Lost Girl

by J. C. Grey

  ‘Louis, wait!’ I take the stairs two at a time, and bolt into the main bedroom and rush to the dressing room, expecting to find the little door locked. It is wide open and I walk inside to find it empty. But I can hear faint footfalls moving up the secret stairway to the attic. Scared that Louis will shut the wall panel at the top, I race up and burst into the attic.

  The little shadow turns with a gasp and drops the phone, which skitters across the floor towards me. I can see Marc’s name on the screen, and then all goes silent.

  Neither of us moves for more than a minute. Then I reach forward and pick it up. I type a brief text to Marc. Trust me.

  Then I open a web browser and hand it to Louis. Our hands touch and it is softer than the touch of human flesh; it is there and not there. Strange.

  ‘Spell your name,’ I tell him.

  Carefully, he does so. I walk over to him, seeing the list of results appear. ‘Gently press the words in blue at the top with your finger. The Wikipedia page for Louis XIV appears almost immediately, and the little shadow is absorbed. He sits on the floor cross-legged, until the screen goes dark.

  ‘It’s broken again!’

  ‘No, the light just goes out after a while to save power. If you touch the screen every few seconds, it will stay on.’ I sit next to him, find his page for him and he continues reading.

  ‘Too many long words,’ he says at last. ‘But he was a famous king, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Very famous. But I don’t think your mother named you for the king.’

  ‘She might have.’

  ‘I think she named you for your father. His name was Lewis.’

  Louis lisps his father’s name.

  ‘His name was Lewis Critchley and he was a soldier a long time ago in a place called Malaya.’

  The little ghost appears to be considering this. ‘Did he die?’

  ‘Yes,’ I manage. ‘He died before you were born. That’s why you never knew him. But I think he was a good man.’

  The shadow turns to me, and I know what he will ask me next. I think I am prepared.

  ‘Did my mummy die too?’

  ‘Yes, she died, too,’ I whisper. ‘She died in England in a car accident.’ There is no need to tell him she was on the way to church to be married to another man when the bridal car was in an accident. ‘It was a long time ago.’

  He sits, still clutching the phone, trying to take it all in. I cannot tell if it makes a difference to him to know this.

  I get up and wander to the bookshelf, thinking to pick a book for him. There are so few, and most of them are a little young for him. I pick one, a vintage edition of Dr Seuss’s If I Ran the Zoo, and I’m about to ask him if he would like me to read for him.

  Flipping open the cover, I see an old-fashioned bookplate.

  This is the property of Bobby Sanders.

  One by one I check the other books. Around fifteen bear either Robert’s name or Michael Sanders’.

  ‘Do you remember the gardener who used to work here?’ I ask Louis, who has found the ringtones and is playing them one by one.

  He looks up. ‘He was nice. I used to watch him from the window.’ He gets up and walks to one of the windows that are nailed shut, staring down. ‘I wished I could go outside and help him sometimes, but I wasn’t allowed. Sometimes, he would wave to me, and sometimes he would leave books for me in the shed.’

  ‘You weren’t locked in here all the time?’

  He looks at me and then back out the window. ‘I don’t know.’

  It is his usual answer when he is not telling the truth.

  ‘It’s all right, Louis,’ I tell him. ‘You weren’t bad. I’m glad if you went outside into the fresh air sometimes.’

  ‘I wasn’t supposed to. Grandpa said I had to stay out of sight or I would grace the name. But he was old, and Grandmother. Sometimes they forgot to lock me in.’

  ‘And one day, Mr Sanders, the gardener, he made a big pile of leaves to burn,’ I say. ‘You watched him, didn’t you?’

  Louis nods. ‘He made it go on fire, and I wanted him to show me how he did it. So I went downstairs very quietly so no one heard me and ran out into the garden.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to do it.’

  ‘I know you didn’t.’

  ‘I ran up, and he was so surprised, he dropped the leaves and there was a whoosh, and his leg was on fire.’

  I close my eyes. How terrible for them both, is all I can think.

  ‘And I went into the fire to help him. But it was hot and it hurt me a lot. And then it didn’t hurt anymore. So I went back to my room before Grandpa found out. If I was bad, I couldn’t have a new mummy.’

  I want to cry for him. ‘But Grandpa and Grandmother, they didn’t come to your room or to the attic again. Did they?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I waited and waited but they didn’t come. And then they drove away and I didn’t see them again. My new mother didn’t come either. No one came, not for a long time.’

  ‘You must have been lonely.’

  He nods. ‘After a long time, some new people came a few times—but I didn’t like them. They wanted to throw my things away and knock down the house.’

  ‘So you stopped them.’

