Love Is a Secret (30 page)

49

Let your children fly and they’ll come back.

But what if they crashed?

Unbelievably there was still no news. The Foreign Office had set up a helpline but, as the kindly woman at the other end had explained, the names of the injured and dead were still coming in. ‘We will notify you as soon as we get any more information,’ she had said.

Caroline had hoped, irrationally, that Janie could help.

‘I don’t know any more, Caro. I’m sorry.’ Her sister was clear down the line, despite the frustrating satellite delay between Caroline’s frantic questions and her sister’s answers. ‘I’ve phoned the emergency number at this end too but they’re still getting names together. Now, don’t freak out at this but Doug says we’re more likely to get somewhere if we fly up. That’s what a lot of relatives are doing. Caro, are you there?’

‘Yes.’ She could hardly get the word out. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. ‘But why can’t they just tell us if she’s one of the—’ She couldn’t bring herself to say the word ‘dead’ but Janie knew what she meant.

‘Because some of them aren’t carrying ID. And . . .’

There was a pause.

‘And
what
?’

‘Some of the casualties have been thrown quite a distance.’

Caroline let out a low moan.

‘But if we can go up there, we might – I’m sorry to say this, Caro – we might be able to identify her.’

‘But you haven’t seen her for two years.’ Caroline could feel hysteria rising. ‘
You might not get the right person.
’

‘Don’t panic.’ Janie had acquired an Australian twang over the years. ‘I’ll recognise her. And this friend of hers might be wrong. She thought Annabel was on the train but maybe she meant someone else.’

‘She’d have rung us to reassure us. She must have seen the news. I’m coming out, Janie. I’ve got to.’

‘Hang on in there, just for a bit. We’ll be up there by tonight. I’ll call you. OK?’

50

‘Come on in. You’re letting all the heat out.’

Simon was grinning wolfishly. He was mad – he had to be! If she shut the door, he had her trapped. She could hardly breathe for panic. ‘What have you done to Dad and Tabitha?’

‘I told you. They’re inside having tea in front of the telly. Your dad asked me to join them. More sociable than you, I must say.’

Disbelievingly, she went into the lounge. Tabitha was indeed in her chair, her eyes riveted on the news, which was showing pictures of that train crash. Totally unsuitable.

‘Mummum,’ she said, taking her eyes away for a second.

Susan hugged her. Furiously, she switched off the television and glared at Simon, who was watching them in bemusement. In a way this reassured her and the fear that she’d originally felt when he’d opened the door turned into anger.

‘How did it go, love?’ asked her dad, who was sitting in an armchair, eating toast. ‘Your friend called in so I asked him to wait.’ He thinks Simon’s a boyfriend, thought Susan, with horror.  ‘He’s sorted out that trouble on the computer you’ve been having.’

Simon grinned. ‘Got rid of some viruses. Should be a bit faster now. Mind you, I wouldn’t let your daughter get online again, if I were you.’

‘She doesn’t know how to,’ said Susan, indignantly.

‘Actually, love,’ said her dad, taking his eyes off the television, ‘I’m afraid she does. No, don’t look like that. It wasn’t anything nasty. She was just – what do they call it? – surfing.’ He dropped his voice. ‘I don’t think she knew what she was keying in but you still need to be careful.’

Tabitha could surf? At any other time, Susan would have been horrified by the implications. But right now there were more important things to sort out. ‘Don’t you think you should go now?’ she said pointedly, to Simon.

‘In a minute. Your dad would like some more tea. No, sir, don’t get up. Susie will help me, won’t you, darling?’

She followed him out to the kitchen indignantly. ‘“Darling”?’ she spluttered. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

He closed the door quietly, and when he turned his eyes were narrow and mean. ‘You mean how dare
you
? Getting the Joneses to make a complaint to my new boss! You’ve got a bloody cheek.’

Her face blazed and the fear crept back. ‘
I
’ve got a cheek? You tried to touch me up.’

‘You wanted me to.’

‘
I did not
. But I didn’t make a complaint and I definitely didn’t tell the Joneses to rat on you.’

