Читать книгу The Rise and Fall of the Wonder Girls - Sarah May - Страница 17

Left on the drive, Vicky and Ruth checked to see what the other one was wearing. The style the sixth form at Burwood Girls’ went for was nineteen-twenties shot through with eighties Gothic—retro silk dresses in pastel shades over black tights with pumps gone to seed and lots of costume jewellery: Goth flappers.

They were both appropriately dressed.

‘We’re going round the long way,’ Vicky announced.

‘But, Vick, we’re already running late.’

‘I want to check in on Sutton.’

‘Sutton?’ Vicky rounded on her. ‘Oh, Sutton—yeah, okay.’

‘Are you feeling alright?’

Ruth nodded, preoccupied, and they started to walk.

The long way took them on the route past Mr Sutton’s new house on Dardanelle Drive and sometimes they got a sighting of him leaving for work on his bike. At the beginning of the Michaelmas term he and Ms Webster had moved in together and Vicky had to get the new address out of the files in Mrs Harris’s PA’s office.

‘Your dad’s a total fuck up,’ Vicky said as the Audi disappeared out of sight into the fog, Rachel waving enthusiastically. ‘And your mum’s so nice, I mean—how did it happen?’

Ruth shrugged. ‘Nathan’s okay. I know how he comes across, but—’

‘What?’

‘He’s always been pretty good to us.’

‘Shit, listen to yourself, Ruth. Save me the passion.’

‘Passion’s what he’s up against, Vick. She fell in love with my dad during a war—they used to make love while the Serbs up in the mountains above the house were firing down on them. That’s what Nathan’s up against.’

Vicky stared at her. ‘She told you that?’

‘I was conceived under gunfire.’

‘You talk about that stuff?’

‘I’m her daughter—who else would she talk to about it?’

Vicky, walking beside her, couldn’t even begin to contemplate initiating a conversation with Sylvia about her conception. Would Sylvia even remember?

Fifteen minutes later, they were crouching behind the line of conifers that ran alongside Mr Sutton and Ms Webster’s front lawn.

‘Webster’s car’s still there,’ Ruth noted, whispering.

Just then the front door opened and Julia Webster herself appeared, yelling something over her shoulder back into the house. She was wearing a North Face jacket and a lot of fleece on her outer extremities.

‘My God—have you seen the fog?’ she called out.

‘She looks like she’s going on a field trip,’ Vicky observed.

Ruth let out a muffled snort.

Julia remained poised in the porch. ‘I’m going,’ she said into the fog.

After a while Mr Sutton appeared, barefoot, a tea towel in his hands.

Ruth and Vicky gripped each other’s arms.

‘Why does he have to look so fuckable?’ Vicky hissed, taking in the jeans and T-shirt he was wearing.

Ruth murmured faithfully, in agreement—her mind elsewhere—and they continued to watch through a natural peephole where some of the hedge had died.

Julia tilted her face up and as Mr Sutton leant dutifully to kiss her, she grabbed deftly hold of his chin and kept their faces together.

‘Grotesque,’ Vicky mumbled. ‘Like—genuinely grotesque.’

Julia checked his face briefly as they pulled apart, unsure how to read what she saw there—despite the fact that he was wearing a smile—and went over to the sports car, opening the door.

‘Don’t forget—IKEA tonight,’ she said lightly.

‘Shit.’

‘You forgot.’

He nodded and pulled his shoulders up to his ears before letting them drop again. ‘Do we have to?’

Through the peephole in the hedge, Vicky and Ruth were still holding onto each other.

‘It’s bookshelves for you we’re going for. I just thought you might want your art books out of those boxes they’ve been in all summer.’

‘Okay—’ he responded, flatly.

‘You don’t sound like it’s okay.’

‘I don’t?’

‘No, you don’t.’

Ruth and Vicky worked hard at stifling the excited laughter that was threatening to erupt from behind the line of conifers.

Julia stared at him. ‘We’ll talk about it later.’ She hesitated, forcing a smile. ‘You’re sure you don’t want a lift?’

‘No—I’ll cycle.’

‘Well, don’t forget your lights. You’ll need them in this fog.’

‘I won’t.’

Julia hesitated again then got in. She gave a light wave before putting the car into gear and reversing off the drive.

Mr Sutton continued to stand in the porch, slowly drying his hands on the tea towel he was holding as the car’s engine revved without resonance, pumping out carbon monoxide fumes that hung in the fog and had nowhere to go.

Vicky felt suddenly nauseous.

Eventually the car moved off and Mr Sutton waved vaguely as it disappeared into the fog. After a while, he went back inside.

As the door shut, Vicky clutched at Ruth’s arm.

‘They’re not going to last,’ Ruth said, jubilant.

Vicky shook her head, rapidly.

‘Vick? What is it?’

‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

‘You can’t,’ Ruth said as the colour left Vicky’s face and she started retching uncontrollably over the hedge, shaking with the force of it.

