The Girl With No Past (2 page)

Once a week I volunteered at the care home on the next road, reading to the residents after dinner and keeping them company. If I could have afforded to I would have done it seven days a week. Just seeing their faces light up when I walked in was enough to lift me from my fog, to show me that I wasn’t a bad person.

But there were still long hours I needed to fill and it was thanks to Maria that I’d discovered Two Become One a few months earlier. Never shy about her search to find a man who would stick around longer than a week, she openly shared the fact that she had found a dating website. On it, the men were all professionals and people broke the ice by talking in chat rooms before deciding whether to meet up.

Hearing Maria talk about it, the idea of meeting someone online filled me with horror. It was like shopping for a partner. How could you know they were who they said they were? How could you be sure what they wanted? The idea was abhorrent to me. I wasn’t being judgemental, it was just the idea of meeting any man, anywhere, filled me with anxiety.

But curiosity – or perhaps it was loneliness? – got the better of me one night and I checked out the website, browsing through it until I had worked out what it was all about. I felt safe doing it: I was alone in my flat and nobody could see me, no one could reach me.

Witnessing people’s conversations, I envied these people for their carefree attitudes, and was slowly drawn in, within weeks setting up an account, using Mum’s maiden name, Harling, and posting a picture that I was convinced nobody from my past would recognise me from. In it, my hair, now lighter than it ever had been, covered a lot of my face and I was turned to the side. It was the best I could do if I wanted to talk to people on the site. But that was all I would allow myself to do. If I couldn’t have my own life then at least I could live in a fantasy one.

The incident with my keys almost forgotten, I sat on the sofa, balancing my laptop on my knee, a cup of tea on the coffee table. Although it was easier to use the computer at my tiny kitchen table, I was too exhausted to sit on a hard wooden chair.

I entered a chat room and read the lines of conversation, staying silent. But, as was usual, my presence was announced in bold blue letters and a string of welcomes followed. As tempted as I was to respond, just this once, I ignored them and waited for the conversation to start up again. There were seventeen people in the room and they were asking each other what jobs they did and where they lived. I watched as two of them, a woman called Melissa and a man called Rich, disappeared to their own private chat room. There it was. So easy for other people.

There were more visitors than usual that night; Friday was a day that highlighted loneliness more than any other, a day people’s single status stared them in the face. But I had taught myself immunity to that feeling. It was all a matter of perspective, and what was being alone when there was so much worse out there? That didn’t mean I enjoyed it, though. I would have loved to approach someone, respond to the messages I was constantly sent, be normal. I had intended to start up conversations but so far my hands froze whenever I went to reply to a message.

Cradling my mug to warm my hands, I browsed through profile pictures, making up a story about who I believed each man to be. Of course, I was never right when I compared my ideas to the details they provided, but it helped pass the time.

A ping erupted from the laptop and I didn’t flinch. I was used to being sent private messages and that’s what I knew the sound was. But when the envelope flashed in the corner of the screen, I saw it was from a moderator. I knew they lingered around, making sure chat rooms were safe, but I had never been contacted by one. Perhaps they would tell me that I was no longer welcome on the site, that I wasn’t playing the game, getting involved, so they could do without my business. Taking a deep breath, I clicked the envelope.

Moderator34: Hey, u ok?

Confused, I exhaled and reread the message. I wasn’t getting kicked off. He or she was only asking if I was okay. But why? I had no idea if this was normal. Without thinking, my fingers began tapping the keyboard.

LeahH: I’m okay. Thanks for asking. How are you?

It was all I could think of to say.

Moderator34: Just worried about you!

I’ve noticed you on here before but you don’t seem to want to talk to anyone??

So this was it. I
was
getting kicked off. Quickly, I tried to think of an excuse for my lack of communication.

LeahH: Sorry. Bit shy.

The response came back immediately.

Moderator34: Believe me, you have no reason 2 b shy.

Your photo is beautiful.

