Tell-Tale Page 2

  When Nina stumbled back across the garden, it was dark. She blew out the candle left burning on the rear deck. Mick, who often worked at night, stayed in the floodlit studio to paint.

  In the bathroom, Nina studied herself in the mirror. She nodded slowly. The likeness of the painting was a good one. In bed, she stared at the ceiling, smiling her way into a peaceful sleep.

  CHAPTER 2

  I’m staring up at the huge gates with the car engine ticking over. The wrought iron is painted black, with twitch grass fringing the trunk-like wooden posts. There’s a security keypad to one side. The pass code was included in my new employee’s pack. I punch in four seven one six.

  The iron gates creak and part in the middle. I edge the car forward, keen to get in. I check the rear-view mirror. The gates close, sealing me inside the grounds. I drive on, swallowing away the nerves that have been brewing in my throat the last few days.

  The drive is tree-lined, with branches spreading like outstretched arthritic arms, forming a mottled canopy. Beech and oak stand sentry as I pass beneath. I keep my eyes fixed firmly ahead.

  The drive yawns into a wide courtyard with a Victorian mansion sitting squarely between the stables and a modern building beside it. As I approach, I read ‘Science Block’ on the ugly modern bricks.

  I park my car and crunch across the gravel, carrying my suitcase to the main front entrance. It was raining earlier and the air smells sickly-sweet from the hanging baskets and tubs of dazzling flowers clustered around the entrance.

  I take a deep breath and step inside.

  ‘Hello. I’m Frankie Gerrard,’ I announce as cheerfully as I can manage. ‘Francesca,’ I add when the school receptionist appears puzzled.

  ‘Ah, yes, of course.’ She smiles at me. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’ She comes out from behind the desk and hooks a hand under my elbow. ‘Welcome to Roecliffe. Come on, I’ll show you to your room and then you can meet everyone.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. She tells me her name but I immediately forget it.

  ‘That’s the dining hall,’ she says as we pass by. I glance inside. My heels click on the tiled floor. I never usually wear heels. ‘And that’s the library in there. See all the trophies that our girls have won? We’re a very sporty school,’ she says proudly. I follow her gaze.

  ‘Impressive,’ I say, hurrying to keep up.

  We pass along a long corridor, up several flights of stairs that take us to the summit of the hundred-and-fifty-year-old building, down a few more creaky steps, along another passageway, and we finally arrive.

  The receptionist unlocks a low door. ‘You’ll be comfortable in here.’ We step inside and she gives me an old key. It has a red ribbon attached with my name on a paper tag. ‘In case you lose it,’ she says. ‘The bathroom is at the end of the hall. Let me know if there’s anything you need.’

  ‘It’s all lovely,’ I say, smiling. I let my small suitcase drop to the floor. It topples over as if it’s already settled in.

  ‘I’ll leave you to unpack then. There’s a pre-term staff meeting at three. A cup of tea and a chance to get to know everyone.’ She’s still a little wary of me, the way her eyes dance over my face. ‘You’re not the only one that’s starting this term. There’s a new games teacher, and a French teacher over from Paris for a year.’

  She’s trying to make me feel better. ‘Thank you.’ I hold open the door. ‘See you later then.’ I force a smile.

  I lock the door after she’s gone.

  I sit on the single bed. Iron frame, sagging mattress, faded quilt. ‘Well,’ I say to test the sound of my new room. I close my eyes and listen to the silence of my new life.

  CHAPTER 3

  The most important thing my daddy ever told me was that my name meant bird. It was from the Latin, he said, and my mother had chosen it before she died. For the next ten years, he had me believing that I might one day wake up with wings and be able to fly away.

  ‘Ava,’ he’d said. ‘My skinny little bird.’

  The smell of exhaust mixed with the tang of his smoky skin as I hung on to his neck stayed with me all those years. The hum of his big car when I saw it cruise out of sight rattled in my head, making me think he was somehow close when really he couldn’t have been further away.

  ‘Next week then, Ava. I’ll come back to see you next week.’

  But he didn’t.

  Until that day, he’d been true to his word and visited me every Sunday for nearly two months. Since the day he announced he couldn’t cope.

