The Perfect Girlfriend(14)

‘I’d like to experiment,’ I say. ‘I’m thinking of doing something a bit more drastic . . .’

Over coffee, I point to the colour chart and select the shade closest to Amy’s, then relax and flick through a magazine. Whilst Natasha styles and cuts my hair – ‘Just a trim,’ I insist (I don’t want exactly the same style as Amy) – I chat away about some of the more difficult passengers I encounter, trying to get her to open up about her trickier clients. I’m sure Bella must be one. I simply can’t picture her treating anyone with respect. Natasha, however, doesn’t bite. I leave a big tip to ensure that she is chattier next time. I stroll to the station with the coastal wind blowing my hair, surprising me each time I catch sight of auburn strands.

As I approach the platform, my eyes catch sight of a name on the departures list. It is the name of the village where my boarding school was located. There is no reason for me to travel there but I feel an impulse to return, even though the school is now a care home. Before I can talk myself out of it, I buy a ticket and board the next train. However, I’ve made an error by not checking the timings as it takes over an hour to be transported into deepest Dorset. It is a half-mile walk from the station to the driveway entrance. A shiny gold sign reveals its new name, beneath which it states that: We care. I hope that they care more about old people than they did about teenagers. I continue past, wandering along the narrow village pavement – a long-ago, familiar route.

The village newsagent remains. During afternoon break, between 4 and 4.25, we were allowed to brave the three-minute walk and stock up on junk food. I push open the door. I can’t remember the staff, so I’ve no idea if the man behind the old-fashioned till used to serve me, but I suspect he did.

‘I see the school has changed hands?’ I say, pretending to browse the magazine shelf.

He nods.

‘I used to come in here as a teenager.’

‘Did you? There were so many of you.’

He doesn’t mention the village boys who used to stand on the street opposite, laughing at us. We were always instructed to ignore them, but I didn’t blame them. Any breach of uniform regulations was an immediate fortnight’s curfew, so if we weren’t in summer straw boaters, we were in winter cloaks – not coats, like normal students – marking us out as figures of fun, as though we were teenagers from a strict religious cult or another era.

I select two bridal magazines. Whilst handing over payment, I spot brown paper bags. I used to fill mine with as many treats as possible; a blatant attempt to bribe others into spending time with me. We exchange goodbyes and I leave in the direction of the care home. I have no idea what to expect, but now that I am here, it can’t do any harm.

As I approach the Victorian building, I can immediately see that the reception area is in the same location, although the main entrance is wider. Double doors open outwards instead of the old wooden white door that creaked. A metal wheelchair ramp rests at the side. Leaves spin, trapped in mini whirlpools. The cars are new; gone is the headmistress’ old Rover and the drama teacher’s VW Polo. From where I’m standing, I used to be able to see a black door to my left. Instead, in its place is a brick wall. During morning break, the old black door would open and the prefects would hand out any parcels or post from home: birthday cards, valentines, or postcards and letters from older relatives, especially those who hadn’t yet embraced email.

I take a deep breath now and step inside my old school. The space is totally different, but the institutional smell remains. It is a shock, I expect to see her or to hear her distinctive footsteps. Rooted to the spot, I remember something – Bella telling me that I couldn’t sit next to her at the dinner table one evening because she’d saved the space for Stephanie. It took humiliating minutes to find a spare seat in the crowded dining hall. I add it to my mental list of slights.

I concentrate on the present-day surroundings. Stained-glass windows remain embedded in the high walls, and the original large open fireplace is still in situ. But nailed to the wall above is a shiny wooden plaque. My eyes skim the Latin, resting on the English translation: Fortune favours the bold. Whilst trying to figure out the motto’s relevance in an old people’s home, my thoughts are interrupted.

‘Can I help you?’ A female voice.

I swing round and smile at a receptionist who is dressed in a fussy, peacock-blue blouse. Her reading glasses are attached to a string around her neck. She looks like she cares.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I used to come to school here. It’s strange being back.’

‘When was that, then?’

‘I left about ten years ago. I wonder . . . can I take a look around?’

‘I don’t think so, I’m afraid. Not without prior arrangement. And if you don’t have any relatives, then I’m sorry, but no.’

‘What about the grounds, then? Does the stream still run along the bottom?’

‘Yes, it does, but I’ll have to check if you can go there,’ she says, picking up the desk phone. ‘But I don’t see why not.’

The stream is shallow. In my memories, it was deeper. Although the grassy banks are naturally overgrown, it is still accessible via the old pathway. I wonder if anyone comes here now. It’s not as if the residents need to sneak down for a sly cigarette or anything else clandestine.