by Teri Terry
Hours of aptitude tests follow: comprehension, maths, strange logic problems and sequences. When it is finally time to go we are told to report back Monday morning at 8 am, when we’ll find out which four week-long trials we will do, and head straight off to start the first one that very day.
Outside, yesterday’s sun is a distant memory: the sky is grey, the mountains hidden in cloud. It makes it easier to catch the bus straight back to the house. Time to face up to Stella and tell her I signed on the dotted line.
When I get there the side door we usually use is locked. Lucky I read my rules last night, and so know the door code. I punch the numbers in, and step inside. The house is quiet.
I open the book to sign in, and with a start see ‘Stella Connor’ written in the out column, with ‘shopping’ in the description, and return time estimated as 4 pm. She follows the rules, too? Another name, Steph, is also down as shopping; is she the girl who works for her? I scan today’s page: it looks like nobody is home, and nobody expected back for at least a few hours.
Time to explore.
I’m gripped by a peculiar sense of excitement. At first I creep around, quiet, almost like I’m expecting someone to jump out and demand to know what I’m doing.
I start with the public rooms, interconnecting hallways, stairwells: wandering, trying and failing to find something, anything, that feels familiar. At one point Pounce jumps down from a hall table as I round a corner, and I almost scream.
The house is huge. Pounce follows as I wander into the massive, shiny kitchen, utility rooms, walk-in cupboards. Nothing is familiar; nothing twigs. Though the kitchen looks new; maybe it has changed since I was here? Then I try the door to Stella’s study where I was yesterday: locked.
Stella had said the tower room I’m in wasn’t my room before: which was? I try to cast myself back, to stop thinking, to just follow my feet, but nothing works. I’ve had dreams of my room here before, but if I close my eyes and try to see it, all is uncertain. There is just a sense of proportion, some white-painted wardrobes, a too-frilly bed. Maybe there are photos of it in the albums?
Back in my room, door shut, I get the hairpin out and spring the lock to open the wardrobe. Lugging the albums to my bed, I lay them out in order, number one to eleven.
I open one album, then another. I scan through, looking for photos taken in my bedroom, but soon get distracted when I realise that apart from the first one where I am a baby, each one starts with a birthday. From my first birthday with cake smeared on my face, to a toddler and on up. Birthdays looked serious business. Each year there was an amazing themed and decorated cake: fairies one year, ponies, piskies.
Mummy made them for me.
A shiver goes up my spine. Mummy? Stella. There are often smiling snaps of her, her arms around me, my arms around her. I was just a few years old when her dark hair changed to pale blond like mine. As I got older and my hair a little darker, so, weirdly, did hers. Almost like she was trying to make us match.
Again there are none of Dad. There are odd blank spaces in the albums as if some photos have been removed, but the spaces are few and far between: he couldn’t have been in many of them to start with.
He took most of the photos.
An image of him behind a camera jumps into my mind, then vanishes. I must ask Stella what happened to the photos she took out of the albums. Did she put them away someplace, or destroy them?
Something makes me push the other albums aside and reach for the last one: number eleven.
First page: Lucy smiling back. Me. Goosebumps travel up my arms and spine: I’m wearing the pink dress. The one in the cupboard, the one in my dream. Pounce jumps up and walks over, peers as I turn the pages. ‘Look, it’s you,’ I whisper, not sure why I’m whispering. There is photo after photo of Pounce as a tiny kitten: chasing bits of string, sitting on my knee, sleeping in my arms. My tenth birthday present. Then there are photos of me with a big pink iced birthday cake: princess themed this year. Ten candles, so I had that right.
A few pages later, something changes.
I’m still smiling, but something is wrong. It is on my face, I’m holding something in. I can almost feel this moment, but then it slips away.
What?
I turn another page and there is a picture of me taken outside on a sunny day, with the peaks of Catbells behind. Pounce is clutched in my arms, and my gap-toothed grin is a real smile this time.
I turn the page: nothing. I scan through more pages to the end but the rest of the album is blank. Something cold grips me inside.
I shut it. My heart is thudding hard behind my ribs. That last picture of me is the one that was on MIA. The last one Stella had before I disappeared. The one she gave to the website in the faint hope I might be found, and come back to her one day.
I don’t know how long I sit there, staring at the wall, thinking. I don’t know why I’m been remote to Stella: is it the neediness and hunger in her eyes that makes me pull away? What we were to each other back then is all over these pages. To her, our relationship is real and immediate; to me it is a bare echo, like a song I’ve half heard once but can’t really remember.
And now I’ve signed up for CAS instead of staying here with her.
A distant noise penetrates: a car? I look at my watch. It’s almost four; they must be back. I jump up, hurriedly place the albums back in order in the wardrobe as they were. Lock it and go downstairs.
Stella is in the kitchen unpacking boxes of groceries. I stand in the doorway a moment; she smiles to see me when she looks up.
‘Can I help?’ I ask.
‘Of course.’ We slot things into two massive fridges, and she shows me which cupboards things go in.
‘Now for a cup of tea and a chat,’ she says, and puts the kettle on. ‘Steph stayed in town, so we should be on our own for a while.’ She pours tea and we sit at stools on the island.
‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you,’ I start to say, then hesitate.
‘What is it, Riley?’
‘I’m sorry, but I signed up for CAS.’
I brace myself for her reaction, but she looks back at me calmly, sips her tea. ‘I thought you would. Though you know I’m not keen on National Parks. Some of what they do can be dangerous. And it’d be a disaster if they put you in Enforcement, with all the enhanced security checks. But we’ll just wait and see what apprenticeship they give you: no point in worrying about it yet, is there?’
I stare back at her, past surprise into shock. This so isn’t the reaction I was expecting. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I whisper.
And her face goes all funny. She reaches an arm out, but instead of crushing me into a hug like yesterday, she touches my cheek. She blinks furiously and gets up, goes to the counter behind us and reaches for a box.
‘I’ve got you something.’ She opens it and holds out a small black rectangle.
‘What is it?’
‘Look, it’s a camera. These new ones are so clever.’ She touches a small button and it springs open to show the lens, and a few controls: it’s small, barely a few fingers wide. She shows me how it works. ‘I thought this way if you must rush off every day, you can take photographs to show me what you’re doing. And we can start another album together. All right?’
‘Thank you,’ I say, and then I take photos of Pounce sitting at our feet, of Stella, a few of the kitchen. Then I stand next to her and hold it out at arm’s length to take one of us together. She shows me how to look at them, pushing a button and projecting them onto a surface, and a few clicks later there we are, standing next to each other and smiling on the kitchen wall.
‘Oh, and I have something else for you.’ She reaches into her pocket. ‘I made an extra copy of the key to the wardrobe with the photo albums in, so you can look at them when you want to. But keep it locked and hide the key away. I don
’t want anyone else getting into it, all right?’
She hands a key across and I wrap my fingers around it, slip it into my pocket. I feel guilty that I’ve been in there already without her knowing. I remember I was going to ask her about the missing photos of Dad, but can’t bring myself to do it, not today. Not while we’re getting along so well.
‘Now, enough of that, I’ve got things to do,’ Stella says. ‘It’s Ellie’s birthday today: do you want to help me decorate the cake?’
Ellie’s birthday cake isn’t as elaborate as my childhood ones: a triple layer chocolate cake with chocolate icing, intricate icing flowers climbing across the top, and twenty candles. It’s delicious and everyone is in good spirits; even Madison makes no sideways comments. She announces the reason for her good mood is that it is her one weekend off this month, and that I’m coming with her on a led walk tomorrow up Catbells with Finley.
Even after hearing that, Stella is the most relaxed I’ve seen her, smiling at the end of the table, looking out at each of the girls. And I see that to her, all of them are her daughters: surrogates for what she lost? Some have been here for years.
It’s later that I find out that Ellie is an avid gardener, and she is delighted that the flowers on the cake were copies of ones she’d planted in the garden last summer. And there is a little swirl of jealousy inside.
CHAPTER TWELVE
* * *
The next morning as Madison and I step outside to catch the bus into Keswick, it finally happens: it’s snowing.
I dance about on the way, holding my arms up to the sky.
‘You’re mad,’ she says.
‘I just really love snow. I don’t know why.’
She shrugs. ‘Mostly I tolerate it. But it’d be excellent today if it snows really, really hard, and they cancel this stupid walk.’
‘I thought you wanted to go?’
She doesn’t answer, and I look back at her. ‘Oh, I see: not so keen on walking; more keen on Finley.’
She scowls. Then laughs. ‘Maybe.’
‘What’s up with you two?’
She shrugs. ‘It’s hard to say. He’s Finley.’ As if that says it all.
‘And…?’
‘He’s not known for having girlfriends for longer than five minutes. He’s Finley the flirt.’
We reach the road and stop to wait for the bus.
‘You’re wrong,’ I say. ‘That may be the way he has been before, but he really likes you. It’s in his eyes when he looks at you.’
The pink of her cheeks deepens, but she doesn’t answer, and holds up an arm to flag down the approaching bus.
When we get into town we go the Moot Hall. There is a small cluster of people dressed like us, in warm walking gear. Finley is there, and a man identified as John with a clipboard writing down names of each arrival.
Finley sees us and waves. He gets our names put on John’s list, then walks over. ‘Well, look here: it’s Shorty and Extra Shorty. You both better stick close to me.’
‘Why’s that?’ Madison asks.
‘If it keeps snowing you might disappear in a snowdrift. We don’t want to lose you up there.’
It is snowing great heavy flakes, and there is a little discussion about that and the weather forecast. They decide to wait and consult with the fell checker, due along any moment.
‘What’s a fell checker?’ I ask Finley. He turns to me, raises an eyebrow. ‘That is the sort of thing you should know if you want to work for Parks. He is just what it says on the tin.’
‘Let me guess: he checks fells?’ Madison says.
‘You got it, Einstein. Len goes up Helvellyn every day and checks conditions on Striding Edge. He takes a few photos up top. They post his report so walkers can decide whether to go up,’ Finley says, gesturing at a cabinet on the front of the Moot Hall. I walk over to look. Inside is yesterday’s report on conditions and weather on Helvellyn. Icy: experienced walkers with winter survival gear only. Crampons essential. And a photo: a thin icy path winding on a ridge, steep drop off both sides.
