Only We Know Read online

  I lose sight of Tilda as the school gates swallow her up. She doesn’t look back at me, and to be honest, I’d probably start crying if she did. But once I’m safely through the gates myself, the creeping paranoia gets a little less creepy and I calm down for a bit.

  I mean, if you believed everything you read online, you’d never get out of bed in the morning, right? Dad self-diagnoses a hundred fatal illnesses a fortnight, but he still manages to drag the bins out every Thursday. And if you saw what they said about St Thomas’s Community College, you’d probably lock up your daughters and throw away the key. We’re not just talking dodgy drama teachers here. If there’s any truth in some of the stuff I’ve read on Twitter, I’d be better off hiring a couple of bodyguards and a personal tutor – and I certainly wouldn’t enlist on any war graves trips.

  But so far, it doesn’t actually seem that bad. My old school was really, well, old school – dark gloomy corridors and cold stone floors. This place looks like a cross between a trendy office and a modern art gallery: all rounded corners and windows, with a strange Pokémon-like construction in the middle of the playground and waste-paper bins with special holes for recycling your Coke cans.

  Apart from the usual X-rated banter and a boy with personal hygiene issues, the kids don’t look that bad either. Tilda was right about Year Eleven hair – the messy bun I took so much trouble creating this morning blends in perfectly. I try to avoid eye contact wherever possible, but the harmless-looking girl I ask for directions to the main reception actually smiles at me. She doesn’t even direct me to the bottom of the school field, because after a right past the Learning Resources Centre (which I’m guessing is code for library) and straight on through the double doors, here I am in front of the reception desk.

  ‘Hi, I’m Lauren Wilson. I’m supposed to be seeing the Head of Student Welfare?’

  And unlike my old school, where they practically dived for cover whenever they saw me coming, the receptionist greets me like a fanatical holiday rep. ‘Hi, Lauren, welcome to St Thomas’s.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’ll find Mr Catchpole next to the boys’ toilets. His new office, I mean. Just knock and walk straight in.’

  ‘Right.’

  A man in an ailing brown jacket is watering the ailing brown pot plant on top of the filing cabinet. Alongside it is a photograph of a group of kids in front of a war memorial, flanked by a wild-haired woman in knee-length earrings and the man in the ailing brown jacket who appears to be smiling at her.

  But the man in the photograph looks about ten years younger than the harassed specimen who turns to face me like an old-style Bond villain.

  ‘Ah … Lauren, I’ve been expecting you.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Welcome to St Thomas’s.’

  ‘Right … thanks.’

  ‘I’m Mr Catchpole – head of Student Welfare. Please, have a seat. Let me just …’ He takes a pair of bulging files from the Tesco bag on the corner of his desk. ‘Now I’ve read through your notes … most of them.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Re-taking Year Eleven at a different school is certainly unusual. Then again, it’s fair to say that these are exceptional circumstances.’

  ‘Yes.’

  On the wall behind him is a huge poster entitled Our School Values. Underneath is a row of random words in bright colours that are supposed to look like they’ve been scrawled on a whiteboard by a precocious Year Seven, but are almost certainly the work of one of those ‘overpaid design consultants’ that Dad’s always ranting about.

  FREEDOM COLLABORATION COURAGE DIVERSITY CREATIVITY TOLERANCE

  Mr Catchpole seems pleased that I’m taking an interest. ‘You’ll be hearing a lot about values at St Thomas’s, Lauren. It’s something Mr Edmonds, our head teacher, is very passionate about. Unfortunately he’s off sick for at least another month. But you’ll find a list in the back of your extended learning record. I suggest you have a good look at them.’

  ‘I will – thanks.’

  ‘I want you to know that we’re going to look after you, Lauren. If there’s anything you need – catch-up sessions or just a friendly ear, please don’t hesitate to ask.’

  Underneath the unforgivable brown jacket, he seems like an okay bloke. Although I can’t help noticing that both friendly ears are in desperate need of a haircut. ‘I won’t – thanks.’

  ‘Now, before I send you down to meet your new tutor group, have you got any questions?’

