The Banker's Niece 17: The concert

June 1979

‘You sit in the front with Dougie,’ said Rick.

    ‘No, no, it’s OK,’ said Jane. ‘I’ll be fine.’

    Actually, she wouldn’t. She hated squashing in the back of the van. It made her travel-sick, there were no seats so she had to sit on the floor which was awkward if she was wearing a skirt, she couldn’t see out as there were no windows, all the band’s equipment – their ‘gear’ as they called it – had sharp edges that dug into her, and every time the van went round a corner she slid into Johno and Steve, both of whom looked at her as if it was her fault.

    But she was there under sufferance, and she didn’t want to make things worse by taking Rick’s place in the passenger seat. He was the leader after all. He couldn’t slum it in the back.

    And she’d thought that attending the concert was such a good idea when she woke up that morning. It was the band’s biggest yet, part of an end-of-year, end-of-exams celebration at the university, and she hadn’t been to one of their concerts for months.

She had tried to be involved with the band, really she had.

    Right at the very start, back in January, it was she who’d come up with the band’s name. It was Saturday and the ‘boys’, as she called them, had all ended up in the flat for a cup of tea after their first rehearsal in one of the farm’s unused barns.

    She’d just started her new job as Editorial Trainee at a local publisher and was working on a book of Greek myths. The name Minotaur had popped into her mind and she couldn’t resist blurting it out, even though she’d played no part in the conversation up until then and was meeting Johno and Steve for the first time so had no idea what would appeal to them.

    Rick nodded sagely, which meant either that he was thinking over her suggestion or that he was desperately trying to remember what ‘Minotaur’ meant.

    Steve, the bass guitarist, who was only seventeen, looked blank.

    ‘Hmm,’ said Johno, keyboards and harmony vocals, who was ‘classically trained’ according to Rick and worked as a music teacher. ‘It might fit in with the band’s ethos.’

    ‘And then,’ said Jane excitedly, ‘you could call your first album “Ariadne’s thread”.’

    That was obviously a step too far. The boys stared into their mugs of tea and went back to talking about ‘chord progressions’ and ‘bridges’ and ‘hooks’.

    So when she had the idea for Rick’s stage surname, his real surname ‘Beer’ being liable to misinterpretation as well as too Devonian and too prosaic, she saved it up for when she and Rick were alone together and awake, which wasn’t often.

    ‘Rockford,’ she said, ‘like Jim Rockford in the Rockford Files.’

    It was mostly Jane who watched the programme as Rick was nearly always out in the evenings, but she knew Rick had seen it once or twice and enjoyed it.

    ‘It sounds so good with your first name and the “Rock” bit fits in with the band’s ethos.’

    ‘No it doesn’t,’ snapped Rick. ‘We don’t have an ethos. Music’s music. I hate categories.’

    Jane dropped the subject. She didn’t want to set off a rant, ‘categories’ being one of Rick’s bêtes noires. But she knew she was right.

    She’d been enthusiastic initially at the prospect of attending the band’s concerts or ‘gigs’ but they turned out to be in such seedy places and she had to sit on her own and men kept trying to pick her up. She always explained that she was ‘with the band’ but that simply made them leer all the more. She couldn’t stand it.

    She’d even gone to rehearsals to start with but that hadn’t lasted. The barn was filthy and freezing cold. The band never played anything through from beginning to end - they kept stopping, or playing the same bits over and over, or sticking in new bits they’d just invented. And they never asked her opinion or took any notice of her whatsoever. She might as well have not been there.

    But perhaps she hadn’t tried hard enough. Perhaps it was her fault she and Rick lived separate lives these days. Perhaps she should have another go.

‘I might come to the concert this evening,’ she'd said at breakfast as she ate her muesli at the table.

    Rick was tearing round the flat sorting out equipment, occasionally taking a slurp from a mug of tea in the kitchen.

    ‘Oh,’ he said, stopping dead. ‘No. That’s not a good idea. Not at all.’

    ‘Whyever not?’ She didn’t understand. She thought he’d be pleased.

    ‘The, um, the lads wouldn’t like it.’

    ‘But I would,’ she said in a small voice.

Dougie climbed into the back of the van and gave her a hand up.

    ‘Thanks,’ she said as she scrambled in.

    She’d known Dougie, Rick’s old schoolfriend, since the year before when he and Rick first had the idea for the band. He may not have been the best looking of the band members – to tell the truth, he was the only one of the band members who wasn’t good-looking, but then as drummer he was hidden at the back so it didn’t matter – but he was always kind to her. He noticed her at least.

