The Pearl in the Attic

by Karen McCombie

  As I stare at Nana, and at this person who is, I guess, my … my uncle, I find myself wondering, did I ever know my grandad’s first name? I don’t think I did. It never seemed relevant; I’ve never met him. Mum hasn’t seen him since she was a little kid, since she and Nana left Australia and came back to Britain.

  Neither Nana or Mum ever talked about him much. “It’s sad, but me and your grandad just grew apart, Scarlet, and it was kinder to let each other go,” Nana told me cheerfully once when I was young. “As I’ve always told your mother, never regret the past, but always look forward!”

  But here he is, this unknown grandad, creeping out of the past and affecting my world.

  After all, he’s the reason my tiny family appears to have increased by two-fifths overnight… Or fifty per cent, if you count Grandad Manny too, I suppose.

  I think my “uncle” Dean has noticed my knuckles turning white as I clutch the metal rail at the bottom of the bed. He gets up and ushers me to sit down in his place. I don’t know what to do or what to think of this new information, but I know I feel a bit weak and so I shuffle over, let my little backpack and Nana’s holdall thunk to the floor and sink into the plastic seat with a “thank you” that’s about as squeaky as a kitten’s mew.

  “Look, I think I’d better go and find out about this meeting … and introduce myself to your mum!” Dean says to me, before beaming broadly at Nana and his son. “Zeph – I won’t be long. And Patsy, don’t go dancing around the room while I’m gone. You need your rest!”

  Nana bursts into girlish giggles and waves off Dean’s silliness as he hurries out of the ward. I notice one of her gemstone hair clips is hanging loose in her upswept waves. I’d reach over and fix it before it falls, but I’m feeling too cross with her to care.

  As she turns back to me, she spots that I’m not exactly going along with the jollity.

  “Look, it’s a lot to take in, I know, Scarlet, darling,” she says, her smile slipping, a look of concern replacing it.

  “Well, yeah!” I blurt out. “I mean, when did all this happen?”

  I agitatedly sweep my hands out over the bed, over the bump of plaster and metal pins that are holding Nana together.

  I spot the boy on the other side of the bed shuffle in his seat, his two hands tucked between his knees, awkwardness obvious in his body language.

  “The thing is, Scarlet, your grandad Manny remarried a few years after me and your mum came back to Britain, and he went on to have a new family,” Nana starts to explain, but this part I get. Of course Grandad Manny or whatever his name is had gone on to have a new family, or I wouldn’t have just met and been introduced to an unexpected Australian uncle and cousin.

  “My grandad – our grandad – passed away last year,” says the boy on the other side of the bed.

  Oh… I make a mental note to bring my new family total back to two-fifths of an increase.

  “But before he died,” my “cousin” carries on, “he made Dad promise he’d find Patsy and Ren. Grandad always thought about them, always felt really sad about losing touch.”

  Patsy and Ren.

  Not Patsy and Ren and Scarlet, of course, since my grandfather didn’t know I existed. Which is quite a weird feeling, suddenly.

  “Listen, darlings,” says Nana, gazing from Zephyr to me and back again. “It’s wonderful to see you, but I’m absolutely worn out. Can you maybe leave me to have a sleep, and come back for a visit later in the day?”

  Now I feel a little sad and swizzed… I’d planned on having a lovely conversation with Nana, just the two of us, and it has been completely hijacked, in the hugest of ways.

  Her eyes are already closing, and I haven’t been able to ask her if she thinks I suit the pink jacket I borrowed.

  I haven’t been able to thank her for the excellent TEAM UNICORN nightie.

  I haven’t been able to ask her how she ended up with Mr Spinks and Angie.

  I haven’t been able to tell her about keeping my promise and finding her story…

  “So, shall we get out of here?” I hear my so-called cousin ask.

  I look up and see that Zephyr’s standing, and is gripping a wheelie suitcase in each hand. He lets go of one momentarily, to push his tousled, sandy hair off his tanned face.

  And then I know why this boy with the bizarre name seemed familiar.

  I’ve seen him before – on a wave, on a surfboard, on the wall of the middle bedroom of Nana’s flat.

