In Her Shadow by Louise Douglas Read Free Book Online

Our friendship worked both ways. Ellen gave to me as much as she took from me, perhaps more. One afternoon, during half-term, Ellen and I were in the garden of the Trethene Arms pushing ourselves backwards and forwards idly on the swings while we waited for Mr Brecht, who had ‘popped in’ to get a bottle of wine, but had been gone for twenty minutes or more. Two girls who had been in my class at primary school came into the garden clutching glasses of Coke. They sat at a bench, glanced at me, whispered and giggled. I ignored them and their voices grew louder.
    ‘It’s Hannah Brown, the weirdest girl in town!’ one of them sang out in a stage whisper.
    ‘The fattest girl in town!’ said the other.
    ‘The smelliest girl in town!’
    They waved their hands in front of their noses, pulled disgusted faces and collapsed in laughter.
    Ellen had been twisting her swing round so the chains had become woven. Now she lifted her feet and let the chains untangle, spinning faster and faster until they were clear. She jumped off the swing, dusted the rust from her hands on the side of her shorts, and sauntered over to the girls. They went quiet under her gaze. They hunched their shoulders.
    Ellen stood by their bench.
    ‘You were laughing at Hannah,’ she said in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘Hannah is my friend and I will never let anyone hurt her. Do you understand?’
    The girls looked at one another. They smirked, but I could tell they were uncomfortable.
    ‘Understand?’ Ellen asked again. They nodded.
    ‘Good,’ said Ellen, and she leaned forward over the tableand carefully and precisely spat into each of the girls’ drinks. They opened their mouths and stared at her. She smiled at them with her lips, not her eyes, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, turned around and returned to the swing.
    I understood then. That was what it meant to be a friend. It meant standing up for the people you cared about. It meant being brave and not turning a blind eye when the other was in trouble. Ellen showed me the value of loyalty.
    I should have learned from her. I didn’t.
    I have one more important memory from that time. It was a different evening, but soon afterwards. My parents had gone to a church social and I wanted to get away from Cross Hands Lane because volleys of ugly words were pinging like gunshot over the fence that separated our garden from the Cardells’. ‘ If you don’t want a hiding, why d’you talk to me like that, Jago? Why d’you do it, you little shit? Look at you, such a fucking waste of space your mum died and your dad dumped you. Loser, loser, loser! ’ The words were interspersed with yelps of fear, or pain, from the dog, a large-headed, bow-legged white Staffie-cross. Covering my ears with my hands didn’t stop the words, I had to get far enough away so I couldn’t hear them, so I cycled up the hill until the noise of the brook running over the tree roots and rocks in the tunnel of greenery at the side of the lane cancelled out the misery next door. At the crossroads, I decided to ride to Thornfield House. I wanted to be with Ellen.
    I heard the music as soon as I reached the house. It was piano music, but not the tinkety-tonk hymn kind the teachers bashed out on the piano at school; no, this was music like moonlight on water, music that ebbed and flowed, rippled and sparkled.
    I propped my bike against the wall and walked through the open gates onto the flagstone path. The lower half of oneof the front-room sash windows was open. Ivory-coloured voile curtains shimmied in the draught. I walked slowly to the window, taking care not to make a noise, and I looked through.
    Ellen was sitting at the piano, with her back to me. She was wearing what appeared to be a sleeveless nightdress, and her feet were bare. Her black hair slid down her back, between her shoulder blades, and her arms were moving in time to the music, backwards and forwards, stretching to get the reach of the keys. Ellen’s head