The Friend Read online

  ‘It’s fine, what’s done is done,’ I say. ‘I just don’t want you to start taking everything we’ve given up for you for granted, all right?’

  ‘We’ve made this change for our family, not for me,’ he protests.

  Don’t kid yourself, Sol, I almost say. I did not want to move. I loved my life, my career, my friends I saw every now and then. I did not want to move. The children did not want to move. But we had to, for you.

  ‘We agreed: it’d be great for them to be in a city but right near the sea, and that now we could afford it, we’d put them into private education,’ Sol is saying. ‘We agreed that getting out of London would be good for all of us, didn’t we? Didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose we did, but we should be seeing the kids off to school together. That’s how our family works, remember?’

  His face falls even further. ‘I’m sorry, Cee, I really am.’ He takes a few steps forwards until he is close enough to slip his arms around me. ‘I really am sorry,’ he murmurs. ‘I’ll do better. I promise you I’ll do better.’

  ‘I know you will,’ I reply. I let him kiss me and even manage a smile and wave as he leaves the bedroom. He’ll do it properly with the children this time – he’ll hug them, reassure them, say a proper goodbye.

  My hands reach out for a pair of jeans, a white top. I’m always trying to teach the kids to be themselves, to be who they are and allow the worthwhile friends to gravitate towards them. I should take my own advice. No, I didn’t want to move, but I’m here and I have to do this. So I have to do it on my terms – a special outfit won’t do that; what will do that is showing everyone I am comfortable in my own skin.

  I also need to get a bloody move on.

  7:40 a.m. I have three children, all in uniforms, standing on the pavement outside the house. I also have five minutes to spare. This is a win. This is a win that was achieved with only a minimal amount of shouting (me) and a tiny amount of scowling (them). Especially since they then went on to be moderately cooperative with the obligatory first-day-of-school photos in front of the fireplace. A miracle, especially when they all explained to me, at various points, that school started a week ago for everyone else, and so it’s not really the first day of school.

  I look at my children while I run through my mental locking up checklist. Then I look at them frozen on my mobile’s new screen saver: Ore, the youngest twin, tips his head up and pushes his chin forward, showing off his missing lower teeth; Oscar, the oldest twin, smiling as always with his mouth closed and his head tipped slightly to one side. And Harmony, standing behind them, staring at the camera, radiant and beautiful, simply smiling. Simply Harmony.

  I turn to my fifteen-year-old. I hate the idea of her rocking up there on the bus knowing no one as she walks through the gates. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come with me to take the boys, and I’ll drive you to school a bit later? Actually, it won’t even be that much later since they start at eight fifteen,’ I say to her. I’ve been there for every single one of her first days at school – even making the boys late the past three years, so I can be there – and I can’t quite believe I am going to miss this one. ‘Or you could—’

  Harmony shakes her head. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  When she says that, what she really means is: I’ve earned this trip to school alone.

  If we were in a TV drama, right about now, there’d be a montage of all of Harmony’s first days at school – every one with me sobbing, or holding back the sobs, or pretending not to sob as I clung to her and whispered over and over how much I loved her. Each new clip would show a bigger, taller Harmony wearing exactly the same expression: lips pursed, eyes raised to the heavens, patience itself sitting on her face as she waits for me to get a grip.

  ‘I can’t believe I won’t be able to see you in on your first day,’ I say to her. ‘Especially since it’s a new school.’

  ‘Mum, thing is, I can go to school on my own.’

  ‘But we’re in Brighton. It’s not like London. We’re practically in the middle of nowhere here and you’re having to get a bus all on your own, wearing a strange uniform and, you know, I should be doing that with you.’ Tears fill my eyes at the thought of my poor unaccompanied daughter.

  ‘Didn’t you have two other children so I didn’t get to be the sole focus of this craziness?’ Harmony says with barely concealed contempt. ‘I mean, isn’t that what they’re for?’ She turns to her brothers. ‘No offence,’ she tells them.

