Girl in the Attic

by Valerie Mendes

  GIRL IN THE ATTIC

  Valerie Mendes

  LBLA Digital

  Praise for Valerie Mendes & Girl in the Attic

  Chosen by W H Smith in 2002 as one of the six best debut novels of the year.

  “An exquisite first novel … An unusual ghost story set in Cornwall, it is beautifully written, with a rich understanding of love and friendship.” Daily Telegraph

  “Gripping.” Daily Mirror

  “This great read gives you a boy’s point of view on what it’s like to have a total crush.” Mizz

  “The story is well-written—sometimes tense, sometimes atmospheric, sometimes particularly descriptive. A sound read.” Carousel

  “If you’re into gripping, mysterious and slightly sinister stories, this is definitely the story for you. Girl in the Attic is a masterpiece!” Teen Titles

  “The sense of place, the frustrations of the protagonists, and the development of the mystery all contribute to a page-turning read.” School Library Association

  “A fine fiction debut.” Books for Keeps: New Talent

  “... Mendes’ tantalising tale unfolds in an atmospheric and engaging way.” The Observer

  “ … Mendes displays a fantastic ability to delve deep into the hearts and minds of her characters. ... A truly inspiring read for any teenager.” Waterstones

  “ ... superb teenage story from the author of the outstanding Girl in the Attic.” Ottakar’s

  “ ... gripping story... . Two weeks after finishing it, I look back as on a film, so vivid are the characters, the situations, and the changing scenes. Also the dialogue and conversations always ring true. The author creates memorable, visual set pieces.” The School Librarian

  “ ... Both my son and I found it very hard to stop reading once we had started. Mendes is a mistress of plot-weaving, skilfully introducing characters at a comfortable speed for the reader and yet never patronising her teenage target audience. … Adults writing for older children often have trouble pitching the tone of their writing and can end up sounding like children’s entertainers. Mendes avoids any danger of this through her obvious respect for her readers. … The novels are accessible and highly enjoyable for anyone from a mature pre-teen upwards, male or female.” The Oxford Times

  “ ... gripping, fast-moving, delicate and touching. I thought the shifting perspectives offered by the different narrative voices added a whole new dimension to your work ....” Sam Mendes

  About the Author

  Valerie Mendes wrote her first short story when she was six years old. It was published in her school magazine. Reading it that night, she decided she wanted to be a writer. After North London Collegiate School, where she was awarded a State Scholarship in English and History, she went to Reading University and gained an Honours Degree in English and Philosophy. She began a long career in publishing, initially as a journalist and then in book publishing itself.

  The publication of two of her short stories in Puffin Post encouraged her developing passion in writing for children. Two picture books followed: Tomasina’s First Dance and Look at Me, Grandma! Then, several years later, four critically acclaimed novels for young adults allowed her to explore in powerful story form many of the current issues that affect the lives of teenagers today: Girl in the Attic, Coming of Age, Lost and Found and The Drowning.

  Larkswood is Valerie’s first historical novel for the adult marketplace. It is a gripping family saga about the Hamilton clan, set in 1897 and 1939.

  Valerie lives and works in Woodstock, Oxfordshire. She is proudly the mother of the theatre and film director Sam Mendes CBE, and Granny Vowel to Mia and to Joe.

  You can visit her website www.valeriemendes.com

  Books by Valerie Mendes

  Young adult novels

  Picture books

  Tomasina’s First Dance

  Look at Me, Grandma!

  Adult novel

  Larkswood

  Copyright © 2002 Valerie Mendes

  First published as an e-book in the United Kingdom by LBLA Digital in 2012.

  First published in paperback in the United Kingdom by Simon & Schuster in 2002.

  This e-book is sold subject to the condition it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise without the publisher’s prior written consent.

  All rights reserved

  Artwork copyright © Louise Milidge using images supplied by Dreamstime

  ISBN 978-1-908879-01-1

  For Sam

  GIRL IN THE ATTIC

  Valerie Mendes

  One

  Nathan didn’t see it coming.

  On that last day of the summer holidays he sat at Tom’s desk, his sketchbook on his knees, as if it were an ordinary morning. Tom, wedged into his beanbag, engrossed in Lord of the Flies, was today a still and willing subject.

  Nathan’s hair stood up in spiky black strands as his charcoal lovingly skimmed and scraped the paper’s surface. And snapped.

  Nathan cursed. “That’s messed up your chin. And it’s my last piece.”

  “You shouldn’t press so heavily.” Tom read on.

  “I don’t. It’s artistic fervour. … It’s almost finished anyway.” Nathan stood up, stretched his back and arms. “Let’s go for a swim. While we still have our freedom.”

  “You’d better fetch your things, then.” Tom glanced at him. “And get some more charcoal from your desk while you’re about it. You never finish anything properly.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “No, you don’t. You check that book of sketches and tell me how many need more work.”

  Nathan threw a pillow at Tom’s head and clattered down the stairs. He and Tom lived on opposite sides of the same south London square. They’d met when they were six and had been best friends now for more than seven years. As they grew, they looked less alike: Nathan tall, gangling, dark-haired; Tom neat, small-boned, freckled. Nathan scatterbrained but sometimes brilliant; Tom methodical, thorough, organised as an army of ants.

