Reflexively I opened up, I wouldn’t normally read them, it wasn’t polite, but exceptional circumstances. My mind though, just wasn’t doing what it should and I was overwhelmed by a feeling I didn’t immediately recognise. I struggled to grasp it, as it slipped down and away into the soft cotton wool that was currently the inside of my head. Just as it disappeared, I realised what it was. I felt powerless. For probably the first time in my life, I didn’t have the tools to look after myself. My heart started to pound in time with my head.
“Stella?” Dorothy was holding out two pills again, in the palm of her hand. “For the temperature my dear,” she reminded me. “And then two spoons of the medicine.”
“No, wait,” I shook my head, “I think it might be the medicine that’s making me feel worse, too drowsy, I don’t want any more.” Professor Lowbell chuckled and cleared his throat theatrically, to get my attention, the sound bouncing off the walls of the room.
“No use arguing with Dotty, young lady. Dotty says medicine, medicine it is. She’s fierce.” I smiled, but shook my head again. They couldn’t possibly know, but my reaction to any kind of medication had always been completely disproportionate, it was the reason I hadn’t risked so much as an aspirin for years.
“I’d really rather not.”
“Open wide now, there’s a good girl.” He was right, this was a woman who didn’t take no for an answer. I didn’t seem to have a great deal of choice, nor anywhere near the strength for an argument. I swallowed the damn pills and then she tipped two lots of the thick fluid into my mouth. It trickled, viscous and bitter down my sore throat.
The effect was immediate and I vaguely remembered, last time she’d only given me one spoonful. I wanted to discuss this, but my tongue seemed to be losing the ability to do the sort of thing it usually did, and the light from the now partially drawn-back curtains, was lasering my eyes. I shut them, then with an effort, got them re-opened, it seemed so rude to go to sleep while they were still there.
There was a small, gilt bedecked carriage clock, on a chest of drawers across the room and now it chimed the hour, but my ears had gone funny again – the chimes went right through me and set my teeth on edge. Dorothy was busy flattening out the pillows. She was talking to me, but I couldn’t take in what she was saying, I hoped it wasn’t important. I would have to try and explain to them about the medicine, as soon as I could, I didn’t like the effects and thought it was probably making whatever I had, worse and not better.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
It was the incongruous pop and flash of a camera bulb that woke me next. It was dark again and the bedside light was pinkly on. Friend in the bed, was present and correct and so were the Lowbells, who were sitting on a couple of chairs by the bed, for all the world, as if hospital visiting. I tried to work out whether they’d been there all the time I was sleeping, I sincerely hoped not, that’d be taking hospitality and thoughtfulness a step too far.
Dorothy had a notebook and pen that she put down for a moment as she saw me open my eyes. She stood to re-angle the lampshade, so the light wasn’t shining directly on my face. Professor Lowbell was holding an opened lever arch file on his knee, thick with typewritten pages. He bent to put the camera, one of those clever new Polaroid ones, down on the floor beside him. I still couldn’t reach out and read either one of them, neither was I able to move anything, I tried gently with the pen and notepad, Dorothy had just laid on the table next to me – nothing, zilch!
“Just a little something to record your progress, Stella m’dear.” Prof Lowbell said. I wasn’t thrilled, I hate having my photo taken at the best of times and felt this might be an eccentricity too far, on his part. He’d peeled the paper off the photo and was waving it back and forth, to dry it out. I could see the fuzzy, ill-defined image, gradually becoming clearer – which was more than I could say for my head. He was leaning forward now, froggy face concerned. “Now then, how did you sleep?” He was sweating slightly, drops of moisture magnifying enlarged pores on his face. The fire, below the mantelpiece had been lit and was crackling gently. It should have been a comforting sound but oddly enough wasn’t – maybe my ears were still playing up.
“Progress?” I said, “I don’t seem to be making much, I’m afraid. I’m still feeling rough and I’ve been having some pretty horrible nightmares.” I propped myself up on an elbow and Dorothy reached round to pull the pillows up behind me. She was holding a glass of orange juice to my lips and I sipped gratefully, although it tasted sour, the way everything does when you’re ill. “Must be the temperature,” I said, “That gives you funny dreams doesn’t it?” Professor Lowbell pushed his glasses up his nose with his middle finger, a gesture I’d become so familiar with, over the years, I could almost predict the next time he was going to do it. He leaned back a little in his chair and smiled warmly at me.
