Hidden Hours

by Sara Foster

  Or is Susan just upset, and Eleanor paranoid?

  ‘I don’t, Susan, I promise,’ she replies.

  Susan just stares at her. They have forgotten the vicar is there, until he speaks. Perhaps he senses the charged atmosphere and steps in to break it. ‘There is a back way out of the church,’ he says to Susan. ‘Would you like to use that?’

  ‘Yes please,’ Susan answers. ‘You go out the front, Eleanor. The taxi will be here at any moment. You can give those journalists something to gawp at.’

  Eleanor takes her leave, hurrying back along the dim, empty aisle of the church, ever aware of Arabella’s photo, refusing to turn to look at it, as though she might find if she did that Arabella’s eyes were no longer gazing into the distance but fixed directly on her. She can feel them anyway, boring into her back, asking, What did you do, Eleanor? What did you do?

  33

  the cubby

  April–May 2005

  During autumn, the air takes a sharp turn towards coldness. Over the school holidays, Eleanor has set herself a project: to restore the cubby, so that she has somewhere to go. Somewhere she doesn’t have to listen to the sounds of house construction and her mother and father snapping at one another. Somewhere the air isn’t stippled with tension.

  Aiden is disappearing more and more with his new friends. He probably feels the same, but she hasn’t asked him. He seems to enjoy winding her up when she tries to talk to him nowadays – rolling his eyes, shaking his head, sticking his tongue into the bulge of his chin. She’s given up for now, just hopes he gets over himself sooner rather than later.

  Nevertheless, she’s hollow and wistful when she heads down to the site of the original cubby on her first free day. Was it really only a few months ago that she and Aiden had built it together? She doesn’t want a remake of the original, but to create a new structure close to that first site, under the shelter of a large paperbark tree, which will hopefully afford it some protection from the wind and rain.

  It takes five times as long to build it as it had done with Aiden, and it is smaller and not so impressive, but every time she heads down to the bottom of the block and sees it waiting she is proud of her solo efforts. For the first few days she lies inside, her chin propped on her elbows, staring out of the entrance, looking up at a few white clouds scudding innocently across a blue sky, watching insects scurry through the patchy grass. She has managed to snag a piece of laminate flooring that was just lying around – she didn’t bother asking, just took it when no one was looking. She doubts anyone will head this way any time soon. Yet even with the laminate, she often finds herself plucking at the small burrs that have hitched a ride on her clothes. She steals snacks too, and surreptitiously opens a cardboard box full of cushions to snag a few for the den, so she can read in relative comfort. It’s not perfect, but it will do.

  She brings Harry Potter and Artemis Fowl with her, as well as her sketchbook, but finds herself taking long, daydreamy breaks from her reading and drawing just to stare at the landscape that stretches away from her to another row of trees in the distance. On the left is the fence line that marks the boundary between their land and Solomon’s. She hasn’t dared to go over the fence again since that first time.

  When she’d told her mother about the cubby, Gillian had seemed pleased. ‘Just tell me if you go anywhere else, won’t you – I need to know where you are.’ But there had been no mention of a visit to see what Eleanor has been doing, which leaves Eleanor feeling half-sad and half-glad.

  The month drifts on, and the cubby provides some respite from the tedium of the aimless weekends. During the week there is school and homework, but on Saturday and Sunday there is just Eleanor and her parents. Aiden goes out at sun-up and stays out till bedtime. Eleanor watches her mother’s gaze follow him everywhere on the rare occasions he’s in the shed; the way her mouth opens and her tongue flits over her bottom lip, as though she’s always on the verge of saying something but never quite able to go through with it.

  Aiden’s repeated rejection of their mother is difficult for Eleanor to watch – in part because it makes her feel guilty too. She knows she is doing similar things – answering in monosyllabic sentences; ignoring attempts to engage her – determined that her mother should know at all times just how hard this life is.

  Sometimes, during the long, dry days, she falls asleep in the cubby. One unseasonably warm day in May she wakes from such a nap to find a bee buzzing around her, and she stays still, irritated, hoping it will go away.

