by Anna Romer
I propped my sodden runners in a sunny patch against the back of the house to dry and bounded upstairs to change, then went in search of breakfast. Tom was typing up a storm on the verandah, so I left him to it and spent a few hours on the internet, answering emails and catching up on the news. After lunch, I worked on Tom’s interview, fleshing out a few of my ideas and scrawling some new ones. At four o’clock I remembered my runners at the back of the house, and went to collect them.
As I did, I glanced up.
The afternoon sun glared against the rear wall, highlighting every tiny detail. The sandy texture of the old red bricks, and the vibrant green of the rambling happy wanderer vine that invaded them. Tom’s new solar panels gleamed against the mossy terracotta roof tiles, and directly below, in the window of my upstairs bedroom, a draft fluttered the faded gold curtains.
A little way across was another window I hadn’t noticed before. Higher up than mine, almost hidden by the roofline. It was tiny for a window, but not quite small enough to be an air vent. And were those bars?
I shielded my eyes from the sun. To the left of the little vent-window was a long bank of stained-glass panels; a room I hadn’t seen yet. Could that be the other half of my divided bedroom?
Back inside, I raced up the stairs to my room and went to the window. The brass latch and hinges were stiff with age but after some tugging and pulling, they gave way. Leaning out, I inspected the external wall. The tiny barred window was a couple of metres to my right and high up under the eaves. I leaned out as far as I dared, but could see nothing unusual. At least, not from the outside.
I went down the narrow hall and through the end door, entering a long room. The leadlight window reached from one end to the other and captured the afternoon sun. Light filtered through the grimy panes, painting the floor and walls with red and blue and green and deep rose red. In the centre of the room was a rustic table and three chairs. At the far end sat an old firebox, and beside it a crate of cobwebby split logs.
There was no sign of the little vent-window. From outside, it had seemed closer to my bedroom than to the bank of stained glass. Could there be another room between my bedroom and the room I was standing in now? There was no doorway leading into it from the hall. Was the entry in here?
I placed my hand on the wall that abutted my bedroom. Not smooth plaster, as I’d expected, but painted plywood. The grain was rough and cool, the white paint yellowed by age and years of wood smoke. I walked along the wall, thumping it with my hand. The panels echoed dully, then at the far end the wood echoed hollowly. I hit it again, harder. Behind the dusty panel, something metallic rattled. When I ran my fingers over the beading that joined the panels, I found a satiny patch where the join was worn smooth. I gave it a push, and something clicked on the other side.
Sliding the panel sideways, I exposed a heavy iron door. The key was still in the lock, but the door was ajar.
I went through into a small, dim room, similar in size to my bedroom. There was no ceiling light and no switch. High on the wall to my right was the tiny vent window, its bars black against the afternoon sky.
In the centre of the room was a single bed, its iron bedhead jammed against the far wall. Beside it was an overturned chair. I went over to a tattered curtain and drew it aside to reveal a makeshift bathroom. It had a sink plumbed with running water, but that’s where the modern conveniences ended. A large iron bucket with a wooden seat must have once been used as a toilet. On the floor beside it was a tin full of wood ash and a battered scoop.
Someone had once lived in here.
But why? Why would someone live behind a concealed iron door in a house as remote as Ravensong? And why the barred window? Was it there to keep someone from getting in, or to stop them from leaving?
I went over to the bed. The covers were flung back, the pillow dented as though someone had recently got up and gone. A blackish stain covered half the pillow, with a large shadowy discolouration beneath it on the sheet. I bent closer. In the dim light, it looked like a bloodstain. I traced my fingertips over the blackened fabric, found it as hard and unyielding as old leather.
I stepped away from the bed, and felt something by my foot: a child’s picture book. I picked it up. It was a fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen called The Nightingale. Its cover was sticky with dust, dog-eared and worn. Going over to the window, I tilted the book to the light, wiping off the dust with my sleeve. The cover illustration showed a Chinese emperor dressed in red silk, looking at a tiny brown bird in a tree.
