Kitty

Chapter 4Moving Home

4

The boys had been quiet since they’d got on the train for the penultimate leg of their journey. She too dozed a little, watched the weather from the window and read from her copy of The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole Aged 13 ? , laughing at the antics of the hapless boy and his strange family. He made her think of Theo, who’d told her he was off on a family holiday somewhere; it might have been the south of France, she couldn’t quite remember, but she hoped he’d have a wonderful summer in the sunshine with his father and his apparently very glamorous mum.

A bubble of excitement grew in her stomach as the train crossed the border; just to be back in her beloved Scotland felt like a reward. Home! Her first term at Vaizey actually hadn’t been too bad, all things considered, but she couldn’t wait to see her mum and dad, and Darraghfield, of course. She pressed her nose to the window and smiled, despite the rain. She had big plans for the holidays: to spend as much time as possible with her mum, and to swim every single day in a pool without a grotty, stained ceiling and with no one else to upset the rhythm of her strokes. A whole ten weeks! It felt like a lifetime, stretching out before her like an endless path of happiness and laughter. She was still not convinced that Vaizey College was the right place for her to be, but the joy of coming home after so many weeks away made it almost worth it. And who knew, with her mum now better, maybe they wouldn’t send her back? The thought sent a frisson of happiness right through her. She was so happy, she felt like clapping and whooping!

‘What are you clapping for, you strange child?’ Ruraigh sighed and Hamish laughed.

She stared at them, unaware that she had actually clapped.

Darraghfield. Home…

The moment the taxi pulled into the driveway, she shot out of the back seat, not caring how or even if her trunk was unloaded from the boot. Leaving the boys to heft the bags and thank the driver, she raced through the front door, skidding to a halt in the kitchen, where Marjorie was scrubbing the hot plate on the Aga.

‘Marjorie!’ She ran over to her, wrapping her arms as best she could around her stout middle.

‘Well, I never! What an entrance.’ Marjorie tutted her disapproval at such an exhibition even as her widening smile gave out quite a different message. ‘It sure is good to see you, hen.’

Neither mentioned the last time they’d seen each other, locked together in that desperate hug in the corridor at Vaizey.

She gave Kitty a small squeeze before almost pushing her away with a nervous shove.

‘Where’s Dad?’ Kitty grabbed a warm cookie from the plate in the middle of the table and pushed the whole thing into her mouth, immediately reaching for a second as a deluge of crumbs tumbled down her jersey.

‘He’s away down at the village with Patrick, getting the messages. We weren’t sure what time you’d be back.’ Marjorie took in Kitty’s scowl. ‘Don’t look so fed up, he’ll not be long. And you can stop cramming those cookies – I’ve a nice piece of roast beef in the oven and at this rate you’ll not be wanting your tea.’ She winked.

‘I always want my tea!’ Kitty reminded her, already looking forward to a supper at the kitchen table. ‘I’ll go up and see Mum.’

Marjorie looked up briskly. ‘Why not wait for your dad?’

‘No, it’s okay. He might be ages and I’ve really missed her and I know she’s missed me.’

‘Kitty! Kitty!’ Marjorie called after her, but as was often the case with Kitty, who had fire in her belly and wings on her heels, it was too late. She was already racing along the hallway and bounding up the back stairs to the main landing and then on to the turret rooms and her parents’ bedroom. She ran her fingers through her straggly hair and smiled as she gripped the brass door handle and slowly turned it.

Kitty could not have properly explained what she was expecting, but it would have included the waft of her mum’s floral scent, so liberally applied that it clung to her clothes, her mum’s arms flung wide around her, and a thousand kisses dotted all over her face to make up for all the ones they’d missed. And this would be accompanied by a burbled outpouring of love: ‘Oh, how I love you, how I’ve missed you! You look so tall/gorgeous/grown-up! Let’s go for a walk – no, let’s go dancing! Let’s go sit in front of the fire and you can tell me everything. I want to hear all about life at Vaizey, and boys! Are you still sweet on Angus? Is he your boyfriend?’

But this was nothing like that. Not even close.

