Mr Wright opened the door in a red checked shirt and jeans.
‘Yes?’ he said.
I froze. I’d assumed it would be Rachel at the door, letting me in. No questions asked.
I opened my mouth and forced out the words. ‘Could I speak to Rachel?’
‘Rachel?’
I gulped. ‘Yes.’
He frowned and I pictured the cogs in his brain whirring. When his face cleared, I knew he’d twigged who I was. The girl in the school hall whose father had run off with his wife.
Feeling hot, and then cold, I panicked, sure that at best he’d shut the door in my face. At worst, he’d berate me for the sins of my father.
He was a big man. I quaked and then took the only way out I could think of. I started to cry.
‘What the … ?’
Next door, the woman with Farrah Fawcett hair appeared, dressed for going out, child hitched on her hip, key clutched in her hand. She looked at the two of us curiously.
Grimacing, Mr Wright stepped backwards. ‘Rachel,’ he yelled.
Turning sideways, he gestured for me to come in.
I smiled meekly at the woman and stepped into the thickly carpeted hall. Rachel came down the stairs in a mud-brown dress, sleeves hanging over her wrists, hair brushed out around her shoulders. My heart missed a beat.
‘Elizabeth,’ she said, glancing at her dad as if asking for permission, knowing as well as I did that I was crossing enemy lines.
Mr Wright nodded and then disappeared into a room at the back of the house. A man of few words. He reminded me of Dave.
A moment passed. We stared at one another, Rachel and me. I cringed with embarrassment, scrubbed at the tears on my face. I’d made a mistake. She didn’t want me here any more than her dad did. A few kind words, a bit of homework help – it didn’t mean much. Why would someone like her want someone like me?
Rummaging in my bag, I produced my reason for being there.
‘It’s your magazine,’ I said as if it wasn’t obvious, and then blushed, knowing I sounded pathetic and needy and very young.
‘Thanks,’ she said, taking it, ‘but you didn’t have to.’
I looked at my feet, willing the heat in my cheeks to cool.
‘Have you finished it?’ Her voice was polite, non-committal.
I nodded. I didn’t tell her that I’d read the magazine from cover to cover, poring over each beauty tip, obsessively making notes about diet and treatment and exercise.
‘You’d better come in,’ she said.
‘Really?’ I gawped, hardly believing what I was hearing. I’d been about to sidle away and forget I’d ever come here in the first place. Instead, here I was grinning stupidly and following Rachel into the front room.
The dominant colour was a deep pink: the corduroy settee and matching armchairs, the shagpile carpet and paisley wallpaper. It was as different from the plastic covers and dull decor that characterised our house as it could be. There was a shelf packed with china – figurines in ballgowns, chocolate-box cottages; a few books – Jilly Cooper, Jackie Collins, Barbara Cartland, Mills and Boon. I sank awkwardly into the settee. It was so soft it was as if I’d been swallowed up.
Rachel handed me a box of Kleenex then disappeared. I pulled out a tissue and dabbed at my eyes. Sitting back, I let my gaze settle on the photos on the mantelpiece. One of the frames had been turned around and I was dying to see what was hidden. Maybe it was a picture of Mrs Wright, banished by her angry husband, but there were others of her still in pride of place, so that theory made no sense.
In one photo, she was in a park, her Betty Boop curls messed up by the wind, and in another she stood behind Melissa, hands resting on her shoulders. There was a school photo of Rachel looking gawky, with a crooked smile, at about eleven or twelve and another of Melissa in a pink dress.
Rachel came back with a Fanta for me and a plate of digestives. She dropped into an armchair, curling her legs beneath her like a cat. She didn’t have a drink or a biscuit. I took mine awkwardly. I was like a child, given a treat. I set the can on my lap, and babbled, telling Rachel all about the puncture and how Mr Evans had rescued me.
She hardly listened. Instead she kept glancing at the door. It was understandable. If Rachel had come to my house, I reckoned Mum would have sent her away.
‘Sorry for being upset,’ I said when I’d finished my story.
She looked back at me steadily. ‘Is it because of the bike?’
