Rooftoppers

by Katherine Rundell

  When they returned, streaming with water and stuffed with ice cream, there was a letter on the doormat. One look at the envelope made Sophie certain it was not a birthday card. All the happiness went out of her in a whoosh.

  Charles read it with a tight-set face.

  “What is it?” Sophie tried to read over his shoulder, but he was too tall. “Who’s it from? What do they want?”

  “I’m not quite sure.” His face was transformed. He was unrecognizable as the man he had been only a minute before. “It seems there is to be an inspection.”

  “Of what? Of me?”

  “Of us. It’s from the National Childcare Agency. They say they have doubts about my ability to care for you, now that you are a young woman. They think I will be unable to teach you how to behave like a lady.”

  “What? But that’s crazy!”

  “Governments often are.”

  “I’m only just twelve! I’m practically still eleven.”

  “Nonetheless, they intend to come.”

  “Who is ‘they’? Who sent it?”

  “Two people; one is called Martin Eliot. The other name I can’t read.”

  “But why? Why should two strangers get to decide about me? They don’t know me! Who’s Mr. Eliot? He’s just a man!”

  “I know these sorts of people. They’re not men. They’re mustaches with idiots attached.”

  Sophie snorted with snotty laughter. She wiped her eyes. “So what do we do?”

  “I suppose we should clean.” Together, she and Charles looked around the hall. It was clean enough already, she thought, if you didn’t count the poems she had copied onto the wallpaper, or the spiderwebs. Sophie liked spiders, and always dusted around them.

  “Do I have to move the spiders?”

  “I fear so,” said Charles. “And I will have to cut the ivy.” Last year an ivy vine had worked its way in through the window, and spread over one wall in the hall. It had settled like a Sunday hat over the portrait of Charles’s grandmother. Sophie loved it.

  “Could you leave the part growing on Grandmother Pauline? They wouldn’t notice, would they?”

  “I can try, certainly.” But Charles was clearly not thinking of grandmothers. “And then there’s you, Sophie.”

  “What about me?” Sophie felt herself flushing. “Is there something wrong with me?”

  “To me, of course, you are as close to perfect as a human can be. But I have a suspicion—though, please do correct me if I’m wrong—that your hair will not meet with approval. No, not the front—here, at the back.”

  Sophie groped around the back of her head. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing is wrong with it, exactly. It’s just that it resembles a ball of string. I believe hair is more usually described as a curtain. Or a wave.”

  “Oh!” It was true, she supposed. She had never read about a heroine with balls of hair. “Leave it to me.”

  That night, Sophie went to battle with her hair. At first, her hair seemed to be winning. The knot was at the base of her neck, the most awkward place to reach. This was usually the way with knots. Grimly, Sophie tugged, until she had a handful of hair in her lap, but still the knot was enormous. She pulled vengefully, and the comb snapped in two and stayed there, hanging in her hair. She swore, under her breath. “Damn.”

  Sophie ran down to the kitchen and found the scissors. She wove them into the middle of the knot and bit down on her tongue for courage, and cut. It was surprisingly satisfying. When she had cut out the comb and most of the knot, she braided her hair into a thick rope over her shoulder. Unless you looked closely, she thought, you would barely notice. She felt gingerly at her scalp. Being ladylike was a painful enterprise.

  On the day of the inspection, Sophie scrubbed at her hands until her fingernails shone and she had rubbed half the skin off her knuckles. Charles polished her shoes with candle wax and a lump of coal, and, as they had no iron, pressed her clothes with a hot brick. Charles mopped the floor, and Sophie soaped the walls, until she had taken half the pattern off the wallpaper. She placed jars full of flowers all over the house. Everything smelled of rose petals and soap.

  “I think it looks fine,” she said. Sophie had always loved the house, and it seemed especially handsome today. “I think it looks perfect.”

  Then they hovered by the door, unable to sit still. At the last minute, a thought occurred to Sophie.

  “How long do I have until they come?” she asked Charles.

