The Girl in the Attic

by Wendy Reakes

  That evening, I had arranged the blocks to spell out discovered, which was ironic considering the next thing we heard was giggling in the danger zone. I froze as I quickly took Rain’s hands and held them in my own, staring into her eyes, telling her to stay as still as a mouse. She obeyed, of course. She had long ago learned the dos and don’ts of our life in the attic. She knew when to stay still, how and where to hide if hiding were needed and most of all, she knew what to do if anything happened to her mama. She was to leave the attic without further ado, to get Celia and to own up to our illicit presence. If such a time occurred, she was to rest assured that she would be taken care of with no blame to rest on her shoulders.

  Now we were in such danger, as the noise of people in the attic overwhelmed us while shaking me to the core.

  I crooked my finger at Rain who followed me, up off the floor and onto the bed. Our time of discovery was upon us and now all we could do was wait. Soon someone would find their way along the path cutting through the forest of furniture and they shall fall upon our parlour. What an uproar there will be.

  We could only wait.

  I heard the giggling once more and the sound of a door banging and then a chair scraping across the floor boards. This is it, I thought. Only minutes more.

  I heard the attic door open once more. Then, a voice.

  Celia’s voice. “Come along now, young masters. There’s nothing up here but a load of old furniture.”

  A child. “We just wanted to explore the attic.”

  “I see,” said Celia. “So, you haven’t heard about the rats up here, then.”

  A groan.

  “And spiders. They crawl around everywhere and one could drop onto your head any minute now.”

  A scream.

  A sound of heavy scarpering feet.

  The door closing.

  Silence.

  I held Rain’s body against mine as we both fell back onto the bed with an eternal sigh.

  Chapter 25

  April 1914

  Since the night I lost my shoes, I have been hiding in the attic of Wilbury House for nigh on seventeen years. I had been confined to that place below the rafters most of my adult life and now I was in my thirties. How strange that time had passed without me really knowing when or how.

  Celia and I had long ago stopped talking about us leaving to begin a normal life, and now, if ever the subject was raised, I could feel my heart palpitating in the most disconcerting manner.

  The world beyond the attic continued unaffected by my absence. Thinking back to the main events, which had impacted my thoughts, I had to confess there weren’t many, but a few stood out in my mind, when I took time to recall.

  In England, in 1903 women’s rights became prominent in the news. I was all for the cause, but I was of course not influential in their fight for votes, in any shape or form. I was useless, I confessed to Celia when she’d imparted the news of Mrs Pankhurst and her daring suffragettes. ‘Warriors’, I called them and I cried when I learned of their imprisonment in the name of civil liberties. That was a phrase used by Celia, civil liberties. I’d never heard it said before and even Celia confessed to having picked it up from a journal. I only got the meaning when I deciphered the two words separately; Civil - people, liberties - freedom. The suffragettes hunger strikes were reported, but only one publication told of how serious their actions had become. Rumours of force feeding were rife, but I found that hard to believe, despite my cynicism of life beyond the attic.

  Only last year on the fourth of June 1913, Emily Davison, the bravest of all Pankhurst’s followers was killed when she threw herself in front of the king’s own horse at the Epsom Derby. Celia, Rain and I grieved for a woman who had, like Mrs Pankhurst, become our unsung hero. We prayed that the legacy of the women’s movement would continue, but with no help from me, I was sad to confess.

  In 1910, King Edward VII or Bertie, as they called him, died after only nine years on the throne. If I am honest, the occasion didn’t really matter to me. Kings were kings, and even though the change of reign affected the family in the house below (them being members of the peerage), it failed to move me. I wasn’t completely heartless, I of course comforted Celia during that time, but for me, personally, selfish wretch that I was, the royal house was so far away in terms of status, it was hard for me to equate. Nevertheless, when the new king George V succeeded the throne, on his coronation day, Rain and I raised a flag to mark the event, but that was only because Celia had brought up two spares.

