I wept into the peephole, made sure I’d stopped crying before you opened the door.
I wrapped her up, a coal sack, blankets forbidden for girls.
I carried her down, placed a doll next to her, used to be mine.
Her body, so still.
Shh little one, it’s over now.
15
A couple of days ago Mike and I met as usual for our Wednesday session. I told him the truth, that I was frightened, that during the day I hear you, your voice in my head. I wanted to tell him about the nights too, you as a ribbon of dread lying next to me in bed, but I was ashamed. He asked me what it is you say to me. I told him you say I’m useless, that I won’t manage life without you, that I won’t survive the trial. He reminded me the trial wasn’t mine to survive. I told him you torment me, he kept probing me, asking me what it was you tormented me about. But all I told him was I wished I’d gone to the police sooner, then things would have been different.
Today we’re having an end-of-week play rehearsal in the Great Hall. I’ve read Lord of the Flies over a dozen times now. It’s comforting. Reading about other children in circumstances that scare them, acting in ways they thought they never could, or would.
I carry my rucksack carefully, a candle in a glass jar inside. Saskia has a cupboard full, I asked if I could have one for my room. I took two, one for MK as well as a thank you. I’m due to see her at lunch today, I’ll give it to her then.
When most of us have arrived in the hall Miss Mehmet claps three times, waits for the chitter-chatter of thirty or so girls in the same room to cease.
‘I hope you’ve all been busy learning your lines, we’ll pick up where we left off last time, which was, let’s see – oh yes, Piggy’s death.’
‘Aww.’
‘Very good, Lucy, but let’s save the dramatics for onstage, shall we?’
‘Miss?’
‘Yes, Phoebe?’
‘Are we allowed our scripts?’
She sighs, rests both hands on her hips, her large breasts wobbling for a second or two before settling.
‘No, you should all be well on your way to knowing your lines by now, and if you aren’t, we’ve got Milly on hand to prompt.’
No. A word Phoebe hates to hear. That, and Milly.
‘Hurry up, you lot, over there, on to the stage and put your phones away. Silly girls.’
The noise lifts as chairs are pushed back, the last handful of girls climbing up the steps to the stage. I approach Miss Mehmet, ask her where I should sit. She explains that for the actual performances I’ll be onstage tucked behind the curtains, but that it’s not necessary right now.
‘Take a seat in the front row and follow the script, line by line, okay?’
When I look up at the stage I can tell from Phoebe’s face she’s dreading it, hasn’t learnt her lines. She’s sat on a chair, on the left-hand side of the stage, frantically scanning each page. Too late. Show time.
‘Shh, everyone, we’re about to begin. And action.’
This is Phoebe’s cue, the opening of the scene. Her feet are crossed, pulled back under her chair, not still though, the right one dances, a continual nervous jig. The script now on the floor next to her. Tempting. I see her look down, then out to me. I hold her gaze for a second, enjoy her needing me, then say the first line.
‘Without Piggy’s glasses, Ralph is –’
‘Unable to light the fire.’
She interrupts, finishes the sentence, continues on.
‘Ralph calls a meeting by blowing the conch.’
‘Saafi – you’re Ralph, pretend to blow the conch.’
The girls who do know their lines, the majority, take over. Progress is good until it’s Phoebe’s turn again. She stumbles and mumbles, looks like a fool. Feels worse, I imagine.
‘No, no, no,’ comes the cry from Miss Mehmet. ‘Phoebe, this is unacceptable, what makes you so busy and important you can’t learn your lines? I’ve watched Milly, she’s hardly even using the script, knows the whole thing by heart.’
Ouch.
‘I do know my lines, Miss, I just keep forgetting them.’
‘Well it’s not good enough. If you continue like this I’ll be forced to give your part to Milly, understood?’
She nods, is silent, wouldn’t dare say what she thinks to a teacher’s face. When we finish, are filing out of the hall, she comes up behind me, whispers in my ear.
‘And then Piggy dies.’
I have lunch with MK in her room today and I notice we both chose the same sandwich, ham and cheese. When we finish, she stands up, clips paper on to one of the easels and says, ‘Feel free to start sketching whenever you like.’
I take the candle out of my bag.
‘This is for you.’
‘Me? Why?’
‘To say thanks for helping me with the girls.’
‘That’s very sweet, Milly, but we’re not allowed to accept presents from pupils unless it’s Christmas.’
‘It’ll be half-term soon, Christmas isn’t too long after that.’
I smile at her, walk over to her desk, put the candle down.
‘It’s vanilla. I tried to find a lavender one, I know you’d have liked that.’
She picks it up, smells it, then puts it back on the desk.
‘It’s lovely, but really I can’t –’
‘It’s fine, it was a silly thing to do. Bin it if you like.’
I walk over to the easel, sit down.
‘Don’t be upset, Milly, it was a lovely thought, but rules are there for a reason.’
The phone on her desk rings, the noise, shrill, at odds with the sombre atmosphere in the room, a welcome intruder. She picks it up.
‘Hello.’
A pause then, ‘Yes, she’s with me. Right now? Okay, I’ll send her down,’ and she replaces the receiver.
‘Mrs Newmont’s in reception.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Not sure, that was Mrs McDowell from the office, you should go and find out though.’
Bad news. Bad enough for Saskia to come to school.
‘About the candle, Milly –’
‘It’s fine, I understand.’
I wouldn’t want a present from me either.
Saskia smiles as I approach her in reception. She wouldn’t smile, would she, if it was something really bad? Something about me?
‘There you are.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘Mike called, asked me to pick you up, he’s on his way home. June’s back from holiday, I think she needs to talk to you about something. Have you got everything?’
I nod.
‘I’ve signed you out, let’s go.’
I follow tight leggings, bony hips, to the car. While I was making her a pot of tea the other night Mike came in for his eye drops. I watched him tilt his head. Squeeze. Drop. Blink. The sequence reminded me of you. You loved to teach me about chemistry, reactions that hurt. The hours you spent trawling the internet, learning. Eye drops for eyes become poison in tea. Taught me too. You didn’t only want a helper, you wanted someone to carry on your work.
When we arrive home Saskia says, ‘I should think they’re already in the study, would you like me to come with you?’
‘No, it’s fine, it’s probably better if it’s just me and Mike.’