The Garden of Lost and Found

by Harriet Evans

  Matt’s expression did not change, but a little pulsing vein began to pump just below his left eye. ‘What does that mean?’

  Now. I’ll tell him I know now.

  But then you won’t be able to leave.

  Juliet shook her head, and looked at the floor, like a naughty child. Hot tears burned in her eyes.

  ‘It’s like you’re happy things are going wrong. You’re taking stuff out on me now. You’re letting everything go. They’re your children, this is your life. Stop waiting for me, Juliet.’ He pinched the handle of the coffee cup deftly, delicately, between his fingers, and swallowed the contents. ‘You call her. See you in a bit.’

  Standing alone in her own kitchen, Juliet felt something pop inside her, as though she’d been on a flight and her ears were unblocked again. You call her. Another screech from the paddling pool made her dash outside again. She stubbed her toe on the door and for a second couldn’t breathe with the pain of bone and thin skin on hard metal, but when she started walking again she found of course she could. Just keep on going.

  Chapter Five

  When Bea returned, a little before nine, she actually came into the kitchen and sat down at the table instead of pushing past the junk in the hall up to her room.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m back.’

  ‘Oh thank God,’ said Juliet, pulling herself up from the table. ‘Darling. Where have you been?’ She didn’t say that she had only just returned from scouring the Heath, Swain’s Lane and the cafés of Hampstead for her daughter for the last two hours. ‘Did you go up to Highgate?’ She didn’t say she’d already been up there to check. Bea liked the abandoned mansion next to Highgate church, and the story of the old woman who lived with no furniture in it for years and years, who still haunted the house, so much so that no one ever stayed there. Millionaires would buy it, and then move out again after a few months, vowing never to return.

  ‘No. There’s builders in, they’re knocking the place down, didn’t you hear? I was out and about.’

  ‘OK. Who—’

  ‘With people.’ Bea directed her to sit down again, then unhooked her backpack from her shoulders, stiffly. As Juliet watched, not sure what to say next, she carefully untangled her earbuds from the strap of her bag and began winding them round her phone.

  ‘With Fin?’

  ‘Some of the time.’ She carried on winding, then put them away, never once looking at Juliet.

  ‘He sounds really nice, do you want to invite him—’

  ‘Oh God, Mum. Just – don’t –’ Bea’s face crumpled and she folded her arms, sinking her head on to her chest. ‘I can’t be free of it,’ she said, so softly Juliet almost couldn’t hear it. ‘Wherever I go.’

  Juliet went over to her, putting her arms around her. ‘You can. Just tell me, darling, I’ll make it—’

  ‘You!’ Bea interrupted. Her voice was still soft. She didn’t shout. She sort of smiled, which was worse. ‘You always, always say everything’s going to be all right. You never really listen to what’s going on, Mum. You don’t have a clue.’ She looked pale, hopelessly tired.

  ‘Darling girl—’ Juliet squeezed her tightly, and Bea winced. ‘What’s wrong with your arm?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Bea backed away.

  ‘Did they hurt you?’

  ‘No. No they didn’t.’ Her small face was panicked, suffused with rage.

  A great anger rose up in Juliet, the agony of the last few hours and the fatigue of the long day receding, like a body of water being parted. In the distance, she heard the phone ringing. ‘Listen. I’ll make this better, I promise.’

  Bea said: ‘You won’t. You always say that, like when I was small and the Virgin Mary costume tore. Or when all the cakes dropped on the floor. Or I did the wrong book report. You can’t make this better. I can’t tell you what it is.’ She stepped back from her mother and glanced around, looking for her rucksack. Scooping it up hurriedly, she said, ‘I’m going upstairs.’

  ‘But Bea—’

  ‘Juliet?’ Matt appeared from the sitting room. ‘Someone wants to speak to you. Landline must be working again.’

  Bea had started to go. ‘Hi, Dad,’ she said, quietly.

  ‘Hi, bella.’ Matt pinched her cheek. ‘I missed my beautiful girl today.’

  ‘Do you want a peanut butter sandwich?’ Juliet called, taking the phone from Matt, their hands touching. Her voice was shaky; she felt a bit sick.

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Bea, hugging her rucksack to her body.

