by Laura Wood
“Thanks,” I reply. “Did Freya make it out?”
Tom shakes his head. “I don’t think so. There wasn’t time.” He trails off, a haunted look in his eyes, and we both bow our heads for a second, thinking of our fallen comrade.
Freya is almost certainly being berated right at this very moment – for talking too much, and laughing too much, and existing too much. Aunt Irene, it always seems, would like us all to be a lot … less. Her own house is grim and silent, like a mausoleum. Both her sons (the pinnacle of perfection, of course) are grown up and have left home now, but I remember them as pale, silent ghosts always haunting that horrid place.
Tom’s message delivered, he is already on the move again. “I’m going to see Bill,” he calls over his shoulder. “Don’t go home! She’ll be there for hours!”
With a sigh I pull myself from the water and sink to the sand. This is exactly why I need the Cardew House. Looking at it now I feel a pang that I can’t go and hide out there, among the books and the shadows. It is blisteringly hot, and the house will be cool and quiet.
Except it won’t. Not any more. As if to confirm this I hear a distant shout. I’m on my feet immediately, watching as three dots appear in the water beside the island. There are people swimming out from the cove. I think they must be racing each other. I can’t discern any details; all I can see are flashes of pale limbs and white spray as they thrash enthusiastically through the water. The sound of shouting gets louder, more than one voice egging them on from the sand. The figures turn back towards the shelter of the cove and disappear from view. Cheers explode, reaching across the waves, and the race must be over. I stand frozen as the minutes tick by, watching, waiting, but nothing happens. They’re gone.
I kick the sand in frustration. The tiniest glimpses, the glittering promise of that world snatched out of my hands. I want to see it all with an urgency that overwhelms me for a moment. I want the lights and the music and the noise and the excitement, I want the newness and the fantasy. I want to experience things that are bigger than my own life, not just read about them. I want to escape into that dream for a while.
I sit back down, against the rocks this time, seeking some shelter from the sun. I pull my notebook and a short, stumpy pencil from my pocket and chew on it thoughtfully. Then I write about the party last night, and I find myself dwelling on the arrival of the Cardew party, on the girl leaning out of the car. And how her smile seemed like a promise.
CHAPTER
FOUR
It’s over a week later and my impatience has reached boiling point. Even Midge the Unflappable is fed up with my moping about. “Honestly, Lou,” she says, “you’re worse than the triplets. Will you get out of the way and do something useful?”
I slam upstairs to my room and write angry, scathing passages in my notebook about how nobody understands me. I try to concentrate on the next chapter of Lady Amelia’s Revenge, but the words seem to dance about on the page in front of me. I feel unsettled and agitated. It’s hard to admit that I’m lonely. Alice and Jack are on their honeymoon in Devon and the realities of an Alice-free house are finally here, pressing in on me.
I do my chores in the morning and I take care of any small jobs that need seeing to on the farm; I pull weeds out of the vegetable garden and I pick ripe strawberries, destined for Midge’s kitchen, the juice staining my fingers. I do a truly awful job of darning socks, I mind the triplets, teaching them to sing their ABCs in a noisy, tuneless chorus, and sometimes I help Tom with his schoolwork, but mostly the days just stretch out empty in front of me, while I wait for something, anything, to happen. I know that I am simply filling time, rather than doing anything genuinely useful or productive. My life feels too small for me now, like a dress that I have outgrown, cutting into me more and more uncomfortably every day. How long can things carry on like this? Without Alice to talk to and to laugh with, without the distraction of preparing for the wedding – an event that has taken over the last few months – I feel so flat, like all the fizz and energy has gone from my days. I am lost.
Enough.
I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. It’s time to make something happen. It’s time to take matters into my own hands. And so, with a great sense of relief, I formulate a plan.
