The Key to Flambards

by Linda Newbery

  ‘Does Dad know?’

  ‘I haven’t told him, no. I think he might have started to guess. I’ll talk to him soon about the change of school and everything.’

  ‘He can’t complain. He’s got Chloe, and they’ll soon have their baby. I don’t see why you shouldn’t have someone nice too. But – what if it doesn’t work out, you and Roger?’

  ‘There’s no certainty, Grace. All I can say is that we both want it to, very much. And we’re both old enough to know what we want.’

  ‘So – do you love him?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, I do,’ her mother said, in a surprised way, as if it felt strange to say so. ‘And I know I can trust him. Completely. I hope you feel that too. You do, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Grace said, but was struck by a new doubt. ‘The only thing is … he wants to be with you, but it means he gets lumbered with me, as well. Is he OK with that?’

  ‘Oh, Gracey! Of course he is!’ Mum gave her another big hug. ‘More than OK – he’ll be absolutely delighted. We’ll talk more about everything. With Roger too. But for now I need to get back to the office.’ She carried their plates to the sink. ‘It’s so good that you’re keen! I hoped you would be.’

  Grace followed her downstairs and out, but while her mother sped along the drive towards the house she dawdled behind. This was her favourite place for imagining she saw Will or Christina, or sometimes Mark, coming or going to the stables, passing her without seeing, wrapped up in their own concerns.

  I’m here, she told them silently, just in case they were around. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m here to stay.

  ‘You know Roger mentioned the photographs he’d found, of Fergus?’ her mother said later, in the office. ‘I’ve got them here. He showed me earlier. You can see them if you like, but I warn you they’re a bit shocking.’

  Because of Fergus’s burned face, she meant.

  Grace hesitated, curiosity fighting reluctance. Curiosity won, and she moved closer to her mother’s desk.

  ‘This was him, before, when he was at Cambridge.’ Her mother held out a black-and-white portrait. ‘Nice looking, wasn’t he?’

  Yes, he was. Fergus wore a collar and tie that looked uncomfortably tight, and had neat fairish hair brushed back from a high forehead; he smiled diffidently, as if he didn’t much like having his photograph taken, but was being polite about it.

  ‘Then this.’ Mum handed over a second picture.

  Grace took it, looked, and almost dropped it. Her eyes went swimmy with horror. In this photograph Fergus had become a sort of hideous Mona Lisa – the two halves of his face didn’t match, but the mismatch was grotesque, not mysterious like the painting. One half was just about recognizable as the same person she’d just been looking at. The other half hardly resembled a face at all. The hair was burned away to a few tufts, and there was no eye at all – just the trace of an eyebrow and a lid that dropped to the scarred and puckered skin that stretched from nose to an ear that had its lobe missing. It was a frightening mockery of a human face, and yet … it was the same person, a young man still in his twenties who’d have to find a way to live with the wreckage he showed to the world.

  This was Fergus, whose voice she had heard and whose letter she’d read; Fergus who had loved Christina, and never told her. This was him.

  She looked away, then made herself look back, concentrating on the undamaged half, with its eye that still somehow had a kindly expression – as if this time his concern was for the person looking at him. For her, she could almost have thought. He didn’t want to shock or frighten her.

  ‘Oh, poor man, poor Fergus! How could you – how could you even live, knowing you looked like that?’

  ‘But he did live. He made a new life. And – look – this is him after the facial reconstruction. It’s still alarming, but better. There was all this pioneer work on skin grafts at a special hospital in Sidcup – Roger’s found out quite a lot about it. By the time Fergus had his treatment they knew how to avoid infection, and it was generally quite successful.’

  The third picture showed an older Fergus, still with a face lopsided and distorted, but the skin on what had been the burnt side now smooth and unblemished. He wore glasses and an eye-patch, and although Grace could see that children might still run away at the sight of him in either real or imagined fear, it was a big improvement.

  How brave he must have been! Brave, in the first place, to fly at all. Then, when so terribly disfigured, not to give up on life. And brave to go through surgery, knowing that at best he could be roughly patched up, never given his own complete face back. That could never happen.

  But she’d heard the humour and kindness in his voice; his affection for Will and for Christina. His voice alone told her that he was a kind man, a man she’d have liked to know.

  ‘Are you OK?’ her mother asked.

  ‘Yes. Fine. I’m just going outside for a bit.’

  There was something she had to do, on her own. Something that had been on her mind for a while.

  She went into the garden, to the bench by the rose arch, and sat there for a moment gazing across at the flowerbeds.

  Young Fergus, a clever student, brave enough to fly an aeroplane – he must have thought he had a bright future.

  His Before and After had been more drastic even than her own. He had two legs, yes, but he faced that awful choice – hide himself away, or know that whenever he appeared in public people would turn away in horror. His face would always be the first thing they saw, and most wouldn’t get beyond that to the person inside. The thought had crossed Grace’s mind more than once: at least it wasn’t my face that was damaged. I still look the same. And if it had been her face, modern surgery could do more than clumsy patching up.

  She took out her phone and flicked back through the photographs stored there till she reached the one she was looking for.

