by Freya North
She nodded.
‘Thank you.’
She walked into the house and once Xander had got to his feet and followed, Stella was already bringing plates and cutlery through to the table where Will’s Lego space vehicle was still the centrepiece.
‘Eat,’ said Xander quietly, watching what she chose and feeling quietly proud that he’d been so right. ‘I ate all the pappadams,’ he admitted.
‘Greedy pig,’ Stella muttered but when she glanced up Xander was able to catch her eyes and hold them and pass her a tilted smile which she reciprocated, and it gave him a modicum of hope. Taking a swig from the bottle of Kingfisher beer, she pushed her plate to one side. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Shoot.’
‘It’s hard,’ he said. Then he went quiet. ‘It’s like – the people who know, don’t talk about it. And people who don’t know – aren’t told.’ He looked up: Stella appeared justifiably confused. Xander felt weighed down by responsibility – to Verity, to Lydia, to what had been entrusted to him since childhood. But he felt a responsibility to Stella too. He left the table and went over to the bookcase, absent-mindedly running his fingertips over the undulation of spines. ‘I haven’t even told Caroline the entire story – and she’s my best friend. And I never told Laura.’
‘Laura?’
‘My ex.’
‘Oh.’
He turned to face Stella. Though her face had softened, she was sitting rigid with anticipation. And he could hardly blame her.
‘You’ve probably heard the way gossip and rumours flood the village as if facts trickle down the Longbridge driveway to become a torrent of fiction by the time they reach the shop, or the school playground, or the postbox?’
Stella raised her eyebrow and nodded.
Xander continued. ‘But this is one thing, concerning the Fortescues, that you’ll never hear a single rumour about. Because, at the time, ranks closed and protected those concerned.’ He was talking quietly. ‘It wasn’t so much a secret to be guarded, but something that was simply very, very private – to be shared only by those who were there.’ Then Stella watched as he winced at the memories.
‘What is it?’ she asked in the soothing voice she employed when Will cried. ‘What happened?’ She could see anguish on Xander’s face and, just then, she could differentiate between his lovely laughter lines and harsher scratches around his eyes where some long-carried pain was etched into his being the way acid eats into the copper of an engraving plate.
Xander stood with his back to the bookcase. Stella didn’t know whether to stay put or go to him. But he returned to the table and sat down. Instinctively, she stretched her arm across to him. He let her take his hand and it helped.
‘Lydia had a son,’ he said.
‘Edward,’ said Stella.
‘He died at just seven years old. Heir to Longbridge. Love of Lydia’s life – she’s very honest about that. Really, she wanted another son – desperately – in Edward’s honour, to ease the pain, to help the marriage, I’m just guessing. I never really knew Jolyon, Lydia’s husband. He was around – but very stern, very self-contained and seemingly not interested in his family or anyone connected with them. So Lydia wanted a son but instead, all she got was Verity.’
Stella frowned.
‘I know,’ said Xander. ‘Hard to believe. But Lydia really wanted a son, and Verity was everything Edward wasn’t – a difficult baby, an awful toddler and a troublesome child, by all accounts. And – a girl. Lydia didn’t want a girl – she wanted Edward back. But she got Verity – and after that, bizarrely, no other boy would do. Which is why I held my breath when I saw Will that day. Because when Lydia first met me, when I was little – we came to Longbridge when I was four and Verity was nine – well, Lydia was pretty vile. Not monstrous – just withering and cold and rarely spoke to me. My mother was nanny to Verity and I loved Verity.’
Xander looked at Stella straight. ‘I really loved her. Even now I can recall the pure wonder I felt. She was so –’ It was impossible to put into words. He tried again. ‘Floaty,’ he said. ‘Like she wasn’t wholly human. Like she was part fairy, part bird, like she’d seen so much and yet knew nothing – like she was snowflake or breeze, something you were blessed to have while being acutely aware of its fragility, its transitory nature. She’d take my hand and we’d literally spend all day running around Longbridge – the land, the house, our apartment. All weathers, in and out of years. Laughter, whispering, imagining. That’s what filled my childhood – I mean, there was school, and mundanities, but my overriding memories are just of me and Verity playing, always in this fantastically detailed make-believe world of hers.’ He paused momentarily, reliving a memory happily.
