Something Only We Know (13 page)

I tried to lighten the mood. ‘If you will choose such a high-maintenance partner.’

‘Hah! Forgive me, Jen, you’re one to talk.’

To our left, Owen and Chelle came strolling out of the vintage car building, deep in conversation. He was waving his hands around to emphasise whatever vital point he was making.

I said, ‘Then again, you have to look below the surface stuff, don’t you? Look at what matters in a person.’

‘You do.’

Still several yards away from us, my boyfriend came to a halt, pointing first at the main house then back at the building where the cars lived. His brow was furrowed with disapproval.

‘And not let yourself get hung up on the little irritations. I mean, I appreciate Owen can be a bit . . . intense. But his vision and energy, they’re extraordinary. He makes me see
the world through different eyes. It’s like taking off sunglasses and appreciating the colours properly; everything’s more vivid. Plus he’s taught me that you don’t need
things
to make your life happy or meaningful. You don’t have to spend your time acquiring possessions. Like, last Christmas he took me to the cathedral precinct and whipped out this
tatty old hymn book and we stood and sang carols and collected money for Shelter. And it was bitterly cold but I hardly noticed because people were coming up and smiling and handing over their
cash. Loads of it. Notes and stuff. And then this homeless guy joined in, he was drunk but it didn’t matter, and some clubbers walking past stopped and did a stint, then a couple of
choristers came out of the cathedral and sang with us, and it was magical. The best Christmas memory ever.’

‘Better even than when we went out at midnight and put a bra on your next door neighbour’s snowman?’

‘Better even than that.’ Again I touched the cool flower petals resting against my hair. I thought of a music festival the previous summer where he’d plaited me a crown of ivy
to wear; potatoes baked in the embers of his garden bonfire; the blood-thrilling beat of drummers during an anti-racism demo. ‘Seriously, when it’s working, it’s great. And it is
coming right again. I am making progress. I get to see more of him these days, and just, I feel like his girlfriend, properly. All I need to do is oust the limpet and we’ll be
there.’

Chelle was still shoeless, and I could see the cobblestones were causing her problems.

‘Good for you, Jen. Although I’d say the sooner she shifts herself, the better. You weren’t exaggerating: she is truly annoying. Awesomely.’

Another minute and they were level with us.

‘How were the cars?’ asked Ned.

‘Pretty nice,’ Owen replied. ‘They’ve got an E type in there, 1971. And a Jensen Interceptor and a Lotus Elan convertible.’

‘What colour’s the Lotus?’

‘British racing green.’

‘Nice. Any Triumphs?’

‘I think a TR4 and a TR6.’

‘I like open-top cars.’

‘Yeah.’

‘If I had the money I’d have a blue TR6. Or maybe a maroon Stag.’

‘Stags are smart. Classic lines.’

‘A maroon Stag with beige leather seats and a walnut dash. That’s what I fancy—’

‘It’s still about the iconography of privilege.’ Chelle sliced across the conversation.

A light in Owen’s eyes died. ‘Oh, yeah.’

‘Because status symbols on that scale have no moral justification in today’s society. It doesn’t matter how shiny their bumpers are or what top speed they can do. It’s
still basically money tied up in selfish, showy objects. Money that could be out in the system, doing people some good.’

‘You’re right.’ He nodded soberly. ‘I mean, transport should just be about getting from A to B. There’s no need for a car to cost two hundred grand, is
there?’

‘I’d best cancel that Lamborghini, then,’ said Ned.

Chelle bent to brush grit off the sole of her foot. I noticed how she put her palm against Owen’s bicep to steady herself. ‘Anyway, I reckon we should go over to the gift shop
now.’

‘The gift shop?’ I said to her. ‘I don’t think you’ll like it there. There might be model icons-of-privilege on sale. Tea towels with symbols of oppression printed
on them.’

‘I want to ask,’ she said, ‘how many of their products are FairTrade. And get them to stock more.’

Ned and I exchanged glances.

‘Looks like that’s where we’re headed, then. I’ll go drag your sister away from her new friends,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, ladies, you might want to hide
your stolen roses.’

When we got home that evening it seemed my mother was engaged in a major clear-out. The front of the bureau had been opened and emptied, as had all three drawers. Mum herself
was stretched out on the sofa with her feet up and her hand over her eyes.

