – do they really think their doe eyes and hair flicks aren’t obvious? They’re obvious to everybody, not just to me.
And then I see them. Rachel and Ian are standing, their bodies huddled together, near the corner of the hall where the arts and crafts table is. The primary school children have all made bunches of papier-mâché roses, displayed neatly along with their names – Sophie’s is good, Finn’s less so. I see Rachel’s dark head, bowed slightly as the raffle numbers continue, punctuated by the odd yelp of joy from a winner and the inevitable moans of disappointment from everyone else. As if anyone could really be seriously distraught at not getting their hands on a box of Milk Tray and warm Prosecco. Small-town life at its very best.
Sophie pulls the raffle tickets from my hand and she and Finn pore over them. I can’t even remember what numbers we have.
‘Number 434, pink!’ Andrea calls, but her voice sounds strange. Behind us, there is a little cry and a small child I don’t immediately recognise comes forward, face flaming at the attention, clutching her winning ticket between her hands. Sophie makes a loud huffing noise.
‘Daisy. She doesn’t deserve to win, Mummy. Her bunch of roses wasn’t very good.’
As the girl turns back towards us, I look again – she’s Lindsay Stevens’ daughter. Getting-a-divorce-Lindsay. I look for her, and see her standing watching her daughter, alone in the crowd. I never did bake her that cake that I promised.
Rachel and Ian have moved closer now; I catch heads turning slightly towards them, looking away quickly as though they have seen something they shouldn’t. Nobody wants to look grief in the face, do they. Least of all me. Rachel is still horribly, terrifyingly thin. But still beautiful. Pretty.
‘And the final ticket, number 85, green!’ Andrea says into the speaker, and again there’s a rallying cry from somewhere across the field.
‘Well!’ I say, ‘that’s that then! Who fancies something to eat?’
‘Me! Me!’ both the children squeal and Jack’s attention is diverted back to us, like water rerouting. I feel his eyes on me, and my stomach tightens at the thought of the rest of the day spent playing happy families. Suddenly, I have to get away.
‘Will you take the children?’ I ask him. ‘Just nipping to the ladies.’
I leave them before he can reply, heading vaguely in the direction of the corridor leading away from the sports hall, where a bright pink handwritten sign advertises the toilets. There is a buzzing sound in my head, growing louder and louder. Somewhere, music has started to play, a strange, piped music that drills through my mind, forcing me to squeeze my eyes shut against the brightness of the day. The sunshine feels inappropriate. All of this feels inappropriate. I want everything to stop now.