Girl in the Attic

by Valerie Mendes

  “Someone else bought it at a fraction of its worth. Got it up and running again in a couple of weeks.”

  “Could Croft have been framed?”

  “Who knows, Nathaniel? When guys like him get in the deep end, who knows where the truth begins and ends?” He grinned. “I’m the last person to ask. I used to run a newspaper. … By the way.” He turned back to the stove and switched it off. “It’s probably a good thing you won’t be buying Croft’s cottage.”

  “Why?” Nathan did his best to sound unconcerned.

  “I reckon he could be pretty dangerous. If you want my advice, you’ll stay well away from him.”

  Nine

  In the art shop, Grandpa introduced him. “Charlie, this is my grandson. I call him Nathaniel, but to everyone else, he’s Nathan.”

  Charlie gave a guffaw of approval. “Hi, Nathan.” That deep burr again. “Henry’s told me so much about you! … Weren’t you here yesterday?”

  “Well spotted.” Nathan looked at Charlie’s lean, narrow face, untidy grey curls, generous mouth, smiling deep-blue eyes. He shook a roughened hand. “But yesterday I was just looking.”

  “And now?”

  “Gramp’s buying me a Christmas present.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it.” Charlie waved an arm. “Masses to choose from. Take your pick.”

  “Charlie’s one of my oldest friends,” Grandpa said. “Cornwall born and bred, trained at an art college in London, came back here to live as a fully-fledged cartoonist. You’ve worked for the St Ives Recorder for how long now, Charlie?”

  “Almost twenty-five years, for my sins. Your grandfather, Nathan, saved my bacon and no mistake.” Charlie and Grandpa grinned at each other. “I’d never have been able to buy this place and open this shop without the money I made on the Recorder. There’s a marvellous studio at the back, where I can draw to my heart’s content, and a flat above where I sleep. All thanks to Henry.”

  “Oh, come on, Charlie.” Grandpa beamed with delight. “If I hadn’t spotted a talent like yours, someone else would’ve. … Right, to business, Nathaniel. Get browsing.”

  Nathan chose a set of coloured pencils, watercolours, brushes and silky art paper. Charlie wrapped them and Grandpa tucked them under his arm.

  “See you tonight, Henry?” Charlie said. “At Carols by Candlelight?”

  “Haven’t missed it in thirty years.” Grandpa looked at Nathan. “Will you and your mum come? I’m in the choir. We make a wonderful racket. Well worth hearing.”

  “I’d love to,” Nathan said, but his head buzzed with worries. “I’ll tell Mum.”

  They left the shop and stood looking out at the waterfront.

  “Thanks, Gramp. For lending me your archive. For the Christmas present.”

  “My pleasure. It’s the first time we’ve really talked, man to man. It’s been a good morning.”

  “Yes.”

  Nathan stared across at a group of men standing by the boats. They talked, argued, dipped their heads over cigarettes. The smoke spiralled into the midday air in thin white funnels above their boisterous voices.

  One of the men drew away, tall, heavy, his dark green hat pulled down over his eyes. He shouted something at the group, made a rude gesture and began to stride up towards the shops.

  The group snarled at his back and closed ranks behind him.

  “What’s the matter?” Grandpa gripped Nathan’s arm.

  “It’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “You’ve got a face like thunder. Was it something I said?”

  “’Course not, Gramp. You’ve been brilliant.”

  Grandpa’s grip slackened. “See you tonight, then. Pick me up at seven.”

  Nathan backed into a doorway. He watched as Jake Croft pulled at his cigarette and with a swift, practised gesture, flung the butt into the thin grey sludge of tide.

  Nathan began to walk away across the waterfront, but something made him stop in his tracks and turn. He saw Jake slouch past the art shop as Charlie came out of it. For a moment the two men glared at each other, face to face, their shoulders squared like threatening boxers. Then, silently, abruptly, Jake brushed away.

