Only We Know (7 page)

‘Talk about bad timing,’ says Conor Corcoran. ‘Bloody hell, Hazzer, don’t you ever knock?’

‘I need somewhere to put my helmet,’ says Harry.

‘Well, chuck it on the bed and do one, eh, matey? Me and Lauren want some quality one-on-one time.’

‘Is that right?’ says Harry, rearranging the coats into a straight line.

‘Yes,’ says Conor, grabbing my hand. ‘We’re an item, aren’t we, babe?’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ I say. ‘And can I have my hand back, please?’

‘I think you’d better let her go, Conor,’ says Harry.

‘Oh come on, Hazzer, give us a break.’

‘I
said
I think you’d better let her go.’

‘Yeah all right,’ says Conor, releasing my hand and slumping back onto the bed. ‘But I still reckon we could be good together.’

‘Look, I’m sure you’re a nice guy and everything, Conor, but I think I’m going downstairs.’

‘That’s what they all say.’

Back in the kitchen, they’ve abandoned grape-stuffing for chilli powder and Tabasco cocktails.

‘You okay?’ says Harry.

‘Yeah, fine. It’s just a bit hot in here.’

‘Don’t worry about Conor. He’s an idiot sometimes, but I think he actually likes you.’

‘Is that so hard to believe then?’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ says Harry. ‘I was trying to make you feel better.’

Skinny jeans really suit him, and so does that blue checked shirt. ‘Yeah, I know … Thanks.’

‘Can I get you a drink or something?’

There are so many questions I’m burning to ask him, so many things that I just can’t say. ‘I think I’d better call my dad.’

‘You can’t go yet,’ says Harry. ‘It’s not even ten.’

‘Well, I suppose I could stay for a bit.’

‘Great,’ says Harry. ‘What do you want to do?’

And then I have an idea. ‘The music’s a bit crap, but we could go and have a dance if you like.’

‘I don’t dance,’ says Harry.

‘Really?’ H used to be into some weird hard-core stuff. Maybe it’s for the best.

‘But I know what we can do.’ He takes a paper
plate and piles it with pizza triangles. ‘Pepperoni, right?’

‘How did you —’

‘Everyone likes pepperoni. And if you look under the sink, there’s a plastic bag with some cans in it.’

‘I don’t drink.’

‘Me neither, so you’d better bring that bottle of Diet Coke.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Shh,’ says Harry, pushing open the back door and stepping into the night. ‘We’re not supposed to be out here.’

‘Why not?’

‘Izzy’s dad’s a bit of a gardening freak. Breathe on his roses and you’re dead.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘We went out for a bit. Me and Izzy, I mean, not me and her dad. That would be weird.’

‘Right, yeah.’

There’s enough light from the conservatory to guide us across the decking and out onto the lawn, past a trampoline shrouded in black netting and safely round the fish pond. But as soon as we slip through a gap in the hedge, the darkness takes hold.

There’s a definite whiff of compost as Harry reaches for my hand. ‘Watch out for rabbit holes. You don’t want to twist your ankle or anything.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘You’ll see,’ says Harry.

And I’m trying to work out what it means, the hand-holding (does he really care about my ankles?), when we come to one of those fancy sheds with a proper slate roof and a veranda.

‘What do you think?’ says Harry.

‘It’s nice,’ I say, half wondering if I’ve done the right thing.

‘Hold this pizza a minute. I need to find something.’

‘Are you sure we should be doing this, Harry? Won’t somebody wonder where you are?’

‘Don’t worry,’ he says, feeling under a flowerpot and pulling out a key. ‘None of the others know about this place. Well, only Izzy. And I don’t think she’s up to hide-and-seek right now.’

‘We don’t want to get into trouble, do we?’

Harry laughs. Not the polite deputy head student chuckle designed to show Mrs Woolf he appreciates George Bernard Shaw’s ‘hilarious’ phonetics gags, but more of a sarcastic
hmphh
, more like the H I once knew.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing,’ he says, fumbling for the light switch. ‘It’s just that I don’t do trouble any more.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m not that kind of person,’ he says, dragging a couple of sun loungers to either side of a wooden picnic table and fiddling about with them until he gets the angles right. ‘Bit boring really.’

‘Maybe we should go back to the house.’

‘We’ve only just got here. Sit down for a minute and I’ll get things sorted.’

It’s pretty posh for a garden shed: three times the size of my bedroom with an embroidered wall-hanging of a poppy field, fifty shades of electric gardening tools and even a fridge.

