Girl, (Nearly) 16: Absolute Torture Read online

  ‘Oh yes. He did eventually marry again.’

  ‘What, he married again, but he asked for his heart to be buried with his first wife?’ said Jess.

  ‘Yes. Exactly.’

  ‘Weird,’ said Jess. What sort of second wife would put up with that kind of thing? If Fred ever told her he wanted his heart to be buried with a previous girlfriend, Jess would personally eat it with barbecue sauce and fries.

  ‘Oh, look!’ said Granny. ‘The sun’s just come out! It’s going to be another lovely day!’

  Huh! Granny! What did she know? Nothing.

  Chapter 15

  ‘It’s not far to Hardy’s grave!’ trilled Jess’s mum excitedly, backing the car out of the parking space with slightly too much panache. As if Jess cared. Hardy’s grave could be at the other end of the Zarg Galaxy, as far as she was concerned.

  She had begged Mum to let her rush to the nearest shop and buy some more credit for her phone, but Mum had been adamant that they must have an early start, and that Jess was spending far too much time on the wretched thing anyway.

  ‘Steady on, Madeleine!’ said Granny. ‘You nearly hit that wall!’

  ‘Don’t nag, Granny,’ said Jess’s mum. ‘You know I’m the safest driver in the whole country, so just give me a break.’

  Hey! Maybe Mum and Granny were finding it hard sharing a room. Maybe they’d had a blazing row, and maybe Mum had gone off in a sulk, locked herself in the bathroom and scrawled Mum is a loser on the bathroom mirror, in soap. Mum still called Granny ‘Mum’ sometimes. It was a little strange imagining Mum as a sulking teenager. But then, Jess supposed even Granny must have been a sulking teenager once.

  Jess smiled to herself at the thought. The smile felt strange on her face. She realised she hadn’t done any of that smiling or laughing business for days.

  ‘At least it’s not far,’ said Mum. ‘Just a few miles to the churchyard.’

  Jess was annoyed that it wasn’t very far. She would gladly have stayed slumped in the back of the car all day, watching listlessly as the countryside rolled past – preferably a countryside of horrid precipices, rocks, ravens and pine trees struck by lightning.

  Alas, this kind of countryside was not typical of the south-west of England, and she had to put up with sunlit meadows, cute cuddly hills and occasional glimpses of twinkling sea.

  Jess was longing to get to the sea. Mum had said they would stay by the sea for several days once they got down to Cornwall. When they arrived anywhere with a beach, Jess was planning to go out and sit and stare at the waves. She just hoped the beach would be deserted. It would be awful to have to share her mood of tragic despair with hordes of screaming kids smearing themselves with ice cream.

  Somehow this thought led to Fred. How ironic that the best person on the planet had been left behind. If only he’d been with them, she was sure that Thomas Hardy’s heart would have acquired a hilarious glamour. It would be top of the list of wacky tourist attractions. Fred would have thought of a hundred even more weird things to do with one’s body after death. Being separated from him made the whole planet seem poisoned and pointless.

  ‘Here we are!’ cried Mum gaily, as they drove down a shady lane towards a tiny church deeply veiled in trees. The last place on earth where you could buy credit for a mobile phone.

  ‘This is where we’ll see his grave!’ said Mum with ghoulish rapture.

  Jackpot, thought Jess.

  ‘His ashes were buried in Westminster Abbey,’ said Granny, consulting the guidebook. ‘They must have got the heart out before he was cremated, then. I wonder who does that sort of thing?’

  Granny had an almost indecent interest in such matters. For a moment, Jess was afraid she might get the urn out of the car boot, and take Grandpa’s ashes to visit Thomas Hardy’s heart.

  However, she refrained, thank goodness, so it was only the living members of the party who went through the little gate into the tiny churchyard. Jess saw the grave immediately, on the left of the path.

  ‘Here it is!’ she said. She wanted to get this over as soon as possible and get back to daydreaming in the back of the car.

  ‘Oh no, love, that’s not it,’ said her Mum.

  ‘But it says Thomas Hardy.’

  ‘That’s not him. The dates are too early. That’s another Thomas Hardy. I think that must be his father – or possibly grandfather. Let me work out the dates …’

  There were several tombstones all in a row, and each one was engraved with the name Thomas Hardy.

