Lost Girl

by J. C. Grey

  At least someone had bought him the ragged children’s books that sit on the bookshelf in the attic—his grandmother perhaps, or had Evelyn sent them for him? And he had the Brigadier’s old train set. But really it wasn’t much; nothing at all for someone condemned to spend more than half a century as a six-year-old.

  I slot it next to the other military books, and stoop to pick up Jane Eyre, which is splayed beneath it. As I lift it, I notice a yellowing envelope beneath, addressed to Miss Evelyn St John at this address. Sitting in the chair, I unfold the letter, inside which is another written on different paper.

  The first is dated 22 March 1958, and is from a Lance Corporal Paul Patton.

  Dear Miss St John

  By now, you will have heard the sad news and circumstances of Lewis Crichley’s passing in Malaya last month. We had served together since his arrival in March and, although he had not been a soldier long, he showed real promise and commitment. The jungle is as much the enemy as anything, and a cut can easily turn septic if it’s not watched. I’m just sorry it happened to a top bloke like him.

  Please accept my sincere sympathies for your loss. If it is any comfort, he talked about you all the time and thought the world of you.

  I found the enclosed part-written letter to you after his other effects had been returned and thought you should have it.

  Once again, my deepest sympathies.

  I refold it and open the letter that Paul Patton had enclosed.

  Dearest Evie

  How are you? Hope the oldies aren’t getting you down.

  We’ve been seeing some action here. Lost a truck the other day, with some minor injuries. Gerry’s sporting a broken finger that he’s rather proud of. A war wound, he says! The blokes who were in World War II just shake their heads and tell us we don’t have a clue. We probably don’t.

  Don’t worry about me, though. I’m far too cautious to cop it. The others laugh at me, but I reckon it pays to be careful—especially now I’ve got a girl in Aus to come home to.

  You are my girl, aren’t you, Evie? I showed the blokes your picture and they reckon you’re a top sort. I know you are!!

  I was looking forward to being a soldier so much and continuing the family tradition, but now I can’t wait to come home to you. How do you think your dad would react if we told him we were going steady? I’m sure he expects you to do better—him being a commissioned officer and my dad being just a quarter-master—but times are changing aren’t they?

  If

  It ends there but in my mind I see the young soldier’s letter-writing being interrupted by his mates or the dinner bell or being called on duty, intending to get back to his letter in an hour or a day or two. Before he can do so, he suffers a minor scratch or cut, and that is that—such an insignificant thing, yet how big its ramifications.

  Evelyn, just nineteen, would have been devastated, a toxic mix of grief and shame, something I know all about.

  She probably would have known she was pregnant by then and been feeling nervous about telling her parents. With Lewis dead and only weeks until her shame became public knowledge, it wouldn’t have been too hard for the domineering Brigadier to convince her to let him sort things out his way. And so she ended up sentenced to a future in exile—and her son to a life locked up out of sight while his grandparents tried to organise a discreet adoption that never happened.

  It is hard not to feel intense disdain for the St Johns’ treatment of their confused little grandson, concealed like a dirty secret for long years. Yet, they, like all of us, were products of their time, of their experiences. They would have grown up in an era where children had no voice and no rights.

  Fleetingly, I think of my own background. Perhaps we have not come as far as we may think.

  Perhaps the St Johns thought they were being kind, keeping him safe from ridicule. Perhaps they had tried in their own way. There is the train set in the attic and the old rocking horse, the book of military history, however inappropriate. They were ashamed of their grandson but I suspect they did not hate him.

  I wonder if anyone ever told Louis about his dad. I rather think not. Perhaps it is time he knew his dad died serving his country, if he is willing to talk with me again. Maybe it will make a difference, I don’t know.

  Folding the letters, I tuck them back inside the book and place it in my bag. My phone has still not been touched, so I take it upstairs and stand at the base of the steps up to the attic.