  An event in 1912 was a different matter altogether. On the 15th April, a White Star liner called the Titanic was sunk after it hit an iceberg, of all things. The terrible news that came spoke of 1,503 souls lost their lives, a combination of first class and steerage. The thought of people like me, no not like me, but people who were seeking a new life in the Americas, had died so tragically, caused grief to fill my heart. I’d been thankful for the sadness, fearing I had lost all sense of proper emotion.

  Nearing her sixteenth birthday, Rain had turned into a fine young lady, a beauty, with long thick black hair and clear green eyes making her appear like a cat that could see in the dark. She was pale as could be, but that only served to enhance her beauty since not a flaw touched her face or any other part of her, not counting the little heart shaped birthmark on her shoulder. When I looked at her, I saw the sleeping beauty, Briar Rose, hidden in the tower until her prince came. But for her, there would be no prince. Certainly not in the attic of Wilbury House.

  “Master John is to celebrate his sixteenth birthday with a marquee in the garden,” Celia said one morning when we were sipping a cup of tea. In our saucers sat a small piece of shortbread she’d sneaked up from the kitchen. She’d often bring us a tit-bit or two and they were always gratefully received, especially when satisfying Rain’s insatiable sweet tooth.

  As Celia and I perched comfortable at the side of the bed, Rain sat on the floor, at my feet. We had two chairs in the attic parlour now, but just out of habit, we still positioned ourselves on the edge of the bed, just as we always had.

  To get my attention, Rain tugged at my skirt, still long about my ankles. I had long ago scoffed at the idea of shortening its length. ‘It’s the fashion,’ Celia had often said, but I had no call for it. Besides, the longer length kept me warm in the attic. Rain, on the other hand, had welcomed the change, after Celia brought up a dark grey uniform frock -without the pinafore and head dress- the length revealing her ankles dressed in black stockings. “The servants were all given the dresses to keep up with fashion,” Celia had said, giving Rain the dress. “There was one spare, so it’s all yours, little beauty.”

  Celia was head-housekeeper now. Three years ago, her mother had finally accepted Mr Gainsborough’s proposal of marriage. After she’d resigned her position at Wilbury House, she went to reside in Mells to help her new husband in his grocer shop in the village. It had been a proud moment for us when Celia was honoured with such a senior position for one so young, entrusting her with the keys to all the inner rooms.

  Anxious to speak, I could feel Rain still tugging at my skirt. She used her lips and her tongue to define the words I’d taught her, and even though no sound came from her throat, Celia and I could both understand almost everything she said. Now, she was talking so quickly, we couldn’t comprehend her at all. “Slow down, Rain,” I said somewhat harshly. I had long ago developed a quick temper. I wasn’t proud of it. I often prayed to God to give me patience and a happy heart, but that heart had hardened many years before, not from the night I lost my shoes, but from the day Porter had left and never returned.

  Rain smiled and sat up, leaning on her knees. The rug beneath her was threadbare in places, but it still served to dull the noise of our footsteps across the boarded floor of the attic. ‘May I have a party too…for my birthday?’ she said silently, using her small hands to tap her chest.

  I brushed her cheek with my hand. “We’ll do what we always do, dear. Aunt Celia will bring
us cake and we’ll have candles and gifts.” I smiled to offer her encouragement, but Rain went back down onto the floor and looked away. I tapped her on the shoulder. “What is it, dearest?”

  She turned back, looking plain sad and my heart stopped as it always stopped when I saw grief in her eyes…grief for the normal life she had never known.

  I could count on one hand the times Rain had been unsatisfied with her lot. Five times in sixteen years was a paltry number and that lack of selfishness had only served to make me love her more, if that were possible. Most of the time she accepted our life, since she had little to compare it with and I often told her of the dangers lurking beyond the attic to the world outside where evil reigned. She accepted my explanations without question because she adored me as much as I adored her, but sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of doubt in her eyes, a look of hope; one I tried my hardest to dispel. She was the sweetest daughter to humour me so. “What’s wrong, dear?” I asked as Celia sat at my side, quietly sipping her tea.

