Something Only We Know (36 page)

I didn’t know what to say. From the kitchen came the muffled sound of the radio. Politicians and interviewers arguing; you could hear the indignant rise and fall of their sentences.

Mum touched my arm. ‘I missed you so much. Silly, because I know you were happy in Manchester. But I felt redundant. Left behind, if you like.’

‘You never told me.’

‘What would have been the point? Make you guilty for wanting to go off and study? No, as I said, I was very proud of you. The problem with motherhood is that you want your children to grow
up and away from you, but it hurts when they do . . . Anyway, you used to ring and text me. And I had Helen at home. I’m beginning to think I probably always will have.’

We both threw a glance at the door. It felt dangerous and disloyal to talk about Hel this way, though I couldn’t deny it was a boost to hear Mum praise me against my sister. When did that
ever normally happen?’

I stroked a photo with the tip of my finger: Helen, aged about six or seven, grasping a stick of candy floss, happy as you like.

The kitchen door opened without warning and the radio blared out. ‘Oh,’ said Hel when she saw me. ‘You’re back. I can’t remember, do you like spinach?’

I moved away from Mum guiltily. ‘Not much, no.’

‘Bad luck, it’s what we’re having tonight. Get your dose of iron. You’ll thank me in the end.’

There she stood against the jamb, the sleeves of her summer dress rolled up past her elbows. Round her waist she’d tied a blue silk scarf, and two or three daisies from the garden were
tucked artfully into her buttonholes.

Pretty girl, big sis, troubled daughter, liar.

Who the hell are you?
I thought.

After tea I texted Owen to alert him to a TV documentary he might like, then switched off my phone and went for a long bath while I tried to work up the courage to tackle
Helen. Although where I was going to start, I had no idea.

‘I’ve had a ponder,’ Saskia had said as she walked me to the car. ‘Because I could see it was important to you. While you were upstairs interviewing Luc, I actually dug
out an old school photo, and I get now who you’re talking about. I did know your sister by sight because of her hair, there was no missing that amazing mane. But I didn’t ever speak to
her. Not directly. She was younger than me, and the Year Ten form rooms were in the Science block whereas mine was in Arts, so we were on opposite sides of the building. We’d even have been
on different dinner sittings. Our paths just never crossed. I mean, did you know the people in the year below you? So I think she must be getting me confused with someone else.’

‘She must,’ I mumbled, only because I couldn’t think of any other response.

Then she said, ‘I do remember this one incident. I don’t know if I should tell you or not.’

‘Tell me,’ I said.

‘It wasn’t very nice. Quite sad, really.’

‘Tell me. Please.’

‘Well – a bunch of us were walking along the back of the building, along the path that runs down to the field; I suppose it would have been lunch break. And there was a group ahead,
including this couple, him with his arm draped across her shoulders. I wasn’t paying them much attention. And then, out of the blue, we heard the sash window above us thump open and someone
calling from the top floor classroom. I assumed it was a teacher about to tell us off for some crime or other. But it wasn’t. It was your sister – I can see her hair hanging down now
– and she was yelling at the boy-half of the couple in front. She was going, “No, Joe. No, Joe.” She kept shouting it. We were like,
Huh?
Anyway, he – Joe –
just ignored her at first. Then he looked up and did this slow, mocking salute, and then he turned to the girl he was with and kissed her, full-on. It was really tacky. By then some people around
were joining in and chanting, “No, Joe.” Course, he was grinning and carrying on as if it was some big joke. I didn’t join in. I thought it was horrible. Your poor sister. After a
bit she disappeared inside and that should have been the last of it. But you know what school’s like. Tiny little incidents get a momentum going, and for days afterwards I’d hear people
in the corridors shouting out, “No, Joe.” It was the catchphrase of the moment. You’d hear it echoing up the stairwell. It got changed to other things.
Go
, Joe; Yo, Joe;
So, Joe. Hilarious. Not. And then, as the craze was dying down, the school got a visit in assembly from some kids’ folk choir and they stood up on stage and sang this song with the chorus,
“Oh, no, John, no John, no John, no.” I mean, beyond stupid, but there was a riot. The Year Nines and Tens fell about sniggering, one entire row had to be sent out. I suppose your
sister pretty much died of embarrassment. I felt sorry for the folk singers as well because they didn’t have a clue what they’d done. Teenagers can be utter gits.’

