I forced myself not to cry, sensing it would be seen as weakness. Other poor souls fared worse. Women named degenerate, wailing and crazed; others silent and mute, driven to madness by a wickedness it was hard to describe. In spite of what was in plain sight, I could summon no pity for them, offer no help or succour to anyone else. I covered my ears to the dreadful sounds, turned from the sights and closed my heart from everyone knowing my survival depended on acquiescence and my good behaviour.
I turned my heart from my family too.
Present
It is barely three months since my grandmother died – years since either of us have been here.
In my hand, the keys are hot. I walk up the stone steps, stand in front of the egg-shell blue door. For a ridiculous moment I feel as if I ought to knock. The vertical brass letterbox is dull and pitted. There are two locks, one each above and below an iron door-handle and I fumble until I work out the correct keys. Expecting the door to be stiff, it takes me by surprise when it glides open, as if it’s in charge, inviting me in.
Inside it isn’t as gloomy as I expect. I stare into the hallway, at my grandmother’s long-case clock still stopped at tea-time. I can see my mother winding it; hear Nain objecting.
‘Leave the clock to me, Allegra, you always overwind it.’
The frog telephone sits on the half-moon table, solitary and black. Everything is coated with the dust of too many silent years. The air is thick with must and damp. The walls are patched with faded spaces where the mirrors Nain took to London once hung. Mirrors were another of her passions. Like clocks and pretty chickens, kindness and the colour blue.
Behind me the front door closes with a familiar, slow click. It always did, as if some invisible maid waited until we were safely inside before shutting it behind us.
I notice a dustsheet, fallen to the floor beneath the one remaining mirror. I see my grandmother, pausing and patting her hair, the gesture automatic and entirely lacking in vanity, the mirror privy to a thousand fleeting moments of unconscious ritual.
It is smeared with neglect.
And finger marks.
They run down the glass, the shape of them fresh and clear. My throat is dry. My reflection peers at me through the ghostly, glassy finger-marks and I am disturbingly visible – to what or whom I cannot imagine.
The silence is acute.
I don’t want strangers to have been here, with or without my grandmother’s permission or a spare key.
I want the scent of Pride furniture polish; the sound of Mared’s laughter and the only other presence an unexpected cat; the touch of fur on my bare legs.
I want roses, forget-me-nots and bluebells from the garden, unarranged and perfect.
Thirty-six
‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’
He lingered on the path by the back door, a cigarette between his lips, and it annoyed her.
‘I’m looking for Allegra? Allegra Pryce?’
Said like a question, in an English accent, her mother’s name sounded odd. Verity leaned into the door, meaning to go back inside, heard it click as it closed behind her.
He reminded her of the kestrels circling their prey above the field, hovering, searching until they spotted something, and dropping like arrows.
‘What do you want with my mother?’ She glared at him, at his unkempt hair and unruly clothes.
He offered a hint of a frown. His look was sardonic and she didn’t like it. He held out a scrap of paper. Verity recognised it. It was the same kind of paper her mother used to sketch ideas for paintings. Close up he smelled of cigarettes and something she recognised and which at the same time eluded her. She leaned away to let him know he was standing too close, felt the hardness of the door at her back like a barrier. He stayed where he was and her discomfort grew.
Glancing down at the paper she saw her mother’s name, the name of the house and their scribbled telephone number. ‘Why didn’t you call first instead of creeping up, like…’
‘Like what?’ His smile barely skimmed his eyes. ‘Like a burglar?’ He grinned then and his teeth filled the space. ‘It’s broad daylight.’
Verity’s unease increased and she knew he was trouble; her vague irritation turned to doubt. She couldn’t look at him for fear he would notice. Her gaze dropped to the ground, fixed on her feet, the weeds, anywhere so long as she could ignore the warning vibrations running through her.
‘Yes,’ she said, forcing herself to look at him. ‘Like a burglar.’ She sidestepped, furious now. He made her feel like a child and his arrogance grated. Something about him suggested he was used to getting his own way.
Like Allegra.
An instant of resentment struck her. He was intruding and yet here he was, at her mother’s invitation, his shadow predatory and unwelcome. All her senses were alert to the fact and she felt an unexpected need to protect her mother.
Above all, he cannot be trusted…
‘I’ll come back,’ the man said. ‘Be sure to tell Allegra I called.’
Quiet people possess an innate sense of other people’s drama.
It was late and unable to sleep, the memory of the strange man still bothering her, Verity went in search of a drink. The moment she walked through the door she felt the shimmer of Allegra’s restlessness. She was reading her tarot cards by candlelight. It made her face paler than ever, the circles under her eyes dark as soot.
Everyone in this house needs a decent night’s sleep.
‘Mam?’
As her mother looked up, Verity saw how wild her eyes were. A few cards lay across the table.
‘You need the Knight of Cups.’
‘What?’
‘If you’re looking for a tall, dark, allegedly handsome man; surely you need the stupid questing knight? Or maybe you think you’d be safer with the sword chap – the chaotic one.’ Verity shrugged and sat down. ‘At least he’d be more honest.’