  ‘I would like to have people come to my birthday, as master John has,’ Rain said with clear movement of her lips.

  I chuckled at her suggestion. “Oh no dear. That is impossible. You know that.” I turned to face Celia, to see if she had also found humour in Rain’s proposal, but she was unsmiling. “It’s impossible, is it not, Celia?” I urged.

  Celia stared at Rain and paused, as if she was choosing her words carefully. What was wrong with the two of them today? I wondered. Celia spoke, “I’ve had an idea, which I hope you will approve of, Marley…since you approve of so little these days.”

  I was suddenly aghast. Her biting statement had shocked me into stuttering a reply. “What? What do you mean, Celia darling?”

  Rain was waiting for her to speak, as I too waited. Celia wouldn’t look at me. “The mistress has invited all the youngsters from the village and surrounding areas to celebrate master John’s birthday.” She looked up and stared into my eyes, hoping for a hint of understanding from me, but I was still oblivious to what she was about to say. “He is to start Cambridge, you see, so it’s a big event in his young life…”

  I pouted, “Of course, he’s gentry.”

  Celia nodded, which was curious since we had discussed that very topic a few times before in the past. “I think, with the number of young people there, if Rain were to attend, no one would notice she was among them, let alone wonder who she was.”

  I was speechless. I had been struck dumb, as mute as Rain. “You can’t be serious, Celia.” I looked back at Rain to see a look of yearning in her pretty green eyes. Then I knew. They had already discussed it, without my involvement. They were in cahoots and they’d planned the whole discussion.

  “Well, why not, Marley? I would be there to ensure she came to no harm. You wouldn’t have to worry on that score.”

  I guffawed and I can’t remember ever guffawing in my life before. “I can’t believe you’re asking this of me, Celia. You know the hazards of our life here, you know what it’s like out there,” I tossed me head when I said that part, “…the dangers… How can you even suggest that Rain should expose herself in that way…expose us!?”

  “Marley, dearest,” Celia said putting her hand on mine. “It’s not all bad out there…she would be quite safe.”

  I pulled my hand away and stood up. I walked with a slight limp since my foot has never really repaired itself after I turned it all those years ago. “How can you say that, when…” I stopped to prevent a sob catching in my throat. “…when, what happened to me is proof of what life is like out there?”

  Celia has often questioned me over my fears of the world outside my attic, but each time I reminded her of how I was brutally molested and how my uncle would have allowed the devilish men at the fair to have their way with me, had I not escaped that night I lost my shoes.

  Celia sometimes suggested that perhaps what happened was just bad luck, and that something so dastardly may not happen again. But I wasn’t about to take any chances. No, Rain and I were safe in the attic. We needed nothing more.

  “I won’t even think about her going to master John’s celebration, Celia, so please let’s not discuss it again.” I ran my hand down Rain’s black hair. She glanced back at me with a look in her eyes I’d never seen before. I just didn’t recognise it and knew not what it meant. “No,” I said opting to finish the matter. “We’ll do as we have always done. Celia will bring us cake and that will suffice.”

  On the 5th June,one day before the celebration of master John’s birthday, and of course my dear Rain’s, Celia told me the house was in uproar as they prepared for the festivities. Since King George had taken the crown from his father, Bertie, life in the great households of Britain had taken a drastic turn in its economy, so said Celia.

  “They say there’s a war coming,” she’d said just the other day. “We’re going to fight those damn krauts.” She’d curled her lip to demonstrate her distaste. I couldn’t fathom why since I’d never met a soul who came from Germany, although I’d heard that the baker in Frome was of German origin. I heard people speak highly of him, so I had no idea why my dearest Celia had been so angered? I had no knowledge of anything political happening in the world or even my own country. Politics had never reached Mells. At least not as far as I was aware.

