Bleeding heart yard, p.10
Bleeding Heart Yard, page 10
In English, Chris had a massive hate against A.E. Housman, one of our set poets. When I told him about the spoof poem, ‘What, still alive at twenty-two . . .’ he started to write his own parodies and leave them in my locker. I still have some of them.
The cherry is where the bird has its nest. I love lasses but lads are best.
I’m just a cheerful Shropshire bunny. Murder is nice and suicide funny.
Despite the guitar-playing in assembly, Chris was really known in school as an artist. His huge abstract canvases were always hung in the entry hall where prospective parents could see them. But he also did lightning sketches on the back of exercise books or photocopied handouts: Gary yawning, Izzy playing with her hair, Henry frowning at the Telegraph. They were brilliant likenesses. When I wrote a murder mystery for the school magazine (edited by Gary), Chris illustrated it with dark alleyways and sleuths in trench coats and trilby hats.
With our in-jokes and our matching clothes, I suppose Chris and I looked like a couple long before we were one. But it wasn’t until a month before A levels that we finally got it together. School was over for students taking exams. We were meant to be studying at home, but The Group gravitated to Gary’s house where we had the run of an attic we called the Crow’s Nest. We’d lie on the floor with our books and with the best intentions of working but, before long, we were playing Snog, Marry, Avoid with Busta Rhymes blaring out of the CD player.
Sometimes we’d explore London. It was a beautiful late spring although the summer would later turn cold and rainy. It was as if we had the capital to ourselves, while less fortunate souls were at work or school. One day we went to Hyde Park. Gary had been reading Three Men and a Boat and wanted to go boating on the Serpentine. In the end, only Gary, Henry and Cassie ventured onto the water. Izzy and Sonoma wandered off to get drinks and Chris and I lay on the grass. I can still remember the smell of it and the sounds of a London summer, a rounders game, radios playing, the siren call of the ice cream van. I was lying propped up on one elbow, talking to Chris who was flat on his back. I can’t remember what we were talking about, only that Chris’s eyes suddenly opened, and it was as if he was seeing me for the first time. The moment seemed to last for ever until I leant forward and Chris raised himself up so that our lips met.
I’d kissed boys before, of course. I’d almost had sex with my Year 11 boyfriend, saved only by his mother coming home from the shops early. But this was different. It was a perfect, movie-star kiss. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see hearts and flowers surrounding us, like a cartoon. Instead what we got was Izzy spraying a newly opened can of Coke over us and Gary, still wearing his life jacket, saying, ‘And about time too.’
That was it. We walked home holding hands and, two days later, I lost my virginity to Chris in the spare room of his smart house in Chelsea, the only room that had a key. I honestly thought it was for ever. I cringe now when I remember writing ‘Mrs Anna Foster’ in my diary, practising what I thought would be my adult signature. We were inseparable until, moments after our final English exam, Chris said, ‘I think we should stop seeing each other.’
‘I don’t remember talking about killing him,’ I said.
‘You must remember. We were in the Crow’s Nest. You said that David had tried it on with you and Cassie suddenly blurted out that David had raped her. We were all really shocked. Sonoma said she should tell the police. Gary said that the police never listened to women and we should kill him.’
I did remember saying that about David but not what prompted it. I had been looking out of the window, not thinking of anything much. I can still see the view over the rooftops, the satellite dishes that were starting to sprout up, the lights in all those converted attic bedrooms.
‘He didn’t “try it on with me”,’ I said, putting tetchy quotation marks around the words. ‘He forced himself on me. I remember Izzy mocking me for saying that.’
‘So you do remember the conversation?’
‘It was a joke,’ I said, feeling a panicky sensation like the one I got whenever I entered the lift at Attlee Towers. ‘Nobody took it seriously. We were treating it like a game, like one of those murder mysteries I used to write. I think I said you could get poison from flowers. Digitalis.’
‘It wasn’t a joke,’ said Chris. ‘I honestly think Gary would have murdered him. I was the one who said we couldn’t do that. I said we should just beat him up a bit.’
‘You were going to beat him up?’