I am male by the way, in case you were wondering…

LeahH: Are you allowed to say things like that?

Moderator34: Probably not but figured you were worth the risk

I should have stopped there. This had already gone too far. I wanted to type back that he was wrong, that I was one person who was not worth any kind of risk, but I didn’t. Instead I continued our conversation, allowing myself to bask in a few minutes of feeling normal, firing questions at him, without having any idea why I was so interested. I didn’t even know what he looked like.

He told me his name was Julian, he was thirty-six and lived in Bethnal Green. Begging me not to judge him by his job, he revealed that he was a civil servant and worked in Whitehall.

When he turned the questions on me, I began to get nervous. I looked around my flat, wondering just how much I wanted to share with this stranger. My home was crammed from floor to ceiling with books, leaving little room for furniture. I made do with just a sofa and coffee table just so I could buy more books and not worry about where to put them. I could see the whole flat from the sofa because the kitchen and lounge were open plan. I always left the bedroom and bathroom doors ajar. It wasn’t a conscious decision, just something I always did.

I wondered what Julian would think of it here. Would he know straight away that I lived vicariously through the characters in the stories I read? Or the people in the chat rooms?

Ignoring my reservations, I continued talking to Julian and he began to intrigue me. His sense of humour jumped off the screen, his words creating a vivid picture of him. He seemed different to anyone I’d come across on the site so far, more natural, as if he wasn’t trying to do anything or be anyone other than himself. He was funny and charming without being creepy or desperate, and it made something in me ache. With sadness or longing, or a mixture of both.

I had to snap out of it. Nothing like this had happened to me in all the time I had browsed through profiles and lurked in chat rooms on Two Become One, and I didn’t like how I was starting to feel. Making an excuse that I had to go, I closed the website, not bothering to log off, and took my mug to the kitchen.

Although it had left me feeling empty, the encounter with Julian had distracted me from thinking about tomorrow. I knew nothing would happen other than my head swimming with memories, but every year was still as painful as those that had preceded it. As if no time had passed.

After making myself another cup of tea – a small comfort given the day I’d had – I took it over to the window, kneeling down so I could look out at Allfarthing Road. This was another way I spent my evenings when I wasn’t at the care home: watching life pass by outside my window. With a deep sigh, I told myself, as I did every night, that this was how it had to be. The difference was that now a tiny part of me wanted to fight against my sentence. I wanted to feel alive.

It was only when I was washing up before bed that I remembered I hadn’t opened my post. The pile remained on the kitchen worktop, and grabbing it, I sat down at the table. There were only three letters, and I binned the first one without opening it. I had no interest in special offers from a catalogue I’d never ordered from, or even heard of. I also ignored the letter I recognised immediately as a council tax bill; my payments were made by direct debit so I had nothing to worry about there.

It was the final envelope that puzzled me. It was pastel yellow and felt like a card. Strange. The only cards I ever received were from Mum on my birthday and at Christmas, but my birthday was months ago and it was too early for Mum’s Christmas card. And yellow wasn’t a Christmassy colour, was it? Red perhaps, green even, but not yellow.

The foreboding I’d felt walking home returned and I immediately knew I was holding something I wouldn’t want to see. But my hand still found the edge of the flap and tore it open. I slid out the card and stared at the glittery blue writing.

Happy Anniversary!

The picture of a champagne bottle with its cork popped, colourful ribbons bursting out of it, silently mocked me. Bile rose to my throat but I still opened the card. Inside, my name was written in thick black marker pen. Leah. There were no other words, only my first name. In writing that looked childish, every letter a different size.

I slipped it back in its envelope and flung it on the table, pushing it away with the heel of my palm, as if it could physically hurt me if I touched it more firmly. It balanced precariously on the edge of the table but didn’t fall to the floor. My flat seemed to grow even smaller, as if attempting to crush me, and I had to fight for breath.

My past was catching up with me.