“Of course, of course it does. We know our brains are adapting all the time and your’s right now is working under the dual stresses of illness and input.” Dorothy was solicitously tucking me in again, I must have pulled the sheets and blankets loose around me. I moved away from her hands.
“Input?” I said. He nodded eagerly, opened his mouth, got stuck on what he was trying to say, so sang it.
“Fever, fear and fairy tales.” He warbled, spitting the words out like marbles and then, having cleared the blockage, continued, “Fascinating combination – now, look here, my dear, I’ve been taking the opportunity to do a bit of reading aloud to you, while you were sleeping, some of our stories with which you’re familiar. Naturally,” he added, “I’m so sorry you’ve had the misfortune to be struck down with this vicious little bug, sincerely hope it wasn’t my good-self who passed it along, but honestly it couldn’t have come at a better time, could it?” He leaned forward again, elbows on knees, hands clasped between. “You don’t mind, do you? A few days, a few bad dreams, that’s all. Nothing too taxing and all in the interests of research? You’ve always been so interested in my work, haven’t you?” He nodded encouragingly and the mattress tipped dangerously again, as Dorothy seated herself on the side.
I shook my head, and then stopped, because it was making me dizzy. As it so happened, I did mind, I minded a lot. This was really silly. Quite frankly, the last thing I had any interest in at the moment, was his work. No wonder I’d been having such awful nightmares, I knew what was in some of those stories and they weren’t designed to sweeten anyone’s dreams.
“Look.” I said, sitting up straighter and concentrating on getting words out coherently. “You’ve both been very kind, and I truly appreciate the way you’ve looked after me. But no. If you don’t mind, I really don’t want to help with any research. Maybe when I’m feeling better, but not now. Now, I really would like to phone home, so they can come and get me, right away.” I was just deciding how best to swing my legs past the rather solid obstacle that was Dorothy, when she reached out, put the heel of her hand squarely on my forehead and pushed, hard. I toppled back and my head smacked into the wooden headboard with an audible crack. Dorothy chuckled.
“I don’t think so.” She said cheerfully.
I’ve long maintained, the curtain between normal and not normal, is a flimsy divider indeed, but whilst it’s always good to have a theory proved, I didn’t think this was the time for patting myself on the back. Vision blurred by tears of pain and shock, I gazed at Professor Lowbell and Dorothy and they gazed amiably back.
I think the bang on the head must have knocked into place, some remnants of my common sense. It suddenly seemed clear that, under these oddest of circumstances, the best path to pursue might be a devious one. Accordingly, I burst into tears – it wasn’t difficult, I was feeling pretty hard done by and the bash on the head hadn’t done my headache any favours.
“I’m sorry,” I sobbed, “It’s just I’m really not feeling well and would much rather go home, but if you do think I can help you, before I go a
nd if it’s important to you, then of course I’ll stay a bit longer.” It sounded pretty weak, even to me, but to the couple hemming me in, in that overheated room, it appeared to make good sense. They nodded approvingly and Dorothy patted me warmly on the arm.
“Excellent, poppet, that’s the ticket.” she said, and then turning to the Prof, “Can I show her, can I show her now?” He nodded indulgently. I stared at them. This felt like an optical illusion. Maybe you know the one I was thinking of – the Greek urn which, in an instant, becomes two faces? I’d been seeing two people I knew so well, I could have described their features and funny ways with my eyes closed yet suddenly, my perception, all I thought I knew, had been turned on its head and now, I was looking at a completely different picture.
