Tell Tale (3 page)

But when a vehicle did burst from within the cluster of trees at the end of the drive, the news quickly spread and everyone gathered round the window to see who it was. Me, I stuck fast on my special seat; wouldn’t budge in case it was Dad. I wanted to wave him all the way in.

I loved my dad, even though he wasn’t like other dads. Since he lost my mum, I think he’d lost his mind.

My forehead rested on the cool glass. A part of me wished my skull would crack right through the panes. I imagined the blood fingering down my face, spilling either side of my nose and around my mouth. I thought of the panic as the carers dabbed my skin with wet cloth and scolded me for being so stupid. I pressed as hard as I dared on the glass, but then jumped out of my skin. A hand dropped on to my shoulder.

‘Haven’t you got anything better to do?’ I turned and saw a man I didn’t recognise staring down at me. The sight of his mottled face set upon a trunk-like body froze me solid. His arms stuck out like branches, while the lines carved in his face reminded me of brittle twigs against an angry sky. The blood drained from my head; my heart thudded in fear. I wanted to go home. I wanted my dad.

I shook my head from side to side, trying to answer but nothing came out of my mouth. I’d not been living at the home long, but I couldn’t stop thinking of those horrid
stories, the stupid lies that flew from one grubby mouth to another. I screwed up my eyes to block it all out. My lips clamped together to stifle the scream that was brewing.

‘Then you’d better come and help me,’ he growled when I remained silent. I dared to peek out of one eye and saw something knotty and veined sitting at the man’s craw, as if he’d swallowed a bunch of rotten grapes and they were sticking out through his baggy skin.

He nipped a hand round my arm and pulled me off the window seat. ‘The devil makes work,’ he muttered, walking off down the long hall, towing me as if I were a stray puppy.

The stories flew through my mind like the wind flipping through the leaves of an old book. Memories of the other kids’ nightly tales were interlaced with the oblivion of sleep and nasty tablets. Perhaps I’d imagined it all. But the goings-on somehow found their way into our everyday lives as if they were perfectly normal – as normal as if we’d been told to shake out fresh sheets on the washing line, or sweep the floor, or lay the fire in the grate.

Reluctantly, I followed the stranger down the dark corridors of the home. As we walked on, new rooms suddenly telescoped out of others. ‘Where are we going?’ I plucked up the courage to ask, but the man ignored me.

Wide-eyed and stiff-limbed, my mouth hung open, fixed in a silent scream. My feet stubbed the floorboards in unwilling steps as the strength of the man outweighed my meagre protests. We stopped outside a door. The horrid man knocked and went straight in.

A light so bright I thought the sun had somehow got in
there made me screw up my eyes. I couldn’t see anything at all apart from the black silhouette of another man sitting behind a desk. Half from fear, half from the pain burning my eyes, I pressed my forearm across my brow. I prayed it would all go away.

‘Not her,’ the man behind the desk said in a voice that made me believe we’d stepped into hell. ‘There’s a father. Get another one.’

‘Miss Gerr-ard,’ the man says, drawing out the syllables. ‘I’m Mr Palmer, the headmaster.’ His skin is waxy and moist, and brushes limply against mine for a second as we shake hands. There is a sugar-dusting of dandruff on one shoulder of his dark suit.

‘Please, call me Frankie,’ I tell him.

‘Are you settling in? How do you like Roecliffe? Matron told me all about you.’

I open my mouth to speak.

‘She’s only been here an hour, Geoff. Give her a chance,’ the receptionist interrupts, handing me tea and leading me away. ‘Come and talk to Sylvia, dear. Trust me, Geoff’ll bore you for hours with stories about this and that. He knows everything there is to know about this place, and he seems to think everyone wants to hear about it.’ She grins knowingly.

I offer a bemused smile and follow her through the dozens of staff milling about. I feel way out of my depth.

‘Hello, Bernice,’ Sylvia says fondly, kissing the receptionist on both cheeks. ‘How was your holiday?’

Sylvia, the matron, interviewed me on the telephone two
days ago. It was all such a rush. I’d seen the position advertised on the school’s website last week. There were several jobs available, but the others were for teaching posts and I’m not qualified for those. It almost makes me giddy, thinking about the last few days.

It took all my courage to call about the job. Matron confessed on the phone that she was desperate for help. Term was about to start. There had been a girl lined up to fill the post, but she’d pulled out at the last minute without explanation. After Sylvia learned that I’d spent several years working with teenagers, she offered me the job there and then.

