by Gayle Curtis
‘Are you two going to get out?’
‘You’re supposed to come in with us, aren’t you?’ Cecelia released Sebastian’s hand.
‘Afraid not, I have another appointment. You’ll be OK; your visit went well the other day. They’re expecting you.’
Standing on the path, Sebastian lifted the large ornate knocker, letting it hit the door with one resounding bang. Cecelia felt so tiny, standing in front of the imposing Victorian house.
‘What were they doing in the war bunker naked?’ Cecelia whispered.
Sebastian looked directly at her. ‘What do you think they were doing, Cece?’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The loft room was almost like an apartment; Cecelia had been sharing it with another foster girl, a surly creature she didn’t really get on with. When she’d left, Sebastian hadn’t been allowed to move in with Cecelia – Samuel had said it wasn’t a good idea. Sebastian laughed about it with Cecelia. They thought it was ridiculous since his bedroom was just a few short steps below the loft room and they were still permitted to share a bathroom.
‘Did you notice Eleanor didn’t say we couldn’t share? It’s because Samuel fancies you,’ Sebastian had teased Cecelia. He’d joked about this when they’d first arrived and Samuel had been very attentive to her needs. Now it wasn’t so funny.
‘There’s someone else arriving in a couple of days – a girl called Leyla . . . Lola, something like that anyway.’ Cecelia had chosen to ignore his comment.
Sebastian had noticed she’d been spending more and more time with Samuel – helping him with the business – and in turn he’d been overseeing some of her coursework. Sebastian would tease her just to see her reaction; he was jealous and struggling to hide it. Cecelia reassured him he was being ridiculous but it hadn’t been the response he was looking for.
It was important to Sebastian that the time he spent with Cecelia was concentrated, filled with interesting conversation and laughter, maintaining their closeness. He didn’t want her to forget what they shared and drift towards someone else. Having only one bathroom between them had been a rare stroke of luck because the bathroom was where they had always shared some of their best moments.
Sebastian had taken to drawing Cecelia while he sat in the bath and she on an old wooden chair while she talked to him. It had come about when he’d been doing some art homework in the tub one day, resting his sketch book on the bath rack and, distracted by his sister, he’d begun to draw her and it was something he’d enjoyed doing ever since.
The house was much larger than Sebastian remembered; a grand entrance hall with a stripped wooden floor, partly covered by an Indian rug, led up to a curved and austere staircase. Sebastian felt that the people didn’t fit in the house and the house didn’t seem to like its inhabitants. When they’d first arrived it was warmly lit and welcoming, but now they’d settled in it felt superficial and slightly cold.
‘How can she afford a house like this?’ Sebastian whispered to Cecelia one night when they were in the sitting room.
‘She and her brother inherited it, but now he’s gone it’s been left to her. That’s what Samuel told me. Anyway, why wouldn’t she have a house like this?’
‘I don’t know. It just doesn’t suit them, I suppose . . .’
For the first time in their lives Cecelia and Sebastian’s opinions about other people differed. He could see she felt comfort from the family routine they offered. He didn’t though. Cecelia was his family and she was all he needed.
‘What are we going to do when we’ve finished here, Cece?’ Sebastian asked her as he sat in the bath later that evening, sketching his sister’s face as she concentrated hard on painting her nails. Cecelia frowned, changing the balance of her face, the perplexed expression causing her mouth to tip to one side.
‘I don’t think we need to look beyond tomorrow. Let’s see what comes our way and stay in the moment.’
Sebastian stopped what he was doing. ‘Could you try and think for yourself at some point.’ He flicked water at her.
‘I do!’
‘You sound like a robotic version of Eleanor . . . turn your face towards me slightly. Stop frowning.’
‘And you,’ Cecelia stood up from her chair, her towel falling slightly, revealing her back and side, the ridges of her ribs, reminding him of the church etchings they used to do at primary school, ‘sound like Leonardo bloody de Vinci. I don’t know what we’re going to do, Sebastian. What do you think we should do?’
Watching Cecelia getting dressed, Sebastian observed her shape, so different from his own. The sharing of skin and cells always comforted him, made him feel close to her.
‘Once we turn sixteen, we can find somewhere to live on our own.’
‘What with? We don’t have any money.’
‘I’m going to take on a market stall, expand on the stuff I’ve been selling at school.’
Cecelia sat back down in her chair. ‘Socks?! What about your studies? You can’t do that as well, you won’t have time.’
‘Yes, I will. I’m going to college to study art, I’ve decided not to take my A levels.’
‘That’s ridiculous! While we have a roof over our heads we may as well make use of it until we’re asked to leave; study hard and get some qualifications behind us. Selling thermal underwear isn’t going to pay our bills.’
‘You’re forgetting something. Once we turn sixteen, we won’t be welcome in this house anymore.’
‘Yes we will; they won’t throw us out . . .’ Cecelia shook the small bottle of varnish and started on her toes. ‘And anyway, there’s always the farm . . .’
‘No,’ Sebastian said firmly, turning back to his sketchbook now that Cecelia was sitting down again. He could see a question hovering on her lips, the words, like spiders, crept from her mouth but she said nothing. There would never be a time when he wanted to return to his childhood home – it filled him with a heavy darkness he didn’t want to think about.