And I take back what I said about the crap music. That’s my favourite Beatles song wafting down the garden. I relax back onto the musty-smelling lounger cushion and hum along with the chorus.

‘How about a bit of atmosphere?’ says Harry, laying out a symmetrical grotto of scented candles. ‘Now where are those matches?’ He roots around in a bucketful of golf putters and pulls out a box of Swan Vestas.

‘Are you sure that’s not a fire hazard?’

‘Of course – I’ve done it loads of times,’ says Harry, putting the flame to the one in the middle. ‘And anyway, we should probably switch the light off – just in case.’

An unexpected pang of jealousy ambushes me in the candlelight. It’s completely bonkers, of course, but I hate it that Harry and Izzy had a secret place too.

‘This is good,’ he says, taking a piece of pizza and stretching out alongside me. ‘And about time too.’

‘Eh?’

‘We keep bumping into each other, don’t we? But we’ve never had time for a proper chat.’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘You always seem in such a hurry.’

It’s true. Every time I see him in the corridor, I put my head down and keep walking. ‘You know what it’s like. I’m still settling in really.’

But what harm would it do? As far as he’s concerned I’m a total stranger. Would it really be so terrible if we were ‘just mates’?

I study his face in the flickering half-light. He looks back for a moment, before turning his attention to his feet.

We both speak at the same time:

‘So what’s it like being—’

‘I was just wondering how —’

‘No, you go first,’ I say.

‘I was just wondering how …’ Halfway through the sentence he seems to change his mind. ‘How you’re getting on at school.’

‘What are you, my dad or something?’

‘Only asking.’

‘I know, sorry, it’s just that no one in my family can go ten seconds without asking me the same bloody question.’

‘So what’s that all about? Did you have a bad time at your last school?’

‘Why? Should I have done?’

‘I don’t know. I just thought if your family are so paranoid, you might have had a few problems.’

‘No, not really,’ I say, grateful that he can’t see my face changing colour. ‘Let’s just say they weren’t exactly the happiest days of my life.’

‘Yeah, I know what you mean.’

And now it’s my turn to laugh. ‘You’re not seriously telling me you don’t like school, are you, Harry? Mr Big Shot Prefect and everything. I’ve seen you standing at the front of the stage ordering kids about. You love it, you know you do.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ he says, taking a slug of Diet Coke. ‘Life is good. Well, most of the time.’

‘And I bet it’s nice to be popular.’

‘You’re actually quite popular yourself, Lauren.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘I’m dead serious. Why do you think Magda wants you in her little extravaganza?’

And I’m almost starting to enjoy myself when Harry makes his move.

‘You know if you pull the armrests, like this, it makes the whole seat go down.’ My sun lounger tilts backwards like a dentist’s chair and suddenly I’m flat on my back with Harry standing over me.

‘Hey, you know what we should do?’ he whispers.

There was definite chemistry between us before, but it was more the kind of chemistry that made explosions. This is different.

‘No, what?’ I say, half closing my eyes.

‘We should play this game I invented,’ says Harry, disappearing into the shadows for a moment and coming back with a huge sack of daffodil bulbs. ‘See that watering can hanging on the wall? It’s five points every
time you get one in. First to fifty. Loser has to do a forfeit.’

As soon as we start throwing bulbs about, the conversation starts to flow. No difficult questions, just a list of our top ten favourite movies, a slight disagreement over possible music for the fashion show, a brief rundown of his football team’s defensive problems and a debate about whether being able to eat as much pizza as you want and not put on weight is actually a superpower. Half an hour later, the floor is strewn with bulbs like the aftermath of a gardeners’ orgy, both of us are breathing harder and I’ve thrashed him 50–10.

‘In your face, “Hazzer”.’

‘So come on then, what’s my forfeit?’

The first one that springs to mind is instantly quarantined. ‘Don’t know really. I —’

‘You’d better think of something. This is a “for one night only” chance in a lifetime, Lauren.’

My top lip curls upwards into a sly smile. ‘Okay, then. How about this? We’re going to bounce on that trampoline while you sing me a song from
The Lion King
.’

‘I don’t think so,’ says Harry.

‘Why not?’

‘It’s cold out there. And someone might see us.’

‘That’s why they call it a forfeit, moron.’

‘Okay, but we’d better tidy up first.’

‘We can do that later.’

‘No, I just —’

‘Come on,’ I say, grabbing his hand and leading him up the garden path. ‘Not chicken, are you?’

‘This is such a bad idea,’ says Harry.

