He let go for a moment and rubbed his forehead, staining it faintly green. "Not far."
"I know it was time we got one, but I could have driven if you'd said."
"I didn't know I was getting it," he told her, grabbing the tree as it lurched towards her. "I just saw it and I thought it would do for us."
"Of course it will. How much did it cost?"
He responded only with a shrug that clattered branches at her—he must think he was too old to be repaid. He could have an extra Christmas present, Heather decided as she said "Prop it up there while I dust off the tub."
The plastic bucket dressed in Christmas wrapping paper spent most of the year in the cupboard under the stairs, along with fairy lights and decorations awaiting resurrection. As Heather stood the bucket in the hall, the tree leaned around the open front door, its branches scraping the frosted glass. "Can't wait to get in," she remarked. "You can give it a hand, Sam."
He limped along the hall with it as though he and the sapling were caught in a clumsy arms'-length dance, and inserted the spidery roots into the bucket so that Heather could wedge the trunk with lumps of brick. "Did they dig it out of whatever it was in for you to carry home?" she said as the phone began to ring.
He looked bemused, presumably by which to answer. "Could you get that while I see this stays where it is?" she said.
Two uneven steps took him to the extension opposite the stairs. "Hello . . . Oh, hi... Not yet. . . I'll ask. When are we expecting my aunt home?"
"Any time, I should think. Who'd like to know?"
"It's Margo."
As Heather stood up she must have brushed against the tree, which shivered not unlike a reflection in water and at once grew still. She took the receiver from
Sam's cold hand as he made for the stairs. "I was just reading about you," she informed her mother.
"I'm not going to let myself care."
"You can if you like. It was quite a decent piece about how the columnist was looking for one of your posters."
"I expect they'll find it if they really want it, but I genuinely mean I don't care what people say about me any more, not when your sister's given me so much to look forward to."
"I'm glad. Anyway, you want her."
"I want both of you, Heather. Always have, and now I've got you both. So yes, I would like a word."
"She's still at the Arbour unless she's on her way back. How urgent is it?"
"I'm not sure. Somebody was trying to reach her. They recognised her on Arts After Dark and that's why they called me."
"Did you give them my number?"
"I did, and now I don't know if I should have. She seemed more than a little odd."
"Where does she know Sylvie from?"
"America, apparently."
"I expect there's no reason to worry. You won't have given her my address, will you?"
"I should hope not. I'm not quite that incompetent yet, I flatter myself."
"You aren't incompetent at all, and I don't believe you ever will be," Heather said. She hadn't taken her hand away from hanging the receiver up when the phone rang.
She must have jumped, because the longest branches of the sapling groped at the air. She retrieved the phone with a clatter of plastic. "Hello?"
There was silence except for a stealthy creak of branches. As she opened her mouth to repeat herself, the receiver emitted the dialling tone. "I must be losing my charm, Sam," she called up the stairs to no response. She was turning away from the phone when it summoned her back.
She knew of no reason not to sound welcoming. "Yes, hello?"
"Did you just speak?" a high quick female Californian voice demanded.
"I did. I said yes, hello."
"Before that," the voice said, higher and quicker.
"If you rang off without saying anything just now that was me saying hello then too."
"Who am I talking to?"
That was said in a tone Heather might very well have used. "Heather Price," she said with what struck her as exceptional patience, "and you're . . ."
"Merilee. Are you supposed to be English?"
"More than supposed. Can I ask what you actually want?"
"I'm looking for someone whose mother said I should call the number I thought I called twice."
"You did that all right, to speak to my sister."
"You wouldn't be trying to kid me."
"I can't imagine why."
"Your sister wrote The Secret Woods."
"Indeed she did."
"I don't see how she could have ended up with an English sister."
"Because she is too."
"Hold it right there. Her mother doesn't sound any more English than Sylvia, so how did you get to be?"
"Just by being born."
"Some trick."
Heather managed a laugh, if only so as not to feel she was being wished out of existence. "Yes, well, I don't think any of us has much control over how we see the light. Anyway," she said with a hint of bitterness she would have hoped not to feel, "you want my sister."
"You're still saying that's who she is. Okay then, put her on."
"She isn't here at the moment."
"Hey, why am I not surprised."
Heather had to exert a good deal of control not to plant the receiver on the hook instead of saying "Shall I ask her to call you?"
"You want me to give you my number because you're her sister."
"That sums it up, yes."
"Sure, like I'd give you my number just for saying you are," Merilee said, and was gone with a click and an insect buzz.
"Let's hope she's the only person like that Sylvie knows," Heather called up the stairs as she replaced the receiver. When Sam didn't respond she headed for the kitchen, until the shrilling of the phone seemed to clutch at her neck.
Its summons failed to tempt Sam out of his room. As she tramped to grab the receiver the tree flexed several branches while its shadow, almost hidden in the corner behind it, waved its feelers. "Heather Price," she declared.
"It's only me again."
"No only about it, mummy. You're more than a welcome alternative to the last call."
