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The bell rang.
High-pitched chatter and laughing dimmed then faded as the playground emptied. I smiled at the teacher on duty and muttered muted hellos to the parents I recognised. The lecturing tones of the Chairman of the PTA warned me to keep my eyes down or risk being conscripted into something time-consuming. I struck up a random conversation with a blonde woman I knew slightly whose son was just disappearing through the school door trailing a hand-knitted stripy scarf.
The day was cold. I huddled into my coat wishing I’d remembered my gloves and turned to find Jill. The headmaster nodded to me from where he was chatting to a well-dressed school gate dad; trying to tap an apparently wealthy source for the football team’s tour to Germany, I reckoned. I wished him luck. I nodded to them both and walked over to where Jill was fussing with Emma’s backpack.
“Ready to go?” She smiled as she kissed her daughter and bundled her through the gate, watching her run into the school.
“We were a bit late getting everything together,” she explained, “Her dad decided to phone – he’s still a bit shaky about the time difference. Got it well wrong this time, but at least she got to hear his voice.” I smiled.
“How long before his next leave?” I asked. She made a face.
“Six months – it’s a longish one this time,” she shrugged and sighed, “Nothing to be done about it, unfortunately.” She nudged me gently with her elbow. “Never marry a soldier, eh?”
I smiled.
“Chance’d be a fine thing,” I replied easily. “Doesn’t your Dave have any nice friends?”
Jill laughed.
“You’ve met ‘em all,” she told me, “and anyway, they can’t keep up with you – you know that – you’re just too sharp for them.”
“Coffee at Jack’s?” I suggested, ignoring that.
“Yeah,” she replied, falling into step with me. “I’ve got to have something to wake me up.”
It was early enough that the breakfast crowd were still taking up space, but we managed to squeeze into the unpopular table by the kitchen door. Our coffee came in thick, white china mugs, black and strong with a jug of milk, none of those fiddly little UHT things. The sugar was in geometrically accurate, gleaming white cubes heaped in a bowl at the centre of the Formica-topped table, along with bottles of ketchup and runny mustard. Jack’s was an old-fashioned greasy-spoon café and didn’t care who knew it.
The strength of the brew we were drinking probably contravened the Poisons Act. Nevertheless, the jolt it gave me when it hit my nervous system was very welcome. Jill watched me over the rim of her mug.
“Burning the midnight oil, eh?” she asked. I yawned in reply.
“Publishers don’t wait forever,” I replied mildly. Someone dropped a plate which smashed noisily and made me turn my head towards the window tables. After an unexpected double-take, I felt the room contract around me. Everything became fuzzy and slow-moving; I screwed up my eyes, trying to focus.
“What?” I said, distractedly. From her expression, I realised Jill must have spoken to me at least once and failed to get an answer.
“I said, it’s a bit early in the morning to go on the pull,” she told me with a tight smile, “I said it twice, actually.”
I turned back to the source of my fascination. Tall and dark with very pale, light eyes, he was sipping coffee opposite a smaller, lighter-haired man who was enjoying a Jack’s Special Breakfast. They clearly knew each other well, their conversation was easy and relaxed and they didn’t seem to mind silences either.
I nodded at the duo without taking my eyes off them. “D’you know who that is?” I asked Jill.
She squinted then rummaged in her handbag for her glasses. “No,” she replied, putting them away again once she had taken a look.
Jill is vain about her face in glasses; she prefers lenses but doesn’t always have the time to put them in on school mornings. I felt a long-suppressed anger start to eat away at my self-control.
“Do you know who that bastard is?” I demanded, my voice getting louder. The chair scraped loudly on the tiled floor as I stood up.
Outside the café it was still cold but at least I could breathe again. I leaned against the wall and tried to calm down. The door opened, disgorging a worried-looking Jill.
“I’ve paid for us both,” she said, grabbing me by the shoulders and ducking her chin to look into my face. “What the hell was that about?”
