The Girl

After I left Mary’s house, I turned left – in the same direction that the girl – Jessica - had gone. I couldn’t get her out of my mind. The sun had come out again – the rain hadn’t lasted long – spring showers never do – and the pavements were drying fast. I thought about her trousers – cheap shiny ones, far too long for her, and the muddy tidemark on them where they’d trailed in puddles.

I could still hear Mary’s voice – she’d sounded just like the teacher she was – firm, brisk, expecting to be obeyed;

“Becca’s not home Jessica. She’s at a friend’s. I don’t know when she’ll be back, but when she does she’ll have work to do so you won’t be able to stay. You can see her at school tomorrow – it’s time to go home now – go on – off you go”

I don’t think she meant to be unkind. She told me afterwards how the girl never left them alone; how every day after school, she’d be there, waiting for them, like a lost puppy. I could see how that would be irritating, but I couldn’t understand how anyone could turn a child away.

She was a child. She might have been the same height as me, but she was clearly still a child. Probably fifteen if she was in Becca’s year - at that awkward stage, when hardly anyone looks pretty – her face was pale and she had spots. It’s definitely not a good age for looks, and you could see that no one had made any attempt to help her. Her hair was greasy, it fell in a lank curtain hiding half her face. She was wearing dirty trainers and the frayed laces trailed onto the pavement. She didn’t seem to have made any effort to fasten them

I have never seen someone exude so much hopelessness - Her whole body had drooped as she’d walked slowly away from us. Teenagers often look bored and exhausted– sometimes they give the impression that it’s almost too much effort to lift their limbs - but it was more than that with her.

After she’d finished talking to the girl, Mary had stood at the end of her driveway for a minute, her arms folded, watching as Jessica left, then she’d turned back to me, and the stern expression had changed into the friendly smile that I knew so well.

With a wide sweep of her arm, she’d gestured me into her house. It was lovely – a perfect example of how to restore a Victorian property. They’d worked very hard to get it looking like that. I think they’d had a skip outside for the better part of a year

As I followed her into the hallway, she’d joked about how she’d spent so much money at Fired Earth she’d ended up on first name terms with the manager. All along the walls were big black and white studio portraits of her children, posing with their arms around each other, barefoot, with shiny hair, in jeans and matching Breton tshirts, staring up at the camera.

She’d opened the door to the kitchen and the light from the big french windows had dazzled me for a minute. I’d admired the vintage Aga, and had sat down at the big scrubbed table while she’d moved around, filling the kettle, fetching down the cafetiere from the shelf, and arranging cups on the tray.

When it was all done, she’d sat opposite me cradling her cup in her hands, and I’d asked who the girl was. Mary had sighed;

“She’s always here. You have to be firm or she’d move in. She won’t have gone far you know – she’ll be waiting to see if Becca will be a softer touch when she comes home”

She’d led me to the front of the house, and the big bay window, and pointed. You could see that the girl hadn’t gone far at all – just to the end of the street. She’d stopped there and was just standing at the crossroads

“It’s very sad. But you have to be firm – I can’t have her here the whole time - it’s not possible

it had started to rain then – the sky was getting dark – it looked as if we’d have one of those sudden showers. A few other people passed by the window, they were beginning to turn up their collars, and some were opening umbrellas, quickening their pace so as not to get too wet. I looked at the girl again and she was moving now, still slowly. She’d crossed the road and started up a small side street.

Is that where she lives? Up there?

“Yes – she’s going is she – good”

“Why does she come here?”

“She’s latched on to Becca – Becca doesn’t mind, but you’ve got to take a stand haven’t you – otherwise she’d be here every afternoon… It’s very difficult……”

She lowered her voice;

“The mother married again and they have a new baby – well I say baby – she must be three now. Anyway – they don’t get on – the mum and Jessica – and the stepfather - he can’t bear her.Thinks the world of the little one, but he can’t bear Jessica. What can you do?”

I looked out of the window again. Jessica had come to a halt outside the little shop. She was standing under the awning, just standing, looking at her nails.

“She’s not allowed downstairs. Has to stay in her room. And she has to make her own meals – not allowed in the kitchen when they’re there. It’s all very sad……..”

“Can’t something be done?”

I don’t think they hurt her physically. That’s why social services won’t get involved. I’ve phoned them – and the school. No one wants to know….”

Her voice tailed off – there didn’t seem to be anything more to say, and after an awkward moment or two we went back into the kitchen and the conversation turned to the jumble sale she was organising, and the PTA at the primary school, and the church playgroup. Mary had a hand in everything. She was one of those people who are always being thanked at the end of parish newsletters.

I didn’t stay long. I had stuff to do myself, and I should have walked home fast, but I couldn’t get the girl out of my mind, so I took a detour that meant I would end up passing where I’d last seen her. All the time I was racking my brains to think if there was something – anything I could do, wondering if she’d think I was mad if I were to go up to her, a complete stranger, and ask her if I could help.

When I got to the little shop, she’d vanished. I looked up the side street, but she was nowhere to be seen, and I turned and walked home, hoping that one day she would find a friend whose mother wouldn’t tell her to go home.