The Secret Starling

by Judith Eagle

  ‘He scarpered,’ said Peter proudly. ‘Then there was the time when the chip pan caught on fire. We had to call the fire brigade and everything …’

  ‘Did your flat burn down?’ asked Amelia-Ann.

  ‘No, thank goodness,’ said Peter. ‘The firemen put it out. Shocks are two-a-penny round our way.’

  Clara watched as Peter stirred a few more heaped spoons of sugar into his tea.

  ‘I’m sure your granny will get well soon,’ she said. Peter looked up, surprised, and for a minute his eyes glistened. ‘She better had,’ he said and took a very long slurp of his tea.

  ‘Look,’ Clara said urgently, ‘I need to do something – find out what’s true and what’s not.’ She had thought her past was a dead end, but it wasn’t. She had found a tantalising thread that needed following. And whereas Peter had made it plain that he didn’t want to know about his own beginnings, she did want to know about hers. Desperately.

  ‘Maybe there are more secrets to find out,’ said Amelia-Ann.

  Peter set his mug down and furrowed his brow. It wasn’t his sad pug frown though, it was his thinking frown. ‘Did your uncle never say a word about her?’ he asked. ‘What about a photograph? You must’ve seen a picture of her.’

  ‘No!’ said Clara. ‘Uncle forbade any mention of her. And the only pictures we had were those old paintings of the ancestors. There was nothing modern and nothing of her.’

  ‘Well, we’d better fix that,’ said Peter purposefully. ‘It shouldn’t be hard to find out more about Christobel if she really was on the cusp like the man said.’

  ‘What is on the cusp?’ asked Amelia-Ann.

  ‘Sort of … a turning point,’ explained Clara.

  ‘Like she was about to be really well known,’ added Peter helpfully.

  ‘If I had a sister who was an almost famous ballet dancer, I’d be really proud,’ said Amelia-Ann. ‘I wouldn’t cover it up and forbid anyone to talk about it.’

  She was right, thought Clara. Why would anyone do that? There had to be a reason, and she was determined to find out.

  ‘But where shall we start?’ she said.

  ‘Well …’ said Peter, and Clara watched as a thought dawned on him and the idea spread across his features and transformed his face. ‘I know!’ he slapped his forehead with his hand. ‘Last year our class went on a trip to the Colindale newspaper library, at the end of the Northern Line. They keep all the old newspapers there. We researched all these famous people by looking at their obituaries in The Guardian. There’s bound to be something about Christobel Starling in there. We can go and read everything they’ve got, Clara!’

  A small bud of excitement started to unfurl in Clara’s chest. It would be a proper adventure.

  ‘We can go on the train,’ continued Peter, ‘if you can pay for my fare.’

  ‘Of course I’ll pay,’ said Clara, little starbursts exploding inside her. ‘It’s my mum we’re finding out about, after all. Let’s go tomorrow. And,’ she added, ‘we can visit your gran!’

  Peter was grinning, thrilled at the idea of London and his gran, but Amelia-Ann sighed into her teacup. ‘If only I could come too,’ she said wistfully.

  ‘You can. I’ve got enough money for all of us,’ said Clara, waving some of the ten-pound notes under Amelia-Ann’s nose.

  ‘I can’t,’ said Amelia-Ann glumly. ‘Nan would have a heart attack. You’d better promise you’ll come back and tell me what you find out.’

  ‘Cross our hearts and hope to die!’ said Clara. It was something she had heard the others say. Of course she would come back. Wild horses couldn’t keep her away!

  Chapter Fourteen

  They managed to meet Tom at the allotted time and drove back across the moors to Braithwaite Manor. As they approached the house, Clara, who had been dozing, sat up with a jolt. That was odd. All the lights were blazing. Even odder, a silhouetted figure stood waiting for them at the front door.

  In an instant, Clara’s mood plummeted. Someone had found out about her. They’d come from the authorities and they were going to take her away. A whopping great lump of disappointment wedged itself into her throat.