  And then something else brushes against her leg and past her hand. Something cold and smooth.

  A clap of panic sends her dizzy. It has to be a snake – a snake is gliding along the left-hand side of her body, staying close. No, it can’t be, she thinks, trying to rationalise her fear. Haven’t snakes hibernated by now? Yes – it must be something else.

  She lifts her head a fraction to look down her left side, and sees a long brown reptile inching towards her, nestled into her body.

  It’s a snake.

  Every part of her cries ‘move’, and yet she is pinned to the ground in terror. She has no idea what kind of snake this is – only knows that plenty are dangerous; that an eleven-year-old girl was on the news last summer because she almost died after being bitten. And that girl’s parents had raced to help as soon as it happened, saving her. If Eleanor gets bitten, no one will know. No one will check on her for hours. It will take her a few minutes to get back to the house, and that’s if she jogs – a few minutes with poison circulating in her body.

  She might not make it back.

  She cannot help herself. She begins to cry, snuffling as quietly as she can, aware all the time of the snake resting just a fraction away from her left hand, expecting to feel its strike at any moment. She tries to console herself with the thought that the snake seems far more relaxed than she is.

  And then she hears barking, alarmingly close by.

  The snake is aware of it too; it is moving along her left side again. Go away, go away, she prays, hoping it will glide out of the entrance, but of course the snake is far more sensible than that, and moves further inside, retreating from this new threat, sliding up right past Eleanor’s head into the darkest recess of the cubby.

  As its tail moves past her eyes she makes a split-second decision. There’s no way can she lie in here with the snake behind her, unsure what it is doing, how close it is, whether it is asleep or watching her. It might touch her again at any moment; it might slither right over her body. She goes to jump up, but desperation turns all her movements to slow motion. It seems to take half an hour from the time she raises her head until her hands hit the floor and help push her up on to her trembling legs. Every moment she expects to feel sharp fangs stab her skin. As soon as she is on her feet she charges forward, away from the cubby, panting as she runs, vaguely aware of a figure in the distance, and heading straight for it, for safety.

  Solomon catches her arms as she bangs heavily into him. Charlie races towards the cubby but Solomon’s ‘No, Charlie, stop!’ echoes loud and sharp. Charlie seems to understand the danger, because he halts to paw at the ground instead, whimpering, looking desperate to go further but not moving an inch or taking his eye off the cubby’s entrance.

  Eleanor begins to sob as she leans against Solomon’s chest. She lets him comfort her, his hand patting her back slowly, saying nothing for a while, until her cries subside.

  ‘Is it a snake?’ he asks then.

  She nods, still unable to speak.

  ‘Loads of folks think they sleep for the winter, you know, but they don’t always. They just slow down, so you gotta be careful. A nice warm day like this one will bring them back out for a while. That fellow was just looking for somewhere cosy and he found you. You must have had a scare there.’ He lets go of her, and her awkwardness returns as she nods at his words.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asks.

  ‘Did you hear Charlie barking? He’d run ahead and was going b
allistic, so I knew there was trouble. I climbed the fence after he jumped over it – haven’t done that in a while, let me tell you.’ He puts his hands behind his back and manages a stiff-looking stretch. ‘Come on then, Charlie.’ He whistles and the dog responds immediately, racing past him without needing to be told where they are going, shimmying under a gap in the fence.

  Solomon turns to follow the dog, and then stops. ‘Actually, would you like to come up to the house with me?’ he asks. ‘There’s something I’d like to show you.’

  Still wiping her eyes, Eleanor is caught off-guard by the question. She wants to run back to her mum and dad, until she pictures the scene – trying to tell them how scared she had felt while their heads are stuck inside cupboards or their hands twitch impatiently, poised with hammers or drills.

  Solomon is waiting for an answer, and she feels a surge of defiance.

  ‘Okay,’ she says, and as he turns around and begins to walk away from the cubby, she sets off alongside him.

