The PE teacher might be flirting. I have lost sight of what is straight and what is not straight. She bends to scratch her thigh. Points out the hat, touching the brim. I wouldn’t dare. The Girls begin to join them. Mrs S puts her arm around a few. Good luck, I can see the words on her lips, good luck. They are already competitive. Two begin to stretch again for her benefit. Everybody belongs to her. She looks at me again but does not wave. I look back. It is a thrill, to look back, to meet her gaze. Today I wear a t-shirt that skims my arms, the part of my arms I am proud of. I shift forward in my chair. Let my elbows rest on the stack of names. I wish I had The Housemistress’s secret tattoos. I would show Mrs S a little of one now, that brief snake head. A queue is forming in front of me. The Girls emerge from the woods in packs. A group of five or six are escorted by the history teacher. Already captured, I assume, after their failed attempts to hide. They puff their chests, talk even louder, refusing to believe they should be in trouble. The history teacher is rough. He grabs the nearest elbows and propels them forward. He would not be afraid to call them his prisoners.

  At last Mrs S approaches. Cutting in front of the queue, arriving at my side. She places her palm flat on my stack of names. Busy day? Yes. I give her the word, this yes. Yes. I want her to notice my mouth. Keep up the good work. The Girls call nervously to one another, voices growing larger, sending their fate into the sky, what else is there to receive it. She pauses for a minute. Nothing is said. Her palm remains on my table. We are only inches apart. Mr S, is he OK? Oh he’s fine. Here somewhere. She looks out into the crowd. The whole school almost. The history teacher marches up the slight slope towards us. He is bright red, a different red to his alcoholism, a shade of recent protest and pleasure. Tweed waistcoat unbuttoned, blond hair stuck to his temples. Tell no one I was here. She leaves quickly, wanting to avoid him, slipping between The Girls, who smile at her. The history teacher notices her departure and, disappointed, slows his pace. He turns to The Girls that follow him reluctantly. I’ll be watching you, no more fussing, do you hear, the race will be over quicker than you think, just get on with it. And there he is. Mr S. A bandage around his hand. I can’t believe it. I wonder who has asked him about it. This was his aim, I assume, to be asked about it. Parents have arrived too. This is an historic event. They pay for the history. Over by the hockey fields they will have parked their washed cars, the wives smirking across the grass, the husbands downplaying their own enjoyment, woollen picnic rugs itchy and hot under their arms as they follow the signage through the woods.

  Gather round gather round. The tree stump is enormous. Wide, splendid with rings. It has probably always been called from. Behind him, to his right, the hill. A smell emerges as if it is a body also suffering in the heat. Grass burning in the sun, but something wet still lingering at the centre. Yes hello welcome. He waves like a celebrity to the parents. Only the wives wave back. The light flirtation is customary in these circles. Welcome to the, goodness, where are we now, the eighty-first edition of the race, of our special race. People cup their hands over their eyes in order to see him better. The light is brilliant. She stands to one side of the stump, still with the PE teacher. I have to be jealous of everybody. She watches him, smiling.

  I know The Girls can’t wait to get going. His voice thrown out amongst the masses. He grows more comfortable. Well, most of The Girls can’t wait to get going. His audience titters. The starting line is narrow. There are over three hundred of them. Stood in clumps across the field. They will be organized by age. The youngest allowed to begin first, the oldest farther back. I feel bad about the two with the sore bellies. I look for them in the rows of blue but cannot make them out. Ponytail after scraped ponytail. The hill stands just ahead. Enough time, sufficient metres, for those at the back to rush to the front, become leaders of the pack. For this scramble there is only The Nurse, no one else, no ambulance. The sanatorium has only a few beds. She has with her a first aid kit, opening it now, checking its contents, licking her lips.