I stared at her. Did she genuinely think I’d been crying because of that? I shook my head.
‘Why then?’
‘Mum’s got …’ I hesitated. I was going to say a new boyfriend, but that would be an exaggeration. ‘A new job.’
She was interested. ‘Where?’
‘In the library.’
‘Sounds OK.’
‘Yeah.’
Silence. I tried again. ‘Are you going to London soon?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Doubt it.’
I considered suggesting we go there together. Then I realised she’d probably say no. Being with me was an acquired taste, like learning to appreciate Motörhead, as Dave would say.
Thinking about that brought another lump to my throat. I imagined Dad in London in another record shop with another Dave, and with Melissa instead of me.
Rachel shifted in her seat and glanced at her watch. How could I keep her interested?
I said the first thing that came into my head. ‘I saw you with Karl.’
It was her turn to blush. ‘Yeah.’
A mistake. I hadn’t wanted to embarrass her. Inwardly, I cringed. Why did I say that? Now she would hate me.
‘He’s different now,’ she said. ‘He’s changed.’
I was silent, uncertain. Stupid bitch, he’d called me. He’d have to change a lot for me to forgive that.
‘We were kids,’ she added, ‘then.’
The way she said kids was weird, as if we were adults now. She was older than me, it was true – sixteen in September. But still, it wasn’t that long ago that Karl had shown what he was like.
Whatever the truth, I sensed a new awkwardness between us. Feeling unwelcome, I got up to go. Only as soon as we were in the hall, Rachel asked me to wait. She went through to the back room and I caught a glimpse of Mr Wright hunched over the table tinkering with the tangled chain of a necklace. His big hands were loosening the links. He must be doing it for Rachel. My dad would never have had the patience.
They were talking, their voices quietly overlapping, and then she came back with a shopping bag.
‘Mind if I come with you?’
I blinked as if a light had gone on. This was more than a miracle, if that was even possible: not only did Rachel want to be with me, she was asking my permission.
‘Yes,’ I said, trying not to sound eager, but my face flushed scarlet anyway. ‘I mean, no. I don’t mind at all.’
Outside, the sky had turned a nasty shade of grey.
It was hot and humid, but Rachel walked so quickly I had to break into a trot. All I could think about was sweat patches, the humiliation of dark stains spreading across my T-shirt. Why had I worn jeans? Better to be free like Rachel in her loose dress, gliding rapidly like water downstream.
But the further we got through the estate, the more Rachel relaxed. By the time we’d made it to the main road, my breath had returned to normal.
‘Where shall we go?’ she said.
We. Where shall we go?
‘Spar?’ I said, indicating her shopping bag.
She made a face. ‘Nah. Boring. I’ll go there later – maybe.’
‘Won’t your dad be waiting?’
She shrugged. ‘He’ll be at work in a bit.’
‘It’s Sunday.’
‘Overtime.’
I suggested the cafe.
Rachel made a face. ‘I don’t feel like seeing anyone else. Do you ever get like that?’
All the time.
She looked at me and I nodded inanely. I was still reeling from the fact that she didn’t want to see anyone else. She only wanted me.
I bit my lip, trying to think of a way to entertain her. A single swallow flew like an arrow in the direction of the orchard.
It was a sign.
‘We could go for a walk,’ I suggested.
I hardly expected her to say yes, but she agreed.
My body cooled beneath the rows of trees, branches bending low with fruit; the air fresh with the scent of apples. Rachel reached up to pluck one and she ate, grimacing at the taste as her small teeth pierced the flesh.
Leaving the grass, we took the rougher, furrowed path that ringed the trees and led to the barn. Through the broken slats, I glimpsed the old tractor. On the ground beside the doors was a dead owl. Both of us stared at the beautiful creature, its tawny feathers, jewelled eyes still intact. It can’t have been dead for long.
‘What does it mean?’ I breathed.
‘The owl is dead,’ said Rachel in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘Everything dies.’
I nodded slowly, but to me it meant more than that. It was a sign, a portent of death or disease. Bad luck would come.
