Authors: Andrew Norriss
The first time Jessica saw Quentin Howard was when she and Francis were waiting in the corridor before going into a science lesson.
Jessica was floating a couple of metres in the air to avoid the crowd – it made her slightly queasy to have too many people walking through her – when a thick-set boy with glasses came up to Francis, holding out a battered looking doll, with one leg and no hair.
‘Present for you, Francis,’ he said. ‘Found her in the road outside. She’ll need some new clothes, but you’re the man for that, aren’t you!’ And he tucked the doll into the top pocket of Francis’s blazer, while everyone around him laughed.
Francis took the doll out of his pocket and was about to throw it in the bin when Mr Nicholls the science teacher appeared, and told him to put it away and get into the classroom. Everyone laughed again.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Jessica, floating down to join Francis as he made his way to a bench.
‘That was Quentin,’ said Francis. ‘It’s nothing. It’s what he always does.’
And Quentin always did. He would make a point, whenever he saw Francis, of asking if he’d bought any new dolls recently, or made any little frocks for them, or knitted them some nice underwear. Francis didn’t seem to mind too much, but Jessica did.
‘He’s being horrid,’ she said, after Quentin had asked Francis at the start of a geography lesson if he ever had little tea parties with his dolls. ‘You should do something.’
Francis only smiled. ‘Like what?’
‘Well, for a start, you could tell him to stop.’
‘He’s not going to stop just because I tell him to. He’s enjoying himself too much for that.’ Francis gave a little shrug. ‘And anyway … it’s partly my fault.’
‘
Your
fault? How?’
‘I brought some sewing into school once. And Quentin found a doll in my bag.’
‘One of the costume dolls?’
Francis nodded. ‘If it had been one of the punks or something, I might have got away with it … but it was the Moschino.’
‘Ah …’ Jessica winced. Moschino was a designer who liked to put little rosettes and lace edging on the clothes he made.
‘I thought of trying to tell him who Moschino was and why I liked him,’ said Francis, ‘but I had a feeling it wouldn’t really help. Mum says if I take no notice, he’ll give up with the teasing, eventually.’
There was, Jessica thought, little sign of Quentin giving up any time soon. As Francis said, he was enjoying himself too much for that. But she still thought something should be done. Quentin’s teasing – if that’s what you could call it – might not worry Francis particularly, but for some reason it left her feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Francis might be one of those lucky people who never worry
much about anything – the sort of person who could meet a ghost one lunchtime and simply offer them a mug of tea – but she was not made like that herself.
That, at least, was what she thought, and it was something of a shock to discover how far it was from the truth.
They had walked into town together after school on Wednesday. Francis needed some buttons for the cotton top he was making, and he bought them in the haberdasher’s section of Dummer’s department store. While he was paying, Jessica floated off to look at a display of skirts and dresses on the other side of the aisle.
Although it was February, the first of the summer fashions were already making an appearance and, as Francis came out with his bag of buttons, Jessica called him over to look at a halterneck dress priced at an ambitious £800.
Francis joined her, looked at the dress, and then reached up a hand to feel the fabric between his finger and thumb.
As he did so, a sales assistant appeared in front of him.
‘Aren’t you Francis Meredith?’ she asked.
Francis let go of the material with a start.
‘We haven’t met,’ said the woman, ‘but I’m Lorna Gilchrist’s mother.’
Lorna was a girl in Francis’s tutor group at school.
‘I thought I recognised you from the class photo,’ the woman continued. ‘You’re the boy who’s interested in fashion, right?’
Francis did not reply.
‘I’m expecting Lorna to be here soon,’ the woman went on. ‘I don’t know if the two of you would like to …’
‘I’m sorry,’ Francis had begun backing towards the exit. ‘I have to go. I’m late for … I’m late.’
He broke into a run as he headed for the stairs and Jessica followed him out of the store, into the precinct, and watched as he slumped down on a bench, his head in his hands.
Puzzled, she sat down beside him.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘Is something wrong?’
Francis briefly lifted his head to look at her. ‘That was Lorna’s mother.’
‘I know it was. I heard her telling you. But I still don’t understand why you ran away. What’s going on?’
‘What’s going on,’ said Francis wearily, ‘is that Lorna’s mother will tell Lorna what she saw, won’t she? And then tomorrow Lorna will tell her friends at school and everyone will know that I was seen hanging around the women’s section of a department store.’
‘That’s what’s bothering you?’ Jessica stared at him. ‘That Lorna might tell everyone tomorrow that you were seen looking at a dress?’
