Chapter 42: The Girls - The Golden Hours

PART SEVEN: AUTUMN 1965–SPRING 1966

Omolola Omole, Buttercup’s non-imaginary friend, was brought to Fakenham for a weekend, on her first ever visit to the English countryside. First, she had been beside herself at the size of Buttercup’s aunt and uncle’s house, and then again at the size of her family. ‘How do you remember all their names?’ she asked Buttercup, as she was carefully introduced to Pen, Rachel, Polly, Gerald, Edward, Jemima, Simon, Andrew and the twins. Buttercup did wonder where Uncle Hugh was, but nobody said anything to her about that. He couldn’t have gone far, though, because GUN 97 and Tonbridge were there and he never went anywhere without them.

‘Twins are magic in Nigeria,’ Lola said, and so Janie and Za interviewed her severely about how exactly.

‘You are protected by the God of Thunder,’ Lola said.

‘Marvellous!’ said Janie. ‘What else?’

‘You always have to be together or it is bad luck,’ she said, and they smiled.

‘You can run about at night and do mischief.’

‘Well!’ they said. ‘And?’

‘The first-born twin is Taiwo and the second one is Kehinde. Taiwo is sent by Kehinde to taste the world before Kehinde will come.’

Janie, half an hour older than Za, said, ‘Hang on!’ and Za said, ‘Oh! So I’m actually in charge?’ and Lola said, ‘Yes, you are Kehinde.’

‘Lady Eliza Kehinde Lisle,’ said Za.

‘Lady Jane Taiwo Lisle,’ said Janie.

‘Kenday,’ said Uncle Edward, smiling willingly, slightly bewildered, at the little girls. ‘Pretty name.’

‘Do you have any other special kinds of names?’ Aunt Rachel asked.

Lola smiled and said, ‘Yes.’

‘This is about half of them,’ Buttercup whispered to Lola.

‘My father has twelve brothers,’ Lola said, ‘but they are all called Uncle.’

Now Lola was beside herself again. They were sitting on a gate. Buttercup was practised at this; Lola held on tight to the post. She was wearing too-big gumboots of Pen’s (she had discovered both nettles and cowpats), and some thick socks of Buttercup’s which Nanny had supplied to replace Lola’s best thin white knee-length socks with the machine-embroidered red roses up the side, packed by her mother with some anxiety as to what should be worn by six-year-olds visiting aristocracy in Norfolk. There were evidently many perils in the countryside.

A brown cow, noble yet humble, stood before them in the wide green park. It seemed completely unconcerned.

‘It’s so BIG,’ Lola yelped.

‘It’s cow-sized,’ said Buttercup.

‘I’ve only seen pictures,’ said Lola, staring and staring. She bit her lip gleefully. ‘I thought they were the size of dogs.’

Buttercup laughed so much that Archie, standing behind them, had to catch hold of her lest she fall off the gate. A cow the size of a dog! Then, ‘What dog?’ Buttercup said. ‘A – chihuahua!’

‘Bless you,’ said Lola, and they all snorted.

‘It makes sense,’ said Archie. ‘Why wouldn’t they be?’

‘Are all animals lots of different sizes?’ asked Lola. ‘Imagine a dog the size of a cow!’

‘A mouse the size of a lion!’ cried Buttercup.

‘A lion the size of a mouse!’ They agreed that would be useful, you could keep it in your pocket.

‘How big are lions?’ asked Lola cautiously.

‘Bigger than cows!’ said Buttercup, who had never seen one.

‘Smaller, actually,’ said Archie. ‘Not so fat.’

‘Imagine a spider as big as an elephant . . .’ said Lola.

‘Do I have to?’ said Archie, and they said no, not if he was scared.

The girls were big enough to be allowed to walk down the linden avenue on their own, past the church and through the graveyard to the village, where the shop was. They had pocket money. KitKats called, and they set out, careful not to get hit by anything which might fall out of a tree, and not to step on anybody’s grave because they both knew if you disturbed a dead person, they would haunt you. Then they haunted each other for a while – wooh! – from behind the mossy gravestones, till Buttercup wondered if they might be giving the dead people ideas, and so they stopped that and tried to see if they could dance all the way into the village instead, but the only dance they knew was the Twist and that wasn’t going to get them far. ‘Though perhaps to Australia!’ said Lola, so they tried that, but gave up, plus Buttercup said they were almost there.

‘In Australia?’ said Lola, and they got the giggles again.