  Again, there is that shifty jitter. ‘I don’t know.’

  But I do.

  ‘Louis, I think you tried to do a very brave thing and help Mr Sanders when he was hurt. But you accidentally died in that fire and that’s why your grandparents couldn’t see you anymore.’

  Whether or not he understands I am not sure but I can only try.

  ‘If you can come outside with me now, I’d like to show you something.’

  ‘I can’t go outside. I’m not allowed.’

  ‘Well, you can watch from the back porch,’ I tell him, and we troop down two flights of stairs and into the kitchen, bright after the dimness of the rest of the house. He is almost invisible here but I can feel his shadow following me as I cross the room. I turn the key, open the door wide and step out into the starry night. My breath turns to steam in the cold night air, and I shiver.

  Taking the torch from the window ledge, I switch it on, directing its beam across the garden to near where I’d found the train carriage all those weeks ago.

  ‘Is that where the fire was?’ I ask him.

  ‘Yes.’ The whisper is reed-thin as though sucked up into the night.

  I walk over to the spot, beyond the herb garden, to a place thick with leaves from the overhanging trees. ‘Here?’ I call, but he does not answer and I cannot make him out on the verandah.

  With my bare hands, I sweep aside the leaves that have piled there over the decades. It takes only about ten minutes to find what I am looking for. A small mound, with a simple wooden cross.

  LOUIS October 1958–May 1965

  I sense him next to me, and I reach out my hand, which he clasps. It feels less substantial than the last time I held it.

  ‘Is this me?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘When you’re ready, you can come here and you won’t need to be alone anymore.’

  ‘All right,’ he says. ‘Until then, will you stay with me? You promised.’

  He is telling the truth. In the moment I made it, when Marc lay so still and pale, I would have promised anything.

  ‘I’ll visit often,’ I tell him. ‘Is that enough?’

  After a second, he nods.

  I’m not sure how long I stand there by the small grave but at some point I realise I am alone, and there is a moment or two of hush, as though the garden and the surrounding woods and river are paying their respects.

  And then I head back inside to call my husband and tell him that I think everything will be all right.

  Twenty-eight

  Ten months later, evening

  I am standing in front of the bathroom mirror, pretending to consider various hair styles. We are about to enjoy an evening out, courtesy of my new gig as an occasional radio host. T
erribly old media, I know. But it suits me. I have found that, while I don’t particularly like being seen all the time, I do like being heard.

  My first few pieces for Small Poppies attracted a fair bit of attention and my own website, Chartreuse Says, is developing a growing following. It is still a work in progress but I love it. I have taken Marc’s advice and introduced an irreverent tone to my writing that helps people to have fun with style rather than be slaves to it, and the absence of advertising means my advice is trusted.

  It also means that it costs me rather than pays me. However, a few weeks after the website launched, a radio host Claire knows invited me on to her show for an interview, one thing led to another and now my wicked mouth is getting a workout interviewing all sorts of guests, mostly on matters of style but sometimes on other topics. Listeners call in for advice sometimes, too, and I like giving it—and getting paid for it. Thinking about other people is good for me.

  People sometimes comment that it must be hard to do style on radio, a non-visual medium. I disagree. When I describe a look, each listener interprets it in her own way, layering something of herself, her personality, on top of my ideas. Instead of one look, there are thousands. Having said that, I have been offered a casual spot on lifestyle TV. I’m considering it.

  It is not the kind of stable, consistent work that perhaps I originally thought I needed to do to be taken seriously, but I am happy nonetheless.

  At the moment I am not thinking of work; all my attention is on my husband. The hair thing is just to conceal the fact that I am staring at him as he stands behind me, his arms around my waist, watching my reflection. His eye is fine although his looks are not untouched by the accident. He has a three-centimetre, scimitar-shaped scar across his left cheekbone, which makes women want him even more, me included. Bastard!

  ‘Do you like this look?’ I ask, scooping my hair up on top of my head. ‘I’m wearing that silvery mini-dress from Claire’s new collection.’

  ‘Mmm,’ he says with an absent-minded air. His gaze drops a little and he frowns. His hand caresses my midriff over the silk slip I’m wearing.

  ‘What?’

  His hand has stilled and when he doesn’t reply, I glance down and see what he sees. My belly is no longer flat.

  I inhale sharply and almost forget to exhale. When I do, it comes out in a whoosh. I meet his eyes in the mirror. Mine are wide; his are febrile with shock and excitement. We have not used birth control for months, leaving it up to nature to decide what would be. When nothing happened after a few months, I suppose we just thought it wasn’t to be and put it out of our minds. We have been too happy with what we have to regret what we do not.

