The Illustrated Child

by Polly Crosby

‘It’s OK, I like it,’ I said, tracing the heart with my finger. Tiredness overwhelmed me.

  ‘Will you stay with me while I go to sleep?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And will you sing me a song?’

  ‘I don’t know many.’

  ‘Just a nursery rhyme will do.’

  ‘OK.’ Stacey thought for a moment and then began to sing. Her voice was clear and light, as if it were coming from another room.

  ‘Rock a bye baby

  ‘On the tree top

  ‘When the wind blows

  ‘The cradle will rock…’

  Long before she had finished, I was fast asleep.

  I awoke, hours later. Dad was sitting next to me on the bed. I could still feel the echo of his kiss on my forehead. He smiled at me, touching the mole on my cheek lightly, his eyes crinkling.

  ‘Is it morning?’

  ‘No. It’s just gone midnight.’

  I stifled a yawn and rubbed my eyes. In the dark, Dad was a soft shadow.

  ‘I need to go to London soon,’ he said. ‘I’ll call and make the appointment tomorrow.’

  ‘Can we go to the British Museum?’ I said, the yawn emerging at the same time as the words. I could remember going there when I was younger, and seeing giant stone people. Sometimes they hefted their huge bulk into my dreams, moving infinitesimally slowly, smiling down at me as if I was a tiny ladybird on the floor.

  Dad cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid this is a Dad-only visit, Roe. I should be in and out within the day. Will you be all right on your own?’

  I could see consternation crossing his brow. I nodded, and he patted my good arm before climbing carefully back down my stairs, leaving me to lie in bed, wide awake, wondering why he was going to the British Museum without me.

  Seven

  On November the fifth, our small Kemp family stood round a bonfire of raked-up leaves in the twilit garden. Dad doled out homemade soup in mugs, while I stoked the fire. I was wearing the pinafore dress my mother had sent. I had worn it so much, diving into bracken-covered dens and biting at the dull sweetness of blackberries, that holes and stains had appeared across it quickly, prompting Dad to sew patches of fabric all over it until it had become, not so much a denim dress, but a dress-of-many-colours.

  ‘I wish this wind would settle,’ Dad said, watching nervously as fiery leaves kept trying to escape into the sky like little comets. ‘I’ve had enough hurricanes for one lifetime.’

  Dad had come home from his appointment in London with sweat under his arms and a clinical smell about him that reminded me of the nurses who slathered the plaster onto my broken arm. He brought with him a huge bag of new paints and brushes, which seemed rather silly, since he already had far too many as it was. He had mumbled something about a new painting project, cupping my cheek in his hand and dropping a kiss onto the top of my head, before pouring himself a very large whisky and promptly falling asleep in the snug.

  Since then I hadn’t seen him use the paints, and I wondered if he had forgotten all about them.

  Montgomery picked his way down the path towards us, but shot off in another direction at the sight of the crackling flames. Dad passed me two mugs, steam rising thickly from the soup’s surface. I took them awkwardly.

  ‘Why have I got two?’

  Sipping deeply at his own mug, Dad swallowed, wiping a line of mush from his moustache. ‘I thought your friend Stacey was coming?’

  ‘Oh.’ I squinted hopefully past him into the dark towards the gate, looking for her customary bare legs scrambling over the top, but there was nothing there. Perhaps her mum had a new boyfriend and she was staying out of the way with her gran.

  ‘Romilly, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. I’ve had a lot of time to think over the last few weeks, and I’ve decided to write a book.’

  ‘A book?’ I blew on my soup, watching how the steam mingled with the woodsmoke. ‘What about?’

  ‘It’s the painting project I was telling you about. I was thinking of a picture book. Starring you.’ He looked hard at me, his eyes glowing like embers.

  I swallowed a mouthful of soup rather quickly, scorching the back of my throat. ‘Me?’

  ‘You and your cat. I’ve a publisher interested.’

  ‘Will we be able to buy loo roll and new socks?’ I said, thinking of the ripped-up newspaper in the downstairs loo.

  ‘It should help out. I have an idea or two. And a fat advance if I decide to do it.’

  I sipped my soup thoughtfully. I couldn’t imagine anyone would be interested in a book about me.