  “Three minutes, or thereabouts. Why?”

  “I’ll be right back.” She took the stairs four at a time. In her bedroom, she powdered her nose with talcum powder and rubbed red paint on her cheeks and lips. There was no mirror. She hoped it looked right.

  Charles blinked when she came down. Sophie’s suspicions that her cheeks were more “clown” than “gracious young lady” deepened, but before either had time to say anything, the doorbell rang.

  The woman on the doorstep had a clipboard, and an expression like a damp sock. The man next to her had a briefcase and elaborate facial hair. Sophie thought he looked faintly familiar.

  Charles whispered, “Mustache,” and Sophie fought not to laugh.

  They led the pair into the sitting room. The couple refused all offers of tea and began their questioning at once. Sophie winced away from them. It was like being under fire.

  “Why isn’t the child at school?” said the woman.

  Sophie waited to see if Charles would answer. When he didn’t, she said, “I don’t go to school.”

  “Why not?” said the man.

  “I learn from Charles.”

  “Do you have proper lessons?” The woman looked skeptical.

  “Yes!” said Sophie. “Of course I do.” A useful sentence popped into her head. “Charles says, ‘Without knowledge, you see only half the world.’ ”

  “Hmph. And these lessons take place every day?”

  “Yes,” lied Sophie. In fact, they did lessons whenever either of them remembered. Sophie found it very easy to forget.

  “Can you read?” said the woman.

  “Yes, of course!” That was stupid. Sophie couldn’t remember not being able to read, any more than she could remember not being able to walk.

  “Can you do mathematics?”

  “Um. Yes,” said Sophie. That was true. Sort of. “Although, I hate the seven times table. I like the eights and nines, though.”

  “Can you recite your catechism?”

  “No.” Sophie’s insides grew colder. “I don’t know what that is. Is he a poet? I can do most of Shakespeare, if you’d like.”

  “No, thank you. That will not be necessary. Can you cook?”

  Sophie nodded.

  “Plain cooking, pastry, a fine trifle for dinner parties?”

  “Um. Yes, I think so.” It wasn’t a lie, she told herself firmly. She’d never made a trifle, but anyone who could read could cook, as long as you had the right books.

  “You can’t be eating well; you slouch, and you’re too pale. Why is she so pale?”

  For the first time, Charles spoke. “She is not too pale. She is cut from the stuff of the moon.”

  The woman snorted; the man was distracted, looking around the room. “Is this where you do lessons?” he asked Sophie.

  “We mostly do them—” She had been going to say “on the roof,” but Charles widened his eyes in warning, and his head gave the subtlest of shakes. “Yes,” she said. “Mostly in here.”

  “Then where do you keep your blackboard?”

  Sophie couldn’t think of a convincing answer to that one. She told the truth. “We don’t have a blackboard.”

  “And how do you expect to learn anything without a blackboard?” asked the woman.

  “Well, I have books. And paper. And,” Sophie said, brightening, “I’m also allowed to write on the walls, and draw, as long as I don’t do it in the parlor. Or the hall, unless I do it behind the coat stand.”

  For some reason, the
woman was not appeased by this. She stood, and turned to the man. “Shall we begin? I dread to think what we’ll find.”

  The pair marched through the house as though they were planning to buy it. They inspected the sheets for holes and the curtains for dust, and looked in the larder. They took notes of the rows of cheeses and jars of jam. Finally, they marched up to Sophie’s attic room and looked through her chest of drawers.

  The woman drew out the red trousers, and the man shook his head sadly. The green pair—which had accrued some interesting stains around the ankle—made the woman shudder.

  “Unacceptable!” she said. “I find it shocking, Mr. Maxim, that you let this go on.”

  Sophie said, “But he doesn’t let it go on, at all. I mean—they’re mine. They’re nothing to do with Charles.”

  “Please hold your tongue, child.”