  The one of herself. Before. Taken by Marie-Louise.

  She had sometimes cried over it, sometimes raged; she had often been on the point of deleting it, but could never quite bring herself to.

  There she stood, on the running track at school, squinting into bright sun, holding up a hand to shield her eyes. In Lycra shorts and trainers and a sports vest she was lined up with three others, ready to run. Her eyes went to her right leg: thigh, knee, calf, tapering down to the slenderness of ankle, ankle bone, foot: the lost leg and foot she had mourned. She felt the clench of her missing toes as she looked, felt the flexion of a foot that was no longer there, the springiness of her ankle. How beautiful a foot was, how wonderfully made, how perfectly suited to standing and running and dancing. Nails that could be painted, toes that could wear rings; slim shapely ankles, feet that could be shown off in sandals, toes that could wriggle in the sand of a beach.

  Things she had rarely thought about, Before.

  That was me. The me with two legs, two feet, like everyone else. Then.

  But the Me of Then was a person she no longer quite recognized. That Grace was a child, more than a year younger. She had never been to Flambards, never met Marcus or Jamie or Roger, Sally or Adrian or Skye; had never ridden a pony, watched otters or bats or listened to owls. She had never fallen in love with a place and its ghosts; had never seen a man drive himself to the brink of suicide, pulled back to live again. She felt quite dizzy with the swirl of experience.

  The Me of Then wouldn’t understand things she now felt she did understand, or at least was beginning to.

  Would I go back? Would I change places with her?

  To get my leg back? Like a shot.

  But the other things? Would I change them?

  No.

  This is the Me of Now. This is Grace Russell, the Me I live with. And I think she’ll be all right.

  She hesitated, about to delete the photograph, but decided to keep it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Do You Remember?

  Late October

  On the first weekend of autumn half-term, Marcus and Grace
were heading back to Flambards, walking through the farmyard. Flash was on his lead because of the sheep; he stayed obediently at heel, though still eyeing them as if he knew he was meant to be a sheepdog, impatient for a proper job.

  Later this afternoon there’d be a practice reading with Roger in the barn; then Grace would start packing for her trip to Paris. She and her mother were going there on Eurostar and spending most of the half-term break with Marie-Louise and her parents. She’d miss Marcus’s birthday on Friday and felt wistful about that, but she had something special to give him – later today, if she could find the chance.

  It had made for a smooth transition to Hales Green, having Marcus and Jamie as friends ‘looking out for you’, as Jamie put it, and Skye in the same tutor group. At school she and Marcus referred to each other as cousins, although really they were only sort-of cousins. Telling people, ‘I’ve got a cousin in Year Eleven’ made her feel that she already belonged, especially when one girl said, with instant respect, ‘Marcus Gregg? He’s your cousin?’ And she could count Jamie as an unofficial step-cousin as well, with her mum and Roger together now.

  Every morning Grace and Marcus walked down the drive to wait for the school bus, and then back each afternoon. They often did homework together, in the cottage or the library or in Roger’s flat in the main house, where Grace now lived; Marcus helped Grace with her maths, while she was better than him at French because of all the time she’d spent with Marie-Louise. The boys had mock GCSEs approaching soon, and Grace knew that Marcus worked hard at his studies while keeping up a front of not being much bothered.

  She liked thinking of him as a Russell relation, with Russell blood and Russell looks, even if not – she felt sure – the temperament to lash out and hurt others. Adrian was the one for that. But maybe not any more.

  ‘He won’t ever be the Dad I remember, from when I was little,’ Marcus had told her. ‘He won’t ever forget. Shouldn’t, probably. But it’s like he’s got through the awful stuff and he’s slowly coming out the other side.’

  They’d reached the end of the sheep field. Marcus closed the gate and put the chain-loop over, then said, prompted by nothing Grace was aware of, ‘I think you’re incredibly brave.’

  ‘Me?’ She was astonished. ‘Why?’

  ‘You know. Your accident, and everything since.’ He gave her a quick sidelong smile. ‘The way you just get on with things.’

  ‘I don’t exactly have much choice!’

  ‘I know, but – you’re special, Grace. Really special. I hope you know that.’

  She felt too overwhelmed to reply. Marcus unclipped Flash’s lead and they both watched him run ahead in great ground-devouring leaps.

  You’re special too, Marcus. I hope you know.

  She had no idea what had made him say such a thing, but a moment later it became clear: he was looking for bravery in himself, of a different kind. When she asked if he had plans for his birthday next week, he hesitated, then said, ‘Yes. I have got a plan. I’m going to come out to Mum and Dad.’

  He looked at her for a response. She gazed back, surprised – but, she realized, not very surprised.

  ‘You mean you’re gay? But – that time when we talked in the drive – you said you weren’t!’

  Marcus smiled. ‘I didn’t say that. I said Jamie wasn’t. And obviously he isn’t. Does it matter?’

  ‘Of course it doesn’t matter! Does anyone know?’

  ‘Jamie does. And Roger, since last week. And, erm, Liam. You know, Liam Solomon, in the sixth form?’