The room smelt bad. So bad that Kitty’s nose wrinkled at the sour, unpleasantly malty mixture of bad breath, wind and body odour, all tinged with something vaguely medicinal. The air felt greasy on her lips, and with the windows tightly shut and the heavy curtains drawn, there was not even the faintest breeze to stir the atmosphere or dilute the horrible fug.

‘Stephen?’ The small, crackly voice came from the mattress.

Kitty stepped forward slowly and whispered into the half-light, her eyes now adjusted and able to make out her mum’s tiny, wizened frame. She was swathed in a flannelette nightie that had once sat snugly on sturdy hips and rounded breasts but now hung off bones stretched over with thin skin. Her body looked like it was sick of living.

‘No, Mum.’ She tried not to let her shock overwhelm her. ‘It’s me. It’s Kitty.’ She swallowed.

‘Kitty! Oh Kitty!’ Her mum leant on one stick-thin arm and heaved herself into a sitting position, wriggling up on the bed until her back rested on the plump pillow mountain. She reached out her arms and her face crumpled as if she was crying, but there were no tears. Her mouth hung open in a dark hole. ‘Come and sit here,’ she eventually managed, patting the space next to her.

Kitty hated that she instinctively felt reluctant to get any closer to her beloved mum. My mum! ‘Shall I… shall I open the window?’

‘No! Don’t do that.’ Fenella Montrose held her hands out and spoke forcefully, as if her daughter had suggested something monstrous. ‘I can’t have them open, in case they’re looking at me! And they might be, right now!’ She pulled her nightgown closed at her throat. ‘They watch me, Kitty. They watch me all the time,’ she whispered, a stricken expression on her face.

Kitty looked from her mum to the velvet curtains that hid the outside world. Words faltered in her mouth and she wished she’d done as Marjorie had suggested and waited for her dad. She finally took up the spot next to her, trying to ignore the smell of her unwashed body and the sight of her thick hair, once soft and shiny, now clinging to her head in an oily cap, the ends wisped and curled, the rest hanging in ropey knots around her shoulders.

She looked like a madwoman.

Kitty swallowed the thought. She’s not mad, just struggling. Severe clinical depression, a broken brain, that’s what it is.

Her mum gripped her hand with desperation and it was then that the tears began to trickle down her sallow cheeks. ‘It’s been so long since I saw you, my baby girl.’

‘Just a few weeks, Mum—’

‘No,’ her mum interrupted, shaking her lollypop head on her weak neck, ‘not weeks, years and years. They took you from me.’

‘I…’ Kitty didn’t know what to say. She could never have imagined feeling afraid of the woman she loved, but she did.

‘You need to stop your dad! He’s trying to send me away.’ Her mum bowed her head and collapsed against the pillows. ‘He sent Balla Boy away, and then you, and now he’s trying to send me away too – I know he is. I have to try and keep alert! I can’t let it happen. I can’t leave Darraghfield.’

‘He wouldn’t do that, Mum. He loves you,’ Kitty offered weakly. She would never have imagined he’d send her to Vaizey, but he had.

‘And that woman… Marjorie!’ Her mum spoke with narrowed eyes and a face twisted with hatred. ‘She’s trying to poison me! I can’t eat anything she’s touched because she will kill me, Kitty. She will!’ She sat forward and grabbed at Kitty’s shoulders, her gaze wandering and her mouth slack. The exertion seemed to exhaust her and her eyes closed, as she sank back into the pillows.

Kitty cooed and smiled as best she could. Backing out of the room, she raced down to the kitchen.

Marjorie spun round at the sound of her footsteps. ‘Kitty! I told you—’

Kitty didn’t hear the rest of her scolding. Bent double, she vomited onto the flagstones, watching as the cookie-riddled splatter crept across the kitchen floor.

‘Oh, dear God!’ Marjorie rushed forward and gathered her long red hair in her hands, out of the way.

‘What’s going on here?’

Her dad came in via the back door and Kitty glanced up briefly, so glad to see him, incapacitated though she was by her sickness. She felt bereft. The world she’d been excitedly picturing while she was away at school no longer existed. Her mum was still in Timbuktu or somewhere much, much further…

‘She might have rushed a cookie or two when she got in,’ Marjorie offered by way of explanation.

‘Ah, that’ll have done it.’ Her dad placed the bag of groceries on the table and palmed small circles on her back.