  Nathan Fielding and Tom Banks. Weed and Banksie. Closer than two fingers on a hand.

  Now Nathan began to run across the square. Then he stopped. His trainers squealed like mice. The front door of his house gaped open. Bags littered the steps and Dad’s Ford stood outside. But he’d left for work that morning. Why was he home? Perhaps he had to go on a business trip? He hadn’t said anything, which was odd.

  Dad came to the door, his grey hair falling over his forehead. Then Mum burst out on to the step. She tried to stroke Dad’s shoulders, as if she were pleading with him. But Dad shrugged her off and picked up the bags.

  Cold slivers stabbed at Nathan’s throat. “Dad!”

  Dad hadn’t heard him. He ran down the steps and flung the bags into the boot. He climbed into the car, revved the engine and swung out of the square. Mum stared after him. Then she turned and slammed the door.

  Nathan raced into the house and made for the kitchen. Mum had lit a cigarette. Her face shone with sweat and her straight dark fringe lay damp on her forehead.

  “I’ve just seen Dad leaving.” Nathan’s mouth tasted sour. “What’s going on?”

  So Mum told him. That Dad had left them to live with a girl called Karen. She was a designer on Dad’s new music magazine. Karen was divorced. Karen had a three-year-old daughter. She lived near Primrose Hill. Dad had been in love with her for ages.

  Disbelief buzzed in Nathan’s head like a trapped wasp.

  “It’s absurd.” Mum crushed out the cigarette. “I spend my life as the nation’s agony aunt. Tell me your problems and ‘Dear Lizzie’ can help. But when it happens to me, all I want to do is curl up in a dark room and cry.�
�

  Blood rushed to Nathan’s face. Dad with another woman. “I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s the truth, so you’ll have to.” She reached across the table to grip his hand. “I know it’s a shock, but you’ll see him lots. That’s what he wants.” Her fingers tightened. “He loves you very much.”

  “What a great way to show it.” Nathan wrenched his hand away. “He’s dumped me like I don’t even exist.”

  “I’m not defending him.” Mum looked suddenly older, crumpled. “But I don’t want you to take against him. … He’s coming to lunch on Sunday.”

  “But this is Monday. School starts tomorrow. I can’t start a new term without Dad.”

  “You’ll have to. He needs time to settle in with Karen.”

  “So where’s his time for me? He’ll always be somewhere else, on the end of a stupid phone.”

  “I’ll leave you alone to talk on Sunday. I won’t get in the way of you and Dad. I promise. I’ll make sure you stay in touch.”

  “This morning,” Nathan said, remembering how he and Dad had made breakfast together. “You must’ve been pretending like mad.”

  “I wasn’t pretending. I hoped he’d change his mind. Just now – I prayed he wouldn’t drive away. … Do you think I wanted this to happen?” She stood up and held out her arms. “Come and give me a hug.”

  Nathan glared at her. I don’t want you. I want Dad. He threw back his chair, ran from the kitchen up to his room, slammed the door. He stared at the crumpled duvet, the untidy desk, the scattered books and comics. His head throbbed.

  Mum tapped on the door. “Nathan? Are you OK?”

  “Yes.” I must not cry.

  “I’m late for a meeting.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m going back to Tom’s.”

  “See you tonight, then. I’ll make us something special.”

  “Whatever.” Leave me alone.

  He leaned against the door, listening. Feet ran down the stairs and the front door slammed. He went to the window. She looked back at him, but neither of them waved. Then she walked on.

  For a moment Nathan wanted to run after her, to tell her everything would be OK. But the anger returned, squashing the pity. He ran downstairs and out to the steps. The air stank of fumes. Another car was parked where Dad’s had been.

  Needle tears pricked his eyes. He walked, the square a blur.

  Tom stood by his front door. “So where’s your swimming gear?”

  Nathan stared at him. “What?”

  “Wake up, Weed. You look as if—” Tom’s eyes narrowed. He moved down the path towards Nathan. “Something’s happened.”

  “You could say that.” Nathan gripped Tom’s gate. “It’s my dad.”

  Two

  Nathan hoped for a miracle.

  This can’t last. Dad will come to his senses. He’ll miss us so much that any minute now he’ll drive up in his car and get out as if nothing has happened. He’ll hug Mum and then he’ll hug me. He’ll say he’s sorry, it was all a big mistake.

  But he didn’t.

  The press picked up the story.

  Elizabeth Fielding – ‘Dear Lizzie’ to her thousands of readers – gives us no end of good advice but now seems to need it herself.

  Mum lost her cool and gave an interview. They printed a photo of her and Dad on their wedding day. The picture had been torn down the middle in ugly gashes. Nathan stared at it, biting his lip until he tasted blood.

  Dad always arrived for lunch on Sundays with flowers or a cake. He took Nathan to the cinema, or to swim in the club pool. People came up to Dad and slapped him on the back. “Hi, Max! Haven’t seen you lately! This boy of yours is almost as tall as you are!” Once they drove to Hertfordshire and walked for miles, the sky turquoise, the leaves turning.

