You and Me Read online

I arrived early for class that day, glancing over my notes one final time and leaving them inside my book on the desk, but a twinge in my belly made me dash for the loo. In the worst possible timing, my period had started and I returned to the classroom flustered and late.

  Mrs Fyson was arranging herself at her desk. There was the usual low-level hum before a lesson began. My palms were slick in anticipation of having to read aloud in front of everyone but when I reached my desk, my copy of Wuthering Heights was no longer there. My heart jumped into my mouth. At the same time, Mrs Fyson cleared her throat. ‘Francesca Knight,’ she said. ‘You’re up first.’

  I turned to the most likely culprit, Juliet, sitting behind me, and hissed: ‘Did you take my book?’

  Juliet, all wide-eyed innocence, asked: ‘What book?’

  ‘Wuthering Heights. With my notes in it. Did you take it?’

  ‘Why would I, when I have my own copy here?’ She waggled hers at me.

  ‘But it’s my turn now,’ I said, utterly panicked.

  Juliet gave a dainty little shrug as if to say it wasn’t her problem.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Mrs Fyson.

  My face flushed hot as I stood up to explain. ‘My copy of Wuthering Heights seems to be missing.’

  ‘Did you forget it?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘It was on my desk.’ I glanced around desperately. ‘And now it’s not.’

  Mrs Fyson was more weary than angry. ‘You’ll just have to share with someone else then,’ she said, checking a list on her desk. ‘Which passage were you going to read?’

  My cheeks were still very hot. ‘But my notes,’ I stuttered. I could feel tears building behind my eyes, the ache of humiliation at my throat.

  ‘You’ll just have to remember what you were going to say,’ persisted Mrs Fyson.

  My hatred for her, in that moment, was brief but intense.

  ‘Fran can share with me,’ a warm voice beside me said.

  I glanced to my left. I hadn’t noticed him enter; he must have slipped in late at some point during this exchange. A kind smile. Floppy blond hair. It was the era of Leonardo DiCaprio and that was the style back then.

  I knew who he was, of course, in the way I knew who DiCaprio was, but he had about as much to do with my life. Charles Fry. Rugby star. Blue blood. The kind of person who, on paper, would have little in common with a shy bookworm like me. But I’d read the stories – Lizzy and Darcy, Jane and Rochester; it never looked like they would work on paper. Love could be surprising sometimes.

  It was also at that moment I realised he was, quite simply, the most beautiful person I had ever seen in real life. It wasn’t just his looks. It was his manners, his earnest way of speaking. His kindness. His rescue of me when all was nearly lost.

  Mrs Fyson sighed in acquiescence and Charles dragged his desk closer to mine. He was so close that I could smell the peppermint-gum scent of his breath and his proximity made it hard to concentrate on the words. I stumbled and tripped over the sentences as I read and, when I lost my place, he ran his finger under the text to help me find where I was. With him next to me, I found the words to explain why the passage was so important. ‘It’s confirmation that they’re soulmates,’ I remember saying. Mrs Fyson looked as if she might disagree with me but then Charles cut in with a question and rescued me again.

  I think I knew, even then, how important Charles Fry would be to me.

  As I took my time packing up, basking in the glow that lingered after Charles left, Meilin came up to my desk. She was always quiet in class and we hadn’t spoken before. She was in another boarding house, close to the school, whereas mine was perched on the edge of Field, the huge green expanse where we played sports.

  ‘I liked your talk,’ she said politely.

  I thanked her, but she hovered as if she had more to say.

  ‘I don’t think Wuthering Heights is about soulmates, though.’ She wasn’t as timid as I imagined.

  ‘No?’ I pushed my books into my satchel. I was out of adrenaline after the showdown at the beginning of class; I didn’t have much fight left in me.

  ‘Not in my mind,’ she said. ‘It’s a book full of people hurting each other – floggings, humiliation, degradation, dog attacks.’

  ‘Love can be fierce,’ I said, thinking of the impression Charles had left on me just minutes earlier. The heat of it like a searing.

