by Lucy Strange
‘Good morning, Father,’ I said.
He didn’t reply, he just reached for the teapot and poured more tea without taking his eyes from the letter. The tea spilt and bloomed on the white tablecloth in front of him, and I handed him a napkin.
‘Oh! Good morning, Henry,’ he said.
‘Good morning, Father,’ I said again.
He looked back at his letter, raising his teacup to his lips. Scarred skin stretched, like a map of Africa, across the back of his hand and wrist. Many men bore scars these days – reminders of the Great War that had ended last November – but Father had not fought. He was an engineer and had spent most of the war working in the ports and factories of Britain; fighting for victory, yes, but not actually fighting. Father’s scar was not from the war at all. I tried not to think about the night he got it.
‘I like the new house,’ I lied. ‘And the garden. And my room is lovely.’
He nodded and pulled at his moustache.
‘How is Mama today?’
Father said nothing for a moment, then he drew out his watch. ‘The doctor will be calling again shortly to check on her.’
He turned back to the letter in his hand. It was trembling. After a while he said, ‘It looks as if I – I may have to go abroad for a while, Henry. To work.’
‘Go where?’ I asked, my heart beating quickly. But we have only just got here . . .
Father didn’t answer my question. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, so quietly I almost thought I had imagined it. ‘I’m sorry. I think – I really must go.’ He wasn’t looking at me, and I wasn’t sure he was even aware he had spoken out loud. He folded the letter and tucked it in his jacket pocket. Then he stood and left the room, absently touching my shoulder as he passed me.
I heard him making a telephone call from the hallway, speaking loudly into the mouthpiece about tickets, trains and sailing times. Then he went upstairs to pack.
Something is terribly wrong, I thought. With Father, or Mama. Or both of them. I couldn’t eat any porridge at all.
At nine o’clock I opened the front door to a tall, fat man dressed in a tweed suit and carrying a bulging black leather bag. He had a white moustache and bushy eyebrows. He might have looked like a friendly old giant, except for his bulging eyes, and a thick, purple lower lip that stuck out.
‘You must be young Henrietta,’ he said, putting out a huge hand. ‘Your father told me all about you last night. I’m Doctor Hardy.’
I pressed my lips together and shook his hand firmly (I once heard Father telling Robert about the importance of a strong handshake). The doctor’s hand was damp and flabby but its tight grip made me wince.
‘Is Mama . . . ?’ But I couldn’t finish my question.
Doctor Hardy bent down and spoke to me as if I were five years old instead of twelve. His breath smelt of kippers and stale tea.
‘Mummy isn’t very well, Henrietta,’ he said, still gripping my hand. ‘She needs special medicine so she can get some rest.’
Nanny Jane appeared from the kitchen.
‘Doctor Hardy,’ she said crisply. ‘Let me take you upstairs to see Mrs Abbott.’
Father left at lunchtime. When I kissed him goodbye he put his arms around me, but it was as if I wasn’t really there. He kissed Piglet and spoke quietly to Nanny Jane for a few moments, then he walked to the car.
He blames me, I thought, perhaps for the hundredth time. He blames me for what happened in London. That’s why he’s leaving us.
We were all smiling – flat little painted-on half-smiles – but my eyes burned and my throat hurt. I clamped my teeth tightly together and smiled a bit more to stop myself from crying. Only Piglet actually looked upset, although that was probably because she was hungry. She was always hungry.
The motor car paused at the bottom of the driveway, next to the sign that said HOPE HOUSE. I waved as the car rolled out on to the road and disappeared from view. I waved because Nanny Jane was waving. She waved Piglet’s hand for her too.
Mama hadn’t come outside to say goodbye, but I looked up as we walked back into the house and saw a shadow at her bedroom window. Two white hands were pressed to the glass.
After Father left, I lost track of the days. Somehow, it felt as if every day was Sunday. I spent hours reading on a blanket in the garden, in the shade of a huge sycamore tree. I read the same books over and over again – Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, The Secret Garden, The Wind in the Willows, my fairy tales . . . These were the books of my childhood. They were familiar, safe. I knew how they ended.