  ‘Lots taken,’ Oscar, eight years of deep thinking, replies.

  ‘Yeah,’ chimes in Ore, ‘lots taken.’

  ‘Sorry boys, it’s every child for themselves at times like this. I’ve had ten school years of this, you’ve had three, so don’t “lots taken” me.’

  ‘Right, well, when you’ve all quite finished being outraged at me, your mother, caring so deeply about you, shall we go?’

  Before my daughter can even think to move, I fling my arms around her, kiss her cheeks, kiss her forehead, tell her over and over how much I love her and how proud I am of her. If I can’t do it at her school, I’ll do it here.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ she eventually mumbles, and untangles herself from me while in one smooth, practised move she swings her turquoise rucksack onto her shoulder. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she says and then walks away. She doesn’t get far before she runs back to us and bends to her brothers. ‘See you two,’ she says as she throws her arms around them. ‘Have a great first day. Tell me all about it tonight, OK?’

  ‘We will,’ they say at the same time. She rises to her full height and I see it, a quiver of nervousness as it flits across her features. I’m not meant to know – none of us are meant to know – so I stop myself from grabbing her again and deciding to start home schooling. My daughter tucks her fears away behind her trademark cool nonchalance before she rehoists her bag. As she passes me, she presses a brief kiss on my cheek without looking at me, and then carries on, down the road, around the corner and to the bus stop. To the outside world she might be fifteen and taller than me, but to me, she’ll always be five and not quite ready to do anything much on her own.

  8:05 a.m. It’s taken longer to arrive here at the gates of Plummer Prep than when we walked it yesterday. I’m not sure why. We practically strolled here yesterday, and today the boys have scooted while I ran along behind, weighed down with book bags, rucksacks and hats, piling embarrassment upon embarrassment by shouting like a town crier to ‘mind the road’, ‘watch out for pavement yuckiness’, ‘don’t turn the corner until I’m there’.

  Oscar and Ore slow down as we near the school. My heartbeat surges, becomes like rapid thunderclaps in my chest. Ore stops completely and I almost fall over him. Oscar stops next, and stands with his feet either side of his green scooter platform and stares. They saw the school yesterday, but didn’t think – as I didn’t, I suppose – what it would be like when there were so many people around.

  Noise, disorder and chaos swirl through the warm, sun-blushed September air outside the school. Children are being herded in, most without lingering goodbyes; others cling to parents who are trying desperately to remove them. Clumps of parents stand like bundles of hay, left at various points on the pavement to untie themselves and go about their day; vehicles are double-parked, ignoring the yellow lines and the white zigzag lines as though those markings don’t apply to them. Other cars pull up in the middle of the road, stopping traffic, while their drivers slap on hazard lights and jump out to open the back doors, virtually javelin-throwing their children out of their seats.

  When I’d first come to look around Plummer Prep (Sol was working so he couldn’t make it) I’d been impressed by the look of it: a red, double-fronted, rambling mansion-house, with white pillars that flank its large entrance, set on the corner of two main roads. Its roof is gunmetal grey, and its sash windows are painted white. It looks huge from the front, until you walk through the front and discover that it is, in fact, mahoosive, as Ore says. It has an extende
d glass walkway that is set like a large rectangle, with a large paved courtyard at its centre. The glass walkways lead to the art rooms, science labs and common rooms. Behind that are the three different playing fields, two that lie end to end, and the other is the cricket pitch, complete with its own weatherboard pavilion.

  With the size of the place, I half expected there’d be a glut of people arriving at the same time in the mornings, but what I didn’t expect was this frenzied, manic air. I didn’t expect so many parents to hang around, acting like this is the last time they’ll be together. They are acting like I do on my children’s first days, but they’ve all been here at least a week, they should be over it by now. And most of them will have been doing this for years. My heart puckers in my chest. What is going on?

  ‘Come on, boys,’ I say, my voice jolly and excited, not terrified and wary about why they are behaving like this. ‘Isn’t this great?’

