“You better be off to school. Here, take these.” And she handed me a mini packet of ginger cookies.
As I left the dining hall she called out, “You look after yourself, Mary.”
March 1, 1982
Well, today did go better than I had hoped. They were all waiting outside the front door in a big huddle when Jane brought me down. She was there, I could sense it, but she didn’t say anything and we all shifted off slowly toward school.
The hairs were up on the back of my neck the whole time we walked. My heart was pounding. But it was quite nice to have other people to walk to school with. They didn’t chat much to me directly and I hung near the back of the group so I didn’t have to be with her, but the others still walked with me and I listened to them chatting about their favorite bands, boys in class, and TV shows.
It was good not to be on my own all day.
A couple of them walked home with me too. I came straight up to my room when we got back and they all bundled noisily into the TV room. But that’s okay. It isn’t as bad as it could have been.
March 2, 1982
This morning was much like yesterday. We all walked to school in one noisy gang of Thornhill girls.
I am not sure what to make of it.
When she came back, I was convinced that she was going to start up again, pick up from where she left off. I was sure she was going to be my tormentor. But now that I think back on it, except for being her usual, noisy self, she hasn’t been interested in me at all.
Could she actually have turned over a new leaf?
Could Jane have been right that we should try to get along?
March 8, 1982
Today she walked with me. The others just carried on chattering, but she slowed and walked at my pace. She asked me how I was. I didn’t raise my head to answer, I just kept watching the ground. She carried on talking anyway, telling me what it had been like with the last foster family. At first I was tense and worried but found myself being more and more curious.
What it made me realize was that she wants to belong somewhere just as much as I do.
March 11, 1982
I didn’t spend the evening in my room tonight. I joined them in the TV room and watched Top of the Pops. Jane sat in at the back of the room. I sat near the back too, watching as they shouted at the screen as their favorite bands flashed up on the chart countdown. When they played the number-one single they all jumped up and danced around the room, singing along as the singer pranced about on the stage, wearing a string vest.
Jane and I sat and watched them all. She muttered something about this song being ages old and that her parents used to listen to it. Then she said the best night to join them was Saturday. They all loved watching Dallas. She wanted me to join them, and, as I watched the other girls yelping and leaping around the room and giggling with each other, I decided I would.
March 13, 1982
It’s late. I am writing this in bed, thinking about all the changes this week.
All the years I have been here I could never have imagined that I would have a week like this one. I feel part of things. Part of a normal life—well, as normal as life in a place like Thornhill can be.
Have things changed for me at last?
It’s so different to walk to school as part of the group, to hear laughter and chatter around me. Now I understand what their jokes are about and why they are teasing each other, and knowing what’s going on makes it sound less cruel and threatening. I like the noise of being surrounded by a group. It’s as though there are little stories whizzing around—dreams of pop groups and boyfriends, gossip about eyeliner and shoes and teachers. I don’t have to join in, but still I feel part of their gang—on the edges looking in, watching, listening, but happy to be included.
Even at school it makes a difference. I know what they are talking about because I have watched some of the same TV shows and on Monday they’ll be chatting about Dallas, and I’ll know who Sue Ellen is at last and why J. R. is so nasty.
I wonder if they have accepted me because she has? It’s odd, because before she came back, the rest of them behaved as if I was invisible—as if being silent meant I didn’t count. But now they include me in conversations and chat around me. Even she has talked to me a few times too.
I feel part of the group.
I remember how it was before, how frightened I used to be. I know what she can be like—or used to be like.
April 4, 1982
I can’t believe what has happened.
I can’t believe I have been so stupid.
She told me yesterday afternoon that they were going to meet after dark to have a moonlit picnic, to celebrate Sophie going to a new foster family next week, and that she wanted me to come along. She told me that the old days, when they would have considered going without me, were gone, and that I am one of them now.
I left my room at midnight and crept down to their landing. The wind outside was whistling through the chimney pots and made the whole adventure seem more dramatic. I was so excited. They were smiling and welcoming, grinning and winking at me as we tiptoed down the main staircase and past Jane’s door.
It was only when we got to the dining hall door that I realized I hadn’t even thought about where the food was coming from.
She was standing by the pantry door.
She put one arm around me and said, “This treat is for us. Just you and me, Mary.”
She unlocked the door and we went down the thin flight of steps into the cupboard-like room, lined with tins, packets, jars, and bottles. She pointed to a bottle on the top shelf, up by the tiny window.
“That’s Kathleen’s cooking sherry.” She grinned. “Come on, give me a leg up!”
She hooked her foot into my interlocked hands and tried to heave herself up a couple of times, but she didn’t even get close to the shelf.
“Hang on, Mary. I’ll get a chair.”
I stood there, waiting for her to come back. I noticed a thin trail of ants threading along the baseboard. I watched them almost absent-mindedly as I waited.
When she did return, the others followed. They gathered around the door as she brought the chair in.
“If we use the back of the chair to stand on we should be able to reach. You go, Mary. You’re lighter than me. I’ll hold the chair steady.”
She gave me one of those beautiful smiles.
I stepped onto the seat of the chair and put one foot on the chair’s back. It had gone quiet. Their eyes were all on me. A prickling unease crept over me.
“Go on, Mary. Climb up,” she said as she held down the seat of the chair.
I reached out and held on to one of the highest shelves, then brought my other foot up onto the chair back. My hands were sweaty. I was shaking. I looked down over my shoulder at them all.
“God, you’re an idiot!” she said.
And she let go of the chair.