She had planted seeds at the back of the Mill House in a bit of soil she had cleared, unaware that a hundred years earlier a portly widower had taken as much pride in dahlias growing in the same spot. The next time she visited the ruins, Eleanor hurried to see if the seeds had sprouted and was greeted by a tangle of red and orange nasturtiums. She had never grown anything before and was ecstatic, but she had to keep quiet about it because she wasn’t meant to be there. Until Alice she had never shown anyone.
The tiny garden was her secret.
When Alice had seen the long thin mound with its straggling nasturtiums she had shuddered dramatically and pronounced it was like a grave. There was, she had crowed, absolutely no point in having flowers in the middle of rubbish. Also she had done nasturtiums at school. Whatever that meant.
Eleanor preferred the Tide Mills to anywhere because it was full of places to hide and make dens. She was never alone. As she sat on the worn front step of the cottage or trailed along the old railway line, she saw the shadows of what, until the extension of Newhaven harbour at the end of the nineteenth century, had been a thriving community of several hundred people.
Eleanor would hear the clanging bell warning of a train and then a fantastic silver locomotive would steam by, sneezing and puffing, with a handsome name like Alexander the Great or The Flying Horseman. There would be Summer Holiday trains, hammock racks bundled with suitcases and a rainbow jumble of beach things smelling of warm, soft plastic. The train would stop at the halt, with ‘Bongville’ painted in uneven sloping letters on a large concrete sign, breaking the country silence with a clattering of doors and bundling of cases, as the ticket barrier framed a parade of faces sporting a deathly London pallor.
Eleanor seldom reflected that she invented the most exciting bits of her life. The whimsical world in her head was real, the life she lived a dull perseverance in comparison. When Alice had insisted she was lying, Eleanor hadn’t understood.
Eleanor had in fact rarely been on a train. In June 1968, Doctor Ramsay drove his family down to Sussex in his brand new racing green Rover, which Alice had said made her feel sick when he had brought them home from the swings the second time they played together.
Until that June, when everything changed, the Ramsays had spent every holiday at the White House, a three-storey detached house fronted by a sweeping circular drive that was reached by entering through two huge wrought iron gates. The house had been built by Eleanor’s great-great-grandfather with money her mother said he got through slavery, just as Mark’s father, Judge Henry Ramsay, whose scary portrait hung in the chilly dining room at the White House, had made his money through hanging people. That made her Dad go on about how James Ramsay was rich because of his share in the Tide Mills and investment in Newhaven harbour and that Henry (he always referred to his father by his first name) had wanted to create a better world through the rule of law. The children would sigh and exchange looks because the history lesson about James Ramsay and the stained-glass-lamb-window in the church was coming next. To make the story friendly, Doctor Ramsay’s youngest daughter pictured James Ramsay as a white woolly lamb with her cat Crawford’s fluffy front paws.
This year seagulls had splattered the outside walls of the only remaining cottage at the Tide Mills with gashes of berry-red and scattered fluffy feathers on the rubbled floor, which had also made Alice feel sick. Fat pigeons jostled and clattered in the larder of the cottage, their wistful voices amplified in the enclosed space. Gorse and blackberry bushes, nettles and dandelions made it hard to walk along the pathways between the buildings. Lichen and moss had moved like a tide over the worn stone, which peeped out like bone through tissue in places where the ground dipped away. Once, ferreting in the undergrowth, Eleanor had discovered an iron key as big as her hand and, easing and tugging at it with a patience no one knew she possessed, had got it out from between the stones without disturbing the tiled floor of the Mill Owner’s hallway. It fitted the rusted lock of the outhouse door, but would not turn. She put it in her Box of Secrets.
The Box of Secrets came from South Africa, and was an unwanted present to her mother. The cedarwood was always warm and smelled of Saturday mornings perched on her Mum’s bed listening to snippets from Vogue or Nova and examining pictures of beautiful women. This image greeted Eleanor as she slipped the gold catch and opened the lid, and cheered her whatever her mood.
