Swallowing Grandma (16 page)

‘An inquest is not about establishing blame,’ the coroner’s clerk had said before we went in. The coroner was saying it again now from the bench. Tell Poll, I nearly shouted out. She wants me strung up.

The coroner went first with Name of the deceased and Time of death, then the pathologist gave the Cause of death which was trauma to the head and then we sang ‘There is a Heavenly Land’ while Poll choked and sobbed into her service sheet. The place was packed with people from the village and students.

I had to go up and swear on the Bible.

‘Try to answer as clearly as you can,’ said the coroner to me.

I wanted to tell him, straight out. I killed Roger. It was my fault. I jerked the steering wheel in temper and pulled us across the road. I did try to say that but he asked me lots of questions about what I said and even as I was talking I could hear I didn’t make sense. At this point, he said, I should warn you that you do not have to answer any question which you are asked in this courtroom by me or by any other party if you feel that the answer to the question would implicate you in a criminal offence. Do you understand?

I told him maybe I didn’t touch the wheel, maybe I only hit the glove compartment with my fist.

After me, the lorry driver gave evidence. He was a Welshman, and thin as a rake. His eyes behind his black-framed glasses bulged with stress. ‘The car just drifted across into my lane,’ he whispered.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the coroner, ‘but you’ll have to raise your voice a little.’

The lorry driver wiped his glasses with a handkerchief and went on, clutching the sides of his chair. ‘He was drifting. I saw what was going on and I tried to move out of the way, but I just wasn’t quick enough. Lorries are heavy in the handling, they’re not as responsive as cars are.’

‘There was no sudden swerve on the part of the other vehicle?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

The lorry driver closed his eyes. ‘Totally sure, good God.’

I kept quiet and watched the coffin which was pale wood with a huge wreath on the front in the shape of a heart. I thought, what did they do with his head in the end? Did they try and wrap it up in something? All that silk lining spoiled.

Another man, elderly, took the oath and said he’d been behind us at the scene of the crash and he’d seen the car drift in the same way. ‘He’d been weaving for a while, a good few miles. To be honest, I thought he might be drunk.’

‘Man that is born of a woman is of a few days and full of trouble,’ said the coroner. ‘He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down. PC Whittle, could you give us your report on the crash scene now, please.’

PC Whittle talked about the pattern of tyre marks on the road, and the damage to the front and side wings of the car. The policeman said the physical evidence of the crash was consistent with the car having been struck a high-speed glancing blow to the extreme front offside wing, then having spun round on the road so that it was next hit squarely on the driver’s door, which had caved in to some considerable degree. This suggested, he said, that the car had not swerved wildly into the lorry’s path, but had been moving gradually over to the point where it was first clipped.

I imagined the coroner asking me again if I’d really grabbed the wheel. This time I’d say no, for definite. It made no difference. Roger was still dead. In my head we would always be crashing and he would always be dying; there would never be any room for anything else.

But the coroner didn’t ask me again. He climbed up behind the lectern and gave his verdict. ‘Without doubt, as we have heard from the pathologist, a contributory factor to Roger Millar’s death was his failure to wear a seat belt. I note that his girlfriend, Elizabeth Castle, who was wearing hers and sitting alongside him, avoided sustaining any serious injury. Miss Castle feels she may have been personally to blame for the accident, but I have heard the evidence of Miss Castle and rejected it, because I believe she is confused about the details of those last few crucial seconds. She seems consumed by guilt, to a degree where her reliability as a witness is actually undermined. If she had really pulled the top of the steering wheel as she thinks she might have done, then the car would have swerved the other way, onto the left-hand verge. The weight of evidence from witnesses at the scene and from the Greater Manchester Police Traffic Department clearly suggests that Mr Millar allowed his concentration to wander during the discussion with Miss Castle, and it was this that led to the fatal collision. I therefore record a verdict of accidental death. Will the congregation now rise.’

The coffin began to move forward on the conveyor belt and the theme from
Chariots of Fire
was piped through the speakers. My mouth was so full of blood I had to swallow. The curtains closed and he was gone.

Outside the crematorium, Poll’s friend Maggie was holding Katherine in her arms and jigging her up and down. She was singing, ‘Andy is waving goodbye, goodbye,’ under her breath. When she saw me she smiled and held Katherine out for me to take. But as soon as I touched her, the baby began to cry and I knew then she hated me.