  34

  the school run

  Freya Jackson, headmistress of St Josephine’s, is brooding on the Mortimer family as she heads to the Year 8 classroom to collect Naeve. First they forget Savannah’s carol concert, and now they’re taking the girls out of school like this. Is it any wonder Naeve’s drawings have been causing talk in the staffroom recently? Ms Jackson hopes they’ll have sorted themselves out by the new year. She is used to dealing with recalcitrant parents, but she’s not sure she’s a match for Susan Mortimer. The woman scares the hell out of her.

  When Eleanor gets to the front entrance of the church, to her relief Will is still waiting for her. ‘What’s going on?’ he asks as soon as he sees her.

  ‘Susan wants me to go and get the girls.’ She looks across to where the journalists were standing, and realises that quite a lot of them have gone. She’s not sure why she’d assumed they would still be waiting, since all the main players in this drama are no longer visible.

  ‘Can I do anything to help?’ Will asks as he follows her gaze.

  ‘Susan has called me a taxi.’ As she surveys the scene she can see the top part of a black cab sitting outside the gate. ‘Could you check if that’s it, and could you help me get past the journos if needs be?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He runs down to the gate and disappears for a moment. When he reappears he gestures for her to come.

  Eleanor’s legs feel unsteady as she walks down the path. She flicks a glance across at the remaining journalists, and sees Aisha standing among them, watching her go. She tenses, waiting to hear her name called, but none of them move, even though their eyes follow her.

  Will opens the taxi door for her.

  ‘Do you want to come with me?’ she asks desperately.

  He shakes his head. ‘I’d better not, Susan might not like it. I’ll call you later.’ And he pushes the door closed.

  Eleanor sits on her hands, biting her lip. She is lost for a moment until a voice from the front says, ‘Where to, love?’

  ‘St Josephine’s school – in Notting Hill. Do you know it? I’m not sure of the street name.’

  ‘It’s okay, I know it,’ he assures her, and the taxi moves quickly away from the church. As she looks back out of the small rear window she sees Will walking away from the churchyard, his arms tight to his sides as though he’s feeling the cold, his hands clamped in his pockets and his head down.

  As she settles in her seat, her thoughts move to the girls. She’s dreading their questions already. How is she going to look them in the eye and lie to them? They’re bound to know something’s up when they’re being taken from school in the middle of the day. She hates that Susan has asked this of her; she can’t stand the idea of setting herself on the side of the adults by keeping things from her cousins. She recalls the shock on her uncle’s face as he’d hit the ground, and his slumped shoulders as the police led him away. Did they really need to do that so publicly? It made him look so guilty. Was that the intention?

  Then she remembers Susan’s words in the vestry. Her aunt will do anything to make sure the blame falls elsewhere.

  She shivers. Wherever she turns she feels suspicious eyes upon her, as though everyone is trying to crack her apart, to prise out what is hidden. It’s as though they sense her shame, her fear that there is something dangerous inside her; some power she can unwittingly turn outwards to cast tragedy on all those who come too close.

  She thinks of Arabella’s portrait, staring down the main aisle of the church. What did you do, Eleanor? What did you do?

  Keep calm, she tells herself. But she can barely sit still. How she wishes she wasn’t on her way to get the girls. She doesn’t want to be responsible for anyone else right now when she can hardly hold it together herself.

  But they are here already, the driver is pulling up outside those imposing school gates. Eleanor is always surprised at how quickly you can get across London in daylight – she’s so used to going below ground to the Tube.

  ‘Can you wait for me?’ she asks as she climbs out. ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘As long as you know the meter’s still running,’ the driver replies gruffly.

  She glances at the meter. Twenty-five pounds down – she should have enough if this doesn’t take too long. She buzzes the speaker at the gate, and tells them why she’s here. There’s a clink and the gate begins to move, allowing her entrance. The security takes her aback. It’s so different to her childhood, it’s more like visiting a prison than a school.

  The office is right by the main entrance, and through the glass door she sees Naeve and Savannah waiting on rigid seats. Savvie swings her legs back and forth as she reads a book, while Naeve stares into the distance. When they see Eleanor they jump up and Savannah hugs her. ‘We get to leave school early,’ she tells her pointlessly as they head outside.

