She roots around in a box of cuddly toys, giving her favourite old teddy a hug. She pulls out a tiger. It feels soft under her fingers. A flash of memory – she’s a child, clinging to the toy animal, not wanting to let it go.
She turns from her crouched position, adrenaline pumping, and rummages in further boxes. A small tobacco tin grabs her attention. Inside is a passport-sized photograph of a young woman and a receipt. She knows exactly who the pretty young woman, with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes, is. She presses a kiss onto the picture.
‘She died in childbirth,’ her father told her many years ago, handing her a photo of him and her mother. ‘She was amazing. Never forget that. She would have loved you so much, Alice.’ He went on to tell her that her grandparents on both sides were long dead, that he was the only family she had. She tried to question him further, but, as always, he closed off.
She turns the photo over. There are no words scribbled on the reverse. But the receipt is for a restaurant in Dunwold, Suffolk, dated 1988. Her parents had shared a steak meal, and a bottle of Mateus Rosé wine.
Alice’s mind whirs. The past is calling. Should she ransack the attic for clues? But it’s pointless. She’s combed every inch of it through the years, searching for answers. Now, without the fear of upsetting her father blocking her way, she feels an insatiable need to know rising inside her.
Who was her mother?
Who sent her the photo of Flynn House?
What secrets had her father kept buried?
She has lived with a big burning question mark over her past all her life, and it seems her father’s death has left her with an even bigger puzzle.
Whatever it takes. She needs answers.
*
Alice ends the call with the detective, and is staring down at her phone, fighting back tears, when the doorbell chimes.
‘I’ve brought wine.’ Faith stands on the doorstep of Butterfly Cottage, holding a bottle and a bag of cheesy savoury snacks in one hand, a wide smile on her face. Her dark hair is in a high ponytail, tendrils escaping, her thick fringe resting above blue eyes. One of the fastenings on her yellow dungarees hangs open across a checked blouse, making her look younger than her thirty years. She bends to fuss Henry, who wags his tail.
‘Sounds good,’ Alice says, stepping aside for her friend to enter, pushing down thoughts of the call moments ago.
It’s the first time Faith has been to the house. In fact, apart from Tegan on the day of the funeral, and visits from the police about her father’s hit and run, Alice has had no visitors. And, apart from a few coffee meet-ups where Faith managed to pull her out of her comfort zone, and regular walks with Henry, she’s rarely left the house over the last eight months, preferring it that way.
But things are improving with Faith’s constant support. Alice is sculpting again. She’s even put make-up on this evening, a first since the funeral.
‘How are you, lovely?’ Faith leans in and kisses Alice’s cheek.
‘OK. The grey cloud is lifting slowly.’
‘That’s good news. You are doing so well.’ She smiles, lifts the bottle. ‘Shall we get this poured?’
‘Of course, yes.’
Faith’s eyes flick around the entrance. ‘It’s such a lovely house.’
‘Yes. It needs clearing really …’ Alice pinches the skin at her throat. Sighs. ‘It’s just so hard … I can’t bring myself to …’ And there’s the crack in her voice that’s been so common through the months. The sign tears are close.
‘Oh, sweetie, come here.’ Faith puts the wine down, pulls her into a hug, and doesn’t let go for what feels like a minute. ‘As I’ve said before, there’s no rush. Baby steps. You’ll know when you are ready.’
Wine poured they head into the lounge, clutching glasses and bowls filled with snacks.
Faith sits on the edge of the sofa, her smile warm and reassuring. ‘How’s the sculpture coming along?’
Alice sinks into the armchair, Henry at her feet. ‘I’m hoping to have it finished by Halloween. We normally do well at the shop over that period.’
‘That’s brilliant. I can’t wait to see it.’ Faith takes a gulp of wine. ‘What are your thoughts about coming back to the shop?’ A beat. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m not putting any pressure on. I just think—’
‘I hope to. Just part-time to start with, if you can stay on for a bit longer—’
‘Sure, but I’m more than happy to back off whenever you feel ready.’
Alice knows her friend will be happy to see her return, that she’s been trying coax her out of her grief for a while, without judging her for falling apart, and she’s grateful for that. She wouldn’t have made the steps she’s already made without her.
There were ten applicants back in March for the temporary position to cover Alice’s absence while she came to terms with losing her dad. Faith had stood out. She fitted into the shop’s Gothic style, and came across as likeable and intelligent when Alice interviewed her. She has never regretted her decision to take her on. Apart from a visit to see family in August, she’s kept the shop ticking over so well.
‘So, how did the date go?’ Alice asks, changing the subject.
Faith has seen two men since Alice met her, both complete disasters, and the one she’s presently seeing sounds like a moron. She seems to have a habit of picking arrogant idiots.
‘It went great.’ Faith’s face brightens. She takes a gulp of wine. Grabs a handful of cheesy snacks.
‘Should you eat those?’ Alice says. Faith is mildly lactose intolerant.
‘Of course – it’s not real cheese.’ She laughs, pops one into her mouth, and munches. ‘I like Mitch a lot, actually. He could be “the one”.’