    When not in use, the van lived in safety in his parents’ garden in a respectable area of  the city and he did all the driving. Jane was glad about that. She wouldn’t have trusted any of the others, least of all Rick.

    Dougie gave her a funny lopsided smile. She wondered if he’d been to the dentist.

    As she tried to make herself comfortable on the floor of the van, she could hear the boys talking in low voices outside.

    ‘Are you sure you’ve told her?’ asked Dougie.

    ‘Of course I have,’ said Rick irritably.

    ‘Well so long as she's not coming. We don’t want any trouble,’ said Johno in his pompous way.
    'No we don't,' said Steve, who always agreed with Johno.
    ‘Look,’ said Rick, sounding really cross. ‘It’s my business. It’s my life. It’s all under control.’

    Rick was cross all the time now. That was why she didn’t complain about him never being there. It was so much easier at home on her own. She wondered what it was he was supposed to have told her and what outing she was being excluded from.
    Dougie parked the van behind Exe House, the main university building, and the boys fell immediately into a well-ordered machine, hefting boxes out of the van and trundling them into the building. Jane didn’t bother offering to help; she suspected she wouldn't get an answer.

    Instead, she walked on her own round to the front, to the row of glass swing-doors that led to the examination halls and the official entrance to the Great Hall where the concert was to be held.

    Rick had asked her if she wanted to watch from ‘back stage’ but he sounded so grudging she’d declined the offer.

    ‘I’ll see and hear better from the front,’ she’d said.

    The evening sun bounced off the glass. Students strode about in shorts carrying tennis rackets and hockey sticks. She knew that if she looked hard enough at a certain spot on the horizon she’d be able to glimpse the sea.

    The university touted the campus, with its woods, lakes and shrubs, as one of the most beautiful in the country. People visited from all over. She however hadn’t been here since she finished her finals almost exactly a year earlier. She hadn’t wanted to return. She hadn’t wanted to be reminded of that time last summer.

    Not because of the exams, strangely, even though they’d required a monumental effort.

    Because of everything else.

    She supposed she did the right thing. What else could she have done to keep everyone happy? At least she and Rick were still together and at least she still saw her parents – on her own of course.

    It was just that . . . just that when she thought of her life these days all she saw was a grey cloud.

   

She sat on the floor against one of the side walls, nursing the plastic tumbler of warm white wine she’d bought from the bar. She knew the Hall well. She and Rick used to come here a lot to listen to bands. Except around the balcony there were never any chairs. Those near the stage danced and everyone else stood.

    People dribbled in and the air filled with smoke. Jane started to feel a little dizzy. She wasn’t a fan of cannabis. It reawakened things.

    Noise levels rose. There was a good crowd forming and she was glad for the band’s sake. She stood up and pushed her way to the stage. She didn’t know if she’d dance but she wanted to be in the vanguard.

   

At last, when her legs were starting to ache and she'd given up hope of ever seeing the band, the Hall lights went out and everyone stopped talking at once. The curtains drew back and the stage exploded with light, movement and sound. Rick was at the front – in purple bell-bottoms she didn’t recognise – singing and wielding his guitar like a machine-gun.

    Her throat locked. She didn’t know him. He didn’t belong to her any more. He was making love to every woman in the world. Every woman, that is, except her.

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The Banker's Niece 16: Jane's New Life

How could I have been so stupid, she thinks as she puffs up the track. How could I have forgotten about contours?

    The path may have looked easy when she studied the map at home but now when she looks at it again she notices the sinuous, not to say sinister, brown lines covering the entire surface like a watercolour wash. What’s more, her path cuts across a series of ever-closer lines, which means – as far as she remembers – that the terrain will become even steeper.

    She stops to catch her breath and look around.

    It’s a wide path with high banks. Sun shines through the scrub along the top of the right bank, lighting up a tangle of ivy on her left and making the leaves gleam as if lacquered. Opposite, in shade, are tree roots coated in lime-green moss. She touches it. It’s as dense and real as Jasper’s fur. It makes her feel a bit peculiar. She has a mad idea that the moss is conscious.
    It's weird. In London, where everything important is supposed to happen, you have to insulate yourself from your surroundings in order to survive. Here in the country, where it is supposed that nothing happens, your surroundings talk to you.

