The Key to Flambards

by Linda Newbery

  When she left the office and went back to the stable yard it felt like waking up from a vivid dream. She saw Will, walking back to the house, lurching heavily on his wonky leg; she imagined he smiled at her, friendly but puzzled. She saw Christina mounted on a big horse, sidesaddle in a dark blue riding habit, a groom helping her adjust the stirrups. Mark would be here too, but she couldn’t see Mark as clearly.

  ‘Ooh, I bet the place is haunted!’ Marie-Louise had said, with a spooky shiver, when Grace had first shown her a photograph of Flambards. She hadn’t been serious, but maybe she was right. It was haunted by Will and Christina’s young selves.

  ‘I’m here,’ she said aloud. ‘Christina. Will. This is me, Grace. I’m only here because of you two.’

  What would they think of that?

  It was Cat Siggy who answered, trotting up to her in a pleased, purring rush, butting up against her to be stroked. Grace bent to scoop him up in her arms, burying her face in his fur.

  Sometimes Grace saw everyone other than herself as whole and perfect, but of course that wasn’t true. Will with his wonky leg and Fergus with his burned face had told her that. And back then, after the war – she’d seen photos of men on crutches with one trouser leg rolled up, men in wheelchairs with no legs at all. It would have been a common sight. Some former soldiers had been reduced to begging, parading their disabilities, asking for pity.

  But imagine being Fergus! Imagine being exposed to the sky in an aircraft that might as well be made of cardboard, taking to the air over the scarred front line and beyond, knowing how heavily the odds weighed against you – then the horror of being trapped and burned, the agonizing recovery, and trying to find some kind of normal life, when people reacted with revulsion at the sight of you, shielding their eyes, turning away in disgust – who could live with that? Wouldn’t you want to hide yourself away, never willingly showing your face to another human being? Wouldn’t you want to end your life?

  If Fergus had done that, there’d be no Roger, no Ian, no Jamie or Charlie.

  But he hadn’t ended it. Hadn’t given up. He’d settled here, worked, made new friends, played jazz piano. He’d had his terrible face patched up; he’d married, and had a son and a grandson. He had apparently been happy, and – as Grace had just heard on the tape – loved. He even said he’d been lucky. Lucky!

  Grace thought of telling all this to Marie-Louise; later she would Skype. Her head had gone swimmy, as if she’d been whirled round fast on a fairground ride and was waiting for the world to stop spinning.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Bruised

  Grace rode Plum every afternoon, usually alone. Often Charlie was down by the stables, grooming Sirius one-handed, or, once, exercising him on a long rein in the paddock, which she called lungeing. To do this she stood in the middle of the marked-out schooling area while the horse circled her at a trot or canter, obeying (or not obeying) her voice commands.

  ‘I’ll start riding soon,’ she told Grace. ‘I don’t care what the doctor says. Being grounded is doing my head in.’

  One afternoon she insisted on giving Grace another lesson in the paddock. She made her trot without stirrups, which Grace didn’t enjoy at all, being jolted and unbalanced until she learned to stop resisting and let her back soften, instead of sitting rigidly upright. There were endless transitions and turns, circles and halts. ‘Don’t let her slop along! She’s behind the bit. Keep up the impulsion.’

  It was too much like bossing, Grace thought: Charlie bossing her while she in turn bossed Plum. She much preferred the times when she rode out alone into the fields – the lovely freedom, Plum more willing beneath her than when she was made to trot pointlessly from H to F in the schooling ring. Together they seemed part of the landscape, the pony’s hooves brushing through grass and stubble or treading the leafiness of woodland tracks. Sometimes, on the rise of a field, Grace would stop to look and listen, and it seemed that Plum listened too, her black-tipped ears sharply pricked, alert to the screech of a pheasant or the quick scurry of rabbits.

  ‘Plum, I love you!’ Grace leaned forward, face in the pony’s thick mane, arms dropping around her neck. They were so used to each other that Plum had become an extension of herself, hardly needing a squeeze of leg or a touch on the rein to go forward into a canter when a grass track stretched invitingly ahead, or to stand quietly when Grace wanted to just sit and look. Once, in the woods, a fallow deer moved slowly across the path in front of them, dappled coat in dappled shade under the trees. Catching her breath, Grace remembered Jamie telling her that he got closer to wild animals when mounted on Plum than when he was on foot.

