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Constance

I used to think there was one in every school, a quiet, serious girl with skirts four inches longer than everyone else. Even her name distanced her from the time she seemed to have been unkindly thrown into. It was 1977. Constance Pettifer was sixteen and she walked to school alone, striding briskly in her sturdy, flat brown shoes while my friends and I dawdled and chatted and passed cigarettes. She always carried a battered school satchel hung unfashionably around her body, leaving her long arms free to swing purposefully as she marched. Her hair was the longest and blondest imaginable, but our covetous eyes were mellowed by the fact that she kept it severely scraped from her face in a tight plait, the tip of which bounced on her bottom as she walked.

Constance was not disliked, but no one sought her friendship and there was an unspoken assumption that she did not want friends. If we raised our eyebrows at the ugliness of her new shoes then we never let her see, and we always exchanged polite pleasantries in passing. In some way her isolation served to exaggerate the importance of our own tenuous friendships, and her difference strengthened our strict adherence to the sheep-like teenage codes which governed our lives. There was a respect for Constance which formed a wide space, like a force-field around her. In the showers her long white body remained naturally apart from the fleshy pushing and shoving and she smiled at us from a distance, absorbed with drying her toes, her long plait dripping between her legs.

It was said that I knew her the best of all. Constance and I were the only students of Latin and three times a week we sat side by side under the venomous eye of Miss Buck, our tiny bearded teacher. Like Constance, Miss Buck was a misfit. Small as a dwarf and ugly as a circus attraction she stampeded through the conjugations, frequently exploding with red-faced rage at our incompetence. Her enormous black bouffant hair and the rising colour of her cheeks gave the impression that she had just emerged from a very hot hairdryer, and I was terrified of her. The slightest mistake, a hesitation, even a yawn, could provoke a volcanic temper tantrum of the type usually unseen in those over the age of five, but while I trembled and stammered more, Constance always seemed serene in the face of Miss Buck's anger. There was a kind of allegiance in their mutual, if dissimilar, position as outsiders and whereas my cowering apologies only served to enrage Miss Buck further, Constance's pale blue eyes would fix calmly on the teacher like a sprinkling of water, cooling the erupting fire to a harmless puff of smoke. It was then that our Latin lessons could become the cosy, timeless haven which I remember so fondly. Miss Buck would sit behind us on the desk, dangling her short legs in girlish companionship, and together the three of us would translate the ancient stories, sharing satisfaction in the rhythms, the rules and the order of bringing life into a dead language. Trapped in the bowels of the building between the unpredictable midget and the old-fashioned girl with the strange smell of garlic on her breath, it seemed in these fairytale times that the rest of the school, and my life, did not exist.

As examinations approached Miss Buck became alternately kinder and more tyrannical. Her tirades were longer and louder than ever and I noticed that although Constance remained impassive, her chair moved increasingly closer to my own. After one particularly volatile lesson, as Miss Buck stormed out of the classroom banging the door so hard that the windows rattled, Constance and I for once remained seated in the ensuing silence. I could hear her breathing and I tried to quieten my own.

"Do you think she's about to have a breakdown?" I asked tentatively.

It was a risk. Constance and I had never chatted after a lesson, let alone discussed the sole witness to our being in such close proximity, but to my surprise she grinned warmly at me.

"I imagine Miss Buck is actually very stable," she replied, cocking her head thoughtfully. "I think her tantrums help to keep her sane - like letting the steam out of a pan to stop it exploding. She's fascinating, don't you think?

Fascinating was not a word that, at the time, I would have chosen to describe Miss Buck but I nodded, hoping to continue the conversation.

"You see," continued Constance gravely, "if she stopped losing her temper, all that internal pressure would be so great that she'd probably crack up."

"Yes, of course," I said eagerly. "I never thought of it that way - so then what would happen?"

Constance's blue eyes sparkled but her voice was serious.

"Psychosis at the very least," she replied. "But I would say more likely spontaneous combustion - all that internal fire, you know."

Her breath came through her nose in sharp little puffs as she tried to keep a straight face, but suddenly we were both giggling like old friends, leaning back on our chairs and shaking uncontrollably. That day, for the first time, we left the classroom together.

