by Beth Morrey
I’d lose all my friends. No one would be bothered to trek out there, so I’d be left, withering away, occasionally embarking on the trip back to see the husband who didn’t recognize me. Contemplating that fate, it was little wonder I’d tried to pretend it didn’t exist.
But it didn’t matter how much I stopped myself from thinking about it, it turned out I’d been thinking about it all along and had it all planned out. So I arrived home and went straight back to the sherry. I took a glass and the bottle into the living room and sat on my sofa looking at Bobby’s bed next to the fireplace. That beautiful, sumptuous bed the dog walkers bought me. The fleece was flattened in the shape of her. I drank a glass, and then another, and then I went to the kitchen and got two bin bags from one of the drawers.
Back in the living room, I stuffed Bobby’s bed into one of them, pushing it down hard so it all squashed in. Then I did the same with all those stupid knick-knacks Sylvie had cast about the place—the photos, vases, pens, ornaments all went into the other bin bag until the room was clear again. All that clutter. The pettiness of it all. I stood in the middle of the room, breathing heavily, still dizzy from the alcohol. The ring of the doorbell interrupted my stupor. I imagined Bobby barking furiously, dancing into the hallway, at once excited and outraged at the intrusion. It rang again, and again I ignored it, looking around the room for more things to put away.
Angela’s voice floated through the mail slot. “Missy! Let me in! I know you’re in there.”
I sat down on the sofa and poured myself another sherry as I considered my next move. I wasn’t sure I could get the bureau up to the attic on my own, but it would have to go.
“I can see your light on! Let me in, please!”
I looked up at the portrait of my father, his clever, sensitive face half-smiling down at me. I could probably take that with me to the new place. Nothing else though. It all had to go.
“I’ve been talking to Sylvie. She told me about Leo. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Desi Haber told Sylvie about Leo, just as I feared she might, and Sylvie had told Angela. I supposed the world of historians was a small one. Not that it mattered now. I thought of the terrible row I’d had with Melanie. We didn’t speak for months afterward, then one day she called, and I’d thawed enough to talk. But then she couldn’t resist broaching Leo’s care again, refusing to believe that we had enough in savings to cover the cost, suggesting that I move him to a home she’d found in Cambridge and then buy a flat nearby for myself. Sheltered accommodation, she called it. I hung up on her.
“We can fix this, Missy. I promise.”
I switched the light off in the living room and sat in the gloom until Angela went away. Then I rolled up the Aubusson rug like I did all those years ago and lugged it up to the attic. I was far too old for this. When I’d finished, the sweat was pooling between my ribs, and I had the beginnings of a headache. So I went downstairs and got ready for bed, taking aspirin in anticipation of the inevitable hangover. I had work to do tomorrow. Although Bobby wasn’t there anymore, I didn’t bother to do my round of checking—who cared what was in the cupboards? As I got into bed and pushed my feet down, I felt a lump under the duvet and, reaching down, unearthed Bobby’s rabbit. We should have buried him with her. Too late now. So instead I held him and stared at the wall, making shapes out of the shadows, until it was too dark to see anymore.
Chapter 48
I didn’t leave the house for three days, sitting in my dressing gown on the sofa staring at my father’s portrait, reading more of my mother’s letters and looking at photos of Arthur. I wanted to absorb everything from my past to help me come to terms with what lay ahead. Periodically someone would knock at the door or yell through the mail slot, but I learned to tune it out, and when a face appeared at the window I simply closed the curtains and carried on as I was.
I ate the remains of the wake-feast, curling ham sandwiches and cold sausage rolls. The pastry was greasy and flat; shards of it fell on the sofa, and there was no Bobby there to vacuum it up. I was alone as I’d always been, unknit and in flux, a mess of tangled thoughts and random impulses. The alcohol had run out, and so had the milk. When I’d finished the sandwiches and sausage rolls, I ate dry cereal and called the estate agent to arrange a value estimate. Hearing the excitement in his voice when I gave him the address and the thought of him salivating over his fee made me unusually curt over the phone. Afterward I had to go and clean the kitchen, savagely washing down units and scrubbing the floor until the whole place gleamed like a newly fallen chestnut.
