by Lucy Strange
‘Her sister – well, she’s another case entirely,’ said Mrs Hardy.
There was the squeak and sigh of furniture as people stood up. A chair scraped on the wooden floor. I skipped a few steps backwards into the hallway, as if I had just left the study and had heard nothing of their conversation.
The door opened and out they came. The enormous Hardys, with Piglet wrapped up and ready to go out, clutched in Mrs Hardy’s arms, and Nanny Jane behind them all, looking almost childishly small in comparison.
‘Ah! Good morning, Henrietta!’ said Mrs Hardy, her voice as piercing as the cry of a seagull. She looked me up and down. ‘Not washed and dressed yet? My, my – we will need to do something about these slovenly habits, won’t we?’
No, we won’t, thank you very much . . . ‘Good morning,’ I said, struggling to keep my tone civil.
‘You can of course come to visit your sister whenever you like, Miss Abbott,’ boomed the doctor. ‘We aren’t kidnapping her, are we, Mrs Hardy?’ And they both laughed merrily.
My stomach was cramping and churning, and I fought back the angry tears that were swimming in my eyes. I walked straight to Piglet, looking only at her, as if she were floating in mid-air, and not in Mrs Hardy’s arms at all.
‘Goodbye, Piglet,’ I whispered, kissing her forehead and her little turned-up nose. ‘I love you and I’ll see you very soon, I promise.’
Mrs Hardy took her out to the car.
Before he left, the doctor said he would check on Mama and give her a top-up of medicine. Nanny Jane didn’t want me in the way, so she asked me to help tidy up the nursery and strip the sheets off the cot. I didn’t like to disobey her, but I felt I had little choice. As soon as I heard the door of Mama’s room closing, I crept down the corridor towards it. I needed to hear what Nanny Jane and Doctor Hardy were saying about Mama’s treatment.
But they weren’t talking about Mama. They were talking about me.
‘I don’t think she’s lying, Doctor.’
‘Then we have to consider the possibility that Henrietta is wandering around and unlocking doors in her sleep . . . All this time on her own, her mother descending into madness, her head full of fantasies – it just isn’t good for her. Her behaviour really is very odd, Miss Button. You say it’s just an active imagination – I say it’s hereditary insanity – and Doctor Chilvers agrees with me. She is clearly developing some kind of serious psychosis just like her mother—’
Nanny Jane stopped him. ‘I’m quite sure that isn’t the case, Doctor. Really, she’s just a little girl who has recently lost her brother. I’ll keep a close eye on her and I’ll look for—’
‘After all,’ he went on, talking over Nanny Jane, ‘apart from the child, there really isn’t anybody else it could be.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘There isn’t.’ And I heard her sigh.
‘Now, Miss Button, have you heard any more from Mr Abbott?’
‘We exchanged telegrams yesterday.’
‘And he said nothing about admitting her to Helldon?’ There was a pause before the doctor spoke again. ‘I’m afraid we must take the decision into our own hands. Her case has obviously worsened considerably during Mr Abbott’s absence.’
‘Exactly,’ I thought I heard Nanny Jane say. ‘If we could just wait for—’
‘And so he does not fully comprehend the situation. Miss Button, please try to understand that chronic cases like this require rapid treatment.’
‘But don’t you think she desperately wants—’
‘What Mrs Abbott wants is neither here nor there. I am telling you what she needs. She must be committed if she is to receive the right care: intensive pyrotherapy, immersive water therapy, surgery if necessary . . . Doctor Chilvers is a genius – a pioneer in his field. Really, Mr Abbott should be honoured that Chilvers has shown an interest in his wife’s case.’
Pyrotherapy? Pyro meant fire, didn’t it? How could fire possibly help my family after what we had been through? And what was immersive water therapy? I thought about that day at the beach, and my panic as the cold salt water pulled me under, flooding into my nose, my ears, my mouth . . .
I couldn’t breathe. I went to the nursery and stripped the sheets from Piglet’s cot, just as I had been asked. I stayed in there, inhaling the sweet, baby-scented air until I heard the sound of Doctor Hardy’s car leaving.