  ‘What’s going on now?’ Naeve grumbles behind her, struggling to carry her oversized bag.

  Eleanor doesn’t answer the question, just says, ‘Come on, the taxi’s waiting.’ As they climb inside she is surprised to see another ten pounds has gone onto the meter – surely they weren’t gone for that long.

  ‘Harborne Grove, please,’ she calls out, and watches the meter nervously as they set off for home.

  Savvie begins chattering on in her usual way about Christmas parties and Christmas food and Christmas movies, and Eleanor is bolstered by the girls’ presence. It’s only a couple of days until they finish school for the holidays. Perhaps things will seem better when they are at home every day, with Naeve drifting around and Savvie bringing lightness and laughter into the stultifying atmosphere. She hopes they will carry everyone through the festivities; she hopes they will be too excited to notice the forced gaiety around them.

  She tries to picture them all opening presents together in less than two weeks, but the scene is like watching something on screen: she cannot imagine being part of it. She is not just counting the days but the hours until that moment – as though if they can get to Christmas they will survive this whole storm cloud that has come upon them, because it feels as if something terrible is lurking in the shadows, biding its time. She keeps thinking back to Ian’s confession of his affair – to his scuffle in the churchyard. His vagueness has bothered her lately, but that is nothing compared to Nathan’s blatant aggression. What would have happened if Ian hadn’t been there to rescue her from Nathan’s clutches a few days ago? How long would Susan have stood by and watched?

  She tries to imagine what her uncle is doing right now, as he speaks to the police. They had all been caught up so quickly in this toxic situation, but was that only by chance? She has so many questions, but the biggest one of all hovers ever present at her shoulder.

  Will Ian tell the police about the ring?

  ‘Eleanor, Eleanor,’ Naeve is nudging her fiercely. ‘What’s going on?’

  It takes Eleanor a moment to reorientate and work out what Naeve means, but
when she does she has a renewed flash of fear. They are almost at the house, but a small crowd awaits them, gathered outside with cameras in hands or on tripods.

  ‘Will you be okay, miss?’ the driver asks, sounding less gruff now.

  ‘We will be once we get inside,’ she replies with more conviction than she feels.

  As he draws up to the kerb, the journalists turn and start to converge on the cab. ‘Hang on a minute,’ the driver tells them. He gets out and opens the door, shouting at the crowd, ‘Let these young girls through to their house, please!’ He has a burly bouncer’s presence and the journalists automatically recede a step or two, but the cameras still click and whirr as the cabbie shepherds the three of them to the door. Eleanor fumbles in her bag for the key, aware of all those eyes watching them just metres away beyond the garden wall. When she finally opens the door the cabbie ushers them inside, and she hurriedly closes the door on everyone with a bang.

  Immediately, there’s a sharp knock, and a voice beyond the door shouts, ‘You forgot to pay me, miss!’

  Eleanor finds the fifty-pound note in her bag and pushes it through the letterbox, where it is snatched from the other side. ‘Thank you,’ comes his gravelly voice, and the letterbox falls closed again.

  Once she has double-checked the door is locked, she turns to see both girls sitting on the expansive staircase, their backpacks at their feet, their gazes firmly on her, waiting. Savvie’s bottom lip quivers; Naeve’s expression is stony.

  ‘Has something bad happened to Mummy and Daddy now?’ Savvie asks, and a few large fat tears break free and skim her cheeks.

  ‘I keep telling her you would have told us that already, but she won’t believe me,’ Naeve says crossly, putting her arm around her younger sister.

  ‘Savvie.’ Eleanor goes and kneels in front of her. ‘I promise you, you don’t need to be scared. Your mum and dad are caught up with work, and those horrible journalists out there are insisting on harassing everyone they can find because they want to know what happened to Arabella. Listen.’ She looks at each of the girls. ‘Let’s go into the kitchen and find something really delicious to eat – something you’re not normally allowed. There must be a stash of chocolate or biscuits somewhere.’