As plans go, it isn’t a particularly complex one. I slip out of the house later in the evening – the tide is out, which means that the causeway is exposed and so it should be easy to sneak over to the island. I know the place better than anyone, so surely it won’t be too difficult to catch a glimpse of what is going on? I’m desperate to see the house transformed. I want to know if the parties are all we read about and if those people, the ones who sped past me at the wedding, can really be as glamorous as they seemed. I want to see that other world, a world that speaks to the restless need in me, chafing against the limits of my own life. And once I’ve seen it, perhaps my curiosity – the curiosity that’s been burning me up all week – will be satisfied.
The night is clear and calm. When I reach the beach, the sea is quite still, its gentle rippling waves filling the air with a muted rushing sound. The Cardew House is lit up like a birthday cake, and if I strain my ears I can just about hear the echo of music and laughter being carried across to the shore. I let the darkness wrap itself around me as I creep along the old cobbled causeway, hugging the shadows at the edges, where rocks jut from the seabed covered in slick green seaweed. I am in the open here, and if I’m unlucky and someone is about, then they could spot me pretty easily. To be honest, the sense of jeopardy only adds to my enjoyment. I feel daring and reckless. I want to laugh as the adrenaline thunders through my body.
As I get closer to the house the noise gets louder and louder. There’s just so much of it. There is music playing, the sound of glasses clinking, people shouting and laughing in high, breathless voices. The sound is coming from the back of the house, but at the front where I stand, frozen for a moment and absorbing this wall of sound, there is no sign of anyone. A nearby crunching on the gravel drive jolts me and sends me hurtling – not too daintily – into some shrubbery. A couple in the most gorgeous evening wear sway into view, clearly under the influence of something even stronger than Aunt Cath’s ginger wine. I hold my breath. This is what it must be like seeing a lion in the wild. My eyes greedily take in details – the shot of gold silk running through her scarf, the touch of red in his hair, made darker by the oil he seems to have rubbed through it.
“I said, darling, isn’t a girl allowed a bit of fun every now and then?” the woman shrieks, swaying a little.
The red-haired man wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her close. “And what’d he say?” he slurs, his eyes raking over her in a way that makes my body itch – though whether it’s a good or a bad itch I’m not entirely sure.
“He said…” The woman gasps, doubled up in mirth. “He said … can’t you be a little more like Mother?”
“No!” the man howls, dissolving into noisy guffaws and wiping his eyes. “Well, I’m very glad you’re not like my mother,” he purrs finally, pulling her even tighter against his side.
As lines go, I do not find this one either smooth or convincing, but it seems to work on the woman, who is now looking up at him and batting her impossibly long eyelashes. With an impatient growl he pulls her face towards his, and then the two of them are locked in a breathless and – I can’t help but feel – rather unnecessarily dramatic kiss. I turn my eyes away.
Leaving them to finish their theatrics in peace, I begin to move, stealth-like, through the newly tidied gardens and around to the side of the house. I’m actually feeling rather proud of my spying skills up to this point, and there is, I know, a good sturdy oak tree a little further on. If I can just pull myself up into its branches, then I will be able to watch what is going on in complete secrecy. I’m beginning to feel like an explorer, navigating new and unfamiliar worlds. I wish I had thought to bring my notebook so I could write some of this down, although I suppose it is too dark
to write in it anyway. As I round the side of the house, still patting myself on the back for getting this far, I cannot help but gasp.
Candles in glass jars dot the lawn and hang from the trees, flaming torches have been dug into the ground, and a hazy, romantic glow hovers over the scene in front of me. There are dozens of people gathered on the lawn. Moonlight strikes the rippling water beyond, and the sky is simply bursting with stars, like great handfuls of silver sequins scattered on a swathe of black silk. A large platform has been erected at the back of the house and a real jazz band is playing something furious and pulsing that makes my feet itch to dance. Not that I would be up to much compared to the exotic creatures who are already dancing in front of the band – they are spinning, whirling, and kicking with such energy that all I can make out are blurs of vibrant colours and clacking strands of beads and pearls. It is everything I’ve been dreaming it could be, and much, much more.
