by Jane Bailey
I awoke very early one morning – before any of the children – to the sound of voices in the kitchen. I dressed and opened the curtains to see a strange car pulled up on the drive outside. It was open-roofed and flashy, and the moment I saw it I felt uneasy.
As I approached the kitchen I could hear Howard’s voice slightly raised and sounding agitated. The other voice was a woman’s. I recognized it straight away.
‘Celia …’
She was sitting in a chair at the huge table, with one arm hanging loosely over the back of it. She still had her hat on: an emerald green affair set forward on her head, so that she had to raise her chin slightly to see out. She wore a shapely suit in the same vibrant colour, except for a ginger fox fur which she fondled with her free hand.
‘Joy!’ The chin went up, and she seemed to be peering down her nose. ‘Well, look at you! As radiant as ever!’ She adjusted herself in the chair but did not get up, so I went over and sat at the table with her, aware how I must look in my working corduroys and no make-up.
‘This is a surprise!’ I said, feeling at a sudden disadvantage, as I always did when Celia was around.
‘Isn’t it? I expect you thought you’d seen the back of me.’
She said it to the fox fur and to her own white bejewelled hand.
‘I was just going to say how lovely it is to see you.’ I tried to beam at her, but she wasn’t looking. ‘Have you eaten? What would you like?’
‘I’m doing her scrambled egg,’ said Howard from the stove. ‘Would you care to join us?’ He attempted a little chef’s flourish, and I was grateful to him.
‘Oh, yes! Yes, please. That’s so kind.’
‘I see you’ve certainly made some changes around here,’ said Celia, her eyes meeting mine at last, and with an undoubtable challenge in them. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen Howard cooking before.’
‘It’s the war, not Joy,’ said Howard, rescuing me again. ‘We’ve all had to muck in.’
‘What about Mrs Bubb? She’s still here, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, and so are two evacuees, Mrs Bubb’s son, pigs, a cow, a horse … she can’t do it all for us.’
‘I see.’
Howard placed a plate of scrambled egg on toast in front of each of us, then sat down as well. ‘Joy cooks too, don’t you, Joy?’
‘Oh … very ordinary things … inedible mostly!’
‘Delicious mostly!’ said Howard, winking at me.
‘Delicious – of course!’ said Celia, with an edge of bitterness so slight I tried to pretend it hadn’t been there.
Already she was filling me with hurt and panic and a desperate desire to push my scrambled egg into her face. No, wait! This was Celia. She had been ill, and I hadn’t been to see her. She was probably still unhappy. James would want me to be lenient.
‘Celia, you look quite lovely. How have you been?’
She finished chewing a morsel of toast and said, ‘Actually, I was just saying to Howard, I’ve not been well for years.’
‘I’m sorry—’
‘Only the usual thing. Anxiety and so on. So anyway, what I also told Howard was that I’ve booked myself into the local nuthouse for a few days for some treatment.’
‘Treatment? Nuthouse?’
Celia laughed. She showed all her teeth under her bright lipstick, and looked thoroughly pleased with herself. ‘Isn’t it a hoot? I might even have electric shock treatment or something, although I’m not terribly keen on that idea.’
‘Oh, Celia!’
‘It’s all voluntary. I’m not a registered loon or anything! I must say, it’s such fun being mad! You can do anything you like and get away with it!’ Her tone was unconvincing and slightly hysterical, and there was that hint of volatility that I realized had always made Celia so alluring. ‘I shall have to be careful, though,’ she said, delicately balancing some egg on the tip of her fork, ‘I don’t want to end up like that friend of yours … what’s-his-name? … Philip.’
‘How do you know Philip?’
‘My friend Beatrice worked at the same airfield as him in Sussex.’
‘Oh, I didn’t know. She wasn’t hurt, then?’
‘Hurt? No – in fact she’s left now – expecting her first.’
Howard was looking uneasy, and tried to talk about the delicious egg, but his uneasiness only made me more curious.
‘What do you mean, “end up” like him? He wasn’t mad, you know.’