‘My mum’s very – nurturing,’ he said. ‘ She’s actually a bit of a hippy. It was amazing that Lydia employed her at all, really – they’d had nannies in starched uniforms before but they’d all resigned or been booted out. But Verity loved my mum from the start – was always calmer when with her. Anyway, when I was little, Verity was very much like an older sister, pulling me into her games, coaxing me up trees, fussing over me. And then at some point it shifted – I can’t quite tell you when. Perhaps I was about nine and suddenly I just knew I had to look out for her. She was about fourteen, fifteen at the time. She’d been expelled from school and was being tutored at home. My mum still looked after her. Suddenly floaty changed into something so light, so flimsy it became frighteningly insubstantial, like the faint smear of water in your hand where a snowflake has melted. I guess nowadays they’d happily fix a title on it, call her bipolar or manic depressive. I don’t know.’ He paused again.
‘But if a dead child was a public tragedy – and I’m told the village rallied for the Fortescues at that time – a mad child brought a level of shame to the family that meant utter privacy was essential. People knew something wasn’t right with Verity, but after the tragedy of Edward, they actually tempered any rumour-mongering. I believe it was more whispers – but with sympathy. Which of course, Lydia hated because she’s proud and aloof and, whether rightly or wrongly, truly believes herself superior – at the top of the Long Dansbury pyramid. She said to me once – I’ll never forget, It isn’t what they say about you, it’s what they whisper.’
Xander went quiet.
‘What happened?’ Stella whispered, now taking his hand in both of hers. ‘To Verity?’
‘Twice,’ said Xander, looking at Stella as if asking, what could any of us have done?
Stella gave him some time before she asked. ‘Twice? What happened twice?’
‘The first time when I was ten – on her fifteenth birthday. We were up in the clock tower together. Playing. She was truly excellent at playing, especially up there. We loved the clock tower – you could look out from every side, it had its own air quality, its own on-a-level-with-birds’-nests quiet. We were hidden. We could see everything. We pretended it was the Four Corners of a Distant World. That day it was some convoluted make-believe game of Verity’s – typical trapped damsels and dark lords. So – forgive me – but I just didn’t realize when it was no longer a game. When she made to jump.’
Stella gasped. ‘Verity jumped? From the clock tower? But it’s twenty feet high!’
‘She didn’t leap,’ Xander continued, ‘she sort of slithered off, partway. And time just ground to a halt. She stayed there – gripping on to the parapet. So I tried to hold on to her and raise the alarm and she said, don’t shout, don’t you dare shout you little shit. But I just held onto her hand as tight as I could. And then Lydia and Art were there and Verity just dropped. A crumple. So still. Knocked herself out. Broke near enough every bone in her foot.’ Xander observed Stella, who was visibly shaken.
‘Lydia came to our apartment later. I was ready for bed. I remember being shy about my pyjamas – I don’t know why. Lydia was adamant. Verity fell. She fell from the clock tower because she wasn’t looking. An accident. A family matter. And though I told my mum and dad that I dropped Verity, they said if L
ydia says Verity fell, then Verity fell. I remember my mother telling me that the easiest way to keep a secret is without help.’
‘That’s a tall order for a ten-year-old boy,’ said Stella. ‘But Verity – do you really think –?’
Xander nodded. ‘Because the next time was just a month later. And that was very serious. She cut her wrists. Mrs Biggins found her.’
Stella shuddered, stunned. She thought of the woman she’d met that week – all barefoot in nature, with flowing robes and laissez-faire hair and healthy nut-brown skin. Her poise and self-contentment; her funny, strange sing-songy voice, her childlike and playful demeanour. Heidi Girl. Happy woman.
‘So – she was sent away,’ said Xander, as if in conclusion. ‘And she’s rarely been back since.’
‘Sent away – where?’
‘Hidden, if you like. To a – you know. Lydia called it “somewhere safe”. So I’ll have to respect that and call it “somewhere safe” – not a loony bin, but a wholesome version of one. Whatever you’d call it. And it was a place of safety for Verity and it really did help.’