When I went into my bedroom that evening, Nanny Jane was there, rummaging through the drawers of the dresser.
‘Can I help?’ I asked from the doorway, making her jump. Her face went pink.
‘I’m looking for—’
I knew exactly what she was looking for. ‘A key? I told you. I promised. It isn’t me, Nanny Jane! It really isn’t!’
She looked at me for a moment and decided to change tack. She held up the book of Keats. ‘Where did this come from?’ she asked.
I should have said it was Father’s. I should have lied, but I didn’t. I didn’t think quickly enough. ‘Moth gave it to me,’ I said.
She looked at me as if I really had lost my marbles. ‘A moth?’
‘Not a moth. Moth. She’s my friend – a lady called Moth. She’s a . . . a bit like a witch and she lives in the woods. She’s very kind.’
I noted the expression that flashed across Nanny Jane’s face.
‘She’s real,’ I said defiantly.
‘And this witch gave you a book of poetry?’
‘Yes. I like poetry.’
‘That’s hardly my point, Henrietta.’
‘What is your point exactly?’
Nanny Jane waved the book in the air. ‘Witches in the woods? Talking to imaginary friends? Yes, I’ve seen you, Henry, I’ve heard you talking . . .’ She looked at me closely. ‘Is it – is it Robert you’re talking to?’
I didn’t say anything. I pressed my lips together and glared at her, determined not to cry.
‘Henry, I know this has all been very difficult for you, very difficult indeed, but . . .’ She took a deep breath. ‘Doctor Hardy thinks you’re sleep-walking. He thinks you’re wandering around the house, unlocking doors without even being aware that you’re doing it. He thinks your imagination is over-excited and—’
‘I am not over-excited!’ I erupted, painfully aware that I sounded very much as if I were.
‘I believe it’s very common to have imaginary friends – a whole imaginary world – when the real world is so difficult.’
‘I am not imagining ANYTHING!’ I shouted and, even as it flew from my mouth, I knew it was a lie. I snatched the book of Keats from her and stuffed it into my pinafore pocket. Furious tears were burning in my eyes now. I turned and ran down the stairs, through the kitchen and out into the garden. I hadn’t unlocked the doors, I hadn’t. Nanny Jane didn’t trust me any more – she trusted Doctor Hardy and they both thought I was going mad.
I kept running and running, through the garden, through the trees, until I was deep in the middle of the wood.
Beneath an enormous oak tree I gasped for breath and cursed out loud and cried until I ached all over and had no more tears left. The sun was starting to set and, here in the shadows of the forest, a chilling dampness started to creep through the clammy earth and into my bones.
I looked around. I didn’t recognize this part of the forest at all.
Was I anywhere near Moth’s clearing? I couldn’t detect even a hint of smoke in the air. I remembered that first day at Hope House when the smell of Moth’s campfire had terrified me. How comforting I would find it now . . . I tried to remember the paths I had taken as I ran, but it was just a blurred chaos of trees and hot tears. I walked slowly now, scouring the forest for anything familiar. I listened as Moth had told me to listen, but the woods were silent and still. As I walked, Nanny Jane’s words of doubt and accusation caught up with me, biting like insects.
Have I been sleep-walking? I thought. Is it possible that I have been wandering around the house in the night, moving things in the attic, unlocking doors?
I kept walking. I looked up at the ragged patches of sky and, deciding the pinkest glow must be to the west, I walked in the opposite direction, towards what I imagined must be the sea and, therefore, Hope House. But I came out instead at the edge of a long field. It looked as if it hadn’t been farmed for years and was wild with meadow grass and flowers. A pair of rabbits turned and fled towards their burrows, their white tails bouncing through the twilight. At the edge of the field stood a tumbledown old house. The tiles were sliding from the steep roof and the windows were filthy. It had been abandoned long ago. The sign on the gate was hard to decipher, but some letters were legible and I decided it might once have said GAMEKEEPER’S COTTAGE. Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother might live here, I thought . . . Then I started thinking about blood-thirsty wolves hiding in the deep, dark woods. What big teeth you have, Grandmother . . . Trembling, I turned to face the trees again. I would have to go back into the darkness if I was to find my way home. Nanny Jane would be worried about me, especially after our argument. I remembered just how badly she had been affected by Robert’s death, and now, in just one day, Piglet had been taken and I had disappeared too. Nanny Jane had lost all three of us. I needed to get home to her and Mama, but I couldn’t bring myself to walk back into the woods alone . . .