‘Well, they did. And if you don’t tell my new boss it was a mistake, I’m out of my job.’

He was standing with his back to the door so she couldn’t get out.

‘And if I don’t?’

His eyes travelled down her body and up again. ‘I might have to come back. Nice suit, Susie. Clings to you like that low-cut blouse you wore to get me going.’

Her cheeks blazed. ‘I did
not
wear it for you!’

‘Try telling that to a court.’

His eyes were flashing dangerously and the terrible thought occurred to her that he might hurt Tabitha if she didn’t get him out fast.

He handed her a piece of paper. ‘Come on, Susie, don’t make it difficult for both of us. I’ve brought a letter with me. All you have to do is sign it and we’ll say no more.’

She scanned it. It was clumsily written, and said she did not wish to make any complaint against Simon Wright; that whatever had happened between them had been with her full consent.

‘But that’s not true.’

He put on his jacket. ‘Your choice, Susie. See you later. What time’s your dad going?’

She could make a run for it. Dash out and tell her father what was happening. But that wouldn’t stop someone like Simon. And he had a point. She
had
been wearing a blouse that was a bit low at the front. Would a court argue that she’d led him on?

‘Just go.’ She signed the letter and handed it to him. ‘Don’t say goodbye to my father. Get out the back door.’

She locked it behind her as her father came into the kitchen.

‘Your friend gone, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s wrong, love? You’re crying. Hasn’t hurt you, has he?’

‘Oh, Dad,’ she sobbed. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

Her father wanted her and Tabitha to go home with him. ‘I feel so guilty,’ he said gruffly. ‘If I hadn’t let him in, none of this would have happened. But he seemed so charming.’

‘He can be,’ said Susan, grimly. ‘And devious.’

‘Look, love, you’ve got to make a complaint. It’s sexual harassment at the least.’

She cupped her hands round a mug of hot chocolate. ‘I can’t. It would mean going to court and I couldn’t take that. Besides, supposing they believed him when he said I’d led him on?’

‘But you didn’t, did you?’ He was looking at her doubtfully.

‘Course not. But if
you
have to ask me, why would someone who didn’t know me believe me?’

‘Come back with me, love, in case he turns up again.’

‘I can’t. Tabitha’s asleep and it would mean moving her. Anyway, I don’t think he will.’

Her father wanted to stay, and part of Susan wanted to say yes. But if she did she’d still have to cope on her own the next night and the one after that. Better to be brave from the beginning.

After he’d left and she’d locked up, though, she regretted her decision. Every little sound made her jump, and when she finally got to bed, she held the cordless phone for comfort. Every now and then she got up to check on her daughter. Tabitha’s breathing was heavy and regular. Supposing Simon had tried something with her? Susan felt sick. This was all her fault and now she waspaying for it.

Unable to sleep, she logged on. What Mums Know.

WHAT MUMS KNOW - THOUGHT FOR THE DAY

Mistakes are gateways to the future, teaching you to take a different path.

There was some logic in that.

From Rainbow to What Mums Know: Sometimes I think I’ve deserved all the problems I have in life. I did something terrible when my daughter was little and now I’m being punished. When she was two weeks old, I was lifting her on to the changing table and I dropped her.

Susan’s fingers were shaking but she couldn’t stop now.

She just sort of slithered out of my hands on to the carpet. She didn’t cry and I was too scared to take her to the doctor in case they took her away. Looking back, I think I was a bit mad – I’d been so relieved to have a baby after my miscarriage that it made me over-anxious and a bit weird. I worried about everything, especially as she was a slow developer. She took ages to sit up and she bottom-shuffled instead of crawling. I kept wondering if it was because of that fall and I was terrified of doing anything else that might be wrong. There was a lot of publicity about the MMR jab at the time and I didn’t want my daughter to have it, but my husband said I was worrying unnecessarily. Then, about a week after the jab, she screamed and screamed and threw a temperature. Eventually our GP sent us to a consultant who said Tabs had a form of cerebral palsy but he didn’t know why. Outwardly, I blamed the jab and my husband – even though cerebral palsy has never been linked with MMR – but it was really an excuse. Inside I tormented myself that it might have been the fall. And I still don’t know. Our marriage broke up soon afterwards.

