3
I notice it a few hours later, as I’m coming down the stairs. A white envelope on the doormat. It wasn’t there earlier – I’m sure of it – but my head was full of Amy and Esme and I only had eyes for dirt.
I put the dusters and polish on the table in the hall and pick up the envelope. The front is blank and there is no postage stamp or postmark. Junk mail, I think, even on New Year’s Eve. New Year’s Day, rather.
I’m about to throw it away unopened, but I notice the seal is still sticky, not with glue but with spit. I tear open the envelope and take out the sheets of white paper covered in typewritten text. I assume it’s a letter, but there’s no address or salutation at the top. Only a title.
My legs give way as my mind slowly takes in what it is. Who it’s from.
I read in a rush at first, just to get it over with, but have to keep going back to make sure I’ve really understood what it says. I reach out to the banister for support and lower myself on to the stairs, my eyes fixed on the page, heart racing, breathless.
I hold the pages closer and start to read once more.
THE HISTORY OF ESME LAWRENCE IN FIVE OBJECTS
The Sign Of Gemini
Gemini is the star sign of people born in June. Their element is the air and they have two sides, like twins. But they’re not identical. More like opposites. Like good and evil, hot and cold, yes and no. Gemini minds bounce around from one thing to another. They change their minds like the wind. People say they are two-faced.
They are ruled by Mercury, who is the messenger of the gods. Mercury can move around the sun faster than any other planet. That’s why Geminis talk and think quickly.
Their birth flower is the rose. They are beautiful to look at and have a lovely smell but they’re also dead prickly. In Victorian times, flowers had a special code. Each flower had a different meaning and so did its colour. My favourite colour is pink.
A pink rose means ‘believe me’.
The Gemini birthstone is the agate. They come from volcanoes. It is a hard stone so it can’t be damaged by acid. It gets really shiny when it’s polished.
I am not a Gemini.
But I should be.
Guinea Pig
When I lived in London, I had a guinea pig called Moon. She was a birthday present when I was seven. My other mum and dad bought her for me but it must have been Dad’s idea.
He used to take me out on Sunday mornings to give Mum a rest and the chance to read the papers. On the way home I’d have a strawberry milkshake and biscuits in the café in Dulwich Park. The best bit was stopping at a big pet shop on the way home so I could look at the animals.
Dad liked the snakes and lizards best. He always hoped to be there when it was feeding time as he wanted to watch the snakes eat the mice. I always prayed that we’d missed it. But really Dad was only teasing. The man in the shop told me they didn’t feed the snakes and lizards during shop times as they weren’t a zoo.
I liked the guinea pigs as they were cute and cuddly. I moaned at Mum and Dad about getting one for ages. Mum said I’d never clean it out and she’d end up doing it, but I promised I’d do it every week. I even said she could take my pocket money if I didn’t.
Dana wanted a guinea pig too. She was my best friend from school. She lived in a flat on the Brandon Estate. The flats didn’t have gardens so she couldn’t have a guinea pig. All she had was a hamster. They’re boring as they only come out at night.
Dad said he could get Dana a guinea pig too and she could keep it in our garden. But I heard Mum tell him that would mean Dana coming round every day to feed it.
I don’t think Mum liked Dana as much as me and Dad did. I felt sorry for Dana, so when she came to my house to play I’d let her hold Moon. That’s how we found out Moon was a boy. His willy was like a strawberry Tic Tac. Dana never picked him up again.
Mrs Doubtfire
I watched this last Christmas Eve. It’s a bit of a silly film as the man doesn’t look like a real old lady at all. He’s even bigger than our postman who’s really, really fat. When the lift isn’t working he dumps the letters in the lobby and people have to sort them out themselves.
Mum lost a new credit card because someone took it from the pile. They went out to the Trafford Centre and bought lots of things with it. Like a big TV and clothes from Diesel. The people at the bank wanted to take the things away because she couldn’t pay for them – even though she’d never even bought them. I could hear her crying at night when I was in bed.