The secrets included three train tickets found in the waste paper basket in her father’s study, an ivory compact still with traces of rouge that had been given to her by an actress friend of her parents. A Victorian Bun penny, two farthings and the sixpence from the Tide Mills were wrapped in tissue paper and kept in a soft leather bag with a drawstring. Tucked in next to this was a silver case shaped like a plump cushion. It was lined with a nest of red velvet on which rested a tuft of grey fur from her rabbit, killed and mostly eaten up by a neighbour’s cat when Eleanor was seven. She had snipped off the fur from the leftovers. After this Eleanor promised herself never to mind things again.
Eleanor acquired her most cherished treasure a few days before meeting Alice. The brand new penknife had a sharp blade, and a fan of gleaming tools. She had stolen it from the gun shop where they had gone to buy a new riding hat for Gina. Eleanor had not known she was going to take the knife. Her hand whipped out when the man went to get more hats from the stock room. Once she held it, cold and heavy, she could not put it back. No one was looking as she slipped it into her pocket. Eleanor believed that the knife made her capable of anything.
Later she told the police she had the penknife with her the last time they played hide and seek. She realised too late that she shouldn’t have mentioned it because when they asked to see it, she couldn’t find it.
Eleanor kept the Box of Secrets under a floorboard in her Sussex bedroom; and when she couldn’t sleep in London would make a mental inventory of its contents. After the light was switched off, she waited for the hunched ghouls to become the chest of drawers, the toy cupboard and the wardrobe. Sometimes they never did. Then she composed a spell to lift her bed over London, and fly away across the Sussex Downs to Charbury where it was always summer. There she could lie and listen to the push and hush of the waves, tucked up safely. Eleanor never got back to London; she was already asleep as her bed landed by the sea.
That Tuesday Eleanor had said Alice could hide first. She had hidden ridiculously. As Eleanor reached ‘ten’ and started to search, she straight away spotted Alice peering round from behind the crumbling wall of the Mill House. Eleanor was relieved. She preferred hiding to seeking.
As warm breezes brushed the brambles of Eleanor’s hiding place, they carried the scent of lavender, wild roses and blackberries and bluffed around her like her Mum’s best hugs. She rubbed her nose to stop the tickle. She mustn’t sneeze and give herself away. She didn’t want Alice to find her.
Then after a few moments it dawned on Eleanor that there was no point in hiding. Alice wasn’t looking for her any more. That much was clear. Eleanor pushed aside brambles, and slithered along the floor of the leafy tunnel on her stomach, moving further away from the path. Thorns tore at her skin; soon beads of blood dotted the scratches. Eleanor’s mouth was dry. She was miles from civilisation. It could be days before she found drinking water. She had signed a pledge in blood. My mother will die if I fail. She had a new task and would return – like Odysseus (or was it Hercules?) – to the darkened room where Isabel Ramsay lay only when it was completed.
Isabel Ramsay was unaware of the swollen rivers crossed or mad monsters vanquished by her small daughter in her name. Eleanor would tiptoe into her bedroom against her Dad’s instructions and kiss the creamy, scented cheek. In Eleanor’s story Isabel was always glad to see her and leaping out of bed would tug back the curtains and gasp at the bright sun making elongated shadows across the lawn.
‘What is the time? It was morning when I went to sleep.’
‘You have been asleep over a hundred years, under a wicked s
pell.’
She would explain about spells.
‘After much trouble I have released you.’
‘That long? It seems like a minute. Thank you, darling!’
Then her mother would see the tea table with the white cloth under Uncle Jack’s tree. Her handsome husband and two other children would wave all together in a row. Hearty family waves like rainbows; a collection of cheery hats and bright summer clothes. Eleanor would lead her Mum out into the sunny garden, doing the slow, traily walk practised in her bedroom. She would give her Darjeeling tea in her favourite cup with the wafer thin edge.
After a few minutes Eleanor crawled into blinding sunlight. She was only inches from a drop of six feet to the beach. With a moment’s hesitation, she scootered around to face the other way and inched over the edge on her stomach, feet first, feeling for toeholds. She found one. As she trusted her weight to it and felt for the next one, it gave way in a spray of chalk and she shot down, and crash-landed on the shingle, bruising her knee and jarring her ankles. She heaved herself into a sitting position, relishing the pain as part of the massive task she had to fulfil. Her palms were stinging. But she was alive. She wiped her forehead with her handkerchief, dashing the cloth across her face, the way her Dad did.
