The Pearl in the Attic

by Karen McCombie

As she talks, Mum holds up her phone, checking on the address Nana huffily gave her “for emergencies” a year ago. At the time, Mum vowed never to visit, and Nana vowed never to invite her.

  Well, I guess it’s an emergency now; at least, when the nurse gave us the keys to Nana’s flat, Mum decided it was worth popping in on the way home to Chelmsford. Given the brace-yourself, possible diagnosis of dementia, the plan is to check that everything is locked up and safe – with no taps left running and causing a flood, or gas rings burning and setting off smoke alarms – before we head off on our long drive.

  “So what’s going to happen, Mum?” I ask as we walk.

  I hug my arms around myself, suddenly feeling chilled to the bone, as if it’s a frost-edged November night instead of a warm evening in late May.

  But I guess that’s what shock does for you. Shock at seeing your grandmother changed and poorly, shock at hearing that she has a creeping condition that wants to confuse and befuddle her and will steal her real memories and give her fake ones.

  A condition, a disease that I don’t know a whole lot about, apart from the fact that it doesn’t go away. Like some unchecked ivy, it’s going to slowly curl around Nana’s head till – eventually – she can’t see out.

  “I really don’t know, Scarlet,” says Mum, glancing around for door numbers in the gloomy light of the street lamps. “I’ve got that meeting at the hospital tomorrow, with a doctor on the neurological ward, as well as a social worker. That’ll make things clearer. Till then, we shouldn’t jump ahead of ourselves and assume the worst.”

  I know what Mum’s doing: slipping into her Practical Mode. It’s her way of keeping calm, keeping herself together. She’s as rattled as I am, I know. I saw her quietly dabbing at her eyes when I came back to Nana’s cubicle with the cups of coffee and tea earlier.

  Anyway, if Mum’s dealing with it like that, I figure it would help if I maybe acted the same way, so I take a deep breath and sound as practical as I can too.

  “Do you think it might be that one?” I ask, pointing to the particularly dilapidated shopfront we’re approaching.

  “Possibly,” says Mum, as we come to a stop on the pavement and turn to survey a patchwork of fly posters which completely cover a large plate-glass shop window. Even in the sickly yellow glow of the street lamp, it’s plain to see the woodwork of the window and the shop door is rotten, with paint peeling in crackled curls and waves.

  Directly above the window, some ancient, fastened-back awning seems to be trying to escape from where it’s been concertinaed into its base; it dangles over a faded old sign for the shop, squeaking and swaying in the light breeze.

  To the left of the shop is an equally rotten, paint-peeling tall gate in an arched entrance to an alleyway or passageway, I suppose.

  “I guess that’s the entrance to the flat upstairs,” says Mum, taking a few steps towards a recessed doorway to the right of the shop. “Let’s see what number it— Oh!!”

  We both start in alarm, uncertain what the solid dark lump in the doorway is exactly.

  But then I switch into Practical Mode a beat before Mum.

  “It’s just a bag of rubbish,” I say confidently – then give a little shriek of alarm when I see that that the bin bag has two yellow eyes, and they’re staring up at me.

  So much for Practical Mode; it’s just dissolved into a puddle of panic.

  “It’s a dog! It’s just a dog, Scarlet!” Mum says, grabbing hold of my arm to settle me, and herself, I think. “Shoo! Go on! Shoo! We need to get in here.”

  We do – the number is right, and the bell on the door has JONES underneath, I see, as my thundering heart starts to settle.

  The dog doesn’t shoo.

  It just carries on blinking up at us. The light is so dark in the shadowed recess and the dog is so black that I can’t make out any features other than the yellow eyes. At least it’s not showing sharp white teeth – yet.

  Mum claps her hands together noisily to scare the dog away.

  The dog stays where it is and keeps right on blinking up at us.

  “Maybe it’s lost?” I suggest, remembering how frantic Bella was last year when her pug slipped its collar and ran off in the park. Her family were so grateful when someone found Binky that they gave them a reward. “Let me see if it’s got a collar and tag…”

  “Careful,” says Mum as I slowly kneel down. “It could bite!”

