CHAPTER FOUR
The circular room we entered was filled with light too; cool autumn sun streaming from skylights set in the double height cathedral ceiling, as well as through French doors leading onto a plant-packed, iron-trellised balcony. A couple of well-worn, red velvet sofas which I recognised from the St. John’s Wood house faced each other companionably over a low square table. Their living space, albeit in a different location was so unchanged, I immediately felt at home. The table was smothered with books and papers and semi-supported against the walls were a couple of teetering book piles; volumes which hadn’t quite made it onto the packed bookcases. In the shelter of one of these piles was a large chestnut coloured beanbag which may or may not have been offering it some support.
“My dears, you’re here.” Ruth was bustling towards us, arms outstretched, and I breathed a silent sigh of relief at the sight of her, I don’t know what I’d expected but in truth she looked a darn sight better than the last time I’d seen her. She’d regained some of the weight she’d lost so dramatically and her unruly curls, held back with tortoiseshell slides, seemed to have rediscovered their bounce because the slides were fast losing the battle. Her eyes, the striking and only feature she shared with her sister, were back to hazel bright, no trace of the jaundiced dullness I’d found so disturbing when we were last together.
She had on an eye-aching jumper; vivid yellow with black stripes and large bell sleeves, giving her the look of a well-stuffed wasp. Shorter than Rachael, when she folded me into her arms, we were comfortably the same height and I hugged her too, my cheek against hers, breathing in the familiar rich lavender, before she stepped back still holding my arms.
“So,” she nodded in approval, “our Stella, a married lady, tell me, is he good to you?”
I laughed, “Bit soon to tell, the wedding was only yesterday,” she laughed and turned to David, holding out her arms again. He was surprised, not really ready for a hug, certainly not from a woman he hardly knew and who he’d last encountered during a blood-soaked confrontation with a killer moving a good few degrees past crazy. At the time I’d been badly wounded, as had Auntie Kitty whose heart unfortunately had given up the ghost for a while. This all flashed through his head as he politely moved forward and Ruth chuckled.
“No,” she said, “not ideal circumstances were they, but my dear; shall we put that behind us and start afresh?” I don’t know what discomfited him more, the hug or the ease with which she’d thrown his thoughts back at him. He knew of course, they were like me but maybe hadn’t thought that through enough. Or maybe he’d expected that aspect of things, like a post-meal burp, would be politely smothered in company. Ruth laughed again at that and he smiled sheepishly and shrugged.
“Enough Ruth,” Rachael never had a deal of patience with what she considered time-wastage. “Leave the man alone. Now,” she turned to me, “what was so urgent it couldn’t wait?”
“Oh, for goodness sake,” Ruth protested, “give them a minute to breathe.” Rachael frowned and they exchanged a flash of thought, so quick even I couldn’t catch it. Their minds, as always, were efficiently and effectively shielded so all I got was the familiar, infinitely frustrating smooth grey walls.
Ruth turned back, “Sit, you must be tired, you drove straight down? And after such a big day too. You see Rachael,” she said, “this is the sort of thing you do with visitors before you start with an interrogation. I’m going to get us some coffee. No, for David, it’s black tea isn’t it, one sugar? And cake, I’ll bring cake.”
David was still standing, “bloody hell,” he said. I’d seated myself on one of the sofas and tugged his jacket, I could understand he might not welcome Ruth waltzing into his head willy-nilly, but there was no need to be rude. But it wasn’t Ruth that was bothering him.
“What,” he said, “is that?” and he moved protectively in front of me, bless his heart. Peering around him, I could see the chestnut beanbag was apparently not a beanbag at all because it was now stretching extravagantly, one end high in the air before it started to pad towards us. David backed away a little but couldn’t get any further because I was behind him.