It was late afternoon by then and, feeling drained, I drifted upstairs toward the attic, drawn to my mother’s old trunks. In the half-light I sorted through some dresses, running my hands along silks and chiffons, letting the feathers and beads trail between my fingers. On a whim, I selected a long, high-necked Edwardian dress and held it against me, looking at myself in the tilting mirror in the corner. It was lilac, the color of mourning. Shrugging off my dressing gown, I slowly pulled the dress over my head and it fell in silky folds around my shoulders, settling into the grooves and curves of my body like it was made for me. In the gloom I looked like my grandmother, restless hands plucking at the full skirt. Jette and her Singer, distracting herself with the thrash and hum of the machine, trying to ignore the ghost in it. It didn’t work in the end—the only thing that worked was putting yourself out of your misery altogether. Like Jette. Take the pills, give up the ghost.
“Missy.”
I gave a shocked cry. In the mirror behind me was Angela, white-faced and red-eyed. I whirled around, and there she was, standing in my attic.
“How did you get in here?”
Wordlessly she held up a key—the one I’d given Sylvie. Then a clattering up the stairs, and there was Sylvie herself and—I drew a sharp breath—Melanie. Her eyes roamed around the rooms, before resting on the dress I was wearing over my nightgown.
“Come downstairs and let’s talk,” she said.
I thought about refusing to come down and spending whatever I had left of my life stalking this attic, the kind of ghoul I checked the cupboards for, but a glance at Sylvie’s and Angela’s set faces suggested they would be perfectly capable of physically dragging me downstairs. So I picked up the train of my dress and sailed past them, my head held high.
Down in the kitchen I set about making tea, then remembered there was no milk. Seeing me hesitate, Melanie reached into her bag and pulled out a carton. I took it from her, feeling resentful. While the three of them talked about the lovely weather we were having, I made up a pot, put everything on a tray and carried it through to the living room. Sylvie cast a quick glance at the bare walls as she went in, but said nothing.
“Tea, anyone?” A perfect hostess, in my elegant day dress, I poured us each a cup and settled back on the sofa, steeling myself for a lecture. Once they were gone I would call another estate agent—best to get a variety of estimates before we fixed on a price. I raised my eyebrows at Melanie, but for once she seemed at a loss.
Instead it was Sylvie who put her cup down, got up and walked toward the fireplace to look up at the portrait of my father.
“William Jameson,” she said, patting the frame. “I’ve been reading about him. You didn’t tell me he was a war hero.”
The teacup trembled at my lips. “He wouldn’t have wanted anyone to make a fuss,” I said and took a sip to steady myself, burning my tongue.
“He rescued twenty-three British and American soldiers from a Ukrainian barn. They all escaped, but he was shot by a Russian guard. The war was already over. He could have gone home. But he stayed.”
“He hung on,” I whispered.
“And your mother, Helena Jameson. She ran self-defense and driving classes for women—secretly, so their husbands couldn’t find out. She taught hundreds of women to drive and defend themselves. She never took payment. All those women, safer and more
independent because of her. She was a hero too.”
“What’s your point?” The tears were threatening but I swallowed them down with the boiling tea.
Angela took my cup from my hands and held them in her own.
“Her point is that they helped people. People help other people. You’ve helped me. Now we want to help you.”
“No one can help me.” I didn’t see why anyone would want to. I wasn’t a war hero like William Jameson. Or an activist like Helena Jameson. I was just Missy Carmichael.
“Wrong,” said Sylvie, slapping her hand on the mantelpiece. “I have an idea, and as you know, my ideas are always excellent.”
“It’s too late. You don’t know the mess I’m in.”
“Au contraire. I know exactly what kind of a mess you’re in, and I know how to get you out of it.”
Melanie, sitting in her father’s chair, intervened. “I told them everything, Mum.”
