by Judith Eagle
They left the warmth of the bus in Herne Hill. Here the streets were more like avenues, wide and quiet with gargantuan trees erupting from the pavements, bare branches glittering like lacework in the light of the street lamps. Instead of shops and flats, there were proper houses with gates and front gardens. The houses had smart front doors and big bay windows. Where the curtains weren’t yet drawn, Clara could see pianos, bookcases, a table set for tea.
‘Here we are.’ Peter pushed open a gate to a house that, unlike most of the others, was shrouded in darkness.
He rang the doorbell and waited. Clara blew on her hands. It was cold. She jumped up and down and flapped her arms to keep warm. Peter rang the doorbell again, and then bashed the knocker which was in the shape of a lion’s head.
‘No one’s in,’ said Clara. Maybe the Framlinghams had taken Granny out for the day.
Peter put his finger on the buzzer and held it there.
Then he lifted the letterbox and shouted through it. ‘Mrs Framlingham! Mr Framlingham! It’s Peter!’
‘For goodness sake!’
A lady had emerged from the next-door house.
‘What is this racket? They’re not in!’ said the lady crossly. Then her face softened. ‘Oh, Peter isn’t it? Grandson of Elsa? The cleaning lady?’
‘Why aren’t they in? Where are they?’ demanded Peter. He sounded a bit rude, thought Clara, but she knew it was because he was worried. Where was his Granny? She felt a tremor of anxiety on his behalf.
‘They’re on holiday in Malaga. Not due back until next week. Is everything all right?’
‘What do you mean, Malaga? They’re meant to be looking after Granny!’
‘Is Elsa not at home?’ asked the lady, frowning. ‘Who is looking after you, Peter? Come in and we’ll telephone them, get them to pick you up.’
‘No. Doesn’t matter,’ said Peter. He turned abruptly and this time he didn’t just bump into Clara, he actually bashed into her, hard, and ran off down the street, without even stopping to say sorry.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Clara ran after Peter all the way to the bus stop. She’d only just caught up with him when the bus arrived and she leapt on, following Peter as he disappeared up the stairs. This time there were seats, but it was not a jolly journey. All the way back Peter worried about Granny. If she wasn’t at the Framlinghams’, where was she? She couldn’t have disappeared into thin air.
Clara wished she could do something to make it better. She didn’t like seeing Peter’s face pinched tight, just as it had been when he first arrived at Braithwaite Manor.
But as they crossed the park towards the flats, a sliver of hope crept back into Peter’s voice. ‘She might be back,’ he said. ‘She must have been at the shops earlier. The Framlinghams would only go away if she was getting better.’
Clara crossed her fingers and hoped he was right.
But when they arrived at the eighteenth floor, they found the key was still under the mat and Peter’s shoulders drooped. It was then that Clara noticed the door to flat number sixty-three was ajar.
‘Peter’ she whispered, nudging him gently and pointing towards the door.
Peter stopped in his tracks. ‘That’s Stella’s flat!’ They heard a bang and a crash. It sounded like every cupboard and drawer was being opened and closed. And then Peter sprang into life and took one, two, three steps across the hall. Was he just going to barge straight in there? Clara clutched at him and shook her head.
‘She’s followed us!’ whispered Clara.
If they went into Stella’s flat now, she wasn’t sure what would happen. She couldn’t risk Stella interfering with their plan to go to the Royal Opera House tomorrow.
‘But I need to ask her where Granny is!’ Peter twisted out of Clara’s grip.
Another bang. Footsteps getting nearer.
‘Not now,’ said Clara, grabbing Peter again and pulling him back inside the lift. She jabbed at the ground-floor button. A long shadow loomed towards them. She jabbed at the button again, once, twice. The shadow lengthened, darkened. Come on! And then … swish. The doors slid to a close just in time.
‘Clara, what are you doing?’ Peter looked furious. ‘If that’s Stella I need to have it out with her. She told me that the Framlinghams were looking after Granny and they’re not!’
‘Not now. Not yet,’ said Clara. She didn’t want a confrontation with Stella. She couldn’t be dragged back to Yorkshire and away from the Kirov Ballet Company. ‘Get a move on!’ she shouted at the lift. It was so slow, clunking clumsily down.
