I’m wondering how I can get this boy’s address, his house phone number, how I can contact Megan’s parents. Adults need to know what he’s done. He should be punished. My fingers twitch.

  ‘Don’t do anything, will you?’ Bea’s eyes are wide with alarm as if she can read my mind. ‘You mustn’t speak to anybody about this, or, or I’ll never tell you anything again.’

  ‘Okay then, but we have to tell your father.’

  She shakes her head violently.

  ‘He needs to know.’ I try to sound gentle and reasonable. ‘He would want to know.’

  ‘No,’ she shouts, spittle on her lips, fear contorting her face. ‘You mustn’t… I… I couldn’t bear it,’ she says in a barely there whisper, tears brimming and falling. ‘I should never have told you.’

  ‘Alright.’ I sit back, defeated, squeezing my hands together. ‘I won’t say anything.’

  ‘Promise me?’ she asks.

  I nod reluctantly. ‘I promise.’

  My chest aches with sorrow for Bea, for what she’s gone through. But she’s talking about it – and that’s the beginning of healing. Cecily and I couldn’t talk about what happened to us, not even to each other. Bea raises a quivering smile for me, and I want to tell her everything will be alright, that there are people out there as kind and considerate as her, and she will find them. But what right do I have to counsel her or look after her? I’m the pretender. She needs her real mother.

  19

  CECILY

  The boys, in their final year at sixth form, were back for the Christmas holidays. Every morning, Daddy took Henry into his office and shut the door. Henry was tight-lipped about it, but through snippets of overheard conversations, I gathered that the hours he spent with Daddy involved learning about land management, unearthing historic documents, going over ledgers full of accounts, and discussing the methods by which Henry would save his inheritance from ruin. As part of the plan, he had to study ‘something useful’ at Oxford. Henry emerged from these meetings looking grim and desperate. Instead of coming to find us, he and Jude would go off together, walking in the fells, not coming back till supper time, exhausted, their clothes soaked through, smelling of earth and stone, of wild wet air and sweat.

  Alice and I pretended to each other that we didn’t mind being left out, that we had other important things to occupy us. Mostly it was to do with keeping warm. It was December, and the gardens were wreathed in freezing fog. Venturing out meant traipsing through soaking grass, drips of water splashing down from wet leaves and branches. Inside wasn’t much better. Our breath puffed before us, dissolving into misty trails as we walked the corridors. We piled on layers of moth-eaten jumpers, pulled on several pairs of socks, resorted to hats and ear mufflers. We spent as much time as possible in the kitchen, the only warm place in the house thanks to the crouching bulk of the range, ancient and temperamental, but tamed by Jane, even though we had to wash pans to pay for the privilege. We sat at the table to draw or play an illicit game of cards, listening to Jane complaining about her arthritis, gossiping about goings-on in the village. Mummy took refuge in the kitchen too, making mince pies and marzipan for Christmas, working out food budgets on the backs of old envelopes.

  Sometimes we went back to bed straight after breakfast, piling on slippery eiderdowns and musty blankets, hot-water bottles hugged to our chests, dog-napping Dilly for a wriggling extra source of heat. We worked our way through the books in the library, turning mottled pages, reading Dickens, the Brontës, Eliot and Hardy. For books written in the last twenty years, we needed to get the bus into town and go to the library. But that meant walking for miles and waiting at a deserted bus stop in the cold and wet for hours for a bus that may or may not arrive. Rereading the classics was a more appealing option, although we’d managed to get hold of Edna O’Brien’s The Country Girls, and read all three books several times, keeping them hidden under Alice’s mattress.

  ‘Jane Eyre is better than Wuthering Heights,’ I said, waddling like Mrs Michelin in layers of jumpers, thick tights under my trousers.

  ‘Rubbish,’ Alice said over her shoulder, leading the way down to breakfast. ‘Emily Brontë writes from the soul. The ghost of Cathy haunts you forever once you’ve read the book. She’s like… like the voice of the wild moor, something beautiful and free.’

  I stomped past. ‘Wuthering Heights is a long-winded muddle. Jane Eyre is better written. And Jane is a better character than Cathy – she succeeds against the odds.’

  The boys were already in the dining room, Jude lifting the silver tops to the hot plates. ‘Henry?’ He gestured to a dish. ‘Kippers?’

  ‘Damn right. I’m starving,’ Henry said.

