Nathan clenched his fists in his pockets. One of them closed over R’s handkerchief.
“Can I help you?” A sharp voice challenged them from a nearby garden. A tiny woman in a blue knitted dress and slippers stared at them. She clutched her gate with pink rubber-gloved hands as if she were steering a ship into harbour.
Mum turned. “I wonder if you can. We’re in St Ives for a few days to see my father. We’re from London, but we want to move down here. My son, Nathan, spotted this cottage. I rang the number but nobody answered.”
“No, they wouldn’t, not until tonight.” The woman inspected them more closely. “Just thought I’d check. You can’t be too careful these days and he asked me to keep an eye out. But if you’re seriously interested in buying, I’ve got a key. I could show you round, Mrs—”
“Fielding. That would be most kind of you. We’ve so little time, what with Christmas and then we’re off home on Boxing Day. Are you sure it’s convenient?”
The woman smiled. “My name’s Martha.” She peeled off the gloves, which burped beneath the strain. “Won’t be a tickety split.”
She shuffled off.
Nathan bit his lip, turned away and kicked a stone around the street. Maybe his plan to get into the cottage was a totally bad idea. The girl had her own life. One of those boys on the waterfront just now was probably her boyfriend. She couldn’t possibly be interested in him.
But his heart lurched. The hair on the back of his neck stirred as if it needed somewhere else to grow. He spun round, craned up at the attic. For a fleeting moment he saw the anxious eyes, the hair.
Then they vanished.
“There you go, no problem.” Martha now wore a pair of high-heeled shoes in which she tottered like a baby sparrow. “My word, what a lovely morning. Isn’t this fun?” She unlocked the front door and opened it wide. “Please, do come in.”
Rosalie’s in the attic. Soon we’ll be face to face.
Eagerly, Nathan pushed across the threshold.
Six
The hall looked like the inside of a painted cave. On his left stretched a mural of a beach, painted in vast washes of blues, greens and biscuit yellows. Pale clouds chased over the horizon, the sand gleamed. At the sea’s edge, two figures flew an orange kite. It rode the sky like a triumphant bird.
Opposite hung a portrait of a woman, her eyes green, her hair pulled from her face. Blue curtains brushed the floor. Winter roses stood on a table, their petals curling. A dish of pebbles clustered next to them, like speckled eggs.
“It’s a magic grotto,” Nathan said.
“Wow,” said Mum. “This is beautiful.”
“I’m afraid it’s only the hall now,” Martha said. “When Moira – Mrs Croft – was alive, the whole house was beautiful. She was a painter, real talented. Her daughter takes after her. Sweet girl, always so polite. Now Mrs Croft’s passed on – it happened the summer before last, that’s right, eighteen months ago – my, how time flies. Terrible, it was. We were all shattered. Well, he’s let the place go to the dogs, if you don’t mind my saying. I’ve got high standards, me, can’t bear filth. Dust top to bottom every day, hoover every other.” She ran a finger along the wooden banister and revealed the grimy result. “But Jake – Mr Croft – he doesn’t seem to notice. ’Course, some men don’t, and he has had rather a lot on his plate lately.”
“Is Jake Croft the owner?” Mum asked.
“Yes, indeed. Hung on living here for as long as he could – or so he says. To tell you the truth, I don’t think his heart’s been in it since Moira died. I’d have fought tooth and claw to keep a cottage like this, but Mr Croft, he – well, I’d better not say too much. I never like to gossip. He’s been out of work and I reckon the bills just got too much for him.”
“Right,” Mum said briskly. “Could we wander around? See the garden perhaps?”
“I’m terrible once I start chattering.” Martha clattered across the hall into a long, low room with French windows. “It’s gorgeous out the back. I’ll open these glass doors for you. There’s a wonderful view at the end. Do please come in.”
The room felt abandoned. Books clumped about in corners although their shelves had been removed. A few paintings hung lopsidedly on the walls: a field burning with poppies, a beach soaked in rain. Two leather sofas had gathered shabby pink cushions. A slate fireplace spilled half-burned logs into the grate and a lingering scent of firewood hung in the air.