  The dog doesn’t bite. It just watches me warily, then begins to lick my hand as I reach out for its neck.

  The tickle of its tongue makes me smile in spite of myself, in spite of the mood of this sad, strange, surreal evening.

  “Yep, I can feel a tag…” I tell Mum, as my fingers fix on a cool disc of metal. “Can you get the torch app on your phone so I can read it?”

  “Sure,” says Mum, quickly flipping the light on and pointing it directly down.

  The dog is almost completely round, with skinny little legs. I can see its face clearly now: the fur is black, but white with age around the muzzle, its eyes are more hazel-brown than yellow, one ear’s a bit chewed.

  It’s a Staffie, I think, and properly funny-looking, borderline ugly even – which makes it kind of cute.

  I melt a little bit.

  However old it is, this dog is definitely giving me the pleading puppy look, like it’s begging me for help.

  I melt a bit more.

  Dogs can sense things, and realizing it’s got my attention, the Staffie raises a paw.

  OK, I’m mush.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I say softly as I take hold of the offered paw with one hand.

  With the other hand, I swizzle the dog’s collar around to the left so I can read the disc properly.

  When I see what it says, my stomach does a backflip.

  “So, can you make out a phone number, Scarlet, or an address?” asks Mum.

  “Yes,” I answer, though it’s the name on the disc that’s grabbed my attention.

  “Well?” Mum says impatiently.

  “Mum, the dog … it lives here,” I reply, noticing now the lead that dangles down on to the worn doormat.

  “Here?” Mum practically squeaks.

  “Yep,” I say, thinking that if she finds that hard to get her head around, wait till she hears what I’ve got to say next. “And it’s called Mr Spinks.”

  At the sound of its name, the dog begins a whole-body waggle, its short tail smacking against the dusty front door.

  “What? Nana has a dog… ?” Mum says, again with the high-pitched edge of surprise to her voice.

  I turn and stare up at her. Once we’d left Nana’s bedside and Mum talked me through the doctor’s suspicions, I’d told Mum in turn about the nonsense Nana had come out with … the pearl hidden in the attic; the fantasy cast of characters.

  In our current shared glance I can see we’re both thinking the same thing.

  What exactly is behind this door?

  If Mr Spinks is real, what – or who – else is… ?

  Knock, Knock, Who’s There?

  Mum wriggles the key in the stiff lock, and after a bit of a fight, it finally gives in and clunks open.

  Mr Spinks is in before we are, his fat little body shooting like a bullet up what must be bare wooden stairs, from the clippetty-tappetting sound of his claws and the flip-flap of the bouncing lead.

  “He must’ve got out when the ambulance men came to get Nana,” I say as Mum scans the dark wall with her torch app for a light switch.

  PING!

  Success – the switch is flicked and the staircase ahead is illuminated with a huge white paper-lantern shade. It bounces in the breeze of the door opening.

  At least I think there’s a staircase there; it’s hard to tell.

  “You have GOT to be joking!” Mum mutters, standing stock-still, keys in hand as we both gaze open-mouthed at the teetering piles and heaps and mounds of books balanced on every step, leaning against both walls. There’s a small, slightly twisting, book-fre
e path up the middle between them, just wide enough for a pair of feet – or a small, fat dog – to get up and down.

  A few scattered novels are spilled at the foot of the stairs, where Nana took her tumble. Mum was told that when the paramedics arrived – called by the owner of a nearby café – they’d found the door wide open and Nana crumpled and confused. She must’ve been going out or coming in from walking her dog, I suppose. Maybe she got tangled in Mr Spinks’s lead. And I suppose he ran away due to all the chaos and kerfuffle of ambulance sirens and helping hands.

  Hold on.

  Harry Potter … those are the tumbledown books, all early versions, by the look of the covers.

  “Hey, Mum – is this why J. K. Rowling was to blame for Nana ending up in hospital?” I suggest. “She went and tripped over The Prisoner of Azkaban?!”

  It would be pretty funny, if Nana wasn’t in plaster … and the rest.

