Identical, page 5
‘I’m interested.’
‘Since when have you been interested in me?’
‘Probably always,’ I say. ‘But definitely now.’
‘Is this about me eating too much?’
‘What? No,’ I say. ‘I really would like to know. Is it her voice, or her lyrics?’
She gives me a look through narrowed eyes, as if she’s searching out a hidden trick; but when she sees that I’m serious, she tilts her head to one side. ‘There’s all this power and vulnerability in her songs,’ she says, unable to keep enthusiasm from bobbing up inside her voice. ‘And I like her style – kind of grungy sexy, the vintage thing.’
‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘When I was younger, all the singers I liked represented something I was looking for. Especially Debbie Harry. She was a rebel and that’s what I aspired to.’
‘Never heard of her.’ She gives me a puzzled glance and scoops the cat into her lap. ‘You’re acting kind of weird.’
I laugh. A quick trill of amusement. Ha, ha. My heart is hammering at my ribs, but I want to try and make a connection with her. I feel as if we’re getting somewhere. I can’t hide in Cecily’s room until Monday. I want to at least understand why Bea is so hostile to her mum. Perhaps I can help smooth things over between them.
‘So?’ I say, through a mouthful of bread. ‘About Courtney?’
She makes a noise of approval. ‘This is good,’ she says. ‘You’ve never bought this… what-did-you-call-it… before.’
‘Hummus. It’s made of chickpeas. I thought we could try eating simple, healthier things,’ I say, with a bright smile.
‘So… This is about my eating?’ She puts her fork down, glaring at me.
‘No,’ I hold up my hands. ‘I promise it’s not.’
‘It’s weird as well,’ she mutters. ‘You usually make stuff and then don’t eat it yourself.’ She spreads more hummus on some bread. ‘Just sit there, drinking wine and staring at me and Dad.’
‘Well, I’m not going to do that any more,’ I say firmly. ‘And we were talking about Courtney Love. Is there something about her you identify with?’
‘I don’t know.’ She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I suppose I like it that she’s difficult, that she’s angry with the world. She’s unhappy, isn’t she? I can identify with that.’
‘Bea,’ I say softly, ‘is there anything I can do?’
‘You can stop trying to make me into a clone of you,’ she retorts, pushing her plate away. ‘Being skinny won’t make me feel better. I’m not you. And I’m not a religious freak.’
A tremor of shock runs through me. I swallow, and falter, struggling for the right words. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve tried to force you into being someone you’re not,’ I manage. ‘But it’s not always easy being a mum. That’s why I want us to be more transparent, about everything.’
Her body tenses and I worry that she’s going to retreat to her room again. Lock me out. Like I’ve been locking Gabriel out. She squeezes the cat closer and presses her face into long fur. ‘You haven’t even told me off for picking Sukie up while I’m eating.’
My mouth is dry. I must be careful. ‘Yes. Well,’ I frown, ‘I didn’t want to spoil the moment. But now you come to mention it, you should put her down while you’re at the table.’
Bea kisses Sukie and puts her gently on the floor.
‘And what about that group… The one on a poster in your room… Magic Dirt?’ I press on. ‘What do you like about them?’
She gives me a cool look. ‘I just like their music, Mum.’ She scrapes the last of the butter onto a corner of crust and pops it in her mouth. ‘I have homework.’
I nod and stand up to collect our dirty plates. ‘Go on, then.’ She picks up her bag and I think I see a small smile curling her lips. ‘But I do mean it,’ I add. ‘About being honest. About talking. Let’s not do the silent treatment any more.’
‘And Dad?’ she says, one eyebrow raised.
‘Yeah,’ I say, turning away to stack the dishwasher. ‘Dad, too. No more silent treatment.’ I can feel her waiting for more. I straighten and turn. ‘Promise,’ I say quietly.
I hate making promises, especially ones I can’t keep.
She nods, as if we’ve made a pact, and leaves the room.
9
CECILY
Summer at Hawksmoor meant smells of cut grass and honeysuckle wafting in from the garden, the beech trees darkening to deep waxy green and the wood pigeons cooing as if their lives depended on it. It also meant for six weeks, Alice and I were free of school, free from the long bus ride twice daily, scratchy uniforms, nuns in their crow-black habits, and the other girls, full of pimples and snide remarks. Best of all, Henry came home for the holidays.
