Jane Renshaw - Watch Over Me

Mrs Jenner nodded, and retreated once more behind the desk.

‘I’ve spoken to Beckie, of course, myself. She’s unrepentant. She denies that she’s been bullying Edith – says it’s Edith who’s the problem and “everyone hates her”. A common justification, I’m afraid. She maintains that people run away from Edith because they hate her.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m just –’ Flora gulped down more water. ‘I’m having a really hard time believing that Beckie would do that.’

‘I realise it’s a shock. We’re all very surprised. Beckie has always been a pleasure to have in the school. There hasn’t been anything… Any problems at home…?’ And the bright blue eyes scanned Flora up and down.

Flora could only shake her head as all the statistics gleaned from furtive late-night Googling flashed through her mind, about schizophrenia and bipolar disorder and their age of onset and possible triggers. Was that what this was? Was this her nightmare coming to pass? Was this the monster Beckie carried inside her, in her genes, awakening, stretching and yawning and flexing its muscles, because of something Flora had done? Something she’d done to trigger it?

Of course not.

As bullying went, this was pretty mild, really. Every child went through phases of being naughty, difficult, acting out. As Mrs Jenner had said, this wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. And it could be nipped in the bud in this ‘mediation discussion’ she was talking about, asking Flora if Monday after school would be convenient.

‘Yes, of course,’ Flora had said. ‘Of course. Monday would be fine. Obviously, we’ll make sure – we’ll make sure Beckie stops it. That she stops bullying this poor girl. Poor Edith.’

When they’d got home, Flora had chosen her moment to broach the subject with Beckie. They’d got out Beckie’s favourite jigsaw, featuring a litter of Labrador puppies, and knelt opposite each other at the coffee table in the family room to work on it.

When she’d gently told Beckie what Mrs Jenner had said about her being unkind to Edith, Beckie had looked from the piece of puzzle she was holding to Flora’s face in indignation. ‘It’s not my fault Edith’s horrible.’

‘Oh Beckie. I’m sure she isn’t “horrible”. And even if she was, that’s no excuse for bullying.’

‘But I didn’t bully her! She’s twisting it all round, Mum. I’ve never hit her.’

‘Beckie, Mrs Jenner saw you.’

‘But I was just pushing her away after she tried to hit me !’

Oh God.

‘So you’re saying Edith is bullying you ?’

‘No! No one’s bullying anyone, Mum. Edith is just so stupid and horrible that she spoils everything.’

‘That’s a really silly thing to say.’

Beckie shrugged.

‘Darling… Is there something wrong at school? Is there anything… Maybe some other girl or boy is bullying you , or… getting you to do things you don’t want to do?’

Beckie shook her head in what seemed like genuine puzzlement.

‘Did another girl or boy make you be unkind to Edith?’

‘No. Edith made me be “unkind” to Edith.’

Flora sighed. ‘Darling… Nobody wants people to be unkind to them, do they? Just try to imagine for a second what it must be like to be Edith… Yes, I know, but just try to imagine. The bell goes and you run out to the playground and everyone’s having fun, and you see some girls from your class that you’d really like to chat to and play with, but then they start calling you cruel names and laughing at you and telling you you’re horrible. How do you think you would feel then?’

Beckie shrugged. ‘Edith’s not like that. Edith doesn’t care what we say.’

‘How do you know that? If it were you, how would you feel?’

Beckie, looking at her sideways, muttered reluctantly: ‘Lonely?’

‘Yes, you would feel really lonely, wouldn’t you. And upset? Maybe even scared, when the girls all start ganging up on you?’

Beckie had nodded, and her lip had trembled. ‘Can you not tell Dad?’

‘Dad will have to know, Beckie – it’s too serious not to tell him about it. And we have to go to a meeting with Edith and her parents after school on Monday, and you’re going to tell Edith you’re sorry and you won’t be unkind to her any more.’

And just when Flora had thought she was getting through to her, Beckie had wrinkled her nose and said, ‘Do I have to?’

‘Yes you do.’

And Beckie had sighed, in that way she had, as if to say: another adult stupidity I have to go along with to humour the poor deluded souls.

She’d got that sigh from Mia.

Mia, Mia, Mia.

Flora shut the front door behind her, eased her feet out of her shoes, and stood leaning back against the door. Sometimes she wished she could shut out the whole world. Keep Beckie from it. Like the Wanderers in their own little boat, adrift. Apart.

Safe.

But Beckie had been looking forward to this damn barbeque for weeks.

Beckie was wearing her favourite leggings with tiny daisies all over them, and a furry blue fleece on top of her T-shirt. In one hand she swung the little silver gift bag with the present for Mia in it – a fart machine, which Ailish was really going to be thrilled about – even though, as Flora had reminded her, it wasn’t a birthday party and a present wasn’t necessary. Beckie would have spent all her pocket money on presents if Flora had let her.

She’d always been a kind little girl.

She ran ahead down the path to the gate, but then stopped and waited for them.

A good little girl.

‘Okay, Beckie,’ said Flora.

Beckie opened their gate, skipped along the pavement ten metres, and opened next door’s, which was identical to their own, right down to the twists in the Victorian wrought iron.

‘Can I ring the bell?’

‘Of course you can, darling.’

Beckie skipped to the door and reached for the pebble-like pottery bell-push with ‘PRESS’ on it, set in a metal disk – identical to their own bell.

Neil said, ‘How long do we have to stay?’

‘Two hours minimum.’

The door opened on a blast of noise: ABBA, overlaid by the shrieks and howls of what sounded like women in pain. Dozens of them. Flora had a sudden image of Ailish’s head flung back, mouth open, cackling in glee as she skipped about the kitchen from one instrument of torture to the next – coordinating thumbscrews, maybe in Cath Kidston prints, for all her guests, and more elaborate offerings for her special friends: a cage fashioned from shabby chic wirework swinging above the hob for Katie, who’d be pretending to be enjoying it and doing her utmost not to drip sweat on the Rayburn; a rack rigged up on the kitchen table for Marianne, spread-eagled, her bouncy curls full of bits of scone and cake and broken pastel crockery, gasping an apology to Ailish for the mess…

Flora smiled at Jasmine, who was standing at the door looking up at them through her hair.

Jasmine, Ailish’s fifteen-year-old daughter, was an androgynously skinny little thing, looking utterly ridiculous in a black boob tube, tiny red shorts and high clumpy black shoes. Her fake-tanned, stick-thin legs with their bony little knees were those of a child, but her blonde hair fell in shiny sheets on either side of her face, which was plastered in foundation and dominated by huge black caterpillar-like eyebrows she must have spent forever pencilling on.

Without looking at him, Flora knew Neil was staring at the eyebrows.

Jasmine didn’t respond to Flora’s smile.

‘Hello, Jasmine!’ she persevered. ‘You look nice!’

‘Your hair’s amazing,’ said Beckie.

Jasmine, ignoring them both as usual, muttered to Neil: ‘Mum’s in the kitchen?’