Our Dark Secret

Debra was cheerful, going on about how Frank had another new job, fetching and carrying at the market, getting cheap crates of fruit.

‘I had a kiwi yesterday,’ she said. ‘I’ve never had a kiwi. Have you?’

‘The doctor says I’m doing really well. Look!’ She thrust her arm at me. The skin was flaky but better than it had been.

All through morning lessons, I could only think about Rachel, making tiny slices on her skin. Did Karl know? What if it wasn’t Rachel doing it? What if it was somebody else? Was she a part of a cult? My imagination raged.

At afternoon registration, Mrs Townsend asked me to step into the stock cupboard. I followed her, expecting another lecture about Oxford and knuckling down, but instead she brought up the subject of Debra. She said that even though it was obvious I’d had the best intentions, I should think carefully before going around accusing people like that. I reddened. Obviously, all the teachers would know what I’d said about Debra.

‘What you did could have had terrible consequences. Sometimes it’s good to take a step back and ask yourself, is this fact or is this fiction? Is it a serious issue or an exaggeration?’

The light was dim, and the cupboard smelled of new stationery. I could hear giggles coming from the classroom.

‘Or do you want to take control, put the fibs away and knuckle down to work?’

I wanted to point out that I didn’t lie, I only imagined things, but then the disembodied image of Rachel’s scarred arm floated from a corner of the cupboard and hovered there, finger-pointing at Mrs Townsend. Tell her.

I apologised and told her I would most definitely work very hard at eradicating my imagination.

‘Not completely, obviously, Elizabeth,’ she said as we went back into the classroom amid whoops and cheers and wolf whistles.

Lessons crawled along. I zoned out for most of them. The only interesting moment was when Karl approached me in afternoon break to ask if I’d delivered the note.

It annoyed me how he did it. Waiting until the last minute after the bell had gone, making sure no one saw him as he came up behind me. He was embarrassed to be seen with me, I thought bitterly, but happy enough to use me as his messenger.

I walked home from school feeling as if I had a cold weight in the centre of my body.

I tried to think of a rational reason for the marks on Rachel’s skin. A disease maybe. Like Debra had. Nothing came to mind and then I thought: what if the situation got more serious? What if the cuts slipped down her arm to her wrist? I’d promised to keep Rachel’s secret, but it was so dark and so terrible. What if she killed herself? It would be my fault.

I ran through the people I could tell. Not Mrs Townsend – she’d call me Billy Liar. Not Mum – she wouldn’t want to be reminded of that family. Not Mr Wright – I wasn’t brave enough to speak to him.

Dad, then. Maybe he would tell Charlotte and they’d both come rushing back from Norfolk.

I heard the sigh, imagined him sitting down, brushing his hand through his hair as he resigned himself to speaking.

The telephone box smelled of piss and stale tobacco. Cards with semi-clad women offering massage services had been stuck to the glass.

‘Yeah, no, we’re going a bit early and then staying … for Christmas. Charlotte’s got some relatives …’ His words tailed away.

I swallowed hard and passed the receiver to my other hand. I wouldn’t see Dad this Christmas either.

‘I don’t think it’s possible. I mean, it’s sorted now and …’ He paused. ‘They’ve … the relatives, you know, they’ve only got a small cottage. A couple of rooms.’

Now was my chance to tell him. I took a breath. In the background, I heard a door bang and then a voice. A question: Who is it? Dad must have mouthed my name because next there was the sound of walking and then another door closing.

I traced the crack on the glass with my finger. Would Rachel forgive me if I gave away her secret?

‘Oh.’ He spoke again more quietly to somebody else: ‘OK. I’ll be there in a minute.’

I pushed the tip of my finger harder against the crack. Blood bubbled to the surface of my skin.

Outside, a gang of boys was clowning around with Karl at the centre. He caught my eye. One of his friends squashed his face against the glass leering in at me. I moved instinctively, pressing my back against the opposite side of the box, tears rising.

Mr Evans appeared. He paused as if waiting to use the telephone and the boys moved on.

‘Dad,’ I said, more urgently now. ‘Can I come and see you before you leave?’

‘I don’t …’ He broke off. I heard more words in the background. Someone said, We’ve got to go.

I ran back to Rachel’s house thinking that I would ask her to explain what was going on and that I would tell her I didn’t think I could keep her secret unless I knew more.

I arrived hot and flustered and stood for a moment, recovering my breath. The house appeared empty and unwelcoming, walls silent and cold, curtains tight. How different it was inside. The sofa that sucked you in; the heaters turned up high.

I knocked. No answer. I looked up. Was that the twitch of a curtain in the upstairs room? I waited longer and sure enough, the door opened.

Mr Wright was in his work clothes: mud-splattered jeans and an old shirt. His hands were grimy, nails caked with dirt. Even so, his hair was neat, his beard trimmed. A thought flashed through my mind: he and Mum would make a handsome couple. He was far more attractive than Bob, more interesting too, always helping people out. I had a sudden flash of living with Rachel in the same house. How good would that be?