  ‘Well, Romilly?’ Dad said, scooping my hair out of my scarf. It had begun to grow again after he cut it, and I felt it lift in the breeze as Dad crouched down so that we were nose to nose. ‘What do you think, Romilly-Roe? Do you want to be famous?’

  Images of glittering evening dresses and flashing camera bulbs lit up my mind. Giant chocolate cakes and expensive teddies. A hazy memory of a be-feathered woman in a pink glittering leotard. I nodded quickly, kissing Dad on his bulbous nose and wrapping my arms round his huge neck.

  During the next few weeks, while I was at school, Dad worked hard on ideas for the book. In the Christmas holidays he spent every day locked in his study, only coming out on Christmas Day to baste the turkey and pour himself another glass of port. Whenever I dared knock on his door to ask if he wanted to pull a cracker or listen to my rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’, he said, ‘Not now, Romilly,’ and closed the door smoothly.

  By early spring, he had emerged from his study as if from hibernation, blinking in the pale spring light, his hands and face covered in dabs of orange paint like some undiscovered new species. He made up for hiding away by playing hunt the Monty-cat with me all over Braër’s sprawling rooms. One afternoon he strode from the kitchen bearing a huge strawberry jelly on a dinnerplate. It was so large and wobbling that when Monty jumped onto the table to sniff at it I could see his whole body, wibbly and faintly pink, through its transparent side.

  I forgot about the book after that. Stacey came to call often, and as the evenings got lighter, I was allowed to stay out later. We explored the countryside, roaming like wildcats through the gorse and the reeds.

  For my tenth birthday, Dad hosted a tea party by the moat for Stacey and me. He dressed up as a butler, sweating in a too tight suit and calling us both ‘Ma’am’ whilst he served us scones with clotted cream and dollops of plum jam that we had made in great batches the previous summer.

  A few days later, he came home from a trip to London with a bottle of perfume for me, and armfuls of carrier bags bearing the word ‘Harrods’.

  ‘The book’s finally out, Roe!’ he announced, whipping a copy out of one of the bags. But before I had a chance to take it, he roared, ‘Go and get your best frock on, it’s time for a banquet!’ and he pulled a huge bottle of champagne out with a flourish, like a magician pulling out a bunch of flowers.

  I raced upstairs and pulled on my denim dress. It had ripped on a bramble the previous week, but Dad had sewn a patch of flowery material over the hole. It was almost more patch than denim now.

  When I got back downstairs, my stomach rumbling for the feast to come, Dad was still unloading bags of food onto the table. There was a whole plate of cheese, one of them so ripe it wobbled like the strawberry jelly and stank like my trainers. There were little cakes arranged delicately on a tiered plate, each one smelling different, each no bigger than a tiny bite.

  ‘What’s happened to the oranges?’ I said, pointing to some small, egg-shaped oranges in the fruit bowl.

  ‘That is not an orange,’ Dad said importantly, ‘That, is a kumquat.’

  ‘Are they nice?’

  ‘No idea. Expensive though.’ He sat down and began to pile his plate with food.

  ‘Why is everything expensive always so small?’ I said, looking at the little pot of fish eggs called caviar.

  ‘Rich people like small things,’ Dad said, fiddling with the wire round the champagne
bottle, ‘it makes them feel bigger than they are.’

  ‘Then why is the champagne bottle so big?’

  With a pop that hurt my ears, the cork ricocheted off the ceiling, and white fizz flowed over Dad’s hand. ‘Because one can never have enough champagne,’ he said, licking it off his knuckles. ‘This is called a magnum.’

  I mouthed the word, liking the way it felt as big and round as the bottle it described.

  Dad cleared his throat, ‘To our joint venture,’ he said, lifting a forkful of chocolate cake into the air. I lifted my spoon of caviar to meet him, and we clanked our cutlery together. The caviar tasted of chocolate and salty fish as I licked it off the spoon.

  In the middle of the table was a bowl of baked beans.

  ‘What’s so special about baked beans?’ I asked, sticking my finger into the bowl and sucking on it loudly.

