Chapter Seven

 Sally Plaits Her Hair Again 

The day had started badly for Michael. He was late for work. The cherry on top of the cake would come now. Michael’s foot tripped over the curb. His face hit the ground. Michael touched the bridge of his nose and felt blood. He’d fallen head over heels. Michael collected himself. He brushed his trousers, then crossed the street to the café. The ruined cathedral sat above the small café, where Michael worked, and whenever he felt gloomy, which was quite often nowadays, he’d look out of the window to the ancient building to find himself feeling a little calmer and more collected. 

    ‘What happened to you?’ 

    ‘I overslept,’ Michael said, collecting his pad of paper from the till, so he could start taking orders. But the café was quiet. 

    ‘What happened to your face?’ 

    ‘I tripped, Catherine, alright?’ 

    ‘I’m going for a cigarette,’ Catherine said, giving Michael a sideways glance. ‘Your nose is bleeding,’ she said, and pointed toward the loos. 

    Michael went to wash his face. ‘I look awful,’ he said aloud to himself. 

    When Michael returned to his position behind the counter, he noticed that a girl had taken a window seat. She was rummaging through a brown satchel bag. She removed a tatty history book and a ream of yellowish paper. She started to scribble notes. Michael was impressed by her academic paraphernalia. Michael shifted his focus from the girl, who he recognised from somewhere, though he couldn’t place her, to the geriatric couple sitting by the door. They bit delicately into their scones. They had ordered extra cream and another pot of jam. The husband wore perfect circle glasses. His wife had a severe expression on her face. ‘What’s the point in coming out,’ Michael thought, ‘if you’re going to be miserable?’

    ‘Have you done her yet?’ Catherine said, returning from her break. ‘Bloody cold out there,’ she added, waiting for Michael’s reply. 

    ‘Done her?’ 

    ‘Have you taken her order, Michael? You haven’t gone idiot on me, have you? It’s only the two of us this morning, pull yourself together.’ 

    ‘Good thing we only have three customers, then, isn’t it?’ 

    Catherine laughed sarcastically. ‘Quite,’ she said. 

    It was a weekday, and the weather had turned on Monday. The word on everyone’s lips was snow. Michael didn’t know how he felt about the prospect of snowfall; he thought it might disrupt his bus journey home. Samantha, he remembered, hated the snow because it stiffened her joints. 

    ‘What can I get for you?’ 

    Darrell unravelled herself from her work. She’d been leaning over her books and writing furious notes about Greek philosophy. There were unflattering bags under her eyes. Her fingers were stained with ink. 

    ‘Scones are nice today,’ Michael said. ‘You could have your pick.’ 

    ‘I don’t,’ Darrell paused. ‘Have any money. I’ll leave, I am sorry, I’m awfully embarrassed.’ 

    ‘Wait,’ Michael said. ‘That’s alright. It’s only the two of us this morning.’ He gestured to Catherine. She was twiddling her thumbs at the counter. ‘We could do with every customer we come across, even if they can’t buy anything.’

    Darrell squirmed in her seat. She couldn’t understand why he was giving her the time of day. The other tea rooms had not been so kind, and she suspected the café by the cathedral would be the strictest in town. 

    ‘What’s the point in coming out,’ Michael went on, filling the silence between them, ‘if you’re going to be miserable about it?’

    ‘I’m not miserable, thank you,’ Darrell said, furrowing her brow. ‘I just misplaced my purse this morning. Also, your nose is bleeding.’ 

    Darrell Rivers was correct. Michael shot to the bathroom and cleaned his face again. He stuffed tissues in his nostrils. This seemed to stopper the flow of blood. When Michael left the loos, he noticed that Darrell had left the café. He slumped against the counter and composed himself. The day had started badly for Michael. 

Darrell had recognised the boy eventually. It was Samantha’s brother, Michael, who she had seen on the staircase all those weeks ago, at the beginning of the academic year. She had forgotten that Samantha had told her that her brother worked in one of the tea rooms by the cathedral. She had managed to avoid socialising with the girls, since she’d lost her rag with Sally and Mildred, after she’d found them in their secret cove. It seemed to Darrell that there were many places she avoided nowadays. Darrell entered her home silently and went straight to her bedroom. 

