Relatively Strange Read online

  Chapter Sixteen

  When I was sixteen I killed a man. I didn’t mean to do it, but on the other hand it wasn’t quite an accident either.

  In our second year at the school we were re-streamed according to which subjects we were taking for ‘O’ level and in my new form I became close friends with Faith Brackman. The physical antithesis to me, she was a tall, slim, quietly spoken, graceful girl – refined, my mother stated approvingly. She had short-cut, fine fair hair and was blue-eyed, with a soft dreamy expression belying a quick and astute mind and a formidable rapport with a netball. Together with Rochelle Lind and Elaine Henner we became a close-knit group. We were at an age then when we were being allowed further afield on our own and weekends were taken up with outings to the cinema and wonderfully long, warm, lazy summer days, swanning around in Hyde Park. We’d consume vast picnic lunches; formulate grandiose plans for the future; launch hysterical rowing sessions on the Serpentine and on the way home cram into tiny photographic booths in Woolworths to create wacky and witty strips of photos.

  Rochelle and Elaine were both very open, thoughts and emotions bubbling continually on the surface. Faith was the opposite, introverted and with a curiously rigid, compartmentalised mind, the like of which I’d never come across before. Whilst with most people the head-jumble is simply horrendous, Faith’s was neat, tidy and orderly, almost filed and labelled. She was extremely restful to be with although, for my own protection, as much as anyone else’s privacy, I did try to keep myself to myself and made it a point of honour not to go paddling about in friends’ heads.

  Rochelle’s parents were acrimoniously divorced, a rift from which fallout was still descending on Rochelle and Tom her seven year old, bespectacled and front-toothless brother. She was a comfortably built girl with shiny, curly long brown hair and glasses forever sliding in unscheduled descent down her short nose. Asthmatic, with a slightly breathless way of talking, whenever she told a story our breath hitched unconsciously in sympathy. We were always hunting for her inhaler which was never where she thought she’d put it. She was also endlessly weary from reassuring whichever parent she was with, how infinitely superior in every way they were to the other.

  “Honestly,” she told us, “It’s like having three children in the family, with Tom the most sensible.” It was sad to see how, as time went on, matters only seemed to sour, worsen and grow more complicated. Each of her parents found then broke with subsequent partners and Rochelle, a nurturer born and bred, took on an astonishing variety of equally angst-ridden ex’s, including two new sets of siblings with completely fresh sets of problems.

  Elaine’s parents were much older than mine, She’d arrived to an astonished mother who, happily putting a spreading waistline and missed monthlies down to an early Change, never really got over the shock of finding she was seven months pregnant with her only child. I don’t think her father, early fifties then, mid-sixties when I knew him, ever fully adjusted either. He’d answer the door when we walked Elaine home after school and there’d be just a second or two of polite but puzzled inquiry as he peered from the entrance hall, as if trying to place her.

  Elaine’s mum, Mrs Henner was a sturdily bosomed, eminently sensible looking lady who seemed likely to be a pillar of the local WRVS. In fact she was the most dithery, butterfly-minded person I’d ever met, the inside of her head was like a feather duster. The simplest of decisions threw her into paroxysms of concern and confusion and it remained a total mystery to all, her included, how she’d not only produced uncomplicated Elaine but raised her, unscathed to this stage. Elaine, managed both parents with easy and tolerant affection and got her way in all things. Her bedroom was like a small extension of Selfridges, with fully stocked book, toy and fashion departments, the contents of which she was unstintingly generous with. She was a refreshingly warm, uncomplicated person, welcoming each day afresh for what it was, without worrying unduly about what tomorrow might bring. Whilst Rochelle found it a near impossibility to relax and enjoy the moment, Elaine was incapable of doing anything else and so was always caught short with injured feelings by school tests or exams, which conspired to hit her out of the blue.

  Faith’s father was in the police, a Detective Chief Inspector and they lived in a forces-owned development not far from the Police College in Hendon.

  “Bet burglars steer well clear of your street.” my father commented when introduced to Faith’s parents one school sports day – thus confirming, if confirmation was needed that parents inevitably make exactly the excruciating remarks you expect them to.

  On that particular occasion Faith’s dad had come straight on from some kind of presentation at the College and was in uniform, not how we were used to seeing him, in plainclothes. His was an impressive presence. Not as tall as you’d expect, probably at the low end of the height requirement, but broadly built. He had a sharp, blue-eyed stare below bushy, prematurely grey eyebrows and a habit of raising himself on his toes that was so stereotypical, you were never quite sure whether or not he was taking the mickey. The first time I met him I thought I’d hate to feel his hand on my collar and until he spoke, there was indeed about him a slight air of menace. But in fact he was charming, the life and soul of any gathering – although presumably that only applied to the non-criminal fraternity. He had an unending stock of jokes, a silent laugh which shook his not insubstantial stomach and a nice way of bending forward, inclining an ear from his greater height to catch what you said and make you feel important. Faith and her two years younger sister Shirley, adored him, and whenever he was around would stand as close to him as they could get. He laughed at them for that, called them his shadows, said one of these days he’d trip over and they’d all break their necks, but I noticed if either of them moved far, he was the one to reach out and draw them back. Her mother was an older version of Faith, quietly spoken with the same slim figure and fine hair but despite, or perhaps because of their similarities they didn’t get on very well.