  ‘But I can cope,’ I’d tried to convince him, aged eight. ‘I’m good at coping.’ But it wasn’t enough to prevent my dad calling someone – I never knew who exactly – and that someone coming to our shabby terraced house and taking me away.

  ‘Now, Ava, don’t make a fuss,’ my dad had said. I hooked my fingers on to the door frame and scowled. ‘I’ll visit you on Sunday.’

  ‘This Sunday?’ I asked. He nodded. He tweaked his moustache. ‘And will you come the Sunday after that?’ He nodded again. ‘And the one after that?’ I asked a thousand times more until my father peeled my fingers off the wood and shoved me out of the door. I dragged my suitcase behind me, climbed silently into the waiting car, and was driven off to the children’s home.

  So on Sundays, I sat on the stone window seat near the entrance of the home. It was my special place to wait for my dad. To pass the time, I imagined life as it used to be – just him and me, perhaps curled up on the grubby sofa, the chant of a football match on the television, the stink of the beer as it dried on Dad’s shirt. I’d watch the rise and fall of his chest as he slept, and count the wheeze of his breaths. If it ever slowed or fell out of its drunken rhythm, I pummelled him until he stirred.

  Other times – times that didn’t happen very often – I would help him work in the garden. The sun sliced into my eyes, making me screw up my face as I watched my dad wield the spade at the end of our small patch. I stood picking dirt out of my nails, wondering what the point was. The potatoes were always left to rot in the ground.

  Every year, Dad said he was going to grow his own vegetables. ‘We’ll have a right feast, me and you. Our own sprouts at Christmas.’ But every year, William Fergus Atwood only got as far as hacking down a few waist-height weeds, or perhaps digging a couple of square feet of the heavy clay soil before he succumbed to the bottle.

  Some days, I went to school. I liked it there but couldn’t always go. Often I didn’t have any clean clothes to put on. Not even a T-shirt. I picked through garments that had gathered under my bed and piled in the corners of my tiny bedroom as if they’d been blown there on a desert wind. Stripes and patchworks that I once remembered colourful had turned to a sombre version of their original hues from weeks’ worth of stains, forcing me to stay in my knickers and vest.

  I slouched about the house, driving my dad nuts by playing games with stuff that wasn’t mine. I fiddled with his precious demijohns, watching the bubbles blip at their necks as the wine fought for life. I tangled his fishing line and spilled his tobacco while I crunched breakfast cereal from the box. I emptied out the eggs from their tray and made nests for imaginary chicks that would never hatch.

  Occasionally, a lady from the council came to tidy, to cook meals, and clean up the mess down my dad’s front while he snored. She stalked slowly around our little house as if she hardly dared enter the poky rooms. She muttered as she worked, using the tips of her fingers to move our things about. Afterwards, things were better for a time. It made me happy. I could put on clean clothes again and go back to lessons. I was learning to read and I loved painting pictures.

  But other times, even when there were clothes to put on, I didn’t make it down the road to join the other children on their way to school. Often Dad was slumped on the floor blocking the front door. The walk back from the pub the night before finished him off and it was as much as he could do to unlock the door. His body was a dead weight filled with several days’ worth of drink.


  ‘Dad, get up,’ I would call out. ‘Go to bed.’ I yanked at his hair. I tried to roll him, to pull him, and I prodded him with my foot until he growled and heaved himself a couple of feet so that I could prise the door open six inches. That’s all it took for me to slip out into the fresh morning air and join the procession of other kids on their way to school.

  When Dad didn’t budge and I couldn’t squeeze through the door, I would rest my chin in my hands with my elbows pressed on to the window sill. I’d watch my friends trotting past the house with their lunch packs and smiles. I’d tried in vain to open the windows to climb out. The downstairs ones were all glued up with paint and the back door was so warped from age and damp that only Dad could open it with two fists and his boot. On those passing-out days, as I called them, I was a prisoner.