“It’s Bella,” said Rachael, “she won’t hurt you.” David opened his mouth to declare he wasn’t worried, realised how pointless that was and shut it. Bella had a rather glorious, burnished red-brown coat, muscles rippling beneath as she moved. Despite her size, she picked her way delicately over a couple of perilous piles of papers without disturbing a sheet. She stopped in front of David and looked up, not that far, she was a good four feet at the shoulder. She didn’t waste time but reared up, placing a paw firmly on each of his shoulders and tilting her head winsomely. He staggered a little.
“She likes you,” said Rachael, “alright with dogs are you?” David put one arm around his new friend – simply to steady himself I think, and patted her gingerly on the head. She gave a little moan, I hoped it was pleasure.
“She’s not usually good with strangers,” said Rachael with interest, she was perched on the wide arm of the sofa opposite and I considered briefly what ‘not good’ might mean. “Sit,” ordered Rachael and Bella and David followed instruction in unison. Years ago, the Peacocks had shown me how to go into an animal’s head without causing alarm. Unlike people, animals instantly know you’re there, but if you’re gentle and as they’re not inclined to rationalise, they’re generally not that bothered, I was reassured though that this super-sized effort had no harm in her at all right now, although I gained a fair idea of what she could and would do if anything threatened those she felt she was taking care of.
“Hamlet?” I asked, sad because I’d already guessed. The Great Dane, always at the side of one or other of the sisters, had been closely involved in several chapters of my own past history and had saved my bacon a time or two.
Rachael shook her head, “Old age I’m afraid,” she said, “he was with us for 15 years, far longer than we could have hoped, old for a Great Dane.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be, he was well all his life, and when he was ill and in pain, he was allowed to go. Which is more,” she added wryly, “than most of us can hope for.” David, next to me, opened his mouth to say something, and Bella on hindquarters next to him, leaned in with interest - I don’t know, maybe she was into ethical arguments – causing him to shut it again. He still had major doubts as to whether Bella’s intentions were honourable and obviously decided silence was safer.
“She’s fine,” I said, I put out my hand to pet her and she obligingly moved towards me and did that interrogative head tilt as if waiting for me to say something useful. When I didn’t, she settled down, resting heavily against my legs.
“Leonberger, Newfoundland cross,” Rachael absently answered David’s thought, “some woman bought her from a pet shop to surprise her husband, who was indeed surprised! Stupid woman had no idea how big she’d get and they couldn’t cope with her by the time she was only half this size, they took her to Battersea. She’d been there a while by the time we went along. People were cautious about taking her on, but we knew right away she’d be perfect.”
“For what?” David said with genuine curiosity.
“The children of course.” She rose to open the door for Ruth who’d be coming back with drinks in a moment or two.
“They’re not nervous?”
“Why would they be?”
“Right.” David, remained unconvinced.
“Some of our children have issues,” Rachael explained, Bella gives them confidence to communicate. They’ll talk to her, even when they’re otherwise completely unable to talk to one of us.”
I interrupted, “So, this is what? A school?”
She tilted her head a little; perhaps she’d caught it from Bella, “Yes and no.”
“Well, either it is or it isn’t.” I said.
“Hmm.”
“Rachael, we haven’t time for riddles.”
“Dear girl, it was you who insisted on
coming.”
“And now I’m here, I have questions.”
“As always!”
I ignored that. “The children here?” I left a gap for her to fill, which after a token pause she did;
“…Have a variety of issues other schools can’t, or won’t cope with. We offer them the sort of freedom they’re unlikely to get anywhere else.”
“Like Summerhill?” David asked with interest.
She sniffed, “Absolutely not.”
“That’s near here isn’t it?” he said.
“Not that near; but yes, along the coast.”
“No compulsory lessons?” he said, “first names for teachers, bit skinny on the rules?” I’d ceased to be surprised at the bits and pieces of knowledge he always seemed to have to hand, but like all journalists, he gathered facts as a matter of habit, filing them with optimum efficiency for when they might be relevant.
“That’s not really us,” she replied repressively.
“There are others aren’t there,” he said, “Free schools? Something in Notting Hill?”
