The Rose Petal Beach

  After climbing out of the space between them, I sat on the top step, where I haven’t moved from, my mobile on one side of me, the house phone on the other, shaking. I curl my fingers into my palms to stop my hands trembling, but the rest of me is still at it.

  I don’t need to glance down at either phone to know that Scott hasn’t rung or texted me. I don’t need to, but I do, in case I’ve missed something, in case I didn’t hear.

  The look on his face as they led him away … There was something on his face, in his eyes, latticed in the language of his body. My mind won’t settle long enough for me to decipher what it was, but it was there and it should not have been there. The Scott I knew, loved, married, had children with would not have had that look. My brain is racing ahead, racing back. Whizzing and popping, too much, too fast for me to keep a single thought for too long. This is too much. I unfurl my hands, watch them quiver in the half-light of the hallway.

  I need to do something. Anything. Sitting here, waiting, is going to cause my mind to implode. The trembling stops when I pick up my mobile and log onto the internet, find the number for Brighton Police Station. There are two, one in Hove, the other in Brighton. Where would they have taken him? Hove is nearer but Brighton is bigger.

  Distance wins over size. The shaking returns, though, as I dial the number. It increases as the person who answered the phone checks to see if he’s there. He’s not. He must be at Brighton. I call the other number. They can confirm he’s there. I cannot speak to him. They will not tell me why he was arrested, they will not let me know if he has been charged. They cannot tell me when or if he’ll be released. The only thing they’ll tell me is that he is there. I need to know more.

  Should I go down there? is the punctuation to every heartbeat. They won’t be able to ignore someone who’s right in front of them.

  It’s late, there are only two people near enough who can sit with the girls at such short notice. Beatrix, the one they’ve known the longest and who lives at the diagonal opposite side of our bottle-shaped road, is out on a date tonight. I’ve tried her phone anyway on the off-chance her date’s been cancelled or she’s come home early, but it keeps saying her phone is switched off and you can’t leave a message. If she was here instead of me and the girls woke up, they’d be fine. They’ve known her all their lives, they call her Bix, she’s Anansy’s godmother and they both miss her when she’s not here. I’d have no worries about not being here if she was.

  The other person is Mirabelle. The girls love her, in a different way to Beatrix. They call her Auntie Mirabelle but she’s only been in their lives for two years, since she and I became friends. She works with Scott and spends time here with the girls, but never without me somewhere nearby. I’m not sure how they’d react to her being here if they woke up, nor how she would react to having to comfort them at a time like this.

  The silent phones continue their passive mocking of my ignorance. I have no choice. If I want to know what’s going on, I’m going to have to go down there. Maybe the shaking will stop if I find out more – if I do something.

  I call up Mirabelle’s number on my mobile, then press dial. The phone rings out and then, ‘Hi, this is Mirabelle, leave me a message.’ I hang up. Then try again. Nothing. I try again. Nothing. The fourth time, her distracted voice answers, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mirabelle, it’s me,’ I say, so relieved tears cram themselves into my eyes. ‘Thank God, you’re there.’

  ‘Tami?’ she asks cautiously. ‘What’s up?’

  The familiarity of her voice causes tears to overwhelm my vocal cords, my words, my ability to speak. It’s replaying on loop in my head: the handcuffs on his wrists, the police officers leading him away, the look on his face I cannot name. ‘I, erm, I need your help,’ I say, trying to control myself, trying to bury the fragile, fractured, almost broken tone in my voice. I want to be stronger than this. I want to take charge and show no weakness.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asks carefully. I can imagine her light hazel eyes narrowing in the dark skin of her face as she awaits my answer.

  ‘I—I … Can you come over? It’ll be easier face to face.’

  ‘Well, um, not really, I’m not exactly dressed to go out. Can’t you tell me what’s wrong on the phone?’

  ‘Um … No. Please, I really need your help.’

  ‘I … um … Are you alone?’