  ‘We can talk about it over lunch,’ said Meilin. ‘Perhaps I can persuade you it’s not about love at all.’ She smiled. ‘It’s about survival.’

  That was how I made my second friend at Chesterfield.

  As for Charles, the next red-letter day I noted in my journal was when he ran out of ink just before a timed essay and Mrs Fyson said, ‘Well, Charles, it looks like you’ll have to go and get some from the stationery cupboard, but we’re not going to wait for you to start.’

  I said, quick as you like, ‘I’ve got a spare cartridge,’ and Charles grinned at me as he took it and said, ‘You’re a legend.’ Our hands touched as I gave it to him, just the lightest of brushes, but something passed between us. It was official then: we were a team. We would look out for each other. We would rescue each other. If it ever came to it.

  Dickie never cared much for English in the way Charles and I did – he was the class clown; the one who made Juliet laugh. It was his need to entertain like this – to be in the spotlight – that made him such a gift on social media years later. You could always see where he was, from the moment he left the house. You could tell which airport he was at, and which terminal; you could see what he was eating and drinking there; you could read where he was flying to and with whom – Toulouse in the summer, where his parents had a holiday home, for bike rides and family time; Zermatt in the winter for skiing and boys’ holidays.

  Charles is cautious by nature, so it’s much harder to discover where he might be of an evening, but Dickie, as his friend, was a gift.

  On my forays between the trolley and the shelves, as I slot each book neatly into place, I am grateful that I have remembered something positive about Dickie to dwell on.

  I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.

  5

  Another gift from Dickie, though I feel guilty for thinking it, is that he has offered me a reason to get back in touch with Charles. An excuse to visit him, to make an above-board trip. No more lingering in the shadows, keeping a safe distance, plucking up the courage as I decide what to say. I just need to consider how much to reveal: whether I can tell Charles I was there too. On the one hand, the shared experience might bring us closer – and would make a compelling reason for my visit – but, on the other, I’ll need to convince him my presence was coincidental.

  Are my acting skills up to that? I imagine how, when I see him, I might tilt my head to one side. ‘Charles, I’m so very sorry,’ I’ll say. ‘Poor Dickie.’ I’ll bite my lip, as if holding back tears. ‘We didn’t always see eye to eye, but I can’t believe he’s gone.’

  Charles will have a faraway look on his face and he won’t be able to talk for a moment or two, while he fights back emotion.

  ‘I hear you were there when it happened,’ I’ll say, omitting any mention of my own presence. ‘Oh, Charles. How dreadful.’

  He’ll soften then, at the memory of that night. He won’t cry, but his eyes will turn dewy. ‘A terrible thing,’ he’ll say bravely. ‘To see a life snuffed out like that.’

  ‘It makes you realise,’ I’ll conclude, ‘what the important things are.’

  And I’ll take his hand and, though we won’t acknowledge it out loud, we’ll both be grateful to Dickie for bringing us back together like this. That his death wasn’t for nothing.

  I’ve come to a standstill in the Biography section, staring at the book in my hand: O’Farrell – that should be shelved under O rather than F. Shaking myself from my reverie, I begin to refine my plan. I could go to the Cotswolds on my next day off with a little something to show he’s in my thoughts. Somet
hing discreet would do. Something modest. This time I won’t return the present undelivered to my tuckbox, as I usually do, with the rest of my Charles keepsakes. The moment has come to act.

  ‘The morning comes quickly’ – that was one of the things Mrs Morgan, our housemistress at Chesterfield, used to say. She had a whole set of aphorisms she used to share with Mother over a secret cigarette, or a less appreciative audience of girls at Lights Out as they lolled outside each other’s cubicles in their nighties, reading the Just Seventeen problem page out loud or the folded-down bits of Judy Blume’s Forever. I was usually in bed with a book by this time, having no one to loll with. Sometimes I’d put on my Walkman and listen to my old Gilbert and Sullivan tapes to block out the chatter of the other girls. It was never aimed at me. It’s not always true that the morning comes quickly, though. Sometimes the nights creep by.

