by Julia Blake
The next thing Scott knew, he was waking up in hospital, cleaned and in fresh pyjamas, suffering from the hangover from hell and shaking from his experience. Remembering it all as if it were a dream, Wilkinson’s final words to him, the threat he’d made.
Scott shifted uneasily in his narrow bed; he had to tell, didn’t he? After all, the school would want to know how he’d got into such a state. Scott wasn’t sure he could hold out against what would surely be intensive and persistent questioning. No, he would tell, Wilkinson couldn’t do anything to harm him. As for the threat that someone would die, Scott shivered, resolutely made up his mind. He’d just been trying to frighten him, no one would die. He would tell. When they came for him in the morning, he would tell. Relieved, his mind made up, he’d snuggled down under the covers to try and sleep.
The cry echoed in his head, ripped him from sleep and forced him bolt upright in bed, his heart jack hammering with fear. It came again, resounding through the corridors of his brain and Scott’s hands flew to his head. ‘Samuel!’ he screamed in terror.
Lights snapped on in the ward, as others woke and complained. Nurses came running, shocked to see him scrambling out of bed like a boy possessed, running for the door, his eyes wide and blank at some invisible terror.
‘What’s the matter?’ one of the nurses caught and tried to hold him, feeling his thin body strain out of her embrace, his head lashing backwards and forwards.
‘Samuel!’ he screamed again. The nurse would later tell Ruth all the hairs on the back of her neck stood upright at the horror in his voice, the look in his eyes.
‘It was as if he was hearing and seeing things I couldn’t,’ she tried to explain, her kind face creasing at the memory. ‘He was so young, so small, no meat on him at all, but it took all my strength to hold him, he fought me like a wildcat. I was afraid he’d do himself an injury.’
Alerted by another nurse, the doctor came running, took one look at Scott and ordered he be sedated, alarmed by the blind panic in the boy’s eyes, the frenzied maddened way in which he resisted all attempts to calm and placate him. It took two nurses to wrestle him back onto his bed, whisking curtains around to stop the curious gazes of the other children. Nurses rushed to bedsides to comfort and reassure, whilst all the time Scott fought and raged, screaming again and again. Samuel, Samuel, Samuel!
Who is Samuel, they begged, as the doctor slipped the needle into his arm, who is he? Perhaps we can find him and bring him here to you. My brother, he finally gasped, he’s my brother. As the sedative took effect, pulled him under the encroaching waves he howled and grabbed the doctor’s arm, his face twisting with anguish.
It’s too late, he cried, he’s gone. His eyes closed and he flopped, unconscious, onto the bed.
Later, much later, the doctor and nurses would discover at the exact same moment they were trying to restrain the frenzied boy, his twin brother Samuel was losing his fight for life in intensive care two floors above them. His twin feeling the instant his other half slipped away from him, unable to stop him from going and unable to be with him at the end.
‘Samuel died?’ I breathed in horror. ‘Did Wilkinson kill him?’
‘No, no, no,’ huffed Ruth in exasperation. ‘Don’t be such a melodramatic ninny, no, Samuel died of meningitis.’
When Scott regained consciousness, he knew Samuel was gone. That he was alone, could feel the gaping hole in his soul that had been his twin. Guilt burned in his gut. It was his fault. Wilkinson had warned him, and he hadn’t believed. He’d thought about telling someone, had been going to tell them what had happened, and now, because of that, Samuel was dead. His twin, that which made him complete, was gone. It was his fault, all his fault. Released from hospital and sent back to school, Scott retreated into a world of guilt and silence. His plan to talk had cost Samuel his life so now Scott determined to never speak again.
At first, teachers put it down to understandable grief, exclaiming amongst themselves their surprise and disapproval no one had come to take the bereaved little boy home. Let him stay at school, had been his father’s orders and so, at school, Scott remained.