It was shocking to admit to myself how much I liked her. After that incident our relationship developed quickly, based as it was solely on the analysis of Miss Buck. At the end of each lesson we would linger over packing our bags until our teacher was safely out of the room, and then eagerly launch into a careful dissection of Miss Buck's mood, her interactions that day, and the new theories we had developed about her life, which became increasingly bizarre. We began these discussions with the serious expressions of scientific debate but always ended in convulsions of helpless mirth as we branded Miss Buck a psychopathic lesbian, a man in drag, an alien from another planet, or the result of experimentation in amateur creation. We would walk together to lunch, warm with the intimacy of secret jokes, until I was called by my friends and, uncomfortably, said a too casual goodbye to Constance, who seemed unperturbed and continued to lunch alone. My association with her caused some disapproving expressions among our impenetrable group, and for a while I was besieged with questions about her which I could not answer. But our relationship ostensibly developed no further and the gossiping of jealousy was short-lived. Constance became again, to everyone but me, an object of pity and not of threat, and if she sometimes glided into my dreams, who was to know.

"Would you like to come to supper?"

It was the end of the school year, the end of 'O' levels and the Latin class, and the end of that meal known as 'tea'. Adulthood loomed menacingly beyond the celebrations.

"Mum said would you like to come to supper on Saturday night?"

Constance said the words easily. There seemed to be no anxiety in her voice about a possible refusal. I had only a hazy concept of what supper might be, having always associated the word with the Jacobs cream crackers and lump of cheddar that my father ate on his return from the pub.

"Yes - please - er, what time?"

"We eat around seven - why not come at six?"

"Okay." Fear overwhelmed my enthusiasm. "Er - thanks."

She smiled. I wondered again why she never wore make-up. She looked somehow unfinished with her pale eyelashes and translucent skin.

"Great - see you then"

I watched her stride away and felt my stomach slowly sink.

I was late. I had spent ages trying on every outfit in my wardrobe, carefully applying make-up and then scrubbing most of it off again. I settled for jeans, a plain sweatshirt, and tied my unnaturally copper hair into a concealing plait. I even considered wearing my glasses but felt that this was going too far. Constance lived in a large Victorian house full of books and the kind of pictures of which you know you should not say, "What is it?" There were big threadbare rugs and lots of dust. Mrs Pettifer stood at the cooker stirring a large pan and waved in the direction of the old oak table.

"Sarah! Nice to meet you - Constance has told me all about your Latin class."

I sat nervously at the table and smiled at her. She was totally unlike any mother I had ever met. She wore a skirt almost to her ankles, a brightly coloured Peruvian sweater full of holes, and her long grey hair hung straight down her back. She had an angular face which was too strong to be pretty, and piercing blue eyes which were too clever to be comfortable. I was at ease with tidy perms and Marks and Spencer knits and I felt alarmed that Constance had disappeared.

"That smells nice," I said.

"Oh, nothing special, I'm afraid." Mrs Pettifer replaced the saucepan lid and brought a large bottle of red wine to the table.

"Glass of plonk, Sarah?"

"Mm - thanks." I was unused to being offered a drink so casually but I had drunk enough alcohol to know that it might make the situation easier. I sipped the strong wine, hoping I appeared used to drinking with adults. I looked round the walls at the indecipherable blobs of colour with what I hoped was intelligent appreciation. Mrs Pettifer studied me with a not dissimilar frown. I hoped the footsteps signalled Constance's return but a tall, thin man entered, followed by Constance's brother, Edward. I recognised Edward from school, a pale boy of fourteen with a striking mop of woolly golden curls which made him stand out in the school playground like a displaced cherub. I knew that he was bullied.

"Hello, Sarah," he greeted me. "Would you like to see our stick insects?"

I nodded with what I hoped looked like enthusiasm and then smiled at Mr Pettifer who extended his hand, slightly crushing my fingers.

"Nice to meet you, Sarah, I'm Bob." He looked down at me with interest and with an expectancy that was unnerving. I was glad when Edward gently tapped my arm.

"Over here, Sarah, look."

I followed him to the glass tank on the bookshelf and peered into the miniature forest within.

"Can you see them, Sarah, they look just like sticks."

"Ah yes, there they are." I feigned curiosity for a few minutes, although I could think of more appealing pets.

"Mm fascinating."

Edward looked pleased.

"They don't do much during the day, but they're quite active at night," he informed me.

"Really. What do they do?"

"Well, they eat a lot," he said, his eyes wide with the innocence of a much younger child. "And they mate."

My heart sank but he continued eagerly.

"What they do is - "

"Edward! Spare us the details!"

Constance reappeared, laughing, at the doorway.

"D'you need a hand, Mum?"

"No, all done. Let's get stuck in shall we?"

Edward sat next to me and I guessed, from his intent gaze, that the Pettifers were not the type of parents who taught their children not to stare. Mrs Pettifer placed the huge pan in the centre of the table, dropping a ladle into it and half-throwing a French loaf at her husband.