About the time he was due to arrive, we sat astride the lion statues flanking the front steps, taking one each. Waiting impatiently, I leant forward over the frozen mane, my hand stroking an alert ear; the lion seemed to be listening for the sound of the approaching Volvo too. A rumble of engine made me sit up, and we waved our arms over our heads, whooping in customary fashion, as the car appeared around the corner. Daddy hated driving, so it was always Mummy at the wheel. She pulled up in front of the house, and we waited for the first sight of our brother. Strangely, he appeared from the back seat instead of the passenger side, getting out with his tie skew-whiff, and the top button of his white shirt undone. He fumbled to do it up, glancing at the front door with a look of nervous anticipation. But he needn’t worry, Daddy was out.
Before either of us had a chance to rush to him, another boy leapt from the other side of the car, hurried around to the driver’s door, and opened it for Mummy. She emerged with Dilly in her arms, smiling. ‘Thank you, Jude,’ she said. ‘What lovely manners.’
We stared at the stranger. He was tall for fourteen, not in the gangly way our brother was, but solid and finished, like a fully grown man. Our whooping felt foolish now, as if we’d been caught playing childish games. He looked very odd in a faded dinner jacket, bright red kipper tie, checked trousers, and a brown trilby pulled low over curling blonde hair.
‘Who’s that?’ Alice hissed.
I could feel her bristling. Nobody had told us Henry was bringing a friend. Both boys heaved their cases out of the boot of the ancient Volvo.
Only then did Henry stroll over and after a split-second’s hesitation, play-punched each of us on the shoulder. His hair flopped into his eyes. I caught his shyness and shuffled my feet in the dusty gravel, looking down. But Alice grabbed him, kissing his ear with an extravagant smack.
He struggled back, blinking. ‘Jude, these are my sisters,’ he said. ‘Cilly and Alice. This is Jude,’ he gestured behind him. ‘He’s here for the hols. His father’s a diplomat, so his parents live abroad. Spain, at the moment.’
‘I’m called Cecily,’ I said quickly. ‘That’s my proper name.’
‘How long is he staying?’ Alice asked with narrowed eyes.
The stranger put up a square shaped hand with long fingers, and grinned. ‘For the whole six weeks,’ he said. ‘Hope you don’t mind.’ He raised one eyebrow, as if mocking the idea of objections.
Alice said nothing, but her mouth pulled tight against her teeth. I snatched glances at him, noticing his wide jaw and how his crinkly grey eyes turned up at the edges. He looked back steadily, kindly, and I was caught. Warmth flooded my cheeks.
‘Henry smells different, did you notice?’ Alice said later. ‘Kind of musty and sour.’
Anyone could see that he’d grown inches, too, and even though he was still a bean pole, his neck had thickened, his jaw wider, shoulders broad with new muscle. ‘Now we’ll have to put up with two heffalump boys with smelly feet,’ she said. ‘And a stranger here for the whole holidays.’
Her eyes gleamed with watery disappointment.
Alice lay on her tummy in the long grass near the tarn. She scowled and stabbed a twig half-heartedly into an ants’ nest. ‘I don’t like Jude.’
I was secretly glad. If she wanted to be his friend, he’d end up liking her best. ‘I think he’s… alright,’ I said, trying not to give myself away.
‘You think he’s alright?’ Alice said sarcastically. ‘Really? We don’t see Henry all term. And now Jude’s hogging him here as well. Daddy only likes him because he’s on his best behaviour. And you just fancy him.’
‘I do not!’ I sat up, brushing ants from my shins.
‘You do,’ Alice said in her most annoying voice, clipped and certain as a headmistress. ‘Henry told me his parents are stinking rich. But new rich. His family originally came from…’ she paused for mock dramatic effect, ‘Ireland,’ she finished in a comedy whisper. She patted my knee. ‘Anyway, watch out he doesn’t break your heart. He can have his pick of any girl.’ She looked at me sideways. ‘Apparently, he’s going to be an actor.’
I wondered how Alice had found out so much. I resisted the impulse to pinch her. ‘I don’t care. I told you – I don’t fancy him.’