‘Not for the faint-hearted,’ Finley says.
‘Not for me!’ Madison adds.
‘Exactly,’ Finley says, and she punches him in the arm. But I’m ignoring them both, staring, transfixed at the image in the cabinet. I’ve been up on that ridge, many times. I’m sure of it! With Danny the Dreamer.
‘Judging by that smile, you’re not faint-hearted,’ another voice says, and I turn. It’s John; he must have walked over and listened in without my noticing.
‘No. Can we go up there today instead?’
John laughs. ‘No way. Too many beginners here.’
‘I don’t get it,’ Madison says. ‘Why do they have some guy go up there to check stuff every day? Why don’t they just have a camera installed, and some weather sensors?’
Finley shakes his head at Madison. I jump in before anyone else can answer: ‘It’s conservation. National Parks can’t put equipment up there, it’s against their mandate.’ John nods.
Len the fell checker appears. He’s older than I expect, long grey hair tied back, a wild grey beard and a crazy glint in his eyes. He chats with John, and it is decided we’re still on for Catbells. As Len strides off I stare longingly at his back, feet itching to chase after him and ask if I can go up Helvellyn with him instead.
‘You coming?’ Finley calls out, and I see our group is starting off. John is leading the way, with Finley as back marker, bringing up the rear.
We walk through Keswick to the river, then down the side of it onto a footpath along fields, into woods, and climbing to the turn to Catbells. There is soon more snow on the ground as we start up a steep hill. Madison is gasping, slowing down, and Finley laughing and pushing her from behind. Then holding her hand. The way they are with each other pulls inside, finds the ache that is always there.
Imagine if Ben were here. Holding my hand as we walk up the hill. Imagine we were alone instead of in this straggling line of walkers.
I speed up and let Finley and Madison drop behind. Giving them some alone time, I tell myself, or is it just that I can’t watch them any more? I push my legs and muscles and one by one overtake the others who are slowing as the path steepens. Before long I reach John at the front.
‘Slow down there,’ he says cheerfully. ‘I can’t let you disappear ahead, and I can’t speed up and let the others drop behind.’
‘How about if I go ahead, but stay in sight? I ask, itching to just see open path in front of me.
‘Go on then. But don’t get too far ahead,’ he says. ‘Wait every now and then for us to catch up.’
I head out front. The snow has slowed like the weather report said it would, and the sky is lightening: the view opens up ahead.
The open path at my feet calls me forwards; every step I feel I’m getting closer to something without knowing what. I force myself to wait now and then for the others to catch up as promised, then take off again. The cloud gradually lifts, and one by one the surrounding peaks reveal themselves. Something inside is letting go, untwisting bit by bit. This is where I belong.
I reach some rocks; the wind has swept the snow away from this exposed place, leaving the glimmer of ice behind. A short scramble up is needed. Stella’s right: I am part mountain goat. I climb the rocks easily and wait at the top for the others at John’s wave. Most get up without much difficulty, but Madison looks alarmed and it doesn’t look like an act designed to get Finley’s attention. I scramble back down again and help her up before he notices.
Across the first ridge, another scramble, and then I’m alone on top of the world. The lake stretches out below, Keswick beyond. The other way, higher fells and steeper climbs call out to me, and I promise myself: another day.
Up here you can believe anything; you can be anything. Words whispe
red inside: Danny the Dreamer. I repeat them out loud.
Steps come up behind me; John stands next to me. Did he hear? ‘True. And these mountains and lakes have been here a long time, longer than people have. They’ll be here when we’re all gone.’
We say nothing else. The world below, and its Lorders and problems, seems remote, of no consequence.
The others catch up, and before long we must leave to make it down in daylight. Back to reality.
That evening at dinner Stella tells us that an inspector is coming for lunch tomorrow: a JCO. All must attend, no excuses, and be on best behaviour. She doesn’t say a name: is this my grandmother, the one Madison mentioned? The one whose photos are hidden away inside a box in a locked wardrobe? Glances are exchanged, nothing else said, but the mood is dampened down, as if she’d just thrown a bucket of cold water over the room.
Madison follows me to my room after dinner in a total black mood.
She flops down on my bed.
‘I really can’t believe this.’
‘What?’
‘That that witch has to pick this Sunday, my only one off in an entire month, to come for a stupid lunch. And all must attend. Some of us might have lives of our own. Things to do.’
‘Like what?’
She scowls furiously, but her face wars between that and the edge of a smile.
‘Finley?’
She nods. ‘Yep. He finally asked me out this afternoon; we were going to meet in town, go out for lunch, and whatever. And now—’
‘Whatever? What is whatever?’
‘What does it matter? I’ve tried to call but no one is answering. He’s going to think I’m coming up with an excuse to get out of it. He’ll never believe we’re not allowed to miss this stupid lunch. It’s this stupid house. None of the others are like this.’
‘Is it Stella’s mother coming for lunch? The Juvenile Control Officer for all of England that you told me about?’