The beach was enclosed by a chalky outcrop at one end, and a towering pile of rocks at the other that few people climbed. When the policeman asked her to recall details of that day, Eleanor said the beach was empty. A rusting boat, slouching dark and sulky against the sky, interrupted a stretch of pebbles that dropped in terraces to a finger of wet sand at the shoreline. She told him it was a cloudless day full of colours: yellow, blue and red.
Chief Inspector Hall did not appreciate these vivid observations; the little girl’s stream of words made the stiff-suited man shuffle about uneasily on his chair. He thought that there was something strange about her and got stern when Eleanor told him she liked to paddle in the water, and wasn’t frightened of the tide returning because she had a tide-table book. He didn’t know any other little girls like her, and was especially irritated when she took this comment as a compliment.
Eleanor collapsed back on the stones, keeping her knees bent to avoid the scorching pebbles, with one hand flung over her heart, as the wound from the sword grew worse. She was badly hurt, but must keep going, she had a long journey ahead to find the Indian Amulet stolen from the King’s crown. She must return with it or her mother would die of the curse.
This last bit was based on reality. The day before, Eleanor had searched her bedroom and the playroom for the amulet given to her by Mrs Jackson, who used to live next door in St Peter’s Square. Without it Eleanor knew she too would be cursed. She had begun to suspect that Alice stole things. She had to find it. She had better find Alice first.
Eleanor particularly hated the way Alice said her name: in a sing-song voice not as a real name tripping off her tongue well worn and well loved, but like a thing held in delicate and disgusted fingers. Most people called her Elly; until Alice, no one had called her Eleanor unless they were cross, or a teacher.
The tide was coming in so she couldn’t go on to the beach, instead, she tramped back up the cliff path. She would go home through the Tide Mills.
The distant hoot of a train on the London line sounded across the fields. Now there were no birds in the sky and nothing moved. The day they arrived, there had been swifts but Lucian said they had gone to Africa. Eleanor wished she could fly to Africa whenever she wanted. She aimed powerful, accurate kicks at stones as she dodged and skipped back up the track. She was Georgie Best as she scored the winning goal.
If Alice was hiding, Eleanor considered it was really unfair. It wasn’t her turn. She chased up the six wooden steps to the short village street and began pacing from one end of the ruins to the other. She knew she was being watched, so she walked with her hands behind her back, like the Mill Owner checking the great wheels were turning in the deep pond under the arches of the bridge before going in for his tea in the big house behind the high wall.
She could forget about Alice and go on playing.
Eleanor tiptoed around the cottage and kicked open the back door. It swung inwards and crashed against the wall. Someone had oiled the hinges. A pigeon flapped down from a hole in the ceiling and flew past her, its wings breezing near her face. She kept perfectly still, listening to the silence. There was no sign of Alice.
She stepped back outside. Then she saw her. A figure was standing near the halt, half hidden behind the Bongville sign. Everything shimmered in the blistering heat so that at first the person and the tall thistles appeared to be doing a strange swaying dance. One minute they were all thistles, the next people. As she got nearer, Eleanor forgot that to be quite fair she should give Alice one more chance. She forgot that Alice had two more lives to go as she crept forward on grandmother’s footsteps, clasping her penknife. All she could think of was the huge task she had to accomplish if she was to save her Mum and release everyone from the curse. She began to count, in a voice loud and low:
‘Five… four… three… two… one… COMING!’
Two
Crawford disappeared at parties. As people came in through the front door he rushed out the back, leaping over the garden wall and out of sight. He never returned until it was over. Only Eleanor minded. She longed to show him off to the guests, more for the reflected glory she presumed being seen with him would lend to her, than for Crawford’s personal attributes. Once she had tried to make him stay by enticing him with food, but when he heard the door knocker he tore out of her bedroom and she was caught chasing down the stairs after him, her footsteps thundering, her face too red. Her parents particularly hated it when their children went out of control. Looking back at her childhood, Eleanor later decided that as children they had been expected to play the same role for Mark and Isabel Ramsay at parties as Crawford had for herself. They must shed different and flattering lights on their parents, the younger ones decked in Kids in Gear corduroy, Gina in her first Biba dress. Isabel had declared one party utterly ruined when she was forced to send Eleanor to bed in front of the guests.