The tears were coming thick and fast now. She hadn’t told anyone this before, not even her father. But it was so easy, so reassuring, to come clean to people who didn’t know her. Rather like a confessional box.

That’s it, really. But it’s so hard to cope with the guilt. Every time I look at Tabitha, I know it’s my fault.

She logged off. And this time when she went back to bed she fell into one of the deepest sleeps she had ever had.

51

‘I’m not doing it. I’ve told you.’ Freddy’s eyes were blazing.

Mark ran his hands through his hair. ‘But you wanted to learn the trumpet. You nagged Mum and me last year. It cost a fortune to buy.’

‘So? That’s your problem.’

‘Don’t be rude.’ It was so easy to lose control. He wanted to shake his son by the shoulders, force him to pick up that bloody trumpet, which made the whole house ring – as if his head wasn’t ringing enough. Hilary had cut herself
again
, for God’s sake. Not badly, just enough to make the pain go away, as she put it. So why did trumpet practice matter in the scheme of things? And why, in the name of God, when there was enough misery in the world – take that terrible train crash, for instance – did she need to inflict such pain on them all? ‘If you don’t practise, you won’t remember what to do at the concert on Friday.’

Freddy was halfway up the stairs. ‘I don’t want to play at the fucking concert. Everyone will laugh at me.’

‘Don’t say the F-word.’ Mark could feel his voice getting hoarse. ‘When I was your age, there were lots of things I didn’t want to do.’

‘Yes, but you didn’t have to play something in front of the whole school, did you?’

Touché
. He hadn’t played an instrument even though his mother had tried to get him to tackle the piano. And Freddy was right: it would be terrifying to play in front of the whole school, just as it was terrifying for Hilary to be in that awful place. And maybe it would make the bullying worse.

‘All right, I’ll write you a note.’

Relief beamed from Freddy’s face. ‘Thanks, Dad. You’re the best.’

Had he made the right decision? Or had he been weak?

‘Dad, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.’

Freddy tugged at her hoodie. ‘Shut up, Florrie, I told you not to.’

‘But, Dad, it’s important. It’s about Freddy—’

‘Cooeee. Only me!’

Mark gritted his teeth. If he didn’t get that email off, he’d have had it. He’d been hoping to ring Caroline, too, before she got home. Why couldn’t he have a minute to himself?

‘How are things, dear?’

Daphne was wearing a smart checked jacket, which suggested she’d been to one of her art-appreciation groups at the Ashmolean, and brushed his cheek with hers. She waited until the children had gone out of the room. ‘Any more news on Hilary?’

‘I spoke to the consultant.’

‘And?’

‘She thinks Hilary would benefit from a home visit. Just for a weekend. Apparently it’s part of a new initiative to help certain . . . offenders rehabilitate.’

Daphne’s forehead wrinkled. ‘But if she does that, the children will be really confused, especially when she goes back after two days. It’s difficult enough to keep up the American pretence as it is . . .’

‘Sssh.’ Mark listened. It was all right: Florrie and Freddy were arguing upstairs to the accompaniment of Freddy’s music. ‘I told her that, and she said she’d have another discussion with her colleague.’

‘I see.’ The sparkle had gone out of Daphne’s eyes. ‘What about the bullying? Did you talk to Freddy’s headmaster again? And when’s your appointment with the educational psychologist?’

‘Soon – we’re on the waiting list, apparently. And, yes, I did have a word with the head, but it didn’t really help. Freddy refuses to name the boys who held him down. The head’s giving a general talk to the whole school about being kind to others but, if you ask me, that will embarrass Freddy more than ever.’

‘I heard about an anti-bullying group on the internet,’ said Daphne, putting the kettle on, ‘and it was in
The Times
this morning. Maybe you should log on. There’s no need to look so condescending, Mark. I’m learning quite a lot in my computer class.’

‘I don’t know how you fit it all in.’