Alone and isolated, the other boys avoided him, made uneasy by his strange silence, the way his eyes, dark and haunted, looked right through them, as if they weren’t there, almost as if, they whispered amongst themselves, he was seeing something they couldn’t. His twin’s ghost, the scared mutterings continued, after all, twins were known to be special, to be linked, maybe his brother was communicating with him from beyond the grave.
But no one was communicating with Scott. Although he would have given his soul for one word from his brother, he heard nothing, felt nothing. Samuel was gone, and Scott ached with the burning conviction it was all because of him.
If someone had known, realised, the psychological damage that had been inflicted on such a little boy, then maybe with immediate professional care and counselling he could’ve been pulled back from the brink. But no one knew or cared enough to find out. Scott was left to fend for himself, to attempt to deal with the situation alone. He coped by totally retreating into himself.
When his father eventually bothered to let Ruth know she flew home immediately, her heart grieving for the loss of Samuel, worrying about the effect it would have upon Scott. But, by the time she reached the school and someone went to find Scott, it was too late, the damage was done. Scott hadn’t spoken a single word to anyone in over a month.
Two months later his father died too, a life filled with bitterness and hatred for all finally culminating in a heart attack. According to the will, Scott inherited everything and Ruth was named as his guardian. Thankfully, she sold the house which echoed at every corner with memories of Samuel, bought a rambling old villa on the east coast, took Scott away from the school which had so devastated his young life, and dedicated herself to healing him.
Gradually, with patience, understanding and professional guidance, Scott emerged on the other side of the silence, Ruth remembering the heart gladdening day when he’d looked at her and spoken for the first time since Samuel’s death.
He remained a quiet and thoughtful little boy, who made not a single friend at the small local primary school Ruth enrolled him in, but at least he would talk, if absolutely necessary. Ruth had watched in concern and sadness, as Scott had grown from an abnormally quiet and mistrustful little boy into a taciturn and friendless man.
She told me how relieved she’d been when he’d met Andrew, how much she liked the bluff hearty Scotsman, who’d seen through Scott’s diffident exterior to realise what lay underneath was worth the effort. Through Andrew, of course, he’d met Annaliese, the others and me.
She paused and looked at me, her eyes crossing, finally feeling the effects of the amount of alcohol she’d consumed. ‘He loves you,’ she stated firmly. At my instinctive negative murmur, her face tightened. ‘Oh yes he does,’ she insisted. ‘I know Scott better than anyone else does; I’ve seen the look in his eyes when he talks about you. He loves you, more than life itself, but he’ll never say. He’ll never risk loving someone again.’
‘So what can I do?’ I cried in despair, and she fixed me with a steely glare.
‘Do you love him?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I sobbed in despair. ‘I’ve always loved him, right from the start.’
‘Then you must be the one to go to him, make him believe you do. It’s up to you, Eve. He’s too afraid of losing someone else he loves to ever make the first move. It really is up to you.’
Later, much later, after I’d helped a booze-soaked Ruth to bed and packed our cases ready for the early flight, I’d wandered back out onto the terrace, thinking about the story she’d told me. Hot tears welled for the loss of his twin, for the scared and abused little boy Scott had been, for the scarred and damaged man he’d become. My man, I decided, knowing I wanted no other. I wiped away my tears, smilin
g at the chance Ruth had given me, a chance to make things right, so Scott and I could be together, as fate had always intended us to be.
We were flying home tomorrow. I would see him. Somehow, I would get him alone and would let him know I loved him, would find out if Ruth was right and he loved me too. I drew back my shoulders, determined to see it through, quite how I would go about it still unclear to me. Maybe I should seduce him. I grinned, felt a quick hot stab of lust at the thought of us making love. Oh yes, my cheeks flamed and my heart raced, that was definitely a plan.
As it turned out, my plans were all for nothing. I hadn’t taken into account the fact upon returning home jet lag would seize me and I would sleep round the clock. That I wouldn’t wake until late Thursday evening, when everyone was gathered in the house excitedly making plans for Essie’s eighth birthday party the next day. That other than casting longing looks at Scott I would barely have a moment to exchange more than a few cordial words with him about my trip.