TWO

I turn away from Mum and head towards the huge glass doors of the main block. This is where the letter said to go when I arrived, so I take a deep breath and force myself to move forward. This doesn’t feel like a school; it’s a hundred times bigger than my old one and every subject has its own building. How will I ever be able to tell the maths block from the English one when they all look the same? Not for the first time, I wish I wasn’t old enough to start secondary school. There is no way I’m ready for this.

It doesn’t help when, half an hour later, I am just one in a sea of students seated in the assembly hall, listening to the head teacher, Mr Curtis, drone on about behaviour and consequences. I can’t take in a word he says because I’m scared stiff, surrounded by strangers who all seem to know each other.

I loathe Mum and Dad for making us move here. I was happy in Derby so why did everything have to change? Don’t they care that I will have no friends now? I found it hard enough to talk to people back home so what chance do I have here? Slipping further down into my chair, as if I can make myself invisible, I know for sure I have arrived in hell.

I’m so lost in my thoughts, I don’t realise Mr Curtis is calling out a list of names and telling us which teacher to follow to our form room. Has my name already been called? I think I might pass out. Everyone else seems to know what they’re doing, why is it only me who doesn’t? But then I hear it. Leah Mills. What a relief. I look around and there is a teacher – a woman with short, blonde bobbed hair – lifting her hand slightly to signal her form group. She looks kind enough, but it’s not as if I have any choice but to go with her. Apparently, this is the teacher I’ll be stuck with for the rest of my time here, unless the woman leaves or dies or something.

I take so long to squeeze through the crammed rows of chairs that, by the time I make it to the aisle, the teacher is strutting off, students tailing her like rats following the Pied Piper. I try to catch them up but even when we reach the classroom I still lag behind. Is this what secondary school is going to be like? A constant struggle to keep up? I hate it already.

Things don’t get any better once I’m inside the classroom. The blonde teacher has assigned seats to everyone and I am the only one sitting alone. I am also right at the back, in the corner against a wall, as if I am unimportant and it doesn’t matter to anyone whether I’m here or not. I stare at the empty space beside me, it seems to be mocking me and it is all I can do to stop a massive flood of tears from erupting and showing me up even more.

Murmurs die down and everyone turns to the teacher, waiting for her to speak. It seems to take forever, but when she eventually opens her mouth, her voice is soft and unsure. Not at all what I’ve been expecting. All the teachers in my primary school sounded as if they were talking through loudspeakers, deafening us if we were unlucky enough to sit near them. Perhaps this one is new? She looks fairly young, younger than Mum anyway, so this could be her first time teaching. I should feel sorry for her because if she
is
new then we are in the same position, aren’t we? And just because she’s an adult, it doesn’t mean she isn’t scared. But she has stuck me at the back and why did it have to be me out of everyone here? There are at least thirty of us, but Mrs Whoever-She-Is has picked me to sit alone. I don’t think I can forgive her for that.

‘Um, I’m Miss Hollis,’ she manages to say, and I only realise what she’s said because she writes it on the whiteboard too. The next thing I know, everyone is being told to pair up and tell their partners three interesting facts about themselves. Immediately the room bursts into life and everyone chatters away as if they’ve known each other forever, while I sit by myself, partner-less.

I can’t even see Miss Hollis any more; perhaps she’s decided she’s had enough and made a run for it. I wish I could do that. But no, there she is in the corner, watching the class anxiously from behind her computer. Can’t she see I don’t have a partner?

Just when I decide I’ll have to tell myself three interesting things about myself, a short, plumpish girl turns to me from the desk in front. ‘I’ll work with you,’ she says, smiling shyly. ‘Those three can work together.’ She motions to the three other students in her row, and for the first time I notice they are all boys. It makes me feel slightly better because at least I’m not the only one sitting in an uncomfortable place.

I introduce myself and watch as the girl screeches her chair around so we are facing each other. She’s got nice eyes, huge, dark and shiny, and a small upturned nose like a ski-slope.