  Jess was gutted. She hadn’t even managed to find the correct Thomas Hardy. Why did there have to be so many of them? There seemed to be a whole epidemic. Wasn’t it a little bit unimaginative of his parents to call him Thomas, knowing there were so many Thomas Hardys in the family history? Why hadn’t they called him Leonardo or Oliver? Or Dave?

  ‘Here’s the one!’ said Granny. ‘It says about his heart being buried here. In his first wife’s grave, you know – Emma Lavinia Gifford.’

  ‘Here’s a poem he wrote to the memory of Emma,’ said Jess’s mum, getting a book out of her pocket and opening it at a page marked by a bus ticket. She started to read, in a silly sort of breathless, yearning voice.

  ‘I stand here in the rain,

  With its smite upon her stone,

  And the grasses that have grown –’

  ‘Stop! Mum!’ said Jess. ‘Don’t read poems out in public! Weird!’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Jess,’ said her mum. ‘There’s nobody about.’ And she instantly resumed. Jess shook her head in disbelief, and caught Granny’s eye.

  Granny leaned towards Jess and whispered, ‘Just let her have her way, dear. She always was incurably romantic.’

  The thought of her mother as an incurable romantic was about as bizarre as the thought of her granny as a champion tennis player. Jess looked up at the trees and deliberately didn’t listen to the poem. She was wishing she was a bird.

  And if I was a bird, she thought, I’d fly straight back home and find Fred, and if he was with Rosie I’d poo on her head, obviously, and she’d run off. And then I’d perch on Fred’s shoulder for ever, and roost inside his vest, and never leave him.

  This fantasy was somehow quite comforting, and after they’d seen the inside of the church, they got back into the car, so today’s indigestible dose of history seemed to be safely over. Jess wrote a Humphrey Bogart postcard to Flora.

  Dear Flo,

  Having a totally dire holiday. Mum is dragging me round endless graveyards, reading out awful poems in a sad nerdy voice. My granny is carting the ashes of my grandpa around with her. And Fred is apparently falling for somebody called Rosie. Have fun – somebody’s got to.

  Love, Jess.

  Maybe she should send another card to Dad.

  Hi, Dad!

  Thomas Hardy was cut up and buried in two separate places! Sick or what? Have you decided where you want to be buried? Never die, though – I’ll kill you if you do. This trip has been so depressing, only a cute puppy can cheer me up. See to it!

  Love, Jess.

  After she had finished both the cards and stuck the stamps on, Jess went back to the idea of herself as Fred’s pet canary, and stayed there while her mum drove for ages out of the county of Dorset and into Devon.

  ‘You’ll notice,’ said Mum, ‘that the lanes in Devon are very deep, and the soil is wonderfully red.’

  Such an optimist. Jess was living in a dream world, and would hardly have noticed if Devon had been inhabited by dragons and the soil had been composed of chocolate cake.

  Chapter 16

  Eventually they arrived at the town where Mum was planning to stay the night. It was called Totnes. Jess cheered up. It looked like the kind of fun, busy place where mobile phone credit would be widely available. What else mattered?

  ‘I’ve always wanted to come here,’ Mum said, parking erratically as usual, rather too close to a camper van. It seemed to Jess that her mother always wanted to go everywhere. Mayb
e she had not received the correct careers advice. Maybe she should not have been a librarian, but a travel rep. Although travel reps always had to wear such dismal uniforms. Jess could not imagine her mum in a sky-blue polyester suit, crisp shirt and idiotic cravat. Mind you, Mum’s usual clothes were in a weird class of their own.

  Today she was wearing a pair of black loose trousers, lightly scattered with stars (and, to be honest, tea stains), a Bob Marley T-shirt and a cardigan knitted in Peru, showing native peoples involved in what looked like human sacrifice.

  But, strangely, everybody else in Totnes looked remarkably similar. This was certainly Mum’s kind of place. Immediately after parking the car they found a tea shop, in response to Granny’s plaintive plea: ‘I’m gasping for a cuppa!’

  The tea shop was called the Fat Lemon – a strange name for a tea shop, but somehow, Jess suspected, typical of Totnes. They had so far only walked down one street but had already seen three old hippies with beards and two middle-aged women wearing gipsyish skirts and headscarves adorned with sequins and fringes.

  ‘They have over seventy varieties of tea!’ exclaimed Granny, reading the menu. Seventy! This was somewhat excessive, surely.

