Cry little sister
Come to your brother
-Cry little sister, from the lost boys soundtrack, 1987
2, 927 days later
2nd September 1974
8:00
I slide my blazer on my arms and straighten it up in the gilded mirror on my battered chest of drawers. It smells crisp, new and of new opportunities that I hope to grasp in my final year of compulsory schooling. The emblem over my left breast is so neatly embroidered that I can't even see the stitches and I run my finger over the rare, sweet beauty of having no loose threads for the first time in my life. I can't stop myself from smiling.
It's only thanks to Patty that I 'ave this, if it wasn't for her contribution to the money I'd saved up then I would 'ave been stuck with the hand-me-down that went through her and Mary that hangs loosely off me and is so battered that Mr Thomas would nick me immediately for breaking the uniform policy. 5th years are allowed to wear different blazers to everyone else, edged in red and gold instead of just red like the lower years. I was worried it would be a waste of money but Patty said it would be fine.
"Emma!" Mary calls from downstairs. "Breakfast's ready!"
She's meant to be living by 'erself now, with 'er 'usband Frank, but she stills spends every other night 'ere and she's still about whenever anyone needs 'er. I think it's because she doesn't want to leave mum with just me for support, Patty's off doing 'er own thing at University and if she was left to 'er own devices I dread to think of what could 'appen. She 'asn't been the same since Chris died and Dad's death a couple of years ago knocked 'er for 6.
I wink at myself in the mirror before grabbing my briefcase from my desk, the battered leather still holding together somehow. I open the door and step out onto the landing, shutting the door behind me quietly as Mum's still fast asleep. There are 5 rooms on this floor, Mary and Patty's shared bedroom, my own, my parents' and the bathroom. The final one 'asn't been touched or entered in 8 years, I 'alf expect the bedclothes to be still unmade from when he got up that mornin' and the model planes I can remember 'im 'aving slowly gathering dust.
I slowly descend the stairs, pausing to look at the engravings on the bannisters made before I was born by my bored siblings. My fingers trace the carvings, the wonky writing of children in a completely different world to the one I grew up in.
Patty is downstairs when I enter the kitchen, her thick glasses perched on top of 'er nose and head buried in the paper that must 'ave been delivered earlier this morning. She's put a record on, Simon & Garfunkel by the sounds of it, filling the room with quiet voices and bringing along with it memories of times long past.
"Can you get the milk?" Mary asks as she tips scrambled eggs into four plates.
I walk over to the door and open it, stepping out into the morning as the lingering coldness left from over night chills my clothing. The street is practically deserted, though Mrs Smythe from across the road is doing the same thing I am. I meet 'er eyes and flash her a smile. She doesn't return it.
"When did you get 'ere, Patty?" I ask as I put the milk in the fridge.
"Late last night. I wanted to be 'ere to see you off for school." She looks at me over the top of the newspaper. "That blazer fits you well."
"I'll give you the spare money I get from my paper round when I collect it after school." I tell her as I sit down at the table.
"Don't bother. It's my gift to you." She smiles at me and brushes a lock of her hair out of her face.
I go bright red. It's been a long time since anyone gave me a gift for anything except my birthday or Christmas. Before Chris died they were around all the time, uncles giving us toys, cousins giving us books and all manner of things that they'd got no use for anymore. But after the funeral and all was said and done the family distanced themselves from us, in a way. I don't think anyone wanted to face Mum in the state she is.
Mary places the plate of scrambled eggs in front of me. I give her my best attempt at a
Patty goes back to 'er newspaper, Mary switches the telly on and dumps herself on the sofa. It only takes a couple of minutes for it to lose the signal and she crawls over to it, muttering under her breath as she tries to get it back. I watch her for a couple of moments, drain my glass of milk and stand up, picking up my briefcase. I head towards the door and open it, stepping outside and slamming it shut behind me into the warm September air.
"Have a good day!" My sisters chorus just as the door meets the frame.