‘It’s a great idea. I love trampolines.’

‘Yeah, but you haven’t heard me sing.’

(That’s what
he
thinks.) I pull aside the black netting and start climbing in.

‘Take your shoes off first,’ says Harry. ‘Izzy’s dad would go apeshit.’

‘You’re such a good boy, aren’t you?’

‘Am I?’ says Harry.

We lay our trainers side by side. If it was Conor Corcoran he’d be making comments about the size of my feet by now. But Harry’s not like that. We wobble our way to the centre and start bouncing.

‘Well, come on then, sing!’

If anything, his voice is even worse: deeper now, but still so glass-shatteringly terrible that the only ones feeling the love in the air tonight are probably double-glazing salesmen.

‘Okay, okay, stop, please. That’s enough, Harry.’

‘Told you I couldn’t sing.’

But we carry on bouncing, so close that it’s impossible to avoid the occasional meeting of random body parts – or maybe one of us has stopped trying.

Harry takes out his phone. ‘Hey, Lauren, what’s your number?’

‘What do you want my number for?’

‘In case I need to call you. Or the other way round, of course.’

‘Why would I need to do that?’

‘Any number of reasons – a fashion show disaster, you might need some advice on your terrible taste in music, or who knows, maybe you’ll get this uncontrollable urge to hear me sing again.’

‘Okay, fine, it’s …’ I call out my number.

Two seconds later my phone rings.

‘Hi, Lauren.’

‘You’re an idiot.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ says Harry.

‘What do you want anyway?’

‘I was just thinking.’

‘Don’t do that – you might hurt yourself.’

‘Yeah, funny.’

‘So what can I do for you?’

‘Well, it’s …’ He stops bouncing. Both of us wobble, but we don’t fall down. ‘It’s half-term next week, Lauren. Would you like to … do something?’

‘Eh?’

‘We could go and see a movie – or you could come round mine if you want.’

‘What do you mean, like … like a date or something?’

‘
No
, yes … I mean, maybe, I don’t …’

Tell me I’m wrong, but we’re not talking ‘just mates’ here, are we? ‘It’s probably not a very good idea, Harry. You see, I’m not really ready to —’

I ought to feel flattered. Two guys have come on to me in the space of an hour. Unfortunately, it’s a bit more complicated than that.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ says Harry. ‘There’s no pressure or anything. I mean, we could just take it really slowly and … and see what happens.’

‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ I say, struggling out of the black netting and scrabbling around beneath the trampoline for my trainers. ‘My dad’s waiting. I’ll see you around.’

‘Wait a minute,’ says Harry. ‘I was only —’

Katherine says she’s a far more tragic female role model than Lady Macbeth, but I’ve always had a soft spot for Cinderella. And that’s who I feel like, as I limp across the lawn in only one shoe.

‘Let’s go round the back,’ says Dad. ‘I’ve got a key. No point ringing the bell. It’s like trying to wake the dead.’

The TV in the ‘parlour’ is blasting out
Homes Under the Hammer.

‘Look at this garden,’ says Dad. ‘Your granddad would have a heart attack.’

‘He did, didn’t he – twice?’

‘Maybe it’s just as well,’ says Dad, unlocking the French windows. ‘According to him, the whole world was going to the dogs.’

‘I know. He told me – more than once.’

‘Are you coming in then?’

‘Maybe I’ll wait out here for a bit. She might not want to see me.’

‘Of course she will. You read her letter.’

The question is, do I want to see her? ‘You’d better make sure she hasn’t changed her mind.’

‘Fair enough.’

I circle the garden (round and round like a teddy bear) and try to get my head together.

Back in the house, Dad is screaming at Grandma.

‘About an hour and a half, Mum … No, Mum, I was very careful, I always am … No, don’t get up, I’ll make it.’ It’s weird how his voice changes when he starts talking about me. ‘She’s outside … Yes … Yes, I … think so, much better … Of course she wants to see you, why wouldn’t she?’

Five laps later, Dad appears at the French windows looking like a surly schoolboy. ‘I’m going to tidy up out here. Why don’t you pop inside for a chat?’

‘… Okay.’

Dad steps into the fresh air; I step into the 1970s. At least it still smells nice – cherry cake and wood polish, not decaying old people.

The parlour door is open. I glimpse the white of Grandma’s perm sitting in front of a pointlessly deafening subtitled telly. A surge of affection does battle with a tsunami of rage.

I take a deep breath before I step out in front of her. ‘Hello, Grandma.’