  ‘What poetic names!’ said Mum. ‘Emperor’s Choice, Russian Caravan, Mountain Green …’ Oh no! She was doing that poetry-reading thing again.

  Jess ordered hot chocolate and a fabulous cheesy vegetarian bake. She soon began to feel a bit more cheerful. She liked the Fat Lemon. It was a great name. Thomas Hardy’s parents should have called him Fat Lemon instead of Thomas. Fat Lemon Hardy – he could have been a jazz trumpeter instead of a tortured and tragic writer.

  ‘Feeling better, dear?’ whispered Granny.

  ‘Yes, thanks, Granny!’ Jess squeezed Granny’s withered old hand. It was like a bundle of twigs. Granny’s eyes sometimes had a faraway, cloudy grey look which only old people’s eyes seemed to have. As if they were looking into the next world, or something.

  Jess was alarmed to feel tears gathering behind her face! Oh no! Hastily she switched into a different gear.

  ‘What are we going to see tomorrow, Mum?’ she asked.

  Her mum looked startled. It was the first time Jess had shown any interest at all in the trip.

  ‘I want to take you to Berry Pomeroy Castle,’ said Mum. ‘They say it’s the most haunted place in the country.’

  At this point everybody in the tea shop should have suddenly gone quiet, and a cloud should have covered the sun. But all the customers just went on noisily eating their vegetarian delicacies and arguing about herbs and crystals.

  ‘Great!’ said Jess. ‘I love haunted places! In fact, I want to be a ghost when I grow up.’

  ‘Don’t worry, dear,’ whispered Granny with a cheery wink. ‘You will be.’

  In Totnes they were booked into a rickety old hotel in a fairly noisy part of town. Jess’s room had a grandstand view: street life bustled away below, like a scene in a movie. But nobody in Totnes even faintly resembled Fred.

  Now was her chance to go and buy more phone credit. But she decided to dash off another quick letter to Fred first, so she could catch the afternoon post.

  Dearest Fred,

  We are now in Totnes, hippy capital of the south-west. Here you can buy handmade shoes cunningly crafted from recycled loo rolls. My granny was elated by a tea shop selling seventy different types of tea. But she just ordered the same old boring tea as usual.

  My mum decided to splash out and be adventurous, so she ordered a quaint brew made from camel’s droppings in remote Poshbeckistan. But then she decided she didn’t really like it. That’s my mum’s life, summed up in a single tragic teatime.

  Earlier we visited the tomb of a tragic guy called Tom, who wrote tragic novels about tragic people. It was a blast. He had a pretty tragic life himself. He only realised he loved his wife after she died. So he left orders that after his death his heart must be cut out and buried with her. I can’t decide whether this is unbearably moving or horrendously gross, but I demand the same tribute from you, or there will be trouble, big time.

  Anyway, it has given me the idea of writing my will. If I die first, I want to be stuffed. I want you to take my lifeless corpse out to a nightclub every Saturday. You can do this small thing for me, can’t you? And for goodness’ sake make sure they get my eyebrows right. Halfway between witty Manhattan journo and crazy Egyptian princess living in a garret in Paris.

  I hope you are working hard and averting your eyes from Charlotte’s cleavage, however wrinkly. But if this Rosie character is taking my place in your heart, be advised that I shall personally cut out the aforementioned organ after your death. In fact, why wait for your death? I’ll cut it out while you’re still alive, stuff it with chicken livers and toss it to the nearest wolves.

  I’m in the mood now. I’m getting into my stride. I won’t rest until the pair of you are charcuterie. Hope you’re well.

  Love, Jess.

  Chapter 17

  Jess popped Fred’s letter in an envelope, sealed it and pressed a passionate kiss on the seal. Unfortunately the Body Shop lipgloss left a tell-tale smear. Jess took the envelope to the bathroom and tried to wipe the lipgloss off. But it just smeared it about even worse.

  In the end she decided to do the sensible thing and kissed the envelope all over. Now it just looked as if it had fallen on to the floor of the sorting office and been trodden on by a postman whose route included a swampy area inhabited by incontinent donkeys.

  OK, that was fine. Now she would go out and post it. She picked up her mobile phone and walked out of the room. She walked up and down the incredibly steep old main street until she found a post box. She posted the cards to Flora and Dad, took Fred’s letter out of her bag, and then hesitated. The next fingers to touch the letter would be Fred’s. Her fingers kind of burned excitedly as she let it go.

