Rule Three
Don’t Get Caught
LITTLE LIAR.
Little liar.
The words sound in time with my footsteps on the pavement as I half walk, half jog out of Salten, their pitch rising with Freya’s siren cries.
At last, maybe half a mile outside the village, I can’t take it any more – my back is on fire with carrying her, and her cries drill into my head like nails. Little liar. Little liar.
I stop by the dusty side of the road, put the brake on the pram and sit on a log, where I unclip my nursing bra and put Freya to my breast. She gives a glad little shriek and throws up her chubby hands, but before she latches on, she pauses for a moment, looking up at me with her bright blue eyes, and she smiles, and her expression is so very clearly Honestly! I knew you’d get the hint eventually that I can’t help but smile back, though my back is sore, and my throat hurts from swallowing down my rage and fear at Luc.
Little liar.
The words come floating back through the years to me, and as Freya feeds, I shut my eyes, remembering. Remembering how it started.
It was January, bleak and cold, and I was just back from a miserable holiday with my father and brother – unspoken words over hard, dry turkey, and presents that my mother hadn’t chosen, with her name written in my father’s handwriting.
Thea and I came down together from London, but we missed the train we were supposed to catch, and consequently the connection with the school minibus at the station. I stood under the waiting-room canopy, sheltering from the cold wind, smoking a cigarette while Thea rang the school office to find out what we should do.
‘They’ll be here at five thirty,’ Thea reported back, as she hung up, and we both looked up at the big clock hanging over the platform. ‘It’s barely even four. Bollocks.’
‘We could walk?’ I said doubtfully. Thea shook her head, shivering as the wind cut across the platform.
‘Not with cases.’
As we were waiting, trying to decide what to do, another train came in, this one the local stopping train from Hampton’s Lee, carrying all the schoolkids who went to Hampton Grammar. I looked, automatically, for Luc, but he wasn’t there. He was either staying late for some extracurricular thing, or skiving. Both were more than possible.
Mark Wren was though, shambling down the platform in his habitual hunch, his bowed head displaying the painful-looking acne on the back of his neck.
‘Hey,’ Thea said, as he went past. ‘Hey, you, Mark, isn’t it? How are you getting into Salten? Do you get a lift?’
He shook his head.
‘Bus. Drops the Salten kids off at pub and carries on to Riding.’
Thea and I looked at each other.
‘Does it stop at the bridge?’ Thea asked. Mark shook his head.
‘Not normal, like. But the driver might do it if you asked.’
Thea raised an eyebrow and I nodded. It would save us a couple of miles, at least, and we could walk the rest of the way.
We piled onto the bus. I stayed by the cases in the luggage rack, but Thea followed Mark Wren down the aisle to where he sat, his bag clutched across his lap like a shield, his Adam’s apple nervously bobbing in his throat. She winked at me as she passed.
‘Kate’s next weekend?’ Thea said, as she passed my chair in the common room that evening, on her way to prep. I nodded, and she winked, reminding me of the encounter on the bus. Lola Ronaldo switched channels with the remote, and rolled her eyes.
‘Kate’s again? Why on earth do you lot spend so much time over there? Me and Jess Hamilton are going into Hampton’s Lee to watch a film. We’re going to have supper at the Fat Fryer, but Fatima said she couldn’t come cos she was going to Kate’s with you. Why are you mouldering away in boring old Salten every weekend? Got your eye on someone?’
My cheeks flushed, thinking of Kate’s brother, remembering the last time we had swum at the Mill. It had been an unseasonably hot autumn day, the evening sun like flames upon the water, reflecting from the windows of the Mill until the whole place seemed ablaze. We had lolled about all afternoon, soaking up the last sunshine of the year, until at last Kate had stripped off on a dare from Thea, and swum naked in the Reach. I don’t know where Luc was when Kate jumped in, but he appeared as she was swimming back from the centre of the channel.
‘Forgotten something?’ He held up her bikini, a mocking smile on his lips. Kate let out a screech that sent gulls wheeling and flapping up from the waves, making the red-gold waters dance.
‘You bastard! Give that back!’