  Only one – and I hardly dare ask it. So I stare hopefully at Freedom, trying to find the right words. ‘Does everyone here … know about me? The teachers, I mean.’

  Mr Catchpole coughs, grabs one of his friendly ears and starts twiddling. ‘We thought it was probably best if the … exact details of your past were only made available on a need-to-know basis. There’s myself and Mr Edmonds, of course, and two members of the senior management team. Other than that, the only other person who’s been fully briefed is your form tutor, Miss Hoolyhan.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I’ve deliberately put you in 11CH. Miss Hoolyhan is one of our most experienced teachers. Should you have any problems you can always —’

  Two sharp knocks at the door put him out of his misery. A girl with virtually no make-up and her hair tied back in a pigtail walks in.

  ‘Ah, Katherine, good,’ says Mr Catchpole. ‘Katherine’s going to be your student mentor. She’ll make sure you know where all your lessons are and help you to settle in.’

  ‘It’s Katherine with a K,’ says the girl with the pigtail.

  And I feel like asking if she’ll be giving me a spelling test. But the last thing I need is to alienate my student mentor, so I smile politely and try to get her onside. ‘Like Kate Middleton you mean?’ The thought that she could have anything in common with her royal deliciousness is enough to make me crack a smile.

  But not my student mentor. ‘Like Katherine Mansfield – the short-story writer.’

  ‘Oh … right … So what do they call you – Katie or Kate?’

  ‘They don’t call me anything.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Anyway,’ says Mr Catchpole, taking a last despairing glance at my notes. ‘I’ll leave you in Katherine’s capable hands.’

  If that’s a smile, it’s not exactly what I’d call reassuring.

  ‘We don’t judge people here, Lauren. Life’s what you make of it. I’m sure you’ll bear that in mind.’

  5

  THE NEW GIRL

  ‘What was all that about?’ says Katherine, ignoring the sniggers that seem to follow her down the corridor.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘The whole tragic backstory bit? You’re not one of those kids with cancer, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So why the special treatment?’

  ‘What special treatment?’

  ‘The breakfast conference with Uncle Colin. Most new kids get two minutes with their form tutor and a map that’s not even to scale. What did he say to you anyway?’

  ‘Not a lot. Just some stuff about values.’

  ‘Yes, Catchpole’s big on that these days. He knows the value of everything and the price of nothing – totally useless when he’s in Tesco.’

  If that’s supposed to be a joke, I don’t get it. ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘But it still doesn’t explain why I’m supposed to be babysitting you. Apparently it was Hoolyhan’s idea.’

  ‘Well, there you are.’

  But the cross-examination continues. ‘So what are you doing at St Thomas’s? I don’t know if you read the newspapers, Lauren, but it’s not the type of school that education ministers are queuing up to send their daughters to.’

  Luckily it’s a question I’ve been revising for. ‘We’ve just moved into the area. My dad’s got a new job. I think it was the only school with a free place.’ (The last part is actually true.)

  ‘Yes, well I can believe that,’ says Katherine. ‘Not exactl
y brilliant timing though, is it – right in the middle of your GCSEs?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  Paranoia is stalking me again. A school is a school after all, no matter how many recycling bins it’s got.

  ‘Are you shaking?’ says Katherine. ‘Look, I don’t mean to be rude, Lauren, but it’s not exactly your first day at “big school”, is it? Unlike this sorry specimen.’

  A Year Seven straggler has been cut off from the herd. He stands beneath the Are You Getting Your Five a Day? poster, staring forlornly at a photocopied map.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ asks Katherine.

  ‘I think I’m lost,’ sobs the pathetic Year Seven.

  ‘Where do you need to get to?’

  ‘My tutor base.’ He dabs his eyes with his map. ‘It’s in the science block.’

  ‘I wouldn’t let them see you crying if I were you,’ says Katherine. ‘And anyway, there’s nothing to cry about, because you’re nearly there. Turn left at the end of the corridor and it’s right in front of you.’