  Somebody hands Mr S a box. He opens it, revealing red silk. A gun in the centre. Perhaps not a gun, what could I possibly know, perhaps something only similar to a gun. It is almost the exact size of his hand, although his hands are large. He uses the one that is not bandaged. An extraordinary thing to see. This man on the tree stump, The Girls below him, eyes alert, ready to follow his fired shot. He puts the megaphone to his mouth. On your marks, get set. The gun goes. Birds, once quiet in the sun, are suddenly alarmed. Pigeons take off clumsily, sprung from themselves, branches turned to elastic. The woods shudder with their departure. Crows too, although more relaxed. Barking into the air only briefly before settling once again. The Girls are ferocious but there is not yet enough room for their ferocity. They push up against one another, shoulder hitting shoulder, elbows gone between ribs. I watch as one vomits from nerves, wipes her mouth, and runs towards the rest. The athletic group are easy to spot. They move quickly, around the outside, cutting back in just as the hill begins. I think I see the spikes catching the light even though they don’t in reality. I have been in the heat too long. The sharp, metallic flashes are my own. Parents shout individual names. There is a funnel at the hill’s base. The Girls must queue before the ascent. Some run around, trying to find a clever way up, not wanting to appear like everybody else. The hill is less forgiving on its far side. The Girls fade from view until they reappear, grass stains across their chests, having slipped or fallen. The athletes have made it to the front. Now they compete. With a few of the parents I move closer to the action. The sight is irresistible. Six, seven of them, calves rigid with effort, cheeks blown. They climb. Each foot lightly fixed to earth. Nearer to the trees, nearer to the ash, the atmosphere shifts. Heads glance back and forth. Examining the distance of one body to the next. There are three that begin to peel away. A fourth makes a break from behind. Sensing her chase, The Girl just in front jabs her spikes backwards. Her shin is punctured. Blood takes a few seconds to appear. Three holes, red running in steady, thin lines. She looks down, keeps running, reaching out a hand to grab the shirt of The Girl that has injured her but unable to make the distance. The parents standing with me do not react the way I feel they should. A husband and wife only clench their fists with anticipation. Decorum, non-stop decorum. Perhaps one of the athletes belongs to them. It happens again, the trees almost within reach, The Girl barely in second place launches the sole of her shoes, spikes bared like teeth, at The Girl in first. She misses, then finally catches her on the next attempt, ankle left ragged. How is it possible for something to matter this much.

  She is nearby. I had not noticed her. A hand inside her shirt, pressed against her collarbone. Her fingers agitated beside her hip. He is not with her. The crowd forms a semicircle around the hill. The finish line is beside the old stone wall. Cheers erupt as The Girls begin to slap the ash. I can hear his voice, Mr S, although I cannot see him. Their arms are tired but they want to make a display, want to have the sound of flesh on bark. The dead author wanted the same. With a final effort they sling forward, the palm making dull contact. The descent is dangerous, the history teacher informed me, the descent is the most dangerous section by far. He slapped his own thighs, others in the staffroom looking our way, the legs give out, you can’t grip. I asked if he had tried to climb the hill himself. No, no, no need, all you have to do is watch.

  The Girls slip downwards, shuddering. These three do not stumble. The fourth is more tired, more desperate. She does not pick her way sideways as the others do. Her mind is elsewhere, her mind is already at the bottom. At the hill’s lip she careens over, at first graceful, but soon the angle is too severe. Knees buckle as if hit from behind. She gives in to the fall. Eyes closed, no sound. Her torso whips and whips. The Girls in front look quickly over their shoulders but do not stop. Finally she is on her stomach, hands clawing at the grass. She looks over her shoulder and sees she is only halfway down. Her fingertips release. A plan to fall to the end. Slowly her body goes, too slowly, she knows it is pathetic. She tries to find speed, rolling, sliding, kicking at the ground. A fifth girl edges past, then a sixth, a seventh. She cannot fall to the bottom.

  He is beside Mrs S. An arm around her waist. It is preventative. He does not want her to run to The Girl, whispering in her ear, hoping to soothe, not wanting dramatics. More of The Girls pass by. She refuses to get up. Already the other three are sprinting along the wall. The Nurse will not let them collapse as they cross the finish line. Gold, silver, bronze. She encourages them to walk, to keep their heart rates from falling too quickly. Mr S does not let his wife go. She twists under his arm. Her body is my body. It is a relief, to be her body. Were it not for her I would not consider this. I am not a brave person. I run towards The Girl, then slow to a walk. Decorum, decorum. My shoes skid. On all fours it is easier to climb the hill’s bulk. No longer dignified. I can hear her whimpers.