I realize then that for all my self-congratulatory spy talk I am currently still standing, glued to the spot, with my mouth hanging open for anyone to see. Fortunately for me, the enormous crowd have other things on their minds, and I delve back into the safety of the trees, creeping swiftly towards my chosen perch. Thanks to many years of practice I’m rather good at climbing trees, and you’d be surprised what a useful skill it can be in a pinch. It’s only a matter of seconds before I’m shinning easily up the trunk of the old oak and dangling my legs over a good sturdy branch. I can breathe a little easier now – knowing that I can’t be seen through the lush canopy of leaves … and, anyway, it seems highly unlikely that anyone would be looking up here when there is so much else to be looking at.
I let my own eyes feast on the scene. It’s as if I’ve stepped straight inside a cinema screen. The men look so dashing and expensive in black tie, and the women, with their shingled hair and crimson lips and amazing dresses that swing around their knees, they’re beautiful, just like in the pictures. There is champagne everywhere – in the glass saucers that are lifted to those curving crimson lips, in the bottles that are being circulated by waiting staff, and in the loud pops that are greeted by cheers as bottle after bottle is opened. In fact, there is so much champagne, I swear that underneath the music I can hear the bubbles fizzing.
The chatter is loud and excited, and I sit there on my tree branch looking down on all these people, as if they are the sort of exotic birds you might see at the zoo. There’s a lot of laughter in the air, and the giggles and guffaws are restless and eager. I sit with my chin in my hand, a happy sigh on my lips, satisfied just to take it all in. Here, finally, is the world that I have only read about. I’m overwhelmed by it – the colours, the lights, the energy of it. It’s humming and thrumming through me, in time with the music. A man is playing the trumpet, and the shrill, scattered sound it makes is relentless, begging me to move. I feel the tree branch shifting underneath me as my legs swing, just a little.
I don’t know how long I’ve been there when I’m suddenly aware of a tall man moving through the party. Wherever he goes I notice that the shouting grows louder; everyone wants his attention. Women want to touch him on the shoulder or the arm, they want to laugh up into his face. I can’t see much of him from my hiding place above the action, although I want to. I watch him for a while, my eyes following his progress. I make out a pair of broad shoulders, a head of thick, dark hair with a slight curl to it. He moves easily, one hand in his pocket. His progress is slow, languorous, as though he alone is immune to the urgent, pulsing music, to the excitement that crackles in the air. At one point he turns his head slightly to one side and I think he is trying to hide a yawn. I am so busy watching him that I don’t register at first that he is coming closer and closer to where I am hiding.
I curse under my breath and pull my legs up, flattening myself against the branch as much as I can. Why is he coming this way? My perfect hiding spot is in the shadows, at the edge of the party, and that is exactly why I chose it. I didn’t expect anyone to stray this far from all the action.
In the gloom I see the man come to a stop beneath me. There is a scratching noise and the dance of a flame as a match is struck, followed by the glow of a burning cigarette. He turns, lifting his chin, and briefly, his features are illuminated. I glimpse a harsh, angular face with high cheekbones, and a hard mouth set in a straight line. He exhales a long stream of smoke and stands in the shadows, the cigarette dangling loosely from his fingers. I hold my breath and try to hug the tree branch as closely as possible, to melt into it. Become the tree, my brain hisses. I am the tree.
The man lifts the cigarette to his lips and inhales again. The silence that envelops us seems almost oppressive now, removing us from the party as the world shrinks down to this one dark corner. I am certain that the thundering hammer of my own heartbeat must reach his ears soon, and why have I never noticed before how loud the simple act of breathing can be? I’m almost relieved when the stifling quiet is finally broken by his voice.
“Are you enjoying the view?” he asks, without looking up. My heart stutters, my body freezes. I don’t dare to move. “I can’t think that a tree branch is the most comfortable way to enjoy a party. Although, given some of the guests, I really do understand the impulse,” he adds, and his voice is a lazy drawl, curling through the night air towards me like his cigarette smoke.