  ‘He says he’s from the removals firm. He’s ringing you back with a quote,’ said Matt, when Bea had turned the bend in the staircase.

  ‘The removals firm?’

  ‘That’s what he said. What on earth is he ringing about?’

  ‘Hello?’ Juliet spoke into the phone. ‘Yes? Oh, no, not me. No, you’ve got the wrong Juliet. No, I don’t know her. Yes, I’m sure. Oh, I don’t know about that! I’ll check and call you back, tomorrow, is that OK? How strange. Bye, bye then.’

  She put the phone down, and smiled at him, almost sweetly.

  ‘What’s that about?’ said Matt, looking at her curiously.

  ‘No idea,’ Juliet said. ‘We use them sometimes at work, they must have called the wrong Juliet. I said I’d phone Dawnay’s to double-check and let them know.’

  ‘Why’s it your business? Why should you care if Dawnay’s have booked some removals?’

  She found herself staring at him, at his close-cropped temples, his sharp grey eyes, the smile playing around his mouth. ‘You’re right. I won’t care. Listen, shouldn’t you call your mother?’

  Matt usually spoke to his mother on Friday evenings. After his English father had died his mother had moved back to Italy, where ten o’clock her time was the best hour to catch her. Dear Luisa, with her extravagant presents, her love for the children, her exaggerated reaction to everything: disdain, horror, intrigue . . . the thought of saying goodbye to her, to Matt’s laugh as he spoke to her . . . one of the little props holding up their existence here . . .

  ‘Oh – yeah. You’re – I’ll call her now.’

  Juliet walked upstairs, and her weary legs slightly gave way beneath her. She rested for a moment outside Isla’s bedroom door, pinching the cool metal key around her neck, as though it were a talisman, a magic thing that could transport you somewhere else entirely, like the children in those reading books of Isla’s. Still, now, she could walk away, she could abandon the whole plan. She could stay here, stay in this life – it wasn’t so bad. Bea was going through a horrid time, but that was part of growing up, wasn’t it? Isla and Sandy would flourish anywhere, she was sure . . .

  Then she saw, with a strange clarity, that it was immaterial whether Matt was sleeping with Tess or not. The point was, they did not have a marriage any more. Their lives together – as she thought this she began to shake at the enormity of it – were over. He couldn’t hurt her any more.

  That’s why I feel so guilty, she thought. I don’t care about him. I don’t respect him. I loved him once, so much – oh goodness, I thought for years that fate brought us together, the way it did.

  But it didn’t. And maybe Grandi was right. Whatever, I don’t love him now.

  And then unbidden, a sentence floated into her head:

  The future is yet unwritten; the past is burnt and gone.

  The inscription on the frame of The Garden of Lost and Found.

  The past is burnt and gone.

  Juliet reached up and knocked on Bea’s bedroom door then opened it, softly.

  Bea was sitting on the floor, playing with the doll’s house. She had taken her hoodie off, and when Juliet opened the door she folded her arms, defensively. Juliet kneeled down next to her and then she saw her daughter’s rucksack, lying between them. It was filthy. Someone had trodden on it repeatedly, the clarity of the imprints like potato printing. She stared at Bea, and then took in her muddy hands and folded arms. They were, she saw now, covered in bruises. She tugged gen
tly at Bea’s arms, so they fell open.

  ‘Bea – darling. What happened?’ She put her hands gently on either side of her arms. ‘I’m serious. This stops now. Tell me.’

  ‘They stamped on my bag and then they pushed me over and stamped on my shoulder. OK? Is that enough detail?’

  Moving one hand, Juliet touched Bea’s shoulder.

  ‘OK,’ she said softly. ‘OK, darling. Does it – does it hurt?’

  ‘This? Not much, actually. Mum, you don’t understand. Stop trying. They’ll always win.’ She picked up one of the figures, and put him up on the roof.

  ‘No they won’t,’ Juliet said. ‘They’re sad, horrible people, and the thing is, they won’t win. I promise you. Honestly. Oh my love. My baby girl.’ She smoothed Bea’s hair. ‘How long’s it been going on?’

  Bea said in a tiny voice, ‘A t-term. A bit longer with making me feel bad.’

  ‘Can you tell me what they’ve been doing? Darling, I promise, absolutely promise that unless it’s something illegal I won’t do anything.’