‘Well, maybe not. But let’s face it, you’re not usually totally sane when you commit suicide, are you?’
I dropped a piece of toast and it fell raspberry-jam-side down on the table. I sat staring at it for a moment, with the strange feeling that it had hurled itself face down to hurt me. ‘He was killed in a bomb blast. She must’ve known some other Philip.’
‘Oh no, it was the one. I remember because James told me … Oh no! I wasn’t supposed to tell you, was I?’ She showed no contrition whatsoever, merely rolled her eyes and feigned a self-mocking half-smile. ‘Me and my big mouth!’
Howard sighed and closed his eyes. But she simply shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. He must’ve been a pretty close friend, then, if James and Howard thought it would upset you. An old flame, maybe?’
‘No. Not at all. We weren’t … close.’ I piled my used cutlery on to my plate along with my saucer, empty teacup and the wasted toast which left a sticky red mess between us on the table. ‘Well … do you want to stay here? It’s a bit of a squash at the moment. But you’re welcome as long as you like.’
She raised her eyebrows at me. ‘Are you inviting me to stay in my own house?’
‘Celia …’ Howard looked uncomfortable. ‘You’re always welcome here, you know that.’
‘Am I? Am I? Oh, I’m always welcome in my home – I’m so glad. I mean, I turn my back for one moment and suddenly you have a new daughter, a daughter who cooks, a daughter who gets you to cook, who transforms the grounds into a market garden, who turns the house into some sort of hotel for waifs and strays, a daughter who has two children – what are they? Heirs to the Buckleigh estate?’
‘Celia, please—’
‘Oh, stop it, Howard. You’re spoiling my breakfast.’
‘But you left of your own accord. I thought you’d got married to someone.’
‘I have. I have married someone: Larry Ravenhill.’
‘Oh, what’s he like?’ I tried to seem interested, but I could hear how silly and eager I sounded to her. Of course I didn’t need her to tell me what he was like. I could picture him quite clearly with his hundred-acre estate, his party-going, horse-gambling, gin-swilling friends called Miles and Giles, an eccentric mother with small dogs named after Greek gods, endless sisters named after Greek goddesses, a younger brother called Ravenhill Two, and a manner of speaking without moving his lips.
‘He’s absolutely loaded.’ She waggled her fingers to display the rocks. ‘Larry. Two houses, one swimming pool and a prize-winning racehorse and his father has a handy little villa in Juan-les-Pins when the war is over.’
I thought she was going to tell me the entirety of his material possessions. ‘Any children?’
‘No.’ She pursed her lips. Then she smiled unconvincingly. ‘What would I do with children? Tell me about yours. I suppose you have boys.’
‘A boy – Andrew, and a girl, Jill.’
‘A boy and a girl!’ She affected an overly pleased-on-my-behalf tone. ‘And how old are Andrew and Jill?’ She said it as if they were names so plebeian she hardly knew how to pronounce them.
‘Andrew’s four and Jill’s one. She’ll be two in September.’
‘Aha! So Andrew is the son and heir! Does Jill mind?’ She put her fork down with a clatter. ‘Eldest sons! They have it all, don’t they? I expect he’s very special, isn’t he? Andrew.’
I didn’t want to speak any more. I looked back at her and willed her to look me in the eye. But Howard intervened.
‘Celia, I don’t know what all this is about. I t
hought you wanted to live away. You said you’d married someone wealthy, that you never wanted to come back.’
‘That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’
‘I want you to be happy.’ She leaned back in her chair, but Howard wasn’t giving up. ‘And what’s all this son-and-heir business? I’ve never cut you out of my will. Half of everything I have is yours.’
‘And the other half goes to the ragamuffin boy!’
‘It’ll be divided equally between you and James.’
‘Why does he get anything? You adopted him.’
‘Like I adopted you.’
There was a silence. Howard swallowed hard. Celia flared her nostrils and her mouth started to wobble and look very fragile.