‘I’ve decided I’m sick of hanging onto clutter,’ she announced as Hel and I stood in the doorway, taking in the scene. ‘I’m sick of it taking up space in my
house. Rubbish. I don’t need it. It has to go.’

The bureau’s contents she’d grouped into piles, on the dining table, on the chairs, at various points across the carpet. There was an open bin bag against the wall.

My sister just shrugged, but I was instantly on high alert.

‘Hey, you’re not throwing out my fox ears!’ From the pile at my feet I snatched up a plastic hair band with two brown felt triangles glued to the top. This had been part of my
costume during Year 2 Nativity, that famous Bible scene where Jesus gets a visit from a posse of woodland creatures. Klara Peplinksi’s squirrel tail had become detached halfway through and,
in a moment of inspiration, she’d laid it over the baby’s neck for a scarf.

Mum uncovered her eyes. ‘Anything you want keeping, put on the chair by the window. If you haven’t saved the things you want by the time the bin men come tomorrow, they’re
going.’

‘And that’s certainly not rubbish,’ I said, picking out a tatty programme from my school leavers’ ball. ‘It’s a souvenir, it’s part of my personal
timeline.’

‘You look worn out,’ said Helen to Mum. ‘Shall I make you a cup of tea?’

‘Thanks, love, yes. I’ve had such a day at work.’

‘And this is my college rag mag. I helped edit this,’ I said, pushing through the piles. ‘God, we had a laugh doing it. And look, here’s a Red Nose that Ned bought me.
And my koala purse I had in the juniors. Oh, yay, and my Gareth Gates fan club pack. There are stickers and, aw, see, there’s a little badge with his face on. Bless him. You’re not
getting rid of this lot, no way.’

My mother made no reply so I carried on rooting, moving between the different heaps. There was a huge bag of loose batteries, one of emergency candles, some shoe cleaning equipment. Here was my
old calculator with my name and form scratched on the back panel. Inside a hockey sock, along with my gum shield, were stuffed a load of pom pom animals I’d made in Year 6 Craft Club. Lindsay
Pagett and I had sold some of them door to door to raise money for new playground equipment.

And what was that exercise book, half hidden under an ancient TV warranty? A St Thom’s planner! Yes, I’d recognise that orange cover anywhere. I pulled it out, expecting to see my
name on the front, only to find it was one of Helen’s. That was a surprise as she normally kept her academic stuff in her wardrobe, boxed and catalogued.

I ought to have put it aside or handed it straight to her, but I couldn’t resist a quick flick through while she was out of the room. It felt like a chance to glimpse a side of her I
barely knew.

She’d been a fan of multiple pen colours, and columns, and double underlining. Bullet points and highlighting she liked as well. Every page was covered with general Year 10 classwork, her
neat, slanted handwriting setting out timetables and homework instructions methodically. Since this was a book which never got handed in for marking, she’d also allowed herself some doodling
down the margins: figure-of-eight patterns, hot air balloons, turrets and castles with birds flying over them. Sometimes she drew glossy red lips, smiling. On one page was a list of term test
results: 87%, 79%, 91%, 84%, and next to each figure she’d drawn a little flower. It was nice to peek into this world of Helen-past, to compare her notes with my own untidy Year 10 scrawl.
What a clever girl she’d been. How the teachers must have loved her. Then I flipped the page and blinked in shock. After all the pristine entries, suddenly I was looking at a burst of violent
scribbles, the maths equations beneath almost obscured with thick and angry red marker. I could tell at once it hadn’t been done by her. Hel’s corrections were always precise and
measured.

With a sinking heart, I carried on through the planner. There was more red marker, some scrawled obscenities, a smear which might have been mud. Several of the later pages had been torn right
out. Witnessing the damage with my own eyes made me feel terrible, as if it somehow made me complicit in the bullying that had gone on. Poor Hel. Day after day, walking into that bear-pit,
wondering what was waiting for her.

As I went to put the book down, it flopped open at the back page. And here was a work of wonder. Margin to margin was a mass of manic biro, scored so deep and intense into the paper there was
hardly any white left to show through.
JOE
my sister had written at the centre, in 3D capitals with cross-hatched sides. His name she’d surrounded by clusters of stars and beaming
suns, and further out she’d drawn rockets, ringed planets, moons and comets. Two stick figures floated against the black background, holding hands; one of them had long hair. The whole design
was bordered by a pattern of tiny, interlinked hearts. Hours, the design must have taken her. There was so much love coming off this page, so much hope. The level of need was painful.