I glared at her. “We’ve been through this before. I’m not moving to some dreadful bungalow in Cottenham, playing bridge with old biddies and getting bused to the seaside.”
“Dear me, no,” said Sylvie heartily. “Melanie, I must say that was a terrible plan. Mine is much better.”
“Dad’s care home costs are huge,” explained Melanie. “Ali and I are happy to contribute, if she’d let us, but even with that . . .”
Even with that, we couldn’t afford it. I’d done the sums when I started getting the letters from our bank and knew we wouldn’t be able to manage for much longer.
“I don’t want to move him,” I muttered. “He’s happy there. In a way.”
“You won’t have to move him,” said Sylvie. “He can stay right where he is. And so can you.”
I raked a hand through my shorn hair and heard the dress rip under my armpit. “How?”
Sylvie smiled. “It all starts with the attic,” she said.
I’d always thought of my house as an asset, but only in the sense that it could be sold, and thus its riches would be realized. Sylvie saw something else. All those rooms, all that space. All that potential to make money in a different way.
“We’re going to renovate your attic,” she announced. “I have all the contacts, the laborers, the decorators. I’ll design it all. We’ll put a little en-suite bathroom in, and then you can rent it out and use the money to pay for Leo’s care.”
“But who’s going to live in it?” I asked.
“I am,” said Angela. “Me and Otis, we’re moving in. I’m sick of my landlord. I’d much rather pay you rent. Plus I’ll have a live-in babysitter on hand, Otis will have a constant supply of biscuits and best of all . . .” She tailed off and looked at me from under her lashes.
“Best of all, what?”
She grinned. “We can get a dog.”
All at once I felt a quiver in my heart and caught my breath, transfixed. “A dog? Of my own?”
Sylvie butted in. “And there’s your spare room too. We can spruce it up a bit, you can get a student in there. More money. More company.”
“But how will I pay for all that? I haven’t got the money to renovate a loft, or redecorate, or add bathrooms or . . . anything. There’s nothing left.” I slumped in my seat, deflated once again. For a moment I’d had a sliver of hope.
“You WILL pay for it all. For now, Denzil is going to give you a loan. No, wait!” She held up a finger as my mouth fell open to protest. “A loan. He can afford it, and besides, you’re going to pay him back. We’re going to sell things. All the stuff in the attic, for starters. And Leo’s books. They’re worth thousands.”
“Leo’s books? But . . .”
“But nothing. The money will do him much more good than the library. Phillip Kingston is a secondhand book dealer, he’s got a shop on Charing Cross Road and he’s going to get you a good price on all of them. They’re worth a fortune. Simon Charles is a builder, and his wife, Maddie, is a plumber. They’re waiting to measure up the space, see what they can do. We’re all ready.”
“They’re waiting . . . ?”
“They’re all outside, in your garden. Go and look.”
I stood up and walked out, through the hallway, into the kitchen and to the back door. Opening it, I saw a crowd of people and dogs on my lawn next to Bobby’s cypress—Denzil with Badger and Barker, Phillip and Dexter, Simon and Maddie with Tiggy and little Timothy, Octavia, Hanna, and Otis with Decca and Nancy, all standing and chatting in the sunshine. Seeing me there in the doorway, they all waved and cheered. My heart swelled again and I put my hand over my mouth. Here was my Gordian knot, nonchalantly untied, released, destroyed in a single stroke, by the people I loved, who loved me. They didn’t say it; they didn’t have to, because it shone in everything they did.
“See?” said Sylvie in my ear. “It’s a pretty good plan, isn’t it? What do you think? Can they come in?”
She, Angela and Melanie were all looking at me expectantly, waiting for a response. But I couldn’t speak, I could only look. Their faces, alight with excitement and affection, bubbling over with their ideas and schemes. I gazed out at all my friends in my garden, ready to devote their skills and their time to me. Help was on my doorstep, and all I had to do was let them in.
“I think,” I said finally, turning to smile at Mel and cupping her cheek in my hand as I slowly found my voice, “that we’re going to need a lot more milk . . .”