Chris looks slightly offended and flexes an arm that looks more muscle-toned than it did when it used to wrap itself round me.
‘I wanted to defuse things,’ he said. ‘Gary was scaring me. He could be so intense. And Cassie was really upset. Understandably, of course. Gary said that we should scare David. Scare him to death, was what he said. That’s when we decided on the Imperial plan. Cassie would lure David there and Gary would pretend to push him onto the tracks.’
‘I don’t remember that,’ I said.
‘You might not have been there for all the conversations,’ said Chris. ‘But I knew something bad was going to happen that day. That’s why I . . . why I didn’t want you there.’
‘Is that why you finished with me?’ I said. ‘I’ve often wondered.’ I tried to keep my voice light but I could hear twenty-one years of hurt in my tone.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Chris.
‘Don’t give it another thought,’ I said. ‘Shall we eat now? I’m starving.’
At the table, which was by the window with its view over the unreal city, we ate Thai green curry, drank white wine, and talked about the day a group of sixth-formers planned to scare one of their classmates to death.
‘Gary was going to tell him “now you’re going to pay”,’ said Chris. ‘It was all very melodramatic.’
‘Why don’t I remember any of this?’ I said, less worried, perhaps, than I should have been. This was probably down to the alcohol. I’d rather got out of the way of drinking in recent years. Italians rarely fill up your glass if you’re a woman.
‘You weren’t there for a lot of the discussions,’ said Chris.
‘Where was I?’
‘Probably at work.’
That figured. I was the only one of the group without rich parents and, consequently, I had a job at the local Co-op. I worked there two evenings a week and all day Saturday.
‘What actually happened that day?’ I said.
Chris refilled our glasses and took a deep swig before replying. ‘I got there first,’ he said. ‘After we . . . after you and I talked . . . I went straight to the station. That was the plan. That I’d be at the exit to stop David escaping. Although, what with me being such a wimp, I don’t know what I could have done about it.’
‘Stop sulking,’ I said, ‘and get on with the story.’ Because it did seem like a story at that point.
‘Cassie and David arrived together. David didn’t notice me – he only had eyes for Cassie – but I think she did. They went down the steps and I heard them talking. David was laughing, I remember that. Then the train went past – it was like an explosion – and I heard this terrible scream. Jesus. I’ve never heard anything like it. I found out later that it was Gary, yelling from the bridge. I just couldn’t believe that he could have made a sound like that. Anyway, seconds later, Cassie came running up the stairs with Henry.’
‘Henry? What was he doing there?’
‘The idea was that Henry and Gary would put David’s crimes to him. Like a court. That was my idea. I was used to my parents talking about people breaking down when they were cross-examined or when they heard the jury’s verdict. I thought David should know that he’d committed a crime.’
‘Do you think he didn’t know?’
‘I think he must have known, at some level,’ said Chris, ‘but I’m not sure that he thought it was rape. Cassie said that he seemed quite surprised when she dumped him afterwards.’
I remembered David laughing as he pushed me against the pool table, the casual way he left me afterwards. I don’t think either of us had a word for what happened.
‘Henry and Gary were the eloquent ones,’ said Chris. ‘The debaters. They were going to tell David that he’d committed a serious crime, that he could go to prison, or juvenile detention, for years. Then Gary was going to say that, because of the well-known misogyny of the police, we’d decided to take matters into our own hands.’
‘Jesus.’
‘I really do think that David would have been terrified,’ said Chris. ‘But Gary wasn’t there. For some reason he was late and only just crossing the footbridge. And he saw it happen.’
‘What did happen?’ I said. ‘I only know what I read in the papers. I’m not sure that I even took it in at the time.’ Because I was so upset about you, I added in my head.
‘Gary said that David stumbled and fell,’ said Chris. ‘He always stuck to that story and I always believed him. Henry said the same. But, on the day, Henry was mainly worried about getting Cassie out of there.’
‘Why?’
‘He said afterwards that, if the police interviewed Cassie, they’d find out about the rape. She didn’t want that. Plus, it would have given her a motive. That’s why I told them that David had been on his own when I saw him arrive.’