“Come along then.” Dorothy, was helping me out of the bed, holding my arm, walking me across the room. We moved, unsteadily, to one of the floral tapestries framing the fire. Stretching to reach behind it, with a flourish, she pulled a cord attached to runners at the top, and the tapestry folded back on itself. Behind it, five, deep, bevelled glass shelves, were set into the alcove. On each of the shelves were dolls. Dorothy was still holding my arm tightly, above the elbow, and we moved across to the second tapestry, so she could draw that back as well. On these shelves too, were dolls. Dolls sitting, dolls standing, a couple of babies – blanket cocooned – dolls with beautifully coiffed hair and those with just a few hanks of rotted strands on balded, cracked skulls. There were dolls elaborately costumed and bonneted, others pinkly naked. There were bone-white faced dolls, hectically rouged ones and others with patchily discoloured fabric features. Some were looking boldly at me, others slyly sideways. There were cross-eyed gazes and eyeless faces and the odd smashed nose and badly cracked forehead. The combined impact was more than suffocating. It was as if, revealed, let out from behind the tapestries, they were sucking air from the room. I took a breath – the musty smell was even more in evidence here – and an instinctive step back, but the grip on my arm was painfully firm.
“Well now.” said Dorothy, “What do you think Stella? These are my favourite girls, although I do have one or two boys amongst them, but dolls were meant to be girls, don’t you agree? I’ve many more, no room to display them here. All in all, probably one of the finest antique collections you’ll find, outside of the museums. Although,” she added reflectively, “There are always those special ones you’re after, that you haven’t yet laid hands on. But there’s always time. Precious, aren’t they?”
“Now Dotty, my angel, not too much talking.” Professor Lowbell was still seated, but had swivelled in his chair to follow our progress. “Stella’s looking a little flushed to me, I’m worried her temperature’s going up again.” Dorothy looked at me assessingly. If anyone was looking flushed, it was her, there was an unflattering, damp sheen of excitement on her chin and forehead and her eyes glittered, I’d no idea she could look so animated.
“Ah, Lowbell, let me just introduce her to Adelaide.” She said, “Then it’s back to bed for you, young lady.” She softly patted my hand, which she’d now tucked firmly into the crook of her arm and led me to one side of the left hand alcove.
Adelaide stood, about eighteen inches tall, reaching out to us with outstretched arms and open hands. She had an oddly shaped head, top-knotted with a faded gold plaited braid, painted deep-brown eyes on a porcelain face and a simpery, sugary smile. Dorothy picked her up, cooing softly as she did. There must have been a key beneath the wide, layered lace skirt, which was probably once red, but was now a darker duller colour altogether. Returned gently to her position on the shelf, Adelaide stared smilingly at us for a moment then, with a deep, rusty sigh, her head began to turn jerkily on her neck, smiling face replaced by a crying face with sorrowfully downturned mouth and artfully painted tears. Her head tilted to one side, as if inviting sympathy and stayed there for a few seconds before, with another whirr and groan, she turned it again. The face she showed us this time was terrified, mouth a howling, horrified ‘o’ shape and from deep inside her body came a shrill, surprisingly loud and discordant shrieking. Dorothy turned to me, in genuine delight,
“She’s an automaton, made in the 1860’s. Cloth and papier mâché, apart from her head and hands – they’re bisque porcelain. Isn’t she wonderful?” I nodded slowly, although wonderful wasn’t the first word I’d have gone for. The clockwork cycle had finished with the howling, so it was that face, staring out at us now from the shelf. It wasn’t a good look, but I sympathised with how she was feeling.
“Time for your pills I think, and back to bed with you, chop, chop.” Dorothy turned me away from the serried ranks of dolls and we walked slowly back. I wasn’t sure whether my knees were knocking from flu or fear. I felt totally cut off, because half my senses seemed to have taken a hike and I hadn’t a clue whether they were coming back any time soon, if ever. I suddenly didn’t want Normal at all. I wanted Strange and all it gave me. Without that, I certainly didn’t want to be coping with the couple of raving lunatics, the Lowbells had unexpectedly turned into. It had become increasingly apparent, even in my sadly befuddled state, that they may not have my best interests at heart. For a moment, I thought about taking a leaf out of Adelaide’s book and shrieking too.
Dorothy was solicitously and tightly tucking me in again, and the Professor was nodding genially at both of us. She handed me a couple more of the pills, I palmed them, whilst making a show of swallowing and grimacing. The orange juice she handed me to wash them down still tasted bitter, so although I had to have some of it, I took the bare minimum, then waved it away feebly.