‘I’m going into town later; I need to buy some linen.’
‘Uh huh, what for?’ Cecelia pressed her lips to her bare knee and he wondered why she always did that.
‘A new technique I want to try out for my coursework.’
‘Oh. Will I be needed as a guinea pig?’
Movement on the stairs made Sebastian look up. Cecelia followed his gaze and turned in her chair. Both of them stared at the closed bathroom door. Sebastian put his finger to his lips and Cecelia tiptoed quietly into the separate shower cubicle situated in the corner of the room.
Sebastian pulled himself from the bath water, wrapped a towel around his waist and opened the door. Samuel stood there, hands in his jean pockets.
‘Why didn’t you knock?’
‘Is Cecelia in there with you?’
‘No. What do you want?’
‘I just want to speak to her about something.’
‘Sorry, I don’t know where she is.’ Sebastian closed the door to find it immediately pushed open again.
‘Do you need some money?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Take some money.’ Samuel pushed a five pound note into Sebastian’s hand.
‘What’s this for?’
‘You might need it . . .’
Sebastian stood there, baffled. He’d been expecting a lecture about him and Cecelia spending too much time in the bathroom.
‘Breakfast is on the table. Can you let Cece know, please?’
Sebastian watched him make his way down the corridor. He could feel the draught lift slightly at Samuel’s reference to Cecelia’s shortened name. The name only Sebastian used for her.
‘That was nice of him.’ Cecelia crept out of the shower cubicle.
Sebastian frowned. ‘No it wasn’t; he’s fucking weird.’
‘No he’s not. They’re just making sure we have everything we need . . . they didn’t have to take us in, Sebastian.’
‘Oh, fuck off, Cece! Eleanor’s a foster paren
t, out for what she can get – don’t think they’re not being paid to have us here. They don’t give a toss about us.’
‘Yes they do, you’re being really unkind. It makes a change to be part of a normal family.’
‘Ha!’ Sebastian laughed, wandering into his bedroom to get dressed. It was pointless returning to his bath, the moment was lost. ‘You better hurry up and get down there for breakfast before it gets cold.’
Upon returning to his room, he found a local newspaper lying on his bed. It was folded in half, the headline read, ‘Woman’s body found in woodland near White Horse Farm’.
CHAPTER TWELVE
When Cecelia returned to the loft room she found a small bag of chocolates on her bed with a note which read, to help you with your studies, the initial S underneath. She picked it up and stared at it, an unfamiliar feeling forming in her stomach. Samuel had been helping her with some coursework she’d been stuck on. He’d attended a private school when he was younger, where they had a different way of teaching; Cecelia found it more interesting, an easier way to learn facts.
‘Have you read this?’ Sebastian barged in waving a newspaper at her.
‘Read what? I can’t see if you don’t hold it still.’ She reached up and snatched it from him. She read it and then read it again. The room seemed to tilt one way, then the other.
‘What’s that?’ Sebastian pointed to the chocolate and note on the bed, his voice slightly high-pitched.
Cecelia didn’t answer. Sebastian snatched the note from her bedspread as she scanned the article.
‘This is fucking weird.’
‘You’re telling me,’ Cecelia whispered, the green suitcase on the purlin floating around in her mind.
‘You don’t even eat chocolate.’
Cecelia looked up, realising they were talking about different things.
‘I think we’ve got far more important things to worry about than some stupid chocolates . . . where did you get this from?’
‘What?’ Sebastian frowned, exasperated by her attitude.
‘The newspaper.’
‘Is that all you’re bothered about? Where the bloody newspaper came from. Aren’t you more worried that the body could be Mum? Did you already know about this?’
‘Eleanor told me yesterday.’
Sebastian held his hands out questioningly. She could see he was annoyed and getting ready to lecture her again, as he frequently had since they’d arrived at the house. He kept saying he felt like he was losing her, but he couldn’t see that his constant bombardment was pushing her away.
‘I didn’t tell you because it might not have anything to do with us. In fact . . . I know it’s not Mother so don’t worry about it.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just do, all right. Trust me. Someone told me it’s a drug addict from the brothel down by the station.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Never mind who told me, you can be rest assured it’s not Mother, it’s just some old whore someone just happened to dump on the farm. Now don’t keep questioning me.’
‘Oh, I knew this would happen.’
‘What?’ Cecelia got up from her bed and began putting her clean washing away.
Sebastian reached forward and tugged at her arm. ‘Don’t do this, Cece. Don’t close yourself off from me . . .’
‘You’re being silly, Sebastian, you’re just tired.’ Cecelia turned to look at him; she reached forward and touched his face. ‘This is a big adjustment; it’s not easy for either of us.’
‘Do you ever think about Dad?’
Cecelia snatched her hands from his face and continued to hang up her clothes.
