For a moment, nobody spoke. I looked from Mum to Mrs Ellis to Gabriella. Gabriella was staring at the scarf. It had slipped and there were tiny bruises on Mrs Ellis’s skin. Mrs Ellis must have noticed too as her hands were fluttering upwards, adjusting it back into place.
She led the way to the living room. It was small and crammed with furniture. And hot. A three-bar fire blazed against one wall. An old brown sofa and two matching armchairs faced a black and white TV set with the sound on low. The sickly smell was overpowering here. It came from dozens of pink flowers set in vases around the room. Mr Ellis lounged in one of the armchairs. He was snoring with his legs stretched out and his feet propped up on a battered plastic pouffe. His shirt was unbuttoned and the top of his trousers and the buckle of his belt were undone, showing a hairy white belly.
Mum stopped as if now she might regret the visit, but it was too late. Mrs Ellis was clearing a pile of red-tops from the sofa and dropping them on the floor. I saw huge lettered headlines and photos of warships on the front. Mr Ellis woke up with the noise. A line of dribble had run down the side of his mouth and the stubble of his chin. He scowled.
‘We’ve got visitors,’ said Mrs Ellis in a whiny voice. ‘Isn’t that nice, Charlie?’
He didn’t answer, but carried on staring at the three of us. Mum sat on the edge of the sofa with a tight smile. Mrs Ellis offered tea and without waiting for a reply, hurried out the room, slippers flip-flopping on the wooden floor in the hall. There was silence until Mr Ellis levered himself up and followed his wife.
Raised voices. We looked at one another, but none of us spoke.
Mrs Ellis came back with a single cup of tea. She handed it to Mum who took it delicately. ‘I’ve put in a sugar,’ she said, sitting on the other armchair.
Mum grimaced as she took a sip. And then she cleared her throat. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to come to one of our church teas. We hold them regularly on Friday afternoons at two o’clock. There’s no need to bring anything, the ladies make lovely cakes – Victoria sponges, Swiss roll, scones.’ She stopped. No response from Mrs Ellis.
Losing interest, I fixed my gaze on the picture on the wall in front of me – a print showing multiple insects: beetles, flies, ants, lined up in rows. I was counting them, working out how many times each insect had been repeated, letting the conversation float about me when something Mum said made me look up. ‘Everyone’s welcome at the drop-in sessions and they’re very confidential.’ She glanced at the door. Gabriella reached for one of the newspapers and flicked through as if she wasn’t interested in the conversation. I knew she was. I knew she was listening to every word.
Self-consciously I fidgeted on the sofa. ‘Do you need the toilet, Anna?’ said Mum quickly. I didn’t. Mum looked at me meaningfully. ‘I’m sure Mrs Ellis will let you use theirs.’
Mrs Ellis bowed her head as if giving permission.
‘Upstairs, I expect,’ said Mum, looking at Mrs Ellis for confirmation. Again she nodded.
Having no choice, I stomped out the room and stopped at the bottom of the staircase. At the other end of the hall, the door to the kitchen was open. The back door was open too; a breeze travelled through. It would serve Mum right if I left the house and disappeared. I’d stay away for a good few hours. That would make her think twice about excluding me again. Instead, I climbed the stairs, pulling my hands one over the other on the banister as if I was in a tug of war. I hoped Martha wasn’t home since I had no desire to listen to her whinging voice. Worse, she might tell my friends I’d been round her house. I’d be the laughing stock of the school.
Three doors led from the landing, each of them ajar. Unable to help myself, I poked my head into the first room. It was Martha’s. No sign of her, luckily. I inspected the miserable place with its blank walls. There was little more than a dull carpet, a single bed, a small chest of drawers and a wardrobe. Where were the records and cassettes, the books and the posters? I was tempted to look inside the built-in cupboard, but resisted.
The second bedroom was a mess. My eyes moved from the ratty sheepskin rug sprawled out like a dead animal by the wardrobe, to the unmade double bed and piles of magazines, and more boxes stacked up, like the ones in the hall. This room had a stale smell, like unwashed skin. Wrinkling my nose, I backed out, trying not to look at the rumpled nightclothes on the bed.