  The painting; the twin beds in that room; the suitcases Zephyr’s holding.

  Uh-oh. Are me and Mum about to have flatmates… ?

  You have GOT to be joking, I think, since Mum’s not around to say it.

  “Bye, Nana,” I say out loud instead, as I turn away, Zephyr rumbling ominously behind me with his luggage.

  And then I hear Nana’s voice.

  “Scarlet, come here a second!” she calls out, and beckons me back to her bedside.

  Leaving Zephyr by the ward door, I scurry back to her, and see her blue eyes are twinkling as if she has the most excellent secret.

  “I didn’t want to ask in front of anyone, but did you find it?”

  “Yes!” I blurt out, knowing exactly what she means. “I found the first part of your story behind the painting in the—”

  Nana puts her finger to her lips, as if there might be spies everywhere, even though the lady in the bed next to her seems engrossed in a copy of Hello magazine and doesn’t seem much of a security risk.

  “I asked your mother to pack my sketchbook,” says Nana, giving a nod to the holdall on the floor. “Is it in there? Can you pass it to me, sweetheart?”

  “Uh, sure,” I say, wondering if changing subjects practically mid-sentence is a symptom of dementia.

  In amongst the fluffy pyjamas, washbag, mobile phone and charger, I find the hardback A4 book she must be talking about. It’s neon orange with a matching elastic fabric band holding it shut.

  “Are you going to do some drawing while you’re in here?” I ask, wondering if Mum’s packed pencils for Nana too.

  “No, it’s for you,” says Nana. “Now shoo – go and look after Zephyr. The poor boy’s looking lost!”

  He’s not the only one, I think, staring down at the chunky book in my hand.

  “Night, night,” she jokes as her sleepy eyes begin to close.

  Then one opens, just as I’m about to leave.

  “Writing’s an art form, isn’t it?” she says with a small, sly smile.

  And then I get it.

  The fact that Nana has just given me Chapter Two, I’m pretty sure! Now as I look at the sketchbook side-on I can see that there’s something folded between the pages, and a little flash of red ribbon…

  “Thank you,” I say, though she seems to be asleep already, or doing a pretty good impression anyway.

  “Is Patsy all right?” asks Zephyr as I catch him up.

  “Yep,” I say, clutching the sketchbook to my chest. I have no idea what Nana’s doing, doling out these sections of her book in such a mysterious way – but I have to admit, it’s kind of fun.

  “So, what should we do? Go to the café or something?” Zephyr suggests uncertainly.

  “Sure. Meet you there,” I say, and then instantly disappear into the nearest ladies’ loos.

  Zephyr can think I’m rude if he likes, but I’m planning on spending the next five minutes in a twenty-first-century toilet cubicle, being transported to a cake shop in 1904…

  The Pearl in the Attic

  Chapter 2

  Welcome.

  It was a word that came easily to Mother.

  Welcome, to the charitable ladies who sometimes stopped by with gifts of old clothes or food.

  You’re welcome, to the pedlars who might pass by, selling none of their few wares to a woman with no money, but getting a mug of tea for the brief pleasure of their conversation.

  Welcome, one and all, stitched into a tapestry Mother made when she was a young, bright thing, and now ha
nging over the dark, smoking fireplace at the cottage where she sat no more.

  Welcome.

  It was not a word Ruby expected to hear again, for a very long time, if at all…

  “I said shift yourself!” A roar broke into her rememberings as she followed Father and the boy with the bike, her bag bashing against her leg, the alleyway leading them through to a small, shaded yard, with a new brick building taking up most of it. Heat and steam and white dust surged out of a thrown-wide door.

  “Mr Wells?” the boy shouted as he propped the bike against a wall. “Visitors for you!”

  There was no reply; the clattering of machinery within drowned out the boy’s voice.

  “Arthur?” Father called out, stepping inside.

  Ruby was too wary to follow. Instead she hovered near the doorway, aware of the delivery boy’s watchful eyes, filled with burrowing curiosity, looking her up and down.

  Avoiding his gaze, she stared inside the bakery – and was startled. For a place of such rough work it was a very fine, very large room.