‘Vick?’ Ruth, worried, pulled back as much of Vicky’s hair as she could while Vicky held onto the street sign for Ypres Drive, panting and waiting for the shaking to subside. This part of Burwood had been developed in the sixties and seventies, built on land once farmed by tenant farmers who lost their lives in the First World War. Without the men to labour on it, the land became untenable. By the time there was the labour force the world had changed and the men had changed with it.

‘Tissue,’ she said, through her nose, trying not to swallow in case it triggered another gag reflex.

‘It’s got Olbas oil on it,’ Ruth said, trying to shake the pencil shavings off. ‘Mum got a box of them when I had flu that time.’

‘I don’t care what it’s got on it, I’m puking my guts up here, Ruth.’

Vicky blew her nose, wiped her mouth then spat into the tissue before pushing it into the hedge.

‘D’you think you should go in today?’

‘I’m fine. Apart from the fact that my mouth tastes disgusting.’ She took a bottle of water from her bag, swilling a couple of mouthfuls and spitting them into the hedge as well.

‘You just puked in a hedge, Vick.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re taking too much Valium.’

They started to move away then stopped suddenly as the front door opened and Mr Sutton appeared, carrying his bicycle over the threshold.

Ducking again, they watched him try to put on his helmet, struggling with the catch until, frustrated, he finally managed to get it done up. Then he switched on his lights and cycled off into the fog, the red light on the rear of the bicycle blinking at them.

‘They’re never going to last,’ Ruth said again as the red light disappeared.

Vicky didn’t say anything. She took a couple more sips of water and held onto her stomach. Her throat hurt and she could taste nothing but vomit.

They started walking in the direction of school again—Ruth waiting for Vicky to comment on the row they’d just witnessed.

‘What if I’m pregnant?’

Ruth stopped. ‘Pregnant?’

‘The puke—that’s the second time this morning—and I’m late.’

‘How late?’

‘About four days.’

‘Is that normal?’

‘No.’

Vicky carried on walking and Ruth had to break into a run to catch up. ‘Wait—Vick!’ She was about to grab hold of Vicky’s arm when her phone started to ring.

‘Are you getting that?’

‘Like—no. I mean—’

‘What?’

‘Could you be—pregnant?’

The phone stopped ringing.

Vicky nodded.

Ruth rounded on her. ‘You and Matt? You never said anything.’

‘You know—when I went up to town for that party in Pentonville with those weird Welsh guys.’

Ruth took this in. ‘So—have you said anything to Matt?’

‘What—about being four days late? I’m not filling his head with all this shit just because I’m late.’

‘You’re the one who said you thought you were pregnant.’ Ruth paused. ‘You did take precautions, right?’

‘Like, no—of course.’

‘So how could you be pregnant?’

‘It’s only like ninety-eight percent protection. Maybe I’m the two percent that got away.’

‘Ninety-eight percent?’

‘You never read the back of the packet?’ Vicky broke off. ‘We talked about babies and stuff—that weekend.’

‘You only just started sleeping with him.’

Vicky shrugged.

They passed the school coaches that brought girls from outlying villages, parked on Richmond Road, and the pavements became suddenly dense with girls from the lower and middle schools, in uniform.

They turned in at the school gates, making their way in the same direction as the rest of the morning traffic between borders full of pruned rosebushes towards the main building. The younger girls walked in clusters, fast, socks falling down, bags slipping off shoulders and hair coming loose from clips and bands they were only just learning how to put in themselves.

A teacher, semi concealed by the wall of uniformed bodies, called out, ‘Come along, girls.’

‘You should take a test, Vick.’

‘I’ll give it a few more days.’

‘There’s a chemist up on Grace’s estate—it’s where everyone goes.’

‘Who’s everyone?’

‘Come on—you know what I mean,’ Ruth lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘That’s where Tina Branston went.’

‘So that’s like—what—one other person?’

Ruth didn’t say anything.

‘Move along girls,’ the same teacher called out again.

Vicky had a sudden memory of walking through reception at the end of the summer term and seeing Tina Branston there, so heavily pregnant she could barely walk. Flanked by a teacher, she was en route to the isolation room opposite the Head’s office where she sat all her GCSE exams so as not to be a distraction—or pollutant—to the other girls. Vicky remembered catching Tina’s eye—and being the first to look away.

‘You make it sound like people are heading in their droves up to the chemist on Meadowfield Estate when you’re talking about one other person. Tina fucking Branston.’

‘Sorry,’ Ruth mumbled. ‘Anyway this is totally different to Tina Branston. I mean, as of January you’ll be able to vote, have a credit card, get married—you’re practically adult. Tina was like only sixteen or something. Plus she didn’t even know who the father was. Plus you don’t even know if you’re pregnant.’

‘Tina Branston had a boy,’ Vicky said. ‘She posted a picture of him on her Facebook.’

