by Judith Eagle
But when they got to the shops, most of them were closed too. It appeared that it was early closing day all over Leeds.
‘Look!’ cried Peter.
A flurry of snowflakes danced in the air. Clara held out her hand to catch them.
‘Snow,’ she said, puzzled. ‘Don’t you get snow in London?’
‘What? Yes! Well not very much. But I don’t mean the snow. Look!’
Clara looked. All she could see were cars and buses and people.
‘It’s Stella! She just went round that corner,’ Peter said. ‘Let’s catch her up and tell her we’ve been chucked out of the library.’
But by the time they had crossed the road and rounded the corner, Stella was nowhere to be seen. They scanned the street, looking for her toffee-coloured hair, her camel coat with the fur collar, the patent shoes with curved heels and straps at the ankles that winked as she walked.
‘Let’s try this way,’ Clara said. They walked to the end of the road, looked right, looked left. ‘There!’ pointed Clara. She caught a glimpse of Stella making a sharp turn and then tip-tapping up the steps of a grand hotel.
‘What’s she going in there for?’ asked Peter. ‘I thought she was going to the bank!’
The hotel Stella had disappeared into was called the Metropole and it was dazzling: huge and stately with a wide staircase sweeping up to an imposing entrance. Outside, uniformed doormen stood to attention; people stepped out of sleek-looking cars that purred up to deposit them; through elegantly arched windows, chandeliers glimmered and luxury beckoned. Clara started to swish up the steps.
‘Wait!’ Peter tugged Clara back. ‘We can’t just walk in there! I know about posh hotels.’ Granny, it turned out, had once been a cleaner at Claridge’s.
Clara didn’t have an inkling what Claridge’s was.
‘You haven’t heard of Claridge’s?’ Peter exclaimed. ‘What about the Ritz? The Savoy?’ He rattled off a list of the poshest of posh hotels.
Clara hadn’t heard of any of them.
‘The Queen Mother has lunch at Claridge’s! And once Granny saw Jackie O!’
Clara couldn’t care less about the Queen Mother and she didn’t have a clue who Jackie O was. All she wanted to do was swish up the steps. They were the kind of steps that were just made for swishing, and if Stella could, why couldn’t she?
‘It is a bit odd,’ said Peter ‘I wonder what she’s up to? I think we should spy. Come on!’
Clara followed Peter round the back of the hotel to an entrance that looked nothing like the one at the front: a small, unmarked door on a narrow, shabby street. A young man in a chef’s hat and apron stood outside taking long puffs on a cigarette.
‘Now then, laddie, what you up to?’ he asked as Peter squeezed past to open the door.
‘Going to see my mum,’ said Peter, normal as normal. ‘She cleans on Thursdays. She forgot her purse and stuff – I’m bringing them to her.’
‘Doris, is it?’ said the smoking chef and, not missing a beat, Peter nodded.
‘Right y’are then. Any friend of the lovely Doris is a friend of mine. Go on in.’ And he held the door open so Clara could follow.
The rear of the hotel was worlds away from the scene Clara had glimpsed from the front. Everything was painted a sort of dreary green, the strip lighting casting an unforgiving glare on the warren of corridors and passageways that they hurried along.
‘Peter, wait! I don’t think Stella’s going to come back here, do you?’
‘Of course she won’t come back here,’ Peter called over his shoulder. ‘But it’s the only way we’ll get to the front of the hotel without being stopped by the doormen and what not.’
And he was right. No one gave them a passing glance as they made their way through the laundry rooms – washing machines thrumming comfortingly, the air heavy and warm and detergenty – and then skirted around the kitchens, chaotic with clatter and steam. Passing ranks of harried-looking sous-chefs and flustered kitchen porters, they pushed their way through a swing door, and suddenly, there they were, in the hotel lobby where everything was shiny and gleaming, and in the distance a piano was tinkling.
Before anyone could spot them, Clara darted behind an enormous potted palm and pulled Peter in after her. The green fronds crackled and tickled her nose but they also provided a convenient screen. It was the perfect spying place. She parted the leaves gently and peered through them. From where they were positioned they had a direct view into the lounge.