The other room was brighter so I went out and sat on one of the rustic chairs. Placing the book on the table, I turned to the first page and began to read.
The emperor of China was walking in his garden one day when he heard beautiful birdsong. Surprised to discover that the exquisite melody came from a plain little brown bird, he captured the nightingale and imprisoned her in a cage. For many years she was his greatest joy. But one day the emperor received the gift of a mechanical bird made of gold and studded with gemstones. He soon forgot the real nightingale and the little brown bird escaped her cage and flew back to her home at the edge of the garden.
After a year, the mechanical nightingale broke down. Despairing, the emperor fell ill. The court started making preparations for his death – but that night the real nightingale perched on the emperor’s window and revived him with her beautiful song.
Tucked into the back flyleaf of the book was a loose page. It wasn’t from the picture book. It was smaller and rippled with age and ragged along one edge as though torn from another book. Both sides were covered in minuscule handwriting.
Wednesday, 19th October 1949
For the past four months I’ve been praying for a miracle. I think this might be it.
He gave Lilly a book for her birthday. We’ve been reading it over and over. We read and read, but still the ending makes no sense to us. Why did Hans Christian Andersen think the nightingale would come back to save the emperor after what he put her through?
The story makes Lilly cry.
‘It’s us,’ she blubs through her tears. ‘We’re the nightingales. And him—’ She flings out her arm and jabs her finger at the door. ‘He’s the emperor who’s trapped us in his cage.’
Her words make me angry. Not because they are wrong, but because they ring so true. Why did he give us this book? What’s he trying to tell us, that we’re here to save him somehow? Or that he’s trying to save us?
Despite our fury over the story, we can’t stop reading it. Can’t stop poring over its pages, studying the illustrations, reading and rereading as if somewhere in the story lies our answer. The key to our escape. Our miracle.
Lilly nagged me all day. ‘Frankie, when will he let us out? He can’t keep us here forever.’
‘He’ll let us go soon,’ I told her with fake cheerfulness. ‘We’re getting so big he can’t afford to keep feeding us!’
But it’s a lie.
Poor Lilly. She was nine when we came here. Now she’s eleven. Sometimes it feels like barely a week has passed. Other times I’m Sleeping Beauty and a hundred years have sped by outside.
When I reminded him about Lilly’s birthday, he insisted on a cake. Baked it himself in the wood stove downstairs, the sweet aroma drifting up. We drooled all morning, imagining double layers with pink icing and candles, maybe even fresh cream. But when he brought it up on a good china plate and set it on the table in the bright room, it was just a sort of sultana damper glazed with honey.
‘I’m afraid it’s the best I could do,’ he said, seeing our crestfallen looks. ‘Everyone’s low on supplies. Blame the war, if you like.’
To save his feelings we put on a show of enjoying it and washed down the dry crumbs with hot cocoa. But I felt bad for Lilly. It’s no way to celebrate a birthday, locked in this stuffy cupboard. Even the bright room doesn’t make up for all the time we spend indoors. Lilly should be out in the sunlight, having a proper party, playing with other children her age. Going to
school, doing normal things. Instead, she spends most of her time worrying about when he’ll finally crack and drag one of us down to the chopping block. And when she’s not worrying about that, she’s chewing the ends of her hair ragged with boredom. We both are.
One year and seven months we’ve been here now.
And every day the same.
We climb out of bed and wash ourselves, do each other’s hair. Drag the bucket to the door for him to replace. We do our star jumps and bending, leaping on and off the wooden trunk until our blood races. Then if we’ve been good, he’ll let us in to the bright room to have breakfast and soak up the sun. We love the bright room. The sun brings rainbows through the stained-glass and makes everything seem better than it is.