The fading light swirled around the meadow, creating a shimmering, golden whirlwind. And I knew I wasn’t alone any more.
Robert was here.
Part of my mind was whispering cruel taunts: He’s not real, Henry. He’s just another one of your emerging symptoms . . . But I felt better anyway. Robert was real to me. He wasn’t a living, breathing person any more – I knew that – but he was still real. He was made out of the wildest, wisest, bravest bits of my imagination – my wild, wise, brave brother. And right now I needed him more than ever.
We stood there for a while, side by side, staring at the forest.
‘You know what to do when you have to go into the darkness, don’t you, Hen?’ he said.
I shook my head. I couldn’t go back into the woods. I had no idea where I was. What if I never found my way back out?
‘You look the darkness right in the eye.’
‘Yes?’
‘And you run at it!’
‘Run?’
‘RUN. Ready?’
‘No, Robert, wait—’
‘One, two, three – RUN!’ he yelled.
And then we were both running, hand in hand, pellmell across the grass and into the trees, and I was yelling too, a fierce, fearless battle cry, and leaves whipped at our arms and faces, and the darkness reached out, but it could not catch us as we flew by. And then we were in the middle of the woods – and we were both breathless with laughter. If only I could find the Robert part of me more often. If only I could be braver and wilder and wiser . . .
‘They will be all right, you know,’ Robert said as we slowed down to a walk, getting our breath back. ‘Mama and the baby.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘You can help them, Hen.’
‘I can’t even help myself, Robert. Doctor Hardy thinks—’
‘Well, Doctor Hardy is wrong. You’re Henrietta Georgina Abbott, and you’re not just my little sister any more – you’re a big sister now too. Remember that.’
‘Yes.’
Robert led the way, stepping through the shadows of the trees. He turned back to smile at me as he became nothing but a shadow too, melting away into the darkness.
But I wasn’t afraid. I was on a path now and, as I followed it, the trees started to thin out, the shadows turning from black to grey. I stepped from the leafy floor of the forest on to a harder surface. There were no trees at all in front of me.
It took me a moment to realize that I had somehow found my way to the main road. There was a roaring sound behind me then and I twisted around to see two bright lights moving towards me impossibly quickly . . .
There was a terrible screeching sound. The lights swerved violently and I threw myself back into the hedgerow, brambles scratching my arms and legs. The motor car roared past and then I was all alone again in the darkness and silence.
Silence? Not quite – I could hear a soft clattering and whirring. The clattering became the distinct clip-clopping of hooves, and I saw a familiar brown pony trotting towards me, pulling an old-fashioned trap.
‘Hullo, there. Are you all right?’
‘Mr Berry!’ I shouted.
‘Hullo?’ Mr Berry called back. ‘That isn’t Miss Henrietta, is it?’ He peered at me through the gloom as he pulled up the pony.
‘Yes, I’m afraid it is,’ I said, standing up and almost crying with relief.
‘A motor just came by me at a terrible pace and spooked B-Bert. Are you all right, Miss? I thought I heard a scream.’
Had I screamed? ‘Yes – I’m all right. I just – seem to have got a bit lost, Mr Berry.’
‘Well – what a b-bit of luck that I should run into you on the way to collect the wife from Hope House, then,’ he said. ‘No harm done, eh? Hop up, little ’un.’
I climbed up and, instead of sitting on the rear seat as I had done when he had taken us to the seaside, I sat beside him, relieved to be close to a kind body after the panic of the last few hours. We trotted towards Little Birdham.
‘Well, now, how are you all getting on at Hope House?’ he asked.
I didn’t know what to say. I knew what the polite answer was – ‘Everything is just fine, thank you’ – but I didn’t think I was capable of telling such a lie. ‘They’ve taken Piglet,’ I said. ‘Doctor Hardy has taken her.’