  ‘Language,’ my father warned from behind his paper.

  Henry muttered an apology as he poked at two anaemic looking chipolatas sitting in a pool of grease.

  Our family didn’t use bad words, not ever. No swearing, no taking the Lord’s name in vain, and absolutely no mention of sex. We were not to talk about periods, breasts, or any bits of the body contained in underwear, not even whispering them in private. Henry’s choice of language had begun to test Daddy’s patience; I didn’t know why he did it, it would only bring him pain in the end.

  Alice and I nibbled at toast as the boys ate rubbery scrambled eggs, kippers and stringy sausages. After breakfast, instead of disappearing off on their own, Henry winked at us. ‘Come to my room,’ he hissed. ‘We’ve got things to discuss.’

  Alice and I followed, surprised and pleased. With the door closed, Jude lit a Camel cigarette and opened the window a crack, blowing smoke into the chill of the morning, flicking his ash over the windowsill.

  Henry’s room was untidy, clothes flung over the backs of chairs. A mustard waistcoat, a Liberty print tie. I’d noticed recently that he’d started to adopt some of Jude’s flamboyant style. There were posters tacked to the wall: Queen, Stevie Wonder, and Ziggy Stardust with a gold and red zigzag painted over his face. The chest of drawers was piled with novels, an ancient bottle of Old Spice, a purple zippo lighter. His tarnished silver christening mug was being used as a pen holder. Every object nestled in a layer of dust. A battered teddy bear lay on the floor, button eyes adrift in a blank face.

  ‘Well?’ Alice asked, hands on her hips. ‘What’s to discuss?’

  Jude laughed at her impatience, while somehow managing to keep his cigarette jammed in his mouth. And Henry dropped a vinyl onto the record player and placed the needle in the groove.

  ‘All in good time,’ he said with a wink.

  ‘Kung Fu Fighting’ blasted into the room. ‘Come on! We’re celebrating!’ he shouted above the din, and began to stomp around his bed, kicking his heels high at imaginary foes. Jude put his cigarette out in the christening mug and joined him, singing along. Alice leapt up, not knowing the lyrics, but making up for it with enthusiastic stamping and punching the air. Jude grabbed Alice by the waist and twirled her round and round until her feet left the ground in giddy leaps. She shrieked and clasped her arms around his neck, laughing. Henry turned the music up even louder and jumped on and off the bed. I stared at them. They were like drunkards with their red faces and determinedly riotous expressions. My disapproval evaporated. I wanted to be part of it, to catch the momentum of this sudden joy, but I was too embarrassed.

  ‘What are we celebrating?’ Alice panted. ‘Please tell.’

  ‘We’ll let you two in on the secret,’ Henry gasped, falling onto the rumpled bed, ‘if you swear not to tell?’

  ‘Swear,’ said Alice quickly, her chest heaving, cheeks pink.

  ‘Swear,’ I muttered from my place at the window as they all turned to look at me.

  Henry nodded, acknowledging our promise. ‘The first thing is, I’m not doing any of crap the old man’s planning,’ he announced. ‘When I leave school, I’m setting myself free.’

  Jude sank down beside him, fumbling for another cigarette and lighting it. Henry took it, puffed a drag, and handed it back.

  ‘The second is, I’m going to be a writer. And the third is, we’re going to a kibbutz,’ he announced. ‘Me and Jude.’

  ‘A what?’ I asked, thinking I must have misheard.

  ‘A kibbutz in Israel, near the Sea of Galilee.’ Henry spoke through a cloud of smoke. I tugged at the sash to let the smell out.

  ‘But… why?’ asked Alice hesitantly. I knew she was as hazy as me as to what a kibbutz was.

  ‘Because I’ve got to get away from here. And that’s the place that will cause the biggest stink I can think of.’ Henry gave a wry smile. ‘Just wish I could be a fly on the wall when he reads the letter I’m going to leave. He’s going to be apoplectic.’ He handed the cigarette back to Jude. ‘I’m not going to saddle myself with hideous debt trying to save this moth-eaten old pile.’ He waved a hand around the room. ‘I’ve had enough of guilt – and I’ve had enough of God.’

  I gasped, cringing for the inevitable crash of the sky, a flash of lightning bolt shooting through the window to stab its silver point through Henry’s heart. I closed my eyes and made the sign of the cross. ‘But… I don’t understand… what about Oxford and your degree? What about saving Hawksmoor?’ My voice broke.