Clara couldn’t help sighing at the utter beauty of it. The lounge was spacious, with pale-green silk walls and a thick cream carpet. There were plush green-velvet armchairs, the colour of moss, and plump cushions scattered with embroidered flowers. A large table was neatly laid out with newspapers and magazines and on smaller tables sat silver bowls of the palest pink roses. In the far corner of the room was the piano they had heard, a glossy black baby grand; if she craned her neck, Clara could just about glimpse the upright back of the pianist.
It was evidently a quiet time of day, not long after lunch and still too early for tea, because only a handful of people were in there. Closest to them was a bony woman with a prominent Adam’s apple. She wore gold-rimmed spectacles and was pecking unenthusiastically at what looked like a slice of Victoria sponge. Beyond her, a large couple with red faces argued quietly, eyes indignant, pinching each other to emphasise their points; in the furthest corner, near the piano, a man with a thatch of white blond hair and black-framed glasses lay back on an elegant sofa, ankles crossed, eyes shut. He appeared to be asleep.
‘Move, over, I can’t see,’ said Peter, gently elbowing Clara aside and sticking his head in front of hers. ‘Spitting image of Andy Warhol,’ he announced.
‘Andy who?’ whispered Clara.
‘Famous artist,’ said Peter. ‘Paints tins of tomato soup and stuff. Look! There’s Stella.’
‘What’s she doing?’ asked Clara. ‘Shall we jump out and surprise her?’ She imagined Stella’s look of shock and then all of them falling about laughing.
‘Not here, we’ll get in trouble,’ he whispered. ‘Look, she’s going over to Andy Warhol! She’s sitting down with him. Look! He’s awake now. They’re arguing about something!’
Peter stretched even further into the palm leaves to get a better look. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘the real Andy Warhol looks kind of weird. This man’s much more handsome. Maybe he’s Stella’s secret lover!’
Clara dug Peter in the ribs. ‘Budge out of the way, I can’t see a thing.’
Peter drew back and Clara took his place. The leaves made her want to sneeze. There, beyond the bony woman and the red-faced couple, was Stella and the man with the white hair. Were they arguing? The man was scowling and a familiar muscle twitched under his right eye. Clara went cold.
‘That,’ she said, ‘is Uncle. And he’s dyed his hair.’
Chapter Sixteen
Even though they ran all the way back, Clara and Peter only managed to get to the library steps a mere five minutes before Stella.
‘Act normal,’ said Peter, who had his hands in his pockets and was absent-mindedly kicking the steps. He gave a good impression of someone who didn’t have a care in the world. But Clara felt hot and prickly, her thoughts a spiky set of questions stabbing around in her head. What was Uncle doing at the Metropole? Why had he dyed his hair? Anyone would think he was some kind of spy, or a criminal on the run. Which, come to think of it, he probably was. He had, after all, abandoned her in the village, even if he had expected her to throw herself on the mercy of Cook.
As soon as Stella was within hearing distance, Clara burst out, ‘Did you find Uncle?’
‘What? No, darling,’ said Stella, looking surprised. ‘I told you, I came for the bank, not to find your uncle. Goodness knows where he has gone.’
A little gasp escaped Clara’s lips at Stella’s outright lie, but Peter shot her a warning look and she turned it into a cough.
‘Darling? Are you all right?
Why the white face? It’s too cold. You should have waited for me in the library.’
‘But—’ Clara started to speak, but Peter pinched her and she stopped.
‘Library’s closed,’ he said. ‘Got chucked out early.’
‘No wonder you look so pale. We need to go home and warm you up. Taxi!’ Stella waved her arm to hail an approaching cab.
The taxi journey was agony. Clara could barely look at Peter; she was convinced his eyes would be enormous with the questions that were surely reflected in her own. But Peter kept up a constant stream of chatter about this and that and nothing in particular, and Clara understood that he was filling the journey with words so that there was no space for her questions.
Why had Stella lied? Maybe she was arranging for Uncle to come back home, complete with all the dreaded rules and routine. She’d practically said that children couldn’t live on their own. Perhaps she thought she was doing it for Clara’s own good!