‘How come Tina’s got computer access? I thought she was meant to be like completely poverty-stricken?’

‘You can pick up a computer for like a couple of hundred quid, Ruth, or maybe she stole it—I don’t know, but the point is she posted it there for everyone to see and it was like, fuck you all, I did it, I’m happy. Now what are you going to do about it?’

‘Yeah—’ Ruth said, unconvinced.

‘And people said some real shit about her.’

‘Vick—we said some real shit about her. In fact, we said some real shit to her.’

‘Don’t you sometimes wonder?’ Vicky carried on, no longer interested in Tina Branston.

‘About what?’

‘About the point of all this?’

Ruth took in the parked bicycles in the shed and lines of girls moving towards the group of Victorian buildings whose roofs were barely visible in the fog. This was how things were and they didn’t bother Ruth, but she kept this to herself.

‘Matt was talking about dropping out,’ Vicky carried on. ‘He says the course is shit and that all the lecturers are on ego trips and can’t be bothered to teach undergraduates. As a student you’re just revenue to the university and loan bait to the banks. He was talking about this commune his friend lives on down in Sussex—they make cheese and stuff and sell it. He was talking about going to live down there for a while; getting his head straight.’ Vicky paused. ‘He was talking about me maybe going with him.’

‘Vicky, you can’t—’

‘Why not?’

‘Girls!’

It was Ms Hadley—popularly referred to as Bride of Quasimodo—a disabled teacher who’d been hired, impressively, well before the era of equal opportunities. She taught English, had goggle eyes and crutches, the rubber stoppers on the bottom of them sounding strange as she made her way through the fog towards them. In Year 7, Ruth had locked her in the book cupboard and hidden her crutches. She’d scared herself—it stood out as the singular large-scale act of cruelty in her life so far, and she still didn’t know what came over her that day.

‘Are you seriously thinking about not going to university?’ Ruth whispered.

‘I’m seriously thinking about not even finishing my A Levels.’

‘Vick—’

‘I just want to be with Matt.’

‘But what would you do on this commune?’

‘I don’t know—make cheese?’

‘How come he even knows about it?’

‘I told you—he’s got a friend there—Ingrid.’

Ms Hadley was standing in front of them, legs splayed awkwardly beneath the long skirts she always wore. ‘Bell’s rung,’ she said, her voice sounding automated through lack of intimate conversation with anyone.

Vicky stared at the silver and turquoise necklace she was wearing, and wondered how cripples could be bothered to adorn themselves—especially female ones. What was the point?

Ruth flicked her eyes over Ms Hadley’s deformed chin, at the point where it sank into her neck, then looked away.

Thousands of girls had passed through Ms Hadley’s withered hands over the years, but she never forgot a face and she’d certainly never forget Ruth’s because it was Ruth who locked her in the cupboard that day. She’d cried, as silently as she could, behind the locked door and that was something she hadn’t done on school premises either before or since, in all her long career. So, no, she’d never forget Ruth.

Ruth smiled awkwardly.

Ms Hadley didn’t return Ruth’s smile; she just carried on staring.

She carried on staring as the girls shuffled past her, legs and sticks splayed over so much of the pavement they had to pick their way through the pruned rose bushes in the borders.

‘Freak,’ Vicky whispered, when they were still within earshot.

‘Vick—’ Ruth warned her.

‘So, what? You know what she keeps in the back of her car? A snow shovel—all year round.’ She paused. ‘Hadley’s probably on the FBI’s most wanted list.’

‘For what?’

‘Killing sexually attractive young girls.’

They went into the main building by the entrance to the side of the Upper Hall and the first person they saw was Mr Sutton standing at the foot of the stairs.

‘Hey, you two,’ he said brightly, under the impression that this was their first meeting of the day.

Vicky hated it when he said this, lumping her and Ruth together as though they were children.

‘Catch up later.’ He grabbed hold of the banister, setting off at a run up the flight of stairs to the top where the art department was.

Vicky turned on Ruth. ‘Why did you do that?’

‘What?’

‘You waved.’

‘So?’

Vicky did an impression. ‘It was idiotic.’

‘So? Where are you going?’

‘I need to find a water fountain—I can still taste vomit in my mouth. I’m sorry,’ she said, grabbing hold suddenly of Ruth’s hand and squeezing it.

‘It’s okay.’

‘Will you come with me—to get the test?’

‘Course. Have you told the others?’

‘Not yet. Listen—I’ll see you at break.’

Ruth nodded. ‘It’ll be okay. You know that, don’t you? I mean—even if you are—it’s only a fucking baby. It’s not like the end of the world or anything.’

Vicky smiled and gave Ruth’s hand a final squeeze then pushed forcefully through the set of double doors and disappeared down the corridor.

Ruth hesitated at the foot of the stairs then got her phone out her bag. One missed call. She checked the number and smiled—a new sort of smile she’d been wearing for about two months now, one that Nathan had noted across the dining table, and that unsettled him.