Mum is really sad sometimes. She pretends not to be, but I can tell. It’s because she’s on her own, I think. I do the washing-up, peel the vegetables and keep my room tidy, but she needs more help. Sometimes she says she’s not a good mum. But she is. She’s the best. Every bit as good as my other one.
If I had a dad, it would be easier for her. But I haven’t. I’ve never met him. Mum only met him once too.
Things were easier with Mrs Doubtfire around. She was funny and kind and made everything all right. Made a family of three happy and whole.
Even though it’s a bit of a silly film, it made me cry. Mum too. I told her everything would be fine. But there are no more Mrs Doubtfires. Lightning doesn’t strike twice.
Ice Blast
I made Mum go on this when we went to Blackpool. It was scarier than the Big One. That’s just a roller coaster. The only exciting part of the Big One was the first bit. It climbs the steep hill and then drops straight down in one go. But after that it’s just little dips and turns. Everyone else screamed all the way through, but I didn’t. I didn’t even blink. Mum said I was fearless.
The Ice Blast showed she was wrong.
I was really, really scared as soon as the red safety harness clamped me into my seat. I’d been strapped in on the Big One. That was okay. No different from being in a car. This time I was being shot up, in a sort of rocket. The harness held me like a fist. It was so tight I couldn’t breathe. I tried to wriggle free and told Mum I wanted to get off. She just laughed and said she was getting her own back. I was screaming before the ride even started.
I flew up in the sky so fast I thought God had reached down and grabbed me. The people on the ground were just dots. They got smaller and smaller. My ears popped and my stomach did a loop the loop. My heart felt like it stopped.
I went higher and higher, up through the clouds, into space. It was cold and dark. Not even any stars. I could see the earth below me and tried to tip my head forward so gravity would pull me down.
But I kept going up and up. Faster and faster. Higher than planets and stars. My face felt heavy, like it was melting. I kept shouting, ‘Take me back! Take me back!’
Something soft and white fell all around me. I thought I was in an angel’s wings at first, but then it felt more like being in a bubble. I floated down again, really slowly, back through space and clouds.
When I landed, the world looked different. It felt all brand new and strange.
My heart was beating again – fast and loud enough for two.
Pois
One of my favourite games was juggling.
I won a set of three red leather juggling balls in a raffle at my old school. I was pretty bad at it at first. I couldn’t catch two balls but I soon got the hang of it and in no time I could juggle three.
None of the other girls could do it so I’d show them during playtime. Some of them got really good at it but Dana never did. She’d throw the first ball too high to give her more time, and wait too long to launch the second. The balls went everywhere and she’d cry and sulk. But she kept at it just so she could be with me. She got better. Bit by bit.
One day Miss Pratt showed us pois. They’re like balls on a string that Maoris use in their dancing. Miss Pratt was a Maori. She had the same light coffee-coloured skin as Rishna Patel, only Miss Pratt had a funny accent. We did a project on New Zealand and learnt all about Captain Cook, sheep farming, kiwis and Maori culture.
Miss Pratt taught us the haka
and a stick dance which was like playing a pat-a-cake hand game, only with sticks instead of hands. Dana didn’t like it very much as she kept dropping the sticks.
She was better with the pois as you didn’t have to catch them. Miss Pratt showed us how to make them. We pushed a long, thick needle through an old tennis ball, threaded a piece of string through it and tied a knot at the end.
We’d have a poi in each hand and move our wrists to make the balls swing in wide circles. When the whole class did it together, we looked like a wind farm. Miss Pratt showed us how to transfer both balls into one hand, then back again. Even Dana could do it. It was like having two worlds in your hands, spinning next to one another but with a blurry gap in between.
I made the pois turn so quickly they didn’t look like they were moving at all. They just seemed to hang in the air on their own. All frozen. When that happened, I felt safe and peaceful.
Miss Pratt taught us a folk song that went with the pois.
Pokarekare ana
Nga wai o Waiapu
Whiti atu koe hine
Marino ana e.