The nights were long and lonely. My dreams grew darker and more terrifying: I was haunted by a terrible sobbing sound and sometimes sudden shrieks that left me shivering and sweating in terror. And the smell – always that choking smell of smoke.
Doctor Hardy came and went, dispensing his pills and his advice.
‘Run along now,’ he would say, reaching out to pluck a book from my hands. ‘Little girls like you shouldn’t be reading stories all day, Henrietta – you should be learning something useful, like needlework.’ He would bend his grinning face down towards mine as he spoke, and I would be transfixed by the glistening threads of saliva strung between his teeth.
‘Yes, Doctor Hardy,’ I would say, and my voice would be flat. I felt flat inside too. Flat and empty, like a book with all the pages torn out.
I didn’t see Mama often. She stayed in her room. She had not been well since last summer, but since our move here, and since Father had left, she seemed to be much, much worse. She looked exhausted – deeply exhausted, right through to her bones.
On the journey from London, Father had told me that he, Mama and Robert had come here on holiday before I was born. They had stayed in an old lighthouse keeper’s cottage by the sea. Coming to live here at Hope House was supposed to make Mama better, but she wasn’t getting better, she was getting worse. It was as if she was becoming a ghost.
Most mornings I played with Piglet, or pushed her pram around the garden. I enjoyed our slow, day-dreamy walks. I stuck to the paths and stayed away from the strange shadows of the wood.
I helped Nanny Jane with any jobs that needed doing, and I visited our new cook, Mrs Berry, in the kitchen. Sometimes I would help her beat eggs or whip cream. She was always pleased to see me and would give me iced lemonade and thick wedges of freshly baked bread smothered in butter and raspberry jam, whether I was hungry or not.
Mrs Berry talked a lot. She talked about all her family and neighbours as if I knew exactly who they were, and soon enough I felt as if I did. I didn’t say much. I learnt to ask the sort of questions she enjoyed answering.
One afternoon I helped Mrs Berry make bread. I kneaded the dough until my hands ached. Mrs Berry let me shape the dough into little bread rolls. I made plaits and knots and flowers and animals.
‘What’s that one supposed to be?’ Mrs Berry asked.
‘A tortoise,’ I said.
‘It looks more like a squashed mouse.’ Mrs Berry laughed, and I laughed too, brushing my hair away from my eyes and getting flour all over my face. That made us laugh even more. And then suddenly, without any warning, I was missing Robert desperately. Something burned in my throat. Tears welled up in my eyes and I backed away from the table.
‘I’m just going outside for a breath of air, Mrs Berry,’ I managed to say, heading for the back door. I needed to escape.
I had left the book I was reading – Little Women – on a rug in the garden earlier that morning. I had read it twice before, but it was a good book to read when I was feeling lonely. I wanted to read books about families. I would imagine I was just one of a crowd of squabbling, giggling siblings, and pretend I had a bossy big sister or a best friend there to take charge and sort everything out. Every now and then, when I was sure no one could hear me, I would find myself talking to this imaginary friend. Sometimes she was like Jo in Little Women – funny and tomboyish and practical. I would hear her voice in my mind – warm and reassuring. But on this ho
t, humid afternoon, my imaginary friend was different – more separate from me, more real. And it wasn’t a girl, it was a boy . . .
Robert.
He lay on his back in the shade of the old gazebo, gazing up into the mess of honeysuckle above.
I stood perfectly still on the lawn and stared. It was as if I saw him through a mist at first – he was blurred, more like a drawing than a real boy, like an illustration from a storybook. His hair was lighter, and he seemed younger than when I had last seen him. I walked closer and knelt down beside him. I wanted to reach out and touch his hand . . . But you’re imagining him, I said to myself. You’re just imagining him . . .
‘It’s nice here, Hen,’ Robert said. I saw that he had a runner bean in his hand and wondered if he had taken it from the kitchen garden. He gnawed at it. ‘I might keep you company for a while. If that’s all right.’
‘Y-yes,’ I said, faltering. I tried to smile. ‘Yes.’