  Sundays flew. Nathan dreaded saying goodbye. He’d get home and listen to the quiet. He and Dad used to thump hilarious duets on the piano. Nathan didn’t have the heart to play any more. None of Dad’s friends telephoned. Mum stopped singing in the bath. Nathan turned up the TV to drown the silence and then sat with his fingers in his ears.

  At half-term he went to stay with Dad and Karen for the weekend. “I really want you to meet her,” Dad said. “She’s been longing for you to come.”

  Mum took the Friday afternoon off and drove him to Primrose Hill. Bleak autumn rain hammered on the car. The windscreen wipers screeched against the glass. Mum parked in Elsworthy Road and peered out.

  “That must be the house there. Dad said it had a green front door. They’ve got the top flat. They’ve both taken the day off work to welcome you. Karen’s name will be on the bell. McBride. Her name’s McBride.”

  Nathan reached for his bag, his legs like jelly.

  “Have a great weekend. Dad will drop you home on Sunday night.”

  He watched as she drove away. She’s going to be on her own. Pellets of rain bounced on to his face. By the time he turned towards the house, the door had opened.

  “Nathan? Hi! I’m Karen.” Her voice was low and smiley with a faint Scottish accent. “Delighted to meet you at last. Come in.”

  Karen was taller than Mum, almost taller than Dad as they stood together in the hall. She looked a lot younger than Mum, with curly red hair and pale skin with freckles. She had big hands and feet, and carefree green eyes that smiled like her voice.

  Holding Dad’s hand was a child with straight red hair tied into bunches which stuck out on either side of her head like giant shaving brushes. She looked coldly at Nathan and clutched a battered grey toy more closely, as if she were afraid he might snatch it.

  “Hi, Nat!” Dad looked untidy and happy. “This is Amy. … Amy, this is Nathan. Say hello nicely now.”

  “Hi,” Nathan said, forcing a smile. He could not bring himself to say her name.

  Amy promptly hid behind Dad’s legs.

  Karen laughed. “She’ll take a wee bit of time to get used to you. … Come on up.”

  The flat had big, sprawly rooms that nobody had bothered to dust. “We thought you wouldn’t mind sleeping in here.” Dad opened the door to a room piled with junk. A sofa bed in the centre had been hastily covered with an old duvet.

  “That’ll be fine,” Nathan said, but he woke in the night and couldn’t remember where he was. Car headlights spun across the ceiling. His duvet had fallen off, his feet were freezing. He hauled the cover over himself, his eyes shut.

  Dad’s laughter bubbled through the wall.

  In the morning, Nathan’s door opened. Amy looked at him, still clutching her grubby grey toy. She wore white pyjamas patterned with red teddy bears.

  “Go ’way, boy,” she said.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Nathan muttered. He sat up, pulling the duvet to his chin. “My dad’s here and I want to be with him.”

  Amy curled her toes against the carpet. “My daddy,” she said, and stuck a bright pink thumb in her mouth.

  Later they went shopping at Sainsbury’s. Amy sat in the trolley and made a mess with a choc ice. Dad and Karen kept meeting people they knew. “This is Nathan,” Dad said, as if he were a stranger who happened to be in tow.

  Karen cooked a casserole for lunch with lots of meaty juices, and an apple crumble with a brown-sugar topping. “Super cook, isn’t she?” Dad smiled in a silly secret way into her eyes.

  Amy slid on and off Dad’s lap as if he were a climbing frame.

  They went for a walk on Primrose Hill and tried to fly a kite. It kept diving into the grass. Karen fell over into it and got knotted up in its strings. Nathan had never seen Dad laugh so much.

  Early Sunday morning they left Karen in bed and went to the pool at Swiss Cottage. Dad spent all his time in the shallow end with Amy, teaching her to swim. In the afternoon they drove to Hampstead Heath. Amy fed the ducks on the pond. Nathan stared at her as she crouched at the edge, as Dad knelt beside her.

  “If she says ‘Go ’way, boy’ to me again,” he muttered under his breath, “I’ll snatch her s
tupid little Eeyore and dump it in the pond.”

  That evening, Dad drove him back to the square. Outside the house, Nathan said, “Are you going to come in?”

  The front door opened. Mum stood framed in the hall light.

  Dad glanced towards her. “Another time,” he said. He hugged Nathan. “We had a really great weekend, didn’t we?”

  Two nights before the end of term, snow fell. Not mizzly melting drops but huge triumphant flakes. By morning, the square stood hushed, transformed, the railings dazzling sentries, the beech trees bent under snowy pillows. Rooks marched stiffly on the drifts, arguing.

  Nathan jabbed a fist at his window, startled by the whiteness and the quiet. He peered across at Tom’s, shivered, and pulled on his thickest sweater. An hour later he was struggling down the street with Tom, kicking away the snow.

  “Bad news, Banksie. The worst. Our party on December 23rd. I can’t make it. It’ll have to be at yours.”