  But as Clara slumped, Peter scrabbled to get out of the car and then he was running like the clappers towards the figure and the house. ‘Is Granny all right?’ he yelled. Clara clambered out after him. She had glimpsed his face before he had darted off, shocked and white. Something was wrong.

  ‘What is it? Is she OK?’ His voice sounded reed-thin and panicky.

  ‘Peter, darling.’ The speaker was a woman, Clara saw. ‘She’s fine. You know I wouldn’t have left her if she wasn’t. The Framlinghams are looking out for her.’

  Clara stood behind Peter. She had never seen anyone so … distinctive. The woman was exceptionally elegant: tall and willowy. She had the most extraordinary toffee-coloured hair, coiled into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her green eyes were flecked with amber, and her mouth was painted a perfect pillar-box red.

  ‘Then why are you here?’ asked Peter.

  ‘I knew something was wrong,’ the woman said, flicking a long, diaphanous scarf over her shoulder. She had a low musical voice and expressive hands that danced about as she talked. ‘I kept phoning and phoning, but the line was dead. Forgive me,’ she turned to Clara. ‘I’m being rude. I’m Stella Jones. Peter has probably told you about me. You must be Clara.’ It was a statement, rather than a question, as though Stella was used to being right.

  Clara nodded. When Peter had told her about Stella, she hadn’t imagined she would look like this. The woman smelled delicious. It was a vivid, heady scent, like exotic flowers after heavy rain.

  ‘Darling, where is your uncle?’ No one had ever called Clara ‘darling’ before. Sometimes Cook called her ‘dear’ or ‘ducks’. Darling was miles better.

  For a minute, Clara was quiet. She had known the question was coming and now here it was, on a plate. Was this the end? What would Stella Jones think about her fending for herself, all alone? Stella’s green eyes were on her, waiting for an answer. And Peter was waiting too. He wasn’t mouthing anything at her, his eyes weren’t telling her what to say.

  ‘Uncle’s gone,’ she said truthfully. ‘We don’t know where to.’

  * * *

  Stella had managed to get the electricity back on and had brought mountains of provisions with her in a capacious crocodile-skin bag. It was all food that Clara had never tasted before: crispy pancakes stuffed with chicken and sweetcorn, Chinese food that you boiled in a bag, pizza with chunks of pineapple on the top.

  ‘Why didn’t you call and tell me Edward wasn’t here?’ Stella asked as they sat down to a feast of chicken chow mein, prawn balls and sticky fried rice.

  ‘We didn’t want to worry Granny,’ said Peter. ‘And it wouldn’t have made any difference if he was here. He always used to ignore you, didn’t he, Clara?’

  Clara dipped a prawn ball in bright orange sauce and licked it off. It would have made quite a lot of difference actually. She didn’t think Peter had grasped quite how dreadful Uncle’s rules and routine had been.

  ‘Peter, whether that’s true or not, I promised Elsa I would look after you,’ said Stella firmly. ‘That’s why I’m here. Your granny would never forgive me if something happened to you.’

  ‘How long are you staying?’ asked Peter.

  ‘I think another week, then she’ll be well enough for us both to go back.’

  ‘Have social services been round?’

  He still sounded anxious, thought Clara.

  ‘I spoke to them on the phone. I think we can keep them at bay if we play our cards right.’

  Clara hardly dared ask what that plan would mean for her.

  ‘Clara,’ Stella said, as if she could read her mind, ‘we need to find out what has happened to your uncle. You do know, don’t you, you can’t stay here on your own?’

  ‘But we’ve been fine so far, haven’t we, Peter?’ protested Clara.

  ‘I’m sure
you have, and if it were up to me, I’d let you get on with it. Alas,’ Stella regarded them both seriously, ‘the rest of the world would not agree. I’m sure Edward will be back soon.’

  I hope not, Clara thought. From the bottom of my heart.

  ‘Could Clara come home with us next week then?’ asked Peter.

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Stella, expertly rearranging her scarf and standing up. ‘In the meantime, Edward’s study looks like a hurricane has hit it. While I’m here, I’m going to sort it out.’

  ‘So we can’t sleep in there any more?’ asked Clara. It wasn’t fair. They’d been managing perfectly well. And they’d made it so cosy!

