The Fantastic Book of Everybody's Secrets (18 page)

I don't know what came over me then, but I grinned at Sally and said, ‘It's okay, you don't have to pretend. I
know
.'

‘Know what?'

I lowered my voice. ‘That you fly all over the world with plastic sacks full of heroin stuffed up your bum. That you're a
drugs mule
. Kay told me.' Sally's mouth fell open. Before she could say anything, I elbowed her in the ribs and began to giggle. ‘Only joking!' I said brightly. ‘No, Emily hasn't had the nursery bear.'

Sally eyed me suspiciously. Her face was post-box red, but she gave me another chance. ‘Neither has Lauren,' she said. ‘It doesn't seem fair, really, does it? I mean, for Celia Devine to have the bear, when she's only been at Moorlands a few months.'

‘What's the bear's name?' I asked.

‘Its name? It hasn't got one. It's just called the nursery bear.'

This struck me as unsatisfactory. I felt sad on Em's behalf. She clearly wanted the bear, and she had never had it. And I hadn't understood what she was talking about, why she was upset.

Sally Henney, though wrong about a wide range of topics, from the validity of horoscopes to the dangers of child
vaccination
, turned out to be right about the present whereabouts of the nursery bear. I saw it later that afternoon. It was wearing a party hat, sitting on a high shelf in the kitchen, a blob of pink jelly on its otherwise immaculate yellow
T-shirt
. I hoped Emmy wouldn't see it. She didn't, thankfully, but I was tense until we left the party, in case there was some sort of scene. Seeing that a friend of yours has something you
want is hard enough for an adult; for a child of Emily's age, it is unthinkable torment.

The following Monday morning, I had a private word with Jacqueline, the manager of Moorlands, who appeared to know that Emmy wanted the nursery bear and had wanted it for some time. My guilt thickened – why hadn't
I
known? On the wall beside us were all the photographs Sally Henney had told me about, of the nursery bear on his many outings: with Owen at the Saturday market; with Harry at the swimming baths; with Eliza at a barbecue. I asked Jacqueline on what basis the nursery bear was allocated, not caring if I sounded as petty as Sally Henney. Jacqueline told me Emily could have it the following week. We stared at one another, both aware (and aware that we were both aware) that she had not answered my question. She was probably thinking,
pushy parent
. I was thinking
perpetrator of injustices, however small-scale
. I said, ‘Good, because I know Celia Devine's got it this week, and she's not been here as long as Emily. Is there… How
do
you decide which child gets the bear?' I presented the question as if it had just occurred to me.

‘Emily'll have him next week,' Jacqueline repeated
cheerfully
. We both pretended that we had not been through the same question-and-lack-of-answer process twice.

That afternoon, John came home ashen-faced. He'd caught the train home with Mark. ‘Did you know the Devines had a son, Brendan, who died?' he demanded, as if it were my fault for not telling him.

‘No,' I said.

‘I didn't know what to say. I just muttered, “Bloody hell”.
Bloody hell
! How could I have said that? What a dick I am! Mark must hate me.'

I told him everyone said tactless things in moments of stress, and that Mark must be used to it. Anyone who has suffered a tragedy must be used to it. ‘What did Brendan die of?' I asked. ‘How old was he? Did you get the details?'

‘The
details
? Jesus, it's not like getting a brochure off an estate agent. The
details
!'

‘It's not crass to be interested and want to know a bit more,' I told him crossly. ‘Sometimes people who've been through something awful prefer questions to an embarrassed silence!'

‘Oh, so you
do
think I reacted like a dick, then?' said John angrily. I decided not to pursue the conversation.

I wondered if Brendan's death was the key to Kay's horrible comment about boys being less clean than girls.
Competitiveness
, John and I had often agreed, was one of the Devines' main characteristics. If they had no boys, if their boy had died, girls had to better. They might have tried hard to make themselves not want what they no longer had. It was an odd reaction, true, but people responded to grief in all sorts of ways. Aaah.

