Something Only We Know (11 page)

Owen was shaking his head in admiration. ‘Fantastic, isn’t it? Why haven’t we ever done anything like that?’

‘Run round a supermarket dressed as cows?’ said Vikki. ‘I could give you a few reasons.’

‘Ah, come on, Viks, where’s your sense of adventure?’ I said, from the window-seat behind him.

My boyfriend did a double-take. ‘Hey! Jen! I didn’t see you.’ To my delight he came straight over and hugged me hard. He seemed genuinely pleased I was there, or maybe that was
just an overflow of bonhomie. ‘I was gonna text you about where to meet.’

‘She popped in to . . . admire the shop,’ said Keisha diplomatically.

‘Excellent! Then we can all walk up together, soon as Saleem and Noolan get here. We’ve been bouncing round some ideas for a new website, one that draws together fringe news and
events. I mean, I know there’s Limitation.org, but a lot of that’s animal rights. I wanted to put together something purely on environmental issues.’

I said, ‘I do a fair bit on the newspaper’s website. I might have some tips.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Like I was telling you earlier,’ broke in Chelle, ‘there’s this neat web-design package I used when I was in New Zealand. I’m pretty handy with that. What I did
was use it to create a database of interest groups, and then once that was up and running we were able to sort them into categories and sub-categories . . .’

She stood by the door, sturdy legs planted apart, hands on hips as she laid out in detail for us her experience in IT. No surprises for guessing she happened to be an expert in the field. That
the pages she designed got more hits, that her colleagues at the time had been amazed by her creative ability. They’d urged her to take a screenshot and have it printed onto T-shirts, so
she’d bowed to popular demand and run up a dozen, and even sent one to the Prime Minister. The Prime Minister of New Zealand actually owned one of her T-shirts. Think about that.

I found myself trying to picture this rucksack, wondering why I hadn’t clocked the upgrade. Thought of what I might say to Owen on the subject. What he’d say to me.
The stitching
had bust, she couldn’t carry her belongings any more, it wasn’t like a luxury item. She needed help, Jen, and I was in a position to give it. That’s all.
Then I was dropping
back into a memory of Manchester, a day he’d got chatting to this homeless guy in Piccadilly and it transpired they knew each other, had been at the same school only a few years apart, and
Owen brought him home and phoned round till he managed to get him into a hostel, and for months after that we’d see the man about and he’d give the OK sign. It made me proud, because as
Owen said, you should never judge anyone purely on their circumstances. Any one of us might be sleeping on a bench if the fates conspired. Life was luck, and those of us who were on the up had a
duty to help those who were on the way down. To him, it was that simple and pure. I loved him for his optimism, his energy, the way he made you feel you could change the world. I remembered how
we’d toast bread together on his gas fire, watch comedy DVDs with the duvet pulled over the sofa because the student flat was so damn cold. One morning we’d found a starling lying on
the grass under his window – he reckoned it must have banged into the glass – and we brought it inside till it recovered and then we opened the door and let it fly away.

Meanwhile, back in the present, Chelle was still droning on. I reached over for my boyfriend’s hand and squeezed it, and encouragingly, he squeezed back. And with that single gesture, my
spirits lifted and the situation seemed to clear itself in my mind. Viks was right. Of course she was. Dumb patience was getting me nowhere. I needed to trust my boyfriend’s feelings for me,
have confidence in my status. Confrontation might not be the way, and open challenge would probably just be counter-productive. But I
could
deal with this woman. I was more than a match
for her. I could see her off without needing to involve Owen.

‘. . . And although design’s important, content’s the critical thing because it’s no good if there’s no substance underneath your flashing logos . . .’

I stared at her as she talked. Her sun-bleached hair was already darkening and her tan fading. Brand new bloody rucksack. Well, no more. It was time to match her at her own game.

‘. . . So that’s the way I’d structure it,’ she was saying. ‘If you’re after a serious, professional website. As opposed to something that looks like a
candy-coated lifestyle magazine.’

She shot a sly look at me, and I answered with a broad, warm smile which confused her no end.

Candy-coated, am I, madam,
I vibed back.
We’ll see. Just you watch.