‘Did you still get to see her?’
‘She came back, for short periods. In between times, people would ask Lydia, how’s Verity – as if she was simply away in some Swiss finishing school. Of course there were rumours by then – but you’ll find people just don’t gossip salaciously about something like that, however scant the known details, however much Lydia might rub people up the wrong way. It’s a humbling, humiliating thing, isn’t it? That title and riches cannot command health and happiness. That tragedy struck the privileged not once, but twice. That Lydia was too proud to accept sympathy or support – and how lonely a place that must be. I suppose, to the village, it’s what made Lydia more human.’
‘And Verity never came back to Longbridge?’
‘Well, when she was eighteen, it was up to her and luckily she was in a position to finally make her own decisions and sensible ones. I like to think she was never really deranged – just delicate. Something chemical was amiss – but she had help and they were able to redress the balance.’
‘With medication?’
‘And the rest,’ said Xander. ‘Electroconvulsive therapy.’
‘Jesus, poor kid,’ said Stella.
‘But you see, I don’t think of Verity as “mad” because she categorically isn’t. She’s just unusual. Eccentric. Special. To the world, Lydia makes light of it, implies they’re almost happily estranged – banters how her daughter “lives with the Welsh”. Appears not to worry, not to hurt. Doesn’t give the gossip-mongers anything to grab, anything to run with. People haven’t forgotten about Verity – but she’s so seldom back and when she is, few know about it. So she’s simply slipped from the memories of most. Which is how she’d want it and how Lydia likes it.’
‘Verity told me that she doesn’t actually live with the Welsh at all – she lives with a French man, who’s now Brazilian. Or something,’ said Stella. ‘She didn’t strike me as mad in the medical sense. She came across as endearingly, colourfully, potty. Slightly bonkers but in the best sense of the word. I use it as a compliment.’
Xander laughed. ‘She had a French boyfriend for a few years – I’m guessing she’s now with a Brazilian bloke.’
‘In Wales?’
‘It’s absolutely perfect for her – she lives on a sort of commune. Not yurts and tree hugging and clothes knitted from mung beans – but just a few families living simply, quietly, unmaterialistically. It’s home. Longbridge isn’t.’
‘Have you been there? Have you visited?’
‘Yes – yes, I have But not for a while. I took Lydia once. And I’ve been a couple of times. But I could see our presence was not good for Verity. I understand. I understand how she can’t have a crossover in her new life from her old. Not that she’s reinvented herself – she’s just comfortable there, it’s where she’s at her most capable. Happy. Her independence from what was. Her belief in herself and the life she’s chosen. She lives there successfully. So even for me – let alone Lydia – to go there, you can sense it’s disruptive. Intrusive. Potentially destructive – like a self-sufficient tribe suddenly exposed to bacteria from the outside world. If that doesn’t sound too extreme.’
‘Some Eskimos had never had the common cold before they had contact with the likes of us,’ said Stella, who’d recently learned so when watching Blue Peter with Will. ‘She’s made a life for herself, Xander – she has balance. How many of us can truly say we’ve achieved that?’
‘Lydia does know that.’
‘Ultimately, Verity chose life,’ said Stella with not a little awe.
‘Lydia knows that too,’ said Xander. ‘The tattoos.’
‘On her foot – and on her wrists,’ Stella recalled.
‘They’re very profound for Verity. Lydia hates them, of course – makes light and says her daughter is “inked like a navvy.” But for Verity, they signify something positive and profound over something negative. Apparently they translate to peace, life, hope – in ancient something-or-other. They cover her scars.’
‘Is she OK now? I mean – medically?’
Xander smiled. ‘She seems absolutely fine. Has been for years. She’s just – unusual. And for an unusual person to enjoy life, they have to gain the wisdom to choose a life that is as unconventional as they are. Otherwise it’s forever square-peg-in-round-hole syndrome.’
‘But it means they have to leave the round hole.’ Stella paused. ‘Longbridge.’
Xander nodded. ‘Longbridge was bad for her health. Wales is good.’
