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 That searchlight beam of love and warmth could be withdrawn as quickly as it was bestowed.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.
After all, Clare had only been trying to be a good friend.
‘No.’
‘Flo—’
‘You’re not leaving.’
Melanie stood for a moment in the middle of the kitchen, as if trying to think of something to say. At last she gave a snort of disbelieving laughter.
‘And yet apparently … I am.’ She slung her bag on her shoulder and tried to push past Flo towards the door.
‘No!’ Flo shouted. There was an edge of hysteria to her voice. ‘I won’t let you ruin it!’
‘Flo, stop being such a basket case!’ Melanie snapped back. ‘I know – I know this is important to you, but look at yourself! Clare doesn’t give a flying fuck whether I’m here or not. You’ve got this picture in your head of how things should be and you can’t force people to go along with it. Get a grip!’
‘You—’ Flo stabbed with her finger at Melanie ‘—you are a bad friend. And a bad person.’
‘I’m not a bad friend,’ Melanie sounded very tired all of a sudden. ‘I’m just a parent. My life doesn’t revolve around Clare bloody Cavendish. Now please, get out of my way.’
She pushed past Flo’s outstretched arms towards the hallway, and looked up.
‘Clare! You’re up.’
‘What’s going on?’
Clare was coming down the stairs in a crumpled linen wrap. The sun was shining down from the window behind her head, illuminating her hair like a halo.
‘I heard shouting. What’s going on?’ she repeated.
‘I’m going.’ Melanie walked a few steps up, gave her a brisk kiss, and then hitched her bag further up her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have come. I wasn’t ready to leave Ben, and the situation with the phone is just making it worse—’
‘What situation with the phone?’
‘The landline’s down,’ Melanie said. ‘But it’s not that. Not really. I’m just … I want to be back home. I shouldn’t have come. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Of course not.’ Clare yawned and brushed hair out of her eyes. ‘Don’t be silly. If you’re miserable then go. I’ll see you at the wedding anyway.’
‘Yeah.’ Melanie gave a nod. Then she leaned forwards, with a quick glance over her shoulder at Flo, and said in a low voice, ‘Look, Clare, help her to get a grip, yeah? It’s not … it’s not healthy. For anyone.’
And then she opened the door, slammed it behind her, and the last we heard was the grate of her car tyres as she bumped down the rutted driveway to the lane.
Flo began to cry, heavily and snottily. For a moment I stood, wondering what I should – could – do. Then Clare came down the rest of the stairs, yawning, took Flo’s arm, and led her into the kitchen. I heard the bubble of the kettle beneath Flo’s gulping, retching tears, and Clare’s soothing voice.
‘You saved my life,’ Flo gasped between sobs. ‘How am I supposed to forget that?’
‘Honey,’ I heard Clare say. There was a kind of loving exasperation in her voice. ‘How many times—’
I retreated upstairs, backwards, keeping my steps light and silent, and then at the landing I turned and fled. I knew I was being a coward, but I couldn’t help it.
The door to the bedroom I shared with Nina was closed, and I was just about to turn the handle and barge in, when I heard Nina’s voice from inside, filled with an uncharacteristic yearning softness.