‘Sorry?’
‘Stan tried to wake you for breakfast. We kept it as long as we could,’ she sniffs, ‘but the kippers turned.’
I can imagine her tipping the fish into the dog’s bowl with relish.
‘Sorry,’ I mutter again, though I’m not sure why. ‘What time is it?’
The corner of her mouth twitches, like she’s enjoying herself.
‘Gone eleven.’
‘What?’
‘We did wonder whether you were ill. Or gone out early like yesterday. If you aren’t going to avail yourself of my breakfasts, Mr Perch, I would appreciate knowing about it.’
‘I will. I mean, I won’t.’ The headache pounds away with gusto. ‘I mean, I’ll try to be on time tomorrow. I had a bad night.’
‘A bad night,’ she repeats, as though it’s the most outrageous fib. ‘Well. I’m sorry to hear it, Mr Perch. I’ll leave you to get on with what’s left of the day.’
Mean old trout. ‘Thank you.’
‘Oh and Mr Perch? Someone from London telephoned for you this morning. Twice now. A Mister Hill-something. I told him you would call him back when you got up.’
Hillbrand! Shitting shit! I slump into the room and look about hopelessly. He’ll think that I’m skiving, having lie-ins and spending my nights in the pub … I hunt around for a clean pair of underwear. No time. Got to call him now.
My trousers are crumpled and my shirt is in an even worse state, but I jam my arms and legs into them, sweating as I am. Socks and shoes: I hate socks and shoes! The laces tangle around my fingers. In the end I just stuff them down the sides.
Stan Throgmorton’s polishing glasses at the bar, where an old man is already working at a pint of bitter. My stomach squirms with embarrassment. I bet they’ve been sat down here shaking their heads at city folk sleeping till noon, when decent people have been up for hours.
‘All right, bor,’ Stan greets me cheerily, thumping down a glass, ‘thought you’d died up there. Bet said you had a bad night.’
‘Er, yes, sorry,’ I manage. The old man at the bar is staring at me like I’m a dog walking on its hind legs. ‘She said that I had a call from London. Is it all right to use the telephone?’
‘All right by me so long as y’ent all day,’ Stan says. ‘He’s in the corner there.’
In the darkest corner of the pub, surrounded by yellowing advertisements, is the phone. I jam my finger into the dial and start pulling round the numbers. The mechanism heaves itself back between each one with agonizing slowness. Finally, I hear a click as the call connects.
‘Good morning, Hillbrand and Moffat?’
‘Hello, Jill.’
‘Billy! How’s Norfolk? Eaten any winkles yet?’
‘Not yet. Is Mr Hillbrand in?’
‘He was on his way out to The Cow, but I might just catch him, wait there, Billy.’
I can hear her shouting: ‘Dicky! Dicky, it’s Billy!’ down the stairs.
‘He’s on his way,’ she announces. ‘You not well, Billy? He tried you a couple of times this morning, but the landlady there—’
She’s cut off as Hillbrand snatches up the phone. I await the inevitable dressing-down, his anger, disappointment, the order to come back to London immediately, the dismissal that follows, saying that I don’t have what it takes to be a professional solicitor …
‘Perch! Finally.’
‘Mr Hillbrand, I’m so sorry, I—’
‘What the devil’s going on? Called three times this morning. Woman there told me you were still in bed.’ He pauses to hiccup, or belch, I’m not sure which. ‘You ill, lad?’
I swallow. I’m not going to add lying to my list of faults.
‘No, sir. I was up all night reading. About Emeline Vane. I found something, a personal account. I don’t think anyone else has ever read it before.’
‘Good lad!’ Hillbrand booms, swamping me in relief. ‘Knew it’d have to be something like that. Not like Bill to play lay-a-bed, I said. Here, the landlady there sounds like a right piece of work.’
I can’t help but smile.
‘You can say that again.’
‘So,’ I hear a chair creaking in the background as Hillbrand sits, ‘tell me about this account of yours. I was starting to worry you’d never find anything in that dump.’
