Nathan coughed and swallowed.
“Nat?” Dad asked sharply. “Have you got a cold?”
“No,” Nathan snuffled. “I’m fine—”
“Thank God for that!” Dad said. “Because you and me, we’re going somewhere special for the New Year. Just the two of us. I’m taking you to Switzerland, to St Moritz. You’re going to learn to ski!”
“Dad! That’s fantastic!” This time the words didn’t get a chance to stick. “I can’t wait!”
“Neither can I … You’ve been great, Nat. I’m really proud of you. Mum told me about the cottage and everything and I’m so pleased it’s what you want. When the time comes, I’ll travel down to help you move in.”
“You will?”
“Of course. Mum says the cottage is beautiful. I’m dying to see it.”
“Us being so far away. Will it matter?”
“Not a jot. I refuse to let it get in the way of us seeing each other. I promise … Nat?”
“I’m still here—”
“Have you opened the presents yet?”
“No. They’re in Mum’s room. We’re taking them to Grandpa’s tomorrow.”
“Well, when you see what mine it, you’ll understand its special purpose. … Happy Christmas, Nat. Love you loads.”
While Grandpa and Mum put the finishing touches to Christmas lunch, Nathan sat on the floor by Grandpa’s Christmas tree in a sea of wrapping paper, Charlie in the armchair by the fire.
Dad had given him a winter coat, light as a feather and ideal for skiing; Karen a mobile phone with the message Ring us any time.
She feels guilty that she’s stolen my dad.
Nathan remembered what he’d said to Mum, that morning she’d broken the news: that Dad would always be somewhere else, on the end of a stupid phone. And now here he was, sitting with it in his lap. But he supposed Karen was only trying to be friendly. She could be a whole lot worse. … And he’d be able to ring a lot of other people with it, as well as Dad.
Amy had made him some splodgy biscuits, sticky with chocolate chips. Nathan bit into one. It wasn’t bad – for a smarmy brat, anyway.
Mum had given him a huge polo-neck sweater which Nathan pulled on. He was so hot in it he could hardly breathe. Charlie said he looked like an Arctic explorer and asked which mountain he intended to conquer. He’d given Nathan a set of oil paints. “I expect to see excellent work with those!” Nathan put them happily with Grandpa’s art-shop haul.
When the doorbell rang, Nathan leaped from the floor and rushed to answer it. Rosalie held out a bunch of irises. “I hope these will be all right. I bought them at the hospital. I haven’t had time to do any shopping—”
“Nor me.” Nathan pulled her into the hall. “It’s you we want to see, not the contents of the shops.” He took the flowers and her jacket. She wore a turquoise sweater, the jade necklace. The scent of oil paint and honey clung to her. “You look great.”
“I slept for ten hours last night.”
“How’s your dad?”
“On the mend.” She paused at the door to the living-room. “Charlie! What a lovely surprise.”
Charlie, already on his feet, looked stunned. “Rosalie!”
Nathan told him briefly about Jake’s accident and why Rosalie was with them. Charlie’s eyes darkened with rage.
“You should’ve let me know.” He moved towards her. “I’d no idea anything had happened. It’s been Christmas pandemonium in the shop. I didn’t shut it until nine o’clock last night.”
“Thanks, Charlie, but there was nothing you could’ve done. Dad’s been asking for trouble. Of course, I didn’t want the fight to happen, but in a way I’m glad it’s all come to a head.”
“We’re buying Rosalie’s cottage,” Nathan burst out, frightened by the anger in Charlie’s face, wanting to smooth it away. It seemed to work, though when they sat down to talk, Charlie’s eyes were constantly on Rosalie, worried, thoughtful, as if there were many other things he wanted to say.
Nathan looked around the faces at the Christmas table.
Grandpa, flushed with cooking the most delicious turkey in the world – “Does anyone want any more?” – a paper hat perched on his tufty hair – “There’s still a trifle, you know, and I couldn’t bear it for breakfast.”