  ‘Louis,’ I call. ‘I have to go out for a little while to see Marc but why don’t you pick a story for us to read later? I’ll bring my phone with me and we can find out some more about those kings. I’ll be back in a while.’

  Not sure if I have achieved the right tone of adult calm, I pick up Marc’s bag and walk out of the house, shutting the door behind me, wondering what reception I will get on my return. I can only hope that Louis will take me at my word.

  As I drive towards the gate, I glance in my rear-view mirror. I think I see a shadow at an upper window, watching me leave. He lifts his arm and I realise he is waving me goodbye.

  Present day, afternoon

  When I get to the hospital, the matronly nurse on duty in Marc’s unit is outside his room, hands on barn-like hips, glaring angrily through the doorway at James and Will, both of whom are wearing fright wigs.

  ‘The patient is not to laugh!’ she tells them.

  ‘But nurse, laughter is the best medicine,’ James points out.

  The glare intensifies, and I intervene. Dumping Marc’s bag on the bed, I rummage in my wallet, find a couple of twenties and ask the boys to buy lunch for us all.

  Will gives me a kiss on the cheek and waves away the cash. James grins idiotically at me. A moment later, they have vanished to the café. The nurse stalks off, mollified, and I am alone with my husband who is sitting in his chair, dressed in a robe and looking somewhat piratical with an ice-pack over his left eye.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, smiling.

  ‘Hi.’ I lean into him and press a kiss to his right cheek. ‘You’re looking good, all things considered.’

  ‘No thanks to those two.’ He runs a hand over my bottom. ‘How could you sic them on me in my fragile state?’

  ‘Not that fragile,’ I point out wryly, removing his hand in case PDAs are also against hospital regulations.

  He grins. ‘The spirit is willing, but the body is on the weak side.’

  ‘Probably just as well. I don’t think that nurse would approve of hanky-panky.’ I look around. ‘I thought your parents were keeping an eye on you.’

  Marc rolls his eyes. ‘Mum was overreacting a bit so Dad took her home.’

  ‘It’s not overreacting to be worried about your child. It’s normal. How did the tests go?’

  ‘Fine. They did a scan. No lasting damage, provided I keep my head still while the bone heals. No sudden movements, hence no laughing.’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’ I crouch down in front of him, stroking his cheek. ‘Headache?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He grimaces. ‘But it’s eased off a bit since earlier.’

  ‘I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re okay.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Our eyes lock and something passes between us. We are okay, I realise. We have survived this fire, and perhaps something stronger has been forged in it—something that can endure what is to come.

  ‘You seem different,’ he says, taking my hand.

  ‘The prospect of losing a husband does that to a woman.’

  ‘Is that it?’ He asks and when I sit back on the bed to study him, he continues. ‘I had this dream last night.’

  I wait for him to go on, but he is silent. It is my turn.

  ‘You were pretty out of it,’ I tell him. ‘They gave you some really good drugs. It seemed like a good opportunity to tell you stuff I probably wouldn’t if you weren’t off your face.’

  My joke falls flat; his face remains serious. ‘You can tell me anything.’

&nb
sp; I shake my head and he pulls gently on a strand of my loose hair until I stop. ‘This story is a bit … wild—probably enough for you to get me sectioned.’

  ‘It’s a bit fuzzy but I think most of it sunk in.’ He frowns. ‘You said the house was a place where lost souls found themselves. And that you weren’t the only lost soul in it.’

  He has summarised things so neatly, no wonder he is so effective in business. Business! Oh God, another call I should have made and haven’t.

  ‘Marc! The office.’ I fumble for my phone and nearly drop it. ‘I’ll call them now.’

  His warm hand closes over my cold fingers. ‘Don’t worry. They knew I’d be away for a few days, and Dad spoke to Toby this morning. Everything’s under control. They’ll be fine for the next day or two.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I mutter lamely.

  ‘And right now, I’m far more interested in your haunted house than I am in spreadsheets and risk profiles.’