  My mother always said she’d love to take Mrs B ‘in hand’ – put some lipstick on her, bit of eyeshadow and she’d look like a new woman. But Mrs Brackman never wore make-up, not even for Parents’ Evening and always dressed in light pastel colours which did her naturally pale skin no favours. She was the sort of woman who blends, so effectively chameleon-like, into any background you could never quite recall afterwards whether you’d actually seen her there or not. Mind you, when she was accompanied by the large, reassuringly noisy presence of the DCI, she seemed to borrow confidence and colour, cheeks pinked and eyes brighter.

  Her one vanity was her hands with their long slim fingers and beautifully kept almond shaped nails which she regularly manicured and re-varnished in the very palest of pinks. She’d in her younger day, been a hand model for Cutex nail-varnish in ads that were still to be seen occasionally in Woman’s Mirror and Woman’s Realm. She was a stickler for a clean house, although never undertook a task unless fully Marigolded. At the Brackman’s, surfaces shone ferociously and the smell of Ajax bit the back of your throat as soon as you walked in the front door. Eating there though was far from relaxing as Mrs Brackman would appear at unexpected moments to damp-cloth an orange juice glass mark and swoop hawk-like on crumbs as they fell, muttering,

  “Not to worry, no harm done.” I know Faith found it pretty stressful when we all went there for tea and after a while, unspoken consensus ensured we didn’t go often as a group.

  We were made to feel welcome at Elaine’s house although Mr Henner was always there, having retired from doing something in the city. Despite his insisting it did him good to have young life around, there were two small pained furrows that often appeared between his eyes when we played loud music or clattered up and down the stairs. Mrs Henner, on the other hand was always preoccupied when we went there, she couldn’t decide whether to give us orange juice or chocolate milk, marmite or peanut butter or indeed whether we’d be better off sitting round the kitchen table or in the dining room and if so, should s
he put a cloth on?

  Rochelle, although technically better off, with two homes, wasn’t comfortable in either. And, after a couple of experiences, once when her mother insisted on joining us in Rochelle’s bedroom to ‘giggle and gossip’ and another time when her father felt compelled to share with us some of the many things that had caused their marriage break-up, we found ourselves agreeing with her.

  Mrs Brackman was the only one of our mothers who worked. She was a part-time receptionist at the local doctor’s surgery, a good thing, according to Faith. She was always injuring herself in the pursuit of cleanliness and what better place to work if you insisted on falling off ladders a lot. She’d badly dislocated her shoulder that particular time and on another occasion had to have stitches in a nasty gash on her knee when she fell on and broke a glass lampshade she was taking through to the kitchen to wash. There was another incident involving the stairs and a heavy Hoover – she was in plaster for six weeks after that – during which time, Faith’s life, she reported back to us, was a pure misery of polishing and dusting.

  Occasionally Mrs Brackman would give us all a lift home from school after collecting Shirley and, once or twice, treated us all to chocolate milk shakes at the Wimpy Bar in Hendon Central. She was a far more relaxed person there, presumably because anything spilled wasn’t on her floor. Over a period of time we discovered that if you could catch Mrs Brackman without her rubber gloves, she had an astonishing, quietly dry and extremely irreverent sense of humour which seemed to surprise her when it surfaced as much as it did us, although Faith, I noticed, didn’t join in the laughter that much. Perhaps she felt that knowing she and her mum didn’t get on, we three others were being disloyal in having such a good time.

  For all the above reasons, it was at my house we spent most of our time and my mother, for whom making people welcome was a mission, gathered my friends in willingly. They, for their part, appreciated different aspects of what was on offer. Faith loved the fact that my mother, whilst believing a clean floor is a happy floor, wasn’t obsessive about it. Rochelle relished my mother fussing over her and her inhaler without requiring Rochelle to listen to any problems in return and Elaine was delighted that swift and decisive rulings were made on any number of things with little or no fuss and certainly no consultation.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Within our little group of four, we fell into natural divisions, Faith and I, Elaine and Rochelle. So, whilst it would have caused a terrible rift if I’d gone off somewhere with Elaine, it was perfectly acceptable and no feelings were hurt when Faith and I slipped into the habit of doing our homework together at one of our houses every Tuesday – late school nights for both of us, she attending netball practice, whilst I was at drama club.

  Although I preferred the times we were at mine rather than hers, Mrs Brackman could it seemed, cope well enough with just one guest for tea. Additionally, because she was usually at the Surgery on Tuesdays and then picked Shirley up from a friend on the way home, we often only saw each other in passing. This was something of a relief, I liked her a lot – her unexpected, arrow-barbed comments made me laugh but the tension between her and Faith was sometimes palpable and uncomfortable to be around.

