Where the Wild Cherries Grow

by Laura Madeleine

  I squint up at the remaining panes, green with mildew. The sun is shining into my eyes, making me aware of a slowly spreading headache. Thanks a lot, Jem. I should be getting back to work, but instead I stare, summoning up the will to move.

  Behind me on the steps, the second crow makes an odd noise. As I turn to look, I could swear something flashes in the corner of my eye, movement, a hand at the glass, eyes staring down, a pale face streaked with something dark …

  Jem, the logical part of my brain insists, but I know it isn’t her; her car is gone. I’m the only living soul for miles. I peer closer and of course, the window is empty. Nevertheless, I find myself walking forwards, keeping my eyes on the glass. I don’t know why, but I feel like something is pulling me on, a presence I felt from the first moment I set foot in Hallerton.

  Inside, I can barely see for sun-blindness. I stop at the staircase, its wood-panelling falling into powder. Is there something up there? I could turn around now, go back to the study and get on with my work, shake off this strange impulse and put it down to too much sun and Jem’s magic herbs. But I can’t. A feeling in my gut tells me that up those stairs, something is waiting.

  The first stair groans deeply but holds my weight, as does the next one, and the next. The decay isn’t as bad up here. I can still make out the pattern on the wallpaper, the remains of a rug disintegrating on the floor. Somehow, that makes it worse. I listen, but all I can hear is the thundering of blood in my head, my own rapid breathing.

  There’s a long hallway lined with doors. Some of them have fallen in. It smells overwhelmingly of damp. I try to map where I am, which door belongs to the room overlooking the terrace. This one. Closed, of course, the jamb thick with leaves and grit. Through the crack, I see a shadow move across the light. Crows, I tell myself, crows, crows, and fling open the door.

  A bird takes flight in panic, disappearing through the broken pane and out into the sun-lit garden. The door rebounds from the wall, the noise booming through the entire house, until it settles with the faint cracking of plaster.

  The room is empty. Why would it be anything else? There’s no furniture, just debris from the broken window, a built-in wardrobe, its interior hollow. Then I see it, a mess of twigs and leaves scattered around the empty fireplace.

  Every step is deafening as I crunch across the floor. I’m not sure if it’s a bird’s nest or a hoard: bottle caps and bits of coloured plastic, a bead, a shred of shiny foil, a twist of green fishing net, and there, dropped in the centre, the piece of metal the crow carried off.

  It looks like a child’s tin figure, a ballerina, pitted and scratched by beaks and claws. I prod it with my finger and see a flash of a painted eye as it clatters on its side and slips beneath a broken board.

  I should leave it, should pull myself together, button my shirt and go back to the study and the documents. Documents, for a client. That’s all this job is. Nothing more.

  But I can’t. The crows will look in accusingly from the window sill, angry that I’ve lost one of their treasures. The board’s falling apart anyway. Sighing at myself, I kneel down and work my fingers under the splintered wood. When did I start shaking? Jesus, Perch, you should be on the first train back to London.

  The board comes away easily. I try not to disturb any more of the crows’ collection as I lift it free. Beneath, in a blanket of old dust and bird mess is the figure. Disgusting, but it serves me right. As I reach in, my fingers scrape on something hard and leathery. It’s as though all of my caution has been exhausted, because I pull the object free without a second thought.

  A book. The pages are wrinkled and bird droppings have stained the leather cover, but apart from that it looks sound. It’s secured with a ribbon, made colourless by time. I pick at the knot but it comes away in my hand, the book falling open to where a pencil has been wedged inside.

  It looks like a diary; the handwriting is clumsy, finishing mid-sentence. Maybe better, it says, maybe I

  I flick to the front to look for a name, and there, written neatly in ink are two words that I know are going to change everything: Emeline Vane.

  Part Two

  May 1919

  The sea was quiet, the waves gentle as the breaths of untroubled sleep. He moved carefully over the sand and shingle, gently untying one of the boats, pushing it inch by inch towards the sea. For someone who lived in a soundless landscape, he made little noise. It still surprised me even now, weeks after we had first slipped away together on the night of the party.