  ‘No, the girls are here, but Scott’s not.’ I say his name and crack myself. Break myself into tiny little fragments that glint from their scattered places on the corridor floor. I am sobbing silently, the inhalations of my tears, soft enough not to wake the girls, but strong enough to be heard on the phone.

  ‘OK, I’m coming,’ she says. ‘Just give me a chance to get dressed.’

  I can’t even say thank you as I hang up the phone.

  Twenty-four years ago

  It didn’t seem fair. I was the only girl in the class to not get a Valentine’s card. Even Kim Meekson who sat at the back of the class picking her nose and eating the bogeys got a card but not me. Genevieve, my sister, had five pushed through the door this morning and Sarto, my brother, had eight. I had a big fat zero. I thought maybe when they opened the red postbox that sat next to my form tutor Miss Harliss’s desk, there might be at least one for me. Nope. Nothing there, either.

  After the box was emptied and there was none for me, I looked around, saw that I was different and felt really small inside. My throat got lumpy but I couldn’t let anyone see it mattered. Phyllis Latan, my best friend, who sat next to me, said, ‘You can share mine.’ I didn’t want to, hers was from Harry Nantes who smelt because he didn’t wash his hair, but it was nice of her, so I held the card for a bit then had to give it back because I could tell she thought I was going to keep it.

  No one liked me. No one. I didn’t really want boys to like me like that, but I didn’t want no one to like me so I was the only person who didn’t get a card. I was probably the only girl in the whole of the school who didn’t get one.

  I dragged my feet going home and as I turned the corner to my road, I knew Genevieve and Sarto were going to laugh at me for weeks and weeks. It was bad enough I was the youngest, this was going to be the worst thing to make fun of me yet.

  Scott was suddenly there. He was standing in front of me as scruffy as he always was: I mean, there was no point in him wearing his tie when it was almost off, and his shirt – peeking out from under his school coat – had mud smudges all over it. His red jumper was tied around his waist and his grey trousers were mud-smudged, too.

  He didn’t say or do anything for a few seconds, then ‘Here,’ he said, shoving a red envelope at me. I didn’t even get the chance to say, ‘What is it?’ before he took off, his black leather Head bag, slung on his shoulder with football boots tied to the handle, bobbing as he ran. I stood watching him go, and didn’t look down at the envelope until he’d turned the corner at the end of my street.

  I opened the envelope and inside was a card with a white bear holding a big red heart on the front. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day,’ the front read. ‘Your secret admirer’ it continued inside.

  Scott had neatly written:

  You’re all right, you.

  I knew what he meant: he didn’t like me like Harry liked Phyllis, he just didn’t want me to be sad and not be the only girl in the world without any Valentine cards.

  Coat. Shoes. Bag. Mobile. Purse. Cash. Keys.

  Twenty-four years ago

  ‘What were you doing with that Challey boy?’ Genevieve asked me after dinner.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I saw you, from the bedroom window. He was standing there talking to you. It looked like he gave you a card. What were you doing with him?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said.

  ‘Stay away from him, Tami,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not coming near him. He was outside when I got home.’

  ‘Did he ask you out?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Loo
k, stay away from him or I’ll tell Mummy and Daddy.’

  ‘Tell them what you want!’ I said. ‘I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘His family are really racist, you know.’

  ‘Why does that matter to me? I’ve only spoken to him once in my life and then earlier. That’s all.’

  ‘Tami, trust me, he’s trouble. Just stay away from him.’

  I shrugged at her because my big sister knew nothing when it came to this. I didn’t like him, he didn’t like me. We hadn’t spoken since the day outside the headmaster’s office and we wouldn’t speak again, probably. He was just being nice, that’s all. Yes, he was a Challey and yes, they were all – including him – nothing but trouble, but even a Challey was allowed to be nice at least once in their lives, weren’t they?

  Mirabelle arrives at the house sooner than I thought she would. She is in her gold jogging suit I dared her to buy when we were out looking for a new running outfit for me.