Mum, relaxed, happy, wearing the orange scarf Nathan had given her – “Dad, we’ll not need to eat for a week” – speaking to Max on the phone, handing the phone to Nathan – “He wants to say hello again” – throwing back her head with laughter at one of the jokes in a cracker – “The old ones are still the best!”
Charlie, his lean face eager now, the thoughtfulness banished, as if he had come to a decision, his hands restless, gesturing – “And this is what you look like, Henry, in that hat” – drawing a cartoon of Grandpa on his serviette with a few deft flicks of his pen.
Rosalie – “Wish I could sketch like that” – looking at Charlie and then at the drawing, smiling at Nathan whenever their eyes met across the table.
Grandpa filled their glasses. “I want to drink a toast. To all my guests. God bless you for being with me.” He hiccupped loudly. “To health, happiness and Christmas.”
His hat slipped to the floor.
There was a ripple of laughter and murmured approval.
Everybody drank.
Charlie raised his glass again. The crimson liquid glinted. His eyes met Rosalie’s. And it seemed to Nathan that a hush fell across the room like the shadow of a giant hand. Nobody spoke or moved. The lanterns on the tree flickered. A log cracked in the grate.
“May you never thirst,” Charlie said.
Rosalie stood up. Her glass tipped sideways. Wine trickled its thin bright frond across the tablecloth. “What did you say?”
Charlie’s eyes never left hers. “May you never thirst.”
“Mum used to say that.”
“I know.”
“It was her special blessing. For people she loved.”
“Yes, Rosalie, I know.”
“I’ve never heard anyone else use it.”
“She often said it to me.”
Rosalie stepped back from the table. “What do you mean, Charlie? What are you trying to say?”
Charlie stood up. “Can’t you guess?”
Rosalie’s hands went to her mouth as if to catch her words. None came. She turned away from him and ran into the hall.
Charlie flung back his chair, muttered an apology and followed her.
Nathan glanced at Mum and Grandpa’s startled faces. There was an uncomfortable silence.
Nathan filled it by saying quickly, “It’s OK. I guess they’ve got stuff to sort out. … Great lunch, Gramp.”
“Fantastic,” Mum said. “I can’t believe what a marvellous cook you’ve become. You’ll have to try all those fish recipes in the book Nathan’s given you.”
But Grandpa wasn’t listening. “Wait a minute.” He frowned. “I wonder … I’ve just put two and two together. Well, I’ll be … Charlie Ellis is a dark horse and no mistake. There’s a turn-up for the books—”
Nathan had no idea what Grandpa was on about. He could hear the quiet voices in the hall. Charlie, talking and talking, Rosalie interrupting, her voice high, asking questions. But he couldn’t make out the words.
Curiosity overwhelmed him. He stood up. “Just going to find out what’s going on.”
He slipped quickly to the doorway.
“My dream,” he heard Rosalie say. “The dream that’s haunted me and that I tried to paint. Those figures on a beach. Mum walking with a man, but I never knew who he was. She’s with you, Charlie, isn’t she? Somewhere in the back of my mind, I must’ve remembered seeing you together.”
“Yes.” Charlie’s voice was low. “When you brought the painting into the shop, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It wasn’t only that it’s the best thing you’ve ever done. It seemed to me it was also a sign you were ready. …”
He moved towards her.
Sh
e threw back her head. “No. No closer. Don’t come any closer, do you hear?”
She ran for the door.
Nathan stepped into the hall. “Rosalie—”
“I’m sorry, Nathan. I can’t stay a minute longer.” She reached for her jacket, flung it over her shoulders.
The front door opened and swallowed her.
Nathan said, “What’s happened, Charlie? Why has she run off?”
“It’s for her to tell you, not me.” Charlie’s voice shook.
“I’ll go after her. I know where she’ll be.”
“Yes, please. Go. Quickly.” Charlie’s eyes flashed with agitation; his voice was low and urgent. “When you find her, will you do something for me? It’s really important.”
“Of course. Anything.”
“Tell her I’ll be waiting. I’ll make my apologies to Henry and your mum. I’ll go back to the shop. I’ll leave the door unlocked. I’ll be in the studio.”
