Girl in the Attic

by Valerie Mendes

Rosalie stood up and backed away, her hands at her mouth.

  He looked up at her. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m frightened … By what we might find.”

  “Don’t you want to know what it is?”

  “I’ve gone all shivery.” She sat at the desk. “Go on, then.”

  Nathan ran his left hand along the piece of wood, felt the intricate metal of the clasp and flipped it open. His right hand struggled with the other clasp. “It’s stuck.” He persevered. The metal bit into his fingers. “OK, it’s open.”

  He sat up. “Come and lift it away.”

  “Do it for me.”

  “Here. We’ll do it together.”

  “Just do it, Nathan. Tell me what’s inside.”

  He lay on the floor again, pulled at the wooden lining, pressed it and tried again. He managed to squeeze his fingers beneath it. He dragged it out.

  “Well? Don’t keep me in suspense.” Her voice shook. “What’s in there?”

  Ten

  Nathan craned his neck. “A sketchbook … And a painting.” He felt a pang of disappointment.

  Rosalie frowned. “Mum must have hidden them there. Nobody ever used that chest.” She knelt beside him, pulled out the sketchbook, turned its cover, stared down at the first page.

  She gasped.

  She turned the second page, the third, the fourth.

  Nathan looked over her shoulder at the delicate charcoal drawings: heads, heads and shoulders; a naked body sitting on the beach, running into the sea; hands, hands and arms, sinewy legs and feet; heads again, turned every which way, flowing in light and shade and shadow, drawn with vivid tenderness.

  “They’re all of Charlie, aren’t they?” Nathan said. “Every single one.”

  Rosalie turned the pages until they got to the end.

  “But he’s younger in the first sketches … look, there … These last ones, in coloured pencil, are later. … These have all been drawn over many years, haven’t they?”

  “You’re right.” Thoughtfully, she sat back on her heels. “Over many years.” She looked at Nathan. “I wonder …”

  “Yes?”

  “Why were they hidden? And so carefully … Mum obviously didn’t want anyone to find them.”

  “Maybe she didn’t want your dad to know Charlie was sitting for her?”

  She held up the oil painting, caught her breath at its beauty. “This is Charlie too.”

  It was. The colours of the oils seemed to ripple towards them. Light from a wide background window fell on to Charlie’s face, his penetrating blue eyes, his grey curls, the turn of his shoulders.

  “This is spectacular. … It’s one of the best portraits Mum ever did.” Rosalie’s hands shook. “I want Charlie to have it, for Christmas. As a special thank you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Why?”

  “If your mum hid it so carefully, maybe she never wanted anyone to see it – least of all Charlie.”

  “Well, I want him to see it.”

  He looked at her flushed face. “What about finishing the attic?”

  “Tonight. I’ll come back tonight.” She zipped open a wide leather case, packed the painting and the sketchbook into it. “Jesus, this is heavy.”

  “Let me carry it.”

  “Would you? Are you sure?”

  “Of course.” As he took the case, their hands brushed. The touch charged him with excitement.

  “Let’s go now. To the flat.” Her eyes blazed at him. “Charlie’s shop’s bound to be open. He’s going to get the biggest surprise of his life.”

  “You bet he is.”

  She flung her arms around him and her lips brushed his cheek. “Thank you for finding these.”

  He closed his eyes, desperate to kiss her mouth.

  She pulled away. “Come on. Let’s get down to the beach, before the dark.”

  They walked through the gardens to the cliff edge. Nathan slung the bag over his shoulder, feeling its weight bite. Rosalie climbed swiftly down the ladder. She waited for him on the plateau, her hair blowing back from her forehead, her face pale against the darkening sky.

  “I shall miss this spot,” she said. “It’s special for so many reasons.”

  Her voice faltered.

  Nathan stood beside her. “Isn’t this where you found your mum?”

  “It took me weeks before I could bear to come out here again, or go down to the beach.” She squared her shoulders. “Then Dad replaced the foothold where Mum had fallen, tested all the others to make sure they were safe. … I sit here and sketch in almost all weathers. You can see for miles, but nobody can see you.”