  The day my world turned, wasn’t a Tuesday. Various happenings including a concert and a prize-giving meant a postponement of normal after-school activities to the following day. We’d spent time at my house the week before and so on that afternoon, made our way back to Faith’s. On a Wednesday Mrs B was home earlier and was there to greet us, at the same time ensuring we left our shoes neatly in the under-stairs cupboard and hung our coats, right side out, on the coat-stand in the closed-in front lobby.

  “Good day?” She asked us. Now, I’d had my feathers severely ruffled that afternoon by Mrs Pearson, head of Games, who’d called me to task for claiming severe period pains as reason for being excused rounders. She’d pointed out acidly that as this was the third time I’d had a similar problem in five weeks, a visit to the doctor might be in order and I was cross with my own carelessness. One should always bear in mind an excuse used on previous occasions, especially as relations with the PE mistresses were already, sadly, a little strained. There’d been an unfortunate incident the previous term when I’d been so incapacitated around the time our gym session started, by a pain located in my right side and inspired by a recent episode of Dr Finlay’s Casebook, that things had gone a little further than the hot cup of tea and lie-down in matron’s room I’d had in mind. I’d ended up in an ambulance, siren blaring, heading for Edgware General.

  I’d bent Faith’s ear all the way home with my Mrs Pearson grievances and I was ready and willing to unburden to Mrs Brackman too, but no sooner had I launched into my tale of woe, than Faith insisted we get some homework done. I reluctantly followed her upstairs, force of habit keeping my hand hovering just above, but not touching, the newly polished and gleaming banister rail and Mrs B disappeared back into the kitchen, promising tea and sympathy shortly.

  When we heard the key in the front door about fifteen minutes later, Faith’s face lit up.

  “Dad – said he might be early.” He often worked late, so I knew this was a treat, I was pleased too. Of all the friends’ fathers, Chief Inspector Brackman was the most interesting. In our house, all homework would have been dropped in favour of a lunge downstairs and lots of hugging and kissing but this was the Brackman’s, where restraint was a virtue and so we worked through to the conclusion of the maths we’d been set. Or rather, Faith worked through and I absent-mindedly wrote down answers that were, coincidentally, pretty much the same. Whilst we put our books away – Faith maintained separate areas in her school case for exercise and text books, whereas I worked on an all-in-together basis – we argued about which film we should see at the weekend. Then, after a quick visit to the bathroom that looked as if it had never seen a really dirty person, we trotted downstairs in search of something to eat and some entertaining stories from Faith’s dad.

  Their house, duplicated exactly by the hundred or so others in the development, was long and narrow, stretching back deceptively farther than was apparent from the front. The stairs took you down to just by the front door and you had to do a sharp left turn into the hall and then right into their lounge. Once you were there it was a nice long room. They had a small dining table at the end, although most of the time they used a fold-down in the kitchen, which ran along the back of the house and could be accessed either through the door at the end of the hall or via the dining room. As we rounded the bottom of the stairs we could see down the corridor into the kitchen, where Mr and Mrs Brackman were looking closely at something on the kitchen counter.

  “What is it?” I heard him ask, puzzled.

  “Bit of butter, must’ve slipped off the knife when I was making the sandwiches.” she said. He chuckled,

  “Silly girl, I really don’t know how you manage to make such a mess.” And raising his arm across his body he hit Mrs Brackman full on the side of the face with the back of his hand. Her head snapped with the force of the blow and she staggered up against the worktop, on which was laid out a plate of sandwiches, egg mayonnaise I think, and a half sliced Madeira sponge.

  I suppose I must have made a sound then, I know it was me and not Faith and he turned and caught sight of us.

  “Allo, allo, allo,” he said, doing the hands behind the back and the bent knees policeman thing which always made me laugh. “I didn’t know we had a visitor and how’re you my lovely?” Behind him, Mrs Brackman had straightened and was smiling too. There was a tiny trickle of blood from her nose and, suddenly aware of it she utilised the back of her hand quickly so it became just a small brown, Charlie Chaplinesque smudge over her upper lip. Close to me, Faith was standing perfectly still and in her head was running over and over one of the maths problems we’d just done.

  “If it takes six people three hours to paint the outside of a house and they get through four cans of paint, how many hours …?” The strength of he
r calculations were loud and overriding. Chief Inspector Brackman was still smiling jovially at us,

  “Not your usual day?” he was asking. I’d been brought up too well not to answer an adult’s question politely.

  “No, it’s usually Tuesdays.”

  “Thought so, thought so. Getting on a bit, not senile yet though, eh?” I reached out, past his twinkling bright blue friendly gaze and into his head. Nothing different there, just the usual bluff, brisk, gruff jumble I’d always been aware of and below that a curious blankness.

  “Tea, girls, come and get it.” Sang out Mrs Brackman, clattering plates out of the cupboard.