by Nina Allan
“I told him to go away,” she said. “I promise I did.”
“It’s not your fault, Jacks. I mean, it’s not as if you called him.”
I heard a third voice somewhere in the background, muttering something unintelligible that sounded like “boots, boots,” and then the man again.
“This is Dr. Leslie. How do you know where we are?” Before I could answer, the third voice said “boots” right into my ear and then the line went dead again. This time when I redialed I got the engaged tone.
I replaced the receiver in its cradle and stepped out of the booth. A deep twilight had settled upon the moor, making it appear as boundless as the sea. The neon sign fronting the Jolly Roger gave the faces of the people in the queue an orange cast, as if they were warming themselves before a bonfire. I made my way slowly back up the lane towards The Tarquin. I thought about calling Clarence but I was afraid to. I knew she would tell me to come home, and I was feeling so unsettled by what had just happened that I knew I might be tempted to obey her.
I was afraid of other things too, but found it difficult to name them. My mind kept replaying the way the woman at Directory Enquiries had said the word “hospital”: deliberately, as if spelling it with a capital “H.”
I couldn’t help wondering what it might do to someone, being shut away in a place like West Edge House for twenty years. I was bound to admit there was at least a chance that Bramber would reject me entirely, not out of repulsion but through fear of the outside world.
* * *
—
BOTH BARS OF THE TARQUIN were full to bursting. I went straight upstairs to my room, which was alive with the hazy, amber glow of the outside security lights. I quickly drew the curtains then ran a bath. I could hear the laughter of drinkers downstairs in the bar but the sound was not oppressive and in fact I found it soothing, a comforting confirmation that I was not alone. By the time I got out of the bath I felt more relaxed. I made tea in the large china pot and decided I would write to Clarence. It was only once I dug out my writing pad that I realized I didn’t have a clue what I wanted to say to her. I settled on a postcard instead, a view of Exeter Cathedral at dusk. I looked at the card for some moments, studying the lighted facade with its saints and angels. I wrote “wish you were here” on the back and then put it away.
The pub had gone quiet and I saw it was long past eleven and approaching midnight. Time had scurried away from me again. There was no noise from the landing and I wondered if, after all, I was the only guest. It occurred to me, ridiculously, that the word “guest” sounded unnervingly similar to the word “ghost.” For some reason I kept remembering the voice I had heard on the phone, the man with the Oxford accent who had pretended to be a doctor, if he had been pretending. I switched on the radio to blank him out. Piano music tumbled out and after a second or two I realized it was a piece I recognized, although I was unable to remember the title or the composer. I assumed it was something of Jane’s. I thought of the way Jane sometimes closed her eyes when she was playing, her plump, pale hands scuttling like blind mice over the keyboard.
I had always found Jane’s talent unnerving, supernatural almost, though of course I never said as much to Clarence.
I reached out and twisted the dial, drowning the music in a burst of static. Eventually I hit on a local station that was broadcasting a phone-in discussion on the foxhunting ban.
“The change in the law has been disastrous,” a caller was saying. “It’s destroyed our way of life. How can politicians understand anything about the countryside when they barely set foot outside Westminster from one year to the next?” The caller pronounced the word “year” as “yar.” Her voice reminded me instantly of the man on the telephone.
“A century ago and you’d have been using the same argument to justify hanging,” another caller objected. He had a thin, reedy voice and he sounded upset. “Just because it’s tradition doesn’t mean it isn’t barbaric.”
The third caller was also a man. He spoke with a local accent so thick I had a struggle to understand him. “That’s all very well,” he said. “But what are we going to do with all the hounds?”
“I’ll take a hound,” said the other man quietly.
“It’s ridiculous to compare hunting with hanging,” said the woman. “Foxes are vermin. Ask any farmer.”
“You might be interested to know that the police around here still use dogs to catch criminals,” the local man added. “It’s all bloodhounds nowadays, but foxhounds are just as good if it comes to a chase.”
“Dogs are the best friends we have, if you ask me,” said the woman. “I’d trust a dog over a police officer any day of the week.”
“If anyone out there has anything to add to that we’d love to hear from you,” the presenter said smoothly. She gave out the number of the radio station and then a pop record came on the air. I got into bed and switched out the light. The mattress was old and deeply sprung and very comfortable. The pop song seemed to go on forever, and it was only when I came awake that I realized I’d been asleep. I woke up suddenly, convinced I was not alone in the room. The radio station had closed for the night, replaced by quiet static. I threw back the covers and made a grab for the radio, hugging it against my chest as I fumbled for the off button. The static subsided. I fell back against the pillows, heart racing.
Why didn’t you just put the light on? said “Artist.”
Her voice seemed to come from close by, from beside me in the bed even. I thought of her eyes, green as razors, her stiff little limbs.
In spite of myself I felt aroused. I masturbated furiously, bringing myself to a swift climax. The aftermath was dizzying. I listened to my own breathing as if from a great distance. It was as if I were two separate people, one in my bed at The Tarquin, the other far away, prisoner of a realm as dark and forbidden as my cruelest desire.