  Sophie longed to hit her. Charles moved to stand closer to Sophie, but he said nothing. He had barely spoken, and he kept silent all the way downstairs, and only as he shook their hands did he speak a few words to the inspectors. Sophie strained, but could not hear. She closed the door behind them and sank down on the mat.

  “What did they say? Did I do all right?” She chewed on the end of her braid. “I hated them. Didn’t you? I wanted to spit. That man! He had a face like a baboon.”

  “He did seem excellent proof of the theory of evolution, didn’t he? And the woman! I have met wrought-iron railings with more human generosity.”

  “What were they saying, when they left?”

  “They said they are going to submit a report.”

  “That wasn’t all, though, was it? You were talking for longer than that.”

  “I think we’d better have a talk. Where is the best place for talking? The kitchen?”

  Sophie didn’t want to be anywhere the inspectors had passed through. The house felt damp and clammy in their wake. “No, the roof.”

  “Of course. I’ll fetch some whisky. Why don’t you run down to the kitchen and fetch the cream jug? It helps to have cream, I think, on days like these.”

  Sophie ran. The cream jug was cooling in the icebox. There was jam, and a loaf fresh from the oven; she added that. She found Charles perched on the chimney pot.

  “Sit down. Have a little whisky.” He looked about the rooftop for a glass, then handed her the bottle. “Take a gulp.” The whisky made Sophie cough and spit, but he said, “Think of it as medicine. Yes, well done. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course. What’s going on? What did they say?”

  “Sophie. You must try to believe what I am going to tell you. You must try to understand. Can you do that for me?”

  “Of course I can,” said Sophie. She stared at him indignantly. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Don’t be too sure, my love. Believing things is a talent.”

  “Fine. I’ll believe you. What is it?”

  “Have some bread and jam. You can dip it in the cream jug.”

  “What is it, Charles?”

  Charles took some bread and rolled it between his finger and thumb. “First of all, it will break my heart if they take you away. You have been the great green adventure of my life. Without you my days would be unlit.” He glanced down at her. “Do you understand that, Sophie? Do you believe me?”

  Sophie nodded. She flushed, in the way she always did when people said nice things about her. “Yes. I think I do.”

  “But there is nothing I can do to stop these people. You are not legally mine. Legally, you are the property of the state. Do you understand that?”

  “No, I don’t. That’s stupid!”

  “I could not agree more. It is nonetheless the case, my child.”

  “How can I belong to the state? The state isn’t a person. The state can’t love anyone.”

  “I know. But, I believe, they intend to take you. The pair didn’t say anything definite. But they hinted.”

  Sophie’s whole body suddenly felt cold. “They can’t.”

  “They can, my darling. Governments can do both great and stupid things.”

  “What if we ran away? To another country? We could go to America.”

  “They’d stop us, Sophie. They would tell the police I was kidnapping you.”

  “How do you know? I bet they wouldn’t!” Sophie jumped to her feet and tugged at his hand, his sleeve, his hair. “Let’s leave. We can just go, Charles. We don’t need to tell anyone. Before they send in their report. Please!” He hadn’t moved. She took hold of his sleeve. “Please.”

  “I’m so sorry, dear heart.” He looked twice as old as he had looked that morning, and she almost heard his neck bones creak as he shook his head. “They would come and fetch you back, my darling. There are people in this world who come out in a rash at the sight of a broken rule. Miss Eliot is one such person. Martin Eliot is another.”

  Sophie jumped up. “Eliot! I knew he looked familiar! Charles, do you think they’re related?”

  “Good Lord! Yes, in fact, quite possibly. My God! She once said her brother worked in government.”

  “The witch!” Somehow, the idea of Miss Eliot helped. Anger was easier than misery. “I won’t give up, you know.” It made her feel tougher, and meatier, just to say it. “I won’t go.”

  It was one thing to vow to be tough. When the letter came, toughness felt very difficult.

  It arrived on a gray Monday morning. It was addressed to Charles, but she would have opened it anyway, had he not taken it gently from her. She watched his face, but it was wary and tight—impossible to guess.