  Charlie stared after him, his fists clenched. He turned to inspect the window, his body taut, his face black with anger. He crashed back into the shop.

  Nathan ran to find out what was new in the window.

  At the centre of the display stood a painting, framed in pale wood. A painting he recognised: two shadowy people on a beach pushed against the wind, the sky behind them dark with thunderclouds. Underneath it sat a label:

  Figures on a Beach

  New work by young local artist Rosalie Croft

  Nathan drank his soup as fast as he could while Mum went on about the houses she’d seen. “But none of them are right. I’ll soldier on while I’ve got the energy. I’m inspecting two more cottages this afternoon. I’ll meet you back at Tregenna. We can have supper there before the carol concert.”

  He watched her scurrying down the hill, the sheaf of papers under her arm. A moment later, he followed. He was going to the cottage, but this time bold as brass.

  As he reached it, he saw a new notice on the wooden post:

  Sold. No further calls or callers.

  He wanted to rip the piece of paper from its nail and tear it into shreds.

  He flung open the gate, marched up the path and drilled his thumb against the doorbell. He hopped from foot to foot and rang again. He heard steps on the stairs.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Nathan. Let me in.”

  She opened the door, her face smeared with dust. She didn’t bother with a greeting. “I’m clearing out the attic.” She blushed. “I must look a mess.”

  He stepped into the hall. “You look great. … So does your painting. I saw it in Charlie’s window.”

  “I managed to finish it. I’ve tried so many times to get it right but it never worked before. Yesterday afternoon, it suddenly all came together. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “Where were you last night? After your dad left? I came to find you—”

  She avoided his eyes. “I jumped on to my broomstick and flew out of the window.”

  “My ghosts did too. … Fly out of the window, that is.” Relief swept through him that at last he could tell her.

  “What?”

  “I saw three ghosts. … It was so weird. I thought I heard the chink of bottles and there was a funny smell, salty … and black, like tar. Then I saw shapes, almost like bodies, but transparent. … An old couple with a younger woman—”

  Rosalie’s face changed. A new interest and respect lit her eyes. “What were they doing?”

  “Laughing, spinning in each other’s arms … It was only for a moment. I thought I must be dreaming, thought I saw them climb the moonbeam through the window. … And then I passed out, I was so scared. I don’t know what happened next. I guess I must have fallen asleep.”

  Her face was pale. “I’m glad.”

  “Why?”

  “That you’ve seen them too.”

  “Who are they?”

  “My grandparents … my father’s mum and dad.”

  “And the young woman?” He moved closer towards her. “Is she your mum?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve just read about her in the St Ives Recorder. And about your dad. At least … a bit about him. About the yard.”

  “How did you—”

  “My grandpa’s got a collection of the newspapers in his attic. He used to be the editor. He let me search through them. I found the headlines and the photographs.”

  She pushed back her hair with a grimy hand. “And you want to know the whole story?”

  “If you want to tell me.”

  “OK, you win.” She paused, smiled faintly. “Cup of tea, Sherlock Holmes?”

  The kitchen table groaned with stacks of cups and plates. Cupboard doors stood open, a basket of crumpled washing spilled over in a corner. Tiggy slept p
rofoundly in a nest of pillowcases, her paws looped over her eyes.

  He watched Rosalie move about the room, washing her hands, filling the kettle, picking out two mugs, dropping teabags into the pot.

  “It’s not a nice story, I warn you.” She poured boiling water. “It was four years ago. I was ten when everything fell apart.” She put the pot on the table and sat facing him, her eyes fixed on memories. “Dad ran the boat yard, Mum painted pictures. Wonderful landscapes, people’s portraits—”

  “Like the one in the hall?”

  “Yes. Charlie bought everything Mum painted. He was wonderful to us when—” she faltered.

  “Your dad went to prison?”

  Her voice darkened. “Charlie was one of the few people in St Ives who stood by us. Even my best friend, Bella – she lives at the top of this road – even she gave me the cold shoulder and we’ve never really been close since.