  In a colourless voice Bea said, ‘Putting condoms in my bag, loads of them. Putting shit on the front door step, you think it’s a dog, it’s not, it’s one of them. Writing stuff about me, all the time. Setting up chat groups about me, Airdropping photos of me they’ve taken and sending them to everyone while we’re sitting there. Of me on the loo, or me picking my nose once . . . Molly and Amy, they pretended to be interested in the doll’s house then they took all these photos of it and . . . and . . .’ She started gulping great sobs again . . . ‘They post them too, Here’s Bea’s Doll’s Kitchen with the miniature plates and the very small mirror, Wow, what a fucking loser’, that kind of stuff, hundreds of times a day on Snapchat, Mum, it’s all the time and everyone laughs . . . Leaving stuff on my chair, they take it in turns to pick their noses and then walk past and wipe a bogey on to my shoulder and I sit there and can’t do anything. My phone beeps all the time and I know it’ll be something else from them . . . and I let them do it to me because I have to otherwise they’ll tell . . .’ She started crying again, broken, small cries of pain.

  ‘Tell what?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing. I can’t tell you. It’s nothing.’ She shook her head, and rubbed one eye then said in a small, tired voice, ‘Mum, can I just get on with playing?’

  Playing. Juliet stared at the small wooden figures, standing outside the front of the painted house. She ran one finger over the spine of the roof.

  ‘I said I’d make it better,’ she heard herself say. She swallowed, and took a deep breath. ‘What if I told you we were leaving? Leaving here, and not coming back?’

  ‘Ha,’ said Bea, mirthlessly. ‘If only.’

  ‘I’m serious. Starting again, somewhere else, but a place you know already.’

  Bea looked up at her. There were tear trails like silvery streaks on her cheeks. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Juliet, still squatting on her haunches, kneeled, and took her daughter’s cold, dirty hand.

  ‘I’ve got so many things wrong. I’m afraid you do when you’re a parent. You try so hard to make it perfect then you look round and you’ve stuffed it up and you don’t know where it started to go wrong and you make things worse because you’re angry with yourself for stuffing it up. And this plan – oh goodness, this might be wrong too. But I don’t think it is. I think we need a change, Bea. I’m being completely honest. Things aren’t great, not with any of us.’

  ‘What about Dad?’ said Bea.

  ‘Well, this is for him too,’ said Juliet, swallowing, bowing her head so she didn’t sway, blinking back the tears that now brimmed and dropped on to the house, the carpet, because all of a sudden all she could think was that she had loved him once.

  ‘Because he’s in love with Tess?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know, Mum.’ And Juliet could see the shape of her face change, the indent of her cheek as her jaw clenched. ‘I-I . . .’ She swallowed. ‘I picked up his phone to get an Uber about a month ago. I read their messages.’

  Very slowly Juliet said: ‘You what?’

  Bea lifted her eyes to her mother. Her face was white. ‘Don’t be cross with me—’

  ‘Darling! I’m not cross with you. Jesus. Oh Bea. You knew.’

  ‘He said he loved her. Other stuff.’ Bea fixed her gaze down in her lap again. Juliet stroked her arm, very gently.

  ‘Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry you had to find out like this. Why didn’t you say something?’

  ‘I couldn’t be the one to . . . How could I tell you that?’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I thought you didn’t know and I was so angry with you for not working it out.’ She rested her head on Juliet’s shoulder. ‘And she’s such a skank, Mum, I can’t stand her. Even when you used to be friends she gave me the creeps.’

  ‘I don’t like her much either any more,’ said Juliet. ‘But it’s – you know what? It’s OK.’ She rubbed Bea’s back.

  ‘Does Dad love her?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t ask him that, not – not yet. I hope so. I’ve been making my own plans instead because I don’t think we can live together any more.’

  ‘Well duh.’ Bea sat up.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about it. Look.’ And Juliet patted the doll’s house. ‘This house. I own this house.’

  ‘Course you do.’

  ‘No, I mean . . . this house. In real life. I own it.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Juliet pushed her hair out of her daughter’s eyes. ‘It’s an actual house. And it’s mine now. I thought we could go tomorrow.’ She tapped the top of the doll’s house smartly, as unshed tears stung her eyes. The huge chimney, which sat at the back and acted as a hinge, suddenly swung open and Juliet gazed in at the well-loved figures, the baby in the cradle, the dog, the chairs. The swirling, curved staircase, the huge bay window on the first floor, the Birdsnest at the top which opened with a catch and where you could store sweets, conkers, books . . .