  I can’t tell if he is teasing me or not, but his eyes are firmly on mine. I shift under that steady, one-eyed gaze. ‘Your house,’ I remind him. ‘You bought it.’

  ‘For you. It’s yours, Em.’

  ‘Then, will you trust me to try and fix it?’

  Marc is silent for a moment. ‘We’re not talking about plumbing and carpentry here, I take it.’

  Pressing my lips together, I shake my head. ‘No.’ I give him the letters I found this morning and wait as he reads them both.

  ‘The Malayan Emergency,’ he says at last. ‘Dad’s Uncle Iain fought in that one, I think.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He came back in one piece.’ He looks up. ‘Go on.’

  ‘So, I’m thinking Evelyn’s predicament would have made her vulnerable to her old-fashioned domineering father.’ I tell him what Robert Sanders remembers of those times. ‘Once she was out of the picture, there was no one really to care about her little boy.’

  ‘What about the grandmother?’

  ‘Perhaps she did what she could. He can write, after a fashion. Someone must have taught him.’ I get up and pace, my mind so jumpy, my body won’t stay still. ‘But after however many years of marriage, I’m assuming she was pretty much under the Brigadier’s thumb.

  ‘I still don’t know what happened to Louis, and until I do I can’t help him—and the house—to lay things to rest.’ I almost don’t dare to look at him, it sounds so ludicrous. ‘Still don’t want to have me admitted?’

  ‘No.’ He gives me a wry smile. ‘I may be a boring suit, but even I know that there are more things in heaven and earth … et cetera.’

  ‘You trust me then?’

  ‘You, yes. But a tantrum-prone ghost kid with supernatural powers? No, absolutely not. Em, you said last night there had been other … accidents?’

  ‘It’s true.’ I tell him what I know about Robert Sanders’ father, the broken leg and asthma attack. ‘And then Kevin Sanders, Robert’s son, fell from an upper window, and has never walked again. Individually they all seem like accidents, but collectively …

  ‘Marc, I was there yesterday.’ I tighten my grip on his hand. ‘Yesterday, at the precise moment Louis exploded with rage, the stairs collapsed. I can’t let this go on.’

  ‘But why you, Em? Maybe we need an expert. I don’t know, a medium, perhaps, or an exorcist.’

  ‘He talks to me, Marc. Only I can do this.’

  ‘But why?’

  I close my eyes, trying to find the right words. When I open them, he is looking right into my soul.

  ‘Perhaps because I understand what it is to be lost.’

  Twenty-seven

  Present day, late afternoon

  We argue back and forth for half an hour. Eventually, Marc sighs, looking tired, and rubs his head.

  ‘Then wait until tomorrow and I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No, absolutely not. Not yet.’

  His jaw firms and he begins to push himself from his chair, but the effort costs him. He presses a hand hard to his head and staggers. ‘Jesus, my head.’

  ‘Sit down and stay still! Do you want to lose your eye?’ I ease him back into his chair.

  Eyes closed, he rests his head against the chair back. I think he has fallen asleep, but a moment later, he opens his eyes again.

  ‘In my phone, there’s a name. The investigations firm Mum used. They might be able to trace Evelyn St John. She might still be alive.’

  At his suggestion, I gasp. Of course! It hadn’t even occurred to me. She would be well into her seventies but she could easily still be living.

  Just then, the boys arrive back with pizza, the nurse following them, complaining that junk food is inappropriate for her patient.

  She takes one look at Marc’s white face, and orders the rest of us out of the room. We munch soberly on pepperoni pizza as we wait for her to emerge. When she reappears, she gives us a thoroughly professional ticking off, and tells us Marc is sleeping again and is not to be disturbed for the rest of the afternoon.

  ‘I suppose we should get back to Sydney,’ Will says when she has disappeared down the corridor on her crepe soles. Why are practical shoes so ugly? ‘We have to get back to work.’

  James looks at me, his expression unusually serious. ‘You’ll stay with him, won’t you?’ he asks, an edge of accusation in his voice. I am used to being found wanting by Marc’s family but not by these two. It is a salutary reminder of my epic failures.