  “Can I see? Let me see?” she asked, before he could possibly be finished. “What does it say? Is it good? Can I stay? You have to say I can. Let me see?”

  Charles said, “It’s . . . it’s not . . .” For once, he seemed to be without words. He handed it to her. Sophie held it up to the light.

  DEAR MR. MAXIM,

  We, the undersigned, write to inform you of

  CHANGES IN OUR POLICY

  on the guardianship of female persons

  aged between twelve and eighteen years.

  Sophie scowled. “Why do they have to talk like that?” She hated official letters. They made her feel nervous. The people who wrote them sounded like they had filing cabinets where their hearts should be.

  “Read on, Sophie.” Charles’s voice was darker than usual.

  The committee has come to

  THE UNANIMOUS CONCLUSION

  that a young woman

  SHOULD NOT BE RAISED

  by a single man unrelated to her,

  except in unusual circumstances.

  In the case of your ward,

  SOPHIA MAXIM,

  it was felt certain elements of her

  upbringing have been

  ABSOLUTELY UNSUITABLE

  for a female child.

  “What do they mean, ‘certain elements’?” Sophie stabbed at the paper with her finger. “I don’t understand!”

  “I don’t know. I can guess.”

  “They mean my trousers, don’t they?” she said. “That’s mad! They’re evil!”

  “Keep reading,” said Charles.

  We must therefore inform you that

  YOUR WARD WILL BE REMOVED

  from your charge and enrolled in

  SAINT CATHERINE’S ORPHANAGE

  in north Leicestershire. Noncompliance will

  result in a court order against you and a maximum

  of fifteen years penal servitude.

  The committee’s decision is final

  AND EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY.

  “ ‘Penal servitude’? What does that mean?”

  “Jail,” said Charles.

  The child care officer of your borough,

  Miss Susan Eliot, will collect your ward on

  WEDNESDAY THE FIFTH OF JUNE.

  Yours sincerely,

  Martin Eliot

  Sophie felt suddenly hollow. She fished about for something to say. “They spelled my name wrong
.”

  “They did.”

  “If they have to break my heart, they could at least have spelled my name right.” She looked at Charles. He did not seem to be reacting.

  “Charles?” A tear was making its way down her face. She licked it angrily away. She said, “Please. Please say something.”

  “So you understood the letter?”

  “They’re taking me away from you. They’re taking you away from me.”

  “They intend to try, certainly.”

  She didn’t want to touch the letter. She dropped it, and stood on it. Then she picked it up and read it again. She couldn’t bear that “absolutely unsuitable.” “Do you think if I’d worn skirts? And if I didn’t slouch? Or if I was prettier? Or, I don’t know, sweeter? Would they have let me stay?”

  Charles shook his head. She was astonished to see that he was silently weeping.

  “What now?” She slipped her hand into his pocket, and drew out his handkerchief and placed it in his hand. “Here. Charles, please say something. What do we do now?”

  “I am so sorry, my child.” She had never seen a man look so white. “I fear there is nothing.”

  Quite suddenly Sophie couldn’t bear it. She pelted up to her bedroom, tripping over the stairs. The tears in her eyes were making the world blur. Before she had time to think, Sophie grabbed hold of the poker and swung it at the cello case. It split with a crack. She swung again, at the pitcher of water beside her bed, which shattered over her blanket and pillow. Sophie heard an exclamation below, and footsteps running up the stairs. She stamped and kicked. The cello case splintered, and shards of painted wood flew across the room.

  If you have never broken up a wooden box with a poker, it is worth trying. Slowly, Sophie felt her breath become more manageable.

  “I won’t go,” she whispered with each swing. “I won’t.”

  After a while, although the tears and snot still ran down her face, they did not choke her. She found a rhythm—smash, breathe, crash, breathe.

  “I won’t go,” she whispered. “No.” Smash. “No.” Crash. “No.”

  It took her some minutes to realize that Charles was standing in the doorway.

  “Still alive, dear heart?”