*

I was skulking about outside the library, trying to decide whether or not to go in, when Miss Dragon pushed open the swing door and beckoned to me.

‘I’ve got something for you.’

Bloody hell, I thought. I followed her past the video rack and the Books for Sale table to the counter.

‘Here,’ she said, bringing a postcard out from the shelf underneath. ‘It’s from your friend. He sent it here.’

The picture on the front was Glastonbury Tor by sunset, and on the back Callum had written: ‘Staying with Mum’s mates for two weeks in their Mediaeval barn. When I get back, I’ve got a present for you. Wednesday 28th OK? Late am, among the books. Cheers, Call.’ Any other time I’d have been tickled by ‘Kat Millar, Care Of the Library’, but Miss Dragon wasn’t smiling.

‘There’s no contact number,’ I said, half to myself. ‘So how can I let him know either way?’

Miss Dragon pursed her lips. ‘You watch yourself. Timmy O, Danny S,’ she said sternly, tapping the card with her finger. Then the phone rang and she turned away to answer it.

Timmy O? Danny S? Who where they? I hung around for a few seconds to ask, then decided I didn’t care anyway and wandered back outside. I felt so lonely I almost went home and phoned Rebecca, but after a mooch round the newsagent’s and a flick through some glossies, I came up with a better plan. Twenty minutes later I was on a bus to Bolton, nose in a fashion mag, a tenner filched from Poll’s purse in my pocket.

De-Fuzz for Summer Fun
, I read.
Nothing ruins a beach babe’s look like a couple of coconut-style shins sticking out from under her sarong. You can forget the golden tan, the toned abs, the hot-label bikini. Furry legs say you just can’t be bothered.

And the guys agree. ‘If there’s one thing that puts me off a woman’s body, it’s little black hairs poking out everywhere,’ says Dave, 22. ‘It may be OK for the Continentals, but it makes me feel sick. I wouldn’t touch a hairy girl with a bargepole.’

Mind you, boys, it’s only fair to tell you, we all loathe bristly backs on men, so if you’re thinking about stripping your shirt off this holiday, you’d better sort yourselves out too!

Stubble Trouble

But with the vast range of depilatories now on the market, what is the best way to get those crucial bits smooth, sexy and strokeable? The Chique team have been road-testing the top brands and gadgets that promise no-fuss silky skin, and they’ve come up with some surprising results . . .

In Boots, I took so long assessing all the products that I attracted myself a store detective, or it might have been another pervert, I’m not sure. He was definitely having a good look at my bottom. I went to stare at the tampons for a while – that got rid of him – and then came back and bought a box of wax strips. Donna used wax strips; what had she said about them? I found where the electric straighteners lived, but they were way too dear. Then I went along the hair-dye aisle and imagined what life would be like if you looked like some of these women on the boxes.

I paid for the strips and went to check out clothes.

Our whole sixth form was out that sunny Saturday. In Dorothy Perkins I saw Emma Pearson from my English set, and Surinder Badat from general studies in Woolworth’s. Lissa Hargreaves was in the ladies’ at Debenhams, wetting down a new perm and cursing. Serving behind the counter in W. H. Smith’s was Nicky Hunter, while Donna French was pretending to browse DVDs next to her and sighing every time a customer interrupted their chat.

‘Hi
ya
,’ cried Donna when she saw me. ‘Hey, Nicky, it’s Kat.’

Nicky looked a bit sick but managed a smile. ‘Hey.’

Someone came up and asked for stamps, so Donna waltzed over to me. ‘Whatcha got there, then?’ I opened the bag slightly for her to peer in. ‘Ooh, yikes, rather you than me. Not going for a Brazilian, are you? Yow-ow-ow. Nasty. I’m saving up for laser treatment. For my legs, I mean.’

‘Right,’ I said.

‘Nicky’s being boring,’ she said loudly over her shoulder. ‘Working.’

‘Earning money,’ said Nicky.

‘It’s a drag. Anyway. You’re coming, aren’t you? To my do?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Poll had taught me it was simplest to lie about these things.

‘See?’ Donna called over to Nicky. ‘Kat’s coming. Everyone’s coming in the world, except you.’