"Why?" Margo said with a nervousness Heather wouldn't have wanted or expected to cause. "Who was it?"
"The woman you rang about. Merilee, her name is, though I still don't know what her connection is with Sylvie. Mind you, she wouldn't be persuaded I could have anything to do with Sylvie or you either."
"I told you she was odd." Margo's brusqueness might have been rebuking Heather for seeking needless reassurance. "Anyway, never mind her," Margo said. "She'll keep. I've just had the Arbour asking if I know where Sylvia and Lennox are."
Heather kept a twinge of panic to herself by asking "Where are they meant to be?"
"Apparently he was so pleased to hear we're due for another grandchild that he wanted to go out and celebrate, but they don't know where."
"I thought he couldn't drink with his medication."
"I'm told he said a soft drink would be enough of a celebration, and Sylvia promised to see that was all he drank. You know how persuasive she can be."
Heather wasn't sure if Margo was suggesting Sylvia had persuaded Lennox or the hospital staff.
"Only she said they'd be an hour," Margo said, "and they've been more than two. It'll soon be dark."
"Then I expect that means they're nearly back."
"I wish you'd gone with her to see him."
"She didn't want me to."
"You're still her elder sister. I don't like to think of her driving in her condition. I never used to."
"I'm sure she'll be careful. She was about drinking at the gallery, remember.
I'll have her call you the moment she comes home, that's if she doesn't call you from the Arbour."
"I guess she could be trying right now. I'd better leave you in peace. Sorry if anything sounded as if I was criticising you. I can't help worrying about my family, that's all."
"I should
n't think there's any need at the moment, mummy," Heather said rather than admit that peace was hardly the state in which Margo was leaving her. Once they'd said goodbye she held the receiver as though its drone might prove soothing, then realised she could be blocking a call. She hung up and sent herself kitchenwards.
At first glance through the window she thought the night was closer than it should be, but the darkness of the horizon beyond the fence was mostly composed of the woods. She picked up a bunch of celery, and one stalk snapped like a twig damaged by a footfall. As a rule she enjoyed chopping celery—found its crunches satisfying—but now the sensation penetrated her nerves. Perhaps that came of straining to hear the car Sam had lent Sylvia. But the sound that made her drop the knife, scattering greenish vegetable segments, was yet again the clamour of the phone.
The tree rattled its branches as she sprinted to seize the receiver. "Hello? Yes?"
"Heather."
Her mother's voice was so subdued that Heather was afraid to ask "What now?"
"They've found the car."
"Found it," Heather said, and not much less stupidly "Who has?"
"One of the nurses. It wasn't far away."
Before that could seem at all reassuring Margo said "It's by the woods, and there's no sign of Sylvia or Lennox."
16: Out of the Mound
They were in the woods—Heather was sure of that much. As the Civic sped onto the bypass she did her best to watch for them among the trees. A shrunken sun that resembled a blank lens embedded in the grey sky more than a source of any light kept peering through the treetops, reminding her that soon they would blot it out. The entire forest was moving because the car was, tall thin scaly twisted shapes dodging out from behind one another and hiding again only to reappear.
She could have imagined that the dimmest and most distant shapes weren't parading quite as they should, but told herself it didn't matter. "Let me know if you see anything," she said.
Sam poked his face forward. "Anything," he repeated.
"You know what I mean." If it was a joke, not that his tone owned up to the possibility, she didn't appreciate it. "If you see them," she said.
"They're all I'm looking for."
His voice was so flat he might have been asking a question or trying to persuade himself.
Before she could decide how or whether to respond, the Arbour sailed into view. The floodlights in the grounds had been switched on, pointing the shadows of the scattered trees across the lawn as if the woods were urging them to join the forest darkness.
As the car swung up the drive, Margo hurried out of the building. She took a pace forward and raised her outstretched hands, and then her face dulled as she saw there was no passenger but Sam. "Shouldn't one of you have stayed home," she began objecting well before Heather left the car, "in case someone tries to call?"
"We thought we might be needed to help search."
"I thought I might, but half the nurses are looking for them. Surely they've noticed it's getting dark."
Sam limped around the car. "Why do you think they went in there?"
"For a walk. Why would anyone? It isn't Lennox by himself or with the other patients. He has Sylvia with him this time," Margo appealed to Dr Lowe as he emerged from the hospital.
"I'm sure they'll be looking after each other." While his round face didn't quite presume to smile, his eyes were concerned but encouraging. "I don't need to tell you how delighted he was at the news. He came to find me with it, and I really think he's found a focus outside himself." As though he had enthusiasm to spare the doctor added "By the way, I didn't know you were an artist till I saw your television spot the other night. You might like to know I'll be buying one of your books."
"Thank you," Margo said, having waited to be sure he'd finished.
"Perhaps you could -" He'd barely started miming a signature in the air when his finger jerked up to point at the woods. "I think there's someone now."