In the shop Mrs Latter came out from the back and gave a gasp. ‘Norman,’ she hissed. ‘Norman! Come out here!’

Mr Latter never came into the shop.

‘Norman!’ she squawked. ‘There’s a real little coloured girl here! Come!’

Lola and Buttercup stood there in their wellies.

‘I don’t mean to be rude but we’ve never seen a real coloured person before,’ Mrs Latter said. She wore a tabard, and her hair in a headscarf. ‘We’ve seen them on the telly of course and my sister in Norwich sees the American ones but we never have.’

Norman came out in his cardigan, and stared over his glasses.

Lola smiled brightly.

‘Two KitKats, please, Mrs Latter,’ said Buttercup. They put their sixpences on the counter.

‘That was strange,’ said Buttercup, as they left. ‘I didn’t know there were people who hadn’t seen people.’

‘I hadn’t seen a cow,’ said Lola.

Buttercup said, ‘I’m lucky, aren’t I, because I see both all the time.’ She hoped she didn’t sound like Mrs Latter, talking as if Omolola Omole was a thing.

‘It’s because you have the country and London,’ Lola said. Buttercup pondered. That is a lot of luck, she thought. ‘When we grow up we can have our own houses in both places,’ she said.

‘And in Lagos,’ said Lola.

Buttercup thought about the sea, and palm trees, and hot weather, and jollof rice. ‘I think my cousin who I don’t know lives in Nigeria,’ she said. ‘Is Ghana in Nigeria?’

‘No!’ cried Lola, laughing. ‘It is next door I think.’

‘My cousin flies aeroplanes,’ Buttercup said. ‘He could fly us to Nigeria.’ So they flew aeroplanes from London to Ghana to Nigeria all the way back through the graveyard and the wet grass and up the linden avenue.

Jemima seemed a little surprised when Nanny put them in the bath together after tea.

‘Why not, Aunt Jemima?’ Buttercup asked. And Jemima said yes, of course, and went away. Then they put their heads underwater accidentally on purpose, which was a bit naughty, but once it was done it was done, so Nanny felt she might as well wash their hair. Covered in foam, Buttercup shaped Lola’s hair into a Greek warrior’s helmet, and Lola made Buttercup’s be seaweed, and later when they were out Pen was jealous, and wanted to make their hair into things too, so they let him, but it wasn’t as good without the foam, and anyway they needed to dry it, which was serious for both of them, Lola’s so fluffy and Buttercup’s so long. Nanny had acquired something called Cream Silk which made it not hurt when she combed hair. If you went to bed with wet hair, you’d catch a cold. So they got to stay up late in front of the fire, and Nanny told them stories, and then Archie told them a story, and finally Clary came and told them a story, and though Archie was the funniest and Clary was the rarest, Nanny was the usual one so she was the most comforting.

* * *

Laura had no comfort. Every day she woke up and went to bed miserable. Nylon sheets in a chilly bloody dormitory, surrounded by country girls with no idea about life, cold toast and scratchy wool knickers and being made to go out into a freezing bloody field to play hockey. Bloody domestic science! She’d been doing Greek, for God’s sake. OK, she’d moaned about St Eleanor’s while she was there, but at least they didn’t assume we were all stupid.

Her mother hated her.

It wasn’t Laura’s fault. It hadn’t been her party! They’d said she could go back up to London, to Ladbroke Grove. If they hadn’t noticed that Archie and Clary were away, how was that her fault? It wasn’t even Mum and Dad’s house any more! Dad had no business turning up and upsetting everybody and, frankly, Neville had been very good about it. How was it her fault if Dad came barging in uninvited? Neville is ancient and perfectly allowed to have a party, why shouldn’t he, and why shouldn’t she go? How could she not go? She was staying there! So what was she meant to do? Did they want her to go out so as not to go to the party? It made no sense. She had done nothing wrong. She had told Mum this repeatedly. Of course it was awful that Dad had been taken ill, honestly, of course it was –

She couldn’t actually bear to think about that.

– but why did she have to leave St Eleanor’s and be sent off to the country?

She had seen the shock in her father’s eyes when he saw her with Pete. Nobody else saw that. Nobody knew what she’d done to her father. They hadn’t seen the look in his eyes.

She couldn’t bear to think about that either. She bit her nails and recited the Greek alphabet, hectically, over and over, which served to distance those thoughts.