‘It—’ Abruptly, I feel strange, like I’m doing something wrong. I shake my head, trying to clear it. My temples give another thud. ‘It has details of the last days before Emeline’s disappearance. When her Uncle Andrew was trying to secure the sale of the house. She talks about your great-uncle, about making a will.’
Hillbrand sucks in air.
‘And?’ he says. ‘What was the resolution?’
‘I’m not sure. It cuts off on the date she went missing. But I found something else,’ I say over his huff of frustration, ‘a doctor’s bill for lithium bromide, the day before she disappeared.’ Why do I feel like I’m betraying someone’s secrets? I pull myself up and carry on. ‘A sedative, apparently.’
‘A sedative,’ Hillbrand murmurs. I get the impression he’s writing down everything I say. ‘Promising, promising. Looks like I sent the right man for the job.’
Despite my rumpled state, some of the old pride returns. William Perch, Solicitor.
‘Anything else?’ Hillbrand is asking.
‘Sort of.’ The thought of taking Emeline’s diary back to London and using it as evidence against her makes me wince, but there’s Hillbrand’s expectant silence, waiting for me to prove he was right to put his trust in me. ‘There’s mention of a place called St Augustine’s. Emeline … hurt herself, or something. Whatever happened, it frightened her uncle, and he planned to send her there. I was wondering if it was maybe—’
‘A nut house!’ Hillbrand sounds like he’s just struck gold. ‘Could be! I’ll get Jill to look into it. This is good timing, Perch.’ Even down the line I can hear his neck crackling. ‘Mrs Mallory’s been on the phone. Our window’s closing. Papa Vane’s starting to come around and the developers are getting itchy feet.’
Realization clunks into place.
‘Papa Vane – do you mean Timothy?’
‘What?’
‘Timothy Vane, he’s Mrs Mallory’s father?’
‘Hold up.’ I hear papers rustling. ‘Yes, “Timothy John Vane”, says here. Why? Found something else?’
Timothy; a little boy with hair the colour of bulrushes, riding piggy-back, clinging to his sister … I scrunch my eyes closed to get rid of the image.
‘No, sir. Just trying to piece all of this together.’
‘My man in Havana. See if you can’t dig up anything else while you’re there.’
The room is as I left it, stifling and chaotic. I sink on the bed, feeling like I’ve run a marathon. The bedclothes are a mess on the floor. Half-heartedly I drag them towards me. There’s something caught in the folds, dark and rustling. The book. Emeline’s book.
I stare at it, lying there on the faded carpet. If I’d been doing my job properly, if I’d refused Jem’s beers and smokes and gone back to the study like I was supposed to, I would never have looked up at the window, or seen the broken board. I would never have found it. It would have stayed hidden, guarded by the crows, would’ve crumbled into dust or been destroyed by falling brick when, one day soon, the house is torn down.
Gingerly, I pick it up. I don’t want to touch it. I feel like the words inside will seep through the covers into me, and I won’t be able to forget them, won’t be able to transcribe them for the court case, for Hillbrand to preen over and Mrs Mallory and her brother to nod at and say, We told you.
But Emeline … I’ve never heard anyone talk the way she does, about the marshes, the deaths of her brothers, her mother. In the middle of the night, I forgot that I was turning pages. It was like she was whispering in my ear, speaking to me from the darkness of her bedroom, fifty years ago. Sharing her private thoughts, her fears, as though she knew one day I’d be listening, and wanted m
e to understand.
I throw the book down on the bed. Get a grip, Perch, you’re going as mad as she was. I feel guilty as soon as I think it, even though only hours ago she said it herself: There are times when I feel like my mind is not my own.
Not hours, decades. She’s long dead and you’re only here to look for papers. Whatever happened to her fifty years ago, it’s just a case. Emeline Vane is just a case.
February 1919
I felt cold air upon my face. It smelled of frozen fields, of smoke, of rivers deep in winter’s hold. It should have made me shiver, but my skin had long ago turned numb. At first, the blood coursing through me, the panic and the fear of being caught had kept me warm. I had watched the Gare de Lyon slip away, before the train gathered speed and the station was swallowed by night.