Heather was already gazing at the woods until her eyes ached. The mass of trees and vaguer trees looked as still as a painting of itself—so still that it felt like some kind of pretence. For an instant she thought; a tree deep in the dimness had betrayed itself, and then she understood that she'd glimpsed a figure dodging around it. "It's Lennox," Marge cried.
Heather saw him advance past three trees before sidling right with his back to another three as a preamble to pacing forward. "It's jus him," Margo protested.
"Where's Sylvia?" She shouted the question as she ran across the grass, Heather and Sam following.
She hadn't reached the gates when a lull in the traffic made her raise her voice again. "Lennox, stop that and listen to me. What have you done with Sylvia?"
Though she cupped her hands around her mouth, he didn't immediately look up. He was intent on the floor of the woods, presumably on whatever pattern he thought he was describing. When he raised his head, it seemed that might be the whole of his response, unless dodging behind a clump of trees was the rest of it. He couldn't be doing so out of guilt, since he reappeared almost at once and zigzagged forward several paces.
"Where's Sylvie?" Heather shouted as Margo called even more fiercely "Where's Sylvia?"
At that moment Heather made out his face. He looked as if he scarcely recognised her or Margo—as if his consciousness was trapped in the dim scaly cage of the forest. Nevertheless he might have been answering the question when he stretched his arms wide and turned his palms up to indicate the entire woods.
"Don't you shrug at me, Lennox Price," Margo cried and stalked into the road.
She would have been in the path of a truck, which she apparently expected to brake for her, if Sam hadn't wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her backwards. The truck raced by with a blare of its horn and a flaring of its headlights, and Margo gave her grandson a studiedly dignified look. "You can let go of me now, thank you," she said. "I'm not your grandfather."
"Let's cross now while it's safe," Heather intervened.
Both Sam and Margo regarded her as though she was failing to appreciate their ages, especially when she grabbed their hands. As they stepped over the knee-high metal barrier that divided the concrete strip along the middle of the bypass, she saw that the metal was greenish with some kind of growth. The three of them had to straddle the barrier while a pair of cars speeding abreast honked at the party or at each other, and she felt Margo wobble, if that wasn't her impatience to reach Lennox. Headlamp beams fluttered over the outermost trees, and shadows seemed to trawl the empty depths of the forest for Sylvia. Margo tugged at Heather's hand to urge her across the road into the dark.
The woods appeared to have reserved some illumination to themselves. The dim sky that was cracked with branches retained only a faint glow, but the elaborate tapestry of dead leaves underfoot was managing to seem more luminous. Given time, Heather might have< been able to discern the shape of every leaf and the pattern they composed, but she was hearing Margo's low intense voice. "Stop that nonsense now and talk to me. Where's our daughter?"
Lennox had halted as the three entered the forest, and was watching them as though he had a secret he was eager to reveal, but only extended his arms again, perhaps to help him keep his balance now that he was still. "Don't do that,"
Margo cried. "I said talk."
"What do you want to hear? There's plenty if you listen."
"Lennox, try and concentrate," Dr Lowe said, kicking up leaves a he hurried between the trees. "Do you remember who took you out this afternoon?"
"Certainly I do," Heather's father said with heavy dignity. "I remember everything."
"So you'll remember when you last saw her."
"It needed to be dark."
Margo gripped his upper arms hard. "Lennox, if you don't give us a straight answer -"
"Nothing's straight here. You could start by knowing that."
"You'd better be with me. Don't you care you've lost Sylvia?"
"She's anything but lost. She'd never say
she was."
Margo held her husband at arms' length and did her best to scrutinise his face.
"So where did you leave her? Can't you see it's near dark?"
"More than that where she is."
A smell of earth and decay seemed to surge out of the thick dusk a though all the trees had stirred their roots to creep imperceptibly closer. Margo released Lennox and lifted her hands, which were on the way to turning into claws. "What do you mean? What have you done to her?"
"To her, nothing," he said, looking hurt. "For her, everything I could."
"Can you be specific?" Dr Lowe prompted.
"I always have been. I wouldn't have progressed very far in the world if I hadn't, would I?"
"About your daughter."
"I gave her a bottle like we used to, Margo. See, there's something I remember."
"Maybe you remember I never wanted to. I always wished she would feed from me like Heather did." Margo was making this clear not just to him, and visibly resented the time it took. "What do you mean, you gave her a bottle?" she demanded.
"Remember we'd put something extra in to help her sleep when her dreams kept waking her up."
"You're saying you got her drunk? And left her where?"
"That's right, it was alcohol we used to give her," he said as if that sufficed for a reply, and turned to the doctor. "I may as well confess I haven't been taking my pills the last few days. You might want to realise how easy it is for someone to look as if they're swallowing them. I kept them in case they came in useful, and they did."
"You're saying you gave some to Sylvia," Margo said tonelessly.
"A few. I didn't tell her, you understand." He seemed to find that more than reasonable, and Heather was aware, as she'd tried for years not to be, how out of reach his mind had grown. "I was trying to make it easier for her," he said with some pique.
"What?" Margo said, less a word than an agonised gasp.
The Darkest Part Of The Woods Page 11