“Yes,” she was impatient, “but that’s not how we operate here, so I’ve no idea why we’re talking about them, and I presume this isn’t anything to do with why you’ve come?” I raised a hand to stop the two of them in their tracks; I wasn’t the nervous sixteen-year-old who’d perched on the edge of this same sofa several years and some startling experiences ago. Rachael silently answered my pressing question before I’d voiced it, “Not a lot of the children are like us.”
“Some?”
“Possibly.”
“For goodness sake Rachael!” I exclaimed out loud, for the benefit of David who was head turning between the two of us like someone watching a tennis match without being able to spot the ball. Rachael rolled her eyes, she knew if I was intrigued I wouldn’t stop asking, so she sent me what I wanted to know.
Yes, it was a school which had evolved from the Peacock’s Practice which was a mix of therapy, tuition and problem solving for children with special needs or behavioural problems. Sometimes, not all that often, those needs arose because they were in some way or another like us. Most often they were traumatised or damaged, defined not by their limitations but by their inexplicable abilities – not understood by the children themselves and certainly not by their parents or the education system.
Cases referred to the Peacocks tended to be those where other avenues had been exhausted. Their professional reputation for dealing with troubled children had grown over the years. Opening the school gave them the facilities to work with more children and on a broader scale, some boarding, others day-students. Some had minor issues, others major ones, a very few didn’t fit any recognised parameters. Individual cases received tailor-made solutions that would, in most cases, allow children to move on without the ‘disruptive’ label. Some of them were sorted in a short time; others would be with the Peacocks for several years.
“There,” she said aloud, “satisfied?”
“I’d really like to know what happens to those like us, how they’re helped?” But I knew as I spoke, I’d had my lot, I wasn’t going to get any more interesting information.
“Ah,” Ruth was back with a tray, “you’ve met Bella?” then taking in Rachael’s irritation which was palpable in the room, “as you’ll have gathered, a far less snappy individual than my sister.” Bella had gone back to her beanbag impression, but raised her head hopefully as Ruth placed filled cups alongside sliced cake and biscuits and re-seated herself. Bella, sighed and put her head down again.
“To see you, Stella dear, so unexpectedly, is wonderful.” Ruth like her sister had lived in England for over thirty years – they’d left Germany at the end of the war but sometimes the shaping of a sentence harked back and as she leaned forward to hand a cup to David, the wide sleeve of her jumper fell back from her arm.
“Auschwitz,” she said, as she saw him notice the number. She was matter of fact. I knew their history of course, could never forget my hands tightly enfolded in Ruth’s – when I first met her and time was short and matters urgent – as she poured into my unwilling head what she needed me to know and understand. How close they’d come to the unspeakable experimentation of the monster Mengele, and why that governed all they’d subsequently done. But in all the years, I’d never once glimpsed that number deep-scored into the skin, she, like her sister, habitually wore sleeves. The shudder that ran through me wasn’t shock so much as a visceral response to the malign efficiency governing those tattooed figures.
“You could have it removed?” David was as matter of fact as she, and Ruth answered the why, in the question;
“Some people did, thought it would help. It didn’t.” She shrugged. I usually could only hear what they were thinking if they chose to let me and then, only what they wanted me to know and no more. Occasionally, as now, I got a swift sense of something flashing between them, a question asked and answered, but before I had a chance to process it, Rachael leaned down and lifted a gift-wrapped parcel from the top of a pile of papers next to the sofa.
“Here,” she said, “we were going to post this. We thought you’d appreciate it more than a toaster.”
“Goodness,” I was a bit stymied; Rachael had given me a gift once before. I was sixteen then, I still had it. The blood stains on the small leather wrist-strap were faded now, the memories weren’t. That was the very first time I’d been involved in something the Peacock sisters felt needed to be done.