  ‘No,’ said Stella decisively. ‘You can do whatever you like in the rest of the house, but the study is out of bounds from now on.’

  Clara looked at Peter to see if he was going to object, but he was nodding in agreement. She decided she had better go along with it for now. After all, one rule wasn’t so bad compared to the millions she’d endured before.

  In fact, it turned out that their new den was even better than the old one. That evening they carted all their stuff up to the turret. They lugged up several quilts and cushions and piled them high to make a soft, downy bed. They carried up a nest of tables on which they placed candles from James’s stores, so that the light was just as flickery as it had been in the study. To this arrangement they added the ballet shoe, Clara’s books and her shell box. It was warm and snug, like a gentleman’s growlery, a cosy place to think important thoughts. Once everything was done, they sat down for a talk.

  Clara was adamant that they should stick to their plan and leave for Colindale the following morning, but Peter was equally adamant that they should wait.

  ‘If we go now, Stella will think we’ve run away,’ he protested. ‘She’ll tell the police and it’ll ruin everything.’ The authorities would be notified and Clara might be put away in a home. Social services would definitely split him and Granny up.

  Clara felt a pang. Since Uncle had left and Peter had arrived, she had experienced such glorious freedom, she couldn’t imagine it being taken away. Because Peter had seemed to shrug off his worries, she had assumed he felt the same way too. But now it struck her that Peter already had his something better, and it was his granny, and their flat.

  More than anything, she wanted to go on with their adventure, find out more about her mother and why Uncle had kept such a big secret. But she also knew she couldn’t jeopardise things for Peter and his granny. She would wait. And when Stella and Peter went to London next week, somehow she would go too.

  * * *

  The next day Stella didn’t bother them at all. They could play out on the moor as long as they liked, bound up the stairs and slide down the bannisters to their hearts’ content. She never came out of the study and told them to be quiet.

  She had brought LPs with her from London, and a portable record player, and when she lowered the needle onto the smooth vinyl the sound blasted all over the house. It was swirling, hypnotic music that made Peter grin and dance. He taught Clara how to do an arabesque and fast, furious pirouettes; he practised a cabriole, which was a kind of leap through the air. He was miles more graceful than Clara and made her feel like a clodhopper. And yet however clumsy she was, the dancing and the music made her feel closer to her mother. Is this what Christobel had felt like, wild and free when she had danced? Had she practised here, in this very room?

  In the afternoon Amelia-Ann trotted over on Dapple. She had glimpsed Stella Jones from the car and was desperate to know more. In Stella’s bedroom they sifted through her jewellery, trying different pieces on. Clara loved the choker with the silver snake clasp, and Peter the jangly bracelets that you could push all the way up to the top of your arms. They painted their faces with her make-up and paraded about in her long floaty scarves. Clara was surprised Stella didn’t sweep in and tell them not to touch her stuff. But it seemed she had meant what she had said: the children could have the run of the house while she brought order to the study.

  Chapter Fifteen

  After two days of being left to their own devices, Stella arrived at the breakfast table in a whirl of scarves and scent. She had telephoned for a taxi. They were going to Leeds for the day.

  ‘I have to go to the bank,’ she said, ‘and do some shopping. You can find something to do while I’m busy, can’t you?’

  By the time the taxi dropped them off, Peter and Clara had decided they would spend the day at the library. If they couldn’t go to the Colindale newspaper library, they would start their research in Leeds. Stella gave them lunch money and told them she would meet them by the library steps at 4 p.m.

  The library was enormous, light and airy, with separate floors for adults and children. Clara gazed about her in wonder. It was as if she had been catapulted into a treasure trove. There were probably enough books here, she thought, to read until she grew old and died.

  Downstairs in the adult library, the information books were in order of number. Peter led the way to the 700s where there were three whole shelves groaning with ballet-related books. ‘Yes!’ said Peter, punching the air with his fist. He had read every single ballet book several times over in his library and now here were a whole load more. They set up base camp and then carted over piles of books at a time, lounging on the carpet and leafing through them, eyes alert for any mention of Clara’s mother. There were books about choreographers, and the history of ballet and books full of ballet stories. There was a Who’s Who in Ballet, but as Peter pointed out, it was ancient, published in 1950, so that was no good. There were tons of books about Nureyev, one of which Peter hid in his bag. But they couldn’t find anything about Christobel Starling.

