The Good Plain Cook (27 page)

Joanna

Christmas, 1985

I know Shane’s not coming. I sit on the seat of the twitchers. I know he’s not coming. But I wait. I grip the seat until my
fingers go dead, and I wait for him.

Pink hoop earrings, pink pencil skirt. I’m ready, should he stride past, Walkman blasting. I’m ready, but I know he won’t
come. No one’s seen him since that night. Not even me.

Rooks scream in the spiky trees. Everything’s frozen, even the air. It bursts in my lungs when I inhale.

The only thing moving is the steam in the sky. It coughs out of the power station cooling towers. It never stops.

I stretch my fingers out and let the blood flow back. Then I grip the seat again.

They found Rob’s body down here a week ago. I saw it on the news, like everyone else. There were nets and dogs and more police
than you’ve ever seen in Calcot. They came to my house and asked me, when was the last time I saw Robert Hall? How did I know
him? Who were his other friends? How did he seem when I left him? I didn’t leave him, I said. I went to look for him. But
he’d gone. They’d both gone. The policewoman had lines scored around her mouth, and shimmery purple eyeshadow. I kept looking
at it because she’d done one eye darker than the other, and it made her lopsided. I know it’s hard, she said, but try to remember.
She put her hand on my shoulder. Robert’s friend Luke said there was someone else there. Was there anyone else with you? Was
there anyone else there that night? No one, I said. No one else was there.

It’s all quiet now, though. The police have gone. They found Rob’s body, and they stopped looking for Shane.

Rob came into the shop where I work weekends not long ago and bought some Dairy Box for his mum, for Christmas. I told him
that she’d want Ferrero Rocher, pointing to the gold pyramid I’d just stacked. We laughed. His flawless cheeks glowed.

They’ll be grey now, though. Bloated from the water.

No one’s found Shane. But he’s probably looking for me. If I sit here long enough, he might come. I might hear his beat. He
might put his hands on my head.

If he does, I’m not sure what I’ll do. I might scream. I might run off. But I’ll let him touch me, just once.

Shane’s hand would have covered Rob’s whole head.

Instead, Simon comes.

I know it’s him before he sits down next to me. I recognise his sigh, the expensive-sounding crunch of his leather boots on
the frozen mud.

We sit for a long time, looking at the pool. There’s still police tape round the other side, where they found the body.

Mum didn’t come to the funeral, but Simon did. He didn’t come with me, he just appeared at the last minute, sat behind me
and breathed his damp air on the back of my neck. I didn’t ask him to do that. After the service, I slipped out before he
could clutch my elbow and say my name.

He must have followed me down the lane to the pools, telling Mum he was going to do some birdwatching. Promising he’d bring
her something back. Kissing her pout before he left.

He inches along the bench, closer. I let him sit there, in silence. I know he doesn’t know what to say to me. He steals the
odd sideways glance at my face. I keep looking at the pool, though. I don’t want to see his eyes.

Then he reaches into his coat pocket. Brings out a bar of Bourneville. Slides a finger beneath the red paper wrapper. Pops
it open. Rips back a piece of foil. Offers it to me.

I snap off a block and put it in my mouth. Let it melt.