Everyone likes hanging out there on warm evenings. They sit on the steps under the brick porch, scraping their names into the brickwork as they puff on cigarettes or whisper about boys. For a hundred years, every Thornhill girl has scratched her name into the brickwork, along with her best friend’s name, hundreds of pairs of names scraped into the red brick. All the other girls I have known at Thornhill are on that porch. Only my name is missing.
But tonight it was Kathleen out on the back steps. She was chatting in the twilight with Jane. Both of them had cigarettes and were swigging from mugs. Kathleen’s cooking sherry was balanced on the step between them.
They didn’t hear me—was it the noise of the washing machine or the fact that I have become an expert at creeping around? Anyway. I wish they had heard me instead of me hearing them.
“It isn’t right, Jane. You just have to look at her to know she isn’t sleeping. She barely eats anything. None of them talk to her. She looks more sickly than ever.”
“I know. But, honestly, it’s her own fault, if you ask me, Kathleen. It’s one thing to have this selective mutism thing—if it really is a thing and she isn’t just choosing not to speak—that makes her odd in the first place, but then she spends all her time on her own making those damn dolls. It is a bit creepy. She doesn’t even try to fit in.”
“Just because she is a bit different doesn’t mean they should pick on her.”
“A bit different! Come on, Kathleen, she’s weird. You say they are picking on her, but we don’t have any proof. She doesn’t ever say anything. She has never made a complaint. How can we help her if she doesn’t help herself ? She just tiptoes about with that tight, pinched, sour face of hers. She never smiles. No wonder no family wants her … If her speech thing isn’t problem enough, she is also the least likable girl we have ever had here …”
I didn’t wait for Kathleen’s reply. As I left the kitchen, I heard them chuckling and the chink of china as more sherry sloshed into their mugs.
My chest aches. I liked Jane. I trusted her. I thought she was kind. I thought she understood.
I suppose I should be grateful to Kathleen for trying.
When I got back up here, I stood at my window watching the houses opposite, the regular people with regular lives, trying to work out if what Jane had said was true. Is it all my fault? Have I brought it on myself? Am I unlikable? As I turned it all over in my mind, I watched the lights go on. Families washed up and watered their gardens. They tucked their children into bed and drew their curtains. The house lights cast a golden glow of warmth.
It is tough to be without a family. But to be without a friend too? Is that really my fault? Even the caregiver who is paid to care doesn’t care, it seems.
I won’t let anything any of them says or does make me cry. Ever. But I am aching inside. Maybe this is what heartache feels like.
June 16, 1982
Men with clipboards were here today.
As there are only four of us left and only a few rooms on the second floor are occupied, the rooms on the third and fourth floors have been boarded up, so there is hardly anyone between me up here and the staff on the first floor. Tomorrow workmen will be boarding up the empty first-floor bedrooms.
Thornhill is becoming quieter without the chatter of the other girls here but noisier in other ways. It’s echoey. Footsteps along the corridors seem louder. Doors closing can sound startlingly noisy. Even the conversation between the clipboard men sounds like a rumble from the floor below. Kathleen doesn’t have much to do and spends most of her time with a cigarette and a magazine. Jane seems to be spending most of her time in Pete’s room. It’s as if the rules don’t matter now that there are only a few of us left.
Today my laces were missing from my shoes. I wore them anyway and now have blisters.
June 23, 1982
I was halfway down the third-floor stairs when I heard the noise. Kathleen and Jane coming from the back of the house, their voices raised. I have never heard Kathleen cross. I’ve heard Jane’s shrill shouty voice when the other girls goofed around too much—but not Kathleen. I stopped where I was on the stairs and they came to a halt on the first floor somewhere beneath me. I couldn’t see them, but I could hear everything.
“It’s just not down to me, Kathleen! It isn’t my responsibility. The social workers, the local authority, it’s their call. It’s nothing to do with me!”
Kathleen sounded really angry.
“That’s just lame, Jane! I never thought I’d hear that attitude from you. You know these girls. You’ve worked with them for years. Even if you don’t have proof you must still suspect what is going on. How can they possibly rehome them together? What will happen to Mary? Don’t you care?”
“Kathleen—it’s not my job! They wouldn’t take any notice of me anyway. It’s about money, resources—they aren’t going to care that those two girls don’t get along. The decisions are made way up the line.”
“But I am not talking about it as your job. I am talking about you saying something as a human being who cares about those girls. You’re her caregiver, for heaven’s sake! Say something. Stand up for her! Make a fuss! Who else can speak on her behalf?”
“You’re out of line, Kathleen. You’re talking about something you know nothing about!” Jane was really shouting now.
“It’s not out of line to care about that girl. If Mary goes to Sunny Rise with that little witch you know she will be miserable!”
“That’s enough, Kathleen! You shouldn’t speak about any of our girls like that no matter what you think they’ve done. I’ve had enough of this conversation.”
Jane stomped into view, straight across the hall and out of the front door, slamming it behind her.
“Listen to me!” shouted Kathleen. “Why won’t you listen to me?”
The noise echoed off the walls. And then it went quiet. Kathleen’s footsteps slowly returned to the back of the house and all was still.
And then I saw it.
The door to her room was ajar. I watched it slowly close and heard it click shut.
She had been listening too.
June 24, 1982
Jane came up to my room today. It is almost four months since she was up here last. She started off with all that friendly stuff like before but now that I know it is just a pretense, I kept my back to her and stared out of the window, watching the birds in the top branches of the tree outside.
I won’t forgive her for saying, for even thinking, those things about me. Ever.
She said we needed to talk. She asked me if I would sit down with her. I ignored her. There was a long and awkward silence and then she said she had to tell me about the changes here at Thornhill. They were: 1. Tomorrow Rachael and Hannah will be rehomed.
2. Then it will just be me and her as residents of Thornhill. Jane and Pete will stay here as our caregivers until we have been rehomed.