by Kate Blair
I picked a fat chip and popped it in my mouth. It was still hot and soft in the middle.
“I’m a vegetarian,” Chloe said.
“Sorry.” Mum used her fork to scoop away the fish and handed Chloe back the plate.
Chloe shoved it away. “It’s touched the fish. Been in the same container.”
Still, she made no move to leave. She folded her arms over her shirt, and I noticed it had a grave on it, rotting fingers poking out of the soil.
“So, Grandpa fired you,” I said, mouth half-full. “Why was that?” I stopped myself from adding, “your charming personality?”
“Silva,” Mum said in her warning tone.
Chloe’s face cracked into a pained look. “He didn’t exactly fire me.”
I swallowed my chip and fixed her with my best death stare.
“He forgot to pay me. I asked him for the money he owed, and he accused me of trying to trick him.” Chloe looked at her black painted fingernails.
I kept up the glare. Perhaps she’d gotten greedy, decided she could take advantage of him.
“That’s why Janet told me he was acting odd,” Mum said.
Chloe nodded. “Yeah, because he’s dying.”
I blinked. Mum paused, a chip halfway to her mouth. There was a shocked silence.
“It’s just an infection,” Mum said.
“He has Alzheimer’s,” Chloe replied. “I know what that means. I clean for the nursing home up the road.”
Mum put the chip down. “Grandpa will have years before he’s that bad. Good years.”
“My mum said he might die if he comes home early,” Chloe said. “But that’s better than losing his mind.”
“I’m bringing him home to help him get better. The hospital is bad for him.”
Chloe stood up. “Anyway, he’s out of Persil. I’ll go to Tesco on Monday, but I’ll take the rest of his washing home and do it there so it’s clean when he gets back.”
“They’ll have Persil at the shop on the corner,” Mum said. “Wouldn’t it be easier —”
“I don’t go there,” Chloe said flatly.
Interesting. Perhaps she’d got banned. Perhaps she was a shoplifter.
“It’s forty quid he owes me. Money’s in the tin in the cupboard.”
“Of course.” Mum pulled out the biscuit tin, prising it open. Mum counted out the notes.
“I’ll return his clothes tomorrow.” Chloe stomped out.
“I guess she got what she came for,” I said.
“Silva,” that warning tone from Mum again.
“What? She’s the worst.”
“Chloe … was a sweet little girl, but she turned in on herself in her teens. I always thought she’d be an artist or a potter.”
I snorted. “A potter? Is that even a job anymore?”
“She liked to carve and sculpt. But she took her grandmother’s death hard. Started wearing all black and dyed her hair with that awful streak.” Mum looked at me, brow crinkled with worry.
“I won’t turn out like Chloe,” I said.
Mum didn’t look convinced, and for a moment I wanted to tell her what I’d learned. There was magic in the world. And if there was magic, there was hope.
Everything would be okay somehow.
It had to be.
I DREAMED OF the beach, but the sea was made of paper. I stood on the shore with Grandpa, Mum, and Ollie. The paper-waves shattered over the shingle, crinkling into dry, screwed-up foam. They reached up to me, sucking at my feet. I lost my balance, falling into the white of the water. I struggled, but the paper wrapped around me, pulled me away from the shore, from my family. I kicked, trying to keep my head up, but the current was too strong, pages folding around my arms and legs, enveloping me, dragging me under, into the dark beneath the waves.
I woke to a silent house. I crept through it, feeling uncomfortable. I looked in the bedrooms and the living room before I found a note from Mum on the kitchen table.
Morning sleepyheads, it said. Didn’t want to wake you. You both looked so sweet! Gone to get Grandpa. Back in an hour or so.
Below Mum’s note was Ollie’s lazy scrawl, barely bothering to be legible.
Out. Back before Mum.
How did he manage to make even his handwriting moody?
I checked the clock, wondering whether I had time to get to the library before she came back, but before I could decide, I heard a car pulling up. I hurried outside to meet them.
In the drive, Mum was opening the passenger door. “Here we go, Dad. Let me help.”
Grandpa waved away Mum’s offered hand. He leaned on the roof for a moment, and then limped toward the front door. He looked so frail. It was hard to recognize the man who took us on hikes to the hushed yew forests of Kingley Vale or along the gusty tops of the South Downs. The man who’d march ahead as Ollie and I begged him to slow down. He’d laugh, and tell us to keep up, be good soldiers. It had been years since we’d gone hiking. How had I not noticed that?
Finally, he reached the door and looked at me.
“Grandpa?”
Even the wind held its breath. Then that giant smile of his spread across his face. He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a bag of Jelly Babies and winked.
“Go on, Silva. You remember how to eat them, right?”
“Head first.”
He nodded. “That’s the merciful way.”
I felt like I’d reached the shore after a day adrift. I leapt forward and wrapped my arms around him, inhaling his familiar biscuity smell. But it was tainted by hospital antiseptic, and he felt too thin, not his normal, steadying self.
“Oh, Silva, it’s so good to be back.”
“Careful,” Mum said.
I let go of him.
“Silva, could you put the kettle on?” Mum said.
Behind them, Ollie slumped up the driveway. As he caught sight of Grandpa, a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “You’re back.”
