The quiet one, p.12
The Quiet One, page 12
Astrid isn’t in the staffroom, her usual seat occupied instead by no other than Casper Smith, our resident ageing portly maths teacher, a man with all the charm and sensitivity of your average garden slug. Rather than brave a conversation with him, I sit next to Eve Chambers, a bright-eyed and recently qualified art teacher. Life has yet to drag her through the mud, make her question anything and everything about her choices and trajectory. Our brief attempts at dialogue rarely strays from the banal. Eve is an acquaintance, not a friend. Our talks are always casual and distant. She lives with her parents, two dogs and a cat. She likes to read and is a member of a book club which she attends once a month. She doesn’t drink, abhors foul language and thinks that sex before marriage is a sin. Actually, I made the last part up but Eve is so strait-laced, she would find life far easier if she lived in the nineteenth century. I have no idea how she will survive here at Westland Academy.
I can barely conceal my relief when Astrid finally makes an appearance. She slides down next to me, gives Eve a broad smile and then turns to me, her voice hoarse as she speaks. ‘Jesus. Who the fuck thought up this smoking ban? I’d kill for a fag right now.’
Eve idly fiddles with the sleeve of her sweater, her gaze darting about, her mouth turned downwards in mild disapproval. Astrid mouths an apology to her then moves closer to me, out of Eve’s line of sight where she pulls a face and rolls her eyes. I keep my expression neutral, trying not to smile. Eve makes her excuses and leaves, scurrying off to the far side of the room to sit with some of the student teachers who are doing their teaching placement Westland Academy. She beams at them, shuffling closer to their tight little huddle and they all soon become immersed in conversation.
‘Astrid, don’t be mean,’ I say with a slight smile. ‘She’s new and a bit wet behind the ears, that’s all.’
‘Well, she’d better hurry up and grow a second frigging skin working in this place, or she won’t see the year out. Not with her sanity intact.’ She leans over to me, her gaze flickering slightly as she speaks. ‘So anyway, how did Wade take the news about the car?’
I blink, summoning up the strength to speak about it, thinking back to last night. To all those lies. ‘He was fine.’ I briefly close my eyes and shake my head. ‘Actually, that’s unfair. He was more than fine. He was brilliant. He’s always brilliant. Said it doesn’t matter about the car as long as nobody was hurt.’
Astrid puffs out her cheeks and nudges me. ‘Jesus Christ, woman! I hope you know how lucky you are. Nathan would have a complete bloody hissy fit if I crashed my car. He’s more concerned about a piece of sodding metal than he is me.’
We both know this isn’t entirely true. Nathan is a nice man and cares about Astrid, but she is definitely right about one thing – money means a lot to him. He enjoys the status it brings; the kudos of being considered wealthy serves him well when he attends legal functions or drives to the local country club for tennis lessons in his top-of-the-range Audi. It doesn’t make him a bad person but it does often cloud his judgement of people and make him lacking in compassion in certain areas of his life.
‘I told him we fancied a change from the usual so ate at The Red Lion and then went for a drive afterwards.’ I turn and stare at her, making sure she’s looking back at me. ‘Just in case he asks.’ She continues watching me. ‘I’m going to forget the rest ever happened.’ I don’t have to tell Astrid to do the same. She knows me well enough now. I don’t have to spell it out.
She nods and links her arm through mine and at that moment, last night’s visit to Glenn, the lies I’ve been telling Wade, and the letters I’ve been receiving and salting away, seem a dim and distant threat.
‘Not saying I agree with what you’re doing,’ she whispers softly, ‘but as the saying goes, I’ll defend your right to do it.’
18
1999
‘Morning, freak.’ The voice comes from the back of the room. She doesn’t look up, meet their eyes or sit near them. She has no idea how many of them there are seated there, in their regular protective throng. Always at the back. Better vantage point. And always together.
‘How’s your dad? Still dead?’ A giggle erupts from the crowd.