  Above, the moon shone, like silver warmed against skin, just enough to see by. The water was cool and the sand gave under my feet as I waded out to meet him, my skirt dragging heavy behind me, until we were face to face, just us and a boat and the night to call our own.

  Somewhere past the end of the cliff he stopped rowing, put the oars up and let us drift, tiny as a leaf on the dark water. The moonlight caught upon the ripples and scattered, until it seemed we were floating through stars. As the town disappeared behind the rocky headland, he pointed. There, in a fold of the cliff I saw branches against the sky, a hidden plateau and a lone cherry tree, our only witness.

  The current took us further, around the curve of the coast. If I could have made time stop altogether, it would have been then, as we sat, knee to knee in that tiny boat. But eventually, he picked up the oars and began to row to shore. We were heading for a cove; a tiny crescent of sand that mimicked the moon’s shape, sheltered by dark cliffs, unreachable, any way but ours.

  I helped to pull the boat into the shallows. I felt strong as I waded ashore, uncaring of the seawater that soaked my clothes. Impulsively, I reached behind me and unbuttoned my skirt, stepping out of the sodden fabric. My blouse was wet too. I peeled it from my skin and dropped it to the sand, followed by my petticoat and chemise. The night air swept across my bare skin and I stretched out my arms in the pale moonlight. He looked up at me and I laughed at his expression, before running headlong into the shallows.

  The seawater ran from his hair, his skin and on to mine, into my mouth, richer than tears. His arms held me, weightless in the water, and I thought I would never get enough. But finally, breathless and chilled, we made for the beach. He lit the fire, and we spread our clothes around it to dry.

  Wrapped in a blanket, I watched him unpack the basket he had brought. He took from it a leaf-wrapped bundle, a tiny jar of golden honey, a handful of almonds, a flask of sweet wine. The firelight flickered over his hands as he worked and I felt desire rising in me again; not just for him but for everything he was, everything that made him, that surrounded us here.

  He must have sensed what I was thinking, for he glanced up at me and quirked an eyebrow, before sitting back from his preparations. The leaf-wrapped bundle contained cheese, I saw, so pale and white and soft that it was almost cream. In the light of the fire, the honey looked like liquid amber, pieces of comb crystallized in its depths. I sat by, spellbound, as he poured it from the jar. It pooled stickily on to the leaves, and the almonds he scattered, warm from the fire’s edge, sank slowly into its sweetness.

  No need for hesitation or manners, I leaned forward and scooped up a mouthful with my fingers. The honey met my lips first, luxurious, heady and perfumed with orange blossom. Next, smooth, cool creaminess, then a single toasted almond, bringing warmth. I didn’t know that I had closed my eyes until I blinked them open, the mouthful finished.

  He was smiling back at me. He had given me the elements of the world, I realized: salt, bitter, sour, sweet and something else, something indefinable that dwelt in the head and the heart as well as on the tongue, like a certain spice that couldn’t be named, but was nonetheless there, waiting to be tasted.

  February 1919

  ‘Mademoiselle?’

  I blinked through the fine veil that covered my face. Outside, the light from a gas lamp formed a halo in the fog. Beads of moisture clung to its ironwork like a cold sweat. Odours swirled around me: coal and petroleum, horse dung and river water. A teas
ing wisp of cigarette smoke and perfume.

  We were in Paris.

  ‘Mademoiselle?’ the man repeated, and I tried to make out his face. A stranger, a taxi-cab driver. I faltered, but Uncle Andrew was by my side, urging me out of my seat.

  Paris. Despite everything, I felt an old thrill of excitement. I had come here once with Mother, to visit some friends of hers. It had been spring, the public gardens full of early flowers. I remember eating patisserie in an elegant café. It was like something from an enchantment; delicate confections that tasted of flowers, sugar spun into silk.

  A motor car honked, startling me out of my memories. The fog had settled on my face and I shuddered, but Andrew took hold of my arm. It seemed like a hundred years since we had left England, though it could only have been that morning. A train to London before it was light. A boat, but no memory of the crossing. Andrew had given me a sedative to drink at the dock.