  A few moments later she realised that the next person to touch the envelope would probably be a fat lady in the sorting office. Things are never quite as magical as one would hope.

  Next Jess bought some credit for her mobile phone. At last communication could be restored between her and her beloved – well, all her beloveds, in fact. Her dad was certainly deeply beloved and Flora was the best friend in the world. First, though, Jess composed a text for Fred.

  HOLIDAY GHASTLY. TRUST YOU ARE ALSO IN AGONY. HAVE JUST POSTED YOU A LETTER.

  But when she tried to send it, she got the message, Failed. Oh no! There was no service here. She was tempted to ring him from a payphone, but she only had 20p with her – hardly enough for a cough. And anyway, he’d be working now – he worked every evening. His mobile would be switched off. And if he did pick up, he might be with Rosie.

  It would be just awful to ring Fred if he was all polite and distant. Or, even worse, if he said he couldn’t talk and hung up on her. Possibly with mocking girlish laughter echoing in the background. It would be worse than not speaking to him at all.

  Supper was in the hotel, because Granny was rather tired and couldn’t face climbing up the hill to a restaurant. Jess ordered chicken, even though she had completely lost her appetite.

  Jess’s mum spent a lot of time talking about her alarm clock, and the fact that she couldn’t get it to work. This was a bit of a relief, because it took care of the conversation. Jess was also glad that her mum didn’t say anything weird and sad about men. Also, she had made an effort to look passable. She had changed into a black silk shirt and black crêpe trousers.

  ‘You look really nice tonight, Mum,’ said Jess pointedly. Her mum looked surprised and a bit panicky. ‘Black suits you. You should wear silver earrings, though.’

  Jess’s mum was very obviously not wearing silver. Instead she had on a pair of earrings made out of painted wood shaped like palm trees. This was a major style failure, though possibly acceptable in Totnes.

  Moments later Jess was to regret boosting her mother’s confidence with thoughtless compliments. A sweaty waiter approached.
r />   ‘Would you like to see the dessert menu?’ he asked. And Jess’s mum looked up at him and – horrors! – winked roguishly.

  ‘Some would say we were sweet enough already,’ she quipped. ‘But I have to admit I am secretly yearning for a slice of passion fruit pavlova.’

  Jess hadn’t been planning on having a dessert, but the ordeal of having to watch her mum flirt again made her feel weak with shock, and only a portion of sticky toffee pudding could put strength back into her sinews.

  ‘OK, well, let’s get an early night, because in the morning we’re off to Berry Pomeroy Castle,’ said Mum, after the coffee. ‘The most haunted place in England.’

  A thrill ran down Jess’s spine. She wondered what spooky experiences would be awaiting her tomorrow. Little did she know that, in the haunted tower, she was going to hear something that would make her hair stand on end with terror.

  Chapter 18

  Jess woke next morning to the sound of rain. Perfect weather for visiting a haunted castle. The first thing she did was to grab her mobile and walk around the hotel until she found a place where her phone worked. A text had come during the night! Two texts, in fact! Darling Fred! A text from him was the perfect start to her day. But wait! Neither of them was from Fred. One was from Dad, and one from Flora.

  CLEAVAGES ARE NOT MY STRONG POINT, said Dad’s text. WHAT REALLY MATTERS IS A PERSON’S INNER BEAUTY, AND WHETHER THEIR FEET SMELL OF CHEESE.

  Jess sighed. Now for Flora’s text. Flora, of course, had a fabulous dog called Lucky. Lucky was almost as impossibly blonde as Flora, though her nose was a little blacker and wetter than Flora’s.

  HI BABE! HOW’S YOUR TRIP? said Flora’s text. HOPE HUNKY-DORY. GUESS WHAT! I’M GOING TO RIVERDENE AFTER ALL! FREYA’S COMING WITH ME, TO ‘LOOK AFTER’ ME. WE’RE LEAVING TOMORROW. BRILL OR WHAT? I’LL KEEP YOU POSTED. LOVE, FLO.

  Jess felt a terrific pang of jealousy. How she would have enjoyed a trip to Riverdene with Flora and Freya. Still, at least if Flora was at Riverdene she’d be safely out of Fred’s way.