  ‘You won’t … leave?’ Will adds. ‘He needs you, you know, even though he’s so together.’

  I almost start to cry at that but I cannot make promises I may not be able to keep. ‘I love him,’ I tell them huskily.

  It seems to be enough because they nod, hug me and head off. After they’ve gone, I make the call Marc has suggested and then, for a long time, I sit with him, torn between a husband who needs me, and a haunted house that needs me perhaps just as much.

  Eventually in the late afternoon, his phone vibrates. With surprise, I see it is the investigations firm calling back. I hadn’t expected any answers so quickly. I get to my feet to take the call outside the room. I am so engrossed, I barely notice a nurse go in to Marc. When I return a few minutes later, the blind is drawn, the room is dim, and Marc is sleeping peacefully on his back, his chest rising rhythmically.

  I lift the hand on the blankets and place a kiss on his palm. His fingers curl, reflexively, as though he is holding it there.

  ‘I’ll see you soon,’ I whisper as I leave the hospital room, and I hope that I am telling the truth.

  Present day, evening

  Returning to the house after dusk—a house that has been the scene of countless tragedies—I am jittery with nerves and the hospital’s horrible coffee. I do not know what to expect. If the little boy blames me for Marc’s unexpected arrival at the house, he has the power to wreak a terrible revenge. But just maybe, the last months that we’ve shared the house will count for something.

  It is a clear night, the stars just starting to wink on overhead as I unlock the front door and turn on the insipid light. If I have my way, the house will soon have bright white lights, I vow. No more murky lighting.

  ‘Hi! I’m back,’ I call, without thinking, and then realise how stupid I must sound. But I don’t know how to play this. All I can do is trust my instincts.

  As expected, there is no response. After hanging my jacket on the bannister, I head into the study—trying to ignore the disembowelled bear—and light the laid fire. With flames leaping, it seems more cheery. Turning on lights as I go, I switch on the stove and set some soup to heat up, before going into the laundry and hanging my washing on the rack to dry. Even as I run through these homely rituals, I am conscious of all this seeming a strangely domestic precursor to what may come. But if he watches me from the shadows, perhaps this is what he wants. A normal home, a family.

  While it is warming up, I go through to the dining room. I am a little hesitant in case Louis has been here during my absence but nothing appears to
have been disturbed. Was it only two days ago, that Marc and I stood here while I tried to explain about the clothes and the blog, hoping it didn’t sound hopelessly amateur.

  Picking up the notes I have made for future blogs, I take them and my soup into the library where the fire is blazing nicely. As I eat, I review the notes. I’ve made some good points, I think, and some not-so-good ones. But something is missing. It is not quite me, and, really, I think I’d rather shoot myself than come over as earnest as some of the ridiculous efforts out there.

  Marc’s words at our wedding spring to mind. I married you for your wicked mouth. At the time, everyone laughed because of the sexual inference—probably because Yvette had made sure her gold-digger theory had wide exposure—but we’d both been clear he meant my caustic tongue.

  That was what was missing! Irreverence. There is a fine line between edgy and bitchy, but if I can maintain the balance, it will be a style blog that cuts right through the crap to reach real women from all walks of life. Excited, I don’t even finish my soup before I have scribbled another two pages of ideas and thought bubbles, scenarios that I think will get a strong response, perhaps even make people laugh out loud. Who says fashion can’t be funny?

  Chewing on the end of my pen, I think I have really hit upon an exciting concept. Now all I need to do is make it fly—and make it pay. Tomorrow, I will ask Marc if he can suggest a way I can make a living from it. Perhaps the exercise will occupy his mind enough for him to agree to stay at the hospital for another day—

  My phone rings from somewhere in the house. Dumping everything, in case it is Marc or the hospital, I fly through to the kitchen, where I last saw it, but it isn’t there. I can still hear the ringing, faintly now, from upstairs.