  He smiles like a lottery winner and starts running. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘It does get better you know,’ calls Katherine, waiting until he’s safely round the corner before adding, ‘by about the end of Year Nine.’

  A moment later, we stop in front of a blue door.

  I reach up and check my hair. ‘Is this it then?’

  ‘Yes, this is it,’ says Katherine. ‘Follow me.’

  I try to delay her a few seconds longer. ‘What are they like? The other kids I mean.’

  ‘I won’t lie to you, Lauren. We’re not talking Hogwarts here.’

  So what are we talking? As the door opens, I prepare myself for the worst. But no one takes much notice as Katherine crosses to the front table and I slip into the seat beside her.

  The woman from the photo on Mr Catchpole’s filing cabinet is handing out timetables. She’s still wearing knee-length earrings, but the bright colours have been replaced by a layer of black. ‘Ah, Lauren, how lovely to see you. I’m Miss Hoolyhan, your form tutor.’

  ‘Hello, miss.’

  ‘Mind if I introduce you, Lauren?’ she whispers. ‘It might be good to get it over with.’

  ‘Okay, fine.’

  ‘You’d better stand up so everyone can see you.’

  I rise reluctantly, turning to face my new tutor group with soggy armpits and a sickly smile. It might not be the moment of truth exactly, but it’s certainly time for the first reality check.

  ‘Listen carefully for a moment,’ says Miss Hoolyhan. ‘I want you all to say hello to Lauren Wilson.’

  They chant it back like mutant zombies, ‘Hello, Lauren Wilson.’

  Everyone laughs, including Miss Hoolyhan. And so do I, because it’s not malicious, just silly. A couple of them are definitely smiling at me and there’s even a wolf whistle from the back. Katherine tuts and mutters ‘idiot’, but considering the doomsday scenarios I’ve been playing out in my head, it’s just an incredible relief.

  ‘Lauren’s new to the area,’ says Miss Hoolyhan. ‘She doesn’t know anyone at all round here. So I hope you’ll make her welcome.’

  ‘I’ll make you welcome, babe,’ comes a voice from the back.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Conor,’ says Miss Hoolyhan. ‘That’s quite enough of that.’

  Conor obviously doesn’t think so. ‘Tall, isn’t she, miss?’

  ‘I don’t see what —’

  ‘Oi, Lauren, do you get dizzy up there?’

  My sickly smile gets even sicker.

  ‘You know what they say about tall girls, don’t you, miss?’

  ‘No, Conor, I —’

  ‘They’ve got massive …’ He wiggles his hands in front of his chest. ‘… feet!’

  I close my eyes and wait for the others to join in. But it doesn’t happen.

  ‘Give it a rest, Conor,’ says a girl with perfect blonde highlights. ‘No one thinks you’re funny, all right?’

  ‘All I’m saying is, if the lovely Lauren needs someone to hold her hand on her first day then Conor Corcoran’s your man.’

  Miss Hoolyhan gestures at me to sit down. ‘Yes, thank you, Conor. I think we’ve got that covered.’

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ says Katherine. ‘He’s just the latest in a long dynasty of dickheads. This school’s full of them. Believe me, it can only get worse.’

  But it really doesn’t. Miss Hoolyhan hands out more timetables and our ELRs (we used to call them homework diaries, but they’re extended learning records here), and then makes a little speech about not making the wrong choices and starting Year Eleven as you mean to go on.

  It’s brilliant. No one gives me a second look. And time passes so quickly that I can hardly believe it when the bell goes.

  ‘Just a second, Lauren,’ says Miss Hoolyhan. ‘Before you charge off, can I have a quick word please?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  Katherine is lurking like a sinister guide dog.

  ‘Would you mind waiting outside, Katherine? There’s something I need to say to Lauren.’

  Katherine stands her ground. ‘Are you sure about that, miss? I’m the one who’s supposed to be looking after her. Wouldn’t it be better if you told me too?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Katherine. It’s only some extra admin anyway. Now if you don’t mind, I really do need to crack on.’

  Katherine slinks to the door. ‘I’ll be right outside.’