  ‘It’s to remind us that whatever success we may achieve, we should never forget where we’ve come from. And besides,’ he said, plunging a spoon into the beans and shovelling them into his mouth, ‘I do love baked beans.’

  We toasted the book’s publication, Dad with the only champagne glass we owned, me with a trickle in my polka dot mug, the bubbles rising up my nose and making me sneeze. I gulped it down, feeling the sharp-sweetness hit the back of my throat.

  Later, as Dad filled his glass to the brim for the umpteenth time, his eyes taking on a dark brightness, the champagne swelled over the edge of the glass like a fountain, and I angled my mug to catch the excess flow. As I took a deep sip, the bubbles shivered over my scalp like a heady witches’ brew, and I gazed into the golden depths of the mug, seeing a minute world within: parrots and monkeys and panthers made entirely of bubbles. I blinked, my eyes suddenly unfocused. When I raised my head, I thought I saw the echo of a panther creeping past the window, and the champagne in my mouth tasted bitter.

  I would never forget the first time I saw the finished book. Dad had been quite secretive while painting the original pictures for the books, locking himself in his study to paint, and I had only been allowed glimpses of them. So to see myself in a book for the first time, to smell the pages and touch the shine of my hair and the pink blush of my cheeks, was like magic.

  The book was called Romilly and the Kitten. I had my very own copy, and Dad had signed his name inside the cover just for me. The first time I opened it, it crackled stiffly as if I was the first person ever to glimpse inside. The front cover was a swathe of gold. It was designed to look like a portrait, with a decorative gilt frame around the edge, set with rubies and sapphires. The picture in the frame was a startling likeness of me, standing looking inquisitively out, with Monty cradled in my arms.

  Inside the book, every page was crammed with objects and colour, and I recognised it all: there was Braër House, with its crumbling chimney and mirror-still moat, and here was our marvellously retro kitchen, where I recognised the polka dot mug I drank my tea out of, and the cracked egg cup shaped like a yellow chick that Dad liked to eat his boiled egg from.

  On every page, I was wearing my denim pinafore with the flying saucer buttons, accompanied by bright red tights. In Dad’s paintings, the red-and-blue clothes did wondrous things to my auburn hair, sending flecks of light spinning and radiating from me as if from an angel. But somewhere deep within the printing process the colour of my hair was lost to be replaced by a vulgar crimson that matched my tights.

  Still, Romilly on the page looked a lot like me: the same white skin, the same dark eyelashes. The same blue eyes. Even the heart-shaped face of the 2D Romilly mirrored mine – Dad never did things by halves.

  It wasn’t until I had owned the book for a few days, gorging on the pictures, that I realised there were words hidden in each one. They littered the page in twining calligraphy, swirling through the wallpaper in the drawing room, caught in the knotted grain of the beech tree. Words like willow and roses, teapot and parrot. And once you found the words, it set you off on a hunt for the corresponding objects. My stuffed green parrot was to be located perched on the desk in my bedroom. The roses were sitting in a vase on the kitchen window, their pale pink petals so thin you could see the sunlight pouring through.

  After a few weeks it felt normal to be in a book: surely every child had their own adventures hidden within jewelled covers? After all, there was Christopher Robin, and Alice and her Wonderland. They were my new friends, people who knew exactly what it was like to be me.

  Stacey wasn’t very interested in the book. She said it was because she couldn’t read very well, but I think it was more likely that she was jealous. Occasionally I would persuade her to look at it with me, feeling a rush of happiness as her eyes grew round with wonder at all of the tiny, perfect details. Sometimes I felt the heat of her gaze on me as we pored over the book, her eyes enviously flicking from Romilly on the page to Romilly next to her.

  The book sat on my bedside table, and the clanking of the pipes under the floorboards finally ceased because now there was enough money to fix them, and Dad’s face grew flushed from the crates of wine that appeared in the pantry.

  The initial excitement of seeing myself in a book faded, but Dad enjoyed the publicity. Sullen and hermit-like at home, he came out of his shell when signing books and talking to the public. To my surprise, despite the book being full of colourful pictures for children, it was mainly grown-ups in the queue, lining up to question Dad about the different images, asking what they all meant. Dad would grow, if possible, even bigger in his chair as he swelled with pride at the compliments and smiling faces, pulling me over to wrap his arm around my shoulder for a photo. I spent a lot of time practising my signature, perfecting a heart over the i, and ending my name with a little curlicued flourish, just in case anyone ever asked me for an autograph.