We ended up at the edge of the trees and stepped into the wasteland. The march of the houses had come closer, but had mainly spread sideways, which meant the building site was still far enough away for the hum of machinery to remain distant, leaving the wasteland in its own world, as it always had been to me, a fairy-tale place, teeming with secrets and possibilities, good and bad.
Together, we watched the men in the distance working on the site, each of us lost in our own thoughts.
A few more minutes passed and then Rachel spoke. ‘How long do you think the building will take?’
I shrugged. ‘Forever.’
‘It’s shit.’
I glanced at her. She was still staring across at the site, her face impassive. I wondered why she cared so much. ‘A lot of people don’t want to lose the fields,’ I said, thinking maybe that was her reason.
She nodded, but I wasn’t convinced.
‘Did your family come here for the work?’ I asked.
‘Yeah.’ She was quiet before she added, ‘I wish we hadn’t.’
I nodded glumly. It must be as obvious to her as it was to me that if they’d stayed in Norfolk, my dad and her mum would still be at home.
I tried to break the mood, talking about how I used to explore the wasteland. I told her about the insects I collected and the slow worms and even the flasher.
‘I didn’t understand what was happening at the time,’ I said. ‘It was only when I got older that I realised.’ I was trying to sound worldly and wise.
She gave me an odd look, which made me think she didn’t believe me, so I distracted her, describing the den I’d found so many years before.
It worked; she asked me where it was.
I led her over to the spot and crouched down to crawl through the bushes. She did the same and we slid into the dip.
‘What is this?’ she said, eyes wide.
‘My den.’ I tried to sound nonchalant, but failed. My voice was high and stupid because now I was convinced she’d think it was childish. Who had a den when they were fifteen years old? ‘I haven’t been here for ages,’ I added.
But she wasn’t listening. ‘It’s great.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. It’s the perfect place to hide. And hey, there’s seats.’
She sat down on a rock and grabbed at her hair, plaiting quickly, fastening the end with a band she produced from her pocket. I followed her gaze, seeing what she saw. The foliage had grown. It was heavy and lush with dark green leaves clinging to the branches above.
‘It’s like a bird cage,’ said Rachel.
Now sunlight sprinkled through the gaps like magic dust. Delighted, Rachel lay back: eyes closed, arms flung above her head, legs pulled up and twisted to one side. She was beautiful lying there. Like the statue of Aphrodite I’d seen in Mum’s art books, the goddess of love, fertility and desire. I blushed all over again.
This was it. This was the moment I’d wanted since we’d first met. I wished I could hold it tight in the palm of my hand and never let go and in the space of a minute, I imagined a whole lifetime of more moments like this weaving and binding us tight.
Anxious to please, I went to the place where I kept my supplies, cleared away the branches and unearthed a can of Coke.
‘Oh my God,’ said Rachel, sitting up, ‘you’ve got refreshments. It’s like the bloody pictures.’
Grinning, I produced a plastic bag full of chocolate. Laughing, she scrambled across and searched for herself, finding the cans, the magazines and then the penknife. Taking it, she pulled out the blade. ‘What’s this for? Wild animals?’
I laughed too and she snapped the knife shut.
‘No one would find us here, would they?’ she said, suddenly serious.
In the distance, voices drifted, a few shouts and then the sound of the diggers started. Mr Wright would be there by now. I thought of him, huge and heroic, as he had been at school, dealing with Karl’s dad. A big old friendly giant, trying his best, raising Rachel alone. Was my dad a hero too? I used to think so, but now I wasn’t so sure.
‘Do you miss her?’ I said impulsively.
‘Who?’
‘Your mum.’
A shadow fell across her face. She took hold of her hair again and slipped off the band, slowly unplaiting the strands. ‘Do you miss your dad?’ she said.
She’d turned things around. Soon I’d discover she was clever at that. Keeping her secrets close. Prising out mine. Answering questions with questions. Giving half-truths, never lies.
Soon it would be a skill I’d learn too, but then I only sighed.
‘Do you wish you’d gone with him?’ she added.
‘I didn’t have a choice.’ I looked at my lap.