The road outside the school gates is a complete mess. Everywhere I look there are children, swarms of them crowding into the metal cage surrounding the school buildings. I bump into a first year by accident and make 'im drop 'is briefcase. 'e looks up at me with a look of fear and astonishment in 'is eyes, clutching the leather to 'is chest. 'is uniform is immaculate, it always is with first years. It won't last long, believe me.
The red-brick walls of E-Block are scrubbed clean, though a fine layer of dirt 'as already settled on the material. I look around to see if anyone else I know from my form 'as arrived yet before I kneel down, open my briefcase and take out a book – The Devil's Children by Peter Dickinson. The trilogy is one of Patty's favourites and she's been nagging at me to read it for ages, so I thought I'd give it a go. I lean against the wall with one leg supporting me, allowing myself to be absorbed into the story.
"Nicola Gore." said Nicky, "I am Nicola Gore."
She turned on her right heel, kicking herself round and round with her left foot, until the leather of the heel began to drill a neat, satisfying hole among the roots of the grass.
"Nicola Gore." She said a-
I 'aven't even read 'alf a page when there's an interruption. Someone taps my book from in front of me and, in a moment of panic when I'm scared that they will steal it from me, I rip the book from in front of my face and 'ide it behind my back. Instead of some boy with a football there stands a girl, and from 'er blazer she's in the same year as me. She 'as shiny wavy brown 'air and grey eyes, with a lost look in them that hides a glimmer of mischief and overwhelming kindness. her mouth hangs a little open in surprise but soon settles into a shy smile as her eyes meet my own blue ones. I've never seen 'er 'ere before, and I know what everyone in our year looks like.
"Sorry to bother you, but I wanted to say how much I love this book!" She says, her eyes lighting up as she looks at the cover.
She's definitely not from around 'ere. She sounds like she's from somewhere down south, Wales by the sound of it.
"It's my sister's, she's been telling me to read it for ages." I remark and give her my best attempt at a smile.
"She's right, you should." She laughs, her eyes twinkling. I feel my cheeks go bright red.
She 'olds out 'er 'and to me. I stare at it like it's a foreign body.
"I'm Bethan Williams." She introduces 'erself shyly. "I'm new."
I make myself take 'er 'and and shake it, probably too hard by the look she gives me.
"I'm Emma. Emma Skelton." I tell her. "Where are you from?"
"Llansteffan, it's a village in the south of Wales. Carmarthenshire, if you want to be specific." She says. "We moved for Dad's new job."
I nod and give 'er a smile. A moment of awkward silence passes between the two of us before the bell rings loud and clear from the wall behind. The scrabble of the lower years begins migrating towards the entrances to the buildings, a couple of leather footballs still being chucked around and hitting a second year on the 'ead with a loud yelp.
"What form are you?" I ask, taking a step forward.
"5B." She recites slowly, like she'd memorised it from the letter. "Do you know where to find the room?"
I raise a surprised eyebrow. In all my time at this school, my form 'asn't 'ad a new student. It's always been the same 30, except when Thomas Jones left a couple of weeks before the end of last year. That's almost certainly why she's joining us.
"That's my form." I tell her. She gives me a relieved smile. "I'll show you where it is."
"Thank you." She replies, just as we reach the edge of the swarm into O-Block.
We manage to get inside, pushed by the other years as they run down the corridors in a blatant violation of the school rules. Bethan looks at me and we burst into laughter for no reason. It's been a long time since I last laughed and I savour it, though memories of times before 1966 flood into my brain when laughter was taken for granted.
I lead Bethan to our form room, down an isolated corridor with only one other classroom that's used for storage. In third year we got permission to decorate the space in between the two from the headmaster and during form time we planned what we wanted it to look like, before we did shifts over the summer putting it together. The result was something special, painted green vines and flowers stretch from floor to ceiling with quotes intwined in between. Somewhere, in a corner, is my own contribution, a beautiful rose that inspired my own love of art.
Everyone else 'as already arrived and are in small groups dotted around the larger space between the two classrooms. The popular girls are sitting on the elderly science tables that they couldn't fit in the other classroom, the etchings of students dating back to the 1930s before this school was even a Grammar School sat underneath Sally Hutchinson's skirt. The boys are kicking a football around even now, something they've done since the first day of first year no matter how much Mr Evans yells at them. Harry Jones and Peter Willis are sitting in a corner looking at comics.