‘Well, I need to do something at my age or the brain goes. Now, don’t let me stop you. I’m sure you’ve got work to do upstairs. I only popped round to make the children’s tea, providing you want me to.’

‘That’s very kind of you.’ He’d offended her and he hadn’t meant to. He looked up at the ceiling. ‘Why are kids so noisy?’

‘They’re enjoying themselves, dear. It’s what they’re like nowadays. I’ve been reading up on it. Oh, and, Mark?’

‘Yes?’

She handed him a newspaper. ‘Here’s the article about that anti-bullying group.’

The anti-bullying group was being run by a children’s charity, which was inviting concerned parents to email their problems. Briefly, he outlined what had happened, putting only his first name at the end. Send. Interesting to see if the expert had any solutions – he was beginning to think there weren’t any. Kids could be cruel and text messages, emails and websites were natural media for abuse.

Caroline’s mobile was off, which meant he’d left it too late. She’d be cooking supper now for her family, talking to her husband and, later, going to bed with him. She’d told him that she and Roger – he’d always disliked the name because it reminded him of a particularly nasty boy at school – didn’t have
that
kind of relationship any more. But supposing he made her have sex?

Funny how he felt he’d known her far longer than a few months. Maybe it was those messages. He had definitely said things in them that he might not have had the courage to voice face to face.

‘Well, I’m going, and that’s the end of it.’

Florrie’s angry voice rose up the stairs and through his study door. His work would have to wait. He went downstairs to the kitchen and found Florrie leaning challengingly against the worktop, arms folded. Just like Hilary used to.

‘Granny says I can’t go to the party tonight.’

‘What party?’

‘I told you! Jemma’s having a few friends over. Honestly, Dad, you just don’t listen.’

He truly couldn’t remember.

‘Well, can I go or not?’

He poured himself a glass of cranberry juice. ‘I’d like a word with Jemma’s parents first.’

‘Why? What are you going to ask them?’

‘Just directions. Nothing embarrassing.’

‘You’ll ask if they’re going to be in, won’t you?’

‘Maybe.’

‘God, Dad, you’re
so
embarrassing! No wonder Freddy doesn’t tell you everything.’

‘Such as?’ He was hoping to find something out.

‘Nothing.’

She flounced out and he could hear her running up the stairs, then slamming her bedroom door. Seconds later, loud music hurtled down to him in competition with the sound of – yes! – Freddy’s trumpet. He might refuse to play at the concert but at least he was practising. Win some, lose some, he thought wryly. ‘Leave her,’ he said to Daphne. ‘She’ll come round.’

‘But what about their tea? It’s ready and it won’t keep.’ Daphne was hot and flustered. ‘I don’t approve of these young girls going out so much. You don’t know what they get up to.’

‘Daphne,’ he patted her shoulder, ‘it’s what they do. It’s when they get to the out all night stage you have to worry.’

Daphne shuddered. ‘Don’t.’

‘Look, I don’t want to be rude but I really need to finish off some work. You’re welcome to sit down if you want but—’

‘Don’t mind me.’ Daphne took off her apron sulkily. ‘I was just off to my computer class anyway.’

He saw her out and bolted back to the sanctity of his study. Such a relief. Much as he hated to admit it, Hilary had been partly right when she’d complained in the old days about him hiding in his work. Computers didn’t answer back. They didn’t need nagging about teeth-cleaning. And they didn’t need collecting from friends’ houses when he would rather be in bed.

Mark waited in the car outside the house as instructed.

‘Don’t come in,’ Florrie had said firmly. ‘I’ll be out by midnight.’

But something wasn’t right. The house, a rather nice detached place at the far end of Woodstock Road, was ablaze with colour and music. A girl in a short skirt – very short – came down the path, draped round a boy who looked as though he was barely out of year nine. ‘Hi, Mr Summers.’ She giggled.

He did a double-take as he recognised Emma, Florrie’s friend. What were her parents thinking of to let her wear that skirt or be so intimate with that boy? Mark got out of the car. Florrie had said Jemma was having a few girls over. She hadn’t said anything about boys.