He leant back on his elbows, closed his eyes and tilted up his chin, as if he were drinking in the sunshine. The golden light shimmered on his hair.
‘A lovely place,’ he murmured. ‘Hope House. A new chapter, Hen. Hope for us all here, don’t you think?’
I didn’t know what to say.
‘Let’s explore,’ Robert said, sitting up and shading his eyes with a freckled hand. ‘Do you want to go for a walk in the woods?’
I looked towards the wilderness at the bottom of the garden.
‘I’ll come with you if you like – if you’re scared . . .’
I felt a flash of bravery. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Let’s.’ But then I stopped. A cloud of rooks rose up from the branches of the tallest trees, cawing loudly. Something must have startled them . . . The leaves whispered darkly in the breeze. ‘Maybe another day,’ I said, trying not to sound frightened.
Robert just smiled before lying back in the long grass. ‘The woods will still be there tomorrow, Hen,’ he said.
I shook my head. It can’t be Robert, I thought. It can’t be him . . . I closed my eyes against the bright sunlight, and when I opened them again, he had vanished.
Nanny Jane was there, though. She was standing on the terrace, her arms folded in front of her. She had a strange expression on her face, and she was staring straight at me.
I stood up quickly, turned my back on her and walked towards the sycamore tree. I sat down on the rug and picked up my book, moving my eyes back and forth over the words, but they were just meaningless patterns on the page. I was breathing quickly now, in strange little gasps. I stared at the book, desperate to lose myself in the story in front of me so I wouldn’t have to listen to my own thoughts. It can’t be Robert. It can’t be . . .
I couldn’t help it. I looked back at the gazebo, hoping that my brother would have mysteriously reappeared. He wasn’t there, but the sunlight danced on the dry grass – a flash of gold, just like his hair . . . I shook my head again, struggling to control the sobs that were welling up in my chest.
‘Robert is dead,’ I told myself. ‘He’s gone. He died last summer.’
Doctor Hardy visited that evening.
‘And how is our little cherub?’ he enquired, bending low and breathing in my face. Today he reeked of cooking fat – smoky lard, the burnt bits in a roasting tray.
He wasn’t calling me a cherub, he was referring to Piglet, who was freshly bathed and snuggled up on my shoulder, ready for bed. He reached out with a fat, purple finger and stroked her cheek.
‘She’s quite well, thank you,’ I said, moving her to my other shoulder.
‘And how about you, Miss Abbott?’ He looked into my eyes, moving his head from side to side like a snake charmer. ‘Slightly jaundiced, do you think, Miss Button?’
‘I think she’s just caught the sun a little, actually,’ said Nanny Jane. ‘She’s been outside a lot.’
‘Ah,’ said the doctor. ‘Not wandering too far, I hope. No big adventures for you, young lady – you need a nice, quiet summer holiday, don’t you?’
‘Of course,’ Nanny Jane said quickly. ‘She’s been . . . doing needlework, haven’t you, Henry?’
I nodded gratefully. Piglet starting grumbling.
The doctor reached out quickly with his big hands and took her from me. It felt as if someone had just pulled a handful of guts from my abdomen. I nearly gasped with the shock. He held Piglet up to his face.
‘What’s wrong, baby?’ he cooed, sickeningly. ‘What’s wrong? Oh, you’re not happy at all, are you?’
Doctor Hardy wanted there to be something wrong with everyone. Perhaps it makes him feel more important, I thought, if everyone is ill.
Piglet’s grumble turned into a full-throated cry.
‘She’s just very tired, Doctor,’ I said in my most grown-up voice, taking Piglet back again. I pressed her to my chest so that I was able to breathe once more. ‘Sorry, it’s past her bedtime. Good night.’ And I carried her up the stairs.
Piglet’s wail faded to a whimper. I tucked her into her cot and kissed her goodnight. She grunted and fussed a bit, but she was tired. ‘Ladybird, ladybird fly away home,’ I started to sing, stroking her soft hair. ‘Your house is—’ But then I stopped myself.
‘Sweet dreams, Piglet,’ I said, rather emptily.