His eyes slid across my face and over my shoulder. ‘Sorry, but I don’t think so.’ He made to close the door.

My stomach dropped as I guessed what was happening. After seeing me in the record shop with Dad, it had reminded him of what my family had done. Now he wanted to eradicate the memory, starting with banning me.

The telephone rang. He half turned, but didn’t move to answer it. I could see the coat stand – Rachel’s coat, his builder’s jacket, shoes on the floor. The door to the kitchen was shut fast. What if it was Rachel who didn’t want me in the house, not her dad? She might have told him to keep me out. I’d seen the cuts and she was ashamed. The thought made me desperate to speak to her. I needed to tell her that I would help in any way that I could.

My miracle happened. PC Newman was passing the house, wheeling his bike. ‘Either of you got a puncture kit?’ he called out cheerily.

I explained and Mr Wright had no choice but to help, and then to let me into the house to use the toilet when I asked.

The door to the front room was ajar. No Rachel. In full view of the men outside, I didn’t dare go in the kitchen. Instead, I coughed loudly and ran up the stairs, hoping that she’d hear me.

The bathroom smelled of bleach. Mr Wright’s razor was abandoned on the sink, bits of hair and foam caught on the blade.

At least Bob was tidy. The other day he’d been vacuuming the stairs, whistling tunelessly. Dad had never done jobs in the house. Even when Mum had been rushing around all day after the charges, Dad had sat with his feet up, reading the newspaper or watching the telly. He’d never made the tea or done the shopping. Bob had even brought his toolkit and fixed some shelves. I’d heard him hammering early one morning.

On impulse, I opened the door of the cabinet above the sink. There was a packet of unopened Dr White’s, a can of shaving foam, a bottle of TCP. A box of the same sleeping pills Mum used. Blades for a razor. A bottle of Brut nestled beside a bottle of Tramp. That doesn’t surprise me, I could hear Mum saying. Tramp was cheap. It suited Mrs Wright down to the ground. Bob had bought Mum a bottle of L’Air du Temps, for no other reason than that he had felt like it. He had bought me a chain too, with the name Elizabeth hanging from it.

I flushed the toilet, turned on the tap and opened the bathroom door. Had they finished mending the puncture? I looked down the stairs – no sign – but I could hear the drift of their voices.

Tiptoeing along the corridor, I knocked gently on Rachel’s door. Maybe she was asleep.

The bed and the floor were still strewn with Mrs Wright’s clothes. No Rachel. I went in. One of Rachel’s dresses hung on the wardrobe door. I couldn’t resist taking it down and holding it against me. Grass-green. My heart constricted as I touched the material, catching the scent of apples.

Putting the dress back, my gaze fell on the bedside table. The white wood was stuck all over with shiny pink and purple stickers. A book of fairy tales lay on the top. It was battered and worn with its cover hanging off. Opening it, I found an inscription. To Rachel, Love Mum. Inside the back cover was Karl’s note.

If it had been folded up, I told myself, I wouldn’t have read it. As it was, the words were in plain sight.

There’s no hurry. I can wait.

I you

Karl xxx

At first, I thought it was full of sweets, but then I realised they were pills of all different shapes and sizes.

Swiftly, I turned. Mr Wright was there, watching me from the doorway. ‘I was looking for Rachel,’ I said quickly. ‘I thought she’d like some company.’

I babbled some more, filling the gap. ‘I wanted to tell her … I mean, to ask her if she needed anything, like, you know, a magazine, fruit, books …’ My voice trailed away. ‘Sorry,’ I added.

I went towards him, trying to act as if nothing was wrong. He didn’t move, only carried on looking at me. ‘I told you she wasn’t well,’ he said.

‘Yes.’ My heart thumped. He turned sideways as if he was a door opening, letting me through. Considering his size, he moved lightly, stepping back as if it were a dance. It was another part of him I couldn’t help admiring. He had a kind of grace.

In the hall, I was dying to go into the kitchen to see if she was there. I nearly asked for a glass of water, but in the end, I didn’t dare. If Rachel didn’t want to see me and her dad had had enough of me, what could I do?

There was a beat as his gaze slid away from me, to the coat stand, to the carpet, to the kitchen door. ‘I don’t think so.’

I bit my lip. ‘Would it be all right if I popped in then … tomorrow I mean … after school?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it would be.’ He gazed sadly down at his hands. ‘I don’t think it would be a good idea …’

‘Why?’ I asked. My voice sounded pathetic. ‘Is it because of …’ I hesitated.

I was banished. The daughter of the enemy. I clenched my fists, hurt spiralling into anger. It was Dad’s fault running off with that stupid woman. Now I’d never know the warmth and comfort of the house again.

25

1979