“I certainly am. Large as life and twice as handsome.” Grandpa leaned against the wall. “Come in, Oliver my boy. We’re about to have tea. Perhaps we could have mince pies, too?”
Mum and I glanced at each other. Then I got it. The cold weather. All of us being on Hayling. “It’s not Christmas yet,” I said.
Grandpa’s brow furrowed. “I know that,” he snapped. “It doesn’t have to be Christmas to have mince pies.”
Ollie’s eyes flicked back down to his phone. “I don’t like mince pies.” He shoved past us and thudded upstairs. Mum hurled a theatrical sigh in his direction, but he ignored her.
In the kitchen, I wiped my eyes on my sleeve, opened the Jelly Babies, and shook them out onto a rose-patterned plate. Grandpa recognized me. The antibiotics were working. It wasn’t that big a deal to think it was Christmas, really. The cat-flap clattered, making me jump as Tonic, Janet’s other cat, came through.
I made the tea, put it on a tray, and carried it to the front room. As I reached the door, I heard the angry hiss of Mum’s quiet argument voice.
“You’re not a burden, Dad. Don’t talk like that.”
“Not yet. But I will be.” Grandpa sighed. “It’s bad enough forcing down all these ridiculous medicines with all those side-effects.”
“You’ll keep taking those though, right?”
I held my breath.
“I’ll take the pills, but when I say it’s time, you’ll let me go. You’ll be okay with that?”
Mum replied quickly. “I never said I’d be okay with that.”
“Don’t let them take me to hospital again. Promise.”
Mum didn’t say anything.
I wanted to burst into the room. Wanted to yell at Grandpa. But instead I coughed before I entered. When I pushed open the door, they were smiling, as if they’d been discussing the weat
her.
“Ah, tea!” Grandpa said. “Perfect.”
Fine. I could do normal too. I stuck a grin on my face and placed the tray on the table carefully. I plonked myself on the sofa as Tonic stalked into the room. She ignored Mum, as usual, and I reached for her, but she deftly dodged my grasp, jumped into Grandpa’s lap, and settled there, purring.
“Jelly Babies too,” Grandpa said. “Wonderful. You remember how to eat them, right?”
“Um … yeah. Head first?”
“That’s the merciful way.” He smiled, showing no sign that we’d already had this conversation. I grabbed a Jelly Baby and bit its head off, obediently. It felt too rubbery and stuck to the roof of my mouth.
The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” Mum said in a fake-cheerful sing-song voice.
A few seconds later, she led her cousin into the room. Tonic bounded over. Janet bent down and tickled behind her ears. She was the one who’d chosen the stupid names. She said she liked to go into the garden each night and yell “Gin and Tonic!” She laughed at her stupid joke every time she told it.
Chloe followed her mother, carrying a washing basket full of folded clothes and bedding.
Tonic hissed as Chloe entered, and then ran out into the hall. My smile widened. They do say animals can tell when someone’s not right.
“How wonderful to see you home,” Janet said. “You seem so much better.”
Grandpa sat up. “Being out of that place will do me the world of good. I’ll be better in a jiffy. Just need some rest and a couple of cans of … you know. The black stuff. Full of iron.”
“Guinness,” Mum said.
Janet clasped her hands together. “We just popped in to bring your laundry back.”
I wondered how long they’d been waiting for the sound of the car before they “just popped in.” There was an awkward pause. Normally, Grandpa would offer a cup of tea or break the tension with a joke. But he just sat there.
“Okay,” Janet said. “Chloe will make the bed up.”
“That’s kind,” Mum said. “I’m sure Silva would like to help, too.”
I scowled, but Mum gave me one of her looks. I rolled my eyes and followed Chloe as she stomped up the stairs, wondering how such a small person could have so heavy a tread.
I paused as we reached Grandpa’s bedroom. I wasn’t usually allowed in there. But Chloe shoved the door open without hesitating. It was a plain blue room with a double bed in the center, sheets missing. Chloe thumped the basket down. She wore a black long-sleeved T-shirt with a rotting zombie in lurid reds and greens. It gave me the creeps.
“Doesn’t that stuff give you nightmares?” I said, pointing at it.
She peered down at her shirt, then grinned. “I love horror. Dad got me into it. We watch loads when I’m visiting him. And I have nightmares whatever I watch, anyway.”
“Mum won’t let us watch horror films.”
Chloe pulled a sheet from the basket. It crackled with static as she shook it out. “They’re the only honest stories. Romances end with kisses and that, but what about when the couple dies? All stories are horror stories, eventually.”
“Wow. That’s a cheerful world view.”
She started tucking in the sheet at the top of the bed. “If you’re just going to stand there, at least hold this.” She grabbed something from behind one of the pillows and shoved it at me. I took it automatically. It was only once I felt the cold porcelain in my hands that I looked down.
It was a doll. A doll with golden ringlets, black eyes, and a red dress.
Margaret’s doll. Cold shot through me.
“Why are you looking at it like that?” Chloe asked.
“It … it’s pretty, that’s all.”
“Don’t get ideas. I like it. It’s creepy. Uncle Chris promised he’ll leave it to me.”