So she had been hauled back from London and plonked back at the stupid school, where her twin cousins wouldn’t talk to her for some stupid school reasons, and she learned nothing, and how was she going to get to university now? How would that help Dad? She hadn’t liked St Eleanor’s but at least they taught you stuff. And if you got an exhibition or a scholarship to Oxford or Cambridge, they would carve your name in gold on the marble wall in the atrium. Dad would be so proud of her . . . She’d worked out that if she went to a college with more than eight letters in its name, she’d take up two lines. If she hyphenated her first names, she could make three! Laura-Katherine Cazalet. She’d written it inside her books, hyphenated, so that when the time came there’d be written historical evidence. They’d been learning about primary sources in history, with Miss MacDonald who was definitely a lesbian. Apparently you could tell by her lipstick. They’d been doing the First World War, which was Dad, basically. For the other girls, it was their grandads.

Oh Dad.

And now at this school they don’t even do history.

And Pete! Oh God. People thought he was thick because he wasn’t posh but he was quick and clever, he could get in and out of trouble in no time at all. Mum had cornered her and demanded to know why she was at the party, who was that man, why had she lied? Neville or somebody must have said something. She’d just brazenly said, ‘It’s none of your business!’ and Mum had said, well, until you’re sixteen it is actually, and asked if she was a virgin, and said you know if you’re having sex under age he could go to prison, and like a noodle she’d said, ‘Well he’s been there before, perhaps he thinks I’m worth it.’

Which, looking back, was not the brightest thing to say. And not actually true. He’d spent a night at the police station after a misunderstanding involving a motorcycle, and been let out unblemished.

And then Mummy said she was glad Dad wasn’t here to hear it, and Polly – yes, they were in on it – started crying and Gerald called her ‘Young Lady’.

And now she was here, sent away, and she really had done nothing wrong. That they knew about. Because it’s not wrong to kiss a boy. Even if he’s nineteen. And anyway, Dad’s years older than Mummy, and Uncle Rupert and Archie are much older than Aunt Zoë and Clary, and Archie was literally her dad’s best friend, so they must have all been kissing older boys when they were younger. And the uncles were kissing them back.

Well, that was disgusting to think about. But what hypocrites!

Aunt Rachel knew something, though, and that was embarrassing. Every now and then she’d given Laura a hug round the shoulders.

And anyway, they hadn’t had sex! They’d agreed not to till her birthday, about which she’d only lied to him a little. Fifteen is almost sixteen, isn’t it? And now she’d be here in this bloody dormitory full of provincial nitwits rather than losing her virginity in Pete’s beautiful arms, overlooking the treetops.

Back in London The Sidewinders and The Vagabonds were playing the Marquee. Pete would be going. Neville would probably be going, not that she cared what he did, but he was one of those grown-ups who wouldn’t tell you off and make you go away; he’d give you a cigarette and get you into the club, and she was fully aware of how helpful they could be. Though actually, apparently he’d gone back to America, so –

Juliet would go. Bertie and Georgie could go if they had the nous, or wanted to. Even Harriet could go! Only Laura was locked up and punished. She wished she had some dope but Pete didn’t even know where she was and it was clear that nobody here had ever even smoked a cigarette. She’d had a little bit left in the old 78s needle tin, but she had no papers or tobacco; if she’d been at Fakenham, she could have stolen one of Aunt Rachel’s straights and poked the tobacco out and re-stuffed it but they all had their eagle eyes on her all the time and there’d been no opportunity and anyway, she was at bloody school.

Laura didn’t really like dope much. She liked the idea of being a girl who liked dope. She liked Pete.

Oh God, it was all such a mess.

Poor, poor Daddy.

* * *

Janie and Za, up on the school roof, the leads cool under their feet, slate tiles behind their backs to lean on, were gazing out over the grounds. They could see the tennis court (mossy, out of condition) and the pool (empty, stained and mournful, since some girls – well, all right, them – had been found swimming there late one moonlit summer night, possibly with a boy from the village but nobody was sure because although large wet footprints had been spotted heading into the bushes, they soon dried out and the twins both swore they were from a yeti).

They had dealt firmly with any attempt by Laura to tag along. She was simply not relevant here. Her London affectations did not go unnoticed. Swanning around, though it was an offence, they could ignore. Talking about them to other girls, however – infra dig girls – as if she had the right to, and/or knew anything about them, was unacceptable. And then she had invited somebody, a girl in her year she was trying to be friends with, to their home. Their home. Without even asking them. If they wanted people to see their enormous, ridiculous house, they’d invite them themselves, thank you very much. And there were future risks: if, for example, she found out about the betting ring, and their friend the bookie at Newmarket, not only would they lose a good source of income, but – well, you know grown-ups.