‘Is that you … Lauren?’

At least she remembered my name. ‘Yes, Grandma.’

‘Hang on a minute, I can’t hear a thing,’ she says, aiming the remote at a property developer. ‘Bloody rubbish anyway. He paid eight thousand pounds for that kitchen and there was nothing wrong with the old one.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Now, let’s have a look at you.’

I thought about wearing my shortest skirt just to freak her out, but I’ve opted for jeans and my
Trust Me, I’m The Doctor
T-shirt instead. ‘Hello, Grandma.’

Her glasses are about an inch thick. What big eyes she’s got!

‘Quite the young lady, aren’t we?’

‘Uh-huh.’

It already feels like one of those phone conversations where the sound keeps dropping out.

‘So, how are you … Lauren?’

‘How are
you
, Grandma?’

‘Oh, you know, sitting up and taking punishment.’

‘Right.’

More dead air.

‘You’d better be Mother,’ she says, nodding at the beanie-hatted teapot on the tray. ‘I’m a bit shaky these days.’

I slip into the empty chair beside her and reach for the strainer.

‘Milk first. You haven’t forgotten, have you?’

‘No, Grandma. I haven’t forgotten.’

‘Have a biscuit.’ Four bleeding hearts lie in wait for me on a bone china plate. ‘I got you your favourites – Jammie Dodgers.’

(Yeah, about ten years ago.) ‘No thanks.’

‘Looking after your figure, eh?’

‘Uh-huh.’

The clink of cup on saucer and the ominous banging from the bottom of the garden can’t disguise another gaping hole in the conversation. I check the room for elephants. At first it looks clean. There are photos of me and Tilda everywhere – on the beach, playing French cricket with Granddad, that year they took us on the Easter egg hunt. It’s only when you look closer that the uncomfortable truth starts to emerge. Because whereas Tilda turns into the stroppy teenager we all know and love, it’s like I never made it to puberty.

And that’s when I lose it, jumping out of Granddad’s favourite armchair and prowling the room like a claustrophobic alley cat. ‘What am I even doing here?’

More tinkling teacups. ‘I thought we could try to —’

‘And why did you ask me in the first place? You’re obviously regretting it.’

‘Of course I’m not.’

‘Yeah, right, that’s why you’ve spent the last two years avoiding me.’

She looks about four sizes smaller these days, as if she’s shrunk in the wash. ‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘The stupid thing is I believed them at first.’

‘Believed what?’

‘All those pathetic excuses: Granddad wasn’t up to visitors; you’d decided to spend Christmas in a hotel that year; it was too far on the train. But it didn’t take me long to figure it out.’

‘I’m sorry, Tiger.’

‘Don’t you dare call me that.’

‘At least let me try and explain, pet.’

‘You couldn’t even be bothered to write.’

‘I didn’t know what to say.’

‘Well, that’s a first.’

Her sad smile is a mixture of black holes and yellowness.

‘I thought you loved me.’

‘I’ll always love you,’ she says angrily. ‘I’ve loved you since the day your dad told me I was going to be a grandmother.’

‘So why did you cut me off like that? How do you think that made me feel?’

Her swollen fingers contract round the arms of her chair. ‘I didn’t want to. Really I didn’t.’

‘Then why?’

‘It was Don,’ she whispers.

‘Granddad?’

‘You know what he was like. He was old-fashioned, even in 1957. He just couldn’t understand what you’d done.’

‘Okay, so if it was all down to Granddad, why did you ban me from his funeral?’

‘I didn’t … Not really.’

‘You told Mum and Dad not to bring me.’

‘I’m sorry, Lauren, I —’

‘Tilda was there.’

‘We thought she’d cope better. You’d had a lot on your mind.’

‘That is bollocks and you know it.’

I’ve often wondered what it would feel like swearing at her: not half as good as I expected.

‘Please, Lauren. Sit down and drink your tea.’

‘Even people in prison get let out for funerals.’

She dabs her cheek with a tissue, wiping away a gobbet of moisture, not tears but that gooey stuff from her glaucoma treatment. ‘I’m sorry, Lauren. That was your granddad too. He told me he didn’t want you there.’

‘But you could have talked to him, couldn’t you? And then afterwards, when he was dead, you could have invited me, anyway?’

‘There was no talking to Donald. Once he’d made his mind up about something he was like the Rock of Gibraltar. Even in the hospital, after his second do, he still kept on about it.’

‘I thought Granddad loved me too.’