Chapter 49
So the whole top floor has been transformed, you wouldn’t believe the difference. Just washing the windows changed everything—they were absolutely filthy. But now they’re gleaming and the place is so much brighter. We’ve made one side into bedrooms for Angela and Otis—they’ve got one each now, though of course Otis’s is quite small. And then the other side is a little sitting room and bathroom. It all looks simply lovely. Sylvie is so clever.”
I finished arranging Leo’s flowers—honeysuckle from the garden—and stood back to admire them in their vase. He was sitting in his chair looking out as usual, one finger twitching to the Prelude that was playing. I knew he could hear me though, because sometimes when I stopped talking he would grab my arm and make a kind of rolling gesture with his hand as if to say “Carry on.” So I did.
“And downstairs we’ve repainted the spare room and Maddie put a new sink in, so it’s all ready for the young man, Aleksander, to move in. I was hoping Hanna would want the room, but she just moved into a new place with her boyfriend. Aleksander is a friend of hers, he’s studying at the Royal Academy of Music and plays the cello. I must say, it will be quite helpful to have a man about the house again, though of course he’s only twenty. We were worried he’d be practicing day and night but she says he does all that at the college and just wants somewhere to sleep and eat. Maybe he’ll play for us in the evenings though, that might be nice.”
After giving him his drink, I stacked Leo’s books on the table next to him and opened a window to let some fresh air in. It was still warm and there were a few hours of daylight left. Smoothing back his unruly hair, I kissed his forehead and picked up a card that had fallen on the floor, adding it to one of his rows. Then I sat on his bed and, since it was a kind of bedtime, began to tell him a story.
“Apollo was a handsome god, used to getting his own way.”
The breeze shifted outside, as though the gods were on my side, urging me on.
“Eleni was a beautiful young girl, but very shy, and one day she was walking in the forest when she bumped into Apollo, who was hunting there. He’d missed everything so far that day, but he took one look at Eleni and decided to make her fall in love with him. He pierced her with one of his arrows and she was instantly smitten, following him round and offering him gifts. But eventually Apollo had to move on, leaving Eleni alone. Devastated by the loss of her love, Eleni became mute and from then on was unable to speak a word.”
I wiped away a ro
gue tear that threatened to fall and continued. “When she was hungry, she couldn’t ask for food. When she was thirsty, she couldn’t ask for water. When she was lonely, she couldn’t ask for company.”
Leo lay back, his hands stilled. “Eleni roamed the forest, getting thinner, thirstier and more miserable. Until one day she met a dog called Skyla. Skyla was a good and loyal hound, and she joined Eleni as she walked through the forest. When Eleni was hungry, Skyla would bark at the farmers until they gave her food. When she was thirsty, Skyla would lead her to a stream so she could drink. When she was lonely, Skyla would curl up with her in the moonlight to sleep. Gradually, Eleni grew stronger. She and Skyla became inseparable. But Apollo’s sister Artemis, watching from above, was jealous. She sent an arrow down to Earth and it killed Skyla instantly. Skyla died in Eleni’s arms. But as she wept over the dog’s body, her voice returned. Another passing goddess, Achelois, heard her cries and stopped to listen.”
I took a deep breath. “Incensed by Artemis’s cruelty, Achelois turned Skyla into a constellation, and if you look into the sky at night, you can see the Dog Star up there, even now . . .”
At last, Leo’s eyelids began to droop and his breathing settled into a regular rhythm, so I allowed my voice to lower until it was just a hum in the cosmos. Darling Leo, whose arrow still pierced my heart, a wound I would always live with. And Bobby, my guiding star. Both of them whispering my heart’s song as they always would.
For a while, I sat there watching him sleep and listening to the great oak outside, leaves sighing in the breeze. I imagined, one day, Leo’s spirit might weave its way to join the whispering force, soaring up into the heavens, free at last. Before the tears came, I let myself out and headed back down the corridor, waving to Rachel and walking out into the balmy summer evening.