"Right - dive in. We don't stand on ceremony here, Sarah!"

She grinned at me as I tentatively spooned a small portion of the multi-coloured beans into my bowl. Mr Pettifer refilled my wineglass and passed me the bread. I looked around for a knife. The family looked at me.

"Just break it," said Constance at last. Embarrassed, I broke off the end of the stick and passed it to Edward. The Pettifers tore chunks of bread and dipped it into their stew so I did the same. My appetite had vanished and my mouth was dry, but I managed to finish most of what was on my plate. I had a strong sensation that I was about to be sick, but my stomach responded to a brief pause and a few surreptitiously deep breaths.

"Mmm - delicious," I said.

Mrs Pettifer seemed unmoved by my appreciation.

"Glad you like it, Sarah," she said, but I knew I would have to do more to gain her approval.

"So what do you do with yourself, Sarah?"

The last spoonful of stew stuck in my throat as Mr Pettifer peered at me over the top of his glasses.

"Do?" I wondered if it was a trick question.

"You know - hobbies, that sort of thing."

"Dreadful word - hobby," interrupted Mrs Pettifer.

"Leisure interests," continued Mr Pettifer. "Outside of school - how do you occupy your time?"

I felt a rising panic. My life flashed before me, standing outside the chip shop with my friends, huddled in my bedroom listening to T-Rex, swapping make-up and talking endlessly about boys. Four pairs of eyes watched me. I wondered what Constance did after school.

"Um - I read a lot," I said.

Mr Pettifer beamed. I relaxed momentarily, hoping I would not be interrogated further on the material in question.

"Grand, grand, we're all great readers too."

I smiled and nodded.

"What else?"

"I - er - watch quite a bit of telly."

Mr Pettifer's smile slipped easily into a look of concern.

"Hmm."

"We don't watch much television," piped up Edward. He gestured at the ancient black and white set in the corner of the room, partially concealed by a large pot plant. "We only watch one programme a night," he told me proudly. "Usually on B.B.C.2."

"Yes," said Mr Pettifer. "Television is fine in moderation but one must be very selective. Did you see the hanging debate on Panorama last night, for instance, Sarah? Now there was an interesting programme."

"Er no ,actually, I'm afraid I missed that." My father automatically switched channels as the theme music to Panorama began.

"Shame," said Mr Pettifer. "A very fine exploration of the subject. What's your view, Sarah?"

"Er, which particular aspect?" I tried fervently to remember what little I had read in the papers.

"The thing that bothers me," said Constance, "is the barbaric quality of hanging itself."

She leaned forward over her bowl, her forehead creased.

"I mean, even if capital punishment is necessary, why use such a dreadful method when we have the scientific knowledge, surely, to produce a painless pill. It seems to me we still have this savage need to torture the body - have you read Foucault, Sarah?" She turned her earnest blue eyes to me.

"Er, no actually I haven't."

"A good point, Constance," said Mr Pettifer, "but would the nature of the punishment change your opinion about the justification for its use?" He spooned another large helping of stew into his bowl and waited, spoon poised, for his daughter's reply. He looked excited. The Pettifers all watched Constance thinking, and I wondered if such demands were made at every mealtime.

"No," said Constance finally. "I cannot believe that killing can ever be the right answer." She pursed her lips. "But although my intellect says that, there are still times when my heart takes over - child molesters, for instance, sometimes I just wish them dead." She sighed. "But not hanged," she said. "Just out of the way."

Mr Pettifer looked satisfied with this and turned again to me.

"Sarah?"

"Yes - I think I agree with Constance."

"What do you agree with?"

"Er - that there are times when my gut reaction is to approve capital punishment."

"As a punishment or as a deterrent?"

I felt trapped. I looked at Constance for help but she was leaning back in her chair, biting her lip and gazing at the ceiling, obviously still struggling with her own personal dilemma.

"What is the rationale behind it?" asked Mr Pettifer.

In the pause that followed Constance seemed suddenly to have reached a decision and leant forward abruptly, waiting for mine. As the four Pettifers looked at me I felt my brain shrivel with the pressure of expectation.

"Erm - I'm not really sure."

The silence of disappointment was unbearable. At last Mr Pettifer said kindly,

"There's no right answer you know."

But it was too late and I knew that, in some way, I had failed.