‘That’s adults for you.’ She gave a short, bitter laugh.
But Rachel had had a choice, hadn’t she?
‘What about you?’ I said carefully. ‘Your mum wanted you to go with her, didn’t she?’
She gave me another strange look. ‘Yeah, Charlotte asked me.’
Charlotte. I knew Rachel must call her that because I’d seen it on the card, but hearing her say it was different. It felt so modern. Like in a film. Then I remembered I hadn’t actually given Mrs Wright the card and the guilt came back.
‘But you didn’t want to go?’ I asked, sticking to the conversation and trying not to think about my misdemeanour.
‘Not then.’
‘Did you change your mind?’
She rubbed her arm through her sleeve. ‘Yeah. Maybe.’
‘Why didn’t you tell her?’
‘I did.’
‘So … what happened?’
She shrugged. ‘You know what they’re like.’
I was unsure what she was talking about.
‘Adults. They say they care, but they don’t, all they think about is themselves.’
She crossed her arms as if signalling the end to our conversation.
I spoke quickly, trying to prolong it. ‘But surely … if she knew you were unhappy, she’d let you live with her?’
‘Well, I did tell her. I wrote it in a card and she didn’t bother to reply, so there … that’s what she’s like.’ She lay back down and covered her eyes with her arm.
A sickness rose in my stomach. The card. It was worse than I’d thought. ‘When?’ I asked, my voice sounding strangled, hoping that maybe she was talking about a different one.
‘Last Christmas. Don’t you remember? You gave it to her.’
Should I tell her what had happened? If I did, she might hate me. Besides, I said to myself, if she missed her mum so much, she’d ask again. She could go to Plaistow any time. Maybe she’d got used to being here and was happy with what she had.
‘At least you’ve got your dad,’ I said eventually.
She didn’t reply.
I carried on. ‘Do you think he’d have her back? My mum says she wouldn’t touch my dad with a bargepole.’
Rachel lifted her arm away. Her eyes were shining, but she wasn’t crying. ‘They all say that, don’t they?’
There it was again: that other side of Rachel. The worldly Rachel. The I-know-everything-about-adults Rachel. It occurred to me that actually she had more than two sides. She was like a whole lot of people wrapped up in one. I couldn’t work her out.
We stayed until dusk and then, when it was too cold to stay any longer, we headed back across the wasteland. Around us, the night animals were waking. Field mice and hedgehogs. Yellow-eyed foxes glaring as we passed. A badger lumbering with its steel-trap jaw.
It was late. Mr Murray would be there by now, but Mum’s enjoyment would be ruined because she’d be worrying, looking at the clock, waiting for me to return with the cake. It was funny I hadn’t thought to tell Rachel that it was my birthday. I told her now as we wandered along.
‘Why didn’t you say?’ she said, stopping in her tracks.
‘I forgot.’ It was true – being with Rachel had knocked it from my mind.
‘We should celebrate.’
‘How?’
She frowned, thinking about it, then she grabbed my arm and I laughed as she pulled me and we raced through the gloom, across the uneven ground, stumbling and holding on to each other, screaming and yelling at nothing.
We were creatures of the night, darting and weaving, brushing against bark, tearing through the brambles; and then we were spinning like overgrown children in dizzying circles, our arms wide and our faces turned up and we were falling, falling, down to the damp earth, where we lay waiting for the circles to stop.
‘There’s a cut on your knee,’ I said. Blood oozed in warm droplets. ‘Try this.’ I pushed a leaf onto the wound.
She smiled and lay back, body abandoned, eyes closed, hair coiling across the earth.
Afterwards, we traipsed onwards through the murky light, past the old barn and I couldn’t help noticing as we looked more closely that the owl had been attacked, its innards ripped and sprawling.
Now, when I recall that day I wonder, when we passed the barn, did we instinctively move a little closer to one another? Did we cast a look behind us and shiver? Did we have a sense of what lay only a few yards from our path?
If we did, I don’t recall. I only know that the next day a body was found, hidden in a shallow grave, and after that the orchard was never the same. Neither was my relationship with Rachel.