E hine e hoki mai ra
Ka mate ahau I te
Aroha e.
I loved the tune and the strange words but I didn’t know what they meant. Miss Pratt said it was a love song.
They are agitated
The waters of Waiapu,
But when you cross over, girl,
They will be calm.
Oh girl return to me,
I could die of love for you.
The words fitted the action of the pois perfectly. Two worlds chasing one another, trying to get together. The call to come back. The promise of peace and love.
There’s a note at the bottom of the paper, written in blue biro.
My teacher only gave me a D for my project as she said it was meant to be an autobiography, not a made-up story. I told her it was all true. She marked me down to an E for lying.
I wasn’t.
My hands are shaking as I put the pages down, my mind blank with confusion. All I’m sure of is that Libby must have pushed it through the letter box soon after she left. She might even have written it herself for all I know, although the handwriting at the bottom could easily be a child’s. Did she dictate the footnote to Esme as a final flourish of authenticity?
The question of which of them wrote it troubles me less than what it contains. It’s a mishmash of two lives, a composite. Every detail about Amy is correct. How could either Libby or Esme know about the guinea pig, the name of Amy’s teacher, the Sunday morning walks in Dulwich Park? Even I’d forgotten about the Maori folk song.
Their knowledge of Dana’s name is easier to explain, as it appeared in all the press reports. But the rest of it? It just isn’t possible that she could know these things. Unless.
Unless.
No. There’s no way that Esme is telling the truth and she really is Amy. There has to be an answer. A logical, watertight explanation. There has to be.
I only wish I could think what it might be.
4
When I wake up, I’m on Amy’s bed. I shift to avoid an uncomfortable lump digging into my back, reach down and pull out Bagpuss.
He’s warm and squashed and his once cute expression now seems more astonished. Incredulous that I might believe Esme’s story – or shocked that I might not.
I squeeze him hard and press him against my face. He smells of synthetic fibres and dust. I wonder if he recognised Amy’s touch in Esme’s fingers. I wonder if I do too. The thought of it makes me tremble.
I turn over and Esme’s essay flutters to the floor. It’s creased from where I’ve lain on it, the corners of the pages curled and grubby from my anxious, fumbling fingers. I’ve lost count of the number of times I read it, studying every line and word until I saw only shapes that made no sense but teased and thrilled me, like a code that could be deciphered but had defied me by the time sleep overwhelmed me.
I dreamt of guinea pigs, shooting stars, a leering Bagpuss and decomposing dolls – all seen through a mist of bubblegum pink and police-light blue. Amy danced around with a hairbrush microphone, then morphed into Esme, who grew into Libby, her hands stretched out as she asked me what I wanted.
I want my daughter back. I want to feel her arms around me. I want to hear her laugh again. Not in my head; in my house. In my life. Real. I want to have flour fights with her as we bake cupcakes on a wet Saturday afternoon. I want to see her flawless limbs glide through her dance school routine. I want to iron her Brownie uniform, ferry her to sugar-fuelled parties, bicker with Brian over the necessary equipment for pupils at Alleyn’s secondary school and for him to make up with me with a kiss and that puppy-dog expression I never could resist. I want to feel the power of the love between us once more, instead of the slap of rows and painful silences.
I want to warn Amy off cigarettes and alcohol, buy her first bra, scold her for not getting on with her homework, for her choice of boyfriends, for staying out late and throwing impromptu parties when Brian and I are away.
I want to gloat over her A-level results, help pack a trunk for Oxbridge, jostle for a good graduation photo, console her after failed job applications, pay the deposit on her first home, stem pre-wedding jitters and coo at baby’s first scan. And then I want to do it all again with her children.
I want all this to happen. And it can. Most of it, anyway. Brian’s second wife Fiona makes any reunion impossible, but a reconciliation, a return to the understanding and familiarity we used to have, would at least be something. With Amy’s life to share once again, maybe the miracles wouldn’t end there.
It is all possible. It could be mine. If I let myself believe.