It’s fair to say, that evening in the pub, I was on fire. Instead of mainly sitting and listening, I jumped right into the discussion.
I
suggested the name
Just-Iz, which everyone liked, and some possible logos and some home page features. Thinking of the various press models I’d worked with, I was able to put forward four or five sponsors Owen
might try contacting. I offered ideas for getting media attention, and reminded them of the best ways to approach journalists. As the August sky finally darkened through the window, I saw Saleem
staring up at me from his notebook, and Keisha grinning and Chelle scowling, and my boyfriend for once hanging on my every word. Chelle butted in repeatedly, and I’d just let her finish and
then start up again, sometimes rolling the conversation along as if she’d never spoken. Once or twice I told her, ‘Well done,’ which I could see pissed her off mightily. All the
while I held Owen’s hand, or pressed his knee with mine, or leant against his shoulder. Once, when he returned from the bar with a drink for me, I took his face in my hands and kissed him
full on the mouth.

And when the bell rang for last orders I simply went, ‘So I’m coming back to yours for the night, yeah?’ and he didn’t throw up any obstructions. Maybe he knew about the
spare set of clothes I’d cached under the wardrobe.

I texted Mum to let her know my plans, then walked out of the pub with my arm round my boyfriend’s waist. Behind us Chelle was boasting to Saleem about a flash-protest she’d
organised outside Britomart, and how it had been awesome because they’d all suddenly lain down as if they’d been shot, and shoppers had to step over them and some people were calling
the police and holding tissues over their mouths in case it was a gas attack, and you could still find the footage on a site called Free-streamers. But I tuned her out.

As we strolled up the main precinct I raised my eyes and spotted a plane flying directly above us, winking across the blackness to land who knew where. A tube full of passengers leaving
England’s shores, some perhaps forever. Easy as that.

It may not have been a shooting star, but it was worth a wish anyway.

CHAPTER 4

‘The best thing about Saturdays,’ said Ned, easing off the handbrake as the traffic lights changed, ‘is when you wake up and you think it’s a Monday or
something and then you remember it isn’t.’

Helen shifted in the passenger seat and half turned to me. ‘Yeah, and then you pull the duvet up and roll over again. Bliss.’

I said, ‘Sometimes, on a winter’s morning, I poke my arm out and let it get cold solely for the pleasure of bringing it back into the warm again.’

‘You crazy, thrill-seeking fool.’

On either side of me Chelle and Owen sat silent, unable to contribute to this working week discussion.

It was meant to be just my sister and her boyfriend’s trip out, but the night before Ned had asked me along too.

‘Why?’ I’d said.

‘Hel wants you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we think you’ll enjoy it. You like
Downton Abbey
, don’t you? Well, that’s Bersham Hall, basically. You get to wear a mob cap and make butter pats. If
you want.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘You can park yourself in the tea room and scoff cake all afternoon. I’ve heard their lemon drizzle’s won awards.’

So I’d sort of agreed, and then I’d asked Owen and Owen had asked Chelle.

Now here we were, she and I, hip to hip in the back of Ned’s Fiat. I heard her intake of breath as she prepared for another one of her anecdotes.

‘The best thing about Saturdays in Auckland,’ she began, ‘was rowing across from the CBD after a night out. The CBD’s the central business district, where all the clubs
are – well, that’s the Viaduct – and if you missed the last ferry you’d have to borrow someone’s boat and then row it back in the morning. And sometimes as you crossed
you’d see killer whales poking their noses up out of the water, and little blue penguins right there in the harbour. They swim on the surface on their sides and they flap their flipper like
they’re waving to you, it’s so cool. And there are colonies of ducks, and I’ve seen floating mangroves. It’s awesome to be paddling across there in the moonlight. Totally
awesome.’

There was a silence while we digested this. ‘Wow,’ said Owen.

‘I saw a pigeon poop on the postman’s head yesterday,’ I said. ‘That was fairly awesome.’

‘I once saw a pigeon fly into a man’s face,’ said Ned.

‘Bet that was intense.’

‘It was for the pigeon.’

‘Have you ever seen baby pigeons?’ asked Helen. ‘They’re so ugly they’re cute.’