  “Like having your own private lighthouse.” He gulped the air into his lungs, grateful for its sharpness. He looked over the cliff at the grey sea; then sideways, at Rosalie’s face and hair.

  I want to hold her hand, touch her hair, take her in my arms.

  She glanced at him as if she read his thoughts. “We’d better hurry. It’ll soon be night.”

  They climbed down the cliff face and started across the beach. Rock pools lay dark and murky. Long streaks of golden seaweed slid beneath their feet. Their shoulders brushed.

  She slipped on some pebbles.

  Instinctively he reached out to steady her. “Careful.”

  She smiled at him, twisted her fingers round his. He felt as if the two of them were linked now more deeply than the mere touching of hands. He heard only the dull roar of the sea, the gusting wind, the shrieks of wheeling gulls. The silence of their voices slithered easily between them, as if suddenly they were friends.

  At the end of the beach, they climbed up to the narrow street. The bustling crowds startled Nathan, the laughing chatter of voices, the shop lights, the bubbles of Christmas excitement he had totally forgotten.

  Rosalie snaked through the crowds ahead of him. They turned down the street to the waterfront. Her voice cut through his thoughts. “Come on, we’re here.”

  She stood by a shabby narrow door next to the fish and chip shop, and kicked it open. They staggered up a cramped wooden staircase. Grim-faced, she opened the door.

  The room was low-ceilinged, littered with boxes, piles of books and clothes. The smell of fish and stale beer hung in the air. A bay window looked bleakly over the waterfront, an archway led into a dingy kitchen. Another narrow flight of stairs trailed up to what Nathan supposed must be bedrooms.

  “This is it.” She flopped into a chair. “Hardly room to swing a cat. Tiggy isn’t going to like it. I shall wait until the last moment before I bring her here.”

  Nathan slid the bag from his shoulder. Getting rid of its weight was a relief, but his stomach clenched at the thought of leaving.

  “Look,” he said. “I’m starving. I bet you didn’t have any lunch. Let’s go and have tea in Kathy’s Bar. Come on.” He held out his hand.

  She reached for it. “Great idea.” She looked down at the bag. “Let me unpack the painting for Charlie. I can give it to him on the way.”

  She stooped over the bag and pulled out the painting. They stood for a moment admiring the thick oily colours glinting in the half-light.

  And footsteps clumped on the stairs.

  Rosalie gripped Nathan’s arm. “That’s Dad. I thought he’d gone to Penzance. Quick! Hide!”

  “It’s too late—”

  Nathan turned to see Jake Croft’s head and shoulders looming from the stairs. He lurched into the doorway, steadied himself against the wall.

  “Well, well.” The heavy lids drooped, almost closed with drink and fatigue. “If it isn’t the lad from our back garden.”

  Nathan ran his tongue over his lips, backed away across the room.

  “Afternoon, Mr Croft.”

  “Oh, you know who I am now, do you?” His head swayed. “So you were waiting for Ros that day!”

  “Dad, this is Nathan. A friend of mine.”

  “Is he indeed!” Her father gave a snort of laughter and turned to look at her. “What
’s that pretty picture you’re holding?”

  Rosalie clutched the painting more tightly.

  “Come on, let’s see it, then. Another trophy for the living-room?” He wrenched it from her hands and stared down at it. “What the hell is this?”

  “You can see what it is.” Her voice was cold, deliberate. “Mum’s portrait of Charlie Ellis. Don’t pretend you don’t recognise him.”

  “Oh, I recognise him all right.” Her father’s face flushed, his eyes sparked livid with rage. “But I haven’t seen this one before.” He dropped it on the floor. “What’s in that bag?”

  “Nothing.” Rosalie leaped towards it.

  Her father shoved her out of the way. “No, you don’t.” He ripped at the bag, pulled out the sketchbook, flicked at the pages with stabbing fingers. “Charlie bloody Ellis, Charlie bloody Ellis.” He said the words over and over, almost like a chant.

  He looked at her, then across at Nathan, then down at the drawings in his hands. He began to tear the sketchbook into pieces, page by page, ripping and tearing like a demented vulture.