‘Here you are,’ she said, coming in from the kitchen and putting a steaming mug down next to Mum.

As if it was on fire, I dropped the book in a bin bag, out of sight. Perhaps my parents had hung onto it as evidence against the school. That seemed most likely. I couldn’t imagine Hel
wanting to preserve such a humiliating memento. But whatever the reason it had been stashed away in our bureau, it was time to get rid. The idea of her spotting it now made my insides turn
over.

‘Let’s see what we’ve got, then,’ she said, wandering over to the table. With her slim fingers she sorted through crocheted mats, nail varnish remover pads, hair bobbles,
jam jar labels. She paused for a moment at a booklet on guinea pig care, then slid it away. There was a
Radio Times
cover showcasing something called
Vets in Practice
, a tatty
certificate announcing Helen Crossley had won second prize in a junior science competition, a bundle of greetings cards from various home tutors wishing her good luck with exams, and an uncashed
book token from her old teacher Mr Wolski. Then there were her Children & Adolescent Mental Health Services notes.

‘Oh, those,’ said Hel when she spotted the folder.

‘What is it?’ asked Mum, raising her head.

‘Nothing. Only my medical file.’

‘I meant to put that away.’

Helen picked it up but didn’t open the flap. ‘Shall we just whizz it?’

‘No!’ This time my mother sat up properly. ‘We need to keep those letters and charts.’

‘Why?’

I thought it was mean of Hel to ask that. We both knew what was going through Mum’s head:
In case you get really ill again and need to go back to the Mental Health Services and we can
hand the records over without any delay. Because getting into the system can be such a battle and if it ever happens again I want us to be prepared. I want to tackle the situation as early as
possible, before it gets too strong for you to deal with.

But there was the difficulty. To keep hold of Hel’s anorexia history was almost like inviting that possibility, signalling to her daughter that we expected the full-blown disease to
return. I remembered the one occasion Mum’d opened up to me very slightly about it, during the course of a long night when I was kept awake by raging toothache. I’d been home from uni,
and she’d sat up with me and tried to distract me by chatting. She’d said, ‘If I could take the pain off you and have it myself, I would, you know. There’s nothing worse as
a mother than seeing your child suffer.’ I’d been impressed because she seemed to mean it. Then she went on, ‘Except when they’re making themselves ill, there’s
truly
nothing worse than that. When Helen starved herself it was the cruellest thing she could have done. I thought my heart was going to break.’

Now Hel was holding the notes over the bin bag provocatively. ‘Well, I say sling it.’

Mum was dithering, her hands coming to her mouth and away again. ‘Yes, OK, if that’s what you want, obviously. Only, we could just – perhaps we should—’

Helen replaced the folder on the table. ‘All right, don’t stress. It makes no difference either way. The health centre has copies. So I don’t see the point of hanging on to
it.’

‘Well, if you feel that way—’

‘I do. Shall I?’

After a moment Mum nodded and the folder went into the bin bag.

Meanwhile I’d recovered enough to unearth a plastic carrier of Dad’s belongings: cassette tapes, a video he’d shot to promote his company, some headed notepaper, company pens
and a baseball cap I’d bought him with the legend
Keep on Truckin’
embroidered on the front. The joke being that Dad would never have worn a baseball cap, even if it had been
raining fire from the heavens. There was also a bunch of newspaper and trade magazine clippings about the development of his haulage firm over the years, and a letter dated 2002 saying he’d
been nominated for a Midlands regeneration business award. It was some achievement, considering he’d built the company up from nothing. He’d worked hard. He’d done well.

‘You can stick that lot in with the rubbish,’ said Mum, nodding at the carrier I was holding.

‘Hang on. I take it you’re going to check with Dad first that he doesn’t want it any more?’

She just lay back with her head against the cushion. I placed the bundle under the table, out of sight.

‘Right, well,’ I said, ‘if this is what we’re doing, I think my best option is to grab a bin bag of my own and use it to take some of my things upstairs. Where
they’re safe. Have we any spare?’