Kitty stared at the pool of vomit on the floor in front of her, unwilling and unable to say that it wasn’t the cookies that had made her sick, it was the sight and smell of her mum and the flame of naked fear that her bizarre words had fanned.

‘I’m so glad you’re home!’ her dad whispered. ‘And look, there’s someone here who’s very keen to meet you.’

Kitty raised her eyes. A ball of fluff was poking out from inside her dad’s wax jacket – a wee collie pup.

‘This young fella is Champ. I’ve told him all about you.’

She smiled thinly at the cute dog panting in her dad’s arms. It would have been the loveliest surprise had she not been expecting something far, far more.

*

Kitty envied Ruraigh and Hamish their ability to simply pick up where they had left off the last time they were home. It was as if the environment flexed to accommodate them rather than the other way around. She watched, fascinated, as they literally grabbed the snooker cues from where they’d placed them in the rack on the wall and continued with their game. Their bedrooms were pretty soon covered with the paraphernalia that accompanied them wherever they went – rugby balls, tennis racquets, gym shoes, shorts, dirty laundry, clean laundry and the odd textbook, there for show more than anything useful. She knew that no school assignment was going to get in the way of their summer schedule.

It was only two days in and already she found it harder to be home than she could have imagined. Darraghfield was the place she loved. The long and winding driveway, the neat garden encircled by seemingly endless moorland, and the gothic flint architecture, capped turrets, deep, stone-mullioned windows and moss-covered quoins were all she had ever known, and yet now, no matter where she was on the estate, she could only picture her mum cloistered in the darkened room, reeking of desperation and quite lost. Kitty’s eyes were continually drawn to that side of the house as if she expected her mum to be peeking out, keeping watch. She’d already visited her twice since that first time, sitting on the side of the bed while her mum slept, guilty at how relieved she was at being spared more intense interaction. Even when she wasn’t in her mum’s room, she found it hard to properly relax and almost impossible to eat; her mum’s illness had upset the balance of the house as well as her own constitution.

Now she sat on the flat rock at the top of the field with her knees hunched into her chest, looking down over the valley below, breathing in the smell of damp, mossy earth and taking in the majestic view, enjoying nothing more than the sound of the wind whistling through the tall trees and skimming the water as it swept up the glen.

The maniacal roar of quad bikes fast approaching shattered the peace. She gritted her teeth with irritation. The over-revved engines and obvious speed told her it was her cousins driving and not her dad and Patrick, who preferred to potter.

‘Wosamatta, Kitty? Missing lover-boy?’ Ruraigh called as he hurtled past on the quad.

She shook her head and ignored him, her expression sullen. The boys saw her fling with their friend as a great source of amusement; she’d heard them ribbing Angus at school and had liked the way he’d taken it in his stride and made no attempt to deny it. It made her feel a bit wanted and that was nice.

Hamish came soon after, standing on the pedals and trying to make the bike lift on the bumps.

Idiot.

‘Away and straighten yer face!’ he yelled, laughing as he went.

She stuck two fingers up. The boys only howled their laughter louder. A few minutes passed and then she heard her dad’s unmistakable whistle, no doubt trying to coax the energetic, inquisitive Champ to order.

‘There you are!’ He let out a deep breath and loosened his scarf about his neck. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you, thought you might be in the pool.’

‘I was, earlier.’ She spoke softly.

‘So much for summer, eh? This weather is cold.’ He sidled up and sat next to her on the rock, rubbing his hands together before forming them into a little cage into which he blew warm air.

‘I kind of like it like this,’ she confessed.

‘Me too. You seem…’ He paused, and she knew he would have been waiting, seeking out the moment to chat, and apparently this was it. ‘You seem quiet.’

‘I feel quiet.’ A shiver ran through her at this truth.

‘Aye.’ He let the air settle between them. ‘Marjorie said you went to see Mum when you arrived and she feared it was that that might have upset your tum.’

She nodded, resting her chin on her knees and running the flat of her palm over the lichen-covered rock, liking the feel of the small shards and jags on the cool rock beneath her fingertips.

‘What did you think?’

Kitty shrugged, unable to accurately explain to her dad just how horrible she’d found it, her words unspoken out of loyalty and embarrassment.