When Eleanor blocked the cat flap, Crawford wriggled out through the small window in the downstairs lavatory. As each strategy failed, Eleanor got less scrupulous about her methods of keeping him indoors. One evening she trapped him inside a washing basket in the utility room, but felt ashamed, so let him go. It was fortunate for Eleanor that her efforts were unsuccessful. The production of Crawford, with his tendency to bite, at one of Isabel’s intricately orchestrated events was too terrible to contemplate. If she had not become so engrossed in the challenge of getting him there, Eleanor would have been the first to warn others off the idea. Few of the people invited to a Ramsay party would have enjoyed hearing the story of the shredded ear, or of the headless mice and dead birds regularly left beside the morning cornflakes on the kitchen table.
Crawford was a sturdy orange and white cat sporting a red leather collar and an attitude of outrage. The only person whose lap he would grace was Isabel Ramsay. The rest of the family had given up on him. Only Eleanor kept trying.
When Eleanor was seven, Mrs Jackson moved in next door to their house in St Peter’s Square. She lived in the dark basement flat in the house of her son who, to Eleanor’s indignation, had refused to let her bring her cat because his wife was allergic to it. So a few weeks after Mrs Jackson arrived, Eleanor, taking the advantage of surprise, had snatched up a preoccupied Crawford, and lugged him, paws spilling over her bare arms, to visit her. He had struggled, growled and spat as she hopped from one foot to the other, waiting for Mrs Jackson to open the door, and in another minute would struggle free. But once inside the flat he became a different cat. He shrank and felt softer, he stopped spitting and clung to Eleanor, even climbing with silent intent further up her shoulder. When she placed him on the rug in front of the gas fire, he leapt up onto her lap, purring noisily, then curled up close to her. She was enchanted. At Mrs Jackson�
�s, Crawford was the cat Eleanor had dreamed of.
After this she always took Crawford when she went to see Mrs Jackson. Eleanor went more often. She looked forward to the warm weight of him as busy paws kneaded her jumper and a hot rough tongue licked her hands. In the green subterranean light of Mrs Jackson’s living room, she gazed down at him over her glass of orange squash and worked her way through a plate of Jaffa cakes that did not have to be shared with anyone.
Eleanor found she could talk to Mrs Jackson about what was important and instead of being told not to be silly or having the way she pronounced things corrected, Mrs Jackson listened to her. She even laughed at her jokes. Eleanor promised Mrs Jackson that she would take her to the Tide Mills and asked her advice about the secret flowerbed. She related the story about the wicked Mill Owner who locked little girls in the Granary, dressing them out in the finest ball gowns and making up their hair, so that they became a collection of secret princesses. Then one day he had fallen down dead on the train to Brighton, which meant his ghost could not rest but must keep haunting although never arriving and the girls were released and allowed to go free and live happily ever after. Mrs Jackson was genuinely concerned about ghosts and took the matter just as seriously as Eleanor who had seen him pacing the bridge over the millpond.
One day Mrs Jackson gave Eleanor a small cardboard box daintily wrapped in silver cigarette paper. She had placed it beside the biscuits on the spindly-legged table. A present! Eleanor was nervous and her hand trembled as she lifted the lid. She wanted to like it. She did not want to have to pretend to be pleased. She need not have worried, for lying on a wad of cotton wool was a round lump of green glass. She put out a finger and gently touched it. It was cool and smooth and shone like a jewel. Glancing at Mrs Jackson and receiving an encouraging nod, she took it out and cradled it in her palm. She looked up and was taken aback to see Mrs Jackson smiling like a young girl. Overwhelmed, Eleanor practically flew at Mrs Jackson and hugged her tightly, telling her truthfully it was the best present she had ever been given. No one had ever given her something so special. She called it an amulet and swore she would keep it always.
A Kind of Vanishing Page 2