“This is a lovely room,” Mum said. “Needs a lick of paint, that’s all.”
A black cat stood at the windows, arching its back. It made straight for Nathan and curled around his legs.
“Well, I never!” Martha gaped. “That’s our Tiggy. It’s like she knows you. You must have a real knack with animals!”
Nathan bent to stroke her. “Hi, Tiggy. So that’s your name.” A blackberry bramble caught at her neck. Gently he pulled it away. She ducked against him, purring.
“Amazing … Well, young man – Nathan, is that right? I’ll show your mum the garden. We can have a little chat about the price.” She paused. “Since you’ve scored such a hit with our Tiggy, why don’t you go and explore?”
Mum nodded to Nathan. Immediately he left the room and began to climb the stairs.
The enchantment of the hall swiftly disappeared. The grey carpet was threadbare; in places, patches of wooden boards glimmered through apologetically. The rooms on the first floor had also been partly stripped of furniture and a tap dripped insistently from the bathroom.
A second flight of stairs, made of pine and covered in dust, led up to the attic. Nathan hesitated, listening to the quiet. He ran a hand through his hair, wondered nervously whether his face was clean. He tiptoed up the stairs. At the top, a door blocked his way.
He tapped on it gently, his hammering heart making more noise than his knuckles. He waited, pushed at the door and stepped inside.
The attic stretched stark and spacious, cluttered and empty, dancing with spidery shadows. Sunlight poured through the windows, filling the room with arcs of golden dust. Its wooden floor threw up spatters of paint. Wide shelves creaked with canvases, paints, bottles, brushes and books. Two battered armchairs slumped in the centre, next to an easel with sketches of a child. Long curtains fell heavily to the floor.
A desk crouched near the window that overlooked the back garden. On it lay a painting: two shadowy people, a man and a woman, walked along a beach, pushing against the wind, the sky behind them dark with thunderclouds, the sea full of angry foam. A set of watercolours gleamed wetly in the sunlight, and a brush, dipped in a jar of water, seeped a deep grey.
Nathan moved closer. The water swirled.
Slightly, with a sigh, one of the curtains swelled.
Nathan froze. Without raising his head, he swivelled his eyes to it, then down towards the floor and the tips of two red leather shoes. He reached out and drew back the curtain.
The girl stared out at him. Anger, fear and then relief washed across her face. “You’re the boy in the garden.”
“Yes.” He could hardly speak.
“Nobody else knows I’m here.” Her voice was low, the words rapid, anxious. She smeared a hand over her forehead, leaving a trail of grey paint. “Don’t dare give me away.”
“You know I won’t.”
He stepped back, looking at her. Her eyes were not black but an extraordinary dark blue. Her fair hair, streaked with paint, curled to her shoulders. She wore a long purple sweater over scarlet trousers, the same silver necklace with oval jade-green stones. Her skin seemed to shimmer with light.
You’re the most fantastic girl I’ve ever seen.
“I came back to see you yesterday.” Suddenly he couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “But that bloke was in the front garden with a woman and a baby. When I got to the beach I saw you with him. I climbed the cliff into the back garden. I saw your light on, but then he spotted me. Almost beat me up …” He swallowed. “I’ve got your handkerchief.”
He pulled it from his pocket and held it out to her. “This morning, I saw you again. In the art shop. I followed you, but you ran to meet your friends.”
She looked at him silently, her lips curling, almost as if she had heard it all before.
“Was one of them your boyfriend?” He was dying to know.
“No.” She blushed. “I haven’t got one. They’re just friends of mine from school.”
“Your name’s Rosalie, isn’t it?”
That startled her. “How do you know?”
“I heard the man in the shop. I’m Nathan. Nathan Fielding.” He clenched his fists and ploughed on. “Why were you crying?”
“None of your business.” She snatched the handkerchief. “I’ve got to finish this painting.”
Nathan looked at it more closely. “It’s great. Those people on the beach – the way they’re being blown by the wind and you can’t really see their faces.”