I shook my head and wrenched myself away from her grasping hands. I took another couple of deep breaths, then turned on my heel and tried to walk off.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Jill grabbed my arm and swung me forcefully back. Her face was worried and angry in equal measures.
“Look,” she said helplessly, “you just hit someone – a complete stranger! He wasn’t doing anything to you, he didn’t even know you.”
“Like hell, he doesn’t!” I flared back then bit my lip hard, looking away.
I heard the jingle of the door opening and footsteps coming onto the pavement. I looked up to see the light-haired man regarding me curiously. He gestured hesitantly back towards the café.
“Jack, or whatever his name is – guy who runs the place,” he began, “he’s looking after my friend.” The man smiled and shook his head.
“You’ve got a mean right hook,” he said almost admiringly. I sniffed.
“It’s been said before,” I replied, digging in my pocket for a tissue; the wind was cold.
“Right,” the man agreed, rubbing his hands against the cold and looking away. There was a short pause then he turned back to me.
“Look,” he said, “my name’s John Watson, if you don’t already know it?” I shook my head.
“Why should I?” I replied. He blinked.
“Well,” he said slowly, “you seem to know my friend, or at least to have known him in the past. Not entirely amicably, I’d guess.”
“You’d guess right on all counts,” I replied stiffly. John Watson smiled.
“Okay,” he said, “Now, I know Sherlock does tend to rub people up the wrong way…”
“Sherlock?” Lesley repeated disbelievingly. John Watson nodded.
“Sherlock Holmes, yes,” he told her, “The Blogging Detective, as the media have dubbed him. He’s the man your friend just felled with a single punch.”
I looked at my split knuckles; they were already beginning to ooze. I patted my pockets again for something more substantial than a tissue. John Watson reached into his coat.
“Here,” he said, offering me a plain white handkerchief. I stared at him; he nodded.
“Go on; take it,” he insisted, “and treat that with antiseptic wipes when you get home. You’ll need a bandage for a couple of days too.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right,” Lesley said. “You were an army doctor, weren’t you?” She smiled at him.
“My Dave’s in Afghanistan at the moment,” she told him. “He’s with the 11 EOD Regiment.” Doctor Watson smiled and nodded.
“A brave man,” he told her seriously. “I owe my life to a member of his regiment – he spotted a landmine that would have killed me if I’d stepped on it.”
“I’ve read your blog,” Jill said almost shyly. “I really liked the one about the Speckled Blonde.”
“Did you?” John Watson seemed to light up. “Sherlock was a bit disparaging actually, particularly about the name.”
“I’m Jill, by the way,” my friend said with a big smile, “and the bare knuckles boxing champ here is Lesley.”
I wrapped the handkerchief around my hand and tried to ignore them. Perhaps if I kept quiet enough, they might not notice me slipping away. No such luck; Doctor Watson turned back to me.
“So, I don’t remember ever being introduced to you, Lesley,” he said. I snorted inelegantly.
“No, you wouldn’t,” I replied, “Sherlock and I – well, let’s just say we go back a long way.” I started to shiver in reaction.
“Why aren’t you threatening me with the police?” I asked suddenly. “Look, I’ve just assaulted your friend – can we get this over with?” John Watson frowned.
“Now, what makes you think I want the police involved?” he asked. “To be honest, anyone who punches Sherlock Holmes in the face generally has a very good reason to do so. He’s not the most – conciliatory of people.”
“Oh, believe me,” I told him with a certain smug satisfaction, “I had reason.” I turned away to face the wall; I couldn’t stop shaking. I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“The breakfast crowd’s all gone now,” John Watson said. “The café’s nearly empty – come into the warm, have some tea or something. You’re looking a bit peaky.”
“Is that your medical diagnosis?” I sneered nastily. John Watson sighed then suddenly looked alarmed.
“You’re not Sherlock’s long-lost sister or something, are you?” he asked anxiously.
“Sister?” I exclaimed then barked out a laugh, “God, no! Trust me, Doctor Watson; that is not the nature of our relationship.”
“Thank god for that,” he said with genuine relief, “With sarcasm like that, I just wondered.”