‘Methinks the damsel doth protest too much,’ Alice grinned.
I’d confessed my feelings for Jude in my diary, allowing myself the luxury of complete honesty. But there was no way I’d admit it to Alice. Too much ammunition for her teasing. I turned my back, put the edge of my barely there thumb nail between my teeth and severed it with a sharp twist. I spat out the hard sliver, thinking I’d go inside and leave Alice to stew. It would serve her right. But it was too hot to move. My neck prickled with heat. The sun was burning the tops of my feet. I heard a rustling sound and turned to see her stripped of shorts, knickers and T-shirt, her long, tanned legs marked with white where the line of her shorts stopped. She picked her way to the water’s edge.
I glanced towards the distant house, the many blank windows flashing bright in the sun. My pulse quickened. But I reminded myself that Daddy was in his study dealing with farm matters and paperwork on the other side of the building. Or he’d be lost in the writing of his manuscript, a book about ancient weapons he’d been writing for as long as I could remember and was more important than almost anything, except God.
I watched Alice take a running leap, disappearing feet first through the dark surface. Bubbles rose and subsided around a stillness. A dragonfly darted past in a shimmer of iridescence. There was the quiet plop of a fish rising. And just as my heart began to bang out a warning, Alice tore into the air, gasping, beating her hands around her. ‘Come on, slowcoach!’
I wriggled slowly out of my denim shorts and striped T-shirt but kept my knickers on. I hesitated over my bra. White and lacy from Marks & Spencer. I’d found it on the end of my bed last week, still in its plastic packaging. It had appeared without explanation, like the sanitary towels I’d found in my top drawer. So far, these remained unused. I knew what they were for because a small booklet had been left with them, and anyway I’d overheard older girls at school whispering about The Curse in the loo. Alice said she couldn’t be bothered with her bra, one more thing to put on and take off every day. But I’d fastened mine on at once. I didn’t want to ruin it. But the thought of exposing the oddly shaped, lop-sided bumps on my chest to scrutiny from my sister made me cringe. They ached and tingled at night, and I lay in bed with my hands over them, pressing the flesh tentatively. Was there something wrong with me? There was no one to ask. Not even Alice. Nobody talked of such things. Even thinking the word ‘nipple’ made me hot with embarrassment. If I did have a terrible illness, I hoped God would take me quickly.
Keeping my bra on, I stepped into the water, goosebumps spreading across my arms. The muddy bottom swallowed my feet, and I kicked off with a gasp before crayfish claws could grab my toes. Trailing weeds tickled my thighs. Cold gripped like a fist. Meltwater ran inside these green, opaque depths. Two million years ago, huge glaciers thawed, and the resulting watery rush carved out valleys, the force of icy movement digging through earth and rock. Locals said the tarn was bottomless.
Don’t swim like a girl, Daddy said in my head. Something touched my stomach and I shuddered, thinking of eels, but kept going, holding my breath as I turned my face again and again into the grainy, softness finding my rhythm, imagining my father’s reaction if he could see me now, powering through the water like a boy. Except of course, he’d be furious I was in the tarn.
I swam up and down as fast as I could. Pausing to catch my breath, I caught the sound of raised voices from the bank. Daddy. He must have found out. Shame and fear gripped me, the sin of disobedience like a weight. Dear God, please let him forgive me. My legs dangled uselessly, no longer treading water. I sank, icy depths pulling me down, down, the tarn sucking me into its frozen heart. Darkness. A green, black blindfold. My body plummeted feet first as if I was encased in a suit of armour.
My fall was halted by a jerk at my scalp. My hair caught in something. A hand clamped itself around my arm at the same time, and a pale shape moved above me. Another strong yank of my hair was enough to wake me from my inertia and my feet came alive, flailing and flipping as I pushed towards the light, lungs on fire, breaking the surface at the same time as Alice. We gasped and coughed, spitting out mouthfuls of tarn. ‘Did you get cramp?’ she asked. ‘I had to grab your hair.’
I nodded, shivering.
‘Are you alright, now? Can you swim?’
I nodded again, and she let go of my arm. There was a dark shape on the bank. Daddy. I blinked into the dazzle of sun, fear closing my throat. But the silhouette broke in half, trembling into Henry and Jude etched against the sky. I let out a laugh of relief. But my joy was short-lived. The boys were holding something up, and with a lurch of dismay I realised it was our cast-off shorts and tops.
