Authors: Alex Marwood
‘What’s the SS?’ asks Bel
.
‘Social Services. People that come and take the kiddies away,’ explains Jade. ‘They don’t approve of people like us. I’m on
the At Risk register,’ she adds proudly. ‘’Cause of Shane. ’Cause he fell off the garage roof when Mum wasn’t looking and
that’s why he’s like he is.’
‘Really?’ Bel’s thrilled
.
‘Stupid,’ says Jade. ‘Could’ve happened to anybody. Got any more?’
‘I’ve got no toenail,’ says Bel, kicking off her shoe
.
Jade studies her big toe admiringly. ‘Woah,’ she says
.
Bel feels rather proud. She was too small when it happened for her to have any memory of it, and the lack of it makes her
nervous in crowds, when she thinks people might be careless where they step – but to impress a Walker is an achievement. She
wonders whether to show the scar on her scalp and decides not to. She’s already learned that there’s such a thing as too much
information; and besides, it, too, didn’t merit a hospital visit
.
‘D’you want to go on the swings?’
‘Sure.’ They jump off the roundabout and walk across the grass. ‘They’re crap now, these swings,’ says Jade. ‘They’ve gone
and put stops on them so you can’t go too high. Steph says you used to be able to go all the way over the top.’
‘Who’s Steph?’
Jade rolls her eyes as though it’s the stupidest question in the world. ‘My sister. She lives over at Carterton now.’
‘Where’s Carterton?’
Jade shakes her head again. This girl really does ask some
stupid stuff. ‘Miles away,’ she says, ‘but she’s got a Ford Cortina. Only, her boyfriend won’t let her drive it without him
there, so she has to wait to come over. She says the swings used to be on rings, so if you swung and swung, you could loop
the loop.’
‘Wow. I bet that was fun,’ lies Bel
.
‘Yeah, and they used to have competitions. See which of them could jump the furthest by letting go at the top of the swing.
She says she used to be able to get all the way to the sandpit. Only then Debbie Francis went and landed on the see-saw and
knocked her front teeth out, and then the council came along and fixed it so’s you can’t go higher than halfway now.’
She pauses as she selects her swing, climbs on board the yellow one. ‘Debbie Francis spoiled it for everybody,’ she announces
.
Bel chooses the red swing, settles on to the seat. Kicks her feet up in front of her and starts to fly. ‘So how many brothers
and sisters have you got?’ she asks
.
‘Six,’ announces Jade self-importantly. ‘Shane, Eddie, Tamara, Steph, Darren, Gary.’
‘Are you Catholics?’
‘No,’ says Jade suspiciously, as though the question has been designed to catch her out. ‘We’re Christians. You can’t say
we ain’t. We go church every Christmas.’
‘No, no,’ says Bel. ‘I didn’t mean that. I meant … Never mind.’
‘I’m the youngest,’ says Jade, proudly. ‘My mum says I’m her afterthought.’
Bel kicks higher. She can see over the hedge at the top of her arc, and notices a group of teenagers walking up the lane towards
them. They’ve got a littlie in tow; keep stopping to yell at her to keep up. ‘Well, I’m a bastard,’ she announces
.
Jade frowns at her reprovingly. ‘Who says that?’
Bel shrugs. ‘Everyone. It’s a fact.’
‘You shu’n’t let people call you things like that,’ Jade says. ‘My dad says, if someone wants to disrespect you, you bloody
well show them what disrespect means.’
‘No,’ says Bel. ‘Really. I’m a bastard. A proper one. My mum had me without being married.’
Jade is scandalised. ‘You’re joking me! You know what you’re saying, don’t you? You just said your mum was a slag!’
‘No I didn’t,’ says Bel
.
‘Yes you did! Oh my God! You did!’
‘She was nineteen years old and she made a mistake.’ Bel parrots the summary of her own existence
.
‘So that kid, your sister. Is she a bastard too?’
‘Half-sister,’ corrects Bel. ‘No. She’s a
real
daughter.’
‘And your dad’s not your dad?’
‘Course not. My so-called “real” father runs a bar in Thailand. I’ve got two bastard half-sisters, but no one seems to mind
that
.’
‘Have you met ’em?’
‘Don’t be stupid. I’ve not even met
him
. Lucinda calls them Nong and Pong.’
‘Who’s Lucinda?’
‘My mother.’
‘Wooah,’ says Jade. ‘My mum’d slap me all ways to Sunday if I tried calling her Lorraine.’