    She can hear Jasper crashing around at the top of the bank. He’s been racing up and down the track and up and down the banks, dislodging rubble and startling Jane out of her reveries. She has a sneaking suspicion he's teasing her. So much for him being unfit.

     Her t-shirt is damp with sweat so she takes off her waterproof and tries to stuff it into her backpack. However, as the pack already contains her discarded fleece, a woolly hat, a scarf, gloves, a waterbottle, her purse and her phone, she gives up and ties the waterproof round her waist. She didn’t believe locals when they boasted that in Devon you could experience four seasons in one day so she’s come prepared for three only. She neglected summer. It is February, after all.

   

At last she reaches the top of the track and emerges from between the hedgebanks to find herself walking along a high ridge between stony fields filled with sheep. They stare at Jasper with suspicion so she gets the lead out and clips it to his collar. She wonders if the sheep know that makes him safe. She hopes so as she wouldn’t like to upset them. Isn’t it around now that they start producing lambs? Or have things changed in the four decades since she last had close contact with the countryside?

    The sky has clouded over. Up here, exposed, there's a wind. It buffets her hair and flattens her damp t-shirt to her chest. Back to autumn. With one foot on the lead, she puts her waterproof on again and retrieves her hat, gloves and scarf.

    She sets off once more, striding purposefully. How nice it is to use her body instead of being hunched over a desk or slumped on the sofa. Jasper is a bit of a nuisance though, tugging at his lead. The sooner she can let him off, the better.
    Far away on the horizon on either side of the ridge she can see big brown hills. Could these be Exmoor and Dartmoor? The back of her neck prickles. Exploring the moors was definitely on her list of Things to do When She Moved to the Country but, now that she sees them, she’s not so sure. They look ancient and fierce, like sleeping dinosaurs. She doesn't feel equipped either mentally or physically to deal with them. She doesn’t want to end up lost in the Wild Wood like foolish Mole in The Wind in the Willows*. Who would rescue her?

    She thinks about some of the other items on her list, like learning yoga, catching up on reading, and getting involved with the community (whatever that means). What with all the hoo-ha of moving, she's put them out of her mind and, coming back to them, they seem rather tame. They’re what the old Jane would have done, and she wants to be completely new.

    Looking at the wide open spaces all around her, she wonders about paragliding, being an artist, running naked.

    Now she’s just being silly.

Before long, the path starts to slope again, down this time, and instead of a high hedge on her right there is only a fence. Far below, cupped in the hills, is a village. Muddicombe, she hopes. She can see a grey-stone church tower and rows of white houses. She can hear a hubbub of children’s voices. They must be outside enjoying the good weather.

    A shaft of sun shoots out from a gap in the clouds and floods the village in light. For a moment, Jane thinks it’s God pointing a finger, showing her the way to go. ‘Everything is a sign,’ says Sharon’s voice in her head. Well, Sharon says a lot of things and Jane doesn’t necessarily believe them. Nevertheless, she unclips Jasper from his lead and the two of them half-walk, half-run down the slippery path.

    Since saying goodbye to William earlier in the morning she’s not met a single soul. For the first time since moving she’s been ‘enjoying the peace of the country’ – another item on her list. It’s not been at all what she expected. She thought it would either be scary or that it would lull her. On the contrary, even though nothing has happened, it’s been exciting. It’s woken her up.

    She’s ready now to move on. Today is the real start of her New Life in the Country. So much for Sharon’s dire warnings about catastrophe (The Tower) and ghosts from her past (the Prince of Wands). Even though the tarot cards are still vivid in her mind, she knows that only good things await her below.

She stands outside Muddicombe village shop, confused. She’s lost her focus. The world has turned ordinary again. Garish posters advertising special offers adorn the shop windows. The square is chock-a-block with cars and it smells of them too.

    She doesn’t know what to do. She’s not ready to walk back: she’s not even sure she could. Perhaps she should she go to the Merry Harriers and have some lunch, but would they take Jasper and does she really want to sit there on her own like a lemon? Anyway, she’s not hungry. The walk has dampened her appetite.

    Chocolate, she thinks. When in doubt, chocolate. She always has room for chocolate and she certainly deserves it after all that climbing.

    Leaving Jasper attached by his lead to a convenient hook in the wall, she pushes open the shop door.

    She’s been into the shop before. She often drops in  after work to pick up nibbles for William's visit. Although the butcher with its trays of raw meat takes up half the premises, she has to her surprise found guacamole, hummus and olives hidden in the fridges as well as delicious oatcakes and sesame-studded biscuits on a gourmet shelf.