‘You lied,’ I said.
Chris was silent for a moment, the candlelight playing on his face.
‘Yes, I did,’ he said. ‘It seemed the right thing to do at the time. That was the narrative. Exams were over. David went to Imperial to take drugs. He fell under a train. Tragic accident. Case closed.’
‘Cassie was inconsolable all summer,’ I said. ‘She just sat in her room. Wouldn’t even go to the park with me. Her parents were really worried.’
‘I think she blamed herself for not saving him,’ said Chris. ‘Perhaps for telling us about the rape and setting the whole thing in motion. I remember her coming out of the station with Henry. She looked wild. Like a stranger. Henry told her to go home and she just ran without looking back. She didn’t go inter-railing with us after A levels. It was as if she was punishing herself.’
‘Unless,’ I said. ‘Unless she did push him.’
‘If she did,’ said Chris. ‘Only one person knows for sure. And he’s dead.’
But Henry was there too, I thought. I would give my old friend a call tomorrow.
19
Anna
Tuesday
I rang Henry the next day and he invited me for tea ‘at the house’. It was a few seconds before I realised that he meant the Houses of Parliament. It struck me as an endearingly immodest choice of meeting place. I was surprised, and rather pleased, that Henry would want to show off to me. I accepted, partly because I knew my friend Simonetta would be impressed. Since Brexit, British politics have become a popular spectator sport in Italy. You can’t get in a cab without the driver doing an impression of the Speaker saying ‘Order, Order’.
Mum was impressed too. She was very tired that morning, partly because I’d woken her up getting in at two a.m., so I brought her breakfast in bed. I knew she wouldn’t eat much but I took care to make it look nice, flowers on the tray, paper towel folded like a napkin, the G2 bit of the Guardian. Mum always did this. We didn’t have much money growing up – I know I’m a touch repetitive on this point – but, on our birthdays, she’d make laurel wreath crowns with branches nicked from the park and deck the room with fairy lights. We’d have breakfast in bed with flowers and the latest comic. I hoped she’d remember that now, but she just smiled faintly and made space on her bed.
She sipped some orange juice but didn’t touch the toast although I’d cut it into triangles specially. She perked up a bit, though, when I told her about Henry.
‘I’m so glad you’re seeing all your old schoolfriends. Fancy Henry becoming an MP. Gary too. Poor thing.’
Mum was almost the only person who remembered to add the sorrowful sub-clause. And even she seemed to put Gary’s death aside when she asked, with an expression on her thin face that was so transparent it was almost heartbreaking, ‘How was Chris last night?’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘He cooked me a delicious curry and we talked about the old days.’
‘You didn’t stay the night then?’
‘Mum!’ I said, aiming for jocularity. ‘Are you asking if I slept with him?’
‘Yes,’ said Mum.
She was always annoyingly straightforward about sex. I used to wish she was like other parents who assumed their teenage children didn’t have sex lives. Izzy’s parents even let Gary sleep in her bedroom because they were ‘just friends’.
‘Well, I didn’t,’ I said. ‘It was good to see him again though.’
‘I always liked Chris.’
‘I know you did. He liked you too.’ I hadn’t told Chris about Mum’s illness. I thought his sympathy would be the thing that finished me off completely.
‘I like his songs too. “She Doesn’t Know She’s Beautiful” always reminds me of you.’
‘He said it was about me,’ I couldn’t resist telling her. ‘But I said I did know I was beautiful.’
‘That’s my girl,’ said Mum.
But I would never be as beautiful as her.
I arranged to meet Henry the next day, but I actually had another encounter with an old schoolfriend that afternoon. I was in the chemist’s looking for Bonjela for Mum’s ulcers when a figure wearing sunglasses and swathed in a stripy scarf pushed past me to collect a prescription. I’d recognised the hair and even the perfume before I heard her identify herself as ‘Mrs West’.
‘Izzy?’
‘Anna! What are you doing here?’