  Ore turns to look at me like I’ve finally lost my mind and Oscar continues to stare – neither of them moves towards the gates.

  ‘Come on, scooters.’

  Without losing their different expressions of terror, the boys relinquish their scooters, and deftly, like I do it all the time, I scoop them up with one hand, still balancing their stuff, and negotiate the islands of talking, lurking parents.

  As we approach, I see the headmistress, Mrs Carpenter, who isn’t that much older than me, standing like a guard at Buckingham Palace, the epitome of poise and control. She is wearing a purple suit with a green shirt – the school’s uniform colours – and her strawberry-brown hair is swept up and twisted into a perfectly constructed chignon. She smiles and greets every child entering the school by name. I keep my eyes on her, a beacon in the turmoil that surrounds us. She grins as we approach and I know it’s going to be fine. She will welcome the boys, she will make sure other teachers welcome the boys; she will make the transition easy, smooth.

  As we arrive in front of Mrs Carpenter, the noise suddenly stops, cut off like a switch has been flicked on the background hubbub. Silence, a deathly hush, is cast over us. Have I gone deaf? I look around. But I can still hear birdsong, the rush of traffic from the adjacent road, the click of flashing hazard lights, the sound of the boys breathing beside me. I look around again. Everyone is staring. Everyone is silent and they are all staring … at us.

  The thunderclaps in my chest increase; my breath forgets to go in and out. Maybe I should have put more thought into my outfit? Maybe I should have driven, then I could have done a drop’n’run, without anyone noticing us. I look down at the boys. Ore has a determined-not-to-be-intimidated look on his face – ready, it seems, to slug it out if anyone says anything. Oscar is openly confused – his eyes dart here and there, trying to get a handle on the situation. Eventually he looks at me and mouths: Mum?

  I shake my head and shrug: I don’t understand it either.

  I decide to ignore this, to not let the boys know that I’m scared, confused, worried about how the children will treat them if this is how the parents behave, and I’m about to move forwards when the space I was going to fill is suddenly occupied by a tall white man. His short wavy brown hair is scruffy but not intentionally so, I don’t think. His navy suit is lightly creased, his white shirt could do with another iron, although his blue and gold paisley tie is in place. On either side of him he has two blonde-haired girls – their school uniforms look like they have been washed and an attempt has been made at ironing, but like their dad’s shirt, it could all do with a re-iron. It’s him – them – everyone is staring at.

  The man has noticed the silence, of course he has, and he stops short of the school gates, ignores the now frozen smile of Mrs Carpenter, and looks left then right at the gawkers. Where his gaze lands, the heads turn away, embarrassed that they’ve been so obvious. When he has made everyone who stared feel uncomfortable, slightly ashamed, he carries on.

  Mrs Carpenter seems to unfreeze then and her smile reignites itself. ‘Good morning, Madison, good morning, Scarlett. It’s lovely to see you both. Good morning, Mr Whidmore.’

  In response, Mr Whidmore nods briefly to Mrs Carpenter before he lowers himself to his daughters’ levels and hugs them.

  ‘Have a good day,’ he tells them quietly. The noise and talking has begun again but quietly, sombrely, like something bad has just happened and no one knows how to carry on. ‘I’ll pick you up from after-school club, OK?’

  Both girls nod; neither speaks. They both stand very still, rucksacks on their backs and book bags in their hands as they wait for their dad to let them go, then both turn in a seemingly synchronised spin to walk through the school gates. Most children who have entered the school go straight to the playground, these children, Madison and Scarlett, don’t even look in its direction – they head straight for the open front doors, step through and disappear.

  Mr Whidmore straightens up, stares at Mrs Carpenter and her face says, What can I possibly say to make this right? while her mouth says, ‘Try not to worry, we’ll take good care of them, Mr Whidmore.’

  He nods. ‘Make sure you do,’ he says.