  Rosalie gave a cry and tried to wrench the sketchbook away.

  Her father turned on her. “Stop that! These are rubbish, do you hear? It’s the past. It’s all in the past. We’ve got to forget it ever happened, do you get me, girl?”

  He picked up the oil painting. “And as for this,” he raised his knee and smashed the painting against it. “That’s what I think of this!” He threw the canvas into the fireplace. “Tonight I’ll light a fire. We can warm our hands on the blaze.”

  “No!” Rosalie raised her fists, threw herself against him. “That’s Mum’s work, her beautiful work. Don’t you dare destroy it—”

  “I dare all right, see if I don’t.” His huge hands grasped her arms as if they were matchsticks. “You’ve no right to bring that filth into this flat.”

  She flinched in pain, screamed, “It’s not filth. How can you say that?”

  “Everything’s different now, do you hear? She’s dead, your mother, and her work dies with her.”

  “Never! She’ll never be dead. I can hear her, speak to her. … Let go of me—”

  Her father released her. His voice dropped. “I said clear the attic, not trail its contents halfway across St Ives.” He stared down at the torn sketches. “You’re crazy, that’s what you are. Talking to the dead.”

  “And you’re nothing but a drunk.” Nathan astonished himself as his own voice, rough with anger, burst across the room. “We’ve worked all afternoon to clear the attic for you. Rosalie’s been in tears at leaving the place—”

  Jake Croft turned towards him, his mouth slack with rage. “What’s any of this got to do with you?”

  “I offered to help Rosalie. We found those drawings of Charlie. They’re beautiful.”

  “Now look here.” Jake Croft moved towards Nathan, raised his arm, brought it down on the side of Nathan’s head. Nathan reeled over at the blow and crashed down against the wall. For a moment he could hear nothing but the boom of thunder in the sky.

  “If you do that again,” Rosalie’s voice called across the room, clear and cold as a bell, “if you touch either of us again, I’ll go to the police. I’m sick to death of your threats, your bullying. I’ll tell the police exactly what you’re like. Is that what you want?”

  Nathan opened his eyes. From the floor, he saw Jake Croft loom over Rosalie and raise an arm. He stood there swaying on his feet, his face purple, his eyes bulging. Then he gave a sob of rage. His arm dropped.

  He turned away, lurching, spitting on the torn sketches, trampling on them, kicking them aside.

  His footsteps hurtled down the stairs.

  Somewhere in the distance a door slammed.

  “Don’t cry.” Nathan forced himself to stand. The floor swayed beneath him. He seemed to have bitten his tongue and his mouth tasted of blood. His head throbbed, drum-like, persistently.

  He stumbled across the room and scooped Rosalie into his arms. “Everything will be all right,” he said wildly. “I promise you. I’m going to the police. You can’t go on like this—”

  “No. Don’t do anything.” Her head was heavy on his shoulder, her voice low. “I’m going to run away.”

  “You can’t do that.” Nathan felt a stab of desperation. “It’s a daft idea. It’ll never work.” He looked across at the grate, moved away from her, bent over the canvas and pulled it from the hearth. “The painting’s torn, but we can still give it to Charlie.”

  She had slumped into a chair, her head in her hands.

  “Don’t give up, Rosalie. Think about your mum. What she’d want you to do.”

  She looked at the painting. “He’s put his knee right through it. I can’t possibly give that to Charlie.”

  “It’s a clean tear,” Nathan said lamely. “Maybe Charlie can mend it.” He tried to flatten the canvas, join its centre together, knowing it was hopeless. He knelt beside her. “And we’ll have tea in Kathy’s Bar.” He smoothed her hair away from her eyes. “If you let your dad get to you, he’s won. Don’t you see?”

  She looked at him. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No,” he said, although his head throbbed. “Come on. Let’s fight back.”

  “Good idea. Let’s do that.” She stood up unsteadily and began to scoop up the torn sketches. “Let’s light the fire. Bring me the box of matches in the kitchen, by the stove. We’re going to burn these sketches and the canvas.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Dad’s wrecked all of them. But I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing Mum’s beautiful work go up in flames.”