In the bathroom, a clothes horse covered with damp socks and pants stood spread-eagled across the pale pink bath. Here I concentrated on not sitting on the toilet seat, or looking at the stains on the carpet. There was a horrible queasy feeling in my stomach that I was trying to ignore and I said a swift thank you to God (and my mother) that our house didn’t look like this. Finishing quickly, I pulled the chain and washed my hands with carbolic soap. I thought of Martha, standing where I was now, looking into the chipped mirror, getting ready for bed. It was a horrible house. Cold and dark and miserable. Drying my hands on my jeans, I came out as the front door slammed. Good. Mr Ellis had gone out.
Downstairs, the murmur of voices was still coming from the living room, so I snuck along to the kitchen to see what it was like. The sides were cluttered and the green-painted cupboards were splashed with stains. There was a pull-down tabletop with two chairs and the remains of breakfast – dirty bowls, a piece of cold toast in the rack. A threadbare mop in a metal bucket leaned against the wall.
I went outside. It was a warm day, hazy and hot. The scent of flowers was strong here too, around the trees and in the borders: lavender, honeysuckle and foxglove. I recognised them from the gardening books Mum read, only she could never make flowers grow, not like they did here. Next to the door was a hutch. I bent to see what was inside. A creature scampered and disappeared inside the straw. Startled, I stood upright, too fast, the blood in my head making me dizzy. I heard a noise. Mr Ellis was coming out of the shed with a toolbox. So he hadn’t gone out as I’d thought, and now he stood on the lawn with sunlight catching on the buckle of his belt, and his bare feet like pale slabs of meat against the grass. He beckoned me across. I dragged myself over, wishing I’d gone straight back to Mum.
‘Want a look?’ he said, squatting and opening the box.
I stared politely at the jumble of tools, the rusty rolls of wire and broken plugs. Pulling out a pair of pliers and holding them out, he opened the crocodile jaws. ‘Do you know what these are for?’ He grinned.
‘Fixing things,’ I said. ‘My dad’s got some.’
He shook his head slowly, still grinning. ‘Mine are for cutting off nosy children’s noses.’ He pulled out a hammer. ‘And this,’ he said, waving it around. ‘This is for rapping their knuckles when they steal money from my wallet.’ He held up the wire. ‘And this is for tying hands and stopping the fidgets.’
I edged away, but he moved closer, leaning his head towards me until I smelled his stale breath. The back door creaked. Martha was there staring at the two of us. Mr Ellis noticed her too and gave another grin. ‘Ah, Martha, just in time,’ he said, scissoring the pliers. I took the opportunity and brushed past Martha, back into the house and to the living room.
‘Pinks,’ our mother said as we were leaving. ‘Did you notice the pinks in the vases? Lovely, weren’t they? Whatever you say about them, that family must have green fingers.’
On the way home, Mum walked fast in the way she did when she had something on her mind. ‘What did they talk about?’ I hissed to Gabriella as we dawdled along behind.
‘Not a lot,’ she said. ‘Church.’
‘Then why did Mum want to get rid of me?’
‘You’re paranoid.’
‘I’m not. She sent me out to the loo. Why did you get to stay?’
‘Cos I’m older than you, small person. I understand this stuff.’
‘What stuff?’
She shrugged and picked a leaf from a laurel bush in someone’s front garden. In the distance, Mum was nearing home. Mrs Henderson came out of the gate next door and I imagined how Mum would feel about that. She di
dn’t like gossips. People in glass houses, she liked to say. Nobody’s perfect. Pot and kettle black.
Gabriella had spotted Mrs Henderson too. ‘Oh God!’ she said, pulling at my arm. ‘Let’s wait till the old witch has gone.’
We sat on a wall. ‘What stuff?’ I repeated.
She sighed and tore a strip from the laurel leaf. ‘Nothing.’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘Why doesn’t anyone tell me the truth?’
She narrowed her eyes back. ‘You’re just too young.’
I wanted to tell her about Mr Ellis and his toolbox, although I didn’t know exactly what to say. He gave me the creeps with his small ugly eyes and weird smile and the strange things he said.
‘What do you think of Mr Ellis?’ I began. ‘I don’t like him. He’s—’
Gabriella interrupted me. ‘You don’t have to like him. You don’t live with him. Not like Martha.’
