‘Say it,’ I say, and there’s no smile in my voice now. ‘Say it.’
‘Shit.’ Jess looks unhappy now, the alcohol wearing off in the face of my fierce disgust. ‘Isa, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stir up –’
‘You’ve been speculating about it all night, apparently. So at least have the guts to say it to our faces. What’s the rumour?’
‘That Ambrose …’ Jess gulps; she looks over my shoulder, looking for a way out, but the hall is emptying fast, none of her friends are in sight. ‘That Ambrose … that he … he did … drawings, of you all. The four of you.’
‘Oh, but not just drawings, right?’ My voice is very cold. ‘Right, Jess? What sort of drawings, exactly?’
‘N-naked drawings,’ she says, almost whispering now.
‘And?’
‘And … the school found out … and that’s why Ambrose … he …’
‘He what?’
She is silent, and I grab her wrist, watching her wince as she feels the pressure of my grip on the fine bones.
‘He what?’ I say, loudly this time, and my voice echoes round the almost empty hall, so that the heads of the few girls and staff remaining turn to look at us.
‘That’s why he committed suicide,’ Jess whispers. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.’ And she pulls her wrist out of mine, and, hitching her handbag up her shoulder she half walks, half stumbles across the emptying hall to the exit, leaving me gasping, holding myself as if against an imaginary blow, trying not to cry.
WHEN AT LAST I pull myself together enough to face the thronged hallway, I force my way into the crowd, looking, desperately, for Fatima, Kate and Thea.
I scan the hallway, the queue for the cloakroom, the toilets – but they aren’t there. Surely they haven’t left already?
My heart is thumping, and my cheeks are flushed from the encounter with Jess. Where are they?
I’m shoving my way to the exit, elbowing aside laughing little knots of old girls and their husbands and partners, when I feel a hand on my arm and turn, relief written all over my face, only to find Miss Weatherby standing there.
My stomach tightens, thinking of our last meeting, the furious disappointment on her face.
‘Isa,’ she says. ‘Always rushing everywhere, I remember that so well. I always said you should have played hockey, put all that nervous energy to good use!’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, trying to not gasp, trying not to pull away too obviously. ‘I – I have to get back, the babysitter …’
‘Oh, you have a baby?’ she asks. I know she is only trying to be polite, but I just want to get away. ‘How old?’
‘Nearly six months. A little girl. Listen, I must …’
Miss Weatherby nods and releases my arm.
‘Well, it’s lovely to see you here after so many years. And congratulations on your daughter. You must put her name down for the school!’
She says the words almost light-heartedly, but I feel my features go stiff, even as I smile and nod, and I know from the change in Miss Weatherby’s expression that my feelings must be evident, that my smile must be as false as a painted marionette’s, for her face crumples.
‘Isa, I can’t tell you how much I regret all that business surrounding your leaving. There aren’t many points of my career that I feel ashamed of, but I can honestly say, that business is one of them. The school handled it – well, there’s no point in pretending, we handled it very badly, and I must take my share of responsibility for that. It is not mere lip service to say that things have improved very much in that respect – matters would be treated … well, I think everything would be handled very differently these days.’
‘I –’ I swallow, try to speak. ‘Miss Weatherby, please, don’t. It – it’s water under the bridge, honestly.’
It is not. But I can’t bear to talk about this now. Not here, where it all feels so raw still. Where are the others?
Miss Weatherby only nods, once, her face tight as if she is holding back her own memories.
‘Well, goodbye,’ I say awkwardly and she forces a smile, her stern face seeming almost to crack.
‘Come again, Isa,’ she says as I turn to leave. ‘I – I did wonder if perhaps you felt you wouldn’t be welcome and, quite honestly, nothing would be further from the truth. I hope you won’t be a stranger in future – can I count on your presence at next year’s dinner?’
‘Of course,’ I say. My face feels stiff with effort, but I manage a smile as I tuck my hair behind my ear. ‘Of course, I’ll come.’
She lets me go, and as I finally make my escape towards the exit, looking for Kate and the others, I reflect: it’s amazing how quickly it comes back, the facility to lie.
It’s Fatima I find first, standing at the big double doors looking anxiously up and down the drive. She sees me at almost exactly the same time as I see her, and pounces, her fingers like a vice on my arm.
‘Where have you been? Thea’s thoroughly pissed, we need to get her home. Kate’s got your shoes, if that’s what was holding you up.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I hobble across the gravel, my heels turning and grating on the stones. ‘It wasn’t that, I got cornered by Jess Hamilton, and then by Miss Weatherby. I couldn’t get away.’
‘Miss Weatherby?’ Fatima’s face is alarmed. ‘What did she want to talk to you about?’
‘Nothing much,’ I say. It’s half true after all. ‘I think she feels … well, bad.’
‘She deserves to,’ Fatima says stonily, turning away and beginning to walk.
I crunch breathless in her wake as we leave the lighted front of the school. She forges down one of the gravel paths towards the hockey pitches. In our day it would have been completely dark – now there are dim little solar lights at intervals, but they serve only to drown out the moonlight, making the pools of blackness in between more inky.
When we were fifteen, the marshes felt like home, near enough. I don’t recall being frightened on any of the long night-time treks to Kate’s house.
Now, as I pant to catch up with Fatima, I find myself thinking of rabbit holes in the darkness, of my ankle turning and snapping. A picture comes of myself, sinking into one of the bottomless pits of the marsh, water filling my mouth so I can’t cry out, the others walking on ahead oblivious, leaving me alone. Except … perhaps not alone. There is someone out here after all. Someone who wrote that note, and who dragged a dead and bloodied sheep to Kate’s door …
Fatima has drawn ahead of me in her eagerness to catch up with the others, her figure just a dim, fluttering silhouette that blends into the dark shapes of the marsh.
‘Fatima,’ I call out, ‘will you please slow down?’
‘Sorry.’