We’d stood on the Lambins’ driveway and I’d stared at the clouds racing by. I couldn’t bring myself to meet Saskia’s eye.

‘I don’t think she was very happy, your sister. You probably know, some people gave her a rough ride. I’d have spoken out against all the bollocks, only it’s hard when
there’s a
wave
of feeling. Crowd mentality. You get laughed at, and nothing changes. I suppose I could have talked to her. Told her not to mind. But like I said, I didn’t know
her.’

‘And then you left.’

‘Yeah. Didn’t keep in touch with anyone there. I wasn’t that keen on St Thom’s myself. I mean, everyone’s on the receiving end at some time or other, aren’t
they? When I was in Year Seven, a Year Nine boy called Nikos Kukula took my sports bag and got his mates to play football with it. Kicked it till the zip split, then chucked it over the fence into
the main road and I was too scared to go after it. Horrible. And I never told anyone, till you. Strange, isn’t it? I don’t know how we survive the cruelties of adolescence.
Helen’s OK now, is she? What’s she up to? I bet she’s an artist’s model or something.’

‘She works with abandoned pets.’

‘Yeah? Wow. Good on her. That’s brilliant. Look, I’m on Facebook. Get her to look me up sometime. It would be nice to chat. Swap old school gossip.’

Another of those moments where nothing seemed real. What was I missing? Which of them was lying?

I’d driven back to the office and spent the afternoon working on autopilot. Luckily Rosa’s door was shut and her blinds drawn. She’d left at four o’ clock, and I was two
minutes behind her.

I sat in my room and told myself I’d tackle Helen as soon as she came up the stairs. When I heard her light tread, I stepped out onto the landing in front of her,
blocking her way.

She blinked, looked me up and down. ‘What?’

‘We need to talk.’

A hunted expression crossed her face. She could tell I wasn’t messing around. ‘Do I have a choice?’

‘Nope.’

Hel gave a shrug and turned towards my room, but I headed her off and pointed at her own bedroom.

‘No. In here.’ I pushed open the door. ‘Come on.’

On the rare occasions I do enter Helen’s domain, it always feels as if I’m crossing into a separate zone, one that’s not part of the rest of the house. There’s a hush in
here that reminds me of the reading room at uni, and a sense of order that seems in direct contradiction to the everyday busy-ness of simply being alive. So the carpet’s completely clear,
magazine- and footwear-free. The windowsills are just windowsills and not home to books and CDs and ornaments and hair stylers and abandoned coffee mugs. Hel’s beauty products are stored in a
compartmentalised drawer, and not strewn across her dressing table like the aftermath of a riot at Boots. Her clothes wait patiently in the wardrobe on their colour-coded hangers, whereas mine lie
draped about, ready for action. In here the walls are plain, light stretches broken only by a small cork notice board and her print of Waterhouse’s ‘The Lady of Shalott’.
It’s her place of sanctuary, and I understand why she generally keeps me out. I was mucking up the place just by being there. But for once I wanted to speak to her on her own territory. That
felt important.

‘OK, go on then,’ said Helen. ‘Let’s get this over, whatever it is.’

‘Sit down first.’

‘God. What’s with all the drama?’ She hesitated, annoyed, then gave in and perched on the edge of the bed.

I said, ‘This. I met Saskia Fox-Lawrence today.’

Hel’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. I guess that was the very last bit of news she was expecting.

‘No!
No.
How?’

‘I was sent to interview her husband about his furniture design. They’re back from Canada for a spell. He was late, so before he arrived I sat and chatted with her.’

‘You
talked
to her?’

‘At length.’

I waited, but she said nothing to that.

‘It so happens that Saskia remembers her time at St Thom’s pretty well.’

Again, no response.

‘She remembers you. Not at first, but when I prompted her. After she’d checked an old school photograph. And what do you think she told me?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Well, it was quite surprising because when I tried to find out about you and her, she reckoned she’d never even spoken to you. That, being in different years, you just never came
across each other. She certainly wasn’t your friend. Or your enemy, or anything. You didn’t register in her life at all. Anyway, I thought she came across as pretty convincing. What do
you make of it?’