I was never asked to Constance's home again. She still smiled at me in the school corridors but we had passed our Latin, moved into the sixth form, and had little contact. My boyfriend at that time was called Robin Asquith, a big blonde boy of seventeen with severely bad acne and great musical talent. Robin played the piano for me until dawn when we would walk home, arms entwined, singing Mozart to the milkman. It was an uncommonly innocent relationship. Robin lived for music and our rare passionate moments seemed always snatched, brief sloppy kisses and clumsy embraces of which the great composers would undoubtedly have disapproved.

During the summer holidays Robin's elder brother, Stephen, was home from Oxford and sometimes took us to country pubs in his battered M.G. I enjoyed the drives, squashed in the back of the open two-seater car behind the brothers singing Wagner against the wind, but I was rather frightened of Stephen who, at twenty-one, had developed a bitter cynicism well beyond his years. He was more handsome than Robin, with a beard which made him seem very grown-up, and he derived his amusement from embarrassing me in public by asking loud questions about my sexual preferences. I was quite pleased when Stephen took to staying at home, locked in his bedroom for days on end.

One evening, as Robin played 'Pictures at an Exhibition' and I lounged happily over the piano, Stephen sauntered into the room. There was something in his appearance that made me sit up straight, although Robin carried on playing.

"Young love!" said Stephen, slipping into the sofa. He smelt strongly of whisky. His shirt was unbuttoned and I could see his chest, surprisingly boyish beneath.

"Young bloody love!"

He half-lay, looking at us in turn with an ugly curl of his lip. I could see that Robin was uncomfortable and, when the piece of music was finished, he yawned and said he would take me home. I said goodbye to Stephen but he ignored me. As he left he was lying across the sofa with his eyes closed, but breathing loudly in a manner which was very much awake.

"What's wrong with him?" I asked Robin on the way home.

"Unrequited passion," said Robin. He shook his head. "Poor old Steve, he's completely obsessed with her."

"Who?" I asked.

Robin looked at me with surprise.

"Don't you know? he asked. "Stephen's been in love with Constance Pettifer for years.

I saw them together just once. As I walked to Robin's house one day I spotted them coming towards me, Constance with her satchel striding ahead, and Stephen running behind.

"For God's sake," he was shouting. "For God's sake, Connie!"

They stopped abruptly when they saw me and Constance turned to Stephen and said something in her low voice which I could not hear. When I reached them with an over-cheery greeting Stephen snarled at me and flashed Constance a look before stamping off in the opposite direction. The look was not meant for my eyes but I accidentally caught its full force, at once terrifying and wonderful, and I felt like a thief. I knew that I would never forget that look, and my immediate response was an overwhelming desire that one day a man would look at me in such a way.

Constance and I stood in silence, watching Stephen disappear. When we looked at each other, standing still in the tree-lined street, I could see that she was uncomfortable, forced into a situation where she must now speak before moving on. Our exchanges had been, for a year, always in motion.

"How are you?" I asked, cringing at myself.

She smiled.

"I'm fine, Sarah, and you?"

"Fine thanks."

I drew a deep breath.

"Erm - why don't we get together sometime?" I wanted to swallow the words back as soon as I saw her eyes change, but I struggled on. "For a drink, or something - - "

"That would be nice, Sarah."

I did not believe her.

"But I'm going away for the summer - to the south of France. I've a cousin there."

"Oh - lovely."

"Perhaps when I get back - - "

She smiled again without finishing the sentence and I grinned at her, with the relief of a mutually fictitious future.

"Okay. Great. Well I must be going."

Graciously she let me move first.

I wanted to run but I turned back briefly.

"Have a good time," I called.

I saw Constance three weeks later at Stephen's funeral. Her hair, for once flowing freely over the shoulders of her black dress, was bleached white from the sun, but her skin was paler than ever, luminous amongst the red blotchy faces around her. She looked ethereal. I held Robin's hand as we stood at the side of the grave. It was Robin who had found Stephen, hanging by the neck from a tree at the bottom of their garden. He told me that beneath Stephen's dangling feet there had been a letter, wet with urine, for Constance.

Robin's hand, cold and clammy, lay lifelessly in my own. I wanted to drop it, but felt an obligation to keep gripping the slippery thing until Stephen was safely under the earth. Constance stood next to Robin's mother holding a bunch of white lilies. I looked at Mrs Asquith's face for signs of hatred, but she seemed to be leaning gratefully on the tall white girl next to her. As the coffin was lowered Constance tossed the lilies into the grave and the sympathetic glances towards her told me that she was without blame. Later, walking back from the cemetery, I found myself next to her, and gently squeezed her arm. She looked at me as if from a great distance and I felt instantly ashamed of my presumption. Looking into her unfocused eyes I realised that Constance Pettifer had no idea who I was.

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