‘Is Harry there?’ Obviously not, Heather Brodie thought, otherwise he would be answering the phone instead of me, but she simply said, ‘No, Vicky, I’m afraid he’s not. Would you like me to leave a message for him?’
‘Is Ella there?’ Biting her tongue, her mother said, ‘No, sorry. She’s not here either. You could try their mobiles?’
‘Mmm… I will.’ A long silence followed.
‘So, Vicky, would you like me to leave a message in case they’ve switched them off, or what?’
‘OK. Yes, thanks. Could you tell Harry that I’ll see him tonight at about 8 pm at my place, and could you tell Ella that I’ve still got her jacket from last week. She left it in my flat on Saturday evening before we went on to the pub. I meant to give it to her before she left in the morning, but I’ll just give it to Harry when I see him tonight.’
‘Ella left it with you last Saturday? OK. And you’ll give the jacket to Harry. Righto. Anything else?’
‘Nope.’
Now deep in thought, Heather Brodie put the phone down and began picking up some of the sheets of A4 paper scattered all over the floor. As she was doing so her sister stooped to help her, but after she had gathered a few of them she came to a sudden halt.
‘They’re all mixed up – look,’ she said, holding up one of the sheets. ‘This one looks like English Literature, and this one…’ she added, pulling out another from the sheaf, ‘looks like a language paper or something, and this one,’ she tried to extract another sheet without losing her grip on the rest, ‘must be Russian studies.’
‘And?’ Heather Brodie said, still bent double, gathering up the papers, ignoring their contents and continuing to collect them in a single pile.
‘Well, they must be his lecture notes, mustn’t they? We’ll need to keep them separate. He’ll need them separate, for his essays and his revision if nothing else.’
‘Then,’ Heather Brodie said, conscious that her tolerance of her sister and her annoying ways was now at a dangerously low ebb, ‘he’ll just have to separate them out after we’ve put them all together into one pile, won’t he?’
‘Of course,’ her sister replied, aware of the unspoken reprimand, now wishing that she had never volunteered to help with the flat-cleaning, wasting a precious Saturday. She could have gone to the Botanics, checked out the Dean Gallery or simply cleaned her own flat, for that matter. It would have taken her mind off everything. And Heather simply did not understand the meaning of the word gratitude.
Feeling increasingly hot, and keen to get out of her sister’s company before she said something rash, she abandoned the paper collection and strode into the windowless kitchen, turning on the fan extractor and hoping for a rush of cold air. It seemed impossible to keep cool nowadays wherever she was, modern thermostats must all be set too high.
How fortunate for me, she thought to herself as she set to work, picking up a pile of battered, slime-covered silver cartons from the table, that this generation chooses to live on carry-outs. So much less washing-up, but so bland, and goodness knows what it must do to the young people’s health. No wonder the boy always looked so pallid, so thin and positively sickly of late.
Putting the cartons in the overflowing bin, she turned her attention to the sink, removed a couple of used teabags from the drain and lifted up a bottle of Fairy Liquid, the sole purpose of which seemed to be to act as a paperweight. Certainly, it had not been used for washing dishes. As she held it she noticed that an opened envelope with something inside it had stuck to the base of the bottle. Cautiously, she peeled it off. Now it was in her hand she was well aware that she should put it down again, or file it safely somewhere else, but she found that she could not resist the temptation to read it, to peek at it at least. The letter was addressed to Mr H. A. Brodie. The original India Street address had been scored out and, in Heather’s neat script, the Raeburn Mews one substituted. Maybe the letter would contain a declaration of strong feelings, friendship, or a love letter perhaps, something life enhancing and real. Maybe he had won a prize! She needed distraction, and Heather was in another room after all, so no-one would ever know, and Harry might not even mind if he knew, and he would never know so it could do no harm to anybody, could it? A single glance might well be enough. Filled with anticipation, she wiped her hands on a foul-smelling dish cloth and took a sheet of paper out of the envelope.
‘Heather,’ she shouted, forgetting in her surprise that she was not supposed to be reading the boy’s mail, ‘What’s this about? Was Harry going to have…’
Before she had finished speaking, her sister came into the room carrying another letter in an official-looking envelope. She took the sheet of paper from Pippa. Reading it, her expression changed to one of despair. She glanced at the name and address on the envelope that Pippa still held and sat down heavily on a nearby stool.
‘What is it, Heather?’ Pippa enquired, sitting down beside her on another chair.
‘Nothing… nothing that I can’t fix.’
11
Sunday
For some reason the fact that she had such a limited choice of clothes that morning, none of which remotely appealed to her, almost made her break down and weep. Instead Heather Brodie scolded herself roundly for her vanity, for her stupid shallowness, and in doing so managed to regain sufficient control of her emotions to continue sifting through her suitcase until she had got all that she needed. She looked disdainfully at the brown skirt and the blue shirt she had found. She had no recollection of packing them, and they would not go together at all. But she comforted herself with the thought that at least everything she was going to put on was clean, washed and ironed by her own hands. If only she had brought more clothes from India Street. Her make-up, too, would require attention if she was to appear confident and in control, if she was to seem to be the mistress of her own destiny.
The sound made by the flushing of the lavatory travelled through the thin plasterboard walls and alerted her to Pippa’s imminent departure from the bathroom, but she waited until she heard her sister pad in her slippers across the corridor and close her own bedroom door before she made her move. Today, their usual insubstantial morning chitchat would be unbearable and was best avoided. Anyway, what did it matter how she had slept, or how Pippa had slept for that matter? That was all it ever amounted to, and her inability to feign interest might cause more offence and was almost bound to be misunderstood. She could feel her own nerves jangling, making her jumpy and prickly before they had even exchanged a word. A silly quarrel of some sort was inevitable.
As efficient as ever, within less than fifteen minutes she had showered, dressed and put her face on, but instead of leaving the bathroom and going into the kitchen in search of breakfast, she sat down on the lavatory seat and waited, listening for the tell-tale noises made by her sister as she exited the flat on her way to church. Soon the characteristic tuneless hum which invariably accompanied Pippa’s removal of her waterproof from the coat-hook started up, interrupted by a thick ‘Bye bye, Heather’ spoken through the remains of the last piece of toast. Finally, a loud bang signalled that the front door had been shut.
In the peace and quiet that followed, Heather Brodie looked in the fridge. Seeing only goat’s milk, she rejected the idea of cereal in favour of stewed apple with cream, a treat, if sprinkled generously with brown sugar. But once the bowl was in front of her, looking exactly as she had imagined it would, she found that she hadn’t the appetite even to taste it and put down her spoon. Then, remembering with affection their mother’s thrift, she carefully placed the bowl back on the fridge shelf, together with a twist of paper on which she had written ‘untouched’.