Allegra scowled. ‘Oh shut up, Verity. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘That’s the point, Mam, I do. And those cards won’t tell you anything you don’t already know.’
‘If you despise the cards, why do you care so much?’
‘I don’t despise them; you have to know what they mean before you can interpret them. And if you shuffle them enough, as well as Mr Sword Man, eventually, you’re bound to get the Lovers.’ She leaned across her mother and turned over one of the cards. ‘Oh, look – there he is. What a surprise.’ As she gazed at the man flying through the wind on his horse, she swallowed, knowing what was coming.
Her mother’s eyes brightened and Verity saw they were made of ice. ‘I don’t have to listen to this.’
‘True, but I’m here so you may as well. I’m not stupid, Mam.’ She nodded her head at the cards. ‘You can make them say whatever you like and you do.’
‘I do not! How dare you, you stupid girl.’
‘I’m not stupid. In fact, I’m smart and so is Meredith. Just because you’ve refused to educate us doesn’t mean we haven’t learned things.’
‘Oh, and I suppose you’ve learned about the occult too and the next thing is, you’ll cast a spell on me?’ Allegra laughed now, a harsh unkind sound.
‘No. It means I’ve been reading your tarot book.’ She pulled it from her dressing gown pocket and threw it on the table. ‘It’s a tool, not a crutch. You can’t tell the future with the cards, Mam. You may as well check the entrails of a chicken.’
‘And you think that makes you smart? That answering me back and trashing my beliefs makes you clever?’ Allegra snatched up the book. ‘Since when did you become so sickeningly vain? Is this all the thanks I get—’
‘Yes! This is all the thanks you get! Less in fact; you get no thanks because you haven’t done anything worthy of them.’ Trembling now, Verity shouted. ‘It’s not listening to you makes me clever. And the sooner I can stop Meredith listening, the better.’
Allegra’s voice became a snarl. ‘Typical. T
his is how you always operate isn’t it. Trying to turn your sister against me any chance you get.’
Verity ignored this. ‘So, come on then, who is he? A new daddy?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was here, looking for you. I told him to go away.’
‘You had no right. You know nothing about him, you—’
‘I know he’s horrible and rude and I already hate him.’ Verity managed to lower her voice. ‘We’re your daughters not your toys. We’re not here for your amusement.’
‘Why would you say a thing like that?’
‘Why would you invite a creepy stranger into our house?’
‘You don’t know him and you obviously have no intention of trying.’ Allegra grabbed the cards, stuffed them roughly into the bag. ‘He came all the way to see me, at my invitation and you turned him away. It was you who was rude.’
‘He scared me.’
‘Don’t be dramatic. I know you, Verity; I know what’s going on. And don’t you dare accuse me of not caring about your welfare.’
‘So, finally, you’re making our well-being your business?’
‘I’m your mother, I—’
‘You no longer have the right.’ Verity’s revulsion overwhelmed her.
Allegra made a mewing noise and flung her head into her hands. ‘Stop saying this stuff. What’s got into you?’
‘If you start crying,’ Verity said, ‘instead of despising you, I’ll hate you. You disgust me.
Thirty-seven
‘I’ve invited a friend to have supper with us.’
Meredith and her mother sat together at the kitchen table, matching socks, rolling them into little bundles.
Verity felt a curl of dread in her stomach.
‘It will give you a chance to get to know him.’ Allegra smiled her unreadable smile.
‘Why would we want to do that?’ Verity couldn’t believe her ears. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said earlier? I don’t like him, he’s creepy.’
‘Nonsense. I’m not having this discussion with you, Verity.’ Allegra spoke over her. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Meredith?’
It was a strategy that no longer worked.
‘Actually, I do.’ Meredith pushed the socks to one side. ‘I hate visitors. And if Verity doesn’t like him, whoever he is, then I won’t. Who is he anyway?’
‘Someone I met on the beach,’ Allegra said. ‘Don’t be silly, Meredith, he’s into art and he’s really very nice. As Verity was extremely rude to him the least we can do is be hospitable.’
‘Verity isn’t rude to anyone.’
‘Well, she was very rude to me! I’ve invited him and he’s coming, so that’s an end to it.’ Allegra scooped up the folded laundry. ‘I expect you both to be on your best behaviour. Meredith, you’ll like him, honestly, he’s charming.’
Verity winced. Had she really not noticed? Was Allegra so thick-skinned she couldn’t see how much they both minded?
‘Is he her new boyfriend?’ Meredith sat by the hen house with a chicken on her lap. ‘You don’t want any stupid old visitors do you, Miss O’Hara?’
The chicken dipped her head, submitted to Meredith’s petting.
‘Who knows? She must be about due for one. I saw him on the beach looking up at the house the other day, and then he just showed up here.’
Meredith said there was no way she would share a meal with a creepy man Verity didn’t like. ‘And in any case, I don’t like meeting new people.’
‘I know. Neither do I, not people like him at any rate. Don’t worry, we can hide.’
‘Good plan.’ Meredith stroked the chicken’s feathery head. ‘And good luck to him, whatever she makes, it won’t be edible. What do you suppose it’ll be?
‘Spaghetti Bolognaise?’
‘You took the words right out of my mouth.’