‘I know it’s not easy…’ he began. ‘I’m a grown-up, Kitty, and even I’ve found it…’ Again he paused, seeming to search for the right tone and phrases. ‘Living under the same roof as your mum’s illness is like living with a huge, dark monster of which I’m quite afraid. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, I pretend I can’t see it! I don’t talk about it, don’t mention it. And yet there it is, hovering at the table when we eat, looking over our shoulders while we clean our teeth at night and even sitting at the bottom of our bed, staring at me while I make my twice nightly visit to the bathroom.’

She looked up at him, grateful for his eloquence. ‘That’s how I feel, Dad, like it’s everywhere, and like I don’t want to look at it. It makes me feel scared.’

‘It makes me feel scared too.’ He placed his elbows on his knees and leant forward. From this angle she was able to study his wide, square back.

‘It’s not just the weather that makes me feel cold.’ He sighed. ‘Your mum used to be sunny, noisy! Always singing or humming or calling out, and that brought warmth to our home, but now Darraghfield is chilly, and the mountain we have to climb seems insurmountable and joy has fled from every room.’

‘Don’t say that, Dad! It’ll get better.’ She hoped this wasn’t a lie.

He nodded vigorously, as if this might make it more plausible. There was a beat while neither of them spoke; the breeze whistled and brought with it the faint scent of heather. Her dad looked back at her. ‘Here’s the thing: I don’t know how to acknowledge this monster, I don’t know what to say to it. Should I stand tall and confront it like the unwanted intruder it is?’

She stared at him, knowing no answer was required.

‘I think about that every minute of every day. But what if the monster retaliates, gets mad, roars louder than me? How would I cope then? I’m already weary from living with it for so long.’

Kitty nodded. He looked weary. And she got the feeling he was glad of someone to talk to about it.

‘Everything I used to consider routine has been disturbed or destroyed. To continue to ignore the monster feels like the easiest option, but I must admit that does little for my confidence or my belief that I can steer our family ship through these rocky waters.’

Her cousins’ boisterous shouts drifted back to them from the path down to the river.

‘I always thought I could plot a route through anything that might come our way, always had a calm horizon within sight, but I hadn’t reckoned on the strength of this adversary. And I am tired of it, Kitty, so very tired.’

‘What can we do to help her, Dad?’ she said in a small voice. ‘We have to do something.’

She’d never seen her dad like this before, almost admitting defeat. His eyes were red pools of sadness.

‘I… I have never been more afraid of anyone or anything in my whole life.’

‘It’s still Mum! It’s still her!’ Kitty said imploringly.

‘I know. Oh, I know, and I still love her now like I’ve loved her always.’ He swallowed and at his words she felt her pulse settle a little with relief. ‘But this illness, this monster has got its claws into the person I love the most. It has wrapped her in its arms and sits with her perched on its lap while it whispers in her ear.’

‘She can’t help it, she—’

‘I know, Kitty! I know she can’t help it!’ She knew he would regret raising his voice, a rare thing and a clue as to what simmered beneath. ‘But sometimes it feels like a tug-of-war between me and the monster, the prize being the person I love – your mum.’ He drew breath. ‘And I cannot honestly say who will win.’

‘I think, Dad, that no matter how hard it is for us living with the monster, for Mum it must be much, much worse.’ She stared at her dad, who gave a small suggestion of a smile.

‘You’re right, of course, my smart girl.’

‘And remember, Dad, Mum is a warrior.’

He blinked as he stared at the horizon, and, again, Kitty hoped this was not a lie.

*

Her birthday came and went, a non-event really, on a grey, rainy day and not how she had envisaged celebrating turning fifteen. Marjorie had wrapped up a pair of hand-knitted socks and made a carrot cake. Kitty went through the motions, but for whose sake she wasn’t sure. Her mum fidgeted at the table, eyeing their housekeeper with suspicion, her body language screaming that she was desperate to flee. In truth, Kitty almost preferred it when she was ensconced in her room. It meant the rest of them could at least relax a little, pretend.

It had been three days since she’d last stood outside her mum’s bedroom door, her sweaty, nervous palm resting on the door handle, drawn inside out of duty rather than desire. Cautiously she twisted the knob and peeked through the tiniest of gaps. Her mum sat in the middle of her bed, crying quietly. Her dad, sitting slightly to one side, held her tight, her greasy hair spilling down over his shirtfront. ‘It’s okay, Fenella. It’s okay, my darling. I’m right here, I am right here…’ he cooed, rocking her softly, as if dealing with a baby.