    The shop has always been full of people. Customers have been loading up their baskets and the assistants busy dealing with the queues at the tills. She’s been able to disappear into the background. She hasn't had to engage with anyone.

    Today, the shop is empty. Three large women assistants stand behind the counter. They stare at Jane, like the sheep staring at Jasper. She’s tries to smile, knowing straight away that’s the wrong thing to do. She should either stalk in as if she owned the place, or charm them all with her banter. The assistants ignore her.

     Jane hides behind the chocolate shelves. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

    She's too upset by her social inadequacy to concentrate on the chocolate, but what she has spotted with the unaccustomed emptiness of the shop is a rack of newspapers.

    And she knows that, whatever happens, she must not turn round to look at them. Broadsheets are all right but tabloids, like chat shows and all populist television, are poison for her. She forswore them many years ago.

    She turns round.

    It’s the picture that catches her attention first. Then the headline ‘The Rock crumbles’. Then she reads the small paragraph under the picture.

    A bullet of pain shoots from her right shoulder, up her neck and over her head, coming to rest with dreadful inevitability above her right eye.

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*By Kenneth Grahame

The Banker's Niece 15: The walk

Jane wanders up the track she shares with William, her new green wellies on her feet and her new orange Ordnance Survey ‘Explorer 2 ½ inches to 1 mile’ map clasped in her hand.

    Today, for the first time in five months, she hopes to cross an item off the list of things she wanted to do when she ‘moved to the country’, as her London friends put it. She herself didn’t think of her move like that. She thought of it as ‘escaping from London’ but she compiled the list anyway, largely so that she had something to say when her friends asked how on earth she was going to amuse herself ‘in the back of beyond’. They were probably jealous.

    It’s the change in the weather that’s spurred her on.

    Except for a few golden days in September when she was able to sit outside in the evenings, it’s blown and deluged ever since she arrived. From October onwards, bar external conferences with tradespeople sorting out a stream of domestic glitches, she’s done nothing but alternate between car trips and being indoors. So much for living in the country. She could have been anywhere. Apart from her journey to work – but that’s another story.

    This morning however as soon as she drew back her bedroom curtains and opened the window she knew that something was different, and it wasn’t simply that the wind and rain had stopped. The light was whiter. The air smelt of the sea instead of rotting vegetation. A daffodil had burst into flower at the bottom of her garden.

    Now, as she walks, she notices that there are bird noises everywhere, including an insistent ‘cheep cheep’ which she’s never heard before, and she keeps catching glimpses of little feathered shapes darting in and out of the hedgerow.

    In her new wellies, she negotiates the track’s obstacles with confidence, squishing into cowpats and splashing through puddles. Soon you would hardly know the wellies were once green. They're plastered with Devon’s orange mud, some of which is unfortunately also jumping inside them. She holds on to a fence post and stands on one leg to empty each boot in turn. It doesn’t make much difference. Some bird cackles.

    She has William to thank for the boots. He gave her a lift ‘back along’ – a local phrase she has noticed and is trying to insert into her own lexicon – to the farm supplies centre. There, as well as wellies, she stocked up on other essentials of country living – a torch, humane mousetraps, a quilted gilet, draught-excluding snakes for the bottom of doors and special dirt-absorbing mats. She never realised how sheltered city-life was.

    The shop was a revelation too. Full of useful things like waterproof hats and thick socks, woodburning stoves, fencing, animal medicine and bulk food. She’ll be back, of that she has no doubt.

   

She finds William hosing down the milking parlour, the smart redbrick building she spotted last June when she first visited. Even though it’s a Saturday, he’s still working. He nearly always is.

    ‘Janey,’ he says, breaking into one of his smiles.

    Some days she could almost fall in love with him. Almost, but not quite.

    He turns off the tap and comes to stand next to her. She wishes he hadn’t. With the new freshness of the atmosphere, the cowshit on his overalls smells like vomit.

    ‘Lovely day, isn’t it,’ he says. ‘Almost spring-like.’

    So that’s what the difference is. Except during a heatwave or when it snowed, she never noticed the seasons in London. She’s forgotten what they’re like.

    ‘It is,’ she replies, unable to suppress her own smile.