Hel swallowed uncomfortably. ‘So? It was an age ago. To be honest, Jen, it’s got nothing to do with you. I told you before that I didn’t want to talk about her.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with me? Oh no, except you’re my sister, and I was ready to tear into this woman for ruining your life. I was completely fired up, and then it turns out
I’ve been spun a lie. By somebody. I almost made an utter fool of myself. Almost put my job in jeopardy.’

‘No one asked you to! What’s Mum been saying? Has she been blabbing private stuff?’

‘Never mind that. What’s going on? Why did you tell me that Saskia was your best friend? And tell Mum that she made you anorexic?’

‘I never did!’

‘Mum said—’

‘Well she shouldn’t have!’ My sister’s face had grown dark with fury. ‘I never breathed a word about Saskia to her! What actually happened was that Mum got hold of
my diary and read some pages she shouldn’t have, and made up her own ideas. Ah, see, you didn’t know that, did you? Yes, she went snooping about and found my diary, with
private
written on the front, and just helped herself. Read some scribbled notes I’d made when I was feeling down, and assumed she knew everything about my anorexia off the back of
them. Decided to go on a witch-hunt, instead of talking to me. Not that I’d have told her anything by then. Can you believe it? My diary!’

I was stunned. I couldn’t picture my mother behaving so shabbily. Then again, hadn’t I had a sneaky look myself through Hel’s old school planner? But that wasn’t like
reading a private diary. A diary was a step too far. No wonder Mum had been cagey when she talked about Saskia.

‘Fair enough, that’s bad. That
is
bad. I had no idea. I’d have been pissed off, too.’

‘
Such
a betrayal. I’d been trying to use the diary to keep on top of the shit in my head, and then she goes and stirs it up. Confronts me with stuff I couldn’t begin
to explain and didn’t want to. I tell you, Jen, I was so livid I couldn’t speak to her for days. I even threatened to report her to my counsellor at CAMHS. But she got into such a state
. . .’

‘When was this?’

‘I don’t know. About eight months, a year or so after I’d left school? Something like that.’ She hung her head, picking at a fingernail.

I said, ‘I know I’m probably being dense here, but I still don’t get it. Was Saskia lying when she spoke to me? Were you mates or not?’

‘Don’t ask me, Jen.’

‘I just want to understand. You’re my sister. Honestly, I was ready to scratch the woman’s eyes out for what I thought she’d done to you. It would have been a fight worth
seeing. And I tell you something else: if it turns out she
was
stringing me along, I will go there tomorrow and finish the job.’

I tried a little laugh, but it came out as bitter and fake.

‘What a fucking mess,’ she muttered. ‘All those years past, and it never seems to go away.’

‘So talk to me. Please.’

On the notice board by her head I saw she’d pinned snapshots of the shelter dogs she was especially fond of, written their names below. There was one-eyed Isaac, and there was Pepper,
much-grown. A sad-eyed Labrador, a Jack Russell-type, a foxhound, some shaggy-osity. Marlon, Chi-Chi, Amber, Pob. My sister loved them all.

‘I don’t suppose it matters any more,’ she said at last, ‘what you think of me.’

‘How do you mean? I’m on your side.’

‘Yeah, feels like it lately.’

‘I am. Things have been difficult, you know, with Mum, and – well.’
Inviting dodgy men to the house behind our backs.
‘It’s your life, I suppose.
You’re an adult. I just worry about what you’ve been doing.’

She sighed. ‘You really want the truth?’

‘About what?’

‘Saskia.’

‘Yeah. I do. And what’s more, I think it would do you good to tell me. Get it off your chest. Come on. There’ve been enough secrets and lies lurking about this house and I
don’t think it’s helped anyone. Explain to me how Mum got it wrong, what you were trying to say in your diary.’

Helen put her hands to the sides of her cheeks, dragging them down.

‘OK. If you want. These are the plain, sad facts.’ Her voice was so low it was barely audible. ‘I made her up.’

‘Huh?’

‘I invented her. As a friend, I mean. She didn’t even know I existed, so I imagined that she did and that she thought I was cool. My imaginary friend. At fifteen. Pathetic,
isn’t it? So now you know. Now you know how crap your sister truly was.’

It took some while to process. ‘Was it a sort of crush?’

‘If you like. She was popular and bold, couldn’t-give-a-toss. I wanted to be that way, instead of some nervous little mouse.’