There is no let-up after the funeral. If she had hoped for a modicum of leniency from them, a sliver of decency and respect at such a torrid time, then she was sadly deluded. They follow her around school, throwing insults, trailing in her wake, always there. Always close by. Mocking, scornful. A relentless tirade. All her father’s death has done is give them more ammunition. More reasons to hate her. More reasons to drag her down.
There are times when she can, albeit briefly, watch them. If she gets lost in a crowd as the bell rings, or is seated at an angle in the canteen, she can observe their dynamics and try to work out what their next move will be. And on occasions, she can slip away unnoticed. But not often.
The ringleader shows no mercy, her jibes and insults coming thick and fast. A couple of the girls have enough civility to look shamefaced and pretend their attentions are elsewhere. They could hardly be described as bashful or diffident, but at least they glance away, try to distance themselves from certain situations. Situations that overstep the mark. Yesterday, she was slapped, called a whore, forced to listen as her father was mocked, her mother branded a drunken slut.
She’d like to think she’s becoming inured to it, that none of it matters any more. But of course it does. It hurts. Every second in their presence is an hour, every day, a year. Time drags.
And going home provides no escape. The heavy drinking had begun almost immediately. Prior to her father’s death, her mother had been a semi-functioning alcoholic, and although her mother’s input to everyday life had been minimal, at least she got out of bed each morning, got dressed and showed her face around the house. After the funeral, she lapsed into simply being an alcoholic. Seeing her mother slumped awkwardly in the chair or splayed out on the floor only exacerbates the girl’s depression and sense of isolation.
There is nowhere to run, no safe place. Her glimmer of hope, the lady next door, has kept her distance, unwilling, she surmises, to become associated with a family of drunks, a family of unwashed losers. She is truly alone. Aunt Petra visits infrequently, tired of cleaning up after her drunken, idle sister, tired of finding empty bottles strewn around the house. Soon she will stop coming around altogether. The happiness the girl hoped to find after the death of her father has disappeared into the ether.
She watches the gang of girls whenever she can, looking for cracks, fissures in their airtight chamber. There is still that one girl, the same one that awful day down by the river. The quiet one. She’s the weakest member of the gang, the one most likely to break away. Perhaps she has a conscience. Or perhaps not. Maybe she doesn’t like to get her hands dirty, preferring to watch from the side-lines.
The girl suppresses a sob, furious with herself for feeling this way. She doesn’t think she will ever be able to forgive them for how they treat her. Especially, her, Tanya Sharpe, the ringleader.
One day, things will definitely improve. Karma will play its part and they will all get their comeuppance. She only hopes she’s around to see it or perhaps even be the one who delivers it.
19
2019
Light falls in great waves over the dark asphalt, spreading across the lines of parked vehicles. It diffuses and dips over the red brick wall that surrounds the railway station, shadows spreading over the concrete floor. Commuters rush past, hurrying home after a busy week, their faces angular, lined; tense expressions gradually melting into relief as they slip into taxis or slide into their own vehicles and fire up the engine.
I circle around the car park for the third time in Wade’s vehicle, hoping to spot a space. The lock on the passenger door of my car seemed secure enough but I didn’t want to take any chances, not with the recent damage. The railway station is in one of the roughest areas in town and owners who park their vehicles here do so at their own risk. Car break-ins are a common occurrence.
A horn sounds behind me. In the rear-view mirror, I see a man gesticulating wildly, telling me to drive forward and move out of the way. I raise my arm and wave, hoping he’ll see it a as friendly gesture, then slowly nudge forward, praying somebody backs out in time for me to take their space.
For once, luck is on my side. A large SUV edges out of a corner space, leaving me plenty of room to reverse in and leave hooting, angry man to bother somebody else.
It only takes me one attempt to park up. I kill the engine and check my phone to make sure the train is on time. No messages from Wade, which fills me with relief. I assume everything is running as it should be.