Imogen Roberts looks at me as I walk in with Bethan trailing behind from where she stands with the girls. A scarcer contrast with me could be imagined. She's the epitome of an English rose, fragile, she looks like she should belong in a painting instead of in Johnson Comprehensive School with her periwinkle blue eyes and long light blonde hair. I, on the other hand, am dark with green eyes that 'ave a bluish tinge to one of them and look more like I should be the villain than the hero in a story. We used to be best friends, believe it or not, but after my brother died it all fell apart and now she makes me uneasy in a way I don't know how to describe.
"Welcome to O4." I mutter as I lead Bethan to the side.
"Why is it called "O-Block"?" She asks. "I can't think of any subjects beginning with O."
"No one else knows either, not even the teachers." I reply. "We usually call it "Odd Block". Apparently it's where the strangest stuff 'appens in the school."
"Like what?" She asks as she leans against the wall.
"Ghosts, fire alarms going off without warning. Once there was a boy who got to school when it was still dark and he swore that the classrooms were glowing." I shrug. "I'm sure every school like this 'as got stories."
"I'm sure they do." Bethan mutters but looks sceptical.
The door to the classroom opens and out steps Mr Evans, 'is suit neat and stern but kind look on 'is face. Immediately all chatter stops, the boys stop playing with their football and we all quietly shuffle into a straight line. Mr Evans gives us a pleased smile.
"Welcome to, what will be for many of you, your final year here at Johnson, 5B." He looks almost saddened by this news.
He holds the door open for us and we file into the classroom, stopping occasionally when he spots something wrong with our uniforms. He smiles widely at me, looking me up and down.
"Very smart, Emma." He remarks. I go bright red and move past 'im as quickly as possible.
He stops Bethan, the last one to enter the class. "You must be Bethan, am I correct?" She nods sheepishly. "Wait by my desk, I'll introduce you and find you a seat."
I head straight to the back right corner where I've sat since the first day of school. It's right next to next to me is empty, it always 'as been. I 'ave a brilliant view out of the window, no one tries to talk to me and it's great. Though I don't think it will be for much longer, as we don't 'ave another spare seat as after Thomas went there was a huge shuffle.
"Everyone, this is Bethan. She's joining us from Wales." Mr Evans introduces her from the front. "Bethan, you can sit next to Emma in the corner. You seemed to be getting on well enough outside."
"Yes, sir." She replies and quietly makes 'er way up to the desk next to me.
Mr Evans takes the register from 'is immaculate desk and begins sounding out the names.
"You don't mind me sitting next to you, do you? I mean, you look very comfortable up here- " Bethan begins before I interrupt 'er.
"It's fine." I tell her and force a smile before I turn my gaze to the Manchester streets out the window.
I can see my 'ouse from 'ere, the terraced row just visible now that some of the trees 'ave been cut down over the summer. In the distance I can just see the trees that surround the lake from all those years ago and I know that just behind them the murky blue water that took my brother's life is still there, waiting. And somewhere across this sea of a city is the cemetery where 'e's buried, the weathered stone announcing 'ow young 'e was that day.
"Chris!"
I hear, echoing from the part of my mind that is stuck repeating the afternoon of 28th August 1966 over and over again, the sound of my 8-year-old voice yelling 'is name just after we heard the splash which signalled to us that 'e'd fallen in. My knuckles grip the table so 'ard they turn white and the world swims before me.
"Emma?" Bethan's voice is quiet, far away, but the sound of it lifts me out of the hole I know I'm about to fall into. "Are you okay?"
A tear slips from my eye as my breathing gets slower, something I didn't even realise was 'appening. I wipe it away with a trembling 'and, the world comes into focus. I wipe a bead of sweat from my for'ead.
"Should I get someone? Mr Evans?" She suggests. I can tell she's concerned, and I don't want that. I don't want anyone to know how much I'm still affected after 8 years.