‘Don’t you dare!’ Alice was shouting, only her head and shoulders visible. ‘Give them back!’
Alice’s knickers were in the bundle of clothes the boys were waving aloft. I shivered, teeth chattering. At least I’d kept my underwear on.
Henry began to walk backwards, laughing as he dangled our clothes like carrots before a stubborn donkey.
‘Right!’ Alice rose out of the water: a maniac Venus, windmilling her arms, naked bottom a white blur, shining limbs peddling through mud and grasses, fingers stretched to snatch at our clothes.
‘Jesus! Alice!’ Henry dropped his trophies with an expression of disgust and swung around with his hands clasped over his eyes. ‘Put some bloody clothes on!’
‘That’s what I’m trying to do, you bastard!’
Jude turned away too, but not before I saw his fascinated gaze hold Alice’s body in the centre of his attention, examining it like a rare and precious artefact. Her small, marbled breasts, narrow hips wreathed with a slimy ribbon of pond weed, the shadowy gap between her thighs. Then he spun around too, shouting apologies, clapping Henry on the shoulder, and they sauntered off as if they’d done nothing wrong.
As she stumbled into her clothes, Alice yelled insults after them. She even threatened to tell Daddy. But of course, none of us wanted to be a snitch. Daddy despised a tattletale.
I hauled myself onto the bank beside her. ‘You saved me.’
‘We’ll always save each other,’ she said, casting a dark glance at the retreating shapes of the boys. ‘But those two can go to hell.’
The July village cricket match was a tradition in our family. Daddy and Henry played on the same team, and this year Jude joined them. When Mummy’s bedroom was empty, I sneaked in to borrow her Elizabeth Arden lipstick, pushing up the gold tube and copying the way she applied it, mouth goldfish wide. I replaced it on the dressing table next to the powder compact and the embossed silver-backed hairbrush with Mummy’s mousey hair caught in the bristles, then I pulled the top drawer open to investigate her illicit correspondence, shuffling through a pile of birthday and Christmas cards to find the latest long letter, written over pages of thin paper. I skimmed the contents. Like the rest of the cards and letters, it was from our divorced aunt, and as usual, she had nothing interesting to say. I presumed Mummy must write back to her sister, posting her letters in secret. I thought of how I’d feel if I was banned from seeing Alice. The idea sent panic shooting through me. Of course, we’d never be stupid enough to divorce our husbands.
Mummy’s wedding dress hung in her wardrobe at the back, next to the moth-eaten brown fur that had been passed down from Daddy’s mother. The fur was a drooping shapeless thing, sad as a chained bear, but the ivory dress shone out of the darkness like a lantern. Just holding it up in front of me made me feel like a Hollywood star. It had tiny, covered buttons right down the back and on the cuffs, and was cut close around the waist and across the hips, falling in a column to the floor. I hugged it close and hummed as I swayed in front of the mirror, the folds of silk comfortingly heavy against my legs. It was a shame Jude couldn’t see me. On my wedding day, I’d wear the dress with flowers in my hair (instead of the tiara Mummy had worn, long since sold, along with most of her jewellery). Big, creamy lilies with orange hearts, I decided, as I twisted at the hip, turning to admire my reflection from different angles, slender as any of the sinuous saints on Daddy’s walls.
I wore my floral Laura Ashley dress to the match; it may not have been film-star glamorous, but the high neck and long ruffled skirt made me feel like Tess of the D’Urbervilles. The event was popular in the village, and the side of the pitch was crowded with onlookers. I recognised a few people from primary school and let my gaze slide across them, aware of whispering behind hands and curious glances in our direction. Alice and I had been considered freaks at the village school for being identical, for wearing darned clothes, and even more for living in the Big House. We’d tried to fit in. Alice had run races with the boys in the playground. She fell once, slamming onto the hard surface, but she’d got up without a murmur, ignoring her gravel-pitted skin and the blood running down her leg. That had earnt her a bit of respect. But we weren’t supposed to be there – we were the wrong religion, the wrong class – and the other kids knew it. The Girls High School in town wasn’t much better, but at least it was Catholic.