“That’s kind of you,” David at least hadn’t lost his manners; he nudged me, “Go on, open it.” I undid the wrapping carefully, a habit inculcated by my mother’s family who considered wrapping paper that hadn’t been re-used at least three times, a wicked waste. Revealed was a black, cloth-bound book, gilt lettered on the spine, Magnolia Street. Louis Golding.
“Look inside,” Rachael said, “it’s a first edition.” It was indeed, published by Victor Gollancz, 1932 but what spread my smile of pleasure was the inscription on the front end-paper. ‘Louis Golding writes this for Christina Foyle in her jade-turquoise frock, now being twenty-one. London 30 Jan 32.’
“For your collection,” Ruth said.
“It’s wonderful, thank you both so much,” I was touched they’d even remembered my love of vintage books, “that is so thoughtful.”
“We thought, um ... David might appreciate it too,” Rachael added a late attempt at inclusivity. I held the book to my nose – nothing beats the smell of an old book the amalgam of ink, slightly foxed paper and binding glue. The spine was still firm and tight, the gilt lettering only slightly faded as I ran my hand gently over it.
I think then that I must have risen to my feet, the better to get the book away from me. I needed it as far away as possible. I think it hit Rachael on the arm as it hurtled past, I wasn’t bothered, I could feel myself swaying, and then gagging. I put my hand over my mouth, I knew it wouldn’t be polite to throw up over the coffee table so I had to get away, I turned and stumbled clumsily into an immovable object which turned out to be Bella, who’d stood up too, more than a little confused. David was fast; reaching from behind me, he grabbed both my elbows, The two women were quicker still, didn’t hesitate, they were on it, but then they would be, they’d been expecting it. In an instant they’d enfolded my mind, smothering the revulsion and the pain, but not the realisation of what had just happened.
David, pragmatic most of the time, wasn’t now, “what in God’s name?” he turned me to face him, was holding me tight and my shaking was making him judder too.
“She’s fine,” Rachael said.
“She’s so obviously not!” he snapped.
“No, I’m OK.” I sank down onto the sofa because my legs didn’t want to hold me anymore. I couldn’t catch my breath and as it caught painfully in my chest, my mouth, tongue and, lips twisted away from bitter almonds. “He knew,” I muttered, “he knew straight away but it was too late.” Ruth had moved swiftly and seated the other side of me had one of my arms,
David still retained the other.
“Don’t,” said Ruth, “you don’t have to.”
“Don’t have to what?” David was as appalled as he was angry. I pulled my arms away from both of them, didn’t want to be touched.
“I’m fine, honestly. I’m OK.” I glanced at Ruth who had the grace to look truly abashed and at Rachael who didn’t. “Well,” I said coldly, “what was it you wanted to know? How painful a death, how long it lasted, how quickly did he know, what he thought and felt as he died, what effect your little experiment has had on me?”
“Not necessary,” Rachael’s tone was level, “we know the history of the book. The bookseller who sold it to us, was the one who cleared the house after the wife was arrested. We knew you’d love the book for itself. And...” she added reasonably, “if you hadn’t felt anything, it would have been a perfect present!” Beside me, David swore under his breath, we all ignored him.
“Why?” I demanded.
“We...” began Rachael.
“Not me,” said Ruth firmly.
Rachael continued, “Very well, just me. I wanted to know.”
“Well, now you do. How can you bear to have it in the house?”
Rachael shook her head. “Well, that’s what’s so interesting, isn’t it? We could focus hard and get something, but nothing like you just did.”
“But I’ve never had anything like this before – and it’s hardly something I wouldn’t notice,” I said.
“No, it is rare to find it in a younger person, it often only comes to light in middle-age. I just had a feeling about it in relation to you.”
“And you didn’t think to mention?” in my annoyance I flashed the thought, because that hit harder than words.
“You never asked,” she flashed back. Arguments with Rachael tended to be circular affairs, more often than not ending up, near as damn it, where they started. Anyway,” she added silently, “wasn’t it because of this you wanted to come today, when did you first realise?”
Stranger Still Page 3