by Anna Wilson
Tristan looked at her uncomfortably: maybe she looked sad, thinking about her mother’s possessions, or maybe it was the mere mention of her mother and the reminder of her death. ‘Of – of course,’ he stammered. ‘Well, if you want to watch something here, go ahead. Obviously. Oh, and I should have said, do use the phone whenever you like. It’s on the table in the hall. Mobiles don’t work down here.’
‘Thanks.’
Haven’t got a mobile. Haven’t got anyone to call.
He was moving away from the bookshelves now and looking towards the wall behind her. She turned and saw another door.
‘Through there,’ he said. ‘The drawing room. It’s, ah, it’s a room we don’t use that much, but I’ll show you . . .’ He excused himself as he slipped past her to open the door.
She gasped.
It was an enormous room! Almost as big as her old house from top to bottom. The walls were covered in paintings. The chairs and table were arranged formally, neatly. Beyond them, at the far end of the room, was a giant beetle of a grand piano, the black and shining lid raised like wing casings as though it was about to take off. Summer moved towards it. It was the most beautiful instrument she had ever seen close to. It belonged in a concert hall, surely, not a family home?
She closed her eyes and was back in the huge auditorium, sitting next to her mother, transfixed by the man on the stage, his fingers flying over the brilliant black and white keys as his body swayed in time with his playing.
Her mother’s face was a picture of bliss as she listened to the chords swelling and crashing in waves. What was the piece the pianist had played? She could remember the cascading arpeggios; if she reached out now she could touch her mother’s hand . . .
‘Summer? Summer!’ Tristan was standing in front of her, alarmed, peering at her closely. ‘Are you OK? Do you want to sit down?’ He took her by the elbow. ‘Oh dear, I should have taken time to make sure you were all right after that long journey. I should have . . . Oh dear.’
Summer sat down shakily in the chair Tristan had led her to. ‘I – I’m fine. The piano . . . it reminded me . . .’
‘Do you play?’ Tristan asked, sitting down next to her. ‘Ca— Becca did. Does, I mean! It’s hers. I don’t! Haven’t got a musical bone in me, sadly. It’s rather precious, though, the piano. It was Becca’s father’s. So I’m afraid that, er . . .’ He was trying to find a polite way to warn her off.
‘It’s OK,’ she reassured him. ‘I wouldn’t know one end from the other. I won’t touch it. Mum played, but I never have.’
Her mother had promised to teach her that evening after the concert. ‘One day,’ she had said. ‘When I have the money for a piano, that is.’
She had never had the time, let alone the money.
Summer glanced at the sleek instrument again.
‘Your . . . mother played?’ Tristan’s voice was strained.
Why do people always behave as if they shouldn’t mention her?
‘She told me she used to. We didn’t have a piano.’
He nodded. ‘Shame when people give up, isn’t it?’
They sat looking at one another in silence for a moment. Then Tristan was on his feet again and making an effort to resume his chatty tone from earlier. ‘So I’ll show you the rest of the place, shall I? If you’re up to it.’
He went out of the room by another door which opened into the passage where Kenan had taken her that morning.
‘This is the kitchen passage I was talking about last night,’ he said.
‘I know.’
‘Oh, right. So you got this far with Kenan, then?’
‘We went down here to get outside. I love the walled bit where the vegetables are. It’s like The Secret Garden,’ she said, suddenly shy.
‘That’s what your— Becca says that,’ Tristan said, smiling.
‘Kenan says she’s a good gardener. I mean, it’s obvious she is. Are you – do you do the garden too? I’ve always thought it must be cool to be able to grow things.’ Now she had started talking, it was easier to keep going. She went on in a rush, ‘Mum was brilliant at growing stuff. All my own things died, but she could grow anything, even on our little balcony. Sunflowers, tomatoes, the kind of thing you could fit into pots. She would love this place. I . . . I was wondering if she had ever been here? It’s just no one’s told me why—’
There was a sudden thumping noise from beyond the wall.
Summer looked up sharply. ‘What was that?’