He was quiet for a moment. ‘I heard as much,’ he said.
‘And they want to send Mama to Helldon.’
Mr Berry’s brow furrowed. He concentrated on the road ahead.
‘What is Helldon, Mr Berry? Nobody will tell me.’
‘It’s a sort of hospital, little ’un,’ he said in a low, strange voice. ‘A m-mental hospital. The old asylum up at Hawkham.’
The old asylum? Doctor Hardy wanted to have Mama locked up in the old asylum . . . I shivered horribly and my breathing became thin and quick.
‘I was in there for a while,’ he said. ‘During the war.’
‘You were?’
Nanny Jane had told me Mr Berry had been injured in the war, but that was all she had said. Now that I looked at him, I saw that there were scars – livid marks scored into his neck, his hands and one side of his face.
‘You’re wondering what happened to me, I expect,’ he said. ‘How I g-got these.’ He touched the side of his neck.
I felt that I had been very rude for staring. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Only natural you should be curious. Grown-ups always pretend not to notice.’ He took a moment to steady himself. Bert trotted on down the twilit road. ‘A g-grenade. Do you know what a grenade is?’
I said I did.
‘My corporal got the worst of it. He was a good chap. I was the lucky one really – just caught a bunch of shrapnel, b-burst an eardrum . . .’ He was silent for a second, then he said, ‘Have a bit of trouble with my knee too, but that’s from a knock I took earlier in the war. The B-Battle of the Marne – have you heard of it?’
I said I was sorry but I hadn’t.
Mr Berry said nothing for a moment. Then he said, ‘Ah. Well. We saved P-Paris that day.’ Then, more quietly: ‘Fluctuat nec mergitur.’
‘Is that Latin?’
‘Yes. It’s the motto of Paris – something like, Tossed but not sunk. The French translate it a bit more prettily – She is tossed by the waves but she does not sink.’ Then he looked at me. ‘We’ve all been tossed by the waves, haven’t we, little ’un? The t-trick is not to sink . . .’
‘Fluctuat nec mergitur,’ I said. I smiled at Mr Berry and he smiled gently back. He twitched and rubbed at the scar on his neck. I was reminded of Father’s burnt hand. Scars on the skin only tell the beginning of the story, I thought. It’s much
more difficult to talk about the scars nobody can see.
The doctor came early the next morning to do some sort of blood test on Mama, then he stayed for breakfast. He drank his tea in long, noisy slurps and spent a great deal of time mopping egg yolk from his bushy moustache with a napkin. He told us that Piglet was very well – that she had slept soundly and was demonstrating a healthy appetite. My heart ached jealously. I longed to have my little sister snuggled in my arms. I longed to kiss the top of her sweet-smelling, fluffy head.
‘Can I come to your house today, please, Doctor Hardy?’ I asked. ‘You said I might visit my sister whenever I liked.’
He stared at me for a moment, a forkful of sausage halfway to his mouth. ‘Of course,’ he said, and shot a look at Nanny Jane. ‘Perhaps this afternoon, Henrietta. I shall telephone my wife from the surgery so she knows to expect us. I’ll pick you up around . . .’ – he consulted his pocket watch – ‘around three o’clock.’
After breakfast I was sent out into the garden so that the doctor and Nanny Jane could ‘discuss things in private’. Looking back at the house, I saw him standing at the dining-room window. The doctor was watching me and appeared to be talking at the same time.
It felt very odd to be observed like this. I thought about Alice when she sees the Red King dozing beneath a tree and Tweedledee and Tweedledum tell her she is isn’t real: she is just ‘a thing’ in the king’s dream. It had always struck me as a terrifying idea, but now I felt it would be a tremendous relief. Soon the Red King would wake and I would melt away into the air, and the great weight of fear that pressed down upon me would melt away too.
Soon I heard the doctor’s heavy footsteps crunching on the gravel, and I walked around to the front of the house. I know he saw me but he continued his conversation with Nanny Jane nonetheless: ‘It really is an excellent institution. Doctor Chilvers has made some extraordinary progress experimenting with fever therapy. We must strike while the iron is hot, Miss Button!’