I allowed him to guide me back into Jack’s. Jill followed, looking intensely curious. Once inside, I glanced around warily, but there was no sign of Sherlock Holmes.
“I got Jack to send him to Casualty,” John Watson told me, correctly deducing the source of my discomfort. “You loosened a tooth and he might need a stitch or two – you split his lip good and proper.”
He motioned for us both to sit at the window table and went over to the counter to order some drinks.
“What the hell?” Jill whispered, touching my hand gently. I ignored her and looked out of the window.
Presently, Doctor Watson came back with three steaming mugs which he set down in front of us. I picked up a cube of sugar and looked at it thoughtfully before dropping it into my tea. It disappeared with a small splash leaving no trace of its existence on the surface.
“That’s the story of my life,” I said before I realised I had spoken out loud.
“What is?” Doctor Watson asked curiously, breathing in the steam from his tea. I shook my head; he waited patiently for me to begin.
“I met Sherlock at Oxford,” I said in a flat tone.
“You lived there?” Jill interrupted. I gritted my teeth but Watson put a restraining hand on my arm.
“I think Lesley means the university,” he told her; her eyes widened comically. Watson nudged me.
“Go on,” he said.
“I had rooms in College,” I continued, “and Sherlock moved in next door to me.”
I fell silent and drank my tea. I looked up to two expectant faces.
“That’s pretty much it,” I said impatiently. John Watson smiled and shook his head.
“No one reacts that violently to Sherlock just because he was a bad neighbour,” he responded.
“I never said he was a bad neighbour,” I replied too quickly. I looked away.
“Sherlock was – an enigma,” I continued reluctantly. “He didn’t seem to have lectures or assignments; he hardly ever left his rooms except for lab time; the place was crammed with microscopes and retorts, reagents and poisons – he didn’t seem to know what subject he was studying for, although he did tell me once that the exams they gave him seemed to be in chemistry. He also said they were inaccurate, ridiculously simple and a waste of his time.”
John Watson laughed out loud. “You’re clearly telling the truth when you claim to have known him,” he replied.
“I always tell the truth,” I told him. Jill coughed loudly; I turned to stare at her.
“And yet I know nothing about Sherlock and you,” she replied. “Hell, I didn’t even know you’d been to uni, let alone Oxford.” I shook my head.
“Omission is not lying,” I shot back. “I simply didn’t tell you. And why should I? It’s ancient history – water under the bridge.”
“And yet at your first sight of Sherlock in so many years, you felt moved to hit him,” Doctor Watson pointed out. I nodded jerkily.
“Alright,” I conceded. “Look, we dated for a while. It didn’t work out, but I was – upset about it, okay?”
John Watson looked as if a meteor had struck him. He swallowed a couple of times and then remembered his tea.
“You – dated Sherlock Holmes?” he managed eventually. I nodded, frowning.
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“Yes, frankly.”
“Why?”
Doctor Watson spread his hands helplessly.
“Because – Sherlock – doesn’t date,” he said. I frowned.
“That’s interesting,” I replied, “seeing as he’s dating you. Or do you call it something else?”
Instead of spluttering in alpha-male denial, John Watson merely rolled his eyes – a trick he had evidently picked up from his friend – and gave me a very old-fashioned look.
“This again,” he sighed. “I get tired of saying it; We’re. Not. Together.”
“Even more interesting,” I replied, pleased to have successfully deflected him, “That would presumably be because some risks are too great, even for you.”
John Watson narrowed his eyes. “We’re straying from the point,” he said evenly.
I gave him a lopsided smile, acknowledging defeat. “Alright,” I said, shifting back in my chair. “We weren’t dating – not exactly.”
I paused and tried to remember exactly what had happened that momentous week. “There was a party,” I began.
I felt rather than heard John Watson sigh and looked up at him. He shrugged. “There’s always a party,” he said wearily. He nodded his head. “Go on.”
“I’d said hello to Sherlock about five times on the stairs,” I continued, “and I invited myself into his rooms once for coffee.”