Nicky was giving an old man some change, but when he’d gone she said, ‘It’s not my fault my stepdad’s booked us a fortnight in Florence. I don’t want to go.’

‘Well, don’t, then.’

‘It’s not as simple as that.’ Nicky broke off to direct a woman to the printer cartridges. Her face was like thunder.

‘Come on,’ said Donna to me. ‘Nicky’s too busy. Let’s go and have a coffee, or something.’

I didn’t look in Nicky’s direction as we walked away.

Anyone watching us trailing round the shops, picking clothes off the racks and holding them up against ourselves might have thought we were proper friends. She looked completely fantastic in everything she chose. I wanted to tell her that, but I couldn’t because it would have sounded crap. I just looked like a barrel. At last, in Blayz, we found a really good Plus section and she pulled items off the rack for me to examine, and tutted when I rejected them.

‘I don’t know why you won’t try that one on, it wouldn’t half show off your cleavage.’ She passed over a scoop-necked white top with a ruffle down the front. ‘You’ve got bosoms to die for. You’d be causing traffic accidents if you wore this in the high street. See.’ She stepped close and unbuttoned the top of my high-necked pale blue blouse and pulled the collar apart. My heart was beating somewhere up in my throat. ‘Undo a few more yourself. Loosen up. That’s it. Till you can see a bit of lace off the top of your bra. That looks loads better.’

We stood in front of the mirror together, then she did a neat side-step out of the reflection. I knew why she’d done that; so I wouldn’t compare our figures. She’s only being nice to you out of guilt, said Poll’s voice, why else would she be bothering?

‘Thing is,’ Donna was saying, ‘we’ve all got bits of our bodies we hate. Everyone. I’ve got this stupid scar on my belly button from an op I had when I was a kid. I can’t stand anyone seeing it; not unless I know them very well, if you know what I mean.’

I was smoothing the white top against myself and squinting, trying to imagine it on.

‘So I wear stuff that covers it up. Like, I’d never wear crop-tops with hipsters. Which is a fucking drag, actually. I never used to bother about it when I was little, until a girl at my primary school said it gave her nightmares. Katie Ainsworth, evil little cow. When we went swimming she made sicky noises in the changing rooms at me.’

I hung the top back on its rail. ‘God, that’s awful.’

‘I got her back. Majorly.’

‘How?’

Donna pursed her lips as if considering. ‘Well . . . promise you won’t be grossed-out by this? Because it is
pret
ty gross.’

‘Go on.’

‘OK. What I did was, I secretly dropped a handful of aniseed balls into the swimming pool at the shallow end where she always was, ’cause she couldn’t actually swim for toffee, just mucked about with a float all the time and hung onto the edge. Within about two minutes there was a red slick all round her, it looked exactly like blood. I knew it would because a little boy in Greece last year had done the same thing in the hotel pool, and the lifeguards went mental trying to find the swimmer with the terrible injury.

‘The instructor got us all out and sent us off back to the changing rooms, and while we were there I told everyone it had been Katie’s period. All the other girls started screaming and trying to get under the showers, and she ran into a cubicle and wouldn’t come out. The more she denied it, the more everyone believed me. By the time the instructor came in, she was hysterical. And it became one of those school legends, you know, so that whenever anyone mentioned Katie Ainsworth, it was, “Oh, she’s the one who had her period in the swimming pool.” ’

I had my mouth open and my hand to my lips. ‘Wow.’

‘Told you it was gross. I don’t care though, she deserved it.’

‘Oh, she did.’ I was so happy, to be here, in this normal clothes shop, talking about periods with Donna French..

‘Are you going to buy this groovy garment, or what? For the record, I think you should.’

I shook my head. ‘I haven’t got enough money left.’ That was true. I was relieved too, because although the top was really nice, I couldn’t have faced the thought of going into a communal changing room with Donna.

‘Don’t be wet. Open an account,’ said Donna airily, biting at a hangnail and managing to make the action look cool and provocative.

‘I don’t know how you do that.’

‘Go over to that counter there, tell them you want to apply for a Blayz card, and I guarantee they’ll be doing triple somersaults around you. Take the top. You get ten per cent off, it says on that sign.’

I wanted to say, I don’t know what size I am any more, but I didn’t dare. I wanted her to say, Give it to me, I’ll take it for you, I’ll sort you out a card. I wanted to drop the top on the carpet and run away.