  The pavements were teeming: porters, towers of trunks, ladies in furs, groups of dark-coated men. A row of weather-beaten sheds had been painted with the words BUREAU MILITAIRE. A woman surged up from the ground into our path, raising her hands to my face. When I only stared in shock, she sank back into a pile of cloth-wrapped bundles where a child held a baby, inert with cold.

  Andrew pulled me aside.

  ‘Refugees,’ he muttered, ‘don’t look. If you help one, the others will see, then we shall never get away.’

  ‘Away?’ My thoughts were a hopeless jumble. ‘Where?’

  ‘To St Augustine’s.’ There was a strained patience in his voice. It was not the first time I had asked that question, I realized with a creeping horror, perhaps not even the second or the third. ‘The place my doctor recommended. In Switzerland, in the mountains, remember? Where you can rest.’ We reached a set of wide doors. ‘See?’ he said gently. ‘We are at the Gare de Lyon. This is where you will take the train.’

  I did not want to walk through. Beyond I could see bodies moving, hundreds of them, like a maelstrom. I tightened my fingers on his sleeve.

  ‘You aren’t coming with me?’

  ‘No, Emeline. I told you this morning, I must return to London, to make the sale of Hallerton. A woman from St Augustine’s will take you the rest of the way.’

  The medicine was loosening its hold on me. I felt myself frown.

  ‘The sale? Without me—’

  ‘If there are papers to sign I shall send them on to you, of course. Do not worry about that.’ He stopped and made a noise of frustration in his throat. ‘How are we supposed to find the right platform? This whole damn place is chaos.’

  Despite the late hour, the station was crowded with people, children crying and families trying to stay together. Their shouts echoed back from the glass panes of the roof, high above. The feeble electric lights were losing their battle with the winter darkness, the smoke and the soot.

  Finally, Andrew spotted the platform. I clung to his arm. If I let go, I would be swept away and lost in the crowd. Part of me was tempted to do just that; disappear completely. It must have been the part of me that was unwell. I clung all the harder.

  The train was painted black, heavy cloth nailed at the windows to keep all light out. One pale lamp illuminated the compartment, which was as stale and airless as a coffin. Andrew placed my valise on the seat, helped me to remove my fur cape so that I did not overheat, talking of how this train would take me to Dijon, and thence through a tunnel into Switzerland, and that by morning I would wake to sunlight and clean air and the mountains.

  The veil that covered my face stirred softly with my breathing. Eventually, Andrew knelt into my eye-line.

  ‘Emeline.’ He lifted one of my bandaged hands in both of his. ‘My dear, this is for the best. The people at St Augustine’s will know how to care for you. You do believe me?’

  He was waiting for something. A response. I forced myself to nod, my head heavy on my neck. He looked relieved.

  ‘That’s my girl. Now, your escort should be here soon. Will you take something to calm you for the journey?’

  His hands were already busy with the travelling case, taking out the flask, the cup and the bottle. I watched the sands as they fell, as he swirled the water to dissolve them. Were they the same ones that lined the river of the dead? Had my brothers crossed that shore, leaving no prints? Had my mother followed? I felt a tear slide free from beneath my lashes. I took the cup when Andrew offered it, and drank and waited for forgetfulness.

  After a time, someone called Andrew’s name. I turned my eyes to the ground. A woman stood on the platform, in a starched white cap and a black coat. Beneath, she wore a uniform, like a nurse. She looked back at me, her smile like a thin scrape of butter.

  ‘Emeline,’ Uncle Andrew told me, looking relieved, ‘this is Madame Bovard. She will accompany you to St Augustine’s.’

  The woman nodded, said in broken English that she was pleased to meet me. I could not think of anything to say, but my silence didn’t seem to trouble her. I let my head fall back against the cushions. I could feel the medicine sweeping up behind me, like a grey tide. Let it hurry, I thought.