  The birds are the first to wake in the Cotswolds. You can hear them in the way you don’t in London. First, there’s the silence of the sky and the lake below it, then the dawn chorus as they start to stir. It’s one of my favourite things to watch his house sleep, the blinds drawn like closed eyelids.

  My dawn visits to Honeybourne became a habit a few years ago – a brief respite from the noise of London when I could enjoy the garden alone and pretend it was mine: that this was my life, my house, my family. Just for a short time before I slipped off.

  It seems utterly right he should live somewhere so beautiful. An unusual building for this part of the world, Honeybourne is more Brideshead than Pemberley, with its fairy-tale turret and glorious gables. An irregular, idiosyncratic dream mansion built by one of Charles’s nineteenth-century ancestors. The only thing that’s wrong is the woman he’s living with.

  ‘Fran,’ Fiona says, when she opens the door. ‘This is a surprise. Gosh, what a big fruit basket.’

  We stand, regarding each other over the grapes. Even at this time of day, barefoot in jeans, Fiona looks well turned out. Her highlighted hair is exquisitely tousled, her toenails neatly painted. Her face has a slight horsiness to it, but that’s probably the worst you could say about her and I’ve spent a lot of time looking at photos, trying to find fault.

  I’m flattered she remembers my name; it’s been a few years. It would be easier to hate her if she weren’t so polite.

  ‘I heard about Dickie,’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry. I know it’s been a long time. I know I haven’t … but I wanted to come.’ My words rush out too quickly. None of it quite as I rehearsed, but then I’d practised my speech with Charles in mind. Flustered, I push the basket towards her. ‘I brought this.’

  She takes it from me, struggling for a moment under the weight of it. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘How kind – quite unnecessary.’ She touches her forehead. ‘It’s been so dreadful.’

  ‘How is Charles?’

  ‘He’s just …’ She stretches out the hand that’s not holding the basket as if she can grasp the answer from thin air. ‘Shocked,’ she says eventually. ‘So shocked. He was there, you know?’

  Looking away, as if she might be able to read the guilt on my face, I realise this is my chance: to say I was there too. But then it wasn’t her I wanted to tell.

  ‘Is Charles around?’ I strain to catch a glimpse of the house behind her. There’s a child’s truck in the hallway, two bouquets of flowers on the sideboard and another fruit basket, bigger than mine. My heart sinks.

  Fiona takes a step to her right, barricading my way. ‘He’s in the shower,’ she begins, ‘and he’s not exactly …’ She shakes her head to convey that Charles’s state is beyond words.

  We stand, staring at each other again. I keep my feet firmly planted on the ground. I don’t want to leave so soon. Not after travelling all this way. Not without seeing Charles.

  ‘I heard,’ I begin, ‘that they’re not sure it was an accident?’ That’s not strictly true. It’s my own interpretation of the witness’s statement, of that expression on Dickie’s face. But, as I say it, I realise I believe it.

  Fiona’s eyes widen ever so slightly. She shifts the basket in her arms from one side to the other. ‘Where did you read that? One of the tabloids?’

  There’s a slight edge to her voice, something you could nick yourself on. It was the wrong time to say anything, and certainly not the right person.

  I shake my head. ‘I must have got the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘It was a terrible accident,’ says Fiona. ‘I think he … I mean …’ She bites her lip. ‘Who’d want to hurt Dickie?’

  I can think of more than one answer to that question, but not one that would find favour with Fiona. She didn’t go to Chesterfield like the rest of us. There are some things she wouldn’t understand. Charles should have married one of us. Which is to say: he should have married me.

  I try to think of something else to say, something that will make her want to invite me in, offer me a meal in their sunny-yellow kitchen, in the way she did when I visited with Ellie four years ago. I long to return to that day – sitting next to Charles as he flicked through the books I’d brought, touching me occasionally on the hand or the shoulder as we reminisced. I rack my brains for a solution – a way to make her call Charles out of his shower, so he joins us, his hair still damp, the scent of his Molton Brown shower gel on his warm skin.

  A child’s shriek from the playroom makes her glance over her shoulder.