Tristan’s face had gone white. ‘Kenan probably,’ he said.
Summer was not convinced. The sound had come from the exact same place she had heard noises that morning with Kenan. She opened her mouth to say so, but Tristan was already speaking again.
‘Look, if you’ve been here with Kenan already, I’m sure you don’t want to see all this again. It’s only storerooms now, I’m sure he told you that.’ Tristan was moving her quickly along. ‘We don’t need all this space with only three of us here. Used to be used for holiday lets, years ago. Have you seen the rest of upstairs?’ He changed the subject abruptly, turned on his heel without waiting for her to reply and went back to the hall.
What’s up with him? Was he spooked by those noises too?
Summer hurried to catch up. ‘Kenan told me there were ghosts at Bosleven,’ she said, determined to keep him talking.
Tristan gave a snort of laughter. ‘Did he now?’
Summer frowned. ‘Yeah. Do you think that’s what that noise was, back there?’
‘Of course not.’ Tristan tutted. ‘As I said, probably Kenan. He does crash about rather. Sounds like a herd of elephants when he runs around upstairs! Where did you say he went after you two argued?’
‘I already told you, I don’t know!’ Summer felt irritated by his sudden brisk manner.
‘It’s easy to hide away in this place. He’s probably in his room.’ Her uncle stopped at the bottom of the stairs. His expression softened. ‘Listen, I’m sorry about Kenan. I’ll have a word with him, I promise. I’m sure he hasn’t meant to upset you. He shouldn’t have teased you about ghosts, and he certainly shouldn’t have run away from you. This is a big, old, creaky house, that’s all. Most of the noises you’re hearing are wooden beams and floorboards. They contract and expand with changes in the weather. Old houses are like that.’
‘S’pose.’
Tristan smiled. ‘Since you ask, I’m not sure what I think about ghosts,’ he said. ‘I suppose I would have to say, if pushed, that I do believe in them. I just don’t think they’re white, headless spectres that jump out at you and go, “Whoooo!”‘ He laughed.
‘So what do you believe?’
Tristan thought for a moment, then, ‘I believe in – energy, for want of a better word,’ he said. ‘That people leave something of themselves behind when they go. I’ve always thought this place is full of that kind of thing. Bosleven, I mean. It’s the sort of place that’s hard to leave. The house, the gardens, everything.’ He sounded dreamy. ‘At least, I would find it hard to leave, I know that. Whenever I’m away, I can only think of being back. It’s like I’m drawn here, on the end of an invisible thread. Becca thinks her mum and dad are still part of Bosleven.’ He swallowed. His dark eyes were brimming with sadness. ‘I think it’s rather comforting to think of people belonging somewhere, even after they’ve gone.’ He glanced at Summer again, ‘I – I’m sorry, I don’t want to upset you. Stupid of me to talk like this so soon after—’
‘It’s OK,’ Summer said. ‘I think I know what you mean.’
Before he had said all that, she had been ready to push him, to say, ‘You can talk about Mum, you know. I’m not going to flip out on you!’ But now that he was talking to her properly for the first time, she was simply relieved not to be laughed at or ignored. It was much better him talking like this than trying to avoid mentioning her mother’s death altogether.
Her stomach filled up with butterflies. This was the perfect opportunity to tell Tristan about th
e phone call and the sight of her mother in the porch. If he did believe in this ‘energy’ he talked about, maybe he would have an explanation. The words built up and up inside her before she had the guts to force them out.
‘I . . . I wanted to ask you something,’ she began.
‘Yes?’
‘Do you think that the dead can contact the living? Like, directly, I mean. With special messages?’ Summer immediately felt self-conscious, but Tristan was watching her intently, so she pressed on. ‘It’s – it’s Mum, you see. I’ve been trying to figure everything out, cos no one’s told me why I’m here. She – Mum – must have had a reason for sending me here. I mean, I know we’re related and you’re my guardian and everything, but I think it’s more than that. I think it’s Bosleven that was important to her somehow. It must be that, mustn’t it? If we’re only related distantly, or whatever? She never mentioned this place to me, though. So – do you know? Did she live here once? Or spend holidays here, or—’
‘I don’t know,’ Tristan said. His expression had stiffened.