Upstairs, Stella would be waiting for its return. Or maybe she was already running down the stairs. Clara hadn’t forgotten the way she’d run so fast across the moors.
At last the lift juddered to a halt and the doors opened. Clara stepped out and waited for Peter to follow her. He regarded her mutinously, and for a second she wondered if he was going to press the button and whizz straight back up. ‘Please?’ she pleaded, and after another few long seconds he nodded and they exited the flats together into the cold night air.
It was properly dark now and the lights of the traffic winked at them from the other side of the park. It was tempting to run, hop on a bus, get lost on purpose. But common sense told Clara it would be better to hide, to wait and see if Stella followed them out. A large bush was growing by the entrance of the flats. ‘Behind there,’ Clara said.
There wasn’t much space and the twiggy branches snagged their hands and faces, but there was just enough cover if they huddled down low. If Stella came now, Clara thought, she would sail straight past them. Except – what was that? Something was crashing through the undergrowth towards them and it wasn’t from the direction of the flats. There was a snap and a crack, and then something soft and shaggy flung itself at Peter and a wet nose nuzzled him and then Clara.
‘Buster!’ Peter’s arms encircled the dog and it snuffled happily. ‘Mr Sealy’s dog, number sixty-one, seventeenth floor,’ explained Peter. ‘You haven’t seen me for a while, have you?’ he said to the dog and they gently headbutted each other.
‘Tell it to go!’ hissed Clara.
‘Just had your walk, Buster?’ said Peter. He turned to Clara. ‘They race the last bit. Buster up the stairs and Mr Sealy in the lift.’
Clara’s heart sank. That was that then, she thought. Any minute now Stella would emerge, hear all the commotion and their cover would be blown.
‘Shoo!’ she whispered at the dog and flapped her arms. But the dog just answered by wagging his tail and gazing at Peter adoringly.
Then several things happened at once. The door to the flats slammed open. Someone whistled and a voice called ‘Buster!’ The dog tore out of the bush; a thud; a yelp; a whimper. And then, ‘Buster, come here!’ And, ‘Oh dear, sir, you collided with Buster.’ The sound of someone being helped up, dusted off. Muttered goodbyes. Buster and the man – his owner, Mr Sealy, Clara guessed – continuing into the flats.
Huddled together in the bush, Clara and Peter stared at each other. ‘It wasn’t Stella then,’ said Peter. ‘It was a sir.’
They crawled out from their hiding place. And there, gleaming white under the street lamp, was a scattering of small rectangular cards.
Clara picked one up and turned it over.
Clara shoved the card at Peter as though it had burned her fingers. He’d knocked on the door of Braithwaite Manor. He’d been snooping around in the village. Now he’d followed them here.
‘Was it him in Stella’s flat then?’ Peter asked.
Clara didn’t know. Everything was so tangled. He must know Stella. Or perhaps he’d got mixed up with the flats and he thought she and Peter were staying at number sixty-three.
They took the lift back up and edged silently out; Stella’s door was shut and the lights were off. All was quiet. Peter felt under the mat for the key and they let themselves into number sixty-four.
Peter marched straight into the living room and picked up the phone.
&
nbsp; ‘What’s the number for Braithwaite Manor?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve got to talk to Stella now, ask where Granny is.’
‘You can’t!’ pleaded Clara. ‘She’ll want you to go back and we’ve got to go to the Royal Opera House tomorrow!’
But Peter was determined. And when Clara told him she didn’t know her own telephone number, he rang something called directory enquiries, and they put him through to Braithwaite Manor. But the phone just rang and rang, and Stella didn’t pick up.
In the kitchen, Clara found a tin of soup which she heated up even though Peter said he wasn’t hungry. Half way through the meal he started crying and there was nothing she could do or say that would cheer him up. A little bit of Clara was desperate to think about tomorrow, to discuss the ifs and buts and maybes about her mother and Sergei Ivanov. But she had never seen Peter so upset before. She knew she couldn’t talk to him about it now, not when he was like this.
* * *
The next morning they set off for the tube station. They were going to see Stanley. Stanley knew everything that went on in the area, said Peter, and he would know where Granny had gone.