‘Lucinda would kill me if I called her Mummy,’ says Bel. ‘She says I make her feel old enough as it is.’
The teenagers have reached the gate. There are seven of them, all dressed in uniform. Both boys and girls sport huge hair
and eyeliner. Great streaks of blusher slash across cheekbones, headbands encircle foreheads and gobs of panstick cover the
volcanic surfaces of their faces. The boys wear grandad shirts tucked into jeans so tight they probably threaten their future
fertility, and the girls have layered the entire contents of their wardrobes, one on top of the other, in imitation of Madonna.
It’s actually inside-out dressing, thinks Bel. Bra on top of vest on top of T-shirt
.
‘Oh shit,’ says Jade. ‘It’s Darren.’
Bel looks up, interested. Even she has heard of Darren Walker. He’s sixteen and something of a local celebrity. And not in
a good way. Since Darren was expelled from Chipping Norton
Comprehensive at fifteen, six months before he was legally able to leave without help, he’s been circulating between the Bench,
the war memorial and the playground, with, as rumour has it, only the occasional hiatus for a bit of house-breaking in the
villages down the road to finance his fags and cider. In village terms, he’s the equivalent of a gangland warlord and, as
a mystery winner in the genetic lottery, is blessed with the sort of strong-but-silent good looks that result in regular catfights
in the village-hall toilets. Despite his family’s reputation for smells and parasites, Darren’s been through half the girls
in his school year and half of the year above
.
Bel drinks in the Adam Ant bone structure, the mop of fine chestnut hair, the long, lean, hard body, and wonders how this
god-like being can be related to the pug-faced girl beside her. As someone who’s never had much luck on the popularity front,
Bel’s already lining Jade up in her head as a potential Best Friend. But even so, she has to admit that the girl looks like
she’s been carved out of lard. Darren’s got his arm slung loosely round the shoulders of Debbie Francis, the girl who once
head-butted a see-saw, and Bel feels a surge of envy at the sight of it. Then he sneers, and her temporary illusion falls
away
.
‘Off!’ he says
.
Jade grips the chain of the swing and glares at him. ‘Fuck off, Darren.’
‘Wooo-OOOO-oooo!’ go the acolytes
.
‘We’ve brought Chloe up to go on the swings,’ says Debbie. Jade shrugs. ‘Plenty of swings to go round.’
‘Yes, but,’ says Darren proprietorially, ‘we want that one.’
As if for the first time, he notices Bel. Turns his honeyed gaze upon her and looks her up and down. She blushes furiously,
stares rigidly at the church spire in the distance. ‘Who’s your friend?’
‘Nuffin to do wi’ you, Darren Walker!’ shouts Jade
.
‘I know who that is.’ A boy with a pair of George Michael dangly pirate earrings steps forward and stares at her, arms
folded. He’s been cultivating a sparse, soft beard, and Bel recognises him as Tony Dolland, the son of the man who owns the
garage. Her stepfather has been locked in a legal battle with his father over a planning application for the last two years.
They have to drive to Chippy to get petrol now. ‘That’s Annabel Scaramanga.’
‘No it’s not,’ she says. ‘My name’s not Scaramanga. It’s Oldacre. I’m Annabel Oldacre.’
The woooo rises again, blots out the sun. The little girl is hanging back, looking at Bel with astonishment, as though she’s
just opened her mouth and spoken German
.
‘Well, hoity-toity!’ yells Debbie. ‘Say “air”!’
‘Air,’ says Bel, suspiciously
.
‘Say “hair”!’ shouts Tony
.
The swing slows beneath her. She’s finding it hard to keep up the impetus while she waits to work out what’s going on. ‘Hair,’
she says
.
‘Say “lair”!’ calls someone else
.
The word comes out quietly. Her mouth seems to be furring up
.
‘Now say ’em all together,’ says Darren, approaching
.
‘No,’ says Bel
.
‘All right then. Get off that swing.’
‘No,’ says Jade. ‘Fuck off, Darren.’
He jumps forward, grabs Jade’s seat on the upswing, brings it to a violent, sudden halt. Jade loses her grip on the chain,
tips backwards and crashes, legs in the air, on to the dusty earth beneath. She lies stunned, gasping for breath
.
‘I told you,’ says Darren
.
‘Fuck you, Darren,’ she chokes. Her heart wants to burst through her ribcage
.
‘I’d get up if I was you. You don’t want to get a bash on the head to go with the one on your arse. C’mon, Chloe!’ He turns
to the little girl. She’s about five. Her baby face peers out from the hood of her pink nylon anorak, which she’s tied firmly
beneath her chin despite the warmth of the day. She’s flushed with heat, and hangs back behind Debbie, staring at Jade with
anxious eyes
.
