The Past and Other Lies (42 page)

‘Ha!’ Charlotte said out loud, and what ought to have been an ironic laugh merely sounded bitter, as it did each time she saw this particular poster. That would be right, she thought, that would be too bloody right.

JULY 1981

A
N UNACCOUNTABLY HOT and cloudless afternoon meant that everyone at Henry Morton Secondary was suddenly in shirt sleeves with their socks rolled down. The upper-school boys had removed their grey-and-red-striped school ties. The fifth-form girls lounged in groups on the grass of the school field, their skirts hitched up high to tan their legs, listening to radios and swatting lazily at wasps. No one looked like they had a maths O-level to sit in less than an hour.

A noisy game of football was going on in the school playground, two discarded jumpers on the ground acting as goalposts and, crossing the playground, Charlotte ducked to avoid the ball as it flew past her head.

‘Oi! Throw us it back then!’ called one of the boys, but she ignored him. She barely heard him.

She was heading towards the girls’ toilet block, the one behind the science labs. She didn’t often go there. Smokers congregated there and you learned early on to avoid the place unless you wanted to be ambushed. But if there was any smoking and ambushing to be done today she hoped it would be done outside in the sunshine. She hoped there was no one in the toilet block at all.

Someone’s written stuff about us on the wall of the girls’ toilets
.

Zoe Findlay had said this. Had come up to her in the library, pulled up a chair, leaned over, looked left and right, then made her dramatic announcement. Then she had added, mysteriously, ‘You didn’t write it, did you?’

Charlotte had stared at her.

Zoe, who at sixteen still had the small frame and fresh unmade-up face of a thirteen-year-old, had looked as though the idea of someone writing anything about her on the wall of the girls’ toilet was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her. Charlotte had pushed back her chair and left the library. ‘Don’t follow me,’ she muttered furiously through clenched teeth.
Do not follow me
.

The toilet block loomed ahead on the far side of the playground. The bike rack that ran the length of the wall was crowded with badly parked bicycles and bike chains with elaborate padlocks but was otherwise deserted.

What would someone write about us? she wondered, and a prickle of fear crawled up her spine. Something bad? Of course it was something bad; people didn’t write good stuff about you on a toilet wall, did they? Had Zoe herself written it?

‘Hey, Charlotte, there’s something written about you in the girls’ toilets!’

Charlotte spun around to see a friend of Jennifer’s—Julie Fanshawe, it was—standing in the doorway of the sixth-form common room, her face a mask of fake schoolgirl concern. ‘You better go look,’ Julie added, and then she smothered a laugh and disappeared inside. A moment later Jennifer herself suddenly burst out of the common room, running—yes, actually running!—across the path, looking up and seeing her and then, with a kind of wild-eyed glance, diving into the toilets, looking like she was being chased. Or about to throw up.

Charlotte stared.

According to Jennifer—who liked to exaggerate—the sixth-form common room was awash with bottles of Woodpecker cider and Liebfraumilch that someone’s older brother who worked in an off-licence provided at discount prices. No doubt this accounted for Jennifer’s white-faced dash for the toilets.

No doubt. It could not be that Jennifer knew anything about what was allegedly written on the walls of the toilets.

And who else was in there? Who else knew?

The playground had gone silent. All games had stopped. Every pair of eyes was trained on her, she could feel them crawling over her shoulderblades, down her back.

She turned slowly around to face them and what she saw was—

Was Zoe’s mum climbing out of her red BMW, and all thoughts of Jennifer and what might or might not be written on the wall of the toilets vanished.

Naomi Findlay, in a dark trouser suit and high black boots that clicked on the tarmac, strode from the visitors’ car park towards the school office. A red leather bag was slung over one shoulder and she clasped her car keys tightly before her like a weapon.

Charlotte stared in surprise.

Naomi? Here?

She began to walk quickly over to her, almost breaking into a run. ‘Hello!’ she called, wanting to add, ‘Naomi!’, but suddenly, here in the school grounds, it seemed wrong. Inappropriate.

Naomi stopped and looked around. She saw Charlotte and seemed to hesitate, head turned towards her, body turned towards the steps of the school office as though she wished to keep on walking. Her eyes were hidden behind large dark glasses but her head moved slightly from left to right and back again, taking in the car park, the bike racks, the playground, the noisy game of football and, last of all, returning to Charlotte.

Charlotte reached her and smiled breathlessly. Then she realised she didn’t know what to say. She realised that Naomi wasn’t returning her smile.

‘Hi,’ Charlotte gasped, wishing she wasn’t so out of breath. ‘What are you doing here?’

Naomi didn’t take off her glasses and all Charlotte could see was the bright midday sun reflecting off the lenses. She felt a flicker of something cold run down her arms.

‘Just came to see the Head,’ said Naomi casually, as though she often popped by for a chat with the headmaster.

‘Oh, Zoe in trouble?’ said Charlotte with a grin, because the idea of Zoe doing anything as interesting as getting into trouble was absurd.

‘No,’ Naomi replied, taking the question at face value. ‘It’s—’ she paused for a fraction of a second, ‘the move. I’m moving her. To a different school. Well, we’re both moving really. It’s work.’

Naomi raised her chin, her gaze directed over the roof of the school building towards some distant horizon. The sunlight seemed to melt her lip gloss, turning her lips into pools of liquid silver.

Charlotte said nothing for a moment, feeling her breath coming in and going out.