  Bea looked bewildered. ‘What do you mean, we could go tomorrow? Really?’

  ‘Yes. We are. We’re leaving first thing,’ she said, kissing her daughter fiercely, and then gripping her shoulders. ‘You can start over, leave those girls behind.’

  ‘You’ve gone mad.’ Bea was half smiling, half scared. ‘You want us to run away?’

  ‘Not running away. We don’t run away,’ Juliet said quietly. ‘Something’s happened – not one thing, four or five different things. And I think we should go. Leave London, start again, and you might blame me for the rest of your life for doing it or it might be the best decision I make. You see, I’ve realised we’ve got to a point where something has to change. Something’s rotten with us . . .’ The effort of controlling the tears was choking her. She coughed. ‘It sounds crazy, but the way to do it is to go there. Trust me, darling.’

  And slowly, Bea nodded.

  Chapter Six

  The street was empty; most people were away. Already the dusty, sunbeaten lassitude of summer holidays had descended. Juliet’s scratched and dented red Škoda sat in the road with the doors open.

  ‘You’re mad,’ said Zeina. She blew her hair out of her face, defiantly. ‘Just remember, you can change your mind. You can get there and drive straight back to London again, you know. Be home again in time for tea and Matt’ll never know you were gone.’

  ‘I won’t though,’ said Juliet, loading the last of the bags into the car. It was early; her side of the road was still in blissful shade. Matt had disappeared first thing. He’d left her a note.

  Bike ride up on Heath today. Back 7. Pls can u tidy up & get some food if it’s not too much to ask.

  Zeina said crossly: ‘You can’t simply wake up one morning and decide to transplant your family to some abandoned house in the middle of the countryside because you fancy a change of scenery. You said you were going to sell it. You haven’t even been there since whoever on earth it is left it to you. You don�
��t even know how it’s suddenly become yours!’

  ‘Look, you’ve seen the lease and the papers. It’s all above board. It is mine.’

  ‘That still doesn’t make this a normal thing to do!’ Zeina hissed, over the top of the car.

  ‘Nothing’s normal any more,’ said Juliet. ‘It has to be now, or it’ll be never. Look. I don’t have a job and I now have a much better redundancy package because of you, you legal genius, so thanks again.’

  ‘My pleasure, sister.’

  ‘My daughter is being badly bullied and beaten up and is going through a lot of shit, some of which I understand, some of which I don’t. And finally, for my big finish, my husband is having an affair with a mum at school.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Zeina came round and stood next to her, on the kerb. ‘Who? Oh man. Who?’

  ‘Tess,’ Juliet whispered.

  ‘Bloody hell. Of course. Oh! Oh my goodness, that skank.’

  ‘That’s what Bea called her too.’ They both laughed, as though it was hilarious. Then Zeina shook her head.

  ‘Oh, Ju. I’m sorry.’

  Juliet handed Sandy his bunny. ‘There you go, sweetheart.’ She shut his door and turned to face Zeina. ‘I never told you this but he had an affair with someone in the office, three years ago, around the time he left to set up on his own. Some twenty-something. She got fired. I mean that’s what pissed me off the most about it all, the thing that really stuck in my throat, that he got this girl fired. I should have realised then I wasn’t as upset about the affair bit as I should have been. That maybe it was a sign things weren’t great.’

  ‘You should have told her to come to me, I’d have got her a good deal,’ Zeina said, and Juliet laughed again, they both did, and then both gave an identical sigh. ‘Oh blimey,’ said Zeina after a pause. ‘Mate, I’m really sorry about all this.’

  ‘It’s not your fault. But you see, don’t you?’

  ‘Well . . . OK. What about schools? Isn’t Bea starting her GCSEs this year?’

  ‘She can start at the local school in September. I’ve spoken to them. It’s a girls’ school, and it’s really good. There’s space for her. And, listen, plenty of children move schools.’ She said, quietly, ‘If we stay, I’ll ruin things for them. Not overnight. Just . . . gradually.’