  ‘Like now,’ I thought, drumming my fingers on the grand stone mullion – a far cry from Wesley Terrace – waiting for the sight of my dad’s car to appear at the turn of the drive. Not many cars ever came down the long drive to Roecliffe Children’s Home. It was as if we’d been forgotten by the rest of the world. Delivery trucks sometimes dropped off sacks of potatoes and carrots, and occasionally the repair man came to bang around in the boiler room. The older kids said that this wasn’t all he came for, but I didn’t know what they meant. And sometimes, although I’d never seen one, a bus came to take the children on a trip out. I didn’t want to be in the home long enough to find out if this was true or not.

  But when a vehicle did burst from within the cluster of trees at the end of the drive, the news quickly spread and everyone gathered round the window to see who it was. Me, I stuck fast on my special seat; wouldn’t budge in case it was Dad. I wanted to wave him all the way in.

  I loved my dad, even though he wasn’t like other dads. Since he lost my mum, I think he’d lost his mind.

  My forehead rested on the cool glass. A part of me wished my skull would crack right through the panes. I imagined the blood fingering down my face, spilling either side of my nose and around my mouth. I thought of the panic as the carers dabbed my skin with wet cloth and scolded me for being so stupid. I pressed as hard as I dared on the glass, but then jumped out of my skin. A hand dropped on to my shoulder.

  ‘Haven’t you got anything better to do?’ I turned and saw a man I didn’t recognise staring down at me. The sight of his mottled face set upon a trunk-like body froze me solid. His arms stuck out like branches, while the lines carved in his face reminded me of brittle twigs against an angry sky. The blood drained from my head; my heart thudded in fear. I wanted to go home. I wanted my dad.

  I shook my head from side to side, trying to answer but nothing came out of my mouth. I’d not been living at the home long, but I couldn’t stop thinking of those horrid stories, the stupid lies that flew from one grubby mouth to another. I screwed up my eyes to block it all out. My lips clamped together to stifle the scream that was brewing.

  ‘Then you’d better come and help me,’ he growled when I remained silent. I dared to peek out of one eye and saw something knotty and veined sitting at the man’s craw, as if he’d swallowed a bunch of rotten grapes and they were sticking out through his baggy skin.

  He nipped a hand round my arm and pulled me off the window seat. ‘The devil makes work,’ he muttered, walking off down the long hall, towing me as if I were a stray puppy.

  The stories flew through my mind like the wind flipping through the leaves of an old book. Memories of the other kids’ nightly tales were interlaced with the oblivion of sleep and nasty tablets. Perhaps I’d imagined it all. But the goings-on somehow found their way into our everyday lives as if they were perfectly normal – as normal as if we’d been told to shake out fresh sheets on the washing line, or sweep the floor, or lay the fire in the grate.

  Reluctantly, I followed the stranger down the dark corridors of the home. As we walked on, new rooms suddenly telescoped out of others. ‘Where are we going?’ I plucked up the courage to ask, but the man ignored me.

  Wide-eyed and stiff-limbed, my mouth hung open, fixed in a silent scream. My feet stubbed the floorboards in unwilling steps as the strength of the man outweighed my meagre protests. We stopped outside a door. The horrid man knocked and went straight in.

  A light so bright I thought the sun had somehow got in there made me screw up my eyes. I couldn’t see anything at all apart from the black silhouette of another man sitting behind a desk. Half from fear, half from the pain burning my eyes, I pressed my forearm across my brow. I prayed it would all go away.

  ‘Not her,’ the man behind the desk said in a voice that made me believe we’d stepped into hell. ‘There’s a father. Get another one.’

  CHAPTER 4

  ‘Miss Gerr-ard,’ the man says, drawing out the syllables. ‘I’m Mr Palmer, the headmaster.’ His skin is waxy and moist, and brushes limply against mine for a second as we shake hands. There is a sugar-dusting of dandruff on one shoulder of his dark suit.

  ‘Please, call me Frankie,’ I tell him.

  ‘Are you settling in? How do you like Roecliffe? Matron told me all about you.’

  I open my mouth to speak.

  ‘She’s only been here an hour, Geoff. Give her a chance,’ the receptionist interrupts, handing me tea and leading me away. ‘Come and talk to Sylvia, dear. Trust me, Geoff’ll bore you for hours with stories about this and that. He knows everything there is to know about this place, and he seems to think everyone wants to hear about it.’ She grins knowingly.