The next day – John had, thankfully, just left for work – I was looking out of the kitchen window and saw a red-faced, quivering-jawed Kay Devine marching towards my house. My first thought was: Brendan. She's upset about the way John reacted. Then I saw that she was holding the nursery bear. I wilted inside, knowing that Jacqueline had been
indiscreet
and that, as a result, some sort of confrontation was heading my way. I reminded myself that appearances could be deceptive, particularly where the Devines were concerned. On this occasion, however, they turned out to be spot-on. I am always right when I least want to be.

‘Here!' Kay thrust the cuddly toy towards me, holding it with both hands. She didn't say ‘Aaaah'. ‘In future, if you've got a problem with me and my family, talk to me about it, don't go behind my back!'

‘Kay…'

‘They gave the bear to Celia because she's always so
bloody
miserable at nursery, and they thought it might cheer her up and make her feel part of things, but if you're going to be funny about it, here! Have it!'

‘Kay, I didn't say I…'

‘No! You have it! Even though Emily's
absolutely fine
at nursery, really happy there, no problems at all, you have it, because, after all, you were here
first
, weren't you?'

I felt awful. She was right, I knew. When I collected Emmy from nursery, Celia was invariably crying on someone's knee, or skulking, hollow-eyed, in a corner, not seeming to be part of things. Anya, also, never seemed happy. I didn't think I'd ever seen her smile. Was it because they had lost their brother?

‘Did you tell Sally Henney I said she was a
drug dealer
?' Kay demanded. ‘What the hell's the matter with you? Are you some kind of lunatic?'

‘Oh, God. Look, you've…it was a joke…' I mumbled feebly, but Kay didn't stay to listen to my excuses. She dropped the bear at my feet and marched away. I picked up the cuddly toy. One of its eyes was missing, and there was a black patch that looked like a burn mark on its right arm. It didn't look nearly as desirable and appealing as it had at the party.

I couldn't wait to return it to Kay. It was, I told myself, the right thing to do. After I'd dropped Emily at nursery the following morning, I took the one-eyed bear and went round to see Kay. ‘Look, I'm really sorry,' I said. ‘I honestly didn't want to take the bear away from Celia. I just wanted to check Emily would have a go with him at some point. And, no, I didn't tell Sally Henney…you know.' I felt myself blushing. ‘I made a silly joke, and she misunderstood it.'

Surprisingly, Kay seemed ready to forgive me at once. ‘Aaah,' she said. ‘I'm so glad you came round. I've hated us not being friends, haven't you?' She took the nursery bear. I didn't know what to say. Our not being friends had lasted for less than twenty-four hours. I made what I hoped was an all-purpose soothing noise. When Kay invited me in for a cup of tea, I felt I could hardly refuse. Glumly, I followed her into her kitchen, which looked as if it had been devastated by an
act of God. There was no paper or paint on the walls, only plaster. The lino had been half ripped off the floor. I inhaled dust and began to cough.

‘Aaah, have a seat,' she said. ‘We're decorating. It'll be like this for a while. Bit of a pain!'

‘I expect you'll just use the lounge more,' I said pointedly.

‘Exactly!'

‘Shall we…?'

‘No, let's park ourselves here. The best lounge is a bit formal. So, tell me all your news.' Kay dashed round the kitchen banging utensils together. The best lounge, I thought scornfully. It's the only lounge, you fool. Typical Mark, to spawn an affectation like that and inflict it upon his wife, condemning her to sound like a prat every time she said it.

I began to talk about my work. Kay oohed and aahed (especially the latter) at my relatively dull anecdotes involving juicers and microwaves. As I spoke, I noticed that the wall next to me was covered in graffiti, and remembered that Matty and his friends had done the same to our lounge walls when we'd decorated last year, while the plaster was exposed and awaiting its new covering. I began to read the slogans: ‘Westlife', ‘I hate skool'. Anya. To my surprise, I saw more grown-up handwriting as well. Had the Devines turned defacing the kitchen walls into a family activity? ‘The Tories are the cream of Britain: rich, thick and full of clots', somebody – either Mark or Kay – had written. Whichever of them hadn't written that had scrawled, lower down the wall, ‘Military intelligence is a contradiction in terms'. An
interesting
insight into their politics; I had assumed Mark and Kay were Tories. Wrong again.