  The walls were of white tile, placed one atop another, mimicking brickwork. There were long tables – some of wood, some of marble – positioned here and there, with brass scales set upon them, and copper pans in the most curious shapes. Jars too, but what was in them Ruby could not guess at.

  And most impressive was a great, square, iron box, almost the size of a small room itself, which sat at the back of the building. Foot-high doors were peppered over its surface, and Ruby quickly saw what they were for: a tall, sullen-looking man in a white apron and a puffed white hat threw one of the doors open and pulled out a long paddle of wood, with good-smelling rolls along the length of it. It was some modern type of bread oven, Ruby realized, thinking of the lumpen, brick, coal-fired contraptions in the miller’s shed back home.

  “Eric!” came a roar, and Ruby leant forward a little, to see a big man – also in a white apron and puffed hat – grapple her father in a manner more akin to the wrestling of boys in a schoolyard fight. “So you’re finally here, eh? What do you make of my place? A fine establishment, is it not?”

  As her father and his brother broke apart, Ruby saw the ruddiness of Uncle Arthur’s cheeks. Of course, the flush of them could be caused by the heat of the bakery, but a darkening bloom about his cheeks and nose set Ruby thinking of the men who would sit hour after hour in the tavern in the village, spending their earnings on ale and port that was meant for their children’s supper. Men who’d shout or hit out at those very children, sent by their mothers to try and fetch home their fathers, dear fathers.

  “It is indeed!” Ruby’s own father nodded in agreement, gazing about him. “But why is not ‘Wells’ on the signage? Why does it say that German-sounding nonsense?”

  “Ah, Brandt is the name of my wife’s first husband,” Uncle Arthur explained with a sneer. “He spent a pretty penny on the decoration of the shop before he died, but I’m the one to take advantage of it. I have his business, his wife and his profits. And I’m not fool enough to waste my money painting it over!”

  “But we’re being overrun by immigrants in this country,” Father grumbled. “Especially the Germans. You don’t want folk to think you’re one of them, do—”

  A cough stopped Father in his tracks.

  It came from just behind Ruby, and she turned to see the woman she’d spotted inside the shop.

  The woman paid no heed to Ruby, but came to stand beside her.

  Her expressionless gaze was aimed at Ruby’s father. The very blankness of it once again seemed to say You’re not welcome. Ruby was relieved to see this unspoken message was not only directed at her.

  “Eric,” said Uncle Arthur, “this is Gertrude.”

  Gertrude… Ruby rolled the name around silently on her tongue. Of course, it was a German name too. No wonder her aunt’s nostrils flared just a very little when Ruby’s father strode over to shake her hand.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” Father lied, his face a picture of dislike at having to greet his brother’s new, foreign-born wife.

  Aunt Gertrude said nothing in response, but limply shook the offered hand and made the tiniest of head bobs. Ruby wondered for a moment if she even spoke English.

  “So Gertie runs the shop, of course, with the help of Nell when it’s busy, though we’ll have to get rid of her,” Uncle Arthur announced matter-of-factly. “And I have Wilfred in here with me making the bread while I do the cakes. He’s simple-minded but he’ll do. Then there’s the lad Billy on deliveries, and a charwoman that comes in to do the heavy cleaning. So I’m quite the success, eh, Eric?”

  Uncle Arthur punched Father on the arm several times during his boasting, as if to make sure Father knew his place, simple farm worker that he was.

  “Indeed you are,” Father admitted, his jaw a little clenched.

  “So, now then, Eric, we should get Billy to fetch us some ale to have together before you return home,” bellowed Uncle Arthur, puffing himself up in his obvious gloating and pride. “But first, what have you got for me?”

  Ruby stood still as she was able, unaware of picking at the skin around a nail, as she waited to hear what Father was meant to have brought for her uncle. It was only when first Father, and then Uncle Arthur, turned to stare her way that Ruby realized the item was her.

  “So this is my eldest girl,” Father announced, waving a hand vaguely towards Ruby. “She’s fairly strong, and doesn’t need much feeding. You’ll find her manner docile enough.”

  Ruby raged quietly inside at being discussed as if she were a calf being sold at market. But her thoughts and feelings hunkered under her skin, visible to no one, showing only an outward calm that hid the volcano boiling beneath.