    She’s still trying to play it cool, still unsure of William’s intentions, even though he drops in for drinks and nibbles several evenings a week. It suits them both. She learns about the area and he, she presumes, welcomes the human contact after a day on his own.
    He keeps trying to persuade her to accompany him to the Merry Harriers in the village but she thinks that might be a step too far. In any case, she can imagine the gossip. People have already started dropping hints about ‘the bird in the hand’ and how ‘you’re never too old’ etc etc. And she thought she’d got away from that, moving four hours’ drive from her mother.

    ‘Which is why’, she continues, ‘I need your help.’

    ‘Anything, you know that,’ he says.

    Something inside her gives a small tremor and she hastily suppresses it.

    ‘Well, two things,’ she says. ‘I’m thinking of going for a walk and wondered if I could borrow Jasper.’

    She wasn’t being quite honest when she blamed the weather for her lack of enterprise. She’s wanted to walk several times but never dared. She doesn’t remember ever being out in the countryside on her own and she doesn’t know what to expect. Is it safe? What about frisky cattle - fierce dogs - strange men? What if she gets lost, or falls and hurts herself?

    Then this morning, as she sat at the kitchen table in her dressing-gown downing her third espresso and looking longingly out of the window, the answer struck her like a message from God.

    She’s become very fond of Jasper over the months and has even made up a bed for him next to the kitchen radiator from an old pillow and towel so that he has somewhere to flop when he comes down with William – as he always does. He’s her sort of dog. He doesn’t bark or jump up or show his teeth. He’s a gentleman. He’s like a big warm teddy bear. She’ll be all right with him.

     ‘Of course,’ says William. ‘Walk him all you like. It’ll do the old boy good. Don’t get much time to take him out myself.’

    He unhooks a lead hanging on the wall. ‘Have this. You probably won’t need it but just in case.’

    ‘Thank you,’ she says, stuffing the lead into the pocket of her waterproof. ‘And the other thing –’

    She unfolded her map before she left home and then folded it again into a smallish square with Stockland, William’s farm, in the middle. She shows this now to William.

    ‘Do you have any suggestions as to where I should walk?’

    William trails a grimy index finger over the map, leaving a stain. Jane tries not to mind.

    ‘That’s a lovely footpath, bit steep but worth it for the view at the top. That field’ll be underwater at this time of year. I wouldn’t risk it. That wood’s very overgrown. You’ll have trouble getting through it. The route of that footpath has changed. That land belongs to old Dudley. He’s a sod. I wouldn’t go there if I were you . . .’

    Jane wishes she hadn’t asked. She decides to revert to her original plan which is to take a footpath that appears to head out of William’s farmyard straight for Muddicombe. The village is only a mile and half by car so it can’t be much further on foot. She should be able to manage that. And if she decides she doesn’t want to walk back she can ring Joe the Taxi who apparently lives nearby and who comes recommended by Lauren at work who knows or is related to everyone in the area.

    ‘Thank you,’ she says.

    She discovers Jasper snuffling through the undergrowth behind the ruined farm buildings. He gives the small jump with his front legs which is all he can manage by way of hello. He could definitely do with some exercise.

    There’s a yellow arrow on a post next to a battered metal gate leading into a field. That has to be the way. She unlatches the gate and Jasper shoots through, nose to the ground.

    William comes out of the milking parlour to see them off.

    ‘See you later,’ he calls.

    ‘I hope so,’ she says, as the gate slams behind her with an ominous clang.

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The Banker's Niece 14: The Chart of Food and Drink Consumed

1969

‘Half a piece of toast with butter and marmalade,’ wrote Jane in the column labelled Breakfast. ‘One cup black tea.’

    Good, that was good. She didn’t see how she could cut that down any further without her mother making a fuss. However, it wouldn’t be long before her mother noticed that there was half a piece of toast left over in the toast-rack at the end of the meal and wonder to whom it belonged.

    Jane had toyed with the idea of getting her father to eat it while her mother was in the scullery, but he only played with his own piece of toast, leaving most of it in crumbs on his plate, and anyway at breakfast he concentrated on his Times, which he folded into neat readable squares on the table next to him, and she didn’t like to interrupt.

    In the column marked Lunch she wrote ‘Nothing’.

    Perfect. No room for improvement whatsoever. Again, however, she wondered how long it would be before her absence from lunch was noticed. The prefects who headed the tables wouldn’t worry about an empty place occasionally as girls were always going missing – sobbing in the cloakrooms because of ‘boyfriend trouble’, in sickbay because they’d slipped over during Games, catching up on homework, leaving the school illegally in order to buy sweets.