I sip my tea, patiently listening to Sylvia and Bernice chatting about the long summer break. Sylvia doesn’t look much like a school matron.

‘Hello again,’ I say, when she finally gives me her attention. She grips both my hands, squeezing hard. ‘Reporting for duty,’ I add with a forced laugh. Despite her jumpy disposition, I like Sylvia. She gave me a chance. She makes me feel as if I might one day belong.

‘Frankie, it’s lovely to have you here at Roecliffe Hall. I’m so pleased you accepted the position. Is your room all right?’ She stands on tiptoe to deliver a brief kiss to my cheek. ‘Anything you need, just shout. I’m determined not to lose you like all the others.’

‘It’s all fine,’ I tell her. ‘I’m very . . . happy to be here. I have a lovely view right across the grounds from my room.’ I wonder what she means, about losing the others.

‘You just wait until autumn. The trees are dazzling.’

‘I can imagine,’ I say. ‘When do the pupils arrive?’ I picture meeting the girls, seeing their earnest faces, their lips bubbling with holiday banter, their eyes brimming with tears, excitement as their parents leave, as another term starts.

‘Between seven and nine. We have a few hours to prepare for the hormonal onslaught.’ Sylvia laughs.

‘Oh gosh.’ I laugh inappropriately, loudly. My hand spreads across my mouth.

‘What’s so funny then?’ A sandy-haired man steps sideways and nudges Sylvia. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’

‘Frankie, meet Adam. Adam’s history.’

‘It’s true. I live in the past,’ he says pleasantly. I detect a slight accent. South African perhaps?

‘That’s not very healthy,’ I joke, for the sake of something to say.

‘Frankie’s my new house assistant,’ Sylvia continues. ‘She wanted a live-in job, and I desperately needed help since that girl let me down. Where is it you said you came from, Frankie?’

‘Down south,’ I say vaguely, trying to deflect Adam’s interested gaze. He is tall and his body leans casually as if an imaginary wall were propping him up. The delicate cup and saucer look ridiculous in his large hands. He is wearing a striped shirt loose over black jeans; tousled hair over tanned skin. He looks more like a surfer than a teacher.

‘Ah,’ he says slowly. His grin sits broken over the jut of his chin. ‘From the south, like me then. And I expect you’ll be living very much in the present looking after all the girls.’
He sips his tea, not taking his eyes off me. ‘Loud music, the internet, electronic games, make-up, boys, and tears. Good luck.’ He has eyes that are so blue they make the rest of his face look insignificant. It’s only when I draw away from him that I see he has a laptop tucked under one arm.

Sylvia is talking to someone else. ‘What are the girls like?’ I ask him. It’s that or stand there in awkward silence.

Adam glances at my cheek. His mouth opens and shuts several times before speaking. I blush. ‘They . . . they’re a nice bunch generally. Some can be a bit spoilt and demanding.’ He’s still staring.

‘Perhaps they have problems at home.’ I dig my nails into my thigh. I feel so awkward.

‘Privileged, I think is the word you’re looking for. And you’re hurt.’ Adam frowns, making me flinch as if he’s about to touch my face. I step backwards.

The headmaster taps his teaspoon on his cup, saving me from having to explain.

‘I’m fine,’ I whisper when Adam refuses to stop staring. ‘Just a graze.’

I turn my back on him and concentrate on what the headmaster has to say. In a few words, he cheerfully prepares us for the start of term; reminds us of the responsibilities we have to the three hundred and fifty-seven girls attending Roecliffe Hall; encourages us to give a moment’s prayer for another successful and happy school year. When everyone bows their heads, I hold mine high. I blink back hot tears. In my experience, prayers don’t work.

The girls arrived around seven – battalions of noise and belongings. From the small leaded window of my room, I watched the procession of cars on the drive below. My breath clouded the old glass as expensive vehicles deposited their children at school after the long summer break – some departing with no more than a cursory wave goodbye once the boot contents had been unloaded.

It made my throat go tight.

‘Sylvia, do you mind if I quickly make a phone call?’ We were ushering girls to the correct dorms and helping the new pupils.

She shooed me away with a grin. ‘Run for your life, if I were you.’