After breakfast we do the mending and other odd jobs he needs. We rip up squares of newsprint for toilet paper, or very occasionally we’ll get the soft tissue the apples come wrapped in, and then we’ll use the scissors to cut it up. We peel potatoes and such, but when I offer to help with the cooking downstairs, he declines. Upstairs is our domain, he says. At least for now. The rest of the house and the garden belong to him.
Most days he lingers with us, telling stories about when he was a kid living with his grandad. He tells good stories, but sometimes he gets a little heated. Raising his voice, jumping up from the table and waving his arms about. Not to scare us. He just gets swept away.
And then yesterday after the cake he went and spoiled it all by raving about the war. How he can still hear the guns in his head. Still hear the moaning and the screaming. He started tugging his hair; it’s so long now, past his shoulders, each lock black as a shadow that turns to ink in the sun. Sometimes it escapes the shoelace he ties it with and sticks out around his flushed face like the hair of a mad person.
Lilly cried herself to sleep again tonight. Before she drifted off she clung to my arm.
‘Do you think she’s forgotten us, Frankie?’
‘Who’s that, my love?’
‘Mum.’
I swallowed the lump in my throat, remembering the newspaper article about everyone giving up hope. ‘Mum would never forget us, Lilly-bird. How could she?’
‘Will she come for us soon?’
Again I swallowed, rolling the lie over my tongue. ‘You know, little Lil, I think she might. First she just needs to figure out where we are.’
‘What if she can’t?’
‘She will. Mum’s smart.’
‘But she’s always sloshed.’
I kissed her head and slid my arm around her skinny shoulders. ‘She’ll find us, Lilly. I promise.’
‘How do you know?’
I thought a moment. ‘You remember when we came here, that day in the truck?’
She nodded. ‘We wanted to see the birds.’
‘It seemed a long way, didn’t it?’
She blinked, and a tear dribbled down her cheek. ‘We drove for days.’
I sighed, taking her hand. ‘It was only one day. Which means we’re not so far from home. Sooner or later, Mum, or Mr Burg from school, or the police – someone – will find us.’
A nod, a watery smile, but she didn’t seem convinced.
‘Come on,’ I said, tucking her closer beside me and nodding at the window. ‘Take one last look at the moon, Lilly-bird—’
Lilly remained silent as we peered through the bars at the night sky.
‘Come on,’ I encouraged. ‘Say your part.’
She hiccupped a little sob. ‘And kiss the stars goodnight.’
She’s asleep now. The tears dried in grubby smudges on her cheeks, her pudgy fingers curled against her palm. I hate seeing her sad. My sweet baby sister, the tiny girl I once cuddled and cooed over like a doll. My brave Lilly-pilly, so clever, with our mum’s quick mind and beautiful voice. But all her funny little songs are stuck somewhere down inside her, unable to get out.
My poor little nightingale.
The bird in the story escaped its cage in the end. But we could be trapped here forever. Unless he gets bored and decides to kill us. Ever since we came here, I’ve been trying to find a way out, but tonight after Lilly’s crying, I feel more desperate. As though the air in here is getting thinner and thinner and soon we won’t be able to breathe.
As I wait for night to fall, my mind wanders once more through the story and how the nightingale won the emperor’s heart with her song. And just like that it comes to me: our way out. Like the nightingale in the story, I could win the heart of our emperor. Gain his trust, make him love me. And then, the very minute he lets down his guard, we’ll slip through the bars and fly away.
12
Tom stood in the library doorway watching her. She was sitting on a chair in front of an almost-empty bookshelf, piles of books arranged on the floor around her. Her hair was in a messy ponytail, her big square glasses perched on her nose. She was examining a row of thin volumes one by one, peeping into the pages then stacking them on her lap. When the pile became too high, she arranged the books beside her on the floor. She must have been deep in thought not to have heard his crutches creaking along the hall, but what was she looking for?
It was ten o’clock. Night pressed its dusky fingers against the library windows, smudging the corners of the room with shadows. The chandelier burned overhead, a constellation of winking, glittering crystal stars.