    However teachers patrolled the buildings looking for stragglers and you had to have a jolly good excuse for them to leave you alone. Jane hid in the grounds, which was all right now that it was May, but would be impossible next term, as either she’d have to get outside somehow with her coat or mac, or she’d have to manage without them and reappear shivering and/or wet.

    There was a campaign led by some of the braver sixth-form girls for people to be allowed to bring packed lunches if they wanted. She doubted they’d win but, if they did, that would be the perfect solution. She could bring a packed lunch and give it away.

    Next, the column marked Supper. This was the trickiest one of all, as both her parents were present at the meal and both reasonably alert – unless her father had had too much whisky and her mother too much wine.

    Not that her father noticed what she ate and didn’t eat these days. The only time she could remember him noticing her at all was a few months ago, before she started her Chart of Food and Drink Consumed, when he suddenly looked up from his paper and said, ‘Haven’t you got nice and thin.’ She hadn’t realised it herself until then, but she had suddenly shot up in height so perhaps she’d stretched.

    ‘Cauliflower cheese, one boiled potato, salad,’ she wrote. ‘One apple. One glass water.’

   It was particularly annoying that she had to eat the potato, given that her mother never ate potatoes.
   No, the only way she improve on supper was to avoid it altogether, as she did lunch at school, but the only way she could do that was by going to a friend’s house and pretending to her mother that she would eat there and then pretending to her friend’s mother that she’d already eaten. But she only went out at weekends and in any case her mother was getting wise to the trick and trying to make Jane have some bread before she went.

    Her mother couldn’t actually force the bread down Jane’s throat, at least Jane didn’t think she could. But it was scary thought nonetheless, especially as they’d been learning about the suffragettes, and Mrs Clay, the history teacher, had shown them pictures of women tied to chairs or pinned to the floor, with food being poured down tubes stuffed up their noses. One of the girls in class had started gagging and had to leave the room.

    She slipped that week’s chart into her Biology textbook inside her school bag. It was the safest place she could think of.

Once upon a time Jane and Ollie had had their own private kingdom up in the attic. The stairs to the attic were steep and narrow and close to the ceiling and grown-ups struggled with them but she and Ollie used to scamper up on all fours and then float down holding on to the banister with their feet hardly touching the steps like in dreams. Only the airing cupboard and a secret passage separated their two bedrooms. They found the secret passage by accident. Well, Jane did.

    Both bedrooms had a cupboard under the eaves. At least grown-ups called them cupboards because they couldn’t stand up in them, but Jane and Ollie could, so they called them dens. At the far end of each den was a hatch and when they were feeling brave one or other of them would stick their head through the hatch into the darkness of the roof-space beyond.
    One day, when they were in Jane’s den, Ollie dared Jane to climb through the hatch and, because she was a year and a half older than him and enjoyed showing off to her goggling brother, she did. After a terrifying crawl across splintery rafters, through sticky cobwebs and past gurgling water-tanks, Jane found herself coming out of the hatch in Ollie’s den.

    They leapt up and down. It was exactly like in one of their favourite books, The Magician’s Nephew*. Who knew what else they might find in the roof? An entrance to another world? A mad uncle?

    What they did find, or at least what Jane found, was somewhere she could put things and be sure that neither her mother nor Mrs Greenaway would ever find them. And the main thing she put there was her Notebooks.

     She could hardly remember a time when she didn’t have Notebooks. She started them almost as soon as she could write, as soon as she realised that shouting and disagreeing with parents only got her shut away and that the angry letters she wrote them and pushed under the door of their bedroom probably weren’t even read. They never said they got them, at any rate.

    As well as copying things out from books, using her different-coloured biros, she wrote pretend angry letters. Writing these was almost better than writing real letters as she could put anything in them. She could threaten to kick people or pull their hair or scratch their faces, or even kill them. It was wonderful.

    The nearest she’d got to any of that in real life was kicking the life-size model of Father Christmas (when no one was looking) that sat in the hall every December, and having a wrestling match with Gaynor, the fiery Welsh girl at school. Unfortunately in that case, a teacher saw them from a window and told them to stop.

    Then she started using the Notebooks for writing stories about herself, in which she always got exactly what she wanted. That was exciting too, as it started her thinking about her future, about being grown-up and free. She decided that the only thing she wanted to be when she left home was naughty.

    One day other stories started to float into her mind. They weren’t about her. They weren’t even about people she knew. She didn't have to think about writing them: they wrote themselves. They gave her tingles. They were magic. They were like a secret passage in her mind.