But Luc only shook his head, and as she swam towards him, he began pelting her with pieces of seaweed from the flotsam washed up against the Mill. Kate retaliated with splashes of water, and then, as she drew close enough, she grabbed for his ankle, hooking his leg out from underneath him, wrestling him into the water so that they both plunged deep, deep into the bay, arms and legs locked, only the rising bubbles showing their path.
A moment later, Kate shot to the surface and struck out for the jetty, and when she scrambled out I saw that she was holding Luc’s swimming shorts, crowing with triumph while he trod water further out, swearing and laughing and threatening every kind of revenge.
I had tried not to look, tried to read my book, listen to Fatima gossiping with Thea, concentrate on anything else but Luc’s naked body shimmering through the water, but somehow my gaze had kept straying back to him, gold and brown and lithe in the fractured blaze of autumn sun, and the picture rose up in front of me now, making me feel a strange emotion, something between shame and longing.
‘It’s Thea,’ I said abruptly, feeling my face hot beneath Lola’s gaze. ‘She’s pining with love for someone in the village. Keeps hoping we’ll bump into him if we spend enough time there.’
It was a lie. But it was a self-serving one, a lie against one of us. Even as I said it, I knew I’d crossed a line. But I couldn’t take it back now.
Lola looked towards Thea’s retreating back, and then at me, her face uncertain. We had developed a reputation, by this time, for piss-taking and insincerity, and I could tell she wasn’t sure whether this was true or not, but with Thea, who knew?
‘Oh yeah?’ she said at last. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true,’ I said, relieved now that she was off the scent. And then, some stupid impulse compelled me to add a fatal detail. ‘Look, don’t tell her I told you but … it’s Mark Wren. They sat together on the bus back from the station.’ I lowered my voice, leaned towards her over the top of my book. ‘He put his hand on her thigh … you can imagine the rest.’
‘Mark Wren? That kid with the spots who lives above the post office?’
‘What can I say?’ I shrugged. ‘Thea doesn’t care about looks.’
Lola snorted and moved away.
I didn’t think of the scene again until the following week. I didn’t even remember to tell Kate, so she could mark my points in the book. By this time the game had become less of a competition, than an end in itself. The point was not to beat Fatima, Thea and Kate but to outwit everyone else – ‘us’ against ‘them’.
We spent Saturday night at the Mill, and then on Sunday afternoon the four of us walked into Salten village to buy snacks from the shop, and a hot chocolate at the pub, which doubled up as the town cafe out of season, if you were prepared to put up with Jerry’s suggestive cracks.
Fatima and Kate were sitting in the window seat while Thea and I were at the bar. She was ordering our drinks, and I was waiting to help carry them back to the table.
‘Excuse me, I said no cream on the last one,’ I heard her say sharply as the bartender pushed the last foaming cup over the counter. He sighed and began to scrape off the topping, but Thea broke in. ‘No, thank you. I’ll have a fresh cup.’
I winced at her autocratic tone, at the way those cut-glass vowels turned a perfectly ordinary remark into a haughty command.
The bartender swore under his breath as he turned to pour away the carefully prepared drink, and I saw one of the women waiting at the bar roll her eyes and mouth something at her friend. I didn’t catch the words, but her gaze flicked back towards me and Thea, and her look was contemptuous. I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to make myself smaller and more invisible, wishing I had not worn my button-up shirt dress. The button at the top had broken off, making it lower-cut than normal, and I was painfully conscious of the flash of bra lace that kept creeping out from the neckline, and of the way the women were looking at us both – at my neckline, and at Thea’s ripped jeans, which showed scarlet silk knickers through the tears.
As I stood, waiting for Thea to pass the mugs over her shoulder, Jerry came up behind me with a tray of dirty glasses. He held it up at shoulder height as he squeezed through the throng, and I felt a shock of recognition at the pressure of his crotch against me as he passed. The bar was full, but not crowded enough to explain that deliberate grind against my buttocks.
‘Excuse me,’ he said with a wheezy chuckle. ‘Don’t mind me.’
I felt my face flush, and I said to Thea, ‘I’m going to the loo. Can you manage the drinks?’