‘I’m staying with Mum. She just lives around the corner.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Izzy vaguely. Unlike Chris, Cassie and Henry, she had never visited Attlee Towers. I knew that Izzy’s parents had lived in a smart part of Chelsea and it didn’t surprise me that she had drifted back to the same area. She didn’t ask what I was buying, and I didn’t enquire about her prescription. We walked a few hundred yards to where a Porsche was parked at an entitled angle.
‘Wasn’t it awful about Gary?’ I said. I remembered that Izzy and Gary had always been close, but I didn’t expect her eyes to fill with tears.
‘Awful,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how I’ll cope. I’ve just been collecting some sleeping pills.’ She rattled the chemist’s bag at me.
‘Terrible for his wife and children,’ I said.
Izzy waved a hand as if dismissing Italian Paula and her progeny. ‘Did the police come to see you?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘They asked about David’s death.’
‘What did you tell them?’ Izzy grasped my arm, rather painfully.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t there.’
‘Nor was I,’ said Izzy quickly. ‘But Gary was and . . . oh, Anna . . . I’ve got an awful feeling that was why he was killed.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said. I thought of Chris saying: ‘Only one person knows for sure. And he’s dead.’
‘I can’t talk here,’ said Izzy, taking a look along the parade of shops, almost empty at three o’clock in the afternoon. ‘Come over later. About six. Oliver will be out then.’
I did wonder why that was so important.
I expected Izzy to live somewhere grand and I was right. It was in one of those millionaires’ rows where the houses seem to be made of icing sugar, white with identical crenellations and porticos, demonstrating their individuality only by the colour of their front doors. Izzy’s was emerald green.
What I hadn’t expected was that she’d have her daughter with her. Or that the daughter would be so much of a person. Izzy introduced the girl as Annie. She was about seven, I suppose, with long dark hair in plaits. Izzy’s eyes are meltingly brown but her daughter’s are bright blue. This was from Oliver West, whose azure gaze was meant to drive middle-aged women to madness.
‘We’re making brownies,’ Annie informed me.
‘Only from a packet,’ said Izzy with a shrug. ‘It’s Maria’s day off.’
I had no idea who Maria was but it was fascinating to watch Izzy moving about her beautiful kitchen. It was bigger than Mum’s entire flat with one of those island things and doors leading out into the garden. Izzy and Annie spooned the mixture into a baking tray and argued about who got to lick the spoon. Then Izzy approached a matt-black oven, pressed a hidden button and illuminated the interior. It was a like a son et lumière display.
‘I’ll set the timer,’ Izzy told Annie. ‘You can watch TV in the snug if you like.’
This was obviously a treat because Annie skipped off, plaits bouncing. As soon as she had gone Izzy headed for the giant Smeg fridge.
‘Wine?’
‘Yes, please.’ I had a feeling I would need it. I remembered drinking gin and tonic in Chris’s palatial apartment. Alcohol certainly seemed to take the edge off social inequality.
Izzy poured us both huge glasses and sat at the other side of the gleaming marble island.
‘It’s good to see you again, Anna. We didn’t get much time to talk at the reunion.’
‘Well, it was rather eventful,’ I said. I remembered how pleased I’d been to see Izzy that night and, to my slight surprise, those feelings came rushing back.
Izzy’s eyes filled with tears. ‘It was awful. I still can’t believe that Gary’s gone. I have to stop myself crying in front of Oliver. I’ve had a continual headache since Saturday.’
I didn’t ask why she couldn’t cry in front of her husband, but she told me anyway. How she and Gary had got talking on a Facebook group (another good reason not to have a smartphone) and had ‘fallen back in love’. ‘There’s nothing like first love,’ she said. ‘I don’t have to tell you that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you and Chris. We were the lovebirds of The Group, weren’t we? Me and Gary, you and Chris.’
‘I haven’t seen Chris for twenty-one years,’ I said. ‘Until last Saturday.’
‘Oh, I sometimes see him at events,’ said Izzy carelessly. ‘And I always think he looks a bit sad beneath it all. You know “She Doesn’t Know She’s Beautiful” always reminds me of you.’