  I can’t move. You can, you can get up. I can’t. The back of her neck is glazed with sunburn. You should finish. Why. She speaks into the grass. Why should I finish. Her question marks are missing. From this angle I can’t see the holes on her shin. Blood not yet dried on her white socks. If I pinched the fabric it would leave a stain on my fingertips. I’ll sit here until you get up. I move awkwardly upwards. Brace my legs to hold a position on the slope. Below a small crowd has turned towards us. The Nurse already at the bottom, shouting, waving, wanting everyone to notice the spectacle I have created. Mrs S has been released. She has moved away from him, standing slightly in front. His arms crossed against his chest. The bandaged hand held slightly aloft. I could get in trouble. The rules for the race are written down on some old piece of paper, carefully preserved behind glass, kept in the headmaster’s study. I haven’t read them. Intervention, though, intervention is surely cheating. I try to be tough. You can’t just sit there. She turns her head. There are no tears, I am surprised, if I was her I would be crying. You can’t just lie there. The Girls come down the hill in spates. The last of them. Most go slower now, carefully. A few call out her name, the one lying beside me. Not enough breath left for a full sentence. I try talking to her a final time. Your friends want you to finish. They’re not my friends.

  The crowd loses interest in us. Most walk towards the finish line to celebrate the winners. Even The Nurse gives up. As she leaves she casts her head over her shoulder again and again. She wants me to know it is not over. I’ve broken a rule. Only Mrs S remains. I can’t see her face. Her hat, the stupid, wonderful hat. Is she proud of me? She is unbearably still. Her hand no longer inside her shirt. Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps she did not want to rescue The Girl. But it is her thing, to rescue them. That is all she has, to rescue them. There is nothing I can do now but sit. The Girls have stopped coming down the hill. It is over. At the finish line The Nurse hands out her orange squash. Somewhere The Housemistress, the PE teacher, the history teacher mingle. Mrs S should be with them. Momentarily she allows herself to be forgotten.

  How long do you think you’ll lie there for? I don’t care. Are you injured? Can you walk? Of course I can walk, I could run if I wanted. A blade of grass is caught between her teeth. With a loud suck of her tongue she sets it free, spitting it back onto the ground. Well I don’t want to sit here all day. Then don’t. The Girl rolls over. She licks the flat of her palm and wipes at the holes in her shin. Gross, no? Now a question mark, her tone invigorated. Tiny chunks of skin loosen. Dint after dint. Drying blood comes off in crumbs. She antagonizes one hole enough that fresh blood begins again. Somebody should clean that properly for you. Whatever it doesn’t hurt. She notices Mrs S, has noticed Mrs S, perhaps that is why she rolled over. There’s always next year. I don’t plan on being here next year. Right.

  Do you two need help getting down, what’s the hold-up? Mrs S looks at us. We are both pleased. We’re fine. She walks towards the hill’s base, her hat now flapping in one hand. It is good to see her eyes. If you don’t come down I shall have to climb up and it will be a sight. Her foot scrapes the earth. A sight. The Girl laughs. A real laugh. She gets up and offers me her hand, as if I am the one in need. I refuse it. She shrugs and begins to balance downwards, moving her feet with expertise, at speed. I try to follow. The hill betrays my shape, my stance. It doesn’t believe I can make it down. I can’t. I slip. The Girl is already at the bottom. She releases her long hair then ties it up again, smoothing her temples, scraping her fingers across her crown. Go sideways, she calls up to me, turns her body in an example. Lift your knees, go sideways. I don’t listen. I stand, twist my neck as if it is on purpose, that I had to stand, that I had to stop moving for some great reason. They watch in silence. I want to tell them to stop watching. Behind me, behind the hill, the fells doze. A single bird of prey calls, breaking through the sound of the crowd still ecstatic at the finish line. I make this bird my great reason. I look for it. It angles over the next field. I know nothing about birds.

  Mrs S crouches and looks at The Girl’s injuries. One hand on the back of her calf. The Girl balances by placing a palm on her back. They share an easy femininity, a peculiar safety in one another’s presence. The hat lies on the ground beside them. I begin to move again. Encouraged by their distraction. I make it to the bottom unscathed. They are deep in conversation. The Girl’s chin juts. Now she is close to tears, holding back, it takes her whole chest. Mrs S soothes. You should go and see The Nurse, get those war wounds taken care of. I can’t just go over there. You can, you will, look at those, very impressive. Mrs S reaches out towards the cut on her face. The Girl considers this for a moment. They are aren’t they, they’re pretty impressive, war wounds. She looks down at her legs. Hairless, she already shaves. Her age is difficult to pinpoint. She is taller than I realized. Mrs S rubs her back. Go on. Reluctantly The Girl makes her way across the field. She does not turn around to look at us again. A limp is added to her walk.