  Cycling back to Flambards, late on Wednesday afternoon, her spirits rose at the sight of Marcus cycling down the main drive, Flash running ahead. Head down, he was pedalling hard; he hadn’t seen her. As Flash bounded towards Grace and leaped around her Marcus glanced up, unsmiling. For a moment it seemed he’d carry straight on without stopping; then, as if diverted from some more pressing purpose, he came to a halt and gave her a reluctant sidelong glance.

  She saw a bruise on his cheek, dark blue tinged with red, close to his eye.

  ‘Ouch,’ she exclaimed. ‘What happened? That must have hurt!’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said, but touched the place tenderly. ‘Had an argument with a plank, in the workshop.’

  ‘Does anyone know? Shouldn’t you get First Aid or something?’

  ‘Nah. Looks worse than it is.’ He gave a wincing smile, making light of it.

  ‘Are you going to see Jamie? He’s not there. He’s gone to Chelmsford, his dad said.’

  Marcus shook his head. ‘No. Just going out for a bit.’ He seemed anxious to move on, fidgeting the bike forward and back.

  ‘Why does he keep going to Chelmsford, anyway?’

  ‘Hasn’t he told you?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘There’s this girl he likes.’

  ‘Girl?’

  ‘Yes. An actual girl.’ He gave her a quick, amused look. ‘Why so surprised?’

  She had his attention now. He let go of the handlebars and sat upright, arms folded, waiting for an answer. Flash flopped down on the grass to wait.

  ‘Well, I didn’t think …’ She faltered.

  ‘Didn’t think what? That he likes girls?’

  On the point of saying, That’s not what I meant, Grace fell silent. That was what she’d meant.

  ‘You thought Jamie was gay,’ Marcus stated.

  She was mortified that he’d read her thoughts so accurately. ‘I – did sort of wonder.’

  ‘Would it matter?’

  ‘Course not! Why would it?’

  She thought for a moment he might be angry, but he only laughed.

  ‘So, let me guess. You thought I was too. Stands to reason. Two boys go around together, they’ve got to be gay. Does that mean you and your friend Marie-wotsit are lesbians?’

  ‘Marie-Louise? Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘What’s stupid about that?’

  ‘Because we’re just not. And there’s a boy she likes in Paris.’ Marie-Louise had been talking about a Swiss boy who lived in a neighbouring flat, making Grace realize that she was already finding some compensation for not coming back. ‘OK, so I got that wrong. And I didn’t even think it out loud. So – Jamie’s got a girlfriend. What’s her name? Is she nice?’

  ‘Skye. With an e, like the island. She’s in the year below us at school. Yeah, she’s cool.’

  ‘So why didn’t Jamie just say he’s seeing her?’

  Marcus shrugged. ‘Probably knows you think he’s gay. Doesn’t want to disappoint you.’ He whistled to Flash, and gave her a grin that looked painful, with the bruising on his cheek.

  ‘Why would I be …’

  But Marcus was already leaning into his pedals and riding on. He called, ‘See you’ over his shoulder, and left her feeling in the wrong, disturbed by his spiky mood. As she cycled slowly towards the house, the conversation replayed itself in her h
ead, and what she heard this time was: Jamie let you think he’s gay, because if you knew he fancied girls, you might wonder why not you. And – come on – who’s ever going to fancy you?

  He hadn’t said that. He hadn’t. She shook her head vigorously as if to fling the horrible thought out of her head. And Jamie couldn’t even have known what she’d supposed. Marcus’s expression really hadn’t been mocking, sneering, like the version her mind was inventing. But she couldn’t dislodge the feeling that everything had turned hollow and pointless.

  A cramping pain reminded her that her period was due, and made her feel both worse and better – worse, because it was a drag, and better, because she could blame it for her dreary mood. But it seemed too much to cope with, right now.

  ‘I know. A design fault,’ her mother had once said. ‘We just have to put up with it.’

  Lucky boys, not having the fuss and bother of periods. Not having to mark dates on the calendar. Another thing that wasn’t fair.