  Our evening out forgotten, I perch on the toilet while he hands me one pregnancy test after another—four in all from the stash that is probably well past its use-by date. Or perhaps not, because one by one, definitive lines appear. I am completely, utterly, unambiguously up the duff.

  ‘Christ,’ Marc says, sitting down heavily on the side of the bath. ‘How did this happen?’

  I give him a look.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose I haven’t been paying much attention, and I haven’t been very regular since … the girls.’

  ‘Are we ready for this?’ he asks.

  I shake my head. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Let’s keep it to ourselves for a while,’ he says. ‘Except …’

  I know what he wants to do. He will want to stand by the remains of our little girls and tell them the news.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I say. Tomorrow, we will take colourful flowers to the small grave with the headstone identifying Pea and Nut. We have talked about giving them proper names, but Pea and Nut is all we have ever called them so I think they will stay.

  ‘Sure?’ Marc asks, knowing I still do not find it easy.

  In the mirror, our eyes meet and hold. I nod. ‘Yes.’

  Epilogue

  Marc thinks we should be able to tell each other anything; I think some things should remain secret—and my deal with the little ghost is one of them.

  The day of Marc’s accident, I had to make a promise. I had to give the little ghost what he wanted—a mother. I think I have given him more than that. I have given him the truth, and a way to move on when he is ready. And until that day, I have given him a family, at least part-time.

  Marc does not know this, or at least I have not told him, but perhaps he suspects it because he fought me only briefly when I told him we would be spending regular time at Lammermoor House. It may just be that he trusts me with certain less cerebral things, the way I trust him on business matters.

  We sold the apartment in Surry Hills and—when Marc cut his days in the office to three a week—decamped to Palm Beach. It is cramped but we plan to extend it just a little to use as our city base. Long weekends and holidays we spend at Lammermoor House.

  At first, Marc’s appearance at the house was greeted with displeasure: slammed doors, broken crockery and stolen keys. But we set the rules and acceptance quickly followed, bringing with it sweet moments that we both cherish: a flower left on the kitchen table, a lost cufflink found and returned, the light touch of a small sticky hand from time to time, accompanied by the faint scent of oranges.

  When we decided to restore the house, we spoke simply and clearly about our intentions, knowing a shadow stood eavesdropping just inside the kitchen door. It seemed to work; no tradespeople have fallen from the window or been knocked out by falling timber. Robert Sanders has even dropped by once or twice to advise on the garden and admonish me for overwatering the hydrangeas.

  The house has responded to being cared for and inhabited again. It has emerged from the shadows—gracious, welcoming and a family home once more.

  The house has back its soul, as do we.

  Marc is nearly the old Marc except that now he knows loss, he can never unknow it, can never be quite that innocent again. I, however, have changed beyond all recognition. Oh, occasionally I’m my old vain, self-centred and shallow self, but you’d probably like me a little more. I know I do. Even Yvette tolerates me, and I have spoken to my sister Vanessa on the phone. Perhaps one day we will meet up. I’m not sure.

  When our son Charlie was born, Marc was worried about how his arrival would be received by our little ghost. I was too, but less so. Marc’s peacekeeping gift of a modern train set delivered to the attic was a masterstroke, greeted with distant yet gleeful whooping. He’s a smart man, my husband. Have I ever told you that?

  Sometime after that day, little Louis came to me in a dream, holding the hands of two small girls. He whispered goodbye and since then I rarely see him, except as the faintest of shadows sitting quite still in the tree that overhangs the small garden grave.

  Then, just when I think he is gone for good, I catch the sound of two sets of feet on the stairs to the attic, those of my sturdy toddler son as well as footfalls slightly less earthly. And in the wake of Charlie’s infectious chuckle, the echo of another child’s long-ago laughter lingers like mist in the air.

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost, deepest thanks to Harlequin Australia’s Rachael Donovan for taking a chance on this book and its troubled heroine—and for being such a collaborative and supportive presence throughout the book’s development. Thanks also to Harlequin’s editorial team for all the wise and constructive feedback; this book is vastly better for it. I’d also like to acknowledge the influence of all the authors whose heroines don’t fit the mould. And to the readers who go along for the ride—especially when you’re not sure where you’re heading—you rock!

  Author’s Note

  While Lammermoor House and the town from which it gets its name are creations of my imagination—as are the characters in this book—I hope they live and breathe for you, as though they were real.

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  First Published 2017

  First Australian Paperback Edition 2017

  ISBN 9781489220998

  LOST GIRL

  © 2017 by J.C. Grey

  Australian Copyright 2017

  New Zealand Copyright 2017

  Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilisation of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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