With a feeling of intense nausea, I realize that I have been caught.
My options flash through my mind. Should I run away? How will I manage that with him standing right below me? Should I stay quiet? That won’t do much good if he already knows I am here. There is nothing to do now but brazen it out.
“Yes,” I say finally, trying hard to match his indifferent tone. I let my legs swing back down so that I am sitting up rather than hugging the tree branch like a demented squirrel. “The view is lovely,” I say, and I’m proud of how steady my voice sounds. “And I’m quite comfortable,” I add. “Thank you very much for asking.” Even Aunt Irene would be proud of my manners, and this thought is enough to make me laugh. So I do.
He turns to look up at me now, and in the moonlight my eyes meet his and the laughter dies in my throat. With a start I recognize those hooded eyes. I have seen them looking out from the pages of many, many society magazines, although before now I had no idea they were a deep mossy green colour. Alice and I have discussed pretty much every detail of his love life and admired every stitch of his clothing. Here is Robert Cardew, in the flesh, and talking to me. Meanwhile I am sitting in a tree, having gatecrashed his party. It’s no wonder his face looks so hard and uninviting. I wonder nervously if he will have me thrown out, if he realizes that I’m the one he chased from the house months earlier.
“Are you having a nice time?” I ask desperately, casting around for something to say.
“Not really.” He shrugs. He’s not looking up at me any more, but out towards the water. He doesn’t seem terribly interested in my presence.
“Why not?” My question cuts through the air as blunt as a butter knife.
He lifts his cigarette to his lips, and for a second I think he isn’t going to answer, that he’s just going to pretend I’m not here. Finally, he shrugs again. “I’m bored.”
“Only boring people get bored,” I say automatically. It’s what Pa always says to us when we complain of boredom, usually before he gives us some hideous chore to do. I can feel a blush spreading across my face and down my neck, and I send out a prayer of thanks for the darkness.
“A motto you hear quite frequently, is it?” Robert Cardew asks, and I give a little splutter of indignation.
“I’m not boring!” I exclaim. “And I’m not the one who’s bored by all this. You are.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” is all he says. The blandness in his voice gives nothing away. I am certain this is deliberate, and I find it tooth-grindingly frustrating.
I exhale slowly. Perhaps I can use his lack of interest to my advantage; maybe I’ll get away with this, after all. I can wait fo
r him to move – just a little bit to the right will do – and then I’ll have to jump down and make a run for it. I’m pretty fast so there’s a good chance he won’t catch me. At least he doesn’t seem too concerned by the fact I’ve gatecrashed his party, and there’s absolutely no need for me to tell him I’ve been breaking into his house for over a year.
“I think you must be my apple thief,” he says. “The one with a fondness for Agatha Christie novels.”
So much for that plan.
“I don’t know what you mean.” My voice has a slight squeak to it, and, even though he doesn’t move, somehow I know that he hears it and that it’s a point to him in this odd game we’re playing.
“You left apple cores all over the floor,” he says. “Next to a pile of books. It was either you … or we have extraordinarily literate mice.”
“That could have been anyone,” I say lamely. Silence again, as though he’s not even going to dignify that one with a response. “Well, you surprised me,” I huff then, giving up any attempt at denial and finding myself on the defensive. For whatever reason the profound sense of disinterest with which he seems to view my appearance makes something inside me crackle with anger. “Usually I tidy up after myself,” I add.
“Usually?” His voice is silk.
“I might have been once or twice before,” I grind out, and even to my own ears I sound like a sulky child.
“Hmm,” he murmurs non-committally, and that crackly feeling grows inside me.
“And, actually, I’m glad I did. I think it’s a crime having a library full of books that no one reads,” I snap.
He turns to look up at me again, and I refuse to be distracted by his stupid green eyes.
“Yes.” He nods thoughtfully. “Although I suppose some people might say that the breaking and entering was the real crime,” he continues, looking down again and picking at an invisible thread on his cuff with elegant fingers.