Kitty quickly and quietly closed the door, feeling the familiar icy sadness at the sight of her mother’s distress, but also something else, a twinge of embarrassment at having witnessed the tender moment between her parents. It felt very different to when she used to watch them chatting, whispering on the sofa, back when her mum would sip at her glass of single malt and giggle like a girl; back when there’d been light behind her eyes instead of fear; back when she was a warrior and Kitty had hoped to grow up to be just like her. That had been her dream. She couldn’t remember when the prospect of turning out like her mum had become a nightmare.

It was a week later that Angus arrived. Until she saw him, her stomach remained knotted, and fretful thoughts disturbed her sleep; the idea that he might have had a change of heart, might have kissed another girl on his family trip to Cornwall, was horrible and persistent. She was sure there’d be plenty of admirers among the families with whom they had holidayed ‘forever’, and her feelings of inadequacy sat by her side like a shadow. She didn’t know how she would cope without his affection, especially at school, where having an older boyfriend, and a good-looking one at that, marked her out, had become her thing. It was a shield of sorts, a shield that kept the bullies at bay and was something to be proud of. She might not have been able to chitchat to her mother during the Thursday night phone calls or receive long letters from her full of questions and witticisms, but Angus Thompson, captain of the 1st XI was her boyfriend and that was enough to set her apart.

For the first time ever, Kitty pored over articles on how to be beautiful. She’d begun taking an interest in her appearance and was spending far longer than was healthy pondering her many non-existent flaws. I wish I had bigger boobs. I wish I had boobs of any size! I’ve got massive thighs – what can I do about that? My skin’s so pale, I wish I had one of those Californian tans, and as for all my freckles… Urgh…

The night before he was due to arrive, she conditioned her wild red hair, then gripped the disposable razor and with a grimace swept it over her shins and calves. The fair, downy hair went down the plughole, leaving her skin with a womanly sheen not dissimilar to the pictures in the magazines. Her armpits and groin were given similar treatment. She liked the way it felt, this new, shiny, squeaky, hair-free skin. Grown-up. It was one of a thousand moments when she wished she could ask her mum for advice or at least share news of this momentous occasion; it would have made the old Fenella chuckle with delight.

Angus smiled as he walked into the hallway the next day, his sports bag slung over his shoulder, flicking his long fringe. His presence alone dispelled her anxiety. She might have only just turned fifteen, but she was old enough to know that had there been some other shinier girl in Looe to hold his attention over the summer, he would not have hotfooted it all the way up to the Highlands to see her, no matter how good the banter between him and her cousins. The way he held her gaze and the knowing look they exchanged told her they were still a couple. There was something that flowed between the two of them; if she’d had the words, she might have described it as a longing. His skin had been toasted brown by the Cornish sun and he looked handsome!

Kitty swallowed the flames of happiness that flickered inside her – Angus could have anyone, so why her? He grabbed her hand and pulled her into the games room, kissing her roughly as he pushed her up against the wall with a sense of urgency that made her heart race and her legs go weak. A strange tingly feeling started in her stomach and radiated throughout her body; she didn’t know what it was, but she knew she wanted more of it.

‘Did you miss me?’ he asked, his white teeth coming in close once more, to nip at her bottom lip.

‘I did,’ she admitted, her voice hoarse with lust. ‘I was worried you might meet someone in Cornwall.’ She laughed nervously, hoping for a swift rebuttal.

Instead, he placed his hand under her hair and cupped the back of her neck, holding her fast. ‘As if, Kitty!’

Just hearing her name on his lips sent a jolt of pleasure through her. But then came the sound of her cousins’ feet thundering down the stairs; their cue to spring apart.

‘’Bout bloody time!’ Ruraigh punched Angus on his upper arm. ‘We’ve got bait warming in the sun but didn’t want to leave before you arrived. Grab your waders!’

Hamish pumped his hand in the grown-up manner that she’d seen rehearsed at school a thousand times.