‘Not just looking,’ said Francis. ‘Touching it as well. And yes. That is what’s bothering me.’
And it clearly was. His face was pale and there were little red spots in his cheeks. He looked …
frightened
.
Jessica was surprised as well as puzzled. In all the time they had been together, she had never seen her friend like this. He was Mr Cool. Mr Fearless. Nothing frightened Francis! Even when he met a ghost, all he did was invite them home with him. She had never seen Francis bothered
by anything and yet … here he was …
very
bothered.
‘I don’t get it!’ she said. ‘Even if Lorna
did
tell someone … so what? Everyone already knows you’re a bit weird when it comes to clothes, don’t they!’
‘Thanks,’ said Francis. ‘That really helps.’
‘You know what I mean! You were just looking at a dress! It’s not illegal, and everyone knows you’re interested in fashion. You’re the guy who makes dresses for dolls for goodness sake!’
‘Yes, and now people are going to say that I’m …’
‘Oh, who cares what they say!’ interrupted Jessica. ‘Let them say what they want. It doesn’t matter! Honestly. How could you think it
did
?’
She said this, or something like it, a good many times and in a dozen different ways on the walk home, with the result that, by the time they got back to Alma Road, Francis was prepared to admit that he might have overreacted. Perhaps Jessica was right. Everyone at school already knew about his interest in fashion. Maybe being seen in the women’s department at Dummer’s was not such a big deal. Certainly not compared with someone
finding a doll in your school bag and realising that you made the clothes for it …
He was a little less certain the next morning as he made his way in to school. If he had not had Jessica, still firmly upbeat, beside him, he might not have gone in at all, but when he got there …
… nothing happened.
If Lorna’s mother had said anything to her daughter about finding Francis admiring a dress in the department store, Lorna herself did not repeat the fact to anyone else. Neither then, nor later. There was a moment, at the end of morning lessons, when it looked as if she might be coming over to speak to him, but he pretended to be reading his book and she turned and left the room.
Neither Jessica nor Francis ever spoke about it afterwards, but the incident made Jessica realise that Francis worried about what other people thought and said, a lot more than he let on.
Francis’s mother had always known that her son was different from other boys. As he got older, she had seen the difference become more pronounced and was not surprised to hear that he was having problems at school. Life at a provincial comprehensive for a boy whose hobby was designing dresses was never going to be easy, even before he was daft enough to let someone find a doll in his school bag.
Grace Meredith was a potter. In her studio – a ramshackle glass structure that extended out from the kitchen at the back of the house – she threw plates, bowls and pots on her wheel, fired and glazed them in a kiln, and packed up the end results so that they could be sold.
Working with clay was something Mrs Meredith had always enjoyed, though she had never expected to have to earn a living from it. As a child, art had been the only subject in which she had shown any talent at school. She had followed up her interest with a brief spell at art college and, after her marriage, her new husband, David, had actually built her a studio so that she could carry on ‘playing with mud’ as he cheerfully put it. It was only after David, a fanatical hang-glider, flew into the side of a mountain and killed himself, that Mrs Meredith had been forced to think of pottery as anything more than a hobby.
With a strictly limited income, and a child and a large house to maintain, she had looked round for a way to earn some money, and selling the bowls and plates she made had seemed the obvious answer. Everyone who saw her work told her how good it was – and they were right. But unfortunately Mrs Meredith was a better potter than she was a business woman and money had remained an almost constant worry. The year before, they had had to downsize drastically, to cut back on expenses. Moving to the terraced house in Alma Road had helped, but money,
or rather the lack of it, was still a worrying issue.
Almost as worrying as having a son like Francis.
She had done what she could to help. She had written to the school to ask if anything could be done about the teasing. The Head Teacher had rung back to say she had spoken to Francis’s tutor, who had promised to keep an eye on things. The tutor had phoned, a week later, to say she thought the situation was improving. Francis himself assured her that this was true, but Mrs Meredith was not entirely convinced.
Her particular worry at the moment was the amount of time her son spent on his own. As far as she could tell, in the last two weeks he had spoken to almost no one apart from herself – and not very much of that. He went to school on his own, he came home on his own and went straight up to his room in the attic, where he stayed all evening. Alone.
He came down for meals, but even then there was a
vague
look about him, as if he were listening to some voice in his head that only he could hear. Recently, she had heard him talking to himself. Creeping up to sit on
the stairs outside the attic, she had put her ear to the door and heard the murmur of an entire conversation, as if he was pretending he had somebody in there with him.
It was all very worrying.
