The Drowning (11 page)

Reluctantly, Jenna said, “I suppose not.”

Eva ran her fingers through her hair, the creases in her forehead deepening. “Benjie was one of the youngest in his class. Some of the children were eleven at the start of the school year, he was only eleven almost at the end of it. He was small for his age, and of course he wore glasses. But he shouldn’t have been bully fodder. He was extremely bright, often top of the class.” She hesitated.

“But what?”

“He was a secretive child. He never gave much away. If anything he seemed
super
confident, as if he were somehow cocooned in his own private world.”

“So as far as you’re concerned, the whole thing’s over and done with?”

“I wouldn’t put it as brutally as that.” Eva’s face had paled. “But yes, if you’re pushing me, I must tell you my advice is to move on. Don’t let his death ruin your life.”

Jenna said bitterly, “It already has.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” She snatched at the diary, crammed it into her bag. “Thank you for talking to me, Mrs Simons. I must go.”

Jenna flung herself down the hill and into town.

What a waste of time
that
was!

Stupid cow, with her big house, her rules and regulations, her successful career. God forbid anything should seriously disturb her life! I might have known telling her would get me nowhere fast . . .

I’ve done nothing but make a total prat of myself – and betray Benjie into the bargain.

Jenna stormed through the Digey and slammed up to her room.

She took the diary out of her bag, stared at its bright red cover, pressed it to her lips.

“I’m sorry, Benjie,” she murmured. “That didn’t get me anywhere. Mrs Simons refuses to cooperate. Mr Robinson has retired.” Her back ached. “And I’m completely knackered.”

She slid the notebook into her desk, propped it behind a history file she hadn’t opened since cramming for her last exam.

“But I’m not giving up just yet. That friend of yours, Hedley . . . The one who gave you Klunk and Splat . . . I wonder if—”

“Jenna?” Dad called up to her from the kitchen. “Mum rang from Tamsyn’s . . . She sounded quite perky.”

Jenna clenched her fists.

That’s where
I
should be,settling in to Tammy’s flat,getting all my gear together for the Academy and my new beginning. It’s all so unfair . . .

Dad chuntered on. “I’ve made something special for our first evening alone together. Crab and coriander fish-cakes with asparagus, followed by sticky toffee pudding. Mum and I chose the same menu at the Porthminster.”

Jenna muttered under her breath, “As if I care.”

“By the way, just now, did you have a good time with your friend?”

Jenna grimaced at herself in the mirror: at her pale face, her tired eyes, her crumpled shirt with its slightly soiled collar, her wild straggly hair.

“Yes, Dad,” she sang. “I had a wonderful time.”

Jenna got half-way through the pudding and put down her spoon.

“Sorry, Dad. Can’t eat any more.”

“That’s OK, Jenn. I did give you rather a lot.”

“Dad . . . Klunk and Splat.”

“How are they doing?”

“I caught Dusty sitting on their cage yesterday, trying to poke a paw between the bars. It’s only a matter of time before he gets to them properly.”

“They shouldn’t be in the courtyard. I’ve been meaning to put them somewhere a bit safer for ages. You know how that cat prowls around.”

“But it’s cooler there, and I don’t want to take their cage upstairs again. I feed them, but nobody plays with them any more.” She swallowed a sticky crumb. “I think we should take them back to Hedley.”

Dad mopped at his mouth with his serviette. “Benjie loved the silly little blighters.”

“He played with them every day, took them out of their cage, let them scuttle around his room. I don’t have the time. I’m sure there must be other kids who’d—”

“We can’t get rid of them without asking Mum.”

“For God’s sake, Dad!” Jenna snapped. “Surely you can make a perfectly simple decision like that on your own!”

Dad’s mouth twitched into an apologetic grimace. He pushed his plate aside and stood up. “You’re right, course you are. Stupid of me to be so dithery and sentimental . . . Call Hedley. Tell him we’ll be round with them on Sunday afternoon.”