I’ve jumped in too soon. I should’ve waited. Maybe he wants to talk to me with Kenan and Becca.
‘Right,’ she said, reddening. ‘I just thought you might be able to tell me a bit more. I mean, no one explained anything. Just said it was in the will . . .’
‘I know this is a very hard time for you.’ Tristan chose his words carefully. ‘I can only say that I am sure your mother knew what she was doing. It was better for you to come here and be with relatives, even relatives you hadn’t met, than to be sent into care – which is what would have happened otherwise, I suppose.’ He stopped, realizing, perhaps, that he had gone too far.
‘I – I hadn’t thought of that.’ Summer felt winded.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But you asked, and that is the only reason I can give for your mother naming us as your guardians.’ He touched her lightly on her shoulder. ‘So. Shall we go on?’
‘What?’ Summer frowned.
‘Round the rest of the house,’ said Tristan. He gestured up the stairs.
‘Oh. Yeah.’ She was piecing together some of his earlier comments. ‘So . . . this house was Becca’s family’s? Not yours? Only you said Becca thought her mum and dad were still part of the place? And that her dad had given her the piano.’
‘No. That’s right. It’s Becca’s. I mean, she lived here as a child. She always said she wanted to come back here. Raise her own family. When her mother died, it just seemed the right thing to do.’ He paused. ‘Like I said, it has that effect on people. Bosleven, I mean. Draws people in.’
‘So Becca didn’t have any brothers or sisters, then?’ Summer asked.
Tristan gave a small gasp, hurriedly checked his watch and said, ‘I’ve left those pots stewing for far too long. Sorry, Summer. Must go and rescue the cooking or you’ll be having toast for supper! Why don’t you poke around upstairs on your own?’ He was backing out of the door. ‘Sorry!’ he called again as he rushed into the kitchen, leaving Summer alone again for the second time that day.
Summer idled her way up the stairs, stopping on each step. A ray of light streamed in through a high window, dust motes shimmering and swirling before her.
What if that sunbeam were an opening into the past? Maybe I’d get some answers if I could go back.
She wished she could let herself be hypnotized by the swirling glitter in the golden shaft of light, forget reality and lose herself in fancy and make-believe as she used to when she was small. But she was unsettled, on edge, and her conversation with Tristan had done nothing to help.
He talked about ‘energy’. About people leaving something of themselves behind.
Perhaps all that she had seen – her mother in the porch, the voice on the phone – had been simple projections; fulfilment of a deep-seated wish to have her mother back. Or at least to know that her mother had truly intended her to belong here.
She thought about what Tristan himself had said about belonging. About Bosleven drawing him back whenever he was away.
So, Mum. Have you been drawn back somehow?
How could she find out when her mother had been there? And where did Tristan’s wife fit into all this if Bosleven was her family home? Had her mother and Becca been good friends? If so, why was Tristan named as her guardian, and not Becca? Where was Becca anyway?
Summer did not buy Tristan’s explanation about his wife being too busy to meet her. Surely the arrival of an unknown girl into the family would be enough to bring any normal person away from their work or whatever it was her aunt was so busy with, if only out of curiosity? She could not imagine her own mother staying away at such a time.
Maybe if I look around carefully, I’ll pick up some clues.
She clearly would not find out anything if she remained hanging about, dreaming like this.
She reached the half-landing where Tristan had said his room was. There were three doors ahead of her. Even though Tristan had said she could look around on her own, she felt like an intruder.
He has tried to be kind, though. Unlike Kenan.
Thinking of her cousin again made her hesitate. She didn’t want to come across him up here so soon after he had told her to ‘piss off’. She listened to the house.
Silence, apart from the odd sigh and whisper of floorboards and creaking beams.