“Sore throat.” I muttered. We all three smiled at each other. And then we chuckled a little, as I settled beneath the blankets and they both exaggeratedly mimed tip-toeing out of the room. This time, because I was listening for it. I heard the sound of the key turning in the lock. My jaunt to the shelves and back must have tired me out, because, even though I was trying to stay awake and work out some kind of a game plan, I went to sleep and the next time I woke up, it was because of the screaming.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It was high-pitched and terror-filled. It hurt my head and it hurt my throat, because, it turned out it was me doing the screaming, as I struggled to find my way out of yet another nightmare. The Lowbells were back at the side of the bed. I wondered whether they’d really gone at all, or had they simply tip-toed out then tip-toed back in again.
“Stella, calm down, calm down my dear. Take a deep breath. What is it that frightened you?” Professor Lowbell was leaning over, shaking my arm. He was too close, I caught a whiff of stale coffee on his breath.
“Don’t remember,” I said, “Gone now.”
“Try.” He said.
“I’m sorry? I don’t…” He interrupted.
“Stella, please, I must ask you to try and be more helpful, it’s important. What were you dreaming about? Was it the story I read you earlier? Was it something you remembered from the story that made you scream?”
“Or,” I hadn’t noticed Dorothy, moving to the other side of the bed. “Was it Letitia?” I must have looked blank, because she inclined her head slowly towards the large doll in the bed. “Look,” said Dorothy, “Look at Letitia.” I turned slowly, couldn’t seem to help myself. Bed friend was lying flat on her pillows as was I, and as I turned my head towards her, she slowly turned hers towards me. As she opened her mouth to speak. I think I was probably screaming again.
Another flash and pop of the ruddy camera, again pulled me back to my senses, although certainly not all the way. I decided, if he didn’t stop taking photos of me when I was asleep, I was going to take his precious Polaroid and ram it somewhere the sun didn’t shine.
I also decided I wasn’t going to take the risk of turning my head to look at the lovely Letitia again. Truth to tell, I was no longer entirely sure exactly what I had or hadn’t seen. Maybe it was fever-induced over-imag
ination, possibly something to do with whatever they’d been pumping me full of, it could even be some kind of post hypnotic suggestion. Of course, the other explanation might be, I’d just gone completely round the bend. Whatever, I had wit enough remaining to tell me, the time had come to take stock, and quickly.
First and foremost, I needed to stop all the panicking and screaming, that was doing nobody any good. Secondly, I needed to make sure I stopped taking any more of what was being dished out and thirdly and finally, I needed to bring this unfortunate little episode to a close. Having assembled a ‘to do’ list, I immediately felt a little better, there’s nothing like an agenda to get your mind in order.
My next thought though was a rather obvious and uncomfortable one and maybe should have been at the top of the list – where could things go from here? The Lowbells had crossed a line, we could hardly pretend they hadn’t. How could this conceivably have a neat and happy ending? Through slitted eyelids, I looked over at the two people I knew so well, yet didn’t know at all. They were again, planted on chairs by the side of the bed. They seemed perfectly relaxed and at ease and both smiled at me. I smiled co-operatively and sleepily back, the dopier they thought I was, the better for all of us.
The curtains were open, although dusk was drawing in again. I’d absolutely no idea how long I’d been there, maybe two days, possibly three? I’d spent so much time sleeping off whatever bug I’d had in the first place, added to which were the drugs, I was certain they’d been giving me, for all I knew it could have been a lot longer.
The tapestries at the end of the room had been left drawn back, so there were eyes of every colour, shape and texture on me. It was whilst contemplating those unsettling gazes, that another, belated and even more obvious thought sidled into my confused and aching head. Where the heck was everybody? Whilst my family might have accepted I was staying over at the Lowbells’ for a night or even two, they surely would have noticed if I’d disappeared for longer – it didn’t make any kind of sense. Unless, the Lowbells hadn’t in fact let them know where I was. But surely, in that case, there’d have been an indignant crowd, headed up by my parents, not to mention Kitty, Brenda and a fair section of North West London constabulary, banging on the door to find out where I’d got to. And what about Glory and the Peacocks – always there when I didn’t want them, where were they now, when I did?
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