‘Moving?’ she repeated, and everything seemed to slow down.

‘Yes. Didn’t Zoe mention it?’

Mention it? No, Zoe had not mentioned it. And neither had Naomi. The coldness had reached Charlotte’s fingertips. She couldn’t feel her hands. Around her the playground had faded away. The game of football continued but no sounds reached her ears.

‘Yes, I’ve got a job at Granada. Newsreader.’ And Naomi hitched up her bag and glanced ever so casually at her wristwatch.

Granada? Charlotte swallowed. Surely that was in...?

‘So naturally we’re moving to Manchester. During the school hols. End of August.’

Charlotte found her heart was pumping so fast she couldn’t quite draw breath. She couldn’t speak.

Naomi glanced a second time at her watch. ‘I’m afraid I have to go. I’ve got...there’s a lot to do. I need to...’ And only now did she finally, seem...what? Embarrassed? Awkward?

And Charlotte thought, I bet she wishes I hadn’t come over. Hadn’t seen her. That she could just pack up and leave and not have to say anything. That she could pretend nothing ever happened.

But something
had
happened.

A football sailed over their heads and from far away a cheer went up.

Would Naomi have done that? Just packed up and gone?

‘But I—’ Charlotte began.

Naomi interrupted with a tight smile. ‘Well, I expect you and Zoe will remain friends.’

Charlotte fell silent, appalled. Why is she pretending? she wondered. Why is she making it sound as though I came round every night to visit Zoe?

Something had happened
.

‘I thought you—I thought
we
—’

She found that she couldn’t locate the words. That she was no longer sure what the words were, or what she thought about anything.

‘Please, Charlotte. Don’t let’s make a fuss.’ Naomi reached over and touched her arm lightly, the way you might touch someone at a funeral whom you knew only slightly. Then she smiled gently. ‘Let’s be sensible, shall we?’ She half turned her head as a teacher walked close by, her eyes following until the teacher was out of earshot.

‘Sensible?’ Charlotte repeated, not knowing what such a word meant in this context but knowing it wasn’t good.

‘I’m sure we’ll stay in touch.’

But that was what you said to people when you had no intention of ever seeing them again.

‘I do have to go,’ said Naomi again. ‘But look, your exams. You have one today, don’t you?’

Did she? Charlotte couldn’t remember.

‘Well, best of luck. I’m sure you’ll do well. I really do have to go,’ and she reached out and squeezed Charlotte’s arm. Then she turned and walked with a click of her boots up the steps.

Charlotte watched until she had disappeared inside the office.

Something
had
happened.

Three weeks ago she had gone round to Zoe’s house but Zoe had been away at her dad’s and Naomi had said, Stay Charlotte, stay for a drink!

Naomi had been in high spirits, something had happened at work. She had been talkative, excited.

And Charlotte, who had never once gone around to Zoe’s house because she wanted to see Zoe, had stayed. Had drunk a glass of champagne from an expensive bottle with a French label, had drunk a second glass, had followed eagerly as the party had moved upstairs to Naomi’s bedroom. Here she had found that she was really quite drunk and that her first sexual encounter was therefore both blurred around the edges and startlingly lucid in the middle.

At around midnight Naomi had silently driven her home and, dropping her a block away, had said, Best not mention it. Not to anyone, not to her parents, least of all Zoe.

As if she would mention it to her parents.

Then for three weeks Naomi had worked late at the television studio, sometimes not returning till eleven o’clock or midnight, and Charlotte knew this because she had sat in the park opposite the house, waiting. And it turned out that what Naomi had meant was: Don’t mention it to anyone—including to me.

And the reason for Naomi’s excitement that day—her high spirits, the expensive champagne with the French label, the silent drive home at midnight—was now clear. She was moving to Manchester.

Now it was the last week of the summer term and the final exam was maths in the gymnasium in half an hour.

Take me with you
.

But Naomi had gone and the words hung in the air as heavy as a death sentence. Then they were gone and no one had heard them except Charlotte.

There was still time. She could run after her. She could wait until Naomi came out. She could go round tonight, tomorrow night. They wouldn’t be leaving immediately, would they? Naomi had said the end of August. It took ages to plan something like this. Perhaps Naomi
had
been planning it for ages? Perhaps this was the final phase? Perhaps she was just waiting till Zoe’s final exam and then they were off?

She found herself walking across the playground but it was as though she wasn’t really there. There were people moving all around her, their voices muffled as though heard from another room. She reached the gym and stood in the doorway staring at the rows of desks, each with a chair behind it. She must ask Zoe, find out the exact date they were leaving. Why had Zoe said nothing? Had she not known?

It was because Naomi had told her to say nothing. Best not mention it.

The gym filled up and Charlotte sat down at a desk. Someone put an answer booklet in front of her, then after a while another person placed an exam paper on her desk. Someone at the front of the room spoke, everyone turned over their papers and the room fell silent.

‘A man walks five miles on a bearing of 092 degrees and then three miles from M to N on a bearing of 345 degrees—’

Naturally, we’re moving to Manchester
.

‘...calculate the distance NQ...’

Let’s not make a fuss
.

‘...and the bearing of Q from M. Show your working out in the space provided.’

I’m sure we’ll stay in touch
.

Charlotte pushed back her chair so that it fell with a thud on the parquet floor. She stood there for a second, two seconds, aware that every head had turned to stare at her, and as she stumbled out three invigilators started up after her, but no one tried to stop her.