She thought of Tristan saying Kenan thumped around ‘like a herd of elephants’. No way was he back. The place was too quiet. Even a geek like him would listen to music in his room. She stayed on the landing, listening.
She was distracted by a glance up at the main landing. The door to her own room, at the end, was open a crack. Hadn’t she closed it earlier?
Thoughts of Kenan’s ghostly stories returned. She pushed them away and resolutely skipped up the last few stairs. Nevertheless she darted into her room quickly, as though to surprise an intruder. If Kenan was lurking, ready to jump out, she would not give him the pleasure of spooking her.
There was no one. She noted guiltily that she had left it in rather a mess; the bed covers thrown back in a muddled heap, her nightclothes tangled on the floor. The contents of her rucksack were spilling out too. She stared at the books, photos in frames and spare clothes poking out of the top of the bag.
S’pose I should unpack.
She went over to the rucksack and bent down to pick up her things. Then doubt crept into her mind.
Did I really leave everything like this?
She pushed back the niggling thought: that someone – something? – had rummaged through her belongings. No. She shook her head: she was simply tired, letting paranoia get the better of her. Ghosts belonged to myths and fairy tales, and in any case they did not look through people’s possessions.
Summer picked up the photos: one of her with her mum and one with Jess. The first one had a crack across the glass.
She ran her finger over the hairline break. Both photo frames had been wrapped in T-shirts to protect them while she had travelled.
He has been in here.
Hot, prickling anger rose from the pit of her stomach. She could just see Kenan doing that, coming into her room after he had left her in the garden, rootling through her stuff, finding the photo and throwing it down without a care for her feelings or privacy.
You rat – wait till I get my hands on you!
How could she prove it, though? Tristan was hardly likely to believe his son would do such a thing. She had no evidence, no witness. It would be her word against his.
She seethed as she set both frames gently on the bedside table. She told herself to calm down, that at least it was only a crack, nothing more. She gazed at the photo. It was her favourite one of her mum: Catherine had her head thrown back in that way she had when she laughed, hair blowing across her face, one arm around Summer. Jess had taken it at the Christmas fairground in Hyde Park. And the other photo was of Jess, sitting on her bed, cross-legged, grinning like a loony.
A little bit of home. She st
roked the frames as a knot of sadness caught in her chest.
Jess. Thought we’d be friends forever.
It was over. Jess had been unable to hide her relief as she waved Summer off at Paddington. Jess belonged to another time, another life.
She turned the photo face down.
She went back to look for her iPod, eager to fill her mind with music, to empty it of thought. She emptied out the contents of her rucksack: T-shirts, swimming costume (not that she’d be swimming in that water again!), another pair of jeans, underwear, some books, a notepad, pens. No iPod came to light.
Where is it?
Summer distinctly remembered putting it away before getting off the train. It had been such a precious gift from her mother, who had saved and saved for it, she knew that.
He’s taken that as well.
She knew then that she had to do something, to get Kenan back, to prove what a snoop he was.
She hurried out of her room and down the landing. She made straight for Kenan’s room, remembering Tristan had pointed it out the night before. A laptop was open on the desk, its screen dark but its blue lights winking, ready for action at the touch of a finger. So tempting.
Facebook! Bet he’s said something to his mates about me.
She might find something that would show Tristan what his son had been up to, really get him into trouble . . .
Excitement prickled as she looked over her shoulder, listening closely for footsteps. When she heard none she let her fingers fall lightly on to the mouse-pad. The screen flashed to life, drawing a sharp breath from Summer as she realized what she had revealed.
. . . won’t be for long. Just until I get my head straight. Be patient. I know it’s hard. Hugs, Mum xxxx
The end of a message from his mum! Underneath it, the beginnings of a reply from Kenan. Summer looked at the date and time Becca’s message had been sent. Earlier in the morning. Kenan must have been in the middle of replying when he had been called to have breakfast and then forced to show her around. Was that why he had been so resentful? He had wanted to go and see his mum, not act as tour guide. Maybe he’d run straight to see his mum after shouting at Summer.