  “Well, that makes some kind of sense, I suppose,” says Mum, shutting the door as I try and quickly scoop the Potters back into a version of neatness. And going on up, I see that all the piles and heaps and mounds are loosely organized into genres: there are a bunch of gardening books, then a bundle of “How to Craft” type books here, little kids’ picture books there, some that look like they might be detective stories from their covers … and on and on the stacks go, right up to a small landing at the top of the stairs.

  “If this is out here, what on earth is it like inside?” I hear Mum mutter behind me.

  What she says makes me glance up to the small landing ahead, where Mr Spinks is standing on his spindly hind legs, frantically scratching at a door.

  A door that’s painted sky blue with a giant grey parrot pictured in mid-flight.

  “Do you think Nana did that?” I wonder aloud as I catch up with Mr Spinks.

  It doesn’t look too much like Nana’s style … since she retired she’s concentrated on painting endless views of the sea and the pier and the beach huts of Southend. Great, giant canvases of them. She was always putting on exhibitions in local cafés and craft shops and the library and wherever. Everyone seemed to love them; she sold bucketloads. But the only birds she ever painted before tended to be seagulls, not inhabitants of rainforests.

  “I suppose so,” says Mum, coming right up behind me. “What does the note say?”

  I’ve been gawping at the impressive painting so much that I didn’t take in the note that’s pinned to the door frame. Nana’s distinctive twirly, arty handwriting is instantly recognizable from a ton of birthday and Christmas cards she sent me and Mum over the years.

  “It says: ‘Please close the door behind you – think of Angie…’”

  As my voice fades away in surprise, I turn and exchange a quick glance with Mum.

  So Angie is real too?

  “Don’t tell me it’s another dog!” says Mum as she studies the note for herself.

  “Maybe,” I mumble, unsure, as I step back, hoping Mum’ll go first.

  She does; with a swift, deep breath she gingerly tries the handle.

  But it seems Mr Spinks is so glad to be home after his accidental hours of exile outside that he’s not bothering with doing anything gingerly. Instead, he headbutts the door wide open, and scuttles off into the darkness of the flat.

  Mum’s hand flaps at the wall just inside the door and PING!, another light pops into life. The pendulous shade overhead is an even bigger moon-shaped paper lantern, so big I’d struggle to wrap my arms around it.

  So where are we? I suppose it’s meant to be a hallway.

  I mean, I can see three doors to rooms – as well as another staircase that must lead up to the next floor. It’s just that getting to them won’t be easy – not with the endless cardboard boxes to navigate.

  Large boxes, medium-sized boxes, small boxes.

  Plain boxes, Walkers Crisp boxes, shoeboxes.

  They’re like different-sized children’s building blocks, balanced one on top of the other, with some of the stacks nearly reaching the ceiling and the paper moon above us.

  “What do you suppose is in all of them?” says Mum, gazing up and around in horrified wonder.

  “Um, according to that, it’s assorted jigsaws,” I say, pointing to a marker-pen message that’s scribbled on the bottom box of the nearest stack. “The next one up says ‘computer keyboards’, the one above that says ‘old cameras’, and the shoebox on top … ‘watches: broken but pretty’.”

  “‘Rollerblades and skates’; ‘vintage handbags’; ‘Lego: assorted’…” Mum reads from another batch of boxes, all the while shaking her head. “Oh, Scarlet; I had no idea your nana had turned into a hoarder! I mean, she always liked clutter and collecting things when I was growing up, but this… ? Her dementia’s made it get completely out of hand!”

  Tink! Tinkle! Tink!

  The small but distinct bell-like sound makes Mum and me freeze. It sends Mr Spinks into a spin, though, and we hear – even if we can’t see – him whining and scratching at the closed door to the left. A light is on in the room beyond it; a sliver of brightness glints at the gap at the top.

  “Hello?” Mum calls out. “Is someone there?”

  “Hello?”

  That simple reply, coming from the other side of the door, sends goose pimples coursing up and down my arms…

  Nana’s Secret World…

  “Mum?” I whisper, hardly believing what I’m hearing. “Isn’t that Nana’s voice… ?”

  For just a second, I see that glimpse of the scared little girl in her eyes – and then Mum’s fearless and unstoppable side kicks in again. With a careful wiggle she clears the box maze and reaches the door, turning the brass handle without a second thought.