  As he turns away, he spots me and the boys, he stares at me, then stares through me, looking somewhere off over my right shoulder, then he swings left, glares in that area as though looking at someone specifically. Once he has stared, has made his point, he leaves. Like his daughters, he doesn’t look back.

  What the hell have I just brought my children into?

  Hazel

  8:05 a.m. What have I forgotten?

  There’ll be something. I made a list, and I checked it twice, just like Santa in the song, but I think I forgot something for the list in the first place. Let’s face it, I’ve probably forgotten more than one thing. I stand very still outside the school gates ticking things off in my head while waiting for the bell so I can go off to work:

  Permission slips for trips/activities/various contentious subjects to be taught (tick)

  Said permission slips put into correct children’s bags (tick)

  Correct uniform, clean and put onto correct children (tick)

  Correct bags with correct PE and Games kits (cos there’s a difference) (tick)

  Navigated pre-teen’s meltdown about phone/make-up/sleeping over at her dad’s place (tick, tick, tick)

  Arrived here on time (tick)

  Dressed in uniform ready to go to work (tick).

  I have far too many ticks on that list for me not to have forgotten something. And it’ll be something huge. So huge I’ll probably be apologising to more than one person while reminding myself I’m meant to be getting better at being an adult. And even as I’m reminding myself of that, promising myself I will do that, I know I’ll always be on the wrong side of being a mess.

  I sigh. What I’ve missed will soon reveal itself, I’m sure.

  For a mid-September morning it’s quite hot; humid but not as sunny as it could be. I always think, though, that the heat in this area comes from the energy expended during the buzz of the morning drop-off. That moment when everyone rocks up, having put everything into arriving as close to start time as possible, in as much of the correct uniform as possible. That energy usually escapes into the atmosphere as soon as the children cross the gates and the parents can sigh with relief at getting them there. After that, most of us run – very few people used to wait until the bell sounds and the children have filed in to leave. But since term started again, very few people do the drop’n’run thing – most of us now do the drop’n’hang thing, or, the drop’n’fret thing, which is what I do.

  Washing machine? I remember putting clothes in the drum, I remember pouring in powder, I even remember turning the dial to synthetics, but did I press ‘go’? Is that it? The washing machine?

  As well as the drop’n’fret, I drop’n’wonder … I wonder how I can stand to do this after everything? I wonder if I should have talked to Walter, as bad as that would be, and taken the kids out of school? I wonder where else it would be safe—

/>   The frantic buzz is suddenly guillotined. In place of the chatter is now tension, hesitancy, pity and the unexpected quiet snatches my breath away.

  That’s what I’ve forgotten.

  I’ve forgotten that today is the day that Trevor is bringing the girls back to school.

  Everyone stands and stares, silent and wary, as the three of them approach the gates.

  When Trevor has delivered the girls to the gates and hugged them, he virtually scowls at Mrs Carpenter, as though he holds her responsible for what happened to his wife. After that glare he turns away, and then stares at the black woman with two children who stands in front of him, before he stares on. He stares beyond the ghouls who are treating him like a horror show, before his gaze finally settles on who he was clearly looking for. Me. In this crowd, this group of spectators, his eyes are on me. Glaring at me, accusing me. I know what you did, Hazel, he’s saying with that look. How could you?

  I want to look away, to hide the tears that are stinging my eyes, but I can’t. I can’t look away until he lets me go. I try to breathe, but my chest is too tight; I try to think but my mind is frozen. I try to feel and I can’t, not when all of their pain is so potent and apparent and exposed.

  He sweeps his accusatory gaze away and I lower my head, take a few shaky breaths in and focus on the ground. It’s as if he knows. It’s as if he can tell. I breathe even deeper, and I know he’s gone when the atmosphere around me releases a little and people quietly, cautiously start to talk again. Some people are staring at me, I can feel it. They know I was her friend. They remember how close we seemed. They’re wondering what I could possibly have done to make Trevor glare at me like that.

  The small tinny beep of my mobile goes off, making me jump. I remove it from my pocket and read the message.

  We need to talk.

  Maxie