“It’s been the hardest thing to get right. I have this dream … But I don’t even know—” She broke off, as if she had begun to tell him something important but had changed her mind.
“Just now … why were you hiding?”
Anger flashed in her eyes. “I shouldn’t be here any more, not now this cottage is for sale. Except I’m desperate to earn some money and I’ve nowhere else to work.”
“Why?” He felt a burning curiosity about her, wanted to know every detail of her life, every minute of her past.
“The flat Dad’s renting, it’s over the fish and chip shop on the waterfront – there’s no space, is there? No room for anything.” She bit her lip. “Why don’t you leave me in peace to get on with this while I still can?”
“I only want to help.”
“No, you don’t. You’re just being nosy.” She tore at the lace edges of the handkerchief and threw it on the desk. “Anyway, you’re too late. If you’d come before he … before all this happened, maybe you could’ve—”
She looked out of the window and her body stiffened. “Who’s that in the garden with Martha?”
“My mum.”
“Lucky you!”
“What do you mean?”
“I haven’t got a mother any more.” Her voice was bitter. “I have to manage without one—”
“I know.” He bit his lip. “Martha … when she let us in … she told us … I’m sorry.”
The girl seemed to shy away from sympathy as if she couldn’t bear it. “What’s your mum doing with Martha?”
“We’ve come down from London.” Sweat broke on Nathan’s top lip. “For Christmas. My grandpa lives here.”
“So?” She glanced at him impatiently.
“Mum’s planning to sell our house in London and buy somewhere down here. I saw the notice in your garden—”
“And I thought you might be different!” The girl flushed. “I should’ve known! You and your mum, you’re nothing but vultures.” She turned away from him and sat abruptly at the desk. “You can’t wait to get at the pickings, can you?”
“That’s not fair!”
She reached for the paint brush, but her hand shook. “You’re the third lot so far. There was a stupid fat woman with a baby yesterday. The day before some posh couple turned up, all la-di-da and two smelly Labradors. The cottage hadn’t been for sale for more than half an hour. Said they’d just been out for a stroll! This is my home we’re talking about. I was born here. This attic was Mum’s special place, hers and mine.”
She put down the brush, scraped her fingers through her hair. She picked up an elastic band and tied back the curls. Nathan gazed at the pale furry skin on the back of her neck. He had to stop himself reaching out to touch it.
He swallowed. “Don’t you want to sell this cottage then?”
“Want to? Want to?” Her voice rose. “I begged him not to—”
“Who?”
“Pleaded. I’d do anything. Would you want to sell this place if you lived here?”
“Well, I—”
“Just don’t ask stupid questions.” Her shoulders drooped. “It makes everything worse.”
“Sorry.” Nathan backed away from her and perched stiffly on the arm of a chair. “I’m trying to make things better, but nothing I say is any use.”
She gave a short laugh. “If you want to be useful you can go. … And don’t bother to come back. … You and your mum. Tell her to get lost. … Just like mine.”
“OK, OK, I get the picture.” Nathan stared at the floor’s snake-like spatters of paint. It occurred to him that even though his mum was infuriating, having her around was probably better than not having a mum at all. Almost against his better judgement, he persisted, “How did it happen? Your mum?”
“I never talk about it.” Her voice was sullen. “Not to anybody. So why should I tell you?”
“It’s what friends are for,” Nathan began lamely, but she was having none of that.
“You’re not a friend, you’re a buyer. You came snooping round the cottage because you knew it was for sale—”
“That’s not true! I’d no idea. I’d had a row with Mum and I’d run away from her. I found this cottage quite by chance, heard you crying, wanted to help.” He stood up, his legs shaking with indignation. “And you couldn’t possibly have known I was going to be here.”
“Ah, but I did.” She wheeled round in her chair, her eyes blazing. “I can see things in my head. Things nobody else can see, before they happen.”
“Like me being in the garden?”
“Yes. And bad things too … Like Mum’s accident. That was the worst so far.” Tears glittered in her eyes but did not fall.
