In a Dark, Dark Wood(30)

I never forgot Clare’s action that first day. She could have chosen anyone. She could have played the popularity card and sat with one of the girls with Barbie clips in their hair and Lelli Kelly shoes.

Instead she chose the one girl who was sitting silent, by herself, and she transformed me.

As Clare’s best friend I was always included in games, not condemned to wait, lonely but trying not to look it, at the side of the playground waiting for someone to ask me to play. I was invited to birthday parties because Clare wanted me there, and when it became known that Clare had come to my house for a playdate and had spoken approvingly of my swing and doll’s house, other girls began to accept my faltering invitations.

Five-year-olds can be incredibly cruel. They say things that no adult ever would – cutting comments about your looks, your family, the way you speak and smell, the clothes you wear. If someone spoke to you that way in an office they’d get the sack for workplace bullying, but at school it’s just the natural order of things. Every class has an unpopular scapegoat, the kid no one wants to sit with, the one blamed for everything and picked last in all the team games. And, perhaps just as inevitably, every class has a queen bee. If there was a queen bee in our class, then Clare was it, and without her friendship I might easily have become the scapegoat, sitting alone at that table for ever. Part of me, the frightened five-year-old inside my adult shell, will be forever grateful for that.

Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t always easy being Clare’s friend. That searchlight beam of love and warmth could be withdrawn as quickly as it was bestowed. You might find yourself mocked and derided instead of defended. There were plenty of days I came home crying because of something Clare had said, or something Clare had done. But she was funny and generous, and her friendship was a lifeline I couldn’t do without, and somehow I always ended up forgiving her.

My mother, on the other hand, did not approve of Clare, for reasons I could never quite work out. It made no sense, because in many ways Clare resembled the daughter my mother was always trying to make me be – charming, loquacious, popular, not too academic. When secondary school came around my mother did not keep silent about her hopes that I would get into the local grammar and Clare would not. But she did. Clare was not a swot, no one could accuse her of that, but she was clever, and she could pull it out of the bag in exams.

Instead my mum went to the teacher and asked that we were put into different classes. So in lessons I found a new friend, a companion just as unlikely: spiky, amusing Nina with her skinny brown legs and large dark eyes. Nina was tall where I was short, she could run the 800 metres in 2 minutes 30, and she was funny, and not afraid of anyone. She was dangerous to be around, her sharp tongue making no distinction between friend and foe – you were as likely to be the butt of her wit as laughing at it. But I liked her. And in many ways, I felt safer with her than with Clare.

It made no difference, though. Outside lessons, Clare sought me out. We spent lunchtimes together. We bunked off and went to spend our allowance at Woolworths, on the CDs Clare liked and the sparkly nail polish we were forbidden to wear at school. We were caught only once, when we were fifteen. A heavy hand on the shoulder. Mr Bannington’s furious face looming over our shoulder. Threats of suspension, of telling our parents, of detention for the rest of our natural lives …

Clare just looked up at him, her blue eyes limpid with honesty. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Bannington,’ she said, ‘but it’s Lee’s grandad’s birthday. You know, the one she lived with?’ She paused and gave him a significant look, inviting him to remember, to join the dots. ‘Lee was upset and couldn’t face lessons. I’m sorry if we did wrong.’

For a minute I gaped. Was it Grandad’s birthday? It was a year since he’d died. Had I really forgotten? Then sense returned, and with it anger. No, no of course it wasn’t. His birthday was in May. We were only in March.

Mr Bannington stood, chewing his moustache and frowning. Then he put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Well, under the circumstances … I cannot condone this, girls, if there were a fire alarm then lives could be put at risk looking for you. Do you understand? So please don’t make a habit of it. But under the circumstances, we will say no more about it. This once.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Bannington.’ Clare’s head drooped, chastened, deflated. ‘I was just trying to be a good friend. It’s been hard for Lee, you know?’

And Mr Bannington coughed a choked-up cough, gave one short, sharp nod, turned on his heel and left.

I was so angry I couldn’t speak on the way back to school. How dare she. How dare she.

At the school gate she laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘Lee, look, I hope you don’t mind, I just couldn’t think what else to say. You know? I was the one that persuaded you to bunk, I thought it was my responsibility to get us out of the mess.’

My face was stiff. I tried to imagine what my mother would have said if I were suspended, and how Clare had got us both off the hook. I thought about May, and how I was going to have to go through the day – the real day – of my grandad’s birthday without mentioning that fact, or referring to it ever again.

‘Thanks,’ I said, in a hard, unnatural voice that did not stammer, that did not sound like me.

Clare only smiled, and I felt her sunshine warmth. ‘You’re welcome.’

And I felt myself thaw, and smile back, almost in spite of myself.