As soon as they walked into the station, a beaming man in a London Underground uniform hurried across to them. ‘Peeet-errrr, I’m happy to see you back! You goin’ to see your granny? I was up at St Thomas’s yesterday and I told her, “I’ll make you one of my special pineapple rum cakes.” I’ll get it now and you can take it with you. It will bring a smile to her face, for sure.’
But for some reason Peter didn’t answer and when Clara looked at him, she saw the colour had drained from his face, as if Stanley had said something awful.
‘Thanks,’ said Clara, because she could see that Peter wasn’t going to. ‘I’m Clara,’ she added, holding out her hand.
‘Stanley,’ said Stanley, shaking Clara’s hand warmly. ‘Any friend of young Peter’s is a friend of mine. One minute, I’ll get the cake …’
Stanley disappeared into the ticket office.
‘St Thomas’s?’ Peter finally managed. He looked frantic. ‘Clara, we’ve got to go there now!’
‘What’s—’ Clara started. But Stanley was hurrying back from the ticket office bearing a large cake tin stamped with palm trees, and Peter had gone without even saying goodbye.
‘She might not be able to manage much of it yet, but she can share it with the nurses—’ Stan stopped mid-sentence, gazing after Peter’s disappearing figure. He turned to Clara, perplexed. ‘He in a hurry?’
Clara took the cake tin, muttering apologies. Nurses! Now she understood. ‘He’s just worried about his gran,’ she said, backing out of the station. The cake tin weighed a ton.
No wonder Peter had looked so agitated. His granny wasn’t getting better. She was in hospital.
Chapter Twenty-Three
St Thomas’s Hospital was undergoing renovations. A brand-new wing was being constructed and the site was chaotic with scaffolding and cranes. Peter and Clara made their way through the cacophony, following signs to the East Wing, which was quieter and calmer, and then to the information desk.
‘We’ve come to see Mrs Trimble,’ said Peter.
‘Which ward?’ The lady behind the desk pushed her glasses down and looked at them, waiting for an answer.
‘Umm, we don’t know,’ said Clara.
‘When did she come in then?’
‘Not sure.’
The lady sighed. ‘Well, that’s not much help is it? Hold on then. Mrs Trimble, you said?’
The lady rose and started to flick through some cards in a filing cabinet.
‘You’re in luck,’ she said, returning to the desk. ‘She was moved out of high dependency yesterday, where children aren’t allowed. But she’s in the Willoughby Ward now. Visiting hours are from two till four.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘You’re a bit early. But go on up, second floor, and follow the signposts. Be nice and Sister might let you in.’
It was the first time Clara had set foot in a hospital. She was struck by how quiet it was, a bit like the library, although more antiseptic smelling. They walked along a series of long corridors, passing a cluster of wards named after flowers: Iris Ward, Chrysanthemum Ward, Rose Ward. Mysterious signs pointed off in various directions: Immunology, Haematology, Microbiology. Every now and then a doctor or nurse walked swiftly past them, purposefully, seriously, thought Clara, probably on their way to save somebody’s life.
‘Here it is,’ said Peter. The door to Willoughby Ward was closed. He peered through the glass.
‘It’s not visiting hours yet.’ A nurse had appeared behind them. She wore a crisp pale-blue dress trimmed with a white collar and cuffs. A jaunty-looking white cap sat on her head.
‘Please, I’ve come to see my granny – Mrs Trimble,’ said Peter. Clara watched him as he clasped his hands and gazed imploringly at the nurse. He looked like Oliver Twist asking for more gruel, thought Clara.
‘I’ll have to ask Sister,’ said the nurse and did a little grimace as though to say, rather you than me. She had a small watch pinned to her apron and an elasticated belt that nipped neatly in at her waist.
‘In heaven’s name ask me what, Nurse Bridget?’ An older woman had pushed open the door to the ward and surveyed them, one eyebrow raised. ‘Temperatures need taking! Blood pressures need to be checked! What on earth are you doing out here?’ This woman’s uniform was a darker blue than Nurse Bridget’s, with long sleeves. Her black hair was pulled back, which gave her an air of severity. Yet her eyes were kind, thought Clara.