“You mean you knew about it before—”
She turned her face away. “I told you. I don’t want to talk about it. It makes everything worse.”
Nathan tried desperately to think of something to say. “What about your dad? Didn’t he help? Couldn’t he have—”
“Him.” Her voice took on a new harshness. “He was in France when Mum died. … Anyway, you’ve already met him.”
“Have I?”
“The man in the green hat.”
Prickles of frost ran down Nathan’s spine. “That bloke in the garden was your dad? The one who nearly beat me up?”
“Mastermind.” Her short, high laugh sounded like a cry.
“You mean he’s really violent?”
“Only when he’s drunk.” Pause. “Which is most of the time these days.”
He noticed her wrists. “Those bruises.” The skin flushed dark pink and grey. “Did he do that to you?”
“We were arguing,” the girl said abruptly. Voices drifted from the garden. She seemed glad of the interruption. She pulled her sleeves down and glanced out of the window. “Martha’s coming in with your mum. She’s bound to come up here. I’ll have to hide again.” She stood up and slid behind the curtain. “Don’t let on. Do you hear?”
“I’ll get rid of Mum. But I can’t leave you like this.”
“You must!” Her voice was muffled.
“I can’t just stand by and—” Panic pumped through him. “We’ve got to talk. Afterwards. Promise.”
“Nathan?” Mum’s voice called from the floor below, then at the top of the stairs. She walked into the attic. “Wow. What an amazing room.” She stood in an arc of sunlight. “They must use this as a studio. Look at the view!”
“Yes.” He stood with his back to the curtain.
“Talk about beginner’s luck. The garden’s paradise. It dips straight down a cliff to the sea.” She flopped into an armchair, her face shiny with happiness. “This is a miraculous find of yours, Nathan. It must be fate. I can feel us living here.”
“Yes.” I must get her out of the attic. “Is that Martha calling you?”
“Is it? I didn’t—”
“She probably wants us to leave—”
“Quite right. We shouldn’t take up any more of her time.” On the stairs she turned. “I’ll ring Mr Croft tonight from Tregenna and make
him an offer. I can’t wait to tell Grandpa. He’ll be over the moon.” She disappeared.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” the girl hissed. She flung back the curtain. “I’m done for. The vultures have circled and now they’re going to swoop.”
“Don’t talk like that. You make me feel so guilty. … When can I see you again?”
“Haven’t a clue. Does it matter?”
“Yes. It does to me.”
She shrugged, her face pale.
“I’m going to come again … as soon as I can get away.”
He turned towards the stairs and glanced back at her. She was staring down at the painting, her arms clenched around her body as if for comfort. He wanted to hug her.
On the landing he thought of a plan. He unwound his scarf. He’d leave it in the kitchen. Then, just as he and Mum were leaving, he’d make an excuse to dash back and find it.
He’d unlock the kitchen door and pocket the key.
Tonight, when Mum thought he was safely in his room, he’d come back.
Seven
That evening Nathan joined Grandpa in the hotel lobby.
“Hi, Gramp. Mum’s ringing the owner of the cottage.”
“So she said.” Grandpa patted the sofa. “Sit next to me, Nathaniel. I hear you found somewhere to live.” He smiled lopsidedly, his eyes approving. “That didn’t take you long.”
Nathan grinned. “Mum says it’s beginner’s luck.”
“Reckon you deserve some. You’ve had a rough time lately, what with Max and all.”
“I do miss him, Gramp. We did a lot together. Swimming. Homework. Played the piano. Made breakfast every morning while Mum was in the bath. I can’t get used to the gap.”
Grandpa clanked his sherry glass on the table. “I know. Funny, I was thinking the same kind of thing only this afternoon.”
“You were?”
“My Christmas tree. I was putting up the decorations. It’s the first time I’ve done that since Grandma died. I couldn’t face it last year, went to my friend Charlie’s for Christmas lunch. But now that you and your mum are here, I wanted to make an effort. I mean, you two and Charlie will be coming to me for Christmas this year.”
Girl in the Attic Page 5