Climbing out, I click the key, double check to make sure it’s locked and am slinging my bag over my shoulder when I feel the tap on my arm. I spin around to see a woman staring at me. Two small, snotty-nosed children hang around her legs, pawing at her and writhing about as they vie for her attention. Despite the chill in the air, she is wearing a skimpy vest top with her bra straps clearly visible beneath. Her arms are large and flabby and the wedge of flesh protruding from her midriff hangs loosely over the waistband of her jeans. She searches my face for some sort of recognition. She looks vaguely familiar but I cannot place her. Her skin is pale, almost translucent, with a sprinkling of broken veins across the cheeks, and her mouth is puckered into a thin line of disapproval as she watches me, waiting for a response. I don’t recognise her. Not immediately, although something deep within me stirs, a hand being dragged through murky waters, about to reveal something I would rather stay hidden.
‘Kyle!’ she shrieks, her hand slapping at one of the children as the two youngsters race around one another and kick at her podgy legs. A waft of nicotine filters over to me tinged with stale beer. She rolls her eyes, her voice loud, her accent thick and distinctly northern. ‘Fucking kids, eh? Who’d have ’em?’
I manage a weak smile, glancing beyond her as I do, to the clock in the distance. Wade’s train arrives in ten minutes. I was hoping to grab a coffee before he gets in.
‘Don’t recognise me, do ya, Stella?’
I freeze at the use of my name. She’s right. Despite the initial feeling of possible familiarity, I still don’t recognise her. I had wondered perhaps if she was a parent of one of my pupils but they wouldn’t know, or at least use, my first name. I always maintain a professional distance when speaking with them.
Her gaze bores into me as I wrack my brains, trying to work out who she is and how she knows me. I don’t have to wait long to find out.
‘It’s me, Tanya. Remember?’ She is smiling, her eyes searching mine, looking at me as if we are old friends. It takes a couple of seconds for everything to fall into place. My stomach ties itself into a knot. I shiver. Tanya Sharpe. Dear God, this desperate looking creature is Tanya Sharpe. I do know her. But we are definitely not old friends.
I nod, trying to muster up a smile, my mouth forming itself into a grimace. My teeth are bared, my lips feeling twisted and cracked as I grin manically at this person in front of me. ‘Right, yes. Of course. Tanya Sharpe.’
Saying her name out loud knocks me off kilter. I can’t quite believe she expected me to remember who she is. Tanya has changed beyond recognition. She has gained at least five stone, yet is wearing clothes built for a woman half her size. And here she is with two small children; I stare down at them and then back up at her pale, puckered face.
‘Yeah, both mine,’ she says with a laugh as if reading my mind. ‘Got another one at home as well. How many you got?’
I shake my head. ‘None. I can barely look after myself.’ I laugh to show her I’m being self-deprecating, not trying in any way to be over-bearing or superior. She would spot it. Her body may have altered beyond recognition but her mind, I feel sure, will be stuck in the same groove, that same way of assuming that anybody not on her wavelength deserves to be scorned and held to account.
‘What you up to now, then? You got a job and a house and stuff?’ She looks me up and down, at my polished shoes, my blue suit and designer handbag which I attempt to push out of sight.
‘I’m a teacher,’ I reply reluctantly. I immediately regret my words and think about why I’m still living so close to the village where I grew up. I should have made a clean break, got out of here while I had the chance. Yet here I am, still living and working in West Compton, the place that showed no kindness or compassion to me as a child. The place I should have left behind.
At least Tanya’s kids are too young to be any of my pupils and by the time they reach that age, I may well have moved on to pastures new. I refuse to tell her the name of the school. She knows nothing about me. I could be teaching anywhere in the North East. I will be frugal with any information I give out. Tanya is definitely not somebody I want to become friendly with. My memories of her are unpleasant, tinged with something dark, yet here she is, standing here, her smile wide, revealing tombstone teeth, her eyes glinting as she chats amiably like the old friends that we never were.