    But two years ago when Ollie was eleven he went away to boarding school and her parents decided that she should move down to a bedroom on the first floor. With Elaine, the nanny, gone there was a spare room, even with the two rooms kept for guests and her parents taking up three rooms between them – one for sleeping and one each for their clothes.

    ‘We’ll be able to keep an eye on you down here,’ said her mother.

    ‘And we’ll save on heating,’ said her father.

So here she was sitting at her desk in Elaine's old bedroom. It wasn’t too bad. There were three rooms between her and her parents’ bedroom. She had her own bathroom. She still had a view.

    She missed Elaine. She used to sit on Elaine's rug in front of her electric fire in the evenings after Jane's bath and they had long talks together. Once on her night off Elaine took Jane on the bus with her to stay with her parents at their flat in Tunbridge Wells. Before bed they all sat round the gas fire together drinking Horlicks, and Elaine's mother smiled at Jane. She felt so happy.
    But that was a long time ago.
    She looked out of the window. The sun was setting behind the line of trees on top of the Downs. Perhaps she and Ollie could go walking up there when he came home from school in the holidays. She missed Ollie too.
    She had no time for Notebooks any more, what with homework and her chart. She didn’t even know if the Notebooks were still in the roof-space, as the attic was shut off and she had no excuse for going up there. And anyway she’d be much too big to get through the hatch now.

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* By C S Lewis. The prequel to The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

The Banker's Niece 13: Jane's secret

1968

Jane switched on her bedside light and checked her clock. One a.m. Her parents should be asleep by now. She would be safe.

    She climbed out of bed and knelt in front of her bedside cabinet. She’d undone the catch before she went to bed so that it wouldn’t make a noise. All she had to do now was swing the door open.

    As she did so the smell rushed out, even though she’d wrapped everything as well as she could in newspaper and then put the newspaper packages inside a giant brown-paper bag. She squashed the package and tucked it into the waistband of her pyjama trousers then wrapped herself in her dressing-gown. With any luck that would disguise both the shape and the smell and then, if her parents did catch her, all she had to do was pretend she was wandering around because she couldn’t sleep.

    Although it was February and she knew that the job would take some time, she didn’t put her slippers on. It was difficult to walk quietly in slippers. Bare feet would be much better.

    After turning out her bedside light and giving her eyes a few seconds to get used to the dark, she made her way across her bedroom and out on to the landing.

    She crept across the landing, using the furniture to help her find her way – the curved chest-of-drawers that had belonged to her mother’s mother, the velvet-covered chairs, the bookshelf, the banister around the stairwell. Every time a floorboard creaked she stopped, hoping that if her parents were awake they would think it was just the house making its usual noises.

    She inched her way downstairs, hanging on to the banister and feeling her way with her feet. She had a horrible vision of falling and crashing to the bottom and the contents of her parcel scattering and her mother shooting out and saying in her scary way, 'What on earth do you think you're doing?' 

    Downstairs, she tiptoed across the hall, trying not to slip on the rugs scattered over the wooden floor. Past the door to the dining-room, past the cloakroom and the door to the cellar, and then at last she reached the kitchen.

    Squeezing the door shut behind her, she leant against it for a few seconds, waiting for her heart to get back to normal. The kitchen was at the opposite end of the house from her parents’ room. She could probably relax now.

    As always the kitchen smelt of clean washing and apples. She could hear the tick of the little clock her mother kept on the shelf next to the fridge. She fumbled for the light switch and clicked it on, screwing her eyes up against the sudden brightness.

    The kitchen’s familiar clutter welcomed her. The basket of clothes waiting to be ironed. The plates piled on the dresser waiting to be put away. Shopping bags and her mother’s handbag hanging off the dresser’s drawer handles. Breakfast half-laid on the table.

    Apart from the attic, the kitchen was her favourite room in the house. You didn’t have to be on your best behaviour in here. You didn’t have to worry about knocking over a family heirloom or treading mud on to the pale blue carpet. You weren’t likely to meet some stranger who would eye you up like an exhibit.

    Because of the Aga it was always warm and when she was seven and the water in the cattle troughs froze solid for months and she and Ollie used to race outside every morning and slide on them, the family had more or less lived in the kitchen. They had central heating now of course. After that winter, her mother had insisted on it.

    It was a shame to have to do something so horrible in the kitchen, but at the same time the place made it better. Carefully, she hauled the parcel out of her pyjama bottoms and laid it on the floor in front of the Aga.