What nonsense you talk, said “Artist” drowsily. We fucked, so what? I hope it was as good for you as it was for me.
The old house creaked and groaned as if it too were breathing. From somewhere amidst the darkness I heard a cough. A door banged shut downstairs. I closed my eyes, then opened them again. On the bedside table, the luminous dial of my watch read half-past three.
West Edge House
Tarquin’s End
Bodmin
Cornwall
Dearest Andrew,
Three days ago I had a visitor. I hadn’t slept well the night before and when I finally got up it was after nine. The first thing I heard was Michael Round, crying through the wall. A couple of minutes later Jackie and Diz came along the corridor and stopped outside his room. They whispered together for a moment or two then one of them knocked on the door. I heard Michael Round’s bare feet shuffling across the lino as he went to open it.
“We’re setting up a whist drive,” Diz said. “Would you care to join us?”
I didn’t catch what Michael said in reply but by the time I came downstairs the three of them and Livia Curran, who looks just like Ingrid Pitt from Countess Dracula, were outside on the patio, a pack of cards between them on the table. Jackie was dealing. I noticed that Michael Round was still in his pyjamas.
I went into the kitchen and made myself some toast. Sylvia doesn’t like people helping themselves to food between meals but everyone does it. I ate the toast at the kitchen table and then washed up my plate. I ran into Dr. Leslie in the kitchen corridor.
“You’re not usually late for breakfast,” he said. “You’re not feeling unwell, are you?”
I told him I was fine, just running behind with things, then he told me there was someone here to see me, if I felt up to it. I wasn’t sure what to say at first. I hadn’t had any visitors since my father died. When I asked who the visitor was, Dr. Leslie just smiled and said it was a surprise.
“They must have got the name wrong,” I said. “Are you sure it’s really me
they’ve come to see?”
I know how impossible this is going to sound and please don’t go thinking I really am crazy but my first thought was that my visitor must be my mother. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if my father had died first, instead of my mother. I think of her selling the house on Harlequin Road and moving to a large, bright apartment in Bath, or Salisbury. I imagine us writing letters, exchanging news, talking to each other in a way we never did when she was alive.
I wouldn’t be writing from here, of course. I can’t imagine where I would be writing from, who I would be. But I like to imagine her smiling. Do you think that’s silly?
“There’s no mistake,” Dr. Leslie said. “Your visitor has traveled a long way to see you.”
He said we could use his office. At that time in the morning, Sylvia Passmore would normally have been in there, sorting through the post. I wonder what reason he had given her, to keep her away.
She would find out about the visit soon enough, in any case. It’s impossible to keep anything secret here for more than five minutes.
When I first heard her footsteps I thought it was Sylvia after all, but that was just from the way her shoes click-clacked on the parquet. She hesitated in front of the doorway, as if she was worried she might have come to the wrong place. Then she tapped on the door. I felt so nervous I couldn’t say anything, not even “come in,” but that turned out not to matter because she came in anyway. Her shoes were made from cream-colored leather, so pale it was almost white. The heels were high and polished, the same color as the shoe.
Blond hair often darkens with age, but if anything, Helen’s had grown even lighter. It stood out around her head in flyaway curls, just as before.
“You haven’t changed,” was the first thing she said. “You haven’t changed at all.”
She came fully into the room and closed the door. I gazed at her, this apparition. Was she beautiful? Did I know her? Was she older?
I remembered how she had looked on the day of the elephant, arms raised above her head, the light from her hair leaping up into the sky like reverse lightning.
Like a doll, a living doll, an image you might see in an old book of fairy tales: Plate 3 – The Birthday of the Infanta. Or else captured inside a snow globe, maybe.
Yes, she was older. This woman was still beautiful, but she seemed leached of color and substance, like a woman in a photograph. Probably it was the clothes she was wearing, all that pale linen, though there were lines around her eyes as well. Tiny ones, but they were there.
“I’ve changed a lot,” I said, not knowing if it was true or not. Twenty years seemed like seven days suddenly. I kept thinking I was going to be sick.
“What a weird place this is,” Helen continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “It’s taken me weeks to persuade them to let me see you. Months. I don’t know how you stand it. Don’t you ever feel like breaking some of the rules?”
She plumped herself down in the swivel chair behind Dr. Leslie’s desk and smiled, a tight, breakable gesture, like the rim of a wineglass.
“There aren’t any rules,” I said. “I can get out of here any time I like.”
“Well, there are rules if you want to get in.” She leaned forward in the chair, propping both her elbows on Dr. Leslie’s ink blotter. “They asked me so many questions anyone would think it was Checkpoint Charlie. Your doctor is worried my presence here might be triggering, apparently.”
She snorted with laughter, then inhaled, drawing her breath down over her teeth. Her Anne Boleyn gasp. I noticed the scar across the palm of her hand, a hard pink contusion, convex and sharply contoured, almost like piped icing. It looked as if someone had once attacked her with a food mixer.