‘You can’t pretend –’
‘No, I don’t think about him or what happened . . . sorry, but I don’t.’ She shrugged defensively. Of course, there were times when she was going to sleep, unable to fill her head with anything else, when she did think about it, but in the main she didn’t. Perhaps there was something amiss; in the outer recesses of her mind she knew she was somehow devoid of emotion, but she couldn’t engage with any of it. It was the abuse, the humiliation, the mental manipulation that had made her cold towards her father and resulted in her shooting him. That’s what she kept telling herself, but somewhere inside she knew the justification was a signal there was something very wrong. Or maybe the need to justify it told her she was normal; she’d long since given up thinking about it.
‘I’m struggling with it . . . I need you.’
‘Struggling with what?’ Cecelia sat on the bed next to Sebastian and embraced him, unable to hide the exasperation in her voice.
‘We killed our father . . .’ Sebastian said quietly, looking round to make sure they were alone.
Cecelia sighed. ‘We didn’t do anything. If you remember, it had nothing to do with you. So, there you go, you can forget about it and let me live with what happened. Because I can live with it. I really am all right, so just forget it. We’ve moved on and I don’t want to hear the subject mentioned ever again.’
‘Mention what?’ Lola came running in and threw herself on her bed under the window. ‘Come on, tell me. It all sounds very serious. What have you done?’
‘Nothing.’ Sebastian pulled himself from Cecelia and went downstairs to his own room, slamming the door behind him.
‘What’s got into him?’
‘He’s talking about giving up his studies so we can get a place of our own. That’s all.’
‘Does he have a girlfriend?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Cecelia, having finished hanging her clothes up, turned her gaze on Lola.
‘I just wondered, that’s all.’
Cecelia realised Lola was looking for someone to chat to. Cecelia had seen other girls doing this at school, but had rarely taken part due to her temperamental voice – which strangely hadn’t deserted her since her father had died. Being the observer for many years, she found small talk irritating and pointless.
‘Sebastian doesn’t need a girlfriend, he’s got me,’ she snapped, slamming the wardrobe door.
‘Weird . . .’ Lola whispered, rolling her eyes and turning her attention to the magazine on her bedside table.
Within moments Cecelia found herself across Lola’s bed, her hand around the girl’s thin neck as she rammed her up against the wall.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it!’
‘You better fucking not have.’ Cecelia released her grip.
Lola’s brown eyes were huge, filled with shock and fear. Cecelia grabbed the small girl, wrapped her arms around her slight frame and covered her head in kisses.
‘I’m so sorry, I am really, really sorry,’ she said over and over again, tightening her grip, harder and harder, dispersing her temper until she thought she might crush the girl to death.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sebastian spread the roll of linen across the kitchen table and began cutting it into large sections, the headline from the newspaper flashing across his vision, dancing through his mind, worrying him. Eleanor had chosen to tell Cecelia about the body that was found and Cecelia had only thought to tell him when he’d asked who had left the newspaper in his room. It was bothering him. He wondered if his hostility towards Eleanor and Samuel made him too unapproachable – that’s what Cecelia kept telling him anyway. They were too nice in his opinion and something was amiss – he’d never met anyone like them before. But whenever he tried to discuss it with his sister she just said they were good people, and he just wasn’t used to it. And yet, everything about them irritated him: Samuel’s band, the gigs he went to in the evenings, the funeral business, his clothes, the way he spoke. It made Sebastian want to punch him in the face. Eleanor was just as nice but less patronising, her voice more monotone, although, like Samuel, it was as though she was programmed to speak in a certain way. There was something about Eleanor that held his interest though. She had the most symmetrical face he’d ever see
n. She wasn’t the most attractive woman – her nose was too thin and it made her eyes appear too close together – but she held a calm confidence that was visible in her strong features, her long blond hair, like she had the answers to the wonders of the universe. Nothing seemed to faze her; she just floated through the house with the same aura each day. When Sebastian had stormed into the sitting room, aggressively throwing the newspaper across the floor, Eleanor hadn’t flinched or changed her tone of voice or her attitude towards him. This was why she had such a good reputation as a foster parent. Cecelia was right – he wasn’t used to people like that.
They were now both in the kitchen, Eleanor behind him, quietly minding her own business, chopping herbs on the worktop.
‘Drink this.’ She placed a mug on the table near to him.
‘What is it?’ He peered into the steaming cup of water, green leaves floating on the top.
‘It’s a calmer; it’ll help you to focus on what you’re doing.’
‘Thanks.’ Sebastian cautiously picked up the cup, sniffing the contents. ‘Is it mint?’
‘Yes, and a little lemon thyme.’
‘What do all your rings mean? Do they have any significance?’ Sebastian pointed to the large crystals covering almost every one of Eleanor’s fingers. He was making an effort – trying to be nice to make a point to Cecelia.
‘They all have some sort of health benefit. I usually wear the ones I’m drawn to and then change when the time feels right.’
‘How do you know that the time is right?’
‘Well, I usually feel slightly different, altered. Out of kilter I suppose you’d say. What’s the linen for?’
‘An art project . . .This is nice.’ He lifted the cup towards her.
‘I grow all the herbs in the orangery; just help yourself whenever you want some.’ Eleanor moved forward and touched the linen.
‘I’m trying to print parts of the body onto it using charcoals . . . possibly powder paints, I’m not sure yet.’