Chelle cut in. ‘We have pigeons in New Zealand too. Plus we have these birds called keas, I don’t know if you’ve heard of them. They’re a bit like a parrot, and
they’re super-intelligent but they’re on the endangered list. Farmers used to kill them because they attacked sheep. They’d sit on the sheep’s back and peck through the wool
to eat the fat. Well, so the farmers claimed. But keas’ll have a go at anything. They’ve got these mega-sharp beaks and they’ll strip out a car faster than any mechanic, snap off
your aerial and steal your wiper blades. They’ll tear the lead flashing off your roof. And conservationists are saying that their diet’s poisoning them. And they’re still being
shot by some hunters. It’s tragic.’

‘Who’d be a kea,’ said Ned. I thought there was the very faint edge of a snigger in his voice.

A sign on the verge announced we were crossing the border. ‘Welcome to Wales,’ I read aloud.

‘Sheesh, that reminds me.’ Chelle leant forward so she could address Owen directly. ‘Did I ever tell you about that time we tethered an inflatable bleeding whale over the Prime
Minister’s house?’

‘Is it much further?’ I heard Helen ask.

‘Twenty minutes,’ said Ned. ‘If you can hang on.’

The driveway leading up to the house was about two miles long. Ancient trees lined the road, parkland stretched beyond. Every few hundred yards squirrels dashed out in front of
the car, which meant Ned slamming on his brakes.

‘They’ve bloody followed me from work, they have,’ he said, scowling as one hopped lazily from verge to verge. ‘Like bad spirits. Look, that one can’t even be
bothered to shift out of the way. It’ll be a flat squirrel in a minute.’

‘Don’t be mean!’ said Helen.

‘In New Zealand we get possums squatting on the tarmac. They’re a lot chunkier than these guys.’

‘Course they are,’ said Ned.

But we all went quiet when the hall came into view. It was exactly like an old watercolour. The long, broad building, backdropped today by a china-blue sky, was red brick and symmetrical with
matching chimneys and ranks of tall, arched windows. Along the roof edge was a balustrade, while over the door there was a central pediment, and at ground level a gracious flight of white stone
steps flared to the gravel frontage. Everything about the aspect was designed to say,
This is an age of elegance and harmony, balance and reason. We are classical, we are regulated
. Blink,
and Mr Darcy would draw up in his barouche landau.

After we’d parked and paid for our tickets we were shepherded towards the house and in through a side door. ‘Servants’ entrance,’ muttered Owen. He was right as it turned
out, because we found ourselves inside a vaulted kitchen with a vast iron range and lots of scrubbed wooden counter tops. The walls and ceiling were hung with cooking implements; a spit with a
pretend roast revolved over a flickering electric fire. Someone had draped stuffed rabbits and pheasants across one end for added authenticity, which made Helen shudder.

‘If you feel that way about animals you should think about going veggie,’ said Chelle.

‘My sister’s diet’s fine as it is,’ I said threateningly. God knows, we didn’t want any more food groups being cut out.

Meanwhile, Owen had wandered to the far end of the room and was assessing four shelves’ worth of jelly moulds.

‘How the hell could one family
need
so much, Jen?’ he asked as I came up behind him.

‘It’s not about need, though, is it? It’s about showing off. “Look at me, I’ve put twenty different puddings on the table. See the girth of my
blancmange.”’

‘Yes. And how many poor people were supporting this ridiculous lifestyle?’

‘I think that’s what we’re going to find out on the tour.’

He sighed deeply. ‘The problem with society is that some sectors of it think they deserve more just because of who they are. It’s expectation that drives inequality. Expectation and
apathy. That’s all it comes down to in the end.’

‘Up the revolution,’ chirped Ned, passing us by as he headed for the next room.

Owen shot him a look.

I said, ‘You were getting a touch loud, that’s all.’

We moved out into a stone-flagged corridor lined with very old photographs.

‘Here are the outdoor staff as they were in August 1912,’ read Helen from a caption below the largest group photo, ‘including the gamekeeper, the head gardener and his team,
the grounds keeper, the gate keeper, the head coachman and working coachman, the stable master, the groom and stable boy. Detailed records were kept of each man, and his photograph taken
biennially. The owners of Bersham Hall were unusual in that they took an interest in the lives and fortunes of their servants as individuals in their own right, instead of simply as employees of
the estate.’

‘Big of them,’ said Owen.