“Did you get any?” Watson asked with some interest, “Coffee, I mean?”
I gave him a level stare but he merely shrugged. “Yes,” I replied, “but I had to make it. And some for him too. And there was no milk.”
“Some things never change,” John Watson muttered.
“He turned up at this party,” I continued. “It was in this really huge house somewhere around St Hilda’s. One of the girls I sang with in an a cappella group got invited and she dragged as many of the rest of us along as were at a loose end.”
I paused, trying to staunch the flow of images and sensations I had successfully dammed up for so many years.
“You have to understand,” I said more quietly now, “that I was in my second term. I had a very sheltered upbringing, I went to an all-girls' school and didn’t even have the advantage of a year out before Oxford. I was the original innocent.”
I lowered my eyes. I felt a warm hand grasp my fingers gently. Startled, I looked up into John Watson’s face.
“Go on,” he said again quietly and squeezed my hand before letting go. I nodded.
“Sherlock appeared out of nowhere,” I said. “I was very unsure and out of my depth – god, there were people I’d seen on the telly at this party, not to mention more old-Harrovians and old-Etonians than you could shake a stick at; titles, peerages and some seriously gorgeous, expensive women swanning about. I felt like Little Bow Peep set loose in Tottenham Court Road on a Saturday evening in June. Anyway, Sherlock arrived and I automatically gravitated towards a familiar face.”
I put a hand through my hair and gripped the roots.
“He was – pleasant; even sociable,” I said, shaking my head. “He smiled, talked, made me laugh, made sure my drink was refilled and introduced me to as many people as I wanted. He was – charming.”
John Watson looked fascinated.
“When he suggested we walk home together, it seemed only logical, us being neighbours,” I continued. “When we got back to College, he followed me into my rooms as though I had invited him. I offered him coffee, but he said that coffee wasn’t the reason he had been following me around all evening.”
“Oh, God!” John Watson put his head in his hands.
I jerked my chin up. “No!” I said quickly. “No, Doctor Watson, really; it certainly wasn’t what you're thinking. He didn’t force me, I was willing; confused and hesitant maybe, but not reluctant.”
I cast my mind back to that time and deliberately called up images and words I had long buried.
“We used my bed,” I continued, scarcely aware of my listeners. “I know now that we were both virgins, both totally unprepared for what happened.” I screwed my eyes closed, trying to control the flood of memory.
“It hurt,” I managed, “and he apologised but he didn’t stop. Afterwards, he didn’t speak; he just put on his clothes and left.”
I looked down at the table to find a fresh cup of tea steaming gently at my elbow.
John Watson smiled with one side of his mouth and gestured. “Go on,” he said, obviously sensing there was more.
I swallowed on a dry mouth. “I didn’t see Sherlock for the rest of the week,” I said. “The following weekend, I heard a noise early on the Saturday morning and found hired removal men taking away all of Sherlock’s possessions. I tried to take issue with them – however badly he had behaved, he was my friend, or so I thought – but they showed me documentation. I went to the Dean’s office – I was friendly with his secretary – and she told me confidentially that Sherlock had transferred. To Cambridge.”
I spread my hands. “How he managed it is anyone’s guess,” I said.
“Oh, I think I might have an idea,” John Watson murmured. “Sorry – go on.”
I shrugged. “There’s not much more to tell,” I said. “I didn’t try to get in touch or anything. The thing with Sherlock Holmes affected my studies so much I didn’t go back the following September. As a result, I bummed around getting dead-end jobs and shift work to make ends meet. It was only when I submitted a short story to a women’s magazine and got it accepted that I started to make something of a career for myself.”
I sat up straighter. “I’m a writer now,” I said, “short stories and journalist-type articles, but I get paid for it and it’s regular work. I’ve got a novel in the pipeline; a couple of publishers are tentatively interested.”
I sat back in my chair. “And there you have it, Doctor Watson,” I beamed at him. “All debts are now paid, even though it’s pretty galling when the man who breaks your virginity doesn’t even remember doing it.”