I frowned. The conversation had gone in the wrong direction. I knew I was supposed to feel sorry for Martha, but I didn’t. Gabriella was much nicer than me, worrying about people’s feelings. She even felt sorry for Mrs Henderson’s son Brian whose eyelashes were so pale you couldn’t see them and who was always staring at us from his window. Mrs Henderson said he was delicate and also terribly bright. I didn’t understand that since he never spoke and had no opinion about anything.
I squinted down the road to see what was happening with Mum. The two of them were talking, although Mum had taken a few steps backwards as if she wanted to get away, and now she was tugging at her hair in that nervous way she had.
Eventually, Mum escaped and hurried into the house. I didn’t move. I didn’t feel like going home yet. I wanted to talk to Gabriella, but she was shredding the laurel leaf and looking into the distance and tapping her foot. She’d forgotten all about me. A song was stuck in her head and she was beating out the rhythm.
When we got back, Mum and Dad were in the kitchen and from the expression on their faces it was obvious something was wrong. Dad was slumped in his chair. Mum was pale and her hair where she’d been tugging it was loose.
‘What’s up?’ said Gabriella, looking from one to the other.
‘Nothing,’ said Mum quickly. ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’
She couldn’t fool us. Something was going on. I ran through the possibilities. Jasper? No, he was in the corner lapping at his milk. Grandma Grace or Granddad? Were they ill? Granddad was always catching a cold, or taking to his bed, and Grandma Grace had arthritis. Maybe it was Uncle Thomas or the shop. I looked at Dad for a clue, but he didn’t seem to even notice we were there.
Mum walked to the sink and leaned with her back against it. ‘Go to your rooms,’ she said in a strained voice. ‘I’ll call you when tea’s ready.’
We knew better than to protest. We left the kitchen and as soon as we did, Mum and Dad spoke again, their voices low and urgent, their words indistinct but growing louder as we moved up the stairs. I leaned over the banister. ‘It changes everything,’ Mum said.
Instinct made me want to be alone. Walking across the landing to my room, I ran through more possibilities. Maybe it was something to do with the Ellis family. Mum had been uncomfortable when we’d left their house. Gabriella had been cagey about what Mum and Mrs Ellis had talked about. Or was it connected with Mrs Henderson? Had she given Mum some news? Maybe Brian had run away or was ill. I tried to feel sympathetic and failed.
I sat on the bed, kicking my feet and chewing at the edge of my thumbnail. It changes everything. That’s what Mum had said. But what was it and why was it so important?
Shrugging away my questions as best I could, I pulled out my latest Enid Blyton and got lost in Malory Towers. An hour passed. My stomach rumbled. Why hadn’t Mum called us down for tea? Putting aside my book, I went onto the landing and poked my head around Gabriella’s door. Still dressed, she’d gone to sleep listening to her Walkman. Tiptoeing inside, I peered at the rise and fall of her chest. Her eyelids were fluttering as if she was dreaming. I reached out to touch her, but quickly changed my mind. If I woke her, she’d be cross.
Downstairs, I pushed my ear against the living room door and heard the murmur of my parents’ voices. And Rita’s. When had she come round? And what was so important that Mum had forgotten to feed us? I was starving.
In the kitchen, I made two doorstep sandwiches, piling in Edam cheese and salad cream. On the way back, I listened at the living room again, but I couldn’t make out what they said. A movement near the door made me jump. I scuttled away, dashing up the stairs. Depositing one sandwich beside my sleeping sister, I took refuge in my room.
Chewing slowly, spilling crumbs, I considered what was going on. More secrets. Between adults. Would they tell Gabriella? I doubted anyone would bother to tell me.
7
‘Rita Saunders?’ said the man, hardly looking up from his clipboard.
I shook my head. ‘Anna Flores.’
His eyes flickered to the sign above the shop door and straight back to me. Holding my gaze, he spoke quietly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘And for your loss.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m David. In charge of the house clearance.’
He held out his hand and I took it. His palm was warm and rough from hard work. He proffered the clipboard and I read the details on the form. Name: Edward Lily. Address: Lemon Tree Cottage. My whole body tingled as I read the words and I closed my eyes, picturing the overgrown garden and the jackdaws pecking next door. David coughed. My thoughts receded. Scanning the information again, I signed, and after he’d taken the clipboard I peered inside the van. It was crammed with furniture, tipped up and fitted together like pieces in a puzzle. ‘There’s a lot here,’ I said.