  ‘I have no shame, surely you know that by now,’ she’d said and found her size on the rail.

  ‘What, you going to get a gold tooth to match that?’ I’d said to her.

  ‘Don’t tempt me,’ she’d replied.

  Over her jogging suit she has tied up her bright red mac and she has grey furry Ugg boots on her feet, her masses of curly hair is pulled up and back, secured with a scrunchie so her hair falls like water from a fountain all over her head. I can tell she’s just washed her face. Probably getting ready for bed when I called.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asks. Her concern turns to alarm when she sees I’m in my black mac with my red and white trainers on my feet. ‘Where are you going?’

  I have called a taxi instead of driving because I don’t think I could stop myself shaking long enough to get the key into the ignition let alone select the right gear, remember to use my mirror or even recall what to do at junctions.

  The taxi draws up outside, and I wave to the driver over Mirabelle’s shoulder. She turns to look at the white-haired man who nods in reply to my wave and sits patiently in the driver’s seat waiting for me.

  ‘What is going on? Where are you going?’

  ‘Scott’s been arrested,’ I state. See, if I state things, say them matter-of-factly, they won’t break me.

  ‘What?’ She draws back. ‘What?’

  ‘Scott’s been arrested.’ Simple statement. No shattering. ‘I don’t know what for, but I’m going to the police station.’ Simple-ish statement. ‘I need you to stay here in case the girls wake up before I get back.’ Slightly complex statement, but still not falling apart.

  ‘What? No.’ She shakes her head firmly, decidedly. ‘No.’

  ‘Please, you have to. I won’t be long.’ I hope. ‘If they wake up, call me and I’ll dash back.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear me? No. You can’t ask me to do this,’ she says, her bewilderment clear. ‘I don’t want to be involved in this.’

  ‘Please, there’s no one else. I’ll be as quick as I can. They’ll most likely sleep through. Please.’ I am halfway out of the door. She has to do this for me: I would do it for her in a heartbeat. Friendships grow from small acts of kindness as well as from big favours and we are friends – she has to do this, there really is no one else I would trust with the girls.

  ‘This isn’t right or fair you know, Tami.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.’

  I dash down the path and into the taxi before she has a chance to tell me no again. Because if she does that, this time, I may just believe her.

  Eighteen years ago

  ‘Hello, Tamia Berize, you all right?’ he said to me. I was at one of the more pleasant bus stops in Lewisham – there were only two spots of chewing gum on the cloudy, cracked plastic ‘glass’ of the shelter, the seats were only a little drawn on and dirtied, two of the posters were still intact.

  My face beamed when I saw him. ‘Wow, talk about a blast from the past,’ I said, my grin growing wider. I hadn’t seen him in years. ‘How you doing?’

  ‘Good, good.’ Scott Challey, all grown up. I hadn’t seen him since we both finished our GCSEs and I went off to sixth-form college and he stayed on at school. From the little boy who could never stay clean and tidy, he’d grown into a young man who dressed well – smart, navy blue jeans, a white T-shirt and long, black coat. His once-wild hair was now tamed with a stylish long-on-top cut. I’d heard he’d gone to university from my mother who’d said in despair that she couldn’t understand how someone from his family went while I didn’t. I’d heard from other people I went to school with that his family hadn’t wanted him to go. When he’d brought his UCAS form home it’d got thrown out with the rubbish. When his teachers tried to explain that it was an opportunity like no other, they’d been thrown out with a fair few swearwords lining their ears. It was only his grandmother who intervened. She wielded the ultimate power in that family, apparently. When she spoke – which hadn’t been frequently – they listened and they did. ‘Young Scott’s going to university,’ I heard, she’d said. And that was that.

  ‘You look all grown up. Am quite impressed.’

  ‘I look grown up? You’re a full-formed adult. I suppose that’s because you’ve got a job and can afford to buy clothes and things.’

  ‘You’re not exactly naked, are you?’

  ‘Ahh, but it’s different when you’re working. How did your parents take you not going to university?’