It wasn’t easy being younger than everyone else in her class at school as half the time she didn’t understand what the other girls were talking about, especially things about ‘boyfriends’.

    On her first day at senior school, she saw a sign in the lavatories that she didn’t understand.

     ‘Please do not put sanitary towels down the toilets,’ it said. ‘Use the bins provided.’

    ‘What are sanitary towels?’ she asked Anthea who’d been at junior school with her.

    ‘Don’t you know?’ giggled her friend.

    Why for that matter was the school using a word like ‘toilet’? Her mother would have had a fit if she'd known. It was one of those words like 'pardon' and serviette' that made her look as if the cat had been sick. It was all so confusing. Perhaps it was because her new school was a grammar school, not the private girls’ boarding school where her mother had gone and for which Jane had been ‘put down’ at birth.
    Her parents had made the decision about the school.

    ‘It’ll be so nice having you at home where we can keep an eye on you,’ said her mother.

    ‘And we’ll save so much money,’ said her father.

    Later in the year, the girls in her class were summoned in small groups to the study of the Religious Education teacher and shown diagrams of the reproductive organs of rabbits. In spite of this, things slowly started to make sense. Nevertheless, it was horrible changing for games and being the only girl not yet wearing a bra, even if she was at least as tall as all the others.

    So, when she first discovered blood on her knickers (the white ones which she wore underneath the regulation brown ones), she was thrilled. Now she too could pick at spots in the cloakroom mirrors and complain about it being ‘that time of the month’. She too could walk around clutching her stomach and avoid swimming.

    She rushed into her parents’ rooms where her mother was putting away clothes to tell her the good news. Her mother had tried to tell her the ‘facts of life’ one day but both of them had been so embarrassed that Jane had hurriedly said that she’d learnt all about them at school, even though there were lots of questions she would have liked to ask.

     Her mother said nothing, instead rummaging in a cupboard and bringing out some pieces of greying elastic with buttons on them and a packet of big white pads.

    ‘You fix your STs –’ she waved the packet - ‘to this -’ she waved the elastic contraption.

    Jane went back to her room and put them on. It was like wearing a nappy. She couldn’t walk properly and she couldn’t put her trousers on over them.

    After a while the pad became damp as if she’d peed herself. She wondered how often you changed the pads. When the blood came through the other side, she decided.

    Because of the notice at school she knew not to put the used pads – the ‘STs’ as her mother called them - down the lavatory so instead she wrapped them in newspaper and put them in the wastepaper basket in her bedroom.

    A few days later her mother beckoned her. She was holding the newspaper-wrapped packages. Some of the blood had seeped through and Jane could smell it from where she stood.

    ‘Mrs Greenaway found these when she was cleaning your room,’ she said.

    Mrs Greenaway lived in the flat above the stables with her husband the gardener. She was always going through Jane’s things and complaining about her.

    ‘It was very unpleasant for her,’ continued her mother. ‘Don’t put your STs in the wastepaper basket. Burn them in the Aga.’

As this was her second time, Jane knew more or less what to do. It had been much worse the first time as all she had to go on was her memory of what her mother did every morning when she cleared the Aga of ash and filled it with fresh ‘coke’.

    So she set to straight away. First she lifted the cover of the hot plate and propped it open against the back wall. It was heavy and she had to stand on tiptoes to reach and she was terrified of it crashing back down again on to her arm. The heat from the plate made the hair on her arms stand on end.

    Next she took the metal hook from its rack. It was longer than her arm and she struggled to manipulate it into the handle of the hefty stone bung in the centre of the hotplate. Finally it caught and she started levering out the bung. It came out with a rush, flames shot out of the hole, the Aga roared like a volcano and Jane jerked backwards, dropping both bung and metal hook. They rolled over the quarry-tiled floor with a clang that seemed never to end.

   She stopped breathing. Her palms broke out in sweat. She strained her ears for any sound of movement upstairs.

    At last the ringing stopped. No one came.

    One by one she picked the bloody packages off the floor and threw them into the flaming hole. She couldn’t wait to be rid of them but there were too many so they bulged out of the top. She’d have to let the bottom ones burn down so that she could poke the rest in properly. Then she’d have to stay and make sure they all caught fire and turned to ash. She couldn’t bear to leave any evidence for her mother to find in the morning.

    She pulled up the kitchen stool and sat down to wait.

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