Doctor Watson had the grace to look shamefaced for his friend. “Yeah, about that,” he said, his eyes sliding away. “Sherlock has a habit of, well, deleting anything that causes him to feel uncomfortable or that he feels is – irrelevant.”
I paused with my mouth open then closed it. “Okay,” I nodded. “So which was I, do you reckon? Uncomfortable or irrelevant?”
“Now, that’s not fair, Lesley!” Jill put a hand on my arm.
“Doctor Watson is just trying to explain,” she said, “He’s not responsible for anything that other man does.”
I shook her arm away.
“When you say deleted,” I said, frowning, “what exactly do you mean?” John Watson shrugged.
“I don’t really know, to be honest,” he said, “All I know is that Sherlock truly doesn’t remember things that don’t contribute directly to his work.”
This was too much; I shook my head.
“I don’t pretend to understand,” I said, starting to get to my feet, “and I don’t want to. Now, Doctor Watson, if you’re not going to press charges for assault, I’ll be on my way.”
He watched me as I fumbled the fastenings of my coat.
“Thanks for the tea,” I said making for the door with Jill scrambling after me, “and you can tell that posh beanstalk anything you like about this afternoon, just keep him away from me. You’re clearly around here for a case, you don’t live here, so I doubt that will be too difficult.”
The door slammed behind me and I strode twenty yards down the street before stopping to put my fingers to my temples in sudden pain. Jill caught up with me and patted my shoulder.
“It’s never good when you run into exes, is it?” she said softly. I lifted my head and stared.
“Sometimes, Jill,” I told her, “I wonder if we inhabit the same planet. No, never mind.” I held up my hand.
“I need to walk for a bit,” I said. “I’ll see you this afternoon, alright?”
I walked away from her, noting the anxiety in her face but powerless to do anything about it.
Several very cold hours later, found me once again at the school gate.
“There you are!” Jill ran down the road to me, cutting it find as usual. To my surprise, she wrapped a woollen scarf around my neck and pressed a pair of gloves into my numb hands.
“I thought you’d be frozen stiff – you didn’t go home, did you?” she scolded, tucking the ends of the scarf into my thin coat. She nodded at the school door.
“Any minute now,” she said smiling.
The bell rang.
The door burst open, disgorging a sea of children, laughing, chattering and falling over each other’s feet in their haste to reach their parents. Emma presented herself to Jill, smiling and chattering about an art project. They departed deep in conversation after a quick farewell. I watched the other children pour out of the gate, swept up into cars, onto bikes, buses and the occasional taxi. The stream thinned to a trickle, then to one or two and finally one lanky, messy-haired boy talking intently to his teacher who was clearly trying to guide him gently out of the school. I smiled and waved.
“James,” I said as he came over, “please let your poor teacher go now; she’s had a very hard day and she needs to go home, and so do we.”
“But she won’t let me do what I want for the Science Fair,” James protested, raising angry green eyes to my face.
“Darling, a scale model of a hydrogen bomb is all very well,” I told him, “but it’s not exactly what they’re looking for.”
“That’s just stupid!” he spat.
I looked down at my son, his clenched jaw and full lips in a mutinous pout, and for the first time in my life I was truly grateful that I had met Sherlock Holmes. He had cost me my education, my future and my life, but the little boy whose hand I now held was worth it all.
I squeezed his fingers.
“Come on, Einstein,” I said with a smile. “Let’s pick up some crumpets from the shop on the way home.”
James’ eyes lit up and he followed me eagerly, science project forgotten for the moment.
“Good afternoon,” the Headmaster said as we walked past. I smiled; he was talking to that well-dressed dad again, the one with the umbrella, the £800 suits and the smooth car. He nodded amiably to me and smiled down at the figure by my side.
“James,” he said.
“Good afternoon,” my son said politely. The well-dressed man smiled and twirled his umbrella. It suddenly occurred to me that I had never seen him at the school twice in a week before, let alone in one day.
Strange, that.