As good as their word, the girls refused to eat supper with the man. Watching him wandering up the drive, they took off for the wood and stayed in the ruin until darkness drove them home.
Initially furious, as the days passed Allegra paid them no mind. She became manic and overexcited, dragging clothes out of drawers, changing her hairstyle, ignoring her painting. She didn’t notice how quiet her daughters had become or how Meredith had almost stopped eating.
The house was more of a mess than usual; Allegra cooked crazy meals and in spite of her daughters’ protests, invited the man to join them again and again. They continued to ignore him. When he came into a room, they left. In the event they were forced to spend time with him, they did whatever they could to annoy him.
‘I can fix that.’ The latch on the kitchen window had come loose.
‘Wonderful.’ Allegra beamed.
‘No problem.’ He looked around. ‘It’ll take a while; if you want a decent job.’
‘I’ll fix lunch.’
The next day he brought a toolkit with him, set it on a bench under the window. Allegra hovered, watching him work, as if she hadn’t seen anything quite so wonderful in her entire life.
Wandering up from the beach, Verity and Meredith paused.
‘Darlings!’ Allegra waved her arms. ‘Look! Soon be fixed and good as new! No more horrid draughts! Isn’t that marvellous?’
As Meredith sidled past, she nudged the toolbox, sent it crashing to the ground.
‘Accidents will happen.’ Although he addressed his words to Allegra – and with a smile – his snake eyes landed on Meredith.
Instinctively, Verity stepped between them.
‘All the time,’ she said. In spite of the fluttering in her chest she kept her voice level. ‘But I’ll never let anything bad happen to my sister.’
Her coming into the world was shaped by pain and the smell of blood.
In front of them, I cried only once – the moment they took her – and it was more a wail which at first I failed to realise came from me. That kind of howling comes from a raw place, and is as much a feeling as a sound.
Her head was turned away and I couldn’t see her face. A tiny arm waved free of the catching blanket, I reached for her, my lips brushed a finger and the sensation seared my skin. A life and death kiss before I heard someone whisper she was a girl. I felt the flicker of a pulse against my hand, a thread from her heart as I tried to take hold of her, and then she was gone.
They said she died.
‘It’s for the best.’
In the stillness, I recognised the sound of consciences being appeased.
They took her like they would a dead kitten, snatched her away and refused my entreaties to be told where she had been buried. My cries turned to rage but however I begged and pleaded, they turned their faces from me, hard and unfeeling, saying it was no longer my business.
How could it be that my dead child’s last resting place was not my business? What cruelty contrived this final wickedness?
One nurse, kinder than the rest, returned the blanket. The scent of her caught on it, the sweet breath of her … my tiny lost child, laid in a cold, dark, unnamed grave with no one to mourn her.
I held the blanket to my face, inhaled her, felt the thread of my baby’s heart…
And shattered into a million pieces.
Thirty-eight
The man changed everything.
At first, Meredith thought he was little more than an inconvenience.
‘If we ignore him,’ she said, ‘maybe he’ll go away.’
‘Don’t count on it,’ Verity replied.
‘Well, I have far more important things to worry about.’
No longer caring if her dreams were disturbed, needing to be near Angharad, she had returned to her own room to sleep.
One morning, she prodded her sister awake.
‘We have to make a baby for her.’
Verity rubbed sleep from her eyes. ‘What?’
‘She had a baby and they took it away.’
Lost for words, Verity stared at her sister’s animated face.
‘It’s true, she told me.
She did have a baby, just like I said. They took it away and her heart broke.’
Sleep-deprived and manic, Meredith’s words were wild and scattered. A shiver of fear slid down Verity’s spine.
‘I’m going to make her one,’ Meredith said. ‘Not an actual baby – more like a doll baby and made of flowers and stuff from the garden. The sewing box was in my dream too – we have to use her things.’
‘You’re saying you want to make a baby?’
‘I have to.’
Meredith’s face was no longer mutinous; it was open and traced with something Verity couldn’t translate.
‘Just tell me why, Meredith. Why does it matter so much?’
‘I love her, Verity, I can’t stop now. She trusts me so it doesn’t matter why. And you won’t regret helping me; what we’re doing is a good thing.’
If Verity was unconvinced, she knew there was no point in saying so. She may as well agree. That way she could keep an eye on her sister.
Keep her safe.
‘What did she actually say? Can you remember?’
‘The baby died. And they stole it.’
They were sitting in the blue garden, under the wisteria, surrounded by twigs and leaves and flowers.
‘She doesn’t know where they buried it. It’s about laying the baby to rest.’
Meredith had brought the sewing box with her, hidden under a cardigan in case Allegra saw them.
‘Don’t worry about her,’ Verity said, ‘she’s at the gallery today.’
‘Good. We have to get this done.’ Meredith concentrated on her task. She was fashioning a body from sticks and thin strips of bark.
Verity handed her sister what she asked for. Meredith was adamant. They had to use Angharad’s things – her scissors and needles and bits of thread.
‘They’re a link to her, do you see?’
Verity was starting to. The box had been the beginning of it. She recalled Meredith opening it, laying out the faded flannel hearts.
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