  I offer a bemused smile and follow her through the dozens of staff milling about. I feel way out of my depth.

  ‘Hello, Bernice,’ Sylvia says fondly, kissing the receptionist on both cheeks. ‘How was your holiday?’

  Sylvia, the matron, interviewed me on the telephone two days ago. It was all such a rush. I’d seen the position advertised on the school’s website last week. There were several jobs available, but the others were for teaching posts and I’m not qualified for those. It almost makes me giddy, thinking about the last few days.

  It took all my courage to call about the job. Matron confessed on the phone that she was desperate for help. Term was about to start. There had been a girl lined up to fill the post, but she’d pulled out at the last minute without explanation. After Sylvia learned that I’d spent several years working with teenagers, she offered me the job there and then.

  I sip my tea, patiently listening to Sylvia and Bernice chatting about the long summer break. Sylvia doesn’t look much like a school matron.

  ‘Hello again,’ I say, when she finally gives me her attention. She grips both my hands, squeezing hard. ‘Reporting for duty,’ I add with a forced laugh. Despite her jumpy disposition, I like Sylvia. She gave me a chance. She makes me feel as if I might one day belong.

  ‘Frankie, it’s lovely to have you here at Roecliffe Hall. I’m so pleased you accepted the position. Is your room all right?’ She stands on tiptoe to deliver a brief kiss to my cheek. ‘Anything you need, just shout. I’m determined not to lose you like all the others.’

  ‘It’s all fine,’ I tell her. ‘I’m very . . . happy to be here. I have a lovely view right across the grounds from my room.’ I wonder what she means, about losing the others.

  ‘You just wait until autumn. The trees are dazzling.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ I say. ‘When do the pupils arrive?’ I picture meeting the girls, seeing their earnest faces, their lips bubbling with holiday banter, their eyes brimming with tears, excitement as their parents leave, as another term starts.

  ‘Between seven and nine. We have a few hours to prepare for the hormonal onslaught.’ Sylvia laughs.

  ‘Oh gosh.’ I laugh inappropriately, loudly. My hand spreads across my mouth.

  ‘What’s so funny then?’ A sandy-haired man steps sideways and nudges Sylvia. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’

  ‘Frankie, meet Adam. Adam’s history.’

  ‘It’s true. I live in the past,’ he says pleasantly. I detect a
slight accent. South African perhaps?

  ‘That’s not very healthy,’ I joke, for the sake of something to say.

  ‘Frankie’s my new house assistant,’ Sylvia continues. ‘She wanted a live-in job, and I desperately needed help since that girl let me down. Where is it you said you came from, Frankie?’

  ‘Down south,’ I say vaguely, trying to deflect Adam’s interested gaze. He is tall and his body leans casually as if an imaginary wall were propping him up. The delicate cup and saucer look ridiculous in his large hands. He is wearing a striped shirt loose over black jeans; tousled hair over tanned skin. He looks more like a surfer than a teacher.

  ‘Ah,’ he says slowly. His grin sits broken over the jut of his chin. ‘From the south, like me then. And I expect you’ll be living very much in the present looking after all the girls.’ He sips his tea, not taking his eyes off me. ‘Loud music, the internet, electronic games, make-up, boys, and tears. Good luck.’ He has eyes that are so blue they make the rest of his face look insignificant. It’s only when I draw away from him that I see he has a laptop tucked under one arm.

  Sylvia is talking to someone else. ‘What are the girls like?’ I ask him. It’s that or stand there in awkward silence.

  Adam glances at my cheek. His mouth opens and shuts several times before speaking. I blush. ‘They . . . they’re a nice bunch generally. Some can be a bit spoilt and demanding.’ He’s still staring.

  ‘Perhaps they have problems at home.’ I dig my nails into my thigh. I feel so awkward.

  ‘Privileged, I think is the word you’re looking for. And you’re hurt.’ Adam frowns, making me flinch as if he’s about to touch my face. I step backwards.

  The headmaster taps his teaspoon on his cup, saving me from having to explain.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I whisper when Adam refuses to stop staring. ‘Just a graze.’