No, please, no, Clara thought.
When at last the taxi pulled up in front of Braithwaite Manor, she grabbed Peter by the hand and they raced into the house.
‘Where are you going? I was about to start supper,’ called Stella.
‘Up the turret,’ Peter called back. ‘We’ll be down in a bit.’
They ran up the spiralling steps, taking two at a time. At the top they found Stockwell curled up in a ball on the mound of quilts, quietly oblivious to the drama in hand. ‘What is going on?’ cried Clara, flopping down next to the cat.
‘She must be hiding something,’ Peter said.
‘Perhaps that’s why she’s always in Uncle’s study,’ Clara said. She thought about the hours they had spent in Stella’s bedroom trying on all her things and the noise they had made as they clattered round the house. ‘She let us do whatever we wanted as long as we didn’t disturb her. What do you think she was doing in there?’
It must be something she didn’t want Clara to see. Maybe, a tentative thought started to crystallise in Clara’s mind, that something was to do with her mother’s past and why Uncle had ‘disappeared’.
‘We need to get in there …’ she said slowly. ‘But first we need to get Stella out of the way.’
‘We’ll have to distract her somehow.’ Peter screwed his face up tight, thinking.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Clara. ‘But we’ll need Amelia-Ann. She said she would come round after tea. We can ask her then.’
* * *
The next afternoon, Peter and Clara hung about in the garden shivering, waiting for the first part of their plan to spring into action. Stella, as usual, had been in the study all day.
‘Where is she?’ shivered Clara. It was so cold it almost hurt to talk. They had been waiting ages. Her teeth were chattering and her frozen fingers felt like they were about to drop off and die. Peter’s nose glowed pink. A nervous current ran between them. What if the plan didn’t work?
At last Amelia-Ann arrived, running across the moor, hair flying, cheeks flushed.
‘Where’s Stella?’ she shouted as she approached. ‘Stella! Get Stella!’
‘What’s all the noise?’ Stella was already at the door looking annoyed.
But Amelia-Ann waved her words away, her voice high and urgent.
‘Nan says come quick … Mr Starling, her uncle,’ – she pointed a trembling finger at Clara – ‘has arrived. He’s raving like a loon about you and Clara and …’
‘Uncle is at Cook’s?’ Clara shrieked, clutching her heart and looking agonised. She sensed Peter was looking at her, thinking she was going over the top, but she didn’t care. This was fun.
And the plan was working. Stella’s pale face had gone ashen and now she had put a hand up, as if to ward off the words tumbling out of Amelia-Ann’s mouth.
‘Peter, Clara,’ she turned to them abruptly and there were two little pink spots high on her cheeks. Her mouth opened, then closed again. She seemed to be struggling to find the right words. ‘I’d better go and find out what’s happening,’ she finally managed. ‘Stay here. I will be back.’
And then she was actually running, fast, across the moor, no hat, no coat, and Amelia-Ann was clutching Clara and saying in a rush, ‘I’ll come back tonight, see how it went.’ And then she was gone, racing away after Stella. Towards the village.
Clara burst out laughing. Great gusts blew through her, tears streamed down her face. ‘Quick!’ She hugged Peter with relief. ‘To the study. We haven’t got long!’
Chapter Seventeen
As far as Clara was concerned, the one redeeming thing about the study had always been the fire. No matter how chilly Uncle had been, the fire could always be relied on to burn brightly.
But no fire burned in the grate today and the room looked stark and uninviting. It was as if a giant brush had swept the whole place clean. In the cold light of day, the leather armchairs looked stiff and uncomfortable, the curtains and rugs revealed as threadbare. No longer were towers of paper teetering on every surface, nor were letters and bills and books littering the floor.
‘Wow,’ said Peter, ‘she has been busy.’
The books in the bookcase had all been lined up in order of size and colour. The scattered papers had been neatly sorted into the metal filing cabinet by the door. The bureau had been tidied, with letters tucked into one drawer and bills in the other. The desk had been scrubbed clean; not one ink spot remained. The collection of fountain pens had disappeared, and in their place was a solitary plastic biro. Green.