Jenna lifted the guinea pigs’ cage out of the back seat of Dad’s car. She bent to talk to him through the window.

“You go, Dad. I’ll leave them with Hedley. I’ll walk home. I could do with the exercise.”

Dad’s eyes were bright with tears. “Bye, little fellas,” he said.

Jenna watched as the car reversed and sped away. Then she turned, struggled up Hedley’s garden path with the cage and rang the bell. There was no answer. She started to walk round to the side of the house. A tall, thin boy with wild ginger curls came running out to greet her.

“Hedley? Hi . . . I rang the bell but—”

“Sorry, everybody’s out but me. I was in the garden.” He took the cage from her and peered into it. “Wow! Haven’t they grown!”

“Benjie loved them.” Without the weight of the cage, Jenna suddenly felt almost light-headed, as if she’d been let off the hook. “He looked after them really well.”

Hedley glanced at her. “Know he did. Klunk and Splat he called them. Used to talk to me about them all the time.”

“Will you find a new home for them?”

“Sure. No worries.” He hesitated. “I miss him.” He bit his lip. “I’m really sorry about what—”

“I know.” Jenna felt gangly and awkward, bereft of all the proper words. “Thanks.” She grabbed at the opportunity Hedley had offered, took a deep breath. “Look, can I ask you something? It’s about Benjie and school.”

Hedley frowned. “What is it?”

“He was being bullied. Did you know about it?”

Hedley flushed. “There’s always something crappy going on.”

“So you
did
know.”

“Sort of . . .” He refused to meet her eyes. “I kept well out of it.”

“Who are they, the twins?”

Hedley gave a start of surprise. “Phil and . . . ”He turned his head away. “You don’t want to know.”

Phil! He must be the P in Benjie’s diary . . .

“But I
do,
Hedley. So one of them’s called Phil. Who’s the other one? Where do they live?”

Hedley shook his head. “I shouldn’t have told you anything. Forget it.”

“How
can
I? They might have had something to do with Benjie’s death. I’m desperate to find them.”

Hedley looked at her, alarm and fear flickering in his brown eyes. “Please. Don’t ask me anything else. It was nothing to do with me.” He glanced at the cage. “I’d better go.”

Jenna stepped back. Suddenly Hedley looked skinny and vulnerable.
Now it’s me who’s beginning to act like a bully!

“OK . . . Thanks for taking them, Hedley. Thanks for—”

But Hedley had already turned away.

Slowly, Jenna walked from Carbis Bay into St Ives.

I’m back at square one. Maybe I should tell Dad . . . Maybe not . . . There must be
someone
I can talk to . . .
Someone
who could give me a clue . . .

When the GCSE results came out Dad gave her an hour off to go and collect them.

“Good luck, Jenn. Know you’ve done brilliantly.”

She walked up the Belyars to her old school. The last time she’d done this had been for the history exam, her head throbbing with dates and facts and opinions. How simple and straightforward everything had been . . .

She’d done well: lots of As with a spattering of Bs. She crunched the piece of paper into her pocket.

The Head greeted her and shook her hand. “Congratulations, Jenna. How are you?”

She looked up at the kindly face with its bright, smiling eyes, felt the warmth of his large, firm handshake.

“Fine, thank you, sir.”

“Good to see you again . . . I’m so sorry, more sorry than I can say, that we’ll not be having Benjie here next month.” He hurried on, “You must be so looking forward to London. New teachers, fresh start—”

“Oh, yes,” Jenna said, too tired to explain. “I am.” She glanced sideways along the corridor swarming with kids, suddenly filled with spur-of-the-moment courage. “Sir . . . do you have a minute? Is there somewhere we could talk?”

“Of course. My office.” They pushed their way towards his room. The door clicked shut. “Take a seat . . . How can I help?”