  Hello. We have not been alone since her hallway. Hello. At the finish line he is on his megaphone again. Performing a ceremony of cheap medals that The Girls are allowed to keep. They come from the larger supermarket, on the edge of town, metal only from a distance, plastic up close. Even The Girl in first place will not be allowed to touch the real trophy. The crowd stands in its semicircle, backs to us. It was good of you, to go up there. I’m not sure. No, it was. I wanted to, I wanted to go myself. I saw. You did? Of course. The bird of prey calls again. Broken, a note snapped in two, thrown back up the fells. I pretend again to search for it. Its large wings are nowhere to be seen. My gaze returns to her face. She puts a finger to her lip and pauses. Holds it there. One second, two seconds, three seconds. With fast violence her finger moves, pushing into her mouth, a glimpse of teeth, back and forth. At last she bites down. Releases. We are in public. Unable to take me in her mouth, she imitates my finger, our kitchen scene. This is what it is to be wanted. Loving her will be impossible. There is nothing I can do to stop it.

  A note in my cubbyhole. Both the drama teacher and the maths teacher separately informed me. They were gleeful. I rarely have anything in my cubbyhole. An enormous set of shelves, kept in the staffroom, used between the adults only. The others share books, jumpers, wrapped presents on birthdays, inside jokes, food made at home. A piece of paper, torn. Requesting my help at the church at one. Already it is twelve forty-five. I do not recognize the handwriting. Each letter careful, perhaps a revised draft, other versions fluttering to the floor.

  Anything exciting? The history teacher looms. Nothing like that. Like what? He thinks he is charming. Nothing friendly, no gifts, not a gift voucher. His chest is only inches from my chest. I am taller than he is, even as he stretches up his calves. I can almost see the top of his head. Right you are, shame, maybe next time eh. Yeh maybe next time. I push open the door and read the note again in the corridor. Come to the church for 1 p.m. That’s it, that’s all.

  In the bathroom I look at my face. It has been a while. There I am, never as I expect. My hair greasy at my temples. Jaw belonging to my father, to my grandfather. Masculine legacies. I am not proud of my father but I am proud of his jaw. Unbreakable. His brow too. Chin, eyes, both my mother’s. Although something else has happened to my eyes. They can no longer be placed. The colour a light brown, some depth, then a limit. People mistake me for cold. I don’t know what it means when it is said to me, to be cold. That I am not able to be immediately understood, to be read one way or another. My nose, once broken, is no longer anybody’s, not even mine. A car crash years ago. A scar across my cheekbone. Two more below my ear. This landscape, my landscape. I rub my eyes with water.

  Two of The Girls enter and join me at the mirrors. Hi Miss. In unison. There must be some boys due to visit from the other school. They apply lip gloss, checking one another’s. Little licks of mascara. More lip gloss, a fingertip to the corner of the mouth, adjusting a smear. They take steps back and forward. Contemplating each other from a distance. More make-up is added. Pinkish eyeshadow is applied with the curved sweep of a thumb. A brush is dusted with bronzer, pale concealer dabbed under their eyes. They clasp hands then release. Their belief in each other is genuine, their beauty unstoppable. Every inch of the present tense lived. Even as they piss, separated by stalls, they chat. Once re-emerged they are back to the mirror again, turning, bringing their chins up and down. One last look. See you Miss. Yeh see you Miss.

  I wait a few minutes until they will be clear of the corridor. Through the front door and out onto the path. It is twelve fifty-five. I walk slowly, only a few minutes from the church. Twelve fifty-seven. If it isn’t her in the church I might die. Flowers on the bushes have bloomed yellow. Above, the sky is a bruise. Sped-up, faster than flesh, darkening at the centre. Maybe a storm, finally a storm. The first church gate. I don’t go inside immediately. I’ve made it to twelve fifty-nine. It would be better to be late, to seem as though I could have been elsewhere. A roll of thunder, no rain. Lightning. The dead author did not write through summer. She needed the damp. Slick rock faces, feet sinking into sodden grasses, longer, darker nights. The hairs on my arms rise, hopeful, in anticipation of rain. My watch will not make it to one. The door to the church is closed. She must already be inside. Still no rain. I look up, the sky bulges. I am trapped under a glass. The air hot as my breath. I step inside. Hello, hello. My voice is good in the church, it has body, it takes possession. Up the aisles are roses in buckets. Pink, red, peach. Stems long. Some are not in buckets but jars, the roses leaning hard, about to tip. Hello. She waves. It is her, waving. At the broken window, layers of black plastic billow. Still no repair.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22