‘Sorry, Sister! I was coming,’ said the nurse. ‘I just went to—’
‘I know, buy Mrs Neil some more mint humbugs,’ finished Sister for her. ‘Nurse, how many times do I have to tell you? Don’t let those patients take advantage of you!’ She thrust the clipboard she was holding into Nurse Bridget’s hands. ‘Now, do the rounds and report back to me when it’s all done. Chop chop.’
‘Yes, Sister.’ Nurse Bridget looked like she was about to do a sort of salute, but then thought better of it and hurried off.
‘Now, children.’ Sister turned to Peter and Clara. ‘How can I help?’
‘We’ve come to visit my granny,’ said Peter. ‘Elsa Trimble.’
Almost imperceptibly, Sister’s eyes widened. ‘Are you Peter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, what’s taken you so long? She’s been asking for you. Follow me.’
Clara and Peter followed Sister into the ward and past a series of curtains drawn around what Clara guessed must be hospital beds. Sister stopped just before the last one and turned to them. She looked grave.
‘Your granny has been very ill,’ she said in a low voice, looking carefully at Peter as she spoke, almost as though she was worried her words might make him splinter and break. ‘But she’s going to get better. We can tell she’s made of strong stuff. You can see her, but you must be quiet and calm, and not upset her. Just ten minutes today, and then you can come back tomorrow. Understood?’
They both nodded emphatically and Sister pulled the curtain back a fraction.
‘Elsa, dear, look who is here! He’s come to say a quick hello before your rest. He’ll be back tomorrow.’ Sister gestured for Peter and Clara to go in. ‘I’ll be in my office at the bottom of the ward. Pop in to say goodbye before you go.’
Elsa Trimble looked very small and pale against the puffed up pillows of the hospital bed, but her blue eyes sparkled with pleasure when she saw Peter. She didn’t look nearly as old, nor as granny-like, as Clara had expected her to.
‘Granny!’ Peter was at the bedside in an instant, holding onto Elsa’s hand as though he would never let it go. He brought his straw-coloured head down next to her silvery one and kissed her on the cheek.
‘Dear Peter,’ said Elsa. She had a husky warm voice. ‘I’ve missed you so much! I’m so glad Stella’s brought you back. And is this Mr Starling’s niece? Stella said when she arranged the visit that you would have someone to play with.’
For a fraction of a second there was a silence while Peter’s eyes met Clara’s, and they both understood that now was not the time to tell Elsa they had run away from Braithwaite Manor. Sister had said not to upset her.
‘It’s been lovely having Peter,’ Clara smiled, depositing Stanley’s cake on the small table next to the bed.
‘How was Yorkshire?’
‘Fantastic,’ said Peter. ‘Clara’s house is enormous, with a turret and everything. And we made friends with some children in the next village. It was fun!’
When Elsa looked at Peter, her gaze was so full of love that Clara felt a pang.
‘Is Stella here?’ asked Elsa. ‘I need to thank her for everything she’s done. Looking after you all this time! I feel terrible, all the favours she’s done for me.’
‘She’s doing some shopping and picking us up afterwards,’ Clara said, because she could see Peter struggling to find the right words. ‘She said get well soon.’ Clara smiled at Elsa. ‘I like your flat, by the way – it’s lovely.’
Elsa beamed at Clara, and all of a sudden Clara could see what she would look like when she was well: strong and full of energy, and kind too.
‘I was feeling so much better!’ she said. ‘And I could tell Stella wanted to visit you and Mr Starling, and have a break herself. I said I could manage and in the end she gave in, left me her soup – all I had to do was heat it up. And then, honestly, the next day I felt so ill, worse than ever before.’
‘Oh, Granny,’ said Peter. There were tears in his eyes. ‘What did you do then?’
‘Thank goodness Mrs Framlingham phoned from Spain, just on the off chance to see how I was! Sister told me it was them that phoned for an ambulance. Mrs F knew something wasn’t right.’
Elsa closed her eyes and sighed. ‘Anyway, on the mend now. The doctors say I’m making good progress. And I think they’re right, Peter. I honestly feel better than I have for months and months. I can feel the energy starting to come back.’