What her son needed, she knew, was to be with someone his own age. If there was someone he could walk to school with, sit with in class, talk to during the day, he might be able to get through a difficult time without too much damage.
What Francis needed was a friend and, as luck would have it, she had just found a possible candidate.
‘You know the woman who’s just moved in down the road?’ Mrs Meredith was in her studio, carefully painting the outline of a swan on the centre of a plate as she spoke. ‘It turns out she has a son almost exactly the same age as you.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Francis was next door in the kitchen. Jessica had gone back to the hospital, and he was making himself a hot chocolate before going to bed.
‘His name’s Andy.’ Mrs Meredith dipped her brush in
the glaze and stroked out the shape of the swan’s neck. ‘But his mother’s a bit worried about him.’
‘Right …’ Francis was only half listening. Jessica had suggested before she left that they go to an exhibition of theatrical costumes that was opening in Southampton the next day. He was busy looking up train times.
‘He’s supposed to be starting at John Felton on Monday, but he doesn’t want to go. His mother says he had some bad experiences at his last school. I said you’d talk to him.’
‘Talk to him?’
‘Yes. You know. Reassure him. Tell him there’s nothing to worry about.’ Mrs Meredith picked up a fresh brush to put in a touch of ochre for the swan’s eye. ‘I said you’d walk to school with him on Monday. Show him round. Make sure he gets to his classes, that sort of thing.’
Francis came over to stand on the step that led out to the studio. ‘You told someone I’d take their son to school on Monday,’ he said, ‘and look after him through the day?’
‘Yes!’ Mrs Meredith smiled brightly. ‘He sounded very nice.’
‘You don’t think it might have been a good idea to ask me first?’
‘Why?’ Mrs Meredith put down her brush. ‘It’s a chance to make friends with someone your own age. It’s what you need!’
‘How about letting me be the one who decides what I need or don’t need?’
‘Look, I am trying to help!’ Mrs Meredith took a deep breath. ‘His mother is bringing Andy round here for an hour tomorrow morning. If you don’t like him, you can tell me and you need never speak to him again, but the least you can do is meet him.’ She held up the plate to look at the finished swan, which wasn’t quite as good as she’d hoped. ‘And I’m quite sure, when you do, that you’ll find you get on really well together.’
Francis did not answer. He looked at his mother for a moment, then turned on his heel and walked out of the kitchen. Watching him go, Mrs Meredith had the sinking feeling that it might not have been such a good idea after all.
If Francis was unenthusiastic about the idea of meeting the boy from number thirty-nine, Jessica, to his surprise, was even less keen.
‘So we can’t go to the exhibition this morning,’ she said, a distinctly frosty note in her voice, ‘because you want to be with this “Andy” person, right?’
‘I don’t
want
to be with him. I
have
to. I told you. Mum’s already invited him round.’
‘Well, I suppose if that’s what Mummy said …’
‘Oh, don’t be like that!’ Francis protested. ‘We can still go to the exhibition. Just not till this afternoon. He’s only going to be here an hour!’
‘One hour?’ Jessica gave a sniff. ‘That’s all?’
‘Then on Monday I have to walk him to school and show him round, but after that …’
‘You’re going to spend all Monday with him as well?’
‘That’s why Mum wants me to meet him,’ said Francis patiently. ‘He’s starting at a new school. He doesn’t know anyone, and I’m supposed to help him get through the first day. After that he probably won’t want to know me anyway, will he?’
‘You mean when someone tells him about the dolls?’
‘Yes.’
Jessica considered this. Francis could tell she was still not happy.
‘And what am I supposed to do while all this is going on?’
‘Well, you could …’
‘I mean it’s all right for you, isn’t it? You can choose from hundreds of people who you talk to, but I can’t, remember? There’s only one person who even knows I exist – and you’re it!’ Jessica pulled up the hood of her coat. ‘Well, I suppose I’ll see you later. If you’re still interested of course.’
‘I was hoping,’ said Francis, speaking quickly before she could disappear, ‘that you’d stay. At least for a bit.’
‘Stay? What for?’
‘Well, to watch.’
Jessica looked at him, without speaking.
‘If you stay,’ Francis continued, ‘you’ll be able to see what he’s like and then, when he’s gone, we can talk about how awful he is.’
For the first time that morning, Jessica almost smiled.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I can probably do that.’
The meeting with Andy did not begin well. The first stumbling block was that Andy was in fact Andi – with an ‘i’ not a ‘y’ – and she was a girl. The figure standing at the front door was short and squat, with strong, sturdy legs, a pair of powerfully muscled arms held rigidly at her side and a head covered in short, tight curls of bright red hair. She was without doubt one of the most unattractive adolescents Mrs Meredith had ever seen.