They had to search and be quick about it. It wouldn’t be long before Stella returned.
‘I’ll start with the letters. You look at the bills,’ declared Peter. So Clara began leafing through them, page after page filled with squiggly numbers that made no sense, covered in Uncle’s scrawl, sums and workings-out filling the margins and sometimes fervently spilling out to cover the page. Amongst it all she found receipts for many of the things that had disappeared. A thousand pounds for a watercolour; fifty pounds for the paintings of farmyard animals that had decorated the hall; five hundred pounds for the blue-and-white soup tureen.
‘Look.’ She showed Peter.
‘Five hundred for a bowl?’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s our rent for five months!’
‘Anything in the letters?’
‘Yes,’ said Peter, ‘heaps of stuff about deeds and whatnot. It’s all to do with selling the house. Oh no! Clara, you’re not going to like this. This one says, “acting on behalf of Mr and Mrs Morden” and it’s going on about “converting the premises”. What does that mean?’
‘But we put a stop to all that!’ cried Clara. Anxiety plucked at her. The euphoria she had felt when Stella had fallen for their plan had vanished. Feverishly she opened the filing cabinet, which was also packed with correspondence.
‘Quick,’ said Peter, who had finished going through his drawer and had come over to help her. ‘Just leaf through, see if anything stands out … There! Look, that one!’ The address was written in green biro.
Clara plucked out the envelope Peter was referring to and drew out the thin paper from within. It crackled between her fingertips. The spiky message looked as though it had been hastily scrawled.
Eddie! Is that what other people called Uncle? It sounded like someone rakish, someone fun. The kind of person who would drop everything when the sun shone and take the open-topped sports car out for a spin. The kind of person who thought it was OK to eat cheese on toast while reading in bed, or who slid down the bannister instead of taking the stairs. It didn’t seem like it could belong to cold-hearted Uncle, Mr Edward Starling.
‘S. must be Stella,’ said Clara. ‘So he did know you were coming. And he still ran off!’
Peter’s face had turned beetroot. ‘I’m not difficult!’ he said. ‘I only got into a few fights – that weren’t even my fault!’
‘She was probably just saying it because she was worried about you,’ soothed Clara. ‘And when she first suggested you come here, what did you say?’
‘I s’pose I kicked off,’ admitted Peter, ‘but only ’cause I was worried about leaving Granny.’
‘Well then,’ said Clara. ‘But what’s all that about everything going to plan?’
‘Dunno,’ said Peter, cracking his knuckles. ‘Maybe it’s to do with sorting out his debts.’
The door creaked open and they both jumped. But it was only Stockwell come to see what was going on.
Clara left Peter with the letters and went over to the bookcase. Her gaze roamed over the spines. Mainly novels: The Woman in White, Bleak House … But one book caught her eye. A Guardian’s Guide to Child Rearing. That’s what Uncle had been. Her guardian.
Pulling the book off the shelf, she opened it at random.
‘“A regimental routine should not be underestimated,”’ she read. ‘“See your ward no more than once a day. Enquire about their lessons and make sure they are being diligent in their prayers. Never show affection, it weakens the soul.”’
Clara hurled the book to the floor. ‘I hate Uncle,’ she blurted out.
‘What’s that?’ asked Peter.
‘What?’
‘That …’ Peter crouched down to retrieve a folded piece of paper that had slipped from the pages of the book.
Clara pounced and grabbed it from Peter. It was an old newspaper clipping, furrowed and creased where it had been folded for so long.
‘Let’s see,’ said Peter. Clara smoothed the paper out on the desk. The black-and-white photograph was grainy but you could just about make out two people, arms linked, laughing. The young woman, who had pale curls, was gazing up at the man next to her. The man’s head dipped down, his hair flopping across his features, but even so, you could tell he was looking straight into the woman’s eyes.
Underneath the picture was a caption.
‘“Springtime in Paris: out on the town with ballet’s rising young stars”,’ read Clara. ‘“Christobel Starling, and her beau” – I can’t read the last name, it’s on the crease and the print’s all smudgy. Then it says “The new Nureyev?” with a question mark.’