‘Sure.’ She barely looked up from counting out change, and I bolted for the door of the ladies, feeling my breath coming fast.
It was only when I went into the cubicle to get some tissue to blow my nose, that I noticed the writing on the toilet door. It was scrawled in eyeliner, smudged and blurred already.
Mark Wren is a dirty perv, it said. I blinked. It seemed like such an incongruous accusation. Mark Wren? Shy, mild-mannered Mark Wren?
There was another one by the sink, this time in a different colour.
Mark Wren fingers Salten House girls on the bus.
And then finally, on the door out to the pub, in Sharpie, Mark Wren is a sex offender!!!!
When I got out of the loo, my cheeks were burning.
‘Can we go?’ I said abruptly to Kate, Fatima and Thea. Thea looked up, confused.
‘What the fuck? You’ve not even touched your drink!’
‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to talk about it here.’
‘Sure,’ Kate said. She scooped up the last spoonful of marshmallow, and Fatima began looking for her bag. But before we had time to do anything more, the door of the pub banged open, and Mary Wren came in.
I wasn’t expecting her to come to our table – she knew Kate of course, she was a good friend of Ambrose, but she had never taken any notice of Kate’s friends.
But she did. She walked straight across, and looked from me to Thea and then to Fatima, her broad lip curling.
‘Which of you is Isa Wilde?’ she asked in her deep hoarse voice.
I swallowed.
‘M-me.’
‘All right.’ She put her hands to her hips, towering over us where we sat. The hubbub in the pub seemed to die away, and I saw that people were listening, craning to see round Mary’s broad, muscular back. ‘Listen to me, my lass. I don’t know how people behave back where you were brought up, but round here, people care what’s said about them. If you go spreading lies about my boy again, I will break every bone in your body. Do you understand? I will snap them, one by one.’
I opened my mouth but I couldn’t speak. A deep, spreading shame was rising up from my gut, paralysing me.
Beside me, Kate looked shocked, and I realised she had no idea what this was all about.
‘Mary,’ she said, ‘you can’t –’
‘Keep out of it,’ Mary snapped at her. ‘Though you were in on it, I’ll be bound, all of you. I know what you’re like.’ She folded her arms and looked around our little circle, and I realised that in some perverse way she was enjoying this – enjoying our shock and upset. ‘You’re little liars all of you, and if I had charge of you, you’d be whipped.’
Kate gasped at that, and half stood, as if to fight my corner, but Mary put a heavy hand on her shoulder, physically forcing her back down against the cushions.
‘No, you don’t. I imagine that fancy school is too modern for that sort of thing, and your dad, he’s too nice for his own good, but I’m not, and if you hurt my boy again –’ she looked back at me, her sloe-dark eyes meeting mine unflinchingly – ‘you’ll live to regret the day you were born.’
And then she straightened, turned on her heel, and went out.
The door slammed behind her, loud in the sudden quiet she left behind, and then there was a gust of laughter, and the noises of the bar began to return – the clink of glasses, the deep rumble of the men at the bar. But I felt the eyes of the villagers on us, speculating about what Mary had said, and I wanted to sink into the floor.
‘Jesus!’ Kate said. Her face was white, with a flush of anger high on her cheekbones. ‘What the hell is wrong with her? Dad will be so furious when –’
‘No.’ I grabbed at her coat. ‘No, Kate, don’t. It was my fault. Don’t tell Ambrose.’
I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear for it to come out – the stupid, unworthy lie I had told. The thought of repeating that back to Ambrose’s face, seeing his disappointment …
‘Don’t tell him,’ I said. I felt tears prick at the back of my eyes, but it wasn’t sorrow – it was shame. ‘I deserved it. I deserved what she said.’
It was a mistake, that’s what I wanted to tell Mary, as I sat there speechless in front of her wrath. It was a mistake, and I’m sorry.
But I didn’t say it. And the next time I went into the post office, she served me as usual, and nothing more was said about it. But seventeen years later, as I feed my baby, and try to smile down at her laughing, chub-cheeked face, Mary Wren’s words ring in my ears, and I think, I was right. I did deserve them. We all did.
Little liars.