I clutched the doll tighter. “You’re planning for his death already?”
She picked up the duvet and started shoving it into its cover. “It’s inevitable, isn’t it?”
“They might find a cure. Make a breakthrough.”
“You have to face reality. The longer you fight it, the worse it will hurt.” She shook out the duvet with a crack and spread it over the bed.
I wanted to tell her about the library. Shove it in her face, show her there was far more to reality, more to life than someone like her could ever imagine.
“I felt the same way about Gran.” She put the covers on the pillows “There are no miracles coming. Hope’s a trap.” She held out a hand. “Give it here.”
I didn’t move. She grabbed one of the doll’s arms and pulled it from me. She sat it up, against the headboard. “All done.” Chloe stomped out.
I stood in the bedroom alone, ears ringing, staring at the doll from Margaret’s story.
What was it doing here?
I had to get back to the library. Had to find out.
Chapter Five
LATER THAT MORNING, Mum made me promise to watch Grandpa while she drove to Bedford to get work stuff and more clothes. I begged for permission to go back to the library, and she said we all had to make sacrifices to help with Grandpa.
But she still let Ollie go for a walk on the beach, which was massively unfair.
I paced the house, frustrated as the time passed. I wasn’t needed at all. Grandpa napped. His snores made their way through to my room. Would he even notice if I left? I had to know more about the doll, about Margaret’s story, about what it all meant. I wandered downstairs, torn.
The TV blared in the front room, which meant Ollie must be back from the beach. He’d be slumped on the couch, no doubt, playing games on his phone. A voice in my head pointed out that it was his turn to watch Grandpa. After all, he’d been out already, while I’d had to stay in all morning.
“I’m going out for a bit,” I shouted at the closed door. “Grandpa’s asleep. Keep an eye on him. I’ll be back before Mum.”
Ollie didn’t reply, which I knew was moody pre-teen for “okay, but I’m not happy about it,” so I slipped out into the drizzle before he could change his mind.
I’D NEARLY REACHED the library when I heard my name.
“Silva!” The voice was weakened by the wind.
I turned. Approaching from a side street was Chloe, her black coat flapping around her legs, hood up against the driving rain. “Where are you going?”
“The library. Where did you come from?”
She looked annoyed at the question. “Home.”
“Home is that way,” I pointed the way I’d come.
“I take a different route.”
I blinked through the rain. “A longer route? In this weather?”
She shrugged. “Whatever. I’m going to the chemist’s to get foot powder for Mum.”
“Well, I don’t want to hold you up.”
Chloe gave a grunt, but she turned away and crossed the road. I watched her until she disappeared into the chemist’s, wondering what she was really up to.
BY THE TIME I reached the library, I was shivering. I dripped over the floor, and got a sympathetic smile from Asha, at her desk.
“Are you okay? Do you need anything?”
I shook my head. As soon as she turned away, I hurried toward the romances, throat blocked with a lump of mingled hope and worry. What if I found a blank wall?
But the door was exactly as I remembered. I pressed my fingers against the rough old wood, and once again it swung open at my touch.
It was good to be inside. The stone walls and twisting branches made me feel safe, surrounded by stories. I walked around the circle of the library, running my fingers over the shelves as they flowed up the walls like a maze.
The unease had gone, that mental itch like I’d forgotten something. It had been soothed by the comfort of the magical books, as easily
as wiping a smear from a mirror.
The magpie perched on the chair in the center. As I approached, the bird lifted its head up to watch me, like a child. I was captivated by the gloss of its wings, its smooth dark head. I reached a hand toward it, then twitched back.
“Can I … can I stroke you?”
The magpie bounced along the chair arm, toward my hand. I held it out, like I did for Janet’s cats, so they could sniff it before I stroked them. But the magpie nuzzled right into my palm. Its feathers were downy, and I could feel the delicate bird skull through them. Warmth grew in my chest for this trusting little creature. I stroked its black-and-white wings and ran a gentle finger down the sharp angle of its tail.
“I can’t stay long. I’ve got to get back before my grandpa wakes.”
The bird’s tail drooped.
“He has a doll, just like the one in Margaret’s story. Why?”
The magpie looked at the shelves. One of the books rustled, edged its way off the branch, and took flight. I reached up as it flapped over my head, and the pages brushed my fingertips before it banked around and swooped toward me. I held my hands out flat, and it landed in my palms. The cover with the girl in the pale nightgown faced me: Margaret’s story.
I opened the book toward the end, looking for where the story had left off last time.
Margaret heard crying, in the next room, breathless and weak, from the younger girl who had just arrived here.
I kept turning, glancing at each page, not pausing long enough for the letters to move. I flicked through the scenes: Margaret waited for lights out. Her brother arrived, and then left.
I was almost at the end of the story. Only a few pages left.
Margaret went into the dollhouse. Margaret chose a doll. But when I turned the page, I found it was the last. I traced the words down to the final line.
The doll’s hand was warm as it touched Margaret’s fingertips. She fell forward, into its merciful embrace.
The story about the creepy dollhouse simply stopped.
“Why does the book end there?” I asked the magpie.
The bird shook its head.