  But as soon as the door is flung open, something hurls itself out at us – spiralling and whirling in mid-air, with a terrible croaking and honking and flailing of sharp claws.

  Mum and I are both screaming, Mr Spinks is howling, and I pray some neighbour through the wall hears our distress calls and comes to help us.

  And then everything calms…

  The flailing creature settles itself on the top of a box that once contained salt and vinegar crisps, tucks its grey feathered wings to its sides, and squawks, “Hello!”

  OK, so this time the squawk is more like a voice. It’s a perfect imitation of Nana’s voice.

  “A parrot!” Mum says, stating the obvious.

  I have never come this close to a parrot, certainly not one that was spiralling and whirling horribly close to my head just a second ago, so I slowly begin edging between the boxes towards the safety of Mum, all the time keeping my eyes on the bird.

  The bird keeps its beady eyes on me too.

  Suddenly freaked, I bolt, bashing my shins on box edges, and hurtle through the open doorway.

  But uh-oh … there’s a scratching sound of claws leaving cardboard, and next thing I hear the thick flap of wings above my head.

  “Aahhhhhhh!” I yell, and duck, certain I’ll feel the sharp dig of talons in my scalp any second.

  “Scarlet – shush, it’s all right! It’s OK! See?” says Mum, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and ushering me into the room.

  It’s a large room. A living room. At first glance I can see it has three big windows on the wall that faces the street, two squashy sofas, one fat, floppy armchair, one white paper moon lightshade, about twenty old-fashioned phones with those funny circular dials in different shades arranged along a cabinet, about as many lamps (tasselly table ones, tall standing ones) dotted around, and too many stuffed black plastic rubbish bags to count, bundled on the floor, on the chairs, everywhere.

  Panic and confusion keep my brain scrambled for another second, and then I see what Mum’s pointing at, and what she means by everything being all right.

  On the cushion-strewn armchair, Mr Spinks has settled himself down, a happy pink tongue lolling from his positively smiling doggy face.

  Now come to rest on the small table next to the chair, the parro
t bobs and ducks and tip-taps its clawed feet, all the while watching us nervously – till it pauses to put its beak in a mug and drink whatever’s inside.

  I recognize the mug; it says World’s Best Nan. It’s a gift I gave Nana one Christmas years ago, when I was about seven or eight. And I’m betting that there’s tea in that mug AND that I can guess the parrot’s name.

  “Angie?” I say, testing out my theory.

  “Hello!” Angie the tea-stealer replies, taking her beak out of the mug and flapping herself off the table at the sheer thrill of hearing her name. She lands on the top of a huge cage that’s right behind the door, silver metal bells inside the cage tinkle-inkle-ing an echoing accompaniment to her excitement.

  “Wow … they’re good, aren’t they?” Mum says, staring now at the three huge paintings – canvases almost as tall as I am – on the back wall. They have a theme, these paintings: all of them feature a similarly sized circular shape, taking up nearly the whole of the canvas.

  The one on the left is of a hot air balloon, ropes dangling below, in a bright blue sky.

  The middle artwork is a luminous moon in a watery turquoise setting.

  The one closest to us is of a big, circular window, a stained-glass window, in a red-brick arch set against a deep, inky indigo.

  I wonder why Nana chose to paint those particular images?

  “The pearl is beautiful,” says Mum, pointing to the one in the middle, the one I thought was the moon. Of course it is; I can see that now … there’s no moon craters, just a smooth, cream-tinted sheeny globe.

  At the mention of a pearl, I remind myself there are more rooms to explore in this madhouse – including the attic…

  “Should we carry on looking around?” I ask Mum.

  She shrugs a yes, as bamboozled as me, and we head off – accompanied by Mr Spinks and Angie as tour guides – to see what lies within the other two rooms on this floor.

  First up is the kitchen (more boxes, more black bin liners, a crate of old teacups and saucers, toys and dolls packed eerily together on the dresser shelves), and then the bathroom (doing a great impression of being a normal bathroom, except for a laundry basket entirely filled with plastic yellow ducks).