  She stopped at the house, to head for the loo along the corridor behind the stairs. Afterwards she’d look in to see if her mother was still at her desk. As she propped the bike against the wall of the porch she noticed a pair of well-worn walking boots beside the steps, with laces trailing. She crossed the hallway and stopped dead by the noticeboard as she heard muffled sobs coming from the office. Someone was crying in there! Not Mum, surely? But no, next moment Mum’s voice could be heard, soothing.

  The door was open. Inside she saw Sally sitting at Mum’s desk, bent forward, head in her hands; Mum had pulled up another chair and sat turned towards her, a hand on her arm. She looked up, saw Grace, and said, ‘Give us a moment, please, Gracey?’

  As Grace backed off, Sally glanced up too, blinked rapidly and stood.

  ‘I’d better go. Sorry.’

  ‘No, wait …’ Grace’s mother protested.

  Gulping back sobs, Sally edged past Grace and into the hall. Two guests were coming in at the front door; she swerved round them, turning her face away, then sat on the porch steps to pull on her boots. Grace saw her hands shaking as she fumbled with the laces. Mum followed, gestured to Grace to go back into the office, and went to sit on the step beside Sally.

  ‘I’ll help, you know I will,’ Grace heard her saying, in a low voice.

  What was that all about? Grace thought of how odd Marcus had been just now: his bruised face, his quick cover-up. There must be a connection.

  Marcus had had a blazing row with his mum? She couldn’t imagine that.

  No. His dad. A row with his dad was much more likely. And – argument with a plank? Wasn’t that the sort of thing people said to gloss over something worse?

  His dad had hit him.

  How hadn’t she realized? He was anxious to get away – where? – and she’d held him up with embarrassing chatter. She hadn’t been thinking straight. So pleased to see him at first, then slapped down by his offhandedness – she should have realized something was wrong.

  Something serious.

  In the office she gazed around aimlessly, too restless to sit down. She wondered where Roger was. His computer was on, open at a document headed, ‘Flambards Trust, Agenda for Trustees’ Meeting 16th August, 2018’, followed by a numbered list. Her eyes scanned down, stopping with a jolt at item four, ‘Proposed Sale of Long Meadow to Naylor Homes: Flambards Fields development’.

  Outrage rose in her – Flambards Fields? So it was an actual agenda item, then, to be seriously discussed? Not just a distant possibility? Flambards Fields, where there would no longer be a field?

  But there wasn’t time to dwell on that. A gurning ache reminded her that she needed the loo, and she headed there, her mind galloping. Today had turned unpredictable, things going wrong, spiralling off in unexpected directions. When she returned to the office she saw, through the window, Sally hurrying away, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. A moment later Mum came back in, her expression stern.

  ‘What’s up?’ Grace asked. ‘I met Marcus just now, saw his face. Did his dad hit him? Is that why Sally’s upset?’

  Her mother gave the slightest nod. ‘She wants to move herself and Marcus to her parents’ house in the village. For a few days at least. She’s gone to pack a few things, then I’ll drive her there.’

  ‘But what about …’

  ‘Could you help me out, Gracey? Stay here and look after the office till Roger gets back? Just in case of phone calls. He shouldn’t be long. I’ll be as quick as I can.’ She barely waited for an answer before she was out of the door again.

  Grace sat down at her mother’s desk, feeling jittered but important, as if she was running the whole place. All was quiet, though she’d heard sounds from the kitchen as she came in, and knew that Irina would be there if any complicated questions needed answering.

  Her thoughts flipped back to Marcus: his bruised face, his evasiveness. What could have happened to make Adrian hit out? Deliberately? Surely it must have been – if it was only an accident, Sally wouldn’t be planning to move out. Had Marcus done something wrong in the workshop, messed something up? She felt a surge of indignation for Marcus, mixed – she realized – with concern for Adrian, and a strange sense of being complicit, because of the way he’d stared at her with that strange, fearful recognition. A fear of what he might do?

  But nothing could excuse hitting out at Marcus – and hard, to judge from the darkening, bloodied bruise. The blow must have been dangerously close to his eye.