  “Personally, I don’t believe it will happen.” She’d chattered on whilst I had my feet up doing a bit of embroidery, “but they said if it does, it’ll be over by Christmas. The family were discussing it at dinner. The mistress said she was very happy with that because she was planning a big event on Christmas eve and she didn’t want a silly war getting in the way of it.” Celia had looked up to the rafters as she’d tried to recall the conversation word for word. “The master said it wouldn’t affect them in the least, although he would probably have to attend his regiment at the front.”

  Celia had looked rather indignant at the prospect. “Then the mistress asked if he’d be back by Christmas. He said he would. Most definitely,” she finished.

  Chapter 26

  I watched Rain, sitting out on the terrace in the sun. She was making something which, by all accounts, was to be a surprise for me. Her back was curled over the project as she worked intently, silently, privately in her own world of soundlessness. The terrace outside the attic window had become a glorious garden, with clay pots grouped together in the centre, away from the side balustrade, as we took care not to reveal the foliage and blooms to anyone down below perchance they looked up to the roof. Around the central garden was a walkway to the far end, giving Rain the privacy she needed when privacy was called for. At the end, we had settled two chairs for our lazy days in the sun. Those days were precious to Rain and I, as I talked to her about how I had come to the attic and my life before the black-haired lout had taken my purity. I had been open to Rain about our history, leaving it until she reached eleven to tell her of the dastardly deed her father had lain upon me. She had recoiled with disgust at first, crying with remorse and a measure of guilt. But she had nothing to be guilty of, I’d assured her many times. Despite his actions, he had given me the one thing on my life I was grateful for her, my beautiful daughter.

  Suddenly, as I watched her through the closed doors to the terrace, an unfamiliar noise crept upon me.

  “Celia,” I called out “is that you?”

  I could hear footsteps coming through the forest of furniture. Steady steps. Heavier than those of my darling Celia. When there was no reply, I could feel myself trembling at the thought of being discovered by someone prowling the attic. How blasé I had become, how less cautious. I was a fool. I stood up and faced the entrance to my parlour, waiting for a constable to enter and catch me red-handed.

  Instead, a figure came through and his face made me stumble and reach out for the bottom of the bedstead. “Mr Porter,” I said aghast. “Michael?”

  “Hello, Marley.”

  He was thinner than I remember, older, and his beard was long and ragged. He had a s
car on his forehead above his left eye, small and undetectable, except for I, who had pictured his face every day for many years. “You…they said you were dead.”

  He stepped forward and I wanted to flee. But I did not. I kept my stance as I raised my chin to look closer into his eyes. Seeing him again had caused mine to fill with tears of relief. If I hadn’t have restrained myself for modesty’s sake, I would now be running into his arms and kissing that wonderfully handsome face. He stepped closer and a sob broke from my mouth in the most discerning of ways. He would surely now witness what a tart I was for holding a torch for him for so long. My embarrassment was cut short when he finally towered over me and reached out his hand to hold my waist. He forced me to lean into him as he searched for my slackened lips. The kiss was…well, it consumed me, that’s all I can say about that. I couldn’t describe it because I couldn’t think straight. I was just totally and overwhelmingly consumed.

  When he released me, I sat upon the bed to compose myself. He took hold of my hand and went down on one knee, resting his hand, grasping mine over the skirts on my lap. My heart was reeling by now and all I could think about was how, in an instant, my whole sense of being had changed, since the man I loved was sitting in front of me now.

  “Why are you still here? For goodness sake, Marley,” he said. “Why haven’t you left this place?” He turned to see the attic dressed as a cosy parlour, lived-in and functional with all we needed to survive up there in the rafters.

  “I tried to leave…” Saying that aloud left me as unconvinced as he. “But things stopped me…preventing me from leaving. I tried.”

  He closed his eyes as he kissed my hand. The top of his head was facing me and I so wanted to reach out and stroke his hair, as I often did with Rain. I stopped myself of course. It could be deemed too intimate a touch.