“I’ve found out that Benjie was being bullied last term.” Jenna’s mouth was dry.
How many more times do I have to say that?
“I also know that a pair of twins were the gang leaders. They got him to steal money, made his life a misery. I wanted to know whether you had any twins who’d be coming to this school next term.” Her throat felt sore, her heart heavy as lead. “One of them’s a boy called Phil.”

The Head stood by the window which overlooked green fields, his portly frame partly blocking the mid-morning light. He looked down at her steadily.

“I’m almost sure I don’t.” He thrust his massive hands into his pockets. “But even if I did – I guess you know what’s coming next.”

“You wouldn’t tell me.”

“No. Don’t go there, Jenna. Don’t let the past burn you up into something bitter and twisted. You’ve your whole life ahead of you. Take the best of your memories of Benjie – and move on.”

Jenna stood up, her eyes stinging with tears. “Easier said than done.”

She left the office, shoved her way through the crowds of kids, walked out of the school for the last time, down the Belyars and into St Ives.

Right. That’s it. I give up. That’s the last time I talk about Benjie’s bullies to anyone.

Leah rang her the following morning.

“They gave you Honours, Jenna.” Her voice thrilled with excitement. “It’s exceptional at such a high level. I hope you’re as pleased as I am.”

Jenna realised she didn’t feel anything at all. Examinations, marks out of ten, bad, good, better, excellent. What on earth did they matter?

None of them brought back Benjie.

Imogen and Morvah came to the Cockleshell one afternoon, taking Jenna by surprise.

Embarrassed by her apron, flushed with the heat of the kitchen and the crowds, she found it hard to talk. She avoided their questions, took refuge in asking after them.

Imogen had been offered a job in a bank in St Ives. “Good promotion prospects – and I can actually earn some money at long last!”

Morvah was preparing to go to college in Truro. “A-levels first, then to university to study law.”

When they left, Jenna felt crushed and mortified. She realised she had had enough: of the hungry customers, of the chores, of Dad’s persistent, forced cheerfulness, his nightly singing of Mum’s praises.

She remembered all the years of dancing for Leah, the joys of laughter and gossip with her two best friends. She knew those times had vanished. Everything had changed.

That night she climbed the stairs to her room.

There remained one final piece of the dead jigsaw she’d failed to snap into place. She pulled from the bottom of her wardrobe an empty case. Into it she crammed her ballet shoes, her tap shoes, her jazz boots, her tights and leotards, her headbands, two old chiffon ballet skirts, and a silver tutu left over from last year’s charity show.

She carried the case down to her studio and kicked it into a dusty corner.

She shut the door behind her, locked it with an angry flick of her wrist.

And who the hell would bother if I threw away the key?

Towards the end of September, when the crush of summer tourists had subsided along with the heat, Jenna woke early one morning. In the cool light of dawn she decided.

It’s useless, all this wallowing in self-pity. I must try to make the best of things.

Yesterday, she had had the beginnings of an idea. If she managed to pull it off, the results might just tempt Mum to come home and get back to work.

She took a quick shower and followed Dad down to the kitchen.

“Do you know what I heard a young couple say yesterday as they put their heads round the tearoom door?” Her wet hair dripped down her back.

“No, what? Chop some onions for me, there’s a dear. They always make me cry.”

“They said,‘This looks a bit shabby. Let’s go somewhere else.’”

“Did they?” Dad reached for the sea salt. “Love this stuff. It’s so much purer than the processed kind.”

“Have you
looked
at the place recently? I don’t mean dashed in and out of it like a headless chicken. I mean really looked.”

“Can’t say I have. Never got the time. As long as it’s clean . . . Pass me the tomatoes, Jenn. And the parsley. Used to grow this in the garden when I was a lad.”

Jenna persevered. “Clean isn’t good enough, Dad. We’ve got competition. The walls aren’t pink, they’re dowdy. The paint on the window ledges has peeled in the heat. The front door’s disgusting. The tables outside are thick with rust. We cover them with tablecloths when what we really need is new furniture. We should be tempting people to sit down, not putting them off.”