  “And at school it was ghastly. The teachers were oh-so-polite, but when I walked into a classroom, everything used to go quiet and I knew they’d been talking about me … about Dad.”

  “So how did it all start?”

  “Dad had worked in the boat yard ever since he left school. His dad owned the yard and he trained him up. Then he died and Dad took over. … When Mum got pregnant with me, she said it was the best surprise she’d ever had. But Dad – he’d always wanted a son.” Unsteadily she poured the tea. “Mum said he went out and got drunk.”

  “Did he often do that?”

  “No. He was a big, jolly man, always laughing, joking with the guys in the yard. I used to love being with him. He worked hard, knew everyone for miles around. He adored Mum. He was never a crook … or a smuggler.”

  She pushed his mug of tea across the table, raised her own and smiled at him. “May you never thirst. That’s what Mum used to say to the special people in her life.”

  His cheeks burned with sudden joy. “Cheers.” He gulped at the hot liquid. “So what happened?”

  She dropped her gaze. “It was October, four years ago. I got home from school, Mum was crying. Dad had been arrested. She’d no idea why. Then everything became a nightmare – reporters on the doorstep, people ringing up. All I knew was Dad had been taken away from us. They locked him up and he didn’t come home for eighteen months.”

  “Did he tell you his side of the story?”

  “The more Mum asked, the more he clammed up. He just said he was innocent, over and over again, and refused to tell us anything.”

  “Do you think he was guilty?”

  She looked at him. “I don’t know. I’ll probably never know.” She bit her lip. “Him being in prison was bad enough. But Mum and I made a life for ourselves. When he got home, things were worse. He had no job, nobody would give him work, his friends blanked him, he got very depressed.”

  “How did you manage?”

  “Mum went on painting, day and night. Dad began to drink whenever he could, said it helped him forget.” Her eyes flashed with tears. “It was like he’d given up on us.”

  Nathan leaned across the table to grip her hand. Her fingers tightened in his. She smiled at him, wiped her face with her sleeve.

  “I should be packing. Dad will fly into another rage if I don’t clear the attic.” She swallowed the last of her tea. “You’d better go.”

  “Couldn’t I help you?”

  “It’s pretty mucky up there.”

  “I don’t care.” Don’t send me away.

  Dark shadows smudged beneath her eyes. “OK … Thanks.”

  “Besides,” he said, “you haven’t told me about your mum.”

  She gave a shaky laugh. “Ten out of ten for doggedness! In the attic … I’ll tell you all about it up there.”

  The room gaped grey and sad in the fading afternoon light. The easel stood empty on spindly skeleton legs. Shelves lay bare and dusty; boards stashed in sprawling heaps against the wall. Nathan ran his eyes round the attic, looking for a hidden exit, but nothing gave it away. Unless the triangular cupboard in the corner hid something … But he could hardly open its doors to investigate.

  “Could you clear those paints and put them in that box?” Rosalie kicked at an empty carton by the desk.

  “Right.” Nathan moved over to the shelf. “This is such a great room.”

  “Yes.” She bent over some canvases. “Mum turned it from a junk room into a studio by putting in the two windows. When I was small I remember playing on the floor with crayons. Then after Dad went to prison and Mum became the real money earner, I began to paint seriously. I’d always been able to draw and it was like I could shut out the world, everything that was going wrong, if I had pencil and paper.”

  “And now you sell your stuff to Charlie?”

  “Don’t know what I’d do without him. He bought two of Mum’s landscapes the week Dad went to prison. He put them in his shop window: New Work by Moira Croft. He sold them the same day. We never knew who bought them, but we were so grateful. We lived on the money for months.”

  “Will you be able to paint when you move?”

  “Try to stop me! It’s what I want to do when I leave school. Go to art college, like Charlie, get proper training.” She straightened her shoulders. “You see that chest on the back wall?”

  Nathan looked across at a wide oak chest, its top littered with books.