  ‘I’d better go.’ She smiles. ‘Do you need a lift to the station?’ Without waiting for an answer, she waves at her gardener digging in a nearby paddock.

  He makes his way over to us slowly. A man my sort of age, in his late thirties, with a face ruddy from working outdoors.

  ‘Thanks so much again for this,’ says Fiona, lifting up the basket. ‘Send our love to Ellie,’ she adds, as her parting shot. ‘When was she last back? March?’

  ‘I don’t really …’ I say. ‘I haven’t …’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She raises her hand to her mouth. ‘I know you two aren’t quite right at the moment. You mustn’t lose each other, though, Fran.’ She air-kisses me goodbye – awkward with the fruit basket between us. ‘Family is everything.’

  It’s the sort of line you hear on EastEnders, I think, with sour satisfaction. She wouldn’t be so smug if she knew what I knew.

  The gardener is taciturn for most of the drive and I’m grateful for the silence, for being able to sit and stare out of the window, disappointment washing over me.

  A couple of miles away from Charlbury station he glances at me in the passenger seat. ‘I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I hold my hands neatly in my lap.

  He nods, sure of himself. ‘One morning, when I got to work early, you were on the bench by the lake.’

  ‘No.’ I look out of the window, so he won’t see me blush. ‘That wasn’t me.’

  ‘I was going to come and talk to you,’ he says. ‘Find out what you wanted, but you walked away before I could reach you.’

  I turn to him then and fix him with a steely look. ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  He shrugs, leaving the matter alone.

  Silence settles between us for the rest of the journey through the winding country roads. As we pass through an estate, I spot a deer with her two fawns, still resting on the dewy grass. The beauty of it is too much, so that I have to close my eyes. The people who live here have everything, I think, but they don’t want to share any of it.

  6

  Our parents met in a windswept pub on the Yorkshire moors. Mother used to go there for weekend breaks when she was doing her teacher training in Leeds. She first spotted our dad reading Keats behind the bar, with his Rochester forehead and Heathcliff hair. And that was it; I’m like her in that way.

  After our father died, she brought us up on her own and taught at a local secondary school near home. I went there until I was thirteen. Chatting about the Brontës as if knew them personally, I didn’t make many friend
s, but I never felt anguished in the way I did at Chesterfield either. I never wept into my pillow or comfort-ate chocolate biscuits in bed. I just spent breaktimes reading, while Ellie skittered around the playground with the younger children.

  Ellie found it harder – not socially, that was never a problem for her – but her dyslexia meant she struggled with her studies. Mother would find her homework undone, hidden in the bottom of her satchel, or occasionally completed by me, though our deception was not sophisticated enough to go unnoticed by her teachers. She worried that Ellie would get left behind. And then one of her friends told her about Chesterfield – a public school in Derbyshire with excellent sports facilities that waived the fees for the children of staff. There wasn’t a teaching vacancy at that time, so Mother accepted a role as matron in our boarding house instead. She was good at the job – waking all of us in the morning, dispensing medicine, reminding us about laundry. She never treated Ellie and me like we were her favourites.

  At eleven, Ellie was too young for Chesterfield, which started at thirteen, so she shared Mother’s tiny en-suite room and walked to the primary school in the village. I slept in a dormitory with eight other girls who were posher than anyone I’d come across, though like most posh people, I soon learned, they didn’t like being called posh. They swore like troopers and were very concerned with sex, covering their noticeboards with posters of Christian Slater, River Phoenix and other pin-ups with bare chests and greasy hair. For a while I pinned up my own display – a handmade montage of cat pictures I’d collected from magazines – but after someone scrawled ‘Nice pussies’ across it in Magic Marker, I took it down. People can be so childish.

  I missed it being just the three of us. I found I didn’t know what to say to the other girls – who’d throw loud opinions over the thin cubicle walls to each other and sing along in mockney accents to Blur on their ghetto blasters. I’d lie there, pretending to be asleep, wondering if it was possible to be homesick with my family so close by. I missed my mother. I didn’t like sharing her. I didn’t like witnessing other girls roll their eyes after she told them off, seeing another version of her through their perspective.