Never mind, I consoled myself, maybe it was better this way. Get the frenzied madness of Essie’s birthday out the way and then, oh yes, it would be our turn. Nothing would stop me from taking Scott away somewhere private, leaving him in no doubt as to my feelings for him.
But it was not to be. Thinking back during my long lonely year of self-imposed isolation, I often wondered if things could have been different. If I’d had the chance to talk to Scott before Essie’s party, if we’d made the connection then, were already bonded to each other, would my life have taken a very different path? It was impossible to know. Life beats out its own rhythm and we have no choice but to dance to the tune it dictates.
Chapter Eight
Lamentations
It was dawn, thin fingers of light were oozing silently through chinks in the curtains and birds were greeting the new day with an enthusiastic burst of song, when I heard the silent yet unmistakeable sound of my bedroom door being quietly opened, felt the presence of an uninvited intruder, knew I was not alone.
I lay still, listening with bated breath, biding my time as stealthy footsteps crept ever closer to the bed. I waited, coiled and ready, until they paused by my bedside and I sensed hands reaching towards me, then, like a jack in the box, I sprang upwards, grabbed the trespasser and wrestled them onto the bed, using the element of surprise to pin their hands and launch a merciless attack.
‘Auntie E-e-e-v-v-v-e,’ stuttered Essie, helpless with laughter as I tickled her without mercy. Thrashing around like a slippery eel, she slithered from my grasp and swarmed across the bed, disappearing headfirst over the side and landing with a thud on the floor.
‘Essie?’ I cried in semi-alarm at her silence. Then it was my turn to shriek as she suddenly catapulted upwards, grabbed one of my pillows on her upward trajectory and walloped me round the side of the head with it.
‘Why you...’ I gasped, ear still ringing from the blow, and then it was all out war as I grabbed another pillow and retaliated, catching her a blow across the bottom which sent her giggling across the bed, long colt-like legs flashing under her Disney princess nightshirt. The battle was long and not without injuries, but finally I had her pinned down under my duvet, gasping for air, our sides hurting with too much laughter.
‘Happy birthday, brat,’ I said, planting a wet raspberry kiss on her cheek which had her shrieking with disgust. Laughing, I slithered into bed beside her, dropping my pillow back in place and collapsing breathlessly onto it, caught sight of the time on my bedside clock and groaned in disbelief. ‘5.30? Essie!’
‘Present,’ she demanded.
‘What makes you so sure I’ve got you one?’ I raised my brows in amused disbelief and she smirked, as if such a comment was unworthy of answering. I sighed with resignation. ‘You can have one small one now,’ I replied. ‘But the rest are for the party this afternoon,’ she wiggled with anticipation, held out her hands as I reached under my bed and drew out a gaily wrapped, oddly shaped parcel. With a small squeak she ripped the paper off to reveal a pretty little tiara, its fake diamonds glittering in the dim light.
‘Your birthday crown to wear at your party, your highness,’ I said. She grinned with pleasure and pulled the tiara on, flopping back onto the pillows and pulling the duvet up to her chin. We lay quietly for a few minutes, I could feel sleep tugging at me and hoped Essie too would doze. She had a very busy day ahead of her and I knew Mimi would probably appreciate her being as rested as possible.
‘Auntie Eve?’
‘Um huh?’
‘Will you tell me about sex?’
Instantly jolted awake, my eyes flew open and I turned my head to gaze at my goddaughter’s suspiciously innocent face. ‘Erm,’ I began helplessly. ‘What do you want to know, Essie?’
‘Everything,’ she replied. ‘The girls at school talk about it, but I don’t think they really know much, because some of the things they say seem really gross and, quite frankly, impossible. I’d just like to know the absolute truth.’
‘Why don’t you ask your mother?’ I began hopefully, but Essie shook her head vehemently.
‘I can’t,’ she stated flatly. ‘It would be just, like, too embarrassing.’