A rush of adrenalin forces me to get up and run down the stairs. I take my mobile from the hall table, dial and wait. It rings out before the answerphone message tells me that the Spiritualist Association is closed until the second of January.
‘Damn!’
I wait and leave a message.
‘This is Beth Archer. I need to see Ian Poynton again. Please ring me back with his first available appointment. Or let me have his number so I can call him? Please? It’s urgent.’
I need clarity. Ian Poynton might be able to help. His prediction came true – and quickly. Any delay now is more than I can stand, so I hurry to the computer on the desk in the living room. It’s old and slow and it clanks and whirs as it gradually lumbers into life. I pray that for once it won’t crash as I trawl the internet for a way to contact Ian.
There’s no number for him on the Spiritualist Association site, but he does have his own one-page website – a photo, brief blurb and a telephone number. I pick up my phone and dial. It’s answered on the fifth ring, barely more than a grunt.
‘Is that Ian? Ian Poynton?’
‘Yes.’ He sounds croaky.
‘Oh, thank God. You’ve got to help me.’
‘Who is this?’ He sounds wary and suspicious, as if I’m a crank caller. Maybe I am.
‘It’s Mrs Archer. Beth Archer. You did a reading for me earlier today? At the Spiritualist Association?’
He coughs.
‘Yesterday, you mean.’
‘Oh, yes,’ I say quietly. A quick glance at my wristwatch tells me it’s five twenty-five. ‘I suppose I do. I’m sorry. But . . . it’s urgent. I just had to . . . I . . .’
‘Mrs Archer?’
‘I shouldn’t have called.’
‘I’m awake now,’ he says, his sigh failing to disguise his irritation. ‘Well, truth be told, I’ve not been to bed yet. Just as well New Year’s Eve only comes around once a year.’ A yawn stretches through his voice. ‘You sound upset.’
I nod, even though he can’t see me.
‘Something you told me yesterday came true.’
‘Well, forgive me if this sounds like bragging,’ he says, ‘but it’s not unusual for what the spirits tell me to actually happen.’
‘It is for me.’ I put my hand to my forehead and ho
ld it there as if trying to hang on to my sanity.
‘Then I appreciate you ringing to thank me, but . . . couldn’t it have waited?’ The irritation in his voice has been replaced by exasperation.
‘That’s not why I’m calling,’ I say quickly. ‘I need you to do another reading. Now, if possible. Please?’
‘Now?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind.’ I straighten my back in readiness.
‘I’m sorry. I can’t.’
‘Oh?’ My back slumps. ‘Why not?’
‘The only spirits in my head right now are Johnny Walker and Smirnoff. And anyway, I don’t do readings over the telephone. Some psychics do, but it’s never really worked for me – or my clients.’
‘Please. You’ve got to. I’m desperate.’ My grip on the handset grows tighter.
‘I can tell. And that’s not a good state of mind to have a reading in.’ His suddenly businesslike tone rankles with me. ‘I think it would be best if you made an appointment to see me at the Association. I’m there the week after next. I’m away on holiday until then.’
‘But you’ve got to understand! I really can’t wait that long. Please. I’m begging you! I’ll pay you whatever you want.’ The handset is slippy with sweat.
‘It’s not that, Mrs Archer,’ he says firmly. ‘It’s just—’
‘I need you, Ian. You can’t turn your back on people who need your gift.’
He sighs and says that he’ll try, even if it is against his better judgement. He stresses that there’s no guarantee it will work.
‘It might help if you hold something,’ he says. ‘A picture or a watch. That sort of thing. But don’t tell me what it is. In fact, don’t say anything at all.’
A few moments later I’ve turned on the phone’s loudspeaker and have Bagpuss and Amy’s photo in one hand and Esme’s essay in the other. A study of judgement when I have no judgement at all.
I screw my eyes up tight and hold my breath, willing him to tell me something conclusive.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says after a few minutes. ‘It’s just as I expected. There’s nothing. Just blackness and silence.’
I lean closer to the phone.
The Second Life of Amy Archer Page 5