‘But it’s James and … her who get the house, isn’t it?’ She gestured to me with a flap of her hand. ‘They’re the ones who get to live here like Lord and Lady Muck with their son-and-heir! And then, he’ll get the house, this little … Andrew person, and anyway …’ Her voice was faltering now. ‘And we all know why she’s so special, don’t we!’ The wrist did its little flap towards me again, and I couldn’t help remembering having held it once, when she’d hissed at me to hurt her. Harder. Harder. Hurt me!
I leaned over to take her hand again, but she pushed it away. Howard was already on his feet, trying to put an arm around her, but she stood up brusquely. The chair made a sound that echoed like gunshot on the flagstones.
‘Please don’t leave like this, Celia!’
‘No! No! I’m sorry I came. I’ve behaved dreadfully – as usual! Please don’t see me out.’ She wiped her eyes and walked towards the back door, putting on her gloves. ‘I’ll just have a look round, if I may, then I’ll be on my way. Please don’t see me out.’
‘Let me give you a guided tour,’ I tried, thinking of all the changes there had been since she had last seen it.
She turned on me from the door, a contemptuous figure in green from head to toe. ‘Please. I don’t need to be guided around Buckleigh House.’
And then she was gone, and the kitchen fell silent except for Mrs Bubb who was shuffling about by the sink with some freshly cut flowers.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Howard, sinking back into a chair. ‘I haven’t cut her out of the will. She said a few years ago she never wanted to see me or this house again.’
‘Doesn’t know what she wants, that one,’ said Mrs Bubb, stuffing the flowers into a yellow vase. ‘Never did.’
And for the first time I could see that it wasn’t Buckleigh House – or any other house – that Celia wanted at all.
57
It was gone midday before we realized he was missing.
I warmed up a vegetable stew from the day before, and all the children had come in from playing or helping outside. They eventually sat around the table after being sent off to wash their hands or stamp the mud off their shoes. All except Andrew, and Jill indicated he was looking at the pigs. It was only much later we discovered that what she’d really meant was he’d been looking at the pigs when she’d last seen him. Not long after breakfast.
When he didn’t appear for the jam pudding I went out to call for him, and when he didn’t come I went to the pigsty to find him. He wasn’t there, and Mr Rollins hadn’t seen him since about eight thirty. A rush of nausea gripped me. I began shouting his name over and over, until I was screaming it at the top of my voice, and the children ran out to see what was the matter, and Howard came full pelt from the vegetable garden, running like a giraffe.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’
We split up: me, Howard, Mr Rollins, Mrs Bubb and the children in pairs, and we searched the grounds. We searched in every shed and in every hedge; Mr Rollins dragged an old horse trough and I closed my eyes in dread; we combed the field and the orchard, emptied every chest in the house, opened every cupboard, pulled everything out from under the beds. Every second was charged so full of fears it bulged into an hour’s length. And every moment all I could think was what if we were looking in the wrong place and his life depended on us finding him right now? Time, that had dragged so long and so wastefully throughout the war, now seemed to be priceless. All I could hear was my breathing – quick, heavy lungfuls – and my voice shouting for my lost son. I passed Howard in front of the house. We were both panting, and I could see wisps of his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.
‘It’s Celia!’ I thought I had just formed the words in my head, but I’d said them out loud.
‘Why would Celia want to take him?’
‘It’s Celia – I know it! Car’s gone.’
‘Of course it has. She left about nine.’
‘Oh, God! She’s had him for three and a half hours! Oh, God!’
But I could see he was beginning to panic as well. The children were straggling back to the house.
‘Perhaps she took him for a drive,’ suggested Johnny. ‘I would’ve gone.’
I started running to the road, and Howard came after me. I looked up the road to the hills and down the road to the village. Which way? Which way? Panting before I started, I began running at full tilt into the village, asking anyone I met en route if they had seen Andrew.
The centre of the village was deserted, except for Vile It who told me to fucking fuck off and stood with her arms out to protect the entrance to her bus shelter. I stood distraught and tried to catch my breath, when the lone figure of Mr Bearpark rounded the bend in the road up ahead, pushing his dear polished bicycle.