  ‘Right. I’ve seen you talking to him a couple of times,’ Grace said, recalling a tall, rather handsome mixed-race boy who was admired by several girls in her year. ‘Cool! So you’ve told Roger but not your mum, though? Why all the secrecy?’

  Marcus gave her a do you really need to ask look. ‘Because of Dad. I don’t know how he’ll take it. I could never have told him, the way he was before – might as well stick my arm in a piranha tank.’ He shook his head vigorously, walking on. ‘No way I’d have risked it. Now, though, with Liam on the scene – at least I hope he’s on the scene – well, it’s time. I’m not looking forward to it, but things are different now. Mum’ll be fine. Dad … who knows?’

  ‘He might be OK with it. After all, he was hiding stuff himself. He knows how awful that was.’

  ‘That’s what Roger says. No more secrets.’

  Grace saw that the episode at the lake, Adrian’s slow recovery since and Sally’s devotedness, had made honesty not only possible, but essential.

  ‘Do it,’ she said. ‘It’ll be all right.’

  When she examined her own feelings, she found that she was glad. I love him, she thought. He had just made it possible to think that, without complication. And he loved her too, in a way. Hadn’t he almost said so?

  That needn’t ever change.

  Later, starting on her packing, she thought again of what he’d said about being brave, treasuring his words even though they made little sense. Fergus had been brave, and Will was undoubtedly brave, and so was Christina, to ride those big horses and fly the Channel. And Marcus’s father, to face horrors that had almost driven him to kill himself.

  Her, though?

  Surely not. You couldn’t be called brave just for having an accident. That was nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. All the same, she glowed at the thought that Marcus thought she was brave, and special. With that to remember, she could face anything.

  After all, she was a Russell.

  She thought affectionately of her kindly ghosts, Christina and Will, who could stay here undisturbed by earth-movers and destruction. Flambards was safe, and so were the lake and the woods and their creatures, and Jamie had a new project, working with an expert from the Essex Wildlife Trust who was helping with what everyone now called the nature reserve. There were paths and undergrowth to be cleared during the winter months, and Adrian was involved too, making new gates to replace the stiles, and extending the bird hide with a ramp for wheelchair access.

  He still had bad dreams, Marcus had told Grace, and often went quiet, retreating inside himself where no one could reach. But he had a mentor to talk to at such times, or just to be with.

  ‘It’s good you’re staying on,’ Adrian said to her once, while she and Marcus were helping him hang a gate. ‘Especially as it turns out we’re relations. Fourth cousins or whatever. Who’d have guessed it?’

  She was beginning to see what the old Adrian had been like – relaxed, capable, taking pride in his work.

  ‘It’s great to be back,’ he said, with his rare, dazzling smile that made Grace think she knew how Christina’s Mark must have looked.

  He’d only stayed away a few nights. But she knew he meant more than that. He was coming back from wherever he’d been.

  It bothered her that she had kicked him hard, painfully, and never apologized. But how could she raise the subject? She wasn’t even sure she really was sorry. What else could she have done?

  ‘No, I don’t think you should say anything,’ Roger said, when she asked what he thought best. ‘It’ll only remind him of something he’s ashamed of. It’s not as if you’re likely to kick him again, or anyone else, is it? I hope you’ll never need to.’ He thought for a moment. ‘But if anyone tries to mug you on a dark night – it’s good to know you’ve got a secret weapon.’

  Roger and Jamie were already in the barn for the reading rehearsal. Jamie and Grace were to read pieces chosen by Roger and Grace’s mum respectively: Grace’s Testament of Youth extract and Jamie’s piece from All Quiet on the Western Front, a story told by a young German soldier. Marcus, though, had chosen his own poem.

  ‘It’s a Siegfried Sassoon one we read at school.’

  ‘Who Cat Siggy’s named after,’ Grace said. She knew Roger particularly liked Sassoon’s poems.

  ‘“Aftermath”,’ Roger said, looking at the printed sheet Marcus handed him. ‘Yes, I know it. Mmm – excellent choice. That must co
me at the end. But you can go first now.’

  Marcus stood at the end of the barn where they were imagining a stage, and read the poem aloud, his voice lifting to the barn’s high spaces.

  ‘Have you forgotten yet? …

  For the world’s events have rumbled on since those gagged days,

  Like traffic checked a while at the crossing of city ways:

  And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow

  Like clouds in the lit heavens of life; and you’re a man reprieved to go,

  Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.

  But the past is just the same – and War’s a bloody game …

  Have you forgotten yet? …

  Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you’ll never forget.

  Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz –

  The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets?

  Do you remember the rats; and the stench

  Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench –

  And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?

  Do you ever stop and ask, ‘Is it all going to happen again?’

  Do you remember that hour of din before the attack –

  And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then

  As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?

  Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back

  With dying eyes and lolling heads, those ashen-grey

  Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?

  Have you forgotten yet? …

  Look up, and swear by the green of the Spring that you’ll never forget.’

  There was a husky note in Marcus’s voice as he reached the end, and Grace knew, as she was sure they all did, that it wasn’t only the First World War he was thinking of.