  The others ignored me. It was as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘We wrote to them, and they said you get to live and work with people from all over the world,’ Jude was saying. ‘It’ll be good for Henry, give him material for his novel.’ He nudged Henry with an elbow, grinning. ‘He’s going to be a famous author one day.’

  ‘The sea is actually a huge, freshwater lake,’ Henry’s voice rose in excitement. ‘There are hot mineral springs. Mountains in the distance. The land there is fertile. They grow figs and olives.’

  The Sea of Galilee was where Jesus gave his Sermon on the Mount. If the boys really did go to the Holy Land, they’d be treading the same earth Jesus walked on – but that didn’t seem to be the reason they were going. I looked out of the window, opaque with condensation. Shapes of naked trees could be seen through the mist; they gestured towards the house with dark fingers.

  ‘There’s shooting and bombing,’ Alice said, frowning. ‘I’ve heard about it on the news. Aren’t the Israelis stealing Palestinian land? Won’t it be dangerous?’

  ‘It’s not violent everywhere,’ Henry said, crossing one leg over the other. ‘Lots of tourists go.’

  ‘You two should come with us,’ Jude said. ‘We could write to the community again, ask to book you in at the same time as us?’

  ‘Yes,’ Alice said quickly. ‘We’ll come.’

  I startled. ‘We can’t,’ I said. ‘We won’t have finished school.’

  ‘I don’t care about school,’ Alice said. ‘This is much more important.’ She looked at Jude. ‘I’ll talk Cilly round.’

  I scowled at Alice’s assumption of power, her use of my nickname. My sister put out her hand to shake Jude’s, sealing their agreement. His thumb lingered over the milky patch of skin on her wrist where blue veins converged. My chest tightened. ‘Daddy won’t forgive you,’ I said quickly. ‘You won’t be able to come home again. Not ever.’

  ‘I hate this place.’ Henry’s brows drew together, his mouth set in stubborn certainty. ‘Once I’ve gone, I’m never coming back.’

  My mind scrabbled in confusion. How could I leave Hawksmoor and Daddy? But if I didn’t go, I’d miss out on the adventure, I’d miss out on being with Jude.

  ‘The other thing is,’ Henry said, leaning forward over his knees. ‘We’re planning a party. To celebrate. Soon as the old man and Mummy go off next weekend to stay with the Jensons, we’re opening the place up to some action.’

  Jude tilted his head back and blew a smoke ring. It drifted towards the ceiling, breaking apart into uncertain wisps.

  ‘A party?’ I dragged my mind to another startling piece of information. ‘Without asking Daddy?’

  Henry rolled his eyes. ‘Learn to live a little, Cilly.’

  ‘With dancing?’ Alice was asking, bouncing her bottom on the bed, making the springs squeak. ‘What a great idea! Who will you invite?’

  ‘We’ve put the word out. Boys from school are coming – people from the village pub. Whoever can get here.’ He took another drag on Jude’s cigarette. ‘You can invite anyone you like. Girls preferably.’

  ‘We don’t really know anyone,’ Alice was saying.

  I frowned, that wasn’t the point. This was a terrible idea. If Daddy discovered our plan, our punishment was certain. But the other two always teased me for being boring – and I didn’t want Jude to think so too.

  ‘Nothing exciting ever happens,’ Alice said. ‘And now two things! It’s all rather marvellous!’

  ‘A last hurrah before we leave this bloody house.’ Henry’s cheeks looked feverish. ‘For good.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Jude said. ‘We’re off to have an adventure.’

  ‘And we’re coming too,’ Alice said. ‘Aren’t we, Cilly?’

  I turned away, pretending interest in rubbing a patch through the condensation on the window. The decision to run away seemed easy for Henry and Alice, but Daddy would be devastated. It couldn’t happen. I needed to work out how to stop them.

  The other three were talking about the party as if it was already decided, which room to use for dancing, which music to play. They didn’t need my permission. I worked my teeth around a raw fingernail, ripping off a sliver of skin. Daddy and Mummy were going to stay the night at the Jensons. An early Christmas celebration. The Jensons’ place was far enough away to be safe. I could organise a clean-up on Sunday morning before our parents came back. Listening to the others making plans for moody lighting and alcohol supplies, I wondered why it was always left to me to be the sensible one, and in what world the name Cilly could reasonably be applied to me, when it was the others who were foolish.