“Dr. Leslie didn’t tell me you were coming,” I said. “I only found out five minutes ago.” I found I was still staring at her hand. I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t take my eyes off that scar. Helen’s face was expertly made up in shades of pink and mauve and gray, but she wore no rings, and her fingernails were unvarnished and cut short. She didn’t want to draw attention to her hands, I suppose. If Jennie had been there she would have wanted to know all about it: how the accident happened, whether it had been painful, everything. Jennie isn’t afraid of asking questions. Not like most people.
Helen blushed and then smiled. “It happened when I was filming,” she said. “On an oil rig, would you believe? Some stupid thriller. It could have been much worse. The doctors say I could get a skin graft but it doesn’t seem worth it. Not to me, anyway. I hate hospitals.”
“West Edge House isn’t a hospital,” I said.
“If you say so.” She was silent for a moment. She pitied me, I could tell, but her pity seemed a long way off, like mist over a lake, like weather over the border in another country. I knew she was lying about her hand. What I didn’t understand was why she was here.
“You have to get out of this place,” she said at last. She spoke especially slowly and clearly, enunciating each word as if she thought I might have difficulty understanding. “What happened with your mum was years ago, Bramber, a lifetime. We were both just kids. You must know I didn’t mean what I said. It wasn’t your fault. Haven’t the doctors told you the past is the past? I thought that was what these places were for.”
“My father died,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” said Helen. “I liked your dad.” She fished a handkerchief out of her bag and twisted it between her hands. There were tears in her eyes but she didn’t try to wipe them away, I suppose because she didn’t want to spoil her makeup.
“I want to apologize,” she said. “I should have come ages ago, I realize that. I was scared. I’m such an idiot. Can you forgive me?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” I said. I didn’t realize until I said the words how true they were. Since coming to West Edge House, I had thought of Helen in the past tense. I had wished her dead, I remembered that now. But wishing something is not the same as it being true. “What were you scared of?”
“I don’t know. That you would hate me, I suppose. That you would be angry. I would be angry, if I were you.”
“You thought I was stupid.”
“Not stupid. Just – naive, I guess. You were such a pushover. I was so messed up though, back then. I bloody hated Truro, especially school. I had this fantasy of blowing the place up, like Christian Slater does in Heathers. I liked imagining the expression on Dad’s face when he found out what I’d done.”
“Did you get your place in London?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “A garden flat in Peckham. The parents hate Peckham, they think it’s a rough area. I remember when I got my first bedsit I told them I had rats, just to see what they’d do.”
“And what did they do?”
“Nothing much. But it started another row.”
We had coffee after that, I think. I can’t remember how long she stayed exactly, maybe an hour or two? The strangest thing was that when I finally mentioned Edwin she didn’t seem to remember him. Not at first, anyway.
“You don’t mean the nerdy guy? I have no idea what happened to him. I don’t keep in touch with anyone from school.” Then she repeated the line about me needing to get away from West Edge House. “You’re killing yourself in here,” she said. She blushed. “You know what I mean.”
You blame yourself for what happened to Elisabeth, Helen said, but you were not to blame. Elisabeth, she said, as if she knew her, as if the two of them had been friends. But I could have stopped it, I want to say, I could have saved her. The words lodge themselves in my throat, hard and square, like a piece of apple.
People can choke on pieces of apple, like Snow White in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
When the time comes for Helen to leave I accompany her to the door. I watch her step on to the path and walk towards the road. The sun d
rifts out from behind a cloud and makes a nest in her hair. Helen turns to look at me, shading her eyes from the light with her injured hand.
“I’ll come again,” she says. “Soon. And I’ll write letters. Lots of them.”
I take a single step forward, wondering what will happen if I try to follow her. I am afraid that by the time I reach her side she will be gone.
There is always a day when summer fades into autumn, sometimes in the space of a single hour. The light changes color and the leaves soften, become fragile. Everything goes to seed. I always try to ignore that moment, to pretend it isn’t happening, but I am always aware of it. Every time it makes me wonder how many summers there are left.
Helen had seemed surprised, at the end of that summer, when I called round to see her. She even looked embarrassed. I had never come to her house before without being invited.
“Hey,” she said. It was a Saturday morning. She shoved both hands into her jeans pockets, a gesture that was new to her, a role she was learning. “How are you feeling?”
The way she spoke to me made me think of Kimberley Grove, a girl in our class who went down with pneumonia the year before. She was off school for a month, which to us seemed a lifetime. When she came back after the Easter holidays, people spoke to her differently, as if they thought she might shatter or go into hysterics at any moment. One morning in assembly I overheard two girls in the row behind me whispering that Kimberley Grove had almost died.
“I’m all right,” I said. “I thought we could go for a walk.”
Helen said OK but she didn’t sound keen. Our friendship was over, I suppose, though neither of us seemed prepared to admit this outright. We talked of other things, the horrors of returning to school, the approaching exams. When we reached the section of the path that led directly to the viaduct, Helen came to a standstill.
“Let’s go back,” she said. “I don’t like it up here. It’s creepy.”