They’d decided after all to get a couple of A levels. They could always pretend not to have them, if they got in the way, but there was no point in pre-thwarting oneself, and you had to have maths O level anyway to get any kind of job, and apparently doing some little job in London was where you would meet your husband.

‘Draw up the agenda, Janie,’ Za said, and Janie pulled out their notebook. ‘Item one,’ Za said, ‘Don’t tell Laura.’ This was always item one now. Janie wrote it down. ‘Item two: Honour as a twin and a pal.’ This had been item one for years, but had to be two now because of the security threat posed by Laura. ‘Item three,’ Janie wrote, getting down to business. ‘How to make them send her back.’

‘We could get her expelled?’ It was tempting, but everybody – except perhaps Laura – knew that actually it was practically impossible to get expelled. The teachers were too thick to notice what the girls did, and Mrs Munro didn’t care because apparently expelling girls was bad for the school’s reputation. Plus, would St Eleanor’s take her back if she were expelled? They didn’t need her to be miserable; they’d be perfectly happy for her to go back to her swanky London school. They just wanted her to be not here.

Dear Mum and Jemima,

We’re sorry to be the bearers of bad news but we do feel you ought to be told. Laura is not being treated properly here. There are some quite nasty older girls who have taken against her and the teachers are simply not fair. She is so upset about Grandpa Hugh and really does deserve kindness at this difficult moment.

‘Too auntly?’ asked Za.

‘Yes,’ said Janie.

Za crossed it out.

Whatever Laura may have done to be sent here . . .

They didn’t actually know whether or not she’d done anything, but it was pretty likely and worth a punt.

. . . we feel that as we are all considering our futures and Laura is a bright girl . . .

‘Too teacherly?’ asked Za.

‘Yes,’ said Janie.

Za crossed it out.

Laura is pretty clever, she should really be at a school where she has a chance of doing better like back at St Eleanor’s. She won’t say so because she is too thoughtful.

‘They’ll never fall for that,’ said Janie.

She won’t say so but she is unhappy and it’s not just because of family, it is the school itself, and in our opinion it is not going to get any better.

‘I think we’re going to have to say outright that she’s being bullied,’ said Za. ‘Otherwise they’ll just give us all that guff about give it a chance and let her settle in.’

She’s being bullied and has no friends and the teachers don’t care about that here. It’s all right for us because we were here first but we can’t look after her because she’s not in our year.

Lots of love from Janie and Za

That should do it. Even parents know you can’t help someone who’s not in your year. You can’t even talk to them!

‘Why do people always say “she’s being bullied”, and not “so-and-so is bullying her”?’ asked Za. ‘It rather lets so-and-so off the hook, doesn’t it? As if people just go about willy-nilly, getting themselves bullied, and nobody else is involved.’

* * *

A few days later, Laura was called to the headmistress’s office. There was a pot of tea and three cups on the desk.

Gerald and Rachel stood there. Mrs Munro withdrew. Laura began to say something cutting about her mother not being bothered to come.

‘Laura, darling,’ said Aunt Rachel, and Laura froze.

Her father was dead. They’d hoped to be able to operate but he hadn’t been well enough. Jemima had been with him till the last moments; Uncle Edward had been there too, playing chess with himself on the end of the bed, talking through the game, pretending he was playing with Hugh. Rachel told her, speaking softly.

‘It is my fault,’ Laura said, before she could stop herself.

Aunt Rachel reached her hands out, laid one gently as a leaf on Laura’s shoulder, used the other to lift her chin.

‘Darling girl,’ she said, looking at her steadily. Her blue eyes were full of love. ‘It is not your fault. Why on earth would it be? It’s nothing to do with the party. The doctors specifically said it could have happened at any moment. This is not one of your dramas. We have all lost a wonderful man.’

‘Where’s Mummy?’ said Laura. Helpless suddenly.

Rachel hugged her. ‘She’s very sad, Laura. She’s resting. We’re going to come on Friday, and take you home for the weekend. You’ll see her and Polly then.’

‘Daddy?’ Laura said.

Everything was very far away and completely out of her control.

‘Yes, my love,’ Rachel said, and folded her in her arms.

Nothing mattered.

Gerald came over. ‘Friday,’ he said, patting her shoulder. He swallowed.

They didn’t stay long.