  Living with a father who could do that – no wonder Marcus was often unhappy, and Sally on edge. Things had been difficult with her own parents, but she could never, ever imagine Dad hitting or hurting her. No matter what.

  Oh, why hadn’t Marcus said? Then she wouldn’t have blathered on so idiotically. She wished he’d come back. Her eyes strained through the window to the farthest turn of the drive, yearning for a glimpse of Flash running ahead of Marcus’s bike.

  The phone rang only once: someone asking whether the guest bedrooms were wheelchair friendly, to which Grace was able to answer yes, two of the stable yard rooms had easy access. Then a car came up the drive, a big four-by-four, and she heard the door slam; it had stopped outside the house instead of going round to the car park. A man in red trousers and a quilted waistcoat came towards the entrance, and moments later his heavy tread arrived at the office door. He stopped and stared.

  ‘Oh. No one here?’ Apparently she didn’t count as a person. ‘Is Roger around?’

  ‘Yes, somewhere,’ she told him, though Mum hadn’t actually specified. ‘He’ll be back soon.’

  ‘And Polly? Polly Russell? Isn’t she working today?’

  ‘She was, but she had to leave.’

  ‘Hmm. Left you in charge, have they?’

  ‘Only for a little while. Shall I take a message?’ She reached for a pen and a Post-it Note.

  ‘If you would. Though I’ll hang on a few minutes.’

  She had smiled pleasantly as she spoke, but he didn’t smile back.

  ‘Tell them I called in, will you? The name’s Rex Naylor,’ he told her. ‘I didn’t expect to find the place deserted.’

  Oh. Grace looked at him with wary interest. So this was the Mr Naylor who had the future of Flambards in his pocket, who was poised to put up a new signboard and bring in the diggers. She’d pictured him as big, smug and round-bellied like the fat cat businessmen of political cartoons. This real Mr Naylor was not very tall, oldish, about the age of Grandad Neil, with an air of expecting people to do what he said, and double quick.

  ‘It’s N-A-Y,’ he prompted as she wrote. ‘Not as in hard as nails.’

  She guessed from his tone that this was a well-worn joke. Ha ha.

  ‘And you are?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m Grace. Grace Russell.’

  ‘Ah! So you’re Polly’s daughter.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘Why not say so?’

  Thankfully, at that moment Roger came in, doing a double take as he saw Mr Naylor standing there.

&n
bsp; ‘Rex! Hello – but I wasn’t expecting you today?’

  They shook hands, Mr Naylor still looking stern. He said, ‘Evidently not. What’s going on? I hope you don’t make a habit of this – leaving a child in charge. The office needs to be properly staffed at all times.’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ Roger said smoothly, and gestured to the visitor to sit down. ‘There’s been an emergency. I had to go over to the farm, and Grace kindly helped out. Thank you for that, Grace.’

  ‘Hmm. I’ll take up ten minutes of your time if you’re not too busy elsewhere. A few points about tomorrow’s meeting.’

  Roger agreed, and asked Grace if she’d mind going to the kitchen to ask Pam to bring tea. Thankfully, she escaped. She didn’t like the look of Mr Naylor one little bit, but at least she’d seen him. Seen the enemy.

  With an hour to go before the evening meal, Grace hung about outside the house, unsure what to do. She texted Jamie: Is Marcus there? But his quick reply said: Not seen him 2day. She hadn’t swapped numbers with Marcus, and resolved to ask him next time they met. Restlessly waiting for her mother to come back, she thought of messaging Marie-Louise, but decided it wouldn’t feel right, not yet – too much like relishing someone else’s drama.

  Mr Naylor stayed for half an hour, and Grace saw Roger looking unhappy at the end of it. He locked up the office and told Grace he was going over to the farm to see if Adrian was in his workshop.

  She and her mother had taken to having their evening meal in the dining room, with Roger too, quite often. Tonight, as they took their seats, a place was set for him although he hadn’t yet returned from the farm. The long main table was occupied by the photography group who by now seemed to know each other well, their laughter and chatter at odds with the anxious mood at the corner table where Grace sat with her mother. Mum was preoccupied with her phone, sending and receiving messages, and reading some of them to Grace.