Kitty slunk down on the wide sofa and grabbed a book from the shelf; it didn’t matter which book, she had no intention of reading it, but she needed the prop, something to steady her shaking hands and calm her flustered pulse, as she caught her breath.

‘SeeyoulaterKitty,’ Ruraigh called as the back of his head and the back of his raised palm disappeared from the room. Despite the lack of an invite, she was irritatingly glad that he had acknowledged her at all.

Angus followed his friend but turned briefly in the doorway, keen to loiter, as if they had unfinished business. It was no more than seconds, but the look he gave her was so intense that Kitty’s stomach shrank.

Her appetite over supper was non-existent, partly in anticipation of what might lie ahead for her and Angus, but also, much to her shame, because her mum had joined them at the table and preoccupation with her strange behaviour killed Kitty’s appetite. Her mum sat quietly, an ethereal presence that seemed quite unaware of the conversations happening around her; she just sat there pushing the steamed vegetables around her plate and nibbling no more than a tiny cube of venison before politely making her excuses and slipping from the table and the room like a ghost.

As if choreographed, shoulders collectively sank around the table as she exited. Kitty tried not to notice the way the boys looked at one another, wide-eyed and aware, their silent exchanges speaking volumes. She was embarrassed, upset and furious on her mum’s behalf. Her dad did his best to change tack and she loved him for it. He clapped his big, cupped hands loudly to draw their attention and ready them for one of his tales. This time it was the one about the badger the size of a man that he swore he found sitting in the leather chair behind his desk in the estate office.

‘All he was missing was a wee pair of round gold-rimmed spectacles and a natty waistcoat with a fob watch.’ He wheezed his laughter. ‘And he looked up at me and we both paused and I swear in my head he said, “Can I help you?”’

She had heard it before, of course, but it was no less funny for that. She loved him for his theatre and more so for recognising the need for it.

Stephen’s diversion worked, to a point. After supper, Kitty and the boys gravitated to the library. Hamish was fixated on burning things in the roaring fire, his focus and analysis of the task in hand worthy of any good scientific experiment. He held a crisp packet on tongs into the flames and watched intently as it shrivelled and gave off a steady noxious stink. This was followed by an old playing-card box, found under the sofa and riddled with dust. It actually fizzed in the flames, emitting a momentary green glow. She knew it was a sign of their boredom that they were all equally rapt by his exploits, quietly watching from the sofas or, in her case, from the ancient Indian leather pouffe with a tired-out Champ slumbering across her legs.

They might have all been staring at the fire, but she was aware of the current, a silent crackle of communication that flared between her and Angus on the other side of the room. It was a little after eleven that he stood and said his goodnights before loping up the wide sweep of the stairs. She knew this was her cue and counted down the minutes she considered to be a prudent interval, not wanting to cause suspicion. She even managed to execute a perfect fake yawn. Sleep, however, was far from her mind as her body pulsed with excitement.

Thankfully, her cousins had turned their attention to backgammon and now sat at the card table, illicitly sharing one of their uncle’s cigars, puffing like enthusiastic amateurs as they studied the wooden chips.

Kitty knew every dark corner of Darraghfield: which stairs creaked, what picture would swing from the wall to reveal a safe, and which doors led to narrow corridors or secret passages. She knew which window frames not to poke because the damp wood was too far gone to be patched up with paint and would leave a fingertip-shaped hole, and she could direct visitors to warm corners inside old pine wardrobes where folded motheaten blankets made the best hiding spots ever. Yes, Kitty knew the house back to front and inside out, and yet tonight, as she padded barefoot along the dark ships’-timber flooring, she felt as if she was venturing nowhere she’d been before.

Slowly she turned the handle of the spare room in the east wing, then closed it behind her. Angus was already under the blankets and for this she was grateful, not sure she could have coped with anything less surreptitious than simply sneaking into the bed alongside him. The low-wattage bulb nestling behind the faded tassels of the lamp on the writing desk sent dark shadows leaping up the floral-wallpapered walls. The light was dim and she was glad about that too.

Kitty pulled back the blankets and stared at Angus’s legs; unlike hers, they were covered in fine down, turned blonde in places. She noted the line on his thighs where his shorts had blocked his dark tan from taking hold in the Cornish sun and above which the skin remained pale. He turned onto his side, and with a heady sense of inevitability she slipped against him, holding her hands up above her head like a child in need of assistance as he peeled her T-shirt from her body and pushed her shorts down with his long toes.