‘Go on,’ says Debbie
.
‘Don’t want to,’ says Chloe
.
‘Don’t worry about her,’ says Darren. ‘She does what I tell her.’
He prods at Jade with a toe. ‘Go on. Can’t you see you’re scaring her?’
Jade sits up and glares murderously at the child, rubbing her upper arm where she’s caught it on a stone. Chloe understands
the meaning of the look, and ducks further behind her sister
.
‘Stop showing off, Darren,’ says Jade. ‘Nobody’s impressed.’
‘Come on, Jade,’ says Bel. ‘Let’s just go.’
Her voice sparks another chorus of ‘woo-oo’s from the older kids. She ignores them with a look of imperious contempt
.
Jade is boiling with rage and humiliation, but she’s not stupid
.
‘C’mon, Chloe!’ says Darren again. The kid comes unwillingly towards him, propelled by her sister. Debbie’s wearing a tight
striped sleeveless T-shirt, a bibbed gymslip and the legs of a pair of cut-up footless tights on her arms. A studded leather
jacket hangs self-consciously over her shoulders. She’s scraped her hair back into a ponytail and glued false eyelashes over
her own stubby blond ones. She bats them at Darren. Crucifix earrings jiggle against her cheeks
.
‘You shouldn’t be selfish,’ she says piously to Jade. ‘She’s littler than you.’
She picks Chloe up and deposits her on Jade’s still-warm seat. Starts to push
.
‘I’m hungry,’ says Chloe
.
‘Oh, for God’s sake. I’ve taken you to the swings, haven’t I?’ snaps Debbie
.
‘No, sorry, mate. I think you’ve got the wrong number. No Jade here,’ says Jim.
Kirsty feels her hands slip on the wheel, hurriedly compensates as the car jerks to the left.
‘Mum!’ Sophie protests from the back. Her orange juice has gone all over her tennis gear.
‘’S’OK,’ says Jim, and hangs up.
‘Sorry,’ says Kirsty. ‘Sorry. Don’t know what happened there. I just slipped.’
‘I’m all wet now,’ whines Sophie.
‘Never mind,’ says Jim. ‘It’ll be dry by Monday.’
Casual. I must act casually. ‘Who was that?’ Kirsty enquires. Changes down to third as they approach the roundabout.
‘Wrong number,’ says Jim. ‘Wanted someone called Jade.’
‘Oh,’ she says.
‘What’s for tea?’ asks Sophie.
‘I don’t know,’ she says vaguely. ‘Fish fingers?’
Jade. A man who wanted Jade. Not her. Not Bel: a man. Jesus. Is someone on to me? Or was it just coincidence? Oh God, has
the
Mail on Sunday
finally tracked me down?
‘Fish fingers!’ protests Sophie. ‘But it’s Saturday!’
‘So what?’
‘Other people get a takeaway on Saturdays! Chinese or something.’
‘Yeah,’ says Jim, ‘other people don’t get tennis lessons and piano lessons. It’s an either-or choice here, Sophie. We’re not
rich. People like us don’t get both.’
‘Hunh,’ grunts Sophie.
‘I’m doing a roast tomorrow,’ says Kirsty encouragingly. ‘Chicken and all the trimmings. Stop kicking the back of my seat,
Sophie.’
‘But I’m a vegetarian!’ she cries.
‘Really?’ Jim turns around. ‘When did this happen?’
‘You don’t listen to a
word
I say.’
‘Of course we do, Sophie,’ he teases. ‘Every single word. No wonder you don’t want fish fingers. What do you think, darling?’
He turns to Kirsty. ‘Can we whip her up a nice salad?’
‘Of course we can,’ says Kirsty. ‘We’ve got lots of salad in the garden just waiting to be eaten. I’m so sorry, Sophie. If
you’d
told
us, we’d’ve been picking it for you every day.’
Sophie groans. ‘Not
that
sort of vegetarian. Not a
salad
vegetarian.’
Jim catches Kirsty’s eye. ‘Ah. A chocolatarian.’
Sophie glares out of the window. ‘I don’t like fish fingers.’
What if we get home, and there’s photographers on the doorstep? What will I do? It will kill them. Not just the revelation:
the lie. He’ll find out he’s been living with a stranger all these years. He’ll think that if I could lie to him about something
so huge, I could lie to him about anything. He’ll end up wondering if I ever loved him at all.