Emily retained that sliver of a memory and reflected on it throughout the day. When the time came to pick Rita up from school she took her by the hand, and headed straight for the shopping precinct.
“This isn’t the way home,” Rita announced. “Where are we going?”
After checking it was safe for them to cross the road, Emily increased her grip on Rita’s hand and declared, “We’re going shopping.”
Rita took a couple of extra steps to keep up. “But I don’t have any money.”
“I do. And if you’re good, I’ll get you something nice.” She looked down at Rita noticing she had buttoned her coat up wrong. “Your coat’s all crooked. You need to check next time. You need to look smart.” She realigned her buttons and kissed her cheek. “That’s better. Come on.”
The precinct was abuzz with other school children, mostly Emily’s age. They moved in packs, drawing attention as they pushed and teased each other. The twosome paid them no attention and didn’t expect any in return; they were the poor kids, the ones without a real home, without mums and dads. Although they didn’t make a point of advertising the fact, it was common knowledge. It could have been the lunch vouchers, the second hand uniforms or the hand-me-down shoes that gave it away. Whatever it was, their parentless status seemed to follow them wherever they went like a bad smell, keeping the rich kids at bay.
Emily felt a little richer herself that day; she had saved up ten pounds and knew exactly what to spend it on. She led Rita into the pet shop. Three steps inside and there was the distinct odour of pets and sawdust. Being nearer to the ground it hit Rita’s nose first, causing her to wrinkle up her entire face.
“It smells like poo!” she announced much to the displeasure of the shop owner sitting behind the counter on a high backed stool reading a newspaper.
Emily forced a laugh to disguise her embarrassment and tugged at Rita’s hand. “Stop being so dramatic! That’s how animals smell. Come on.” By-passing hamsters scooting around squeaking wheels, squawking parrots and fluffy puppies pressing their noses up against frosted glass daubed with prints, they made for the accessories section.
Emily took hold of one of the jingling bell pendants for a cat’s collar and gave it a shake. It was surprisingly loud and came in red or silver. On checking her purse, she calculated that she could afford three and still scrape together enough money for two ice-creams on the way home.
Rita said very little in the shop, too besotted with the pets to even consider why Emily had wasted her money. Only when she left the shop and they were queuing up for an ice-cream did it cross her mind to ask, “Why’ve you bought cat bells? Are we getting a cat?”
Emily handed over her money for their ice-creams and gave one to Rita. “No. Of course not. We’re not allowed to have a cat.”
“Then why?” Rita dragged her tongue along the ice-cream. “This is my favourite. Thanks, Em.”
“I know. Don’t make a mess.” She passed Rita a napkin and led her over to a table where they could enjoy their treat in comfort. “I’ve got the bells for you.”
Rita’s head shot up. Her eyes widened. “Me? I’m not a kitty cat!”
“You’re not.” Emily grinned, chocolate ice-cream seeping between her teeth. ”I’m going to sew them to your blanket and put one on the door handle. That way if you get up in the night or anyone tries to pull back the covers while I’m asleep, I’ll hear and wake up.”
Too engrossed in her ice-cream to consider the implications of Emily’s explanation, Rita nodded. “I’ll be like Tinkerbell.”
“Yeah, right.” Emily rolled her eyes. “You’ll be like Tinkerbell.” She could imagine Rita being lots of things; of all the possibilities, Tinkerbell was at the bottom of a long list that began with the scariest word imaginable—MOLESTED.
Chapter Four
Emily
BEFORE ENTERING THE LOUNGE, I checked myself in the hall mirror, used a stray crocodile clip to pin back my hair and pinched my cheeks to add a little colour to improve my ghostly pallor. I need not have bothered…
Stood facing the window was Maggie, one of Rita’s closest friends from university; they met in their first year and remained firm friends throughout the course, even went on a gap year adventure together with four other students. I recognised her from the funeral that morning. “Maggie?” I called out.
On seeing me she bolted over and flung her arms around my neck. I wasn’t prepared for a close encounter and had to force myself to embrace her. I patted her back as she cried into the collar of my black dress.
“I can’t believe she’s gone,” she sobbed.
I felt the heat of her breath and the wetness of her tears on my neck and gently pulled her away from me. “I know. I can’t believe it either.” I directed her toward the sofa.
She stepped back, dabbed at her tears with a tissue and blew her nose noisily. Paul had been right. At that moment she did look worse than I did. I had cried myself to sleep every night for weeks and simply hadn’t any tears left to shed. They had been replaced by something much more visceral and long-lasting: an aching pain deep inside that twisted at my core.
We perched on the sofa like a pair of ravens on a wire, our bodies rocking back and forth as we comforted each other.
“I saw you at the funeral this morning with Rita’s other friends from uni.”
She nodded. “Yes. We make a point of meeting up every couple of weeks on a Friday to have a catch-up, you know…?”
My mouth flickered in acknowledgment.
“I should have realised something was wrong when Reet didn’t show up to the last one before she…” She shook her head. “I should have checked to see if she was okay…”
“Maybe she was busy?” I ventured.
She shrugged her shoulders and patted the corner of her eyes. “Yeah, maybe. She worked really hard.”
“She loved her job…”
Maggie raised her head, as if hearing her name for the first time. “Is that what she told you?”
I matched her alert expression. “It’s what I assumed… She didn’t say otherwise.”
“Right…”
I edged closer to her, pulling down my rising hemline, suddenly serious. “Are you saying she was unhappy at work?” I waited, watching Maggie’s awkwardness as she struggled to find the right words. “Tell me, Maggie. What is it I don’t know about her job?”
“It’s probably nothing…”
“Let me be the judge of that,” I asserted, rediscovering the rational part of my personality that had been in a state of suspended animation during my period of mourning. “Tell me … please.”
“You know how smart she was…”
“Yes.”
“How she could handle anything?”
“I do.”
“Well, from what I could tell, she was struggling with some of her classes: one in particular.” She blew her nose.
I wrinkled my face. “Struggling how? She was a maths genius. I never met anyone with her grasp of numbers, formulas—”