Charlie bent his head, but Nathan saw the tears in his eyes.
“God knows, I’ve waited fourteen years. I can wait another hour. … Please, Nathan, if you can. Bring her back to me.”
Fourteen
The town, almost deserted, slept after Christmas lunch. Nathan could hear his own footsteps, see his breath chalk into the late afternoon air. A single figure on the beach ran with her dog. Low in the sky, a dying sun washed its face on the horizon, splashed the sea with pools of pink and gold.
The plateau stretched grey with pebbles, flattened with wild grass. Empty of Rosalie.
Panic clutched Nathan’s heart.
I was sure she’d be here.
He scrambled up the rest of the cliff, stones flying, sand scratching underneath his nails. He raced through the garden to the kitchen door.
What if this time she’s really run away?
Tiggy ignored him, her shiny black haunches hunched over her dish.
That’s fresh food in Tiggy’s bowl. Rosalie’s been here. She’ll be upstairs. Please let her be upstairs.
But the attic stared blankly back.
Nathan cursed. A sharp, black odour filled the air.
That smells like sulphur. Someone’s just lit a match. I know she’s been here. I can feel it in my bones. Now she’s vanished again like she’s flown away.
“Remember that night in the attic? She had candles. Maybe she’s lit one of them.”
But what for, Banksie? And where’s she gone with it?
“There must be another way into the attic … and out of it. A secret way.”
Yes, of course. I never did find out where she’d vanished to that night.
“Well, maybe you can now. Try the walls. Run your fingers over them.”
The walls by each of the windows stretched cool and solid beneath Nathan’s hands. From the third wall, the stairs led down to the lower floor and the inside of the cottage. But along the fourth wall, where the art chest stood, a small cupboard squashed its triangular back into the corner.
Nathan remembered seeing it before, that afternoon when he and Rosalie had been packing. Then its doors were closed. Now they stood slightly ajar. Nathan opened them full out. A few old limply hanging jackets had been flung to one side. He pressed his hands against the wall behind them, felt the bump of a handle and pushed against it.
He gasped as a small opening gaped over a black hole.
I’ve found something.
He stooped, peered into the darkness.
I can’t really see, but I think it’s a flight of iron steps. God knows where they lead. … I can’t do anything without a light.
“Look around the attic. Those candles must be lying around somewhere. And matches.”
Nathan scanned the shelves. Books, newspapers, boxes of chalks. On the desk a half-finished landscape. In the desk drawers …
He pulled at the top drawer and saw a long, narrow box. He flicked it open and found four narrow candles, their wicks already partially burned. He scrabbled further and found a small box of matches.
He lit one of the candles and put another in his pocket, along with the matches. Then he turned towards the cupboard.
I’m terrified. I don’t know what I’m doing.
“Yes, you do. You’re looking for Rosalie.”
Grimly, Nathan crawled down the iron steps. They spiralled steeply, cold beneath his right hand. His left held the candle, which sputtered into the gloom. At the bottom of the steps he stopped.
I’m below ground level. I can’t see much but I reckon there’s a passageway that stretches ahead of me. The walls are slimy and freezing. … Everything smells sickly, a bit like beer, but the stench is revolting.
He shuddered.
“Keep going, Weed. As fast as you can. If I’m right, the passage leads out to the sea.”
Nathan slithered on. The candle guttered and died. In the pitch darkness, he struggled with the matches, relit the smouldering wick and watched the shadows resume their dance.
He heard the clink of bottles.
He stopped dead in his tracks, flattened himself against the passage wall. Its clammy coldness seeped into his back.
He felt moth-wings brush his face, once, twice, then over and over again, as if they were giving him some strange blessing. In the flickering darkness he heard a sharp, high call, like the shrieking of gulls, saying his name.
“Yes?” His terrified voice threw back its echo.
“Keep her safe,” the gulls seemed to shriek. “Keep her very safe.”