  “It’s full of old artwork. When you’ve finished that shelf, could you pull everything out and heap it on the desk? I’ll sort it tonight, see if anything is worth rescuing.”

  For twenty minutes they worked, Rosalie kneeling on the floor, sorting and sifting, Nathan lifting and carrying. They talked all the time. He told her about Dad and Karen and Amy, about Tom and their party – and about leaving all that for St Ives.

  She was a good listener.

  Then she told him how she’d been at school one morning in June, eighteen months ago, in the playground. “Suddenly the sky went dark and I heard Mum calling me.”

  Nathan stopped working and turned to look at her.

  “I fainted. When I came to, her voice was still ringing in my head. I pushed everyone away from me and ran home, ran – I don’t remember how I got here. I raced out to the bottom of the garden. Suddenly the calling stopped. I knew she was close.”

  “Go on.”

  “I climbed down to the plateau. One of the metal rungs had broken away and she must have slipped. She was lying there, all crumpled, blood on her face, her arms and legs like broken sticks.” Rosalie’s face puckered into a grim smile. “I told her she’d be OK, that I loved her. I raced back here to ring for an ambulance. But by the time I got to her again, she was dead.”

  “I’m so sorry—” The inadequate words stuck in his throat.

  “Thanks.” Tears stood in her eyes. “The strange things is—”

  “Tell me.”

  “I could never work out why Mum was on the cliff. If she’d gone out to the plateau to sketch something, as she did a lot, she’d have had her pencils and sketchbook with her. But she wasn’t carrying anything – not even a bag. Just some house keys in her pocket … It was like she’d left the cottage in a hurry to go somewhere or meet someone. … Except I never ever found out where, or who it was.”

  “Afterwards,” Nathan said gently, to fill the silence, “how did you cope?”

  “The first few months were the worst. I didn’t go back to school again that term and the summer was endless. When school started again I couldn’t face it. The sympathy, the curiosity. It was like I was some kind of freak. One morning at school, I was in the loo and I heard the other girls talking about me. They’d given me a nickname: Spooky. … I started bunking off.”

  “Did your dad know?”

  “I don’t think he cared much where I was. He was grieving for Mum too, in his own way. He said his life was in a mess. So was mine, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him.”

  “Didn’t anyone help?”

  “Yes.” She stared out of the window. “Charlie s
potted me one afternoon in November. I should have been at school, but instead I was hanging about on my own on the waterfront. He shut the shop and came out to me. We walked on the beach and ate a huge lunch in town. I was frozen and starving, the food was wonderful.

  “Charlie told me he knew how hard everything was, but how I must stick it out at school, get through the exams, go to art college. It was like he could read my mind and healed something in it.” She turned to look at Nathan. “I went back to school the next day. I told my class teacher about the nickname, how much I hated it. I never heard it again. I worked like crazy to catch up, tried to make friends with everyone again. It was tough – but it was a lot easier than mucking about on my own.” She bent over the canvases again. “That’s the whole story, Sherlock.”

  She did not see the smile Nathan sent her across the room.

  “Thanks for telling me,” he said.

  Ten minutes later, he’d reached the bottom drawer of the chest and knelt to pull it open. He looked at it more closely, checked it and looked again.

  “Rosalie, this drawer.”

  “Yes?” She stood the other side of the attic, prodding at some ceiling cobwebs with a broom.

  “It’s got a false bottom. Come and see. If you look at it from the outside, the drawer’s quite deep. But when you open it … Look. This piece of wood’s been laid halfway down.”

  She bent to inspect it. “How strange. Can we get it out?”

  Nathan ran his hands round the inside of the drawer. “I’m not sure.” His fingers scraped against a tiny clasp, then a second one. “Feel these. There … and there.”

  She knelt beside him. He could feel her warmth. “Locks of some kind.”

  “Or they might be clasps that won’t need a key.” Nathan lay flat on the floor and peered dead level at the drawer. “I’ll try to open them.”