‘And a lot more to come.’
With a sinking feeling, I put on a smile and indicated the shop door, telling him everything would be going in the back. David lowered his head in acknowledgement and now I looked at him properly. A few years older than me, he was slim, with strong, thin arms. Scruffy, in big boots and jeans, his dark hair was a shade too long and he had the shadow of a beard that suited him.
Two skinny young men in overalls, who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else, followed us into the shop. Rita and her nephew, Mattie, whom she’d hired for the job, took charge, while I shuffled paperwork, but it was impossible to ignore the shifts and grunts, the shouts of exasperation, as they organised the furniture into the space.
A dead man’s life, I thought, each time the men traipsed through, their boots shedding mud and dried-up leaves. Eventually, when the contents of the van had been regurgitated successfully, the men took their leave. But not before I’d agreed to go to the cottage later to inspect what was left.
Mattie was slight and in his twenties, with a black quiff, and a habit of scratching his chin. After the last boxes had been stacked, he excused himself. He was off to a christening. ‘Best friend’s first baby,’ he said, patting his quiff before blushing a surprisingly dark red. I supposed he thought it was tactless to mention birth so soon after death.
Rita was rolling up her sleeves ready to dive in. I looked from her eager face to the massive pile of Edward Lily’s things and felt a sudden reluctance to start trawling through them already. I suggested we came back tomorrow instead.
Rita raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you sure?’
I nodded. ‘Mattie can’t stay and I’ve got things I need to do at home.’
‘All right. If that’s what you’d prefer.’ She patted my arm and didn’t comment further, only settled herself into her shawl, wrapping the ends close around her shoulders.
When they’d both gone, I considered the pile before me. How odd that once I’d been to this man’s house and now his house had come to me. I tried to imagine Mum being here. It was hard to do. Uncle Thomas had taken over the shop after Dad had died, and Mum had avoided any involvement. And when Uncle Thomas had died too, she’d talked constantly about selling, or only opening up a few days a week. W
hen I’d been home, she’d refused to even come here with me. Even stranger that she’d accepted this house clearance. What had made it so difficult to decline?
I looked around at the wilderness of belongings overloading the room. The atmosphere seemed changed with all these things. It was quieter and more solemn than before. Personal too. I picked out the battered leather armchair, the chaise longue with its worn upholstery, the set of antique cups. Things which had been sat on, lain on, drunk from.
There was an oak desk at the front, with Queen Anne legs and a top that lifted. Now I sensed the thrill that my father had instilled in me as I touched the wood and felt the scratches beneath my fingertips. An eye for beautiful things. Had my mother really said that? If she had, it gave me a surprising quiver of pride. The desk was the kind that might have secret drawers. I ran my fingers around the edges and suffered a childlike disappointment at finding nothing: no buttons or levers. I lifted the lid to a mess of papers and rifled amongst them, picking out a scattering of photos.
They were portraits mainly: a prim middle-aged woman with hair scraped into a bun; a man with a prominent chin and moustache, smoking a pipe; a boy looking awkward, and the same boy as a teenager and later as a young man with round glasses, protruding ears and a long, fine-boned face. I guessed it was Edward Lily. I’d only seen him when he was middle-aged. Had his sister missed these photos? They were blurry, badly taken. Rejects maybe.
One of the photos was of a girl with light-coloured hair. Although the picture was out of focus, I knew who the girl was. She was standing self-consciously before a building with arched windows and railings. The place must be Spain where Edward Lily had lived before Lemon Tree Cottage and this was Lydia, his daughter – the girl I’d fantasised was mad. In the photo, she wore a long, flowing dress and held a wide-brimmed hat loosely in her hand.
I gazed at the picture and it drew me in. Was it the way Lydia held herself, or the distant look in her eyes, or the cloud of hair that fell about her face? Or the old-fashioned clothes? I wasn’t sure, but as I stood there in the dusty room, staring into the photo, it felt as if her ghost was reaching out, winding its arms around my neck, dragging me closer, claiming me.
The Missing Girl Page 5