Tom shifted his weight. His bones had been complaining loudly since dinner, but rather than drug himself to the gills he had decided to see if Abby wanted to join him watching a DVD. He had followed the faint glow of light along the hall to the library, but the moment he’d seen the books piled everywhere and half the bookcases empty, he’d known she was up to something. If she was hoping to discover a juicy scandal about him among those dusty pages, then she was going to be disappointed.
‘Lost something, have you?’
She jerked around. A black book dropped from her hands, hitting the floor in a puff of dust. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘Expecting someone else?’
As she got to her feet, her knee knocked a book tower. She made a wild grab for it, but the books slithered onto the floorboards with an almighty crash.
Brushing dust off her jeans, she frowned across at him. ‘I was after a book.’
As if to verify this, she picked up one of the fallen volumes, smoothed her hand over it, and pushed it onto a shelf. It sat there for a moment like a pigeon on a perch. Then, as if realising the pointlessness of the situation, it fell onto its side with a noisy bang.
‘Do you always demolish the entire library when you’re looking for something to read?’
Abby pushed her glasses onto her head, displacing a loop of hair over her ear. ‘Guess I got carried away.’
Tom frowned. Typical journalist, unable to stop herself snooping. She was clearly looking for something – but for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine what. The books weren’t his, they had come with the house. He wanted to tell her that searching among them for secrets he might have stowed there was a waste of time. But he was too busy fighting the urge to reach out and tuck that stray lock of hair back where it belonged.
He sighed. She’d be gone soon, out of his life. Once she finished her damn interview, she’d hightail it back to town, forget him. Well, good riddance. He turned away and started shuffling along the hall. His body felt hollow. He needed to fill the sudden emptiness with something. Anything. A drink, maybe. He remembered the half-full bottle of brandy he kept for emergencies. This wasn’t quite an emergency, but close enough.
‘Wait, Tom.’
He looked around.
She reached into her back pocket and unfolded a small sheet of paper. It was yellowed with age and covered in writing. ‘It’s a page torn out of the book I was looking for – a girl’s diary. I found it upstairs in a hidden room.’
‘Hidden room?’
‘It might turn out to be nothing, a hoax or a dead end. But I’ve got a hunch it’s for real.’
He took the page and scanne
d the top few lines. ‘ “Praying for a miracle”,’ he read aloud, then looked back at Abby. He was intrigued by the prospect of reading a diary from 1949. Old letters and journals gave an authentic flavour to his research. But what intrigued him more was the hot flush in Abby’s cheeks, the brightness in her eyes.
‘Why does it matter so much to you?’
‘Just read it, Tom. You’ll see why it matters.’
• • •
Two hours later, Tom sat at the big table in the library, poring over the book about the Chinese emperor and the nightingale. Abby had described the upstairs room where she’d found it – going into detail about the tiny barred window and cramped bathroom, and the steel door with no handle on the inside. But when she’d told him about the bed – with its black leathery stain that she felt certain was blood – Tom had actually shivered. He’d already read the torn-out diary page twenty times, the first time with scepticism. But halfway through the second reading, his thoughts began to race. Abby was right. This was a story that mattered. A story he could use. The type of story that would not only thrill him to write but would, if handled correctly, skyrocket him straight back into the limelight. Hello again New York Times bestseller list, and maybe even hello to another movie or miniseries. He hadn’t felt so fired up in years.
‘Hey, Tom?’ Abby held up a large photo album with tattered corners. It was black with a gold embossed pattern on the spine, and as she brought it over to the table and settled on the chair beside him, he caught a whiff of old leather and paper dust. She opened it and began flipping through. ‘It’s a scrapbook.’
Its pages were filled with articles and photos cut from newspapers. The same faces appeared over and over. The younger girl was prim and sweet faced, her fair hair styled in a short bob. In contrast, her dark-haired sister scowled at the camera, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her wild locks cascading unrestrained over her shoulders.