  Miss Hoolyhan clears her throat, shuffles some papers, and generally looks about as comfortable as a teacup in a field of bulls.

  Eventually she speaks. ‘There’s something I feel I ought to mention.’

  She wouldn’t, would she? I mean she couldn’t. It’s what they decided at all those meetings; that it was better for everyone if certain subjects were strictly off limits.

  ‘We’ve had some … situations at St Thomas’s – quite recently actually – where certain students could have come to me with their problems.’ She caresses the tassels of her black silk scarf. ‘But for various reasons, which I still don’t really understand, they chose not to.’

  I’m relieved and confused at the same time. ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘What I’m trying to say is that I hope if you have any difficulties – and I really can’t see why you should – I want you to feel comfortable talking to me. You would feel comfortable about that, wouldn’t you, Lauren?’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ I lie.

  ‘We won’t judge you here.’

  (It seems like everyone judged that girl who ran off with the teacher.)

  ‘I just want to get on with it, miss. Start living my life again.’

  ‘That’s a great attitude, Lauren. Now, I think Katherine’s waiting for you. Enjoy your first lesson at St Thomas’s.’

  (She obviously doesn’t know what it is.) ‘Thanks, miss.’

  ‘Oh and, Lauren …?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think you’re very brave.’

  6

  LOCKED IN THE LAVATORY (PART TWO)

  Girls’ changing rooms always smell the same – of toxic body sprays and intimidation. I’ve had some of the worst times of my life in these places so it’s hardly surprising that, in spite of the sweaty atmosphere, it really gives me the shivers.

  I sit on the bum-scrunching wooden bench beneath the pegs, praying for an act of God (or at least a fire drill) so that I won’t have to start squeezing myself into those horrid Lycra shorts.

  It’s not that I’m particularly self-conscious or anything, but getting my kit off in front of thirty budding body-image consultants is not my idea of fun. I’ve been there, done that, got the mental scars, and a couple of real ones to prove it.

  ‘More changing and less yattering please,’ says the prison warder in the tracksuit. ‘I want you out on the netball courts in two minutes.’

  Katherine looks like a fish on a bicycle in her PE kit. ‘Oh God, not that. Anything but that.’

  ‘Don’t you like netball then?’
>
  ‘Yes, very funny, Lauren. But if you want to be a comedienne you’re going to have to work on your material.’

  The prison warder stands over me, her whistle dangling. She obviously doesn’t know my ‘tragic backstory’, so I won’t be getting any special treatment. ‘Did you not hear me or something? By the time we get out there, it’ll be time to pack up again. So get a move on please.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  I hang my jacket on the peg and take off my tie. But as soon as I start unbuttoning my top, I lose all control of my fingers, and I can’t go on.

  Meanwhile, Katherine has gone off on a comedy routine of her own. ‘Of course, any game where you have to wear bibs is bound to be infantile. And I’ll tell you what I really hate …’

  But I never get to find out. My neck is burning, my knees are trembling and my chest feels like it’s going to implode. It’s been a while now, but I have a pretty good idea what’s coming next. I need to get out of here before the tunnel vision kicks in.

  ‘Are you all right?’ says Katherine. ‘You’ve gone a very funny colour.’

  I grab my Beatles messenger bag and stumble to the cubicles at the back.

  One’s out of order and the other one’s locked. I hammer on the door. ‘Open up. Please, please, I need to —’

  ‘All right, all right, I won’t be a minute.’ A girl with a slag bag emerges. ‘Sorry about that, it’s like the bloody Niagara Falls down there. Are you on too?’

  ‘Yes,’ I lie, pushing past her into the cubicle and locking the door.

  Hot flushes give way to cold sweats. And I really think I’m going to die.

  Maybe I have already, because when it all goes quiet in the changing room, I hear a voice from the other side.

  ‘What are you doing in there?’

  I know it’s nearly ending when I almost manage to speak. ‘I’m just …’

  ‘Look, everyone hates PE,’ says Katherine. ‘It’s a basic human emotion. But it’s on the national curriculum, Lauren, so we have to suck it up.’

  ‘Have they all gone yet?’