  Jude strolled over. ‘What’s so interesting out in the mist?’

  I turned away from the glass, startled to find him close. ‘Nothing.’ I breathed in the warm, saltiness of him, the slight whiff of the lemony cologne he used, the musk of his sweat. I could see moisture shining on his forehead, the rise and fall of his chest. He was still hot from the exertion of twirling Alice. I wished it had been my waist he’d held between his hands, my mouth pressed to his neck as the room spun round and round.

  He touched my arm gently, and I realised I’d been sucking my hair like a baby. I pulled it away, a strand catching between my front teeth.

  ‘I know you. You’re busy worrying, aren’t you?’ His ash-grey eyes softened. ‘It’s going to be alright,’ he said quietly. ‘We belong together, the four of us. Come back into the room.’ He took my hand and squeezed. ‘We have a party to plan.’

  Gladness leapt in me, a bird winging through air, a sudden brightness. I understood now. The party was my opportunity. With the lights turned low and romantic music playing, I’d have my chance at getting close to him. Slow dancing in each other’s arms, with my cheek pressed against his chest, he’d realise we belonged together in a different way. Nothing about my feelings could possibly be a sin; they came from a place of goodness. Love for Jude made me see everything else as a wonder, even tiny things like the moths flying out of my jumper, a drop of condensation rolling down a window. I didn’t need to worry about Alice. She was just having fun. Once she understood that I had proper, grown-up feelings for Jude, she’d leave him to me.

  I raised my eyes and let myself look at him. An unbearable yearning gripped like a stomachache, a longing to put my arms around his narrow, muscled waist, push my fingers through his thick, glossy hair. With a beat of relief, I realised that when he became my boyfriend, he wouldn’t abandon me to run off to Israel. He’d forget the ridiculous kibbutz idea; and if Jude stayed, Henry and Alice would too.

  I devoted myself to planning what I was going to wear to the party. My Laura Ashley dress was too short now and it made me look young and ordinary. Nothing was good enough. I was sure Jude liked girls in feminine clothes, after all, he’d liked me in Mummy’s lipstick. The evening had to be perfect. I had to be perfect.

  While I fretted about clothes, the others were busy secretly collecting and storing cases of beer and cheap wine in the old coach house, hiding preparations in the gardening sheds. Alice had bought a catering box of paper cups and strings of festive bright lights from Woolworths. They discussed music choices in the privacy of their bedrooms. They were ready to spring into action the moment Edmund and Emmeline left the house. I didn’t take part in any of the preparations. When I wasn’t worrying about dresses, I listed all of Jude’s attributes in my diary with reasons why we’d make the perfect couple, concocting possible romantic scenarios that could occur between us at the party, confiding in luxurious detail how I felt. I decided I would give him my virginity and wrote it down as a solemn pledge.

  I got the bus into town with Alice on a rainy Saturday. We hurried out of the wet into Oxfam, into a fug of old clothes and moth balls. Other people’s cast-off lives and memories thickened the air. Racks groaned under the weight of fabric. Everything was mixed up, with boxes of old records, musty books and ornaments piled higgledy-piggledy on the floor. I pushed hangers apart, examining every item, careful not to miss anything, because miracles did happen. Alice paraded around in ludicrous things – a pair of baggy striped overalls, a yellowing wedding dress with a rip under the arm, men’s evening trousers gone shiny at the knees that she had to hold up with a scarf tied tight around her waist. But for me, this was a serious hunt. A gleam of silver caught my attention, and my searching fingers extracted a narrow shoulder strap crushed between a woollen coat and a brocade tunic. I pulled the rest of the dress out carefully, like a sea creature fished from the depths: shining folds of fabric sewn with the glittering scales of hundreds of sequins. With a flutter in my chest, I checked the label. It was my size. I tightened my grasp, slipping behind the dingy curtain to try it on, waving Alice away. I wanted her to get the full impact when I stepped from behind the curtain. After zipping it up through contortions of shoulder blade and elbow, I scrutinised myself in the mirror, running a hand over my gleaming hip. The dress was short, but not outrageously so. It skimmed my body, emphasising my curves, making me look willowy instead of thin. The sequins reflected light onto my pale skin, made my eyes luminous, flattered the ebony depths in my hair.