I was about to ask Kay whether she ever thought about going back to work when I noticed, in black capital letters, the words ‘BRENDAN POOEY MONSTER'. I froze, my mouth half-open. Kay said something, but I didn't hear it.
Quickly, I scanned the rest of the wall. In blue biro again, further up and to the left: ‘Brendan pooey monster'. I felt dizzy as my eyes whizzed from left to right. Cursive writing. Lower case. How many were there? Three, four, five. Six. Seven. The wording exactly the same each time. My heart leaped up to my throat.

‘Are you all right?' Kay asked me.

‘No. No, I…I'm sorry, I feel a bit ill. I'd better go.' She tried to keep me there, of course, offering first tablets, then her and Mark's bed for a lie-down, but I pushed past her, mumbling apologies.

I phoned John as soon as I got in and asked him to come home from work immediately. He agreed. He has the sort of job he can abandon instantly at any point in the day without anybody noticing or caring; John couldn't stand to do anything that mattered to anybody. The less people focused on him, the happier he was. I said nothing about the nursery bear, its new injuries. I knew he would be scornful.

When he got back, I told him about the writing on the Devines' kitchen wall. I didn't need to explain its significance, and he didn't call me a nutter or bring up the matter of the Devines' non-suicide to damage my credibility. ‘Christ!' he said. ‘Fuck.'

I had a list of questions prepared. ‘Are you sure their dead son was called Brendan?'

‘Was that what I said?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then yes.'

There was a brief silence.

‘Could there be an innocent explanation?' I wondered aloud.

‘No!' said John. ‘What sort of people write nasty things about their dead son or brother on the kitchen wall?'

‘Remember that thing Kay said to me, about girls being better, girls being nice and clean?'

John growled. ‘What exactly are we saying here?' he asked.

‘I don't know!'

‘This is grim!'

‘So what do we do?' I asked.

‘I don't see that we can do anything. Except fucking avoid them like the plague. I don't want our kids having anything to do with theirs.'

‘Right.'

‘Right!'

For the rest of the afternoon and evening, John and I forced ourselves to sit and do nothing, even though John wanted to ring round estate agents and see how quickly we could move, and I wanted to go back to Mark and Kay's to see if the graffiti was still on the wall, or if Kay had quickly painted over it, hoping I hadn't spotted it and drawn sinister conclusions.

In principle I agreed with John that we should have nothing more to do with our next door neighbours, and I was almost mystified to find myself, the following morning, walking in the direction of the Devines' house, just seconds after John had left for work. I say almost because, deep down, I had a clear motive and aim, though I had deluded nine-tenths of my brain into believing that it was a sort of irresistible natural force that drove me towards Kay's door, pulled my finger towards the bell.

Behind the glass, I saw her running down the hall to let me in. ‘Aaaah! Are you feeling better?' she cooed.

‘Yes, thanks,' I said. My dread from the previous day had dissipated and I was back, an information-gathering machine. The more you know about anything, the less spooked you feel. I wanted to collect a few facts to keep my fear at bay; this technique had always worked for me in the past. It had something to do with the prosaic nature of facts. A fact was an innately pedestrian item, which was
probably why it was always comforting to have the full story, however gruesome.

The Devines' kitchen was still a hard-hat area, the graffiti about Brendan still clearly visible. Had it not occurred to Kay that I might have read it? This struck me as distinctly odd. Whatever her and Mark's crime, whether they had merely hated their son or done something worse, why didn't they care if the neighbours knew? It made no sense.

‘John told me about… about Brendan,' I said. ‘I'm really sorry.'

Kay turned to face me, her eyes round with surprise. ‘Yes,' she said distantly. ‘Well, so were we. We were sorry too.'

‘How old was he?' I asked.

‘Brendan? Only four months.'

Was it my imagination, or was the ‘only' said with a dismissive slant? Or was it anger, because Brendan had had so little time? ‘How awful. And how… was it… I mean, was he ill, or…?'

Kay frowned and stood up straighter. ‘Why do you want to know that?'

I found that I was completely unable to form an opinion about whether her question was a normal, natural one. It depended, I had to suppose, upon whether mine had been normal and/or natural, which I also couldn't judge.