Her eyes closed and soon she was whistling softly through her turned-up nose, her tummy rising and falling steadily.
Doctor Hardy and Nanny Jane came upstairs just a few minutes later. I heard glass bottles and metal instruments clinking and bumping around in his bag. The two of them were talking in hushed, secretive tones. They went straight into Mama’s room and closed the door behind them. Then I heard the key turn in the lock.
Click. Locked. No entry.
No callers, hawkers or daughters, please . . .
Doctor Hardy stayed until about ten o’clock. He did not speak to me before he left, and Nanny Jane, who had brought me a cup of cocoa when she came to say goodnight, had not told me anything either. It was midnight now, and I was still not asleep.
Why would no one tell me anything? Father had left us. Mama was so sick I hardly ever saw her. I wanted to help. I wanted to do something, but it was the middle of the night and I was all by myself and I was twelve years old. What could I possibly do?
I stared out of the window at the moonlit garden and the dark woodland beyond. There it was again – that mysterious wisp of smoke drifting up from the trees – that flicker of faery flame that I had seen on our first night at Hope House. There was someone out there in the darkness. Someone or something. I felt that familiar tugging sensation – a voice calling to me from among the trees . . .
Doctor Hardy’s instruction echoed in my mind: No big adventures for you, young lady . . .
I smiled a small, angry smile.
I would go.
At the very bottom of the garden, where the wilderness began, I stopped and stared into the blackness. Then I took one long, deep breath and walked into the dark jaws of the forest.
In the woods, the moon and the stars generated something that couldn’t quite be called light. They didn’t shine, they silvered the darkness, creating just enough dusty grey shadow for me to pick my way through the trees. I kept one hand in front of my face so I didn’t walk into any low branches, and twice I felt the sticky threads of spiders’ webs breaking over my fingers. The smell of smoke grew stronger. A faint yellow haze glowed in the gloom and I followed it, stumbling along dark, twisting paths, until at last I saw the light of a fire flickering in a clearing ahead.
I hid behind an oak tree, pressing my palms and cheeks against the rough bark. I could hear nothing but the gentle crackling of burning wood. It didn’t sound like the sort of fire that haunted my dreams; it sounded like a friendlier sort of fire – for toasting crumpets and warming your hands. This was no faery flame, this was real. Someone was here, sitting beside a fire in the woods of Hope House . . .
Slowly, very slowly, I peered around the tree. There was a round campfire exactly in the mid
dle of the clearing . . . There was no one sitting beside it. At the far edge of the clearing, beyond the fire and several yards of leaf-strewn earth, stood a small gypsy caravan. It was old and battered and looked as if it were somehow part of the forest itself, growing out of the bramble bushes that surrounded it. It might once have been yellow, like Toad’s caravan in The Wind in the Willows, but much of the paint had peeled off to reveal the bare, rotting wood beneath. Dirty lace curtains were drawn across two tiny, broken windows. At the foot of the wooden steps lay what looked like an old rowing boat, filled with soil and planted with herbs.
The plants suddenly bent and shivered strangely, as if touched by an invisible hand. Something was moving in the dark space beneath the caravan. Something twisting and squirming, as dark as the darkness itself. A pair of eyes blinked – they were looking straight into mine. A thump of fear hit me and I stood perfectly still. The eyes blinked again, and a lean, dark shape squeezed out from beneath the caravan. It was a cat – a bedraggled little brownish-black cat. It stalked towards the trees, black against the almost-blackness of the woods. As it moved further from the light of the fire, I could only see it because I already knew it was there.
A chunk of wood shifted in the campfire, showering sparks on to the leafy floor of the forest. I couldn’t help myself – with a gasp of fear, I ran forward and stamped on the sparks until they were extinguished.
‘Who’s that?’ a voice asked suddenly, just a few yards away.
I stumbled back behind my tree, my heart banging painfully.
Immediately, I heard the voice again, hissing from the caravan window: ‘Is that you, cat?’
The cat meowed an insolent reply and melted into the darkness. Then the door of the caravan flew open.
I held my breath, terrified, hypnotized.