  They knelt beside the fire as piece by piece it nibbled at the edges of the sketches, consumed the hands, the faces, the writhing bodies; scorched the canvas, curled its beauty into a blackened sooty mass smelling of burned oil.

  They left the dying embers and walked out to the street, past the art shop.

  Nathan stopped. “Your Figures on a Beach,” he said. They stared at the empty space in the middle of the window. “It’s gone.”

  She gripped his hand more tightly. “Maybe someone’s bought it.”

  They peered in, saw Charlie wave and beckon.

  “Rosalie … and Nathan!” Charlie looked pleased. His eyes shone, his grey hair was ruffled. “I didn’t know you’d met!”

  “Only just,” Nathan murmured, hot with sudden shyness. “At the cottage—”

  “I’m delighted,” Charlie said. “Have you seen any of her work? Paints like a dream, just like … just like her mother.” He looked at Rosalie. “ I sold your Figures on a Beach. I was going to ring you. I put it in the window this morning and someone bought it after lunch. Said it was just what they wanted.” He clanged open the cash register, rustled some notes. “Here.”

  Rosalie gasped. “I can’t believe it.” She stared down at the bundle of money.

  “It was good work, Rosalie. Excellent. You’ve come on no end since—” He bit his lip.

  “Thank you so much, Charlie.” She reached up to kiss his cheek. “You’re a star.”

  For a split second Nathan thought he could see tears in Charlie’s eyes.

  “I’d do anything to help you.” Charlie’s voice was gruff. “Anything at all.”

  They stood outside the shop. Nathan hugged her. “Isn’t that fantastic?”

  Rosalie looked down at the notes in her hand. “Depends what you mean.”

  “How?”

  She pushed the money into her pocket. “I can afford to run away now, can’t I?”

  “But I thought—”

  “This feels like a sign, telling me I can go.”

  “Please don’t—”

  “It took me so long to get that painting right. Over and over again I tried. Now it’s as if Mum’s saying to me: It’s the right time to leave.”

  “There’s never a right time—”

  “It’s no good, Nathan. Dad’s drinking is much worse. Ever since Mum died … every day … it’s
like there’s a pattern … month after month. It’s been getting worse for eighteen months. I can’t handle it any more.” She looked at him, reached up to stroke the side of his head. “Him hitting you like that was the last straw.”

  He said bleakly, “I didn’t mean to make things any worse.”

  “You didn’t. It’s only a matter of time before he hits me too. I dread it. … Every morning I wake up and I’m scared. … Scared of being in the same room with him.”

  “Then let’s go to the police. Tell them—”

  She put a finger against his mouth. “I’m old enough to look after myself. I know I’m only fourteen, but if I tie my hair back, put on some make-up, I can look sixteen, no problem.” She patted her pocket. “This money. It’s more than I’ve ever earned. It’ll keep me going for a bit.”

  “And when it runs out?”

  “I’ll find a job.”

  “You’re too young! … Can’t we talk about it?”

  “I’m sorry. I have to sort my things out, make supper for Dad so he doesn’t suspect I’m leaving.” She hesitated, her head tilted, her eyes inspecting him closely. “Of course, you could always come with me.”

  “Yes,” Nathan said grimly. “I could. A couple of days ago I was so fed up I almost ran away myself.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “But then I rang Dad. … He made me promise I wouldn’t.”

  “I see.” Her eyes flared with disappointment. “Well, a promise is a promise, isn’t it?”

  Briefly, unexpectedly, she hugged him, clung to his shoulder, her hair a mass of curls in his face. The scent of oil paint and honey seemed to fill his head.

  “Goodbye, boy in the garden.”

  Before he could say anything she had turned away, walked down the waterfront towards the door of the flat. She waved and vanished inside.

  He felt as if a massive fist had punched him in the stomach.

  Eleven

  Nathan pushed against the crowds, struggled up the path through the dark woods to Tregenna. The air, colder, smelled of snow. The wind bit across his face.

  There was nothing I could do to change her mind. I called to her from the waterfront, saw her at the window, but she just shook her head. Wouldn’t talk to me.