  A few months after the book was published, in the dwindling light of a late summer’s evening, Dad and I sat on the edge of the moat, dangling old crabbing lines into the filmy water.

  ‘It’s a funny sort of fishing,’ I said, turning to Dad, who was concentrating on his own string, his fingers nimbly pulling it up, inch by inch. ‘If we can’t eat what we catch, why are we bothering?’

  ‘Well, we’re fishing for the past.’

  I frowned, looking at my own crabbing line. I tugged at it, but the weight at the bottom seemed to have got stuck on something.

  Dad was pulling his line in, leaning precariously over the water, wrapping the string over the handle until the weight – a giant magnet in the shape of a horseshoe – came smoothly out. Dangling from it was an old door hinge, half covered in mud. He pulled it in and looked at it with fascination.

  ‘We definitely can’t eat that,’ I said.

  ‘I know, but isn’t it wonderful? Think of the door this came from! Who went through it? How long ago did they die?’

  I turned to my own line, and tried again to pull it up, prickling with anticipation at my own catch.

  Over my shoulder, I could hear voices. I turned to see two boys climbing the gate into the garden. They hadn’t spotted us yet.

  ‘Intruders,’ Dad whispered, frowning, and he heaved himself up and strode towards them.

  I turned back to my crabbing line, tugging hard. With a twang, it came away sharply from whatever it had caught on. In surprise, I dropped the handle and it slipped from my grasp and slithered down the bank to be swallowed up by the moat, gone forever. As the water stilled, I saw, just beneath the surface, the cunning face of the sunken gargoyle, watching me. The ripples of the water made its mouth look like it was whispering. I got up quickly and followed Dad.

  He was over by the gate, brandishing the muddy hinge above his head. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ he was saying, a wild look in his eyes.

  I peered out from behind his broad back. One of the boys looked a few years older than me, the other a year or two younger. They were looking down at their feet. The older one was unsuccessfully hiding a spade behind his back.

  ‘Trespassing!’ Dad
said, glowering at them.

  ‘We’re just looking for the treasure,’ the smaller one said.

  ‘David, shh!’ The taller one with the spade elbowed him.

  ‘It’s the truth,’ David whispered. Then he spotted me standing behind Dad, and his face lost all its colour. ‘She looks just like her pictures,’ he said.

  ‘I can hear you,’ I said, growing brave, shielded by Dad’s huge bulk.

  ‘Enough of this,’ Dad said. ‘Romilly, don’t be rude.’ He turned to the boys, ‘What do you mean, “treasure”?’

  ‘You know, the secret code. Things hidden in the book.’ The taller boy’s voice was on the verge of breaking. It wavered between deep and squeaky, and he looked at Dad warily as he spoke.

  Dad sighed and rubbed hard at his face with his hands. Then with a flourish, he waved the muddy hinge in the direction of the garden. ‘Go on then,’ he said, ‘search away, but I promise you there’s nothing to find.’

  The boys tiptoed away, giving Dad a wide berth before running off across the garden.

  ‘Rapscallions,’ he muttered.

  ‘What were they talking about?’ I said.

  ‘Goodness knows, Romilly.’

  ‘Is there something buried here?’ I was looking at the garden with new eyes, every grassy hummock turning into pots of gold.

  ‘Only ghosts,’ Dad said soberly, laying his arm across my shoulders as he surveyed the garden.

  I followed his gaze. The grassy hummocks suddenly looked like little graves all around us.

  ‘You can’t bury ghosts.’

  ‘Well, technically you can lay them to rest.’

  ‘That doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘It’s a figure of speech. It means letting go of things that worry you or make you sad.’

  Dad was still looking out over the garden. His hand on my shoulder had tightened, digging into my skin until it hurt. ‘I ought to let her know,’ he said quietly to himself.

  I pulled away and looked at him. ‘Let who know?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Is there treasure buried here?’ I said, trying to make sense of his riddles.