    Darrell could hear the din of conversation in Sally’s bedroom. Mildred and Sally spent a good deal of time together in Sally’s bedroom. Darrell would normally sit on her balcony with a mug of coffee, when Sally and Mildred were deep in conversation, but now it had started to snow, and the balcony looked unappealing to Darrell, so she sat on her bed. A few weeks ago, before her falling out with Sally, she may have put on a record, as she had a small turntable in her room, but now she wanted to draw as little attention to herself as possible. 

    ‘No, Sally, absolutely not.’ Darrell could hear Mildred’s raised voice. ‘After what she’s said. I’m going for a walk. Are you coming?’ Darrell could not make out Sally’s reply, but she did hear Mildred leave for her walk.

    A moment later, there was a rap on Darrell’s door. 

    It was Sally Hope. She was wearing her purple cardigan. Sally had plaited her hair again. It looked rather fine. Darrell’s hair had started to grow again, but at present it looked rather ratty and frazzled. ‘Rather like me,’ Darrell had thought, when she had looked into the mirror that morning, before walking to the café. ‘Ratty and frazzled.’ Sally did not look frazzled at all. She looked quite bonny with her hair plaited. 

    ‘It’s Mildred’s play tomorrow evening,’ Sally started. ‘You’ll come, won’t you?’ 

    ‘Of course,’ Darrell said, in an automatic fashion. 

    Sally nodded swiftly, then went back into her bedroom. Darrell thought she heard Sally crying through the wall. Darrell went onto her balcony, and stood there for a long while, watching the snowfall. 

    A while later, Darrell went into the living room. Sally was sitting alone in the oversized armchair with a glass of white wine. 

    Darrell had gone to the shared space to find something to eat. The place was open plan, so the living room and kitchen blended into one large space. Darrell said a feeble, ‘Hello,’ when they made eye contact. 

    Darrell was on the hunt for digestive biscuits. They were her favourite snack. Whenever she felt hungry, she’d crave digestive biscuits. Darrell was not an expert about food and her tastes were evidence of this. She was happiest when her belly was filled with something simple, like digestive biscuits, or a piece of lightly buttered toast. There were two biscuits left in the tin on the kitchen counter. Darrell took them both and walked back to her room. But she paused in the living room and decided she must say something to Sally. ‘Are you alright?’

    ‘I received a letter from Aunt Mary this morning. You don’t know, because we haven’t been talking, but she’s been quite down in the dumps. Mother has gone to stay with her for a while. It’s desperately sad, Darrell, and I wish I could go to visit her.’ 

    Darrell walked to the fireplace and leaned against the mantle. The fire was out. She watched Sally. She had been sitting in the cold with her wine, slowly sipping the contents of her glass, while forgetful snowflakes patted peacefully against the windowpane behind her. ‘Would you sit down?’ Sally said. ‘You’re making me nervous.’ Darrell followed the instruction. ‘You’ll come to the play, won’t you?’ She reminded Sally that she’d accepted the invite only an hour ago, when Sally had knocked on her bedroom door. Darrell was glad that they were talking to one another again. Sally took a deep breath and finished her glass of wine. Darrell had not taken to wine. It left a sour taste in her mouth, whenever she did drink it, but Sally seemed keen. ‘See,’ Sally went on, ‘I’m not sure if Mildred likes me much anymore.’ 

    ‘Why do you say that?’ 

    Sally chuckled to herself. Darrell realised she was drunk. Darrell Rivers had not much exposure to alcohol. Once, when she was in the fifth form, Darrell had seen Potty taking a swig from a hip flask. She was not used to seeing drunkenness. It was disconcerting to see Sally in this state. 

    ‘You should have walked with me to Malory Towers that night,’ Sally said. ‘At the end of the holidays. Why didn’t you walk with me?’ 

    ‘I thought it looked cold.’ 

    ‘Every morning you left me alone with my aunt. I rarely had two sentences to string together. She’d talk about my uncle as if he were still alive. It frightened me, but I’d never tell you. I knew you wouldn’t care. You’d pretend to care, then go about your business.’ 

    ‘That’s not true, Sally, of course I would have cared.’ 

    ‘Do you miss them?’ 

    ‘Who?’ 

    ‘Do you wonder what happened to them?’ 

    ‘I’ll get you some water,’ Darrell said, using her stern Head Girl voice, ‘you’re a little tipsy from your wine.’ 

    When she went to place the glass of water in Sally’s hand, she noticed that Sally had fallen asleep. At that moment, Mildred returned. ‘She’s asleep,’ Darrell said to her. ‘She’s had wine.’