‘He did. You meant the world to him. But he could never see beyond the —’

‘You mean he had nothing better to do on his deathbed than plan the guest list for his funeral?’

‘He was thinking of Auntie Dolly and his friends from the photography club.’

‘What?’

‘And you.’

‘Eh?’

‘He didn’t want you turning into some kind of sideshow.’

There’s a brief moment of calm followed by an after-surge of anger. ‘You still didn’t have to go along with it.’

‘I know. But it’s what I signed up for. Love, honour and obey. That’s how it was back then.’

‘You’re joking, aren’t you? Mum thought that was the funniest line in the whole wedding ceremony.’

‘Maybe things are different these days. A young woman starting out now has so much more control of her life.’

‘I don’t know about that.’

‘When I first met Don, I was working in a dress shop – assistant manageress. I loved that job. But as soon as we were married he made me hand in my notice. He didn’t want the neighbours thinking he couldn’t support me.’

‘That is so messed up.’

‘Don didn’t see it that way. No one did. And he was a good man, Lauren. Like that advert, he did what it said on the tin. I’d made him a promise and I couldn’t go back on it. But maybe I should have been stronger. Like you, Tiger.’

And this time they’re real tears roller-coastering down her bumpy old face. ‘Oh, my darling, I’ve been so worried about you. But your dad says things are looking better for you these days.’

‘Yes, much better, thanks.’ I perch on the side of her armchair, squeezing her hand and drinking in the comforting smell of oranges and her eau de cologne

‘I’m sorry, Lauren. I’ve been about as much use as a chocolate teapot. I just wish I’d tried harder to understand.’

‘It is kind of complicated.’

‘So why don’t you tell me everything? Please, Lauren. I’d really like to know.’

I start at the very beginning, when Tilda was a baby, figuring that if I take things slowly, it might just make sense. ‘You remember how angry I used to get sometimes?’

‘Do I ever,’ smiles Grandma.

‘I think that was because —’

‘Sorry, Mum, could I borrow Lauren for a second?’ Dad is standing in the doorway, every inch the insurance salesman masquerading as a handyman. ‘I’m going to have to sort out the shed roof. And I need someone to hold the stepladder for me.’

Later, when Dad popped upstairs to ‘fix’ the curtain rail, I finally got half an hour alone with her to try to explain. I’m not sure she’ll ever get her head around it, but at least I know she’s making an effort, because after tinned-salmon sandwiches, lemon drizzle cake and
The Archers
, she presents me with a small black box.

‘This is for you, Lauren.’

‘What is it?’

‘Have a look.’

Inside is a necklace with square pink stones separated by delicate white beads.

‘It’s art deco, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know about that,’ says Grandma. ‘And it’s only glass, my lovely. But my mother wore it on her wedding day so it’s part of the family history.’

‘Are you sure about this, Grandma? What about Tilda?’

‘You’re my eldest granddaughter, you should have it.’

‘Thank you, it’s lovely.’ And compared with the 1990s wedding dress that Mum is seriously expecting one of us to walk down the aisle in, it really is. But not half as lovely as hearing Grandma call me her eldest granddaughter and almost sounding like she’s proud.

‘Well, you might want it for dressing up.’

‘I don’t really do that any more, Grandma.’

‘No, of course not. You’re a lovely young woman now. So don’t forget to send me an up-to-date photo.’

‘I won’t, Grandma.’

I have to admit I’m still a bit misty-eyed later when she waves us off with her stick from the front door.

‘Cheerio, Mum,’ bellows Dad. ‘Take care of yourself. I’ll see you at Christmas.’

I wave and wave like a five-year-old.

Safely back in cruise mode, Dad sticks on a Rolling Stones CD and attempts some geriatric headbanging. ‘Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘And you’ll come again sometime, won’t you?’

‘Yes, yes, I think I will.’

I’ve always thought that forgiveness was just a word that people use to make themselves look good. So I’m not saying that things will ever be the same between us, but I’m starting to understand why Grandma acted the way she did.

And something else is clearer too. It doesn’t matter how
much you love someone, you shouldn’t give them complete control of your life. Sooner or later, you’ve got to make some decisions for yourself. So I reach into my jeans pocket and take out my phone.

‘Who are you texting?’ asks Dad.

‘Just someone from school.’

The headbanging stops. ‘You are careful about who you give your number to, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah … course.’

‘And you do remember what I said about being too trusting?’

‘Yes, Dad. Look, there’s nothing to worry about, okay?’

Well, nothing apart from getting the words exactly right. It’s not too flirty, is it?