*

She had discussed what sex might be like with Isla, her friend from the village, and had listened with interest to the late-night chats between the girls in her dorm, but now, as she lay there after the event, she felt very little. In fact, she felt less than very little; she felt… nothing.

With something close to disappointment and an unsatisfied ache, Kitty looked at her bundle of clothes that lay in a heap by the foot of the bed and wondered if she could restore them without waking Angus, who was now sound asleep beside her.

Underwhelming though that first sex was, that summer changed everything. Kitty felt different. Not that she could talk to anyone about it. The girls in her dorm, her new friends, all had long-standing plans, Isla was working over on Mull at her aunt’s B? it was just sex, that was all. It was both predictable and quick and left her wondering what all the fuss was about. That struck her as a bit of a shame. When sex had been unchartered waters, the idea of doing it had been exciting; thinking about what it might be like had taken up a lot of her thoughts, but now that they had done it seventeen times, it was very much ‘just sex’. And if Kitty were being honest, she rather missed the mystery and thrill that had once surrounded it.

She used to think that when she had sex for the first time she would learn some great secret, something that all non-virgins knew and kept to themselves, something that bound them all in the non-virgins club. But there was nothing. No big reveal, no secret, no code… Her expectations had definitely been higher. She didn’t feel sexy – she didn’t feel anything. And afterwards she felt happy that once again they’d got away with it without being caught, and happy that he loved her. This she felt certain of because surely if he didn’t love her, he wouldn’t have sex with her, would he?

*

‘So, back to school, eh? Where did those weeks go?’ Her dad smiled at her, as he crept into her room and, as had become usual of late, she looked away, embarrassed by the knowledge she now possessed, worried that he might be able to read her non-virgin state on her face.

‘I’ll be back for exeat and it’ll soon be Christmas,’ she mumbled as she packed fresh notebooks and pristine fountain pens into her bag.

‘Christmas? Good Lord, Kitty, I haven’t given up thoughts of summer yet. I’m clinging to the prospect of some autumn sunshine, so please don’t make me start thinking about Christmas.’

‘I love Christmas.’ Her smile broke wide at this truth. It was the time of year when Darraghfield came into its own. Fires roared in every grate and Marjorie went to town preparing vast amounts of food. Kitty loved the leftovers best, wolfing down slices of cold turkey, peeling hunks of baked ham from the bone with greasy fingers and placing them on rips of freshly baked bread, then slathering everything with dollops of Marjorie’s homemade chutneys and pickles, which would be lined up on the table in ribbon-wrapped jars. Her mum dressed the hall and staircases with garlands of pine heavy with cones and interspersed with bows of Montrose tartan, a fiddly job, but the end result was always beautiful and much admired by everyone who came to the festive drinks party. Those parties nearly always ended in an impromptu ceilidh, with the dancing finishing in the early hours. It had turned into a tradition that, weather permitting, as dawn broke, everyone would sway arm in arm on the brow of the front lawn to watch the skies turn lavender-coloured as the sun rose over the glen.

‘Do you think Mum might be feeling a bit better by Christmas?’ she asked, pausing her packing for a moment, her voice quiet.

Her dad walked over and crushed her to him in an unexpected hug. He spoke into her hair and there was desperation in his voice. ‘We’re doing all right, aren’t we? We can do this, Kitty – I have to think we can!’

She swallowed to quash the nerves that were making her stomach churn; the prospect of leaving him alone was not a happy one. ‘We can, Dad.’ She nodded against his chest and closed her eyes, sending her wishes up into the ether, hoping they might reach the cloistered bedroom in the turret. ‘We will all be fine, Dad, just fine.’

Kitty didn’t want to leave Darraghfield, didn’t want to leave her mum and dad and Marjorie, but it wasn’t as if she had any choice, and at some level she knew it was easier for all concerned if she was away at school; one less thing for them all to worry about.

*

As soon as the taxi pulled into the car park at the front of Vaizey College, Hamish and Ruraigh grabbed their bags from the boot and ran eagerly towards the dorms and the friends they had missed, leaving her on the back seat, forgotten.