  I shrugged. ‘Still haven’t calmed down. I think they’ve convinced themselves I’m going to see how hard it is working and decide to go to university next year.’

  ‘And will you?’

  ‘Erm … no. I’ve got a great job. Lots of chances for advancement. I’m really enjoying it. But if it makes them happy to think that uni is on the cards, who am I to disabuse them of those ideas?’

  ‘“Disabuse”. Look at you with your fancy words. So what’s this job of yours then? Compiling a dictionary? Are you going to be moving on to the thesaurus department next?’

  I laughed. ‘No, I work in the corporate communications department of TelmeCo.’

  ‘The huge phone company?’

  ‘Phones, mobile phones and the world wide web thing.’

  ‘Wow, I am seriously impressed. What do you do, make tea?’

  ‘Yes, and the rest, you cheeky sod.’

  ‘Seriously, what do you do?’

  ‘Lots of little things, mainly helping out, but I’ve been given the newsletter to write. I have to do it on the computer and on their intranet. It’s great fun. Plus I’m learning so much. If I keep my head down, focus, I reckon I could be running the place in, ohhhh, six months.’

  His laughter was a thick and throaty sound that lit up his face in a way I hadn’t seen him illuminated before. ‘Shift up,’ he instructed as he plonked himself down beside me.

  ‘And how’s university treating you?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s good, it’s good. Great chance to reinvent yourself, university. Not many people know what the Challey name means over there. I like that a lot.’

  ‘I take it you’re back to visit the folks, though?’

  ‘Yeah. Something like that. Actually, it’s my grandmother’s funeral.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘She was the main reason I used to visit. Now, I’ve got no real reason to. Every time I come back I’m reminded why I left in the first place and why I never want to return.’

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ I said, nudging him with my shoulder. It was that bad, from everything I’d heard, but I didn’t like the sheer agony talking about it dragged across his face.

  He raised his dark eyebrows at me. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘I’d hope not,’ I conceded.

  ‘Funny, isn’t it?’ Scott said. ‘We’ve both let our families down in pretty significant ways – and we didn’t ev
en need to go to prison to do it.’

  I laughed again. ‘You’re not wrong, are you? Sometimes I do have to remind myself that I haven’t actually committed a crime, the way my parents carry on.’

  ‘Me too. Except that’s the disappointing thing.’

  ‘Misfits and outcasts, that’s me and you.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The problem, though, as far as my parents are concerned, is that I don’t actually care that I haven’t lived up to their expectations. They think I wasted my brain and all the sacrifices they made for me to go to school. But like I said to you way back when, you don’t have to do something just because someone else wants you to do it. You can be whoever you want to be.’

  ‘You know, TB, you changed my life when you said that to me. I asked Grandma Cora if you were right and she said yes. I said could I go to university then one day and she said yes. It was her who told my parents I was going and there were to be no arguments. Even though they wanted me out bringing in money, they agreed. All thanks to you.’

  ‘That’s me all over – life changer, parent disappointer.’

  ‘All round perfect woman.’

  I burst out laughing, it sounded so ridiculous coming from his mouth. ‘Good one! I may have that put on a T-shirt.’ I moved my hand in front of my chest. ‘“All round perfect woman”. I like that. I like that a lot.’

  ‘See, there was a reason I went to uni.’

  ‘OK,’ I said to him, ‘here’s my bus. I’m off into Croydon to find a killer outfit that won’t cost the earth for tonight.’

  ‘Why, what’s tonight?’

  ‘First date with the most gorgeous man in the world,’ I said, standing.

  ‘Really? I didn’t know we were going out tonight.’

  ‘You!’

  ‘Can I come with you? Give you a man’s eye view on what you choose?’

  ‘Sure. But you’re going to be so bored. I always go back and forth to a million shops before I buy the first thing I tried on in the first shop I went into.’

  ‘That’s OK, I’m not busy till later, either.’

  ‘Ohhhh … Date with a gorgeous woman?’