‘Mr Bearpark!’ I screamed. ‘Have you seen Andrew or have you seen an open-roofed car with Celia in it?’
‘Lord, you’re out of breath, young lady. You want to get your breath back. Cycling’s done my lungs a power of good, look. You want to—’
‘Have you? Have you seen him?’ asked Howard, running up.
‘Oh, good afternoon, sir. I didn’t see you there. Well, now … I haven’t seen either of them recently…’
‘Thank you! Sorry to bother you!’
‘… but what I did see earlier this morning was Celia Buckleigh in a car with young Andrew, but that was around about nine o’clock this morning, I’d say … maybe more like—’
‘Where?’
‘T’was going that way, towards the east.’ He waved his free arm vaguely. ‘Don’t know where it goes, don’t want to know. Happy here in Woodside, I am …’
‘Where’s the nearest nuthouse?’ I demanded.
‘Nuthouse?’ He looked momentarily offended.
‘Mental asylum – we think that’s where they’re heading.’
‘Oh. You’d be talking about the one somewhere out by Dip Woods. What’s it called now …? Down under the old hill fort…?’
‘Good Shepherd House,’ said Howard. ‘It’s Good Shepherd House – she said. I’ll get the car.’
I stopped breathing. My mouth filled with saliva that tasted of bile. I thought I was going to be sick.
‘… quite content I am in my …’ I could hear Mr Bearpark wittering on.
‘Joy?’ I heard Howard, too. ‘Are you all right?’ But I couldn’t move. Pom pom pom pom pom went my heart. I thought it was going to break out of my chest. ‘Joy?’
I looked at him: ‘D’you have petrol?’
He drew his hand across his face. ‘Damn and blast! There must be some somewhere! I’ll run back and see what I can find. You ask around the village. Someone must have enough to get us that far.’
‘How far is it?’
‘Four, five miles.’
‘Five miles?’ I closed my eyes.
‘It’s not that far!’
‘I know.’ It was no distance at all. I had been living just five miles away from that terrible place all this time.
I grabbed Mr Bearpark’s bike. ‘I’m sorry! It’s an emergency!’ and I started cycling furiously as I let the adrenalin work my legs.
‘I’ll catch you up!’ Howard called after me. ‘I won’t be long!’
‘Use the gear!’ wailed Mr Bearpark. I
turned briefly to see him standing on the pavement, bereft. ‘It’s not used to …’
58
I cycled out of the village at a fair old rate, and it was a relief to feel my body using up all the energy I had become suddenly endowed with.
It had rained the night before, a heavy summer downpour that had excited all the flowering plants and set them off sending out their pollen, offering themselves to the bees all along the hedgerows. The air was thick with it, sweet and rank and heavy. My own sweat added to the frenzied scent as it prickled on my brow and in my hair, ran between my breasts and behind my pumping knees. I saw nothing, only felt the smell of things, and the heat. I smelt my first baby, awash with sweet, earthy fragrance. I breathed him in, keening for the instantly familiar smell of his head, his neck. I gasped at it, gulped at it, found myself panting so loud I was groaning, pushing on the pedals through the dead weight of the air.
What did Celia want with him? I could see her arch smile: What would I do with children? And what would she do? Why would she take him back to Good Shepherd House? I was wasting my time. They could be anywhere by now. Anywhere.
I came to a fork in the road and took the right without stopping. It was a wasted trip, a stupid, futile waste of time, but I had no other ideas and my legs wouldn’t stop. If I ever found him again I would hug him and hug him and hug him and never let him go. If I found him … I kept finding him and running towards him and holding him, holding him. If I kept thinking it, it would happen.
And why did I think Celia had him, anyway? What if he’d just wandered off away from the house … what if someone else, some pervert had lured him away and … what if …? I was losing valuable time. I was cycling the wrong way but my legs wouldn’t stop. There was something about Celia’s hostility that I had batted away, because it would hurt too much. But now I let it in. I let her spite wash over me and I remembered it: We all know why she’s so special, don’t we?