“How can I?” Nathan shouted. The echo of his voice swirled into his ears. “I don’t know where she is. I only wish I did.”
His hand shook and the candle-light flickered wildly.
“Find her … and remember … keep her safe.”
The echo died.
Shivering, Nathan pushed himself away from the wall and slithered down the passage.
A humming sound began its faint growling drawl.
It grew louder.
Nathan saw a chink of light.
It grew larger, wider.
He turned his body sideways, crushed himself through a narrow crevice of rock.
And he was out of the passage, standing in rock pools thick with weed at the back of a cove, hearing the soft, rhythmic thunder of sea, the smell of salt and tar in his nostrils.
Rosalie stood near him, her back pressed against the cliff, her hands deep in her jacket pockets, her face wet with crying.
He said, “Thank God you’re here.”
She looked across at him. “So you’ve found me again. Proper little sleuth, aren’t you?”
Nathan gasped with relief at the sound of her voice, at the salt air in his lungs. “I smelled sulphur in the attic. I worked it out from there. Was this where you went that night?”
“Where else?”
“The passageway’s amazing. It must be hundreds of years old.”
“They used to call our cottage Smuggler’s Rest. You didn’t know that, did you? My family … Jake’s parents and grandparents … were smugglers all, so the story goes.” She rubbed at her face with her sleeve. “It’s in the blood, as they say. In the Croft veins and arteries.” She gave her short, high laugh. “Not that now that’s anything to do with me!”
“What do you mean? ’Course it’s to do with you.”
“No, it isn’t. Not any more. Not after what Charlie’s told me.”
“I don’t understand—”
“It’s simple enough, Nathan. My mother wasn’t a Croft until she married my … until she married Jake. And my real father isn’t a Croft at all.”
“Then who—” Nathan gasped. “Are you saying—”
“Aren’t I just! I’ll give you three guesses, Nathan.” Her voice came as a low rasp, dry, scathing. “Who’s my real dad?”
The words hung tightly in his throat. Then he said, “Is it Charlie?”
“Right first time! Isn’t it simple when you know how?” She started to cry. “I’ve been completely and utterly betrayed. She never
told me. Mum never told me. I thought I knew everything. That I could talk to her even though she’s dead. I thought we were so close.”
Nathan flailed. He said stupidly, “Maybe she didn’t know Charlie was—”
“Don’t give me that.” Angrily she brushed at the tears. “Of course she knew. Remember those sketches, that painting?”
“Then she was protecting your … keeping it from Jake. Keeping her marriage safe.”
“Safe? How can you live in a pretend marriage when you know your child belongs to another man?”
“Perhaps she loved Jake too much to leave him?”
“Perhaps Jake knew about me … about Charlie … and still he wouldn’t let Mum go.” She stared out at the lift and swell of sea. “God, what a mess!”
He picked his way across the rock pools towards her. “I’m sorry. I wish your mum was still alive.”
“It all makes sense now. How could I have been so dim? Mum and Charlie. It was always Mum and Charlie, all along. Who always bought her work for the shop? Who stuck by us so loyally when Dad … when Jake … was sent to prison?” Her eyes glimmered at him with their fierce blue light. “Who helped me that miserable afternoon when I was bunking off school?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Who’s always treated me as if I were his daughter?”
“Charlie.”
“Yes, Charlie. All the pieces fit together.”
“But why did he never tell you?”
“He said Mum wouldn’t let him. She made him promise he’d not tell me. She said maybe when I was sixteen, but not before. Charlie tried to keep his promise, although there were so many times after Mum died when he almost burst with wanting to break it. But finding out today about Dad’s – about Jake’s – accident was the last straw. He knew if Jake had been killed, I’d have been totally alone.”
“So now—” Nathan hesitated, desperately wanting to bring a smile back to her tear-stained face. “Aren’t you glad about all this? Being able to make sense of everything?”
“Part of me is.” She shook her head. “But part of me still can’t take it in, still doesn’t understand. Can you imagine what it would be like if you found out your dad wasn’t your dad?”
Girl in the Attic Page 12