  ‘I think it’s because she was on the cusp,’ sighed Clara. ‘No one had a chance to put her in a book before she died.’

  Swallowing her disappointment, she listened while Peter read aloud to her. He was particularly pleased when he discovered that Nureyev, because he was so poor, hadn’t started ballet school until he was seventeen, when everyone else had been going since they were nine.

  ‘There’s hope for you yet then,’ said Clara, only half joking. Then she made Peter take the book out of his bag to borrow like a normal person and they went up to the counter.

  ‘No school today?’ asked the librarian.

  ‘No,’ said Peter. ‘The heating broke down so they sent us home.’ Clara gave him an admiring sideways glance for his quick thinking.

  ‘Got your library card?’

  ‘Ummm …’ said Clara

  ‘I’ve left mine at home and she hasn’t got one,’ said Peter. ‘Can she join?’

  ‘Of course.’ The librarian reached for a form and passed it to Clara. ‘You just need to fill out this,’ she said. ‘And you need to get your mam or dad to sign it.’

  ‘She hasn’t got a mam or dad,’ said Peter quickly. Clara darted a glance at him and he gave her the tiniest of winks. He was playing a game!

  She tried to look forlorn.

  ‘They died last year in a car crash,’ she said. Her hand went to her eyes as if to wipe away a tear.

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ said the librarian looking at Clara with concern. ‘But … who’s looking after you – foster parents? Children’s home?’

  ‘I was with a foster family,’ said Clara, enjoying herself now, ‘but they were horrible! I had to sleep in the laundry cupboard and at mealtimes I wasn’t allowed to sit with the family. I had to eat mine in the scullery. And the other children, their children, were so cruel! They tried to cut my plaits off when I was asleep!’

  ‘She’s being moved to a different family today,’ said Peter very solemnly. He looked at Clara sympathetically. ‘You could ask them to sign it …?’

  ‘No, no, don’t worry,’ the librarian said hurriedly. ‘I’ll write you a temporary ticket for now. You can take the book today, my pet, and get the form signed when you’re settled.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ said Clara gratefully. A
s the librarian bent her head to write the ticket, Peter winked at Clara and gave her a thumbs-up. Clara gave him a thumbs-up back. She felt a bit more cheerful even though they hadn’t made any headway in their research. They were a team, she thought. Kindred spirits even.

  ‘OK, there you are.’ The librarian passed Clara the stamped book. ‘And now I’m afraid it’s time to go. We close at lunchtime on Thursdays. On your way out, take a look at the noticeboard. There’s a poster there that might interest you.’

  Taking the book, they raced to the lobby, and sure enough there on the noticeboard was a fiery yellow-and-red poster with dancers leaping across it. A ballerina with cat’s eyes held a perfect arabesque. A man in glittery turquoise plumes soared behind her like an exotic bird. ‘Kirov Ballet!’ it declared. ‘London, Leeds, Edinburgh. First tour for TWELVE years!’

  ‘Remember I told you that Nureyev used to dance with the Kirov before he defected?’ said Peter, leaping dramatically across the lobby in a fairly good imitation of the man in the turquoise plumes. ‘Maybe he’ll go to see them, for old times’ sake!’

  * * *

  Outside the wind was freezing, biting at them with icy shark’s teeth. They bought fish and chips from The Cod Father, doused them with so much vinegar it made their eyes water, and ate them, hot and salty, straight out of the newspaper wrapping.

  ‘I’m fffffffreeeezing, Clara,’ said Peter, as he crumpled up his empty chip paper and tossed it in the bin. ‘What are we going to do all afternoon now the library’s shut?’

  ‘We could go mooching in one of the department stores,’ suggested Clara. She wasn’t sure if it would be as much fun without Amelia-Ann, but at least it would be warm and dry.