When I closed my eyes, I could remember what had happened, but only in disconnected moments. A drop to the tracks. Running like an animal. Someone shouting my name, a leap on to a running board, scrabbling up to a platform that connected two freight compartments, the wind rushing past, taking me away, far away from everything I knew …
What had I done? It was so hard to think. I could see the track flashing past below, ghostly in the darkness. I should move, should try to find some way to stay warm until morning, but I couldn’t. The cold stole what remained of my strength. I let my eyes drift closed.
Was it a minute or an hour later that I became aware of noises? The sound of footsteps, the scrape of a latch, the shunting of wood. When the beam of a lantern swung full on to my face, it was all I could do to force my eyes open in the sudden glare.
‘What the …?’ someone swore.
The bandages around my palms looked grimy, rust coloured in places where the blood had seeped through. Once these same hands had arranged flowers, had picked out melodies upon a piano, had poured tea, to my mother’s instruction. They had held her hand, until there was no life left.
After a time I heard someone approach, quickly and confidently across the rocking floor.
‘Mam’selle?’
It was the man with the lantern, the one who had hauled me to my feet, half-carried me across the adjoining platform, through a pitch-dark freight compartment and into another that was far warmer.
‘Mam’selle, can you hear me?’ An accent licked at his words, rough and rounded.
I gathered the strings of my concentration, moved my head up and down.
Yes.
‘Française?’
No.
‘Allemande?’ he asked tightly. ‘Russe?’
I shook my head, trying to think of a lie, an explanation. I misplaced my ticket. My case was stolen. I fell at the station and lost the way. I was with my uncle. My uncle … I shuddered at the memory of what I had done. The next moment I felt warmth surround me. A musty greatcoat had been draped about my shoulders.
I looked up in surprise. Through the shadows I made out the man’s face. It was lean, hair shorn close to the scalp. He wore a ragtag outfit of military remnants: a cloth cap, faded red trousers, cavalry boots, a moth-eaten woollen comforter, an old waistcoat. He was a boy, really, eighteen at most, but his eyes were quick and appraising.
‘English?’ he said, accent thick.
I steeled myself, pressed my hands together to stop them shaking.
‘Yes.’
‘What has happen?’ he persisted, struggling with the words. ‘Something bad? You are lost?’
It took me longer than it should have done to organize my thoughts.
‘I am sorry to trouble you,’ I finally told him in French, ‘I was unwell, at the station. I must have fainted.’
His eyes widened when I spoke, but he was quick to recover.
‘Where were you trying to get to, when you fainted?’ He was alert, weighing up the situation.
I faltered. Switzerland, St Augustine’s …
‘Home,’ I lied, ‘to England.’
The boy shook his head.
‘Not at the Gare de Lyon you weren’t. Wrong station for England. Try again, Mam’selle.’
‘I … I have been away.’
‘That so? For a long time?’
‘Long enough.’ My heart was hammering in my chest again, making my breath short.
‘Where are your bags?’ the boy pressed. ‘Or your coat or your papers?’
I couldn’t think; panic was doubling and redoubling even as I tried to push it down.
‘Please,’ I heard myself whisper.
‘You’re putting me in a sticky spot, Mam’selle,’ the boy was saying. ‘War might be over but we have to stay vigilant. Think the train guard better hear about this.’
‘Wait!’
I knew what I had to do. The boy fell silent as I struggled with the bandages on my right hand, pulling away the layers of cotton. My palm looked bad, swollen and scored by cuts, but I ignored it, began to work at the ring on one of my fingers. Finally, it slipped free.
‘Here,’ I told him triumphantly, thrusting it forward. ‘The stones are only garnet but the rest is gold.’
The sharpness on his face was gone. Hesitantly, he took the ring.
‘Please,’ I said, searching his face. ‘Please, it’s yours if you will help me. I cannot go back.’
June 1969
It’s noon by the time I stump across the village green on my way to Hallerton. The sun is hidden behind clouds, the air hot and heavy as wet wool. A group of men outside the bakery fall silent as I pass. Their stares add to the pressure in my head, where the ache has taken up residence.
I hear Jem’s car before I smell it, smell it before I see it come clattering over the bridge that leads into the village. For a second, I consider ducking down the path that leads to Hallerton, pretending I haven’t seen her, but I don’t. I stand at the edge of the green and wait for her to pull up alongside, wondering why I feel so guilty.