  “Well, I’m taking the girl on as a favour to you, Eric, but she’d better do as she’s told, or she’ll be out of here faster than she can blink,” said Uncle Arthur, inspecting Ruby and seeming to find her wanting. “I’ve neither the money nor the patience to look after other people’s children, as if I’m a house of charity or—”

  “Come,” interrupted Aunt Gertrude, turning to go in a rustle of stiff skirts.

  Ruby was torn for a moment, till she saw Billy widen his eyes at her and chuck his head in the direction of the departing Aunt Gertrude, who was walking towards an open back door of the main building and clearly expecting Ruby to follow.

  “She’s not to have the good guest room, mind!” Uncle Arthur shouted after his wife as Ruby hurried after her. “You’ll put her in the attic, as I told you!”

  “I will not,” Ruby heard her aunt mutter under her breath, and watched as the big woman in front lifted her skirts and stamped away from the bakery, the yard and her husband.

  Entering the building, a sweet-smelling but gloomy room greeted Ruby; her eyes strained to make sense of the stacked shelves of produce and sacks of flour piled up against the walls.

  Then Aunt Gertrude walked through a connecting door into a room that was flooded in the most beautiful golden light.

  Ruby, still clutching her bag of belongings, gazed around at the shop. Three connecting counters faced the door and velvet-lined window that she had seen from the pavement outside.

  On the walls behind were dark wooden shelves upon shelves, laden with breads and rolls in shapes Ruby had never seen before: long, twisted sticks; large domes with smaller domes on top; curious six-sided loaves that appeared more like a cake of some kind; plaited breads curiously shaped into horseshoes.

  Ruby could see them all clear as day, thanks to wall-mounted gas mantles which cast their light stronger than any candle, and made a hissing noise as if there were snakes curled around their brass mouldings and frosted shades.

  And what she could see in the glass-fronted counters … oh, the dainty cakes that were there! Flaky cones of pastry oozed cream and dripped with jam. Thick-cut slabs of sponge the colour of corn yellow, rose pink and grass green. Amber-tinted tarts festooned with real fruit; ruby-hued tarts festooned with fruit made from som
e kind of sugared, coloured sweets.

  In the largest of the displays, huge, triumphant, many-layered cakes heaved with colour and decoration. Ruby’s eyes darted from one to the other, unable to take in the beauty and delicious details before her.

  She strived to drink in every vivid shade, every twinkle of detail, every scent of sugared sweetness, before she was banished from this palace and made to skivvy in the drab home of her uncle.

  “Have you worked a cash register before?” Aunt Gertrude demanded, positioning herself by some kind of machine resting on top of the counter, like a small, squat metal piano, painted black and gold, with an array of pistons and pads attached to the front of it.

  “No,” said Ruby, shuffling shyly over to see what this mechanical beast was.

  As she did so, for the first time she noticed a young, tired-looking woman stand up from behind a counter, the empty tray in her hand not quite hiding a roundness of her belly.

  “A pity,” sighed Aunt Gertrude, in a lightly accented but obviously weary voice. “Well, it is simple to learn. Each of the keys here have a price on them, see? You can add up the costings of every item a customer chooses.”

  Ruby squinted at the numbers on the pads her aunt was pointing to, trying to make them out.

  “What is wrong?” Aunt Gertrude suddenly snapped. “Have you had no schooling? Don’t you know your numbers?”

  Ruby felt a hot flush of shame as her aunt and the pregnant young woman stared at her.

  “I – I – I know my numbers well enough, just as long as they are writ large,” Ruby stammered.

  “Hmmph,” muttered Aunt Gertrude. “Well, you’d better learn the costings and the register fast, or you’ll be no use to me in the shop. But come on – I’ll take you up to your room and you can leave your bags there before we show you how things are done.”

  The shame of her poor eyesight in close work faded as Ruby obediently went to follow her aunt out of the tinkling front door of the shop.

  What does this mean? Ruby wondered as Aunt Gertrude immediately turned into a recessed doorway next to the shop, and searched for a key on the burgeoning metal ring of different-sized keys tied to a belt round her waist.