"No, don't. I'm fine, just give me a moment." I manage to blurt out. My voice is as rough as the sandpaper dad used to use in the garage.
She doesn't say anything but I know she's concerned. But what does she know? She 'asn't been through 'alf of what I've been through. I never should 'ave spoken to 'er this morning.
The bell goes, loudly ringing through my spine and washing away the final dredges of the moment with the dull ringing. Movement spreads across the classroom and I can tell that Bethan's going to ask me a question that I don't want to answer or even think about.
I quietly grab my briefcase and walk out of form without looking or even acknowledging that she's there.
I manage to avoid 'er all day, all the way through double 'istory, Maths, English, RS and Geography. She's in all my classes, talking about the parliamentary government breakdown in Spain in 1936, scribbling sums down in her book, writing about Romeo & Juliet. She doesn't even look at me, not once. I don't look at 'er either, no matter 'ow 'ard I want to tell 'er everything that sits in my mind leaching into my thoughts every day.
When the final bell goes I head to the toilets and press my back against one of the wooden doors, waiting for the rest of the school to clear the corridors. Certain it's clear after 5 minutes, I leave the cubicle and hurry across the concrete playground and sneak out the back gate so I avoid the stragglers on my way 'ome, clutching my briefcase to my chest as I sneak back onto my main route. The streets are clear as I'm later than everyone, the only sound the cars trundling past and the birds in the trees. I pause for a moment by the railings of the park, drinking in the crisp, sweet air and feeling my stomach warm with the temperature. I avert my eyes to the clear blue sky and allow myself a rare smile. Nature is so beautiful, especially in the turn to Autumn. I wish it could be like this all year.
The thumping of shoes on the concrete announces 'is arrival, a flash of brown and green as 'e runs across the road. I lower my 'ead to be parallel to the row of terraced 'ouses opposite.
"Where the hell 'ave you been?" I say just as 'e's in range to stop myself sounding stupid. 'e shrugs.
"Dunno."
"We agreed that you'd be 'ere to meet me after school." I tell 'im. "It's not like you've got anywhere else to be."
'e shrugs again. I sigh. "Come on, I want to stop off at the chippy on the way 'ome." I take a step forward.
"E- Emma?"
'is voice is shaky, fragile. I stop and turn to face 'im, crossing 'is arms. 'e looks to the floor.
"I went to the cemetery. That's why I'm late."
"That was a stupid idea, weren't it, yer div." I rub 'is arm sympathetically.
"I just wanted… I wanted to see if it was true. What you said yesterday."
I tried to 'old it off for as long as possible. But I spent the summer with 'im oblivious and I couldn't not tell 'im before I went off for school.
"You didn't think I were telling the truth yesterday?"
'e shifts uncomfortably. I look at 'im pointedly.
"It's not that, it's just… I 'ad to see for myself." 'e looks me directly in the eyes. "It's 'ard to believe."
"I know, that's why I left it until yesterday." I tell 'im quietly. "I knew it would change things, and I didn't want that to 'appen when I'd only just got you back."
Silence descends upon us. I look to the cigarette-studded ground.
"You alright?"
"As much as I can be, I guess." I say softly. "You?"
'e gives me a small smile. "Right as rain."
I sigh. "Come on, let's go. Any longer and the neighbours will be staring."
'e looks confused. It's something that I've noticed 'as 'appened over the course of the past few weeks. "They can't see me though."
"Yes, but they can see me. I don't want to be dumped in the loonie bin." I grab 'is 'and and begin to lead 'im down the street, trying to do it discretely so it doesn't look like I'm leading an invisible man. It's a tricky task, especially when the subject is uncooperative.
"Emma!" 'e groans.
"Scrap the chippy. Let's just go 'ome. I've got stacks of 'omework to get on with and Mary'll be annoyed if I don't get 'ome soon."
'e stops. I look over to 'im. My brother, older, taller, impossible. 'e's been impossible for a very long time. Seconds pass like hours as we just look at each other. Nothing 'appens when I'm around 'im, no voices, images, anything to do with that day. It's just me and him, nothing else.
"Chris?"
"Yeah?"
"Let's go home. Come on."