‘Hey,’ I say, before she can.
‘Hey yourself,’ comes the answer, the quirked smile as she peers over her sunglasses. Her hair is frizzier than ever; the fraying gold ends make her look like an eccentric lion. ‘Heard you had a bad night.’
‘Yes,’ I say, a little curtly, ‘I did. Is that really the news of the day?’
‘Just asking.’ She’s looking closer at me now. My cheeks feel hot as I squint off over the village, avoiding her gaze.
‘What is it?’ she says.
‘Nothing.’ I try to sound normal. ‘I’m on my way to Hallerton. Work to do.’
‘Hop in. Got something to show you first.’
‘I can’t. I’m late enough already. Hillbrand told me to find—’ I stop. Jem still doesn’t know why I’m here. It just makes me feel worse. ‘I have to work.’ I finish pathetically.
‘This is work. Honestly, Perch, you’ll want to see this. It’s about Emeline.’
Say no, walk away, go back to your deeds and documents.
‘What about her?’
‘Easier to show you.’ Jem pushes her sunglasses back into place. ‘Come on, it’s at my place.’
We putter off towards the edge of the village. Whatever it is, it won’t take long, then I can get back to the papers. Besides, Jem might have some aspirin. We stop beside the last cottage in a row. The front windows are squat and dark, paint peeling, the roof sloping down, low enough for me to touch.
Jem shunts open the thick wooden door.
‘Don’t you ever lock it?’
‘Not really,’ she says over her shoulder, disappearing into the dark interior. I have to duck to follow. ‘Mind your head.’
After the blinding, overcast day, the house is pitch dark.
‘Wait a minute,’ she says, ‘I’ll let in some light.’
Tentatively, I take another step forward. The floor is made from flagstones, covered here and there by rugs worn to threads. It smells strange, of old wood and long-faded spices. I catch a glimpse of a huge fireplace before a rectangle of light bursts open in one wall, filled with green.
‘This way,’ Jem
calls.
I should’ve known. At home, the gardens are like pocket squares, lawns ringed by prim marigolds, but this one is a riot. Rose bushes stretch down the centre, some with perfect buds, others with bright blooms unfolded. Long purple flowers brush my head from above the door, trailing perfume. In the far corner I can see raspberries on bushes, strawberries tumbling from pots. An elderly, twisted apple tree oversees the boundary, branches furred with lichen and spangled with early fruit. Beyond stretch the fields, not a fence in sight.
‘Wow,’ I murmur. Jem reappears at my side. I hadn’t even heard her leave. In her hand a glass is fizzing.
She hands it over. ‘Here. Aspirin. You need it, right?’
I don’t even bother to question how she knows, just drink the mixture with relief. As the sediment slides from the glass I remember Emeline, the way she describes the morphine, bitter in her mouth.
‘Thanks,’ I tell Jem quickly, trying to shake off the thought. ‘Now, what did you have to show me?’
‘One second.’ She grins and disappears inside, her bare feet slapping the stones.
I sink into a rusting iron chair. Somewhere, there’s a Bill Perch who does the right things. A Bill Perch who refused Jem’s beers, who never found the diary and instead compiled a neat collection of evidence, of doctor’s bills and land deeds, to present to Hillbrand. Who would be working at Hallerton, or on a train back to London, rather than sitting here surrounded by flowers and growing things.
But then, who’s to say the other Bill would be right? I made the choices, brought myself here. What if this is what I want?
Jem dumps a heavy object on the table, snapping me out of my thoughts.
‘Had a look through Gran’s stuff last night,’ she tells me, using her T-shirt to wipe off a layer of dust. ‘I found this.’
It’s a photograph album, with black card pages that creak as she opens them. Inside are the usual family portraits: children in sailor suits, po-faced men wearing wonky spectacles and severe-looking women.
‘What’re you looking for?’ I ask, even though I already know the answer. My heart is beating faster with expectation.
Jem just smiles her knowing smile and flattens down a page, swivelling it to face me.
Where the Wild Cherries Grow Page 8