‘Why was she back?’ Stella asked. ‘Why did you rush there?’ She needed answers. ‘Did you see her?’
Xander shook his head. ‘She went after lunch.’
‘Did you speak to Lydia? Mrs Biggins?’
‘Lydia was there,’ Xander said. ‘She told me Verity had phoned me earlier. I didn’t tell her I’d ignored the call thinking it was just Lydia.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Lydia said she wasn’t sure whether Verity would be back before Longbridge is sold.’
‘Was Lydia OK?’
‘Yes. She seems tired though. She has her arm in a sling. Tripped.’
‘You’re very close,’ said Stella. ‘To Lydia.’
‘Even when I was very young – even when I found Lydia really quite terrifying – I felt like a mediator between her and Verity. When Verity went – that’s when Lydia reached for me. That’s when I became her link with both Edward and Verity.’
‘Dear Lydia,’ Stella said softly.
‘One thinks of her as this hard, aloof, upper-class harridan. But God she must have been through it. She doesn’t hate her daughter, she doesn’t resent her, she’s no longer embarrassed by her. I think she’s even happy for her – but I also think that alongside day-to-day Lydia who’s a dreadful snob and terrorizes people, she runs a private parallel life in constant mourning for her children.’
‘It’s no one’s fault,’ Stella said. ‘Edward could have lived – and Verity would still have been Verity.’
Xander tipped his head and finally he smiled and his laughter lines superseded all others. ‘I knew you’d see it that way,’ he said. ‘That’s why I felt I could go – but also come back. And I’m going to sound like a soft bastard now but I don’t care – I’m almost forty, fuck it! But I wanted to tell you, Stella, because I sensed you’d feel it, that you’d understand and not judge.’
Stella shrugged. ‘You’re not a soft bastard,’ she said. ‘You can be a moody git – but I suppose perhaps it takes a stroppy cow to handle one of those.’ She went over to Xander, took his face in her hands and kissed him while he held on to her, tight.
He looked at her. ‘You’ve gone all – pensive,’ he said.
Stella took a moment. ‘Xander,’ she started, cautiously. ‘Are you – were you?’ She shrugged. ‘In love – with Verity? Is there unfinished business? Baggage? It’s cool – it’s fine. But I’d rath
er know.’ She was fiddling with a piece of Lego.
Xander put his hand over hers to still it. ‘No,’ he said. Then he laughed. ‘Perhaps when I was six or seven. But no – not in reality.’
‘It would be OK –’ Stella started.
‘This might sound pompous,’ Xander said. ‘But I suppose – like I think I’ve said to you – I feel responsible in some ways, for both Lydia and Verity. I sort of became the man of the house at Longbridge – for Lydia in lieu of Edward. For Verity as her rock. For Lydia again, when Verity went. For Lydia, as she’s aged. And now, for all of them again. That’s why I feel so strongly about the sale. Far more than Verity does. Possibly as much as Lydia does.’
Stella considered all that Xander was telling her. But actually, what she most wanted to contemplate was Verity herself. How Stella wished she’d known all this before she met her. Or perhaps it was good she hadn’t – because she’d taken Verity simply as she’d found her, unprejudiced by anything known. Stella’s overriding impression was that she’d been in the presence of someone extraordinary, someone who, at some point, had been kissed by a rainbow. Someone so integral to Longbridge Hall despite the fact that she had left so long ago. And then Stella thought, behind that banner Xander brandishes to Save Longbridge! Save the Village! Save the Aged Residents! is a whole other story – and it’s his story.
‘Verity is special to me,’ Xander said. ‘And Lydia is too. And most of all Longbridge is special to me. It’s been the benevolent safe place in which all of this played out. Fundamental to my childhood – to my experiences, to shaping the person I became.’ He paused. ‘See, told you it would sound pompous!’
‘Which is why, out of all of them, you so long for it not to be sold,’ said Stella, putting her hand, now, over his.
All talked out.
They half watched a bit of a film on Channel 4; shoes off, Xander’s feet on the coffee table, Stella curled on the sofa in a furl around him.
‘Can I still stay for the sleepover?’
Stella laughed. ‘I won’t let you go.’