I sighed, painfully aware of how quickly girls seemed to grow up now, then suddenly remembered when I’d been about Essie’s age, looking at my Barbie and Ken dolls, examining their bodies minutely, longing to know exactly what went where and how. Frustrated and confused because nobody would tell me anything.
‘Alright,’ I agreed slowly and Essie squeaked with joy. ‘But not today,’ I continued. ‘I really don’t want to go into the whole thing right now...’
‘But Auntie Eve,’ she began desperately, and I shook my head.
‘No,’ I replied, on firmer ground now. ‘It’s complicated, Essie, and you’ll have loads of questions. I want us to have the time and privacy to talk about it properly.’
‘You mean that?’ she begged. ‘You’re not just fobbing me off?’
‘No,’ I reassured her. ‘I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, if you’re sure you’re ready to deal with it.’ She paused and looked thoughtful, her young face suddenly seeming infinitely older and wiser than her eight years, then smiled at me and nodded.
‘I really do want to know, Auntie Eve, and I promise you I can deal with it, whatever it is.’
‘One other thing you must promise me,’ I continued, and she nodded eagerly. ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t tell your mother...’
The rest of the day passed in a blur of preparations. Andrew took Essie to school, much to Mimi’s relief, for as Essie’s over-excited levels of hyperactivity had risen all through breakfast, so too had her long suffering mother’s stress levels.
Being in the last full week of the summer term, Mimi had asked Essie if she wouldn’t rather have her party the following week, once school had broken up, only to be met with an incredulous stare. How could her mother even think of depriving her of the status being at school with an impending party granted her.
Once we’d waved her goodbye a sigh of relief swept through the group and we rolled up our sleeves and got down to it. Andrew and Scott had gone to work, Scott promising to leave off early to help with any last minute preparations and Andrew reassuring Mimi that no he hadn’t forgotten he was to collect Essie from school and bring her straight to Annaliese’s. Exams over, the university had already finished for the summer so Miles and Ferdie had been roped into being gophers, running errands for us exhausted and stressed women.
Finally, it reached three o’clock and everything was ready. We stood on the veranda and surveyed the pink paradise that had been created and I felt a little spark of anticipation at how much Essie was going to love it.
A pink marquee had been erected, its sides rolled up, secured with bunches of pink and silver ribbons to allow a breeze to roll through to cool the twenty little princesses who w
ould be attending. The long table was already laid with a pink cloth on which silver party favours, hair accessories and glittering necklaces and bracelets had been scattered. Pink and silver balloons bobbed on the back of every chair, and at the head of the table was a huge pink and silver throne, fit for a princess.
Pink bunting was strung from marquee to house and a large pink bouncy castle wobbled invitingly. The mobile disco was being set up in the hall ready for dancing after dinner, and the caterers were hard at work in the kitchen preparing a feast fit for royalty. As indeed, for this most special day, Essie and her friends were.
A buffet was being laid on for the parents, the garden littered with little groupings of tables and chairs, the waiters already prepared and waiting behind the bar set up on the veranda, bottles of champagne and soft drinks chilling, glasses lined up like ranks of sparkling soldiers.
Flowers were banked everywhere. Sitting back in a garden chair, accepting thankfully a glass of champagne from Ferdie, I could smell the richly gorgeous scent of pink roses arranged in a large display behind me. It all looked amazing. We beamed smugly at each other as a red sports car growled its way up the drive. With a catch at my heart, I realised Scott had arrived.
He parked and climbed out, a smile briefly touching his face as he saw the transformed garden. As he walked towards us, Mimi came rushing out of the Hall, panicked annoyance on her face, clutching her phone.
‘Martha called,’ she exclaimed shrilly, Martha was her housekeeper. ‘Andrew’s been home to change, but forgot to pick up Essie’s party dress. Honestly, I told him so many times and hung it in the hall, how could he have forgotten,’ she glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll have to go home and get it,’ she stated, looking around wildly. ‘Has anyone seen my car keys?’