The cacophony of schoolgirl clatter diminished as I tunnelled down the corridor to where I’d spotted the payphone earlier. I didn’t have a mobile phone. Underneath the Perspex hood, names and numbers were jotted on the wall, along with general graffiti scribed in nail polish, Tippex and compass points.

I fished fifty pence from my pocket. I pushed it into the slot and listened to the dial tone for several minutes before hanging up. The coin dropped out. With the receiver replaced, I dialled the number anyway without credit. No harm.

‘Everything OK, Miss Gerrard?’ The headmaster slowed as he walked past. In the dim light, his face appeared carved, made from weathered wood. Seeing him down the dark corridor made my skin prickle.

I put the coin back in my pocket. ‘Everything’s fine, thank you,’ I replied, but he hadn’t stopped to listen.

The next morning at breakfast, Adam sits down next to me at the refectory table. All the other spaces are taken. He nods a greeting at me and the other staff around us, and then opens up his laptop. He taps away at the keys, punctuating his work with bites of toast and jam. He asks a woman I don’t know to pass the teapot.

‘How was your first night?’ He glances up from the screen, able to think, type, eat and talk without getting in a bother.

‘I was only woken four times. Three weepies and a vomit.’ I take a large sip of my coffee. None of the other staff bothered me with much more than a good morning.

Adam stops, toast halfway to his mouth. He drops it on to his plate and then types again for a minute or two. I can’t see what’s on the screen. Rays of coloured sun burst through the stained-glass window, highlighting the edges of his hair.

‘Bad luck then,’ he says as if he’s just remembered we were talking.

‘Not a bad night, considering,’ I reply vaguely. Truth is, even if the girls hadn’t woken me, I don’t think I would have slept.

‘So.’ Adam turns to face me, snapping his laptop shut. ‘What does your first day at Roecliffe hold?’ I still can’t quite place the accent. He picks up his tea and hugs the mug.

I sigh, hoping a bell will ring, prompting a scramble for class. ‘I have to make sure the girls have unpacked
everything in their trunks. Then there’s the beds, the dirty clothes, make-up, sweet wrappers, tissues, and general rubbish that can be found in teenage girls’ rooms. I have to do a drug search, sort out last term’s lost property, make sure they all eat lunch – I have a list of the anorexics – after which, I have a house staff meeting to discuss the laundry procedure and—’

‘Oh, OK,’ Adam laughs. ‘You’re obviously an expert on this. Where did you say you’d worked before?’ He waits for my reply.

It’s as if the breakfast bustle in the dining room suddenly stops; as if everyone wants to hear my answer.

‘Frankie, are you OK?’ Adam frowns.

I nod. The noise of the dining hall returns. ‘I just feel a little faint.’ It’s the truth. ‘But I’ll be fine.’ I don’t want to be rude. I just want him to go away, to get on with his lessons while I get on with my duties.

Adam scissors his legs free from the school bench and clatters his mug on to his plate. He appears to have taken the hint. ‘See you later, perhaps.’ He looks me up and down before leaving.

Seconds later, the bell rings. I sit perfectly still while dozens of feet hammer the wooden floor around me, shaking me to the core, punching it all home. The stampede of pupils and staff, the ordered panic as the day begins, the hundreds of lives that are being shaped within this building transport me back lifetimes. To a place I never thought I’d return to.

Nina smudged a line of kohl under Josie’s eyes. Josie scowled. ‘That’s enough or I’ll be late.’

‘Let me just highlight your brow bone.’ Nina peered over the top of her glasses and stroked a shimmering powder above her daughter’s eyes. ‘So pretty,’ she said, stamping a kiss on Josie’s forehead.

‘No I’m not.’ Josie meant it. She hated it when anyone complimented her looks.

‘You go and have a wonderful time but no—’

‘No alcohol, drugs or sex, right?’

‘I was going to say no wiping off my hard work in the loos, but none of those things either, young lady. What time is Natalie’s mum dropping you back?’

‘Midnight?’

‘Try ten thirty. It’s what we already arranged. I just want to make sure you have it fixed in your mind so you don’t keep Laura waiting.’

‘Oh, Mum.’ Josie adjusted the belt on her hips and slung a bag over her shoulder. She kissed her mother.

‘Oh,
Josie
.’ Nina grinned. ‘Go on, or you’ll be late for the concert.’

Josie skipped out of her bedroom but was back in a second. She wiggled the mouse beside her computer. From the doorway, Nina caught a flash of something on the screen before Josie clicked on a button and exited the window.