  A high-pitched blast startled me out of near-sleep: the guard’s whistle. Madame Bovard and Andrew were still down on the platform. I couldn’t hear their voices but I could see that she was speaking to him in a businesslike fashion, taking a packet of papers from her handbag. Andrew was unscrewing the lid of a pen. They walked away a short distance, so he could lean upon a stack of trunks.

  I watched as his pen touched the paper, hand moving in the shape of a signature, on one page, then another. Why should he sign anything? a sharp voice asked, in the part of my mind still free of the medicine. Why should they send a nurse, to take you to a place where you can rest? And why Switzerland, the voice persisted, so far away, if not to keep you out of sight, out of mind? You’ve made yourself an embarrassment. What if they mean to keep you there for ever?

  My heart was thudding, yet at the same time, the medicine was taking hold. I blinked hard, trying to fight it, to comprehend what was real and what was the beginning of an attack. I tried to breathe, to be calm, but at the same time every instinct was screaming that I should get off the train. The whistle sounded again. Down on the platform, Andrew glanced at his watch, scribbled all the faster.

  Barely able to comprehend what I was doing, I lurched to my feet, clinging to the rack overhead. I risked a glance through the compartment window, my breath hitching, terrified that Andrew or the nurse would look up and see me. But they were facing away from the train, still focused on the papers. I took one shaky step backwards, then another, making for the train corridor.

  My head was spinning as I groped behind me, searching for the door handle. For one awful moment, I thought they would turn, thought my bandaged hands would slip on the metal. Through the haze in my head, I knew that I had to choose. I could sink back into the seat, give myself up, or I could run, I could risk everything …

  The door sprang open and I staggered into the corridor, like an animal fleeing a cage.

  People were boarding, but the medicine made my vision blur and I could not see details, only shapes in my path. I pushed my way down the corridor. From somewhere behind, I heard a shout that could have been my name, but I did not stop. My hat snagged on something. I ripped it free, tearing at the pins that held it.

  Everything was tilting like the deck of a ship in a storm. A woman cried in alarm as I reeled into her. Beyond was a narrow wooden door. It opened on to the tracks. Gasping, I struggled towards it.

  I had not reckoned on the drop, five feet on to the track. My knees hit the stones, then my hands. Pain burst behind my eyes as the cuts reopened. Get up, my body ordered, keep moving. But there was nowhere to go. To my left was another train; this one for freight. Behind and in front, the long wooden compartments stretched for ever. I was caught between one train and the other, with nowhere to hide.

  Distantly, I could hear shouts, Andrew’s voice demanding something in br
oken French. They would soon discover where I was. I hauled myself upright but didn’t manage more than a few steps before collapsing against a freight compartment. My eyes flooded with frustration. I couldn’t run any further.

  The shouts grew louder; I would be found at any moment. But then, I heard a hiss and a heavy clank, like brakes releasing. The train beneath my shoulder shunted forward an inch, and began to roll. From somewhere, far away down the track, a whistle shrilled, a vast cloud of steam blooming from the engine. I stepped back, and watched as a running board came sliding towards me. The train was leaving. Take one step, some part of my mind begged, sane or not, I couldn’t tell. One step, and you’ll be free …

  June 1969

  Someone’s knocking on the door. It’s the doctor! Don’t let him in, he’ll give you something, nasty stuff … But it just carries on, louder now, and there’s a sour voice too: ‘Mr Perch? Mr Perch!’

  I roll over, drag the blanket over my head.

  ‘Mr PERCH!’

  Shit!

  I fling back the covers; the room’s a tip. I can smell my own sweat. The hammering won’t stop and a headache has just realized I’m awake. It springs into action, squeezing my temples.

  ‘… minute!’ I yell through a dry throat. I’m wearing only a pair of Y-fronts. No good. I wrap the sheet around my waist and make for the door, pulling the rest of the bedclothes with me.

  I crack it open an inch. Betty Throgmorton’s lips appear, then the rest of her. I didn’t know it was possible to purse a whole face.

  ‘Mr Perch, are you ill?’

  Am I ill? I can’t remember. I certainly feel ill.