‘A teacher, eh? You always were a clever one. Not like me. I was a right thick cow.’ She waits for me to correct her, to tell her that she did just fine. Ordinarily, I would, if only to fill an awkward silence, but Tanya is no ordinary person. She doesn’t deserve any commendations or words of praise. She certainly doesn’t deserve to be pandered to by somebody who spent many years in her shadow, terrified and unable to break free from her clutches. I lost so much sleep over this woman, this loathsome creature before me. I am not about to defend her or boost her flagging ego. Tanya will hear no tributes from me. If her life is shit then that is her problem. She deserves everything she gets.
My formative years were tricky, my home life rough-edged and chaotic. School wasn’t much better with Tanya around, her monstrous, bullying ways dominating everybody. Going to university was the best thing that ever happened to me. It gave me a leg up in life, dragging me out of an environment where the Tanyas of the world are only too ready to sneer and bully and drag everybody down with them, to keep everybody at their level because deep down they are terribly insecure and so full of self-doubt that they cannot handle people who succeed in life.
‘Anyway,’ I say breezily, hoping my smile appears genuine even though my face is warped and tight, my skin stretching like the fabric of Tanya’s summer top, rigid and strained under such enormous pressure, ‘it’s been lovely to see you. Must dash.’ I make a point of looking again at the clock and then at my watch, to stress the fact that I am running late, that I need to leave.
‘Where you off to?’ she says as I turn and head off down the narrow path that leads to the platform.
I shake my head and give her a wave. ‘Sorry. In a bit of a rush. Got to go.’
The pavement thuds slightly, the sound like a beating drum as she runs to catch up with me, her two small children squawking at her side as she drags them along.
‘Krista, for fuck’s sake. Fucking shut up, will you!’
I wince at her voice, at the way she screams and swears at the youngsters. They look up at me and smile, undisturbed by her outburst, clearly accustomed to their mother’s brusque, unrefined manner. I smile back and avert my eyes away from them, focusing my gaze on the platform ahead. It’s like stepping back in time, with me unable to extricate myself from Tanya’s evil clutches. I’m a grown woman yet here I am again, at her mercy, her at my side, making demands on me, still trying to call all the shots.
‘We should swap numbers, arrange a get-together, you know, for old times’ sake.’
I nod but make a point of picking up my pace and looking again at my watch.
‘We had some good times back in the day, didn’t we?’
I almost choke on my own saliva. Is that what she really thinks? This woman is clearly mad. Mad and deluded. Does she actually remember those days with a sense of fondness? I think about how sad and lonely her life was and think that it obviously still is; so sad that she’s still clinging on to some invisible vestiges of a past that in truth, was utterly dreadful and unimaginably horrible. Tanya was a vile bully who made miserable the lives of dozens of kids at that school, including me.
We are almost at the platform, the noise and crowds threatening to separate us, when she pulls me back and spins me around to face her. ‘Here. Give us a call. Be good to chat about our school days. I’m in The Anchor every Saturday night. And a couple of nights during the week if I can get a sitter for these little ankle biters. We could meet in there and sink a few.’
The words over my dead body explode in my head.
I smile and nod, the sinews in my neck so taut, I am sure they must be visible. Can she not see how uncomfortable I am in her presence? Is she really that dense? I take the scrap of paper, watching through narrowed eyes, my teeth clamped together tightly as she winks at me. She turns and drags the two little ones along with her, their legs barely touching the ground as she pulls them to her side with her pale, flabby arms. I watch, both horrified and mesmerised, as Tanya merges into the crowd, her messy, blonde hair bobbing about until she finally vanishes out of sight. Only then do I tear up the paper she handed me and shove the tiny pieces into the side pocket of my handbag. I will enjoy disposing of them once we get back home. I visualise myself taking a lighter to her words, watching as the paper turns into a pile of grey, crumbling ash. It will be like disposing of Tanya herself. I was never brave enough to stand up to her all those years ago and in truth, am still a little afraid of her even now. I do know however, that I would rather gouge out my own eyes with a blunt instrument than spend an evening with her at a local pub, especially the Anchor, an insalubrious place that is regularly raided by the police looking for under-age drinkers and drugs.