As she stared up at the imposing facade with a sinking feeling in her gut, she saw Theo walking across the quadrangle with his suitcase under his arm. His trousers were a little high on his ankle after his summer away, and his blazer was tight across his back. He was sporting a deep, envy-inducing tan and had clearly grown quite a lot, his physique now something that drew her attention, along with his handsome face. She felt a warm glow at the prospect of catching up with him, knowing that if she could talk to anyone about her strange summer, it would be him. She tapped on the window of the cab, but with his head low and his stride determined, he didn’t hear her.

‘Thank you!’ She smiled at the driver and grabbed her overnight suitcase from the boot, lifting it against her hip and tilting forwards as she walked, keen to try and catch up with Theo. The three trunks were being forwarded separately. She made her way across the car park and by the time she got to the quad, there was a small group of boys standing in the middle and quite a lot of noise – calling out, yelling. She wondered if it was some kind of sport being played, highly illegal within the quad walls. Kitty stopped in her tracks and dropped her heavy case to the ground. Her heart raced and her breathing came in fast bursts as she recognised Wilson and his friends and saw Theo with his fingers curled into his palms.

Wilson was bouncing on the balls of his feet with his fists raised, and with horror Kitty realised that he and Theo were fighting! Judging by the look on Theo’s face and the red stain on his cheek, he’d already been hit. She raised her hand to her mouth, unsure whether to cry out or simply cry. Knowing how private and acutely sensitive Theo was, she stepped back into the shadow of one of the quad pillars and dragged her bag with her. From this hiding place, she watched, unseen, as events unfolded.

‘Too scared to hit me, faggot?’ she heard Wilson shout as he rocked his head from side to side and jabbed a couple of mock blows. The third, however, landed on Theo’s left eye socket. And this was when Kitty started crying for real; seeing her friend hurt was more than she could bear.

Theo held a cupped palm over his face and Wilson’s idiot pals skittered about like excitable pups, whooping and hollering as they cheered their leader on. ‘Poof!’ Dinesh yelled. Kitty had never hated anyone more.

Theo tried to stand up straight, but Wilson’s next blow caught him on the side of the head.

‘What sort of bloke doesn’t fight back? What the fuck is wrong with you?’ Wilson spat. ‘Is it like the homo code?’

In the heat of the moment, she became aware of someone running into view and then she saw Wilson’s head jerk sideways as something struck him on the side of the face with force.

‘What the fuck?’ Wilson yelled, in a high-pitched voice that told her he was hurt, embarrassed, and she was glad.

It was only when Kitty looked away from Wilson that she realised that the person who’d hit him was none other than old Mr Porter, the groundsman at Vaizey, someone she knew Theo was very fond of. Wilson said something Kitty couldn’t hear and Mr Porter slapped him again. Blood trickled over his chin and down his shirtfront and he remained kneeling, shocked and subdued by Mr Porter’s intervention, as was Kitty.

‘What is going on here?’ Mr Beckett, the scary housemaster of Theobald’s House, yelled across the quad.

Kitty knew it was time to leave. She grabbed her bag and walked the long way round to her house. Her heart pounded in her chest and her tears flowed. Theo, her sweet, calm, kind friend… Even the idea of him fighting with someone was crazy – the boy who didn’t say boo to a goose; the boy who once built a small envelope for a ladybird to crawl into before carefully placing it on the outside window so it wouldn’t be hurt. But she wouldn’t have blamed him if he had fought back. She knew he got taunted and called a poof quite a bit. She sometimes wondered if he might be gay, if that might explain why he didn’t have a girlfriend at Vaizey despite being so handsome and lovely to be around. But he’d never said anything to her and she would never ask.

She didn’t want Theo to ever know that she had witnessed his beating, didn’t want him to feel the shame. An image came into her mind of her dad resting on the edge of the mattress with her mum in his arms as he rocked her gently, cooing, ‘It’s okay, Fenella. It’s okay, my darling. I’m right here,’ speaking softly, as if he was dealing with a baby. Right now, as she walked slowly to her dorm with tears running down her face, Kitty understood the need to take someone you cared about into your arms, especially when they were vulnerable and hurt. She understood the desire to try and make things better, even if you knew you couldn’t.