The door was open and, amid the smoke-filled crowd of teenagers, Mark couldn’t see one adult. This was a party, not the small gathering Florrie had implied it would be. A boy was lying across the foot of the stairs, moaning.

‘You all right?’ asked Mark, kneeling down.

‘He’s been sick,’ said another boy, who was mopping something off the floor. ‘He’ll be OK in a minute.’

‘Have you seen Florrie Summers?’

‘Are you joking? Do you know how many kids are here?’

Mark strode into another room. It was dark, but he could make out shapes lying on the sofa. ‘Florrie? Are you there?’

It was impossible to make himself heard above the music. He fumbled by the door for the light switch.

‘Oy! Who fucking did that?’

Mark stood, his arms folded. ‘I did, young man. I’m looking for my daughter.’

‘Dad!’ A tousled Florrie emerged from a pile of bodies on the sofa. ‘You’re meant to be waiting outside,’ she slurred.

She was squinting in the light and he could smell the drink she’d had from where he was standing.

‘Get into the car, Florrie,’ he said.

She lurched towards him, pushing him against the wall. ‘Don’t talk to me like that.’

‘Now, come on . . .’

‘What’s going on?’ An older blonde girl came out of the kitchen.

‘Are you in charge here?’ asked Mark icily.

She stared at him coolly. ‘Well, it’s my party.’

‘I was told that Jemma was having a few friends over.’

The girl lit a cigarette and blew smoke at him. ‘Actually, it’s my eighteenth but Mum said Jemma could ask a couple of mates.’

‘Well, don’t you think someone ought to be in control? These kids are drinking and some are smoking.’

Her eyebrows rose in amusement. ‘So?’

Florrie clutched her stomach. ‘I feel sick. That vodka jelly was weird.’

‘Vodka jelly?’ repeated Mark, appalled.

‘Don’t you dare be sick here,’ said the girl, firmly, pushing her out of the room. ‘Go to the loo – in there.’

Mark made to follow her and almost fell over the boy who was mopping up. The kid’s eyes narrowed. ‘Hey, I recognise you, don’t I?’

Mark felt a cold tremor pass through him. ‘I don’t think so.’

The boy was sitting back now. ‘Yeah, I do. You used to live in Highbury, didn’t you? Off Canonbury Road.’

Apprehension gripped him.

‘What a coincidence!’ The boy spoke in a slightly camp tone. ‘We lived opposite you until we moved here. Your wife went to prison, didn’t she? I remember my mum talking about it. What did she do again? Stealing, wasn’t it?’

‘Piss off,’ said Mark, furiously. The door opened and a green-looking Florrie appeared. ‘Come on.’ Mark grabbed his daughter’s arm. ‘Time to go.’

‘Poor you,’ called the boy. ‘It must be hard for you.’

He marched Florrie down the path and into the car. ‘What’s he going on about, Dad?’

‘I don’t know.’ He started up the engine. ‘But I do know that you are never, ever to drink again like that. And if you insist on groping with boys at your age, you are not – I repeat not – to go below the waist until you are at least sixteen.’

‘Dad! I’m not like that.’

He set his eyes firmly on the road ahead. ‘We all do things we don’t mean to.’

‘Does that include you? And Mum?’

‘Yes, if you really want to know.’

They drove in silence for a few minutes.

‘I’m sorry, Dad.’

‘OK.’

‘But it’s hard without Mum.’

He could sense her tears in the darkness. ‘I understand that, but I’m doing my best.’

‘I know.’

A small hand stole on to his as he changed gear, just as it had when she was little. The gesture was almost enough to negate the pain.

‘If someone told you a secret, Dad, and you promised to keep it, do you think you should break it?’

‘That depends.’ He couldn’t think straight. All he could see was his daughter struggling out from beneath that pile of bodies on the sofa. She was too young, far too young, for that kind of thing. ‘Why?’

‘Nothing.’ She yawned. ‘I’ll tell you in the morning, when you’re not so mad at me.’

The following morning, Florrie was back to her usual aloof self over breakfast.

‘Dad made such a fuss at Jemma’s sleepover. It was really embarrassing.’