That’s why they were always trying to separate us.’
She’s nervous. It makes her want to talk. I let her carry on, knowing she’ll run out of steam.
‘My careers advisor told me I’d become an out-of-work actress who waited tables. I did have one teacher, Mr Halliday- he taught me English- who said I should consider teaching. My parents are still laughing.’
She glances at Ruiz and back to me, growing more anxious.
‘You mentioned that Helen Chambers sent you an email organising the reunion.’
She nods.
‘It must have come from someone else.’
‘Why?’
‘Helen died three months ago.’
The folder slides from Maureen’s fingers and essay papers spill across the floor. She curses and bends, trying to gather them together. Her hands are shaking.
‘How?’ she whispers.
‘She drowned. It was a ferry accident in Greece. Her daughter was with her. We spoke to her parents this morning.’
‘Oh, those poor, poor people… poor Helen.’
I’m on the floor beside her, collecting the scattered papers, bundling them haphazardly back into the folder. Something has changed in Maureen, a hollowness that echoes in her heartbeat. She’s suddenly in a dark place, listening to a dull repeated rhythm in her head.
‘But if Helen died three months ago- how did she… I mean… she…’
‘Someone else must have sent the email.’
‘Who?’
‘We were hoping you might know.’
She shakes her head, sticky-eyed and wavering, as if suddenly unable to recognise her surroundings or to remember where she’s supposed to be next.
‘It’s lunchtime,’ I tell her.
‘Oh, right.’
‘Can I see the email?’
She nods. ‘Come to the staff room. There’s a computer.’
We follow her along the corridor and up another set of stairs. Chatter and laughter flood through the windows from outside, filling even the quietest corners.
Two students are waiting outside the staffroom. They want an extension on an English assignment. Maureen is too preoccupied to listen to their excuses. She gives them until Monday and sends them on their way.
The staffroom is almost completely deserted except for a fossil of a man, motionless in his chair with his eyes closed. I think he’s sleeping until I notice the ear jacks. He doesn’t stir as Maureen sits at a computer and logs on with her username and password. She opens her email messages and searches backward through the dates.
The message from Helen Chambers is headed: Guess who’s back in town? It was sent on September 16 and copied to Christine Wheeler and Sylvia Furness.
Hi gang,
It’s me. I’m back in the country and looking forward to seeing you all. How about we get together this Friday at the Garrick’s Head? Champagne and chips all round- just like the old days.
I can’t believe it’s been eight years. I hope you’re all fatter and frumpier than I am- (that means you too, Sylvie.) I might even get my legs waxed for the occasion.
Be there or be square. The Garrick’s Head. 7.30 p.m. Friday. I can’t wait.
Love Helen
‘Does it sound like her?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘Anything strange about it?’
Maureen shakes her head. ‘We used to go to the Garrick’s Head all the time. In our last year at Oakfield Helen was the only one of us who had a car. She used to drive us all home.’
The message came through a web-based server. It’s easy to create an account and get a password and username.
‘You mentioned that she emailed you earlier.’
Again she searches for Helen’s name. The previous message arrived on May 29.
Dear Mo, it begins. It must be Maureen’s nickname.
Long time no see… or hear. Sorry I’m such a slack correspondent, but I have my reasons. Things have been tough these last few yearswith lots of changes and challenges. The big news is that I’ve left my husband. It’s a long sad story, which I won’t go into now, suffice to say that things didn’t work out for us. For a long while I’ve been terribly lost but now I’m almost out of the woods.
For the next few months I’m taking a holiday with my beautiful daughter Chloe. We’re going to clear our heads and have some adventures, which are long overdue.
Stay tuned. I’ll let you know when I’m coming home. We’ll get together at the Garrick’s Head and have a night out with the old gang. Do they still do champagne and chips?
I miss you and Sylvie and Christine. I’m sorry you haven’t heard from me in so long. I’ll explain it all later.
Lots of love to all,
Helen.
I read both messages again. The language and neat construction are similar, along with casual tone and use of short sentences. Nothing stands out as being forced or fabricated yet Helen Chambers wasn’t alive to write the second email.
She wrote of being ‘out of the woods’ referring I assume to her marriage.
‘Was there anything else?’ I ask. ‘Letters, postcards, phone calls…’
Maureen shakes her head.
‘What was Helen like?’ I ask.
She smiles. ‘Adorable.’
‘I need a little more than that.’
‘I know, I’m sorry.’ Colour is returned to her cheeks. She glances at her colleague, who still hasn’t stirred in his chair.
‘Helen was the sensible one. She was the last one of us to have a boyfriend. Sylvie spent years trying to hook her up with different guys, but Helen didn’t feel any pressure. Sometimes I felt sorry for her.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘She always said her father wanted a son and she could never quite match up to his expectations. She did have a brother, but he died when Helen was young. Some sort of accident with a tractor.’
Maureen turns in a worn swivel chair and crosses her legs. I ask her again how she and Helen lost touch. Her lips tighten and jerk at the corners.
‘It just seemed to happen. I don’t think her husband liked us very much. Sylvia thought he was jealous of how close we all were.’
‘Do you remember his name?’
‘Gideon.’
‘Did you ever meet him?’
‘Once. Helen and Gideon came back from Northern Ireland for her father’s sixtieth birthday party. People were invited for the whole weekend, but Helen and Gideon left on Saturday at lunchtime. Something happened. I don’t know what.
‘Gideon was quite strange. Very secretive. Apparently he only invited one person to their wedding- his father- who got hideously drunk and embarrassed him.’
‘What does this Gideon do?’
‘He’s something or other in the military, but none of us ever saw him in uniform. We used to joke that he was some sort of spy, like in Spooks, you know the TV programme? Helen sent this one letter to Christine that had red ink stamped across the flap saying it had been scanned and opened for security reasons.’