‘Don’t just stand there, Thug, darling,’ said her mother
in a loud, deep voice. ‘Say hello to Mrs Meredith.’
‘Thug?’ said Mrs Meredith, as a clearly reluctant Andi followed her mother into the house. ‘You call your daughter … Thug?’
‘It’s a nickname. Short for Thuglette.’ Mrs Campion smiled, fondly. ‘She was always getting into fights when she was little!’
‘I see …’ Mrs Meredith smiled nervously at Andi. ‘Well, I’ll tell Francis you’re here.’
As she called upstairs for her son, Mrs Meredith already knew that the girl standing in her hallway was unlikely to have anything in common with Francis. She wasn’t even sure it was safe to leave them alone together and decided it would be best if they all stayed in the kitchen, where she could keep an eye on things.
Francis appeared on the stairs.
‘Hello there,’ boomed Mrs Campion. ‘You must be Francis. This is my daughter, Andi, who might be going to the same school as you. Mightn’t you, Thug?’
The Thug scowled, but did not reply.
‘Well, how about you two run off upstairs and get to
know each other,’ said Mrs Campion, ‘while Grace and I have a little chat?’
‘I thought perhaps we could all sit and talk together,’ said Mrs Meredith, but Mrs Campion wouldn’t hear of it.
‘Nonsense! Last thing two young people need is a couple of old fogeys like us hanging around. Off you go!’ She gave her daughter an encouraging push in the direction of the stairs. ‘And remember what I said!’ She turned to Mrs Meredith. ‘I wouldn’t say no to a cup of coffee myself, though. Through here, is it?’
She was marching off towards the kitchen as she spoke and Mrs Meredith, with an apologetic glance at Francis, followed her.
‘OK …’ said Francis, looking at Andi. ‘You want to come up?’
Francis was less worried about spending an hour with the Thug than his mother might have thought. It was not the first time she had brought home someone for him to ‘look after’ and he had learned how to survive these encounters with the minimum embarrassment.
He knew the importance of looking normal. He knew not to talk about fashion, and he knew not to show them the room at the top of the house. He could survive for an hour, even with someone like Andi.
‘You’ve moved in down the road, have you?’ he asked, as he led the way into his bedroom. ‘When was that?’
‘Two weeks ago,’ said Andi.
Jessica was standing by the window as they came in. She had intended to keep quiet and not say or do anything that might distract Francis while he was looking after his visitor, but she quite forgot this when she saw Andi.
‘Hey!’ she said. ‘She’s a girl!’
‘Yes, I’m a girl,’ snapped the Thug. ‘You have a problem with that?’
She was staring directly at Jessica, who was too astonished to answer.
‘Are you talking to me?’ asked Francis.
‘No. I’m talking to her!’ Andi pointed directly at Jessica.
‘Oh …’ Francis’s brain absorbed this information. ‘You mean you can see her?’
‘Of course I can see her!’ The Thug gave him a look of withering scorn. ‘Why wouldn’t I see her?’
‘Well, most people can’t,’ said Francis simply. ‘In fact, until now, the only person who could see her was me.’
‘You can see all of me, can you?’ asked Jessica. ‘Clothes, hair … everything?’
There was an icy look in Andi’s eyes. You could tell she thought she was being made fun of, and she didn’t look like the sort of girl who took being made fun of lying down. Jessica sensed that a rapid explanation was called for and stepped forward.
‘The thing is, I’m dead,’ she explained. ‘So most people can’t see me because I haven’t really got a body.’ As she spoke, she ran her hand through the end of Francis’s bed, her arm brushing through the wood as if it were a patch of fog.
The glare faded from the Thug’s face as she stared at the bed, at the arm, and finally at Jessica’s face.
‘Do that again,’ she said.
Obligingly, Jessica put her arm through the bed and then, for good measure, took two steps sideways so
that she was standing in the middle of the mattress.
There was another long pause while Andi stared some more, then a faint smile crossed her face.
‘Whooo!’ She came over and stood by the bed, staring at the point where Jessica’s waist disappeared into the duvet. ‘So what are you? Some sort of ghost?’
‘Yes. I suppose I am.’
‘And nobody else can see her?’ Andi turned to Francis.
‘Not that we know of.’
‘And you really are like … dead?’
Jessica nodded. ‘For about a year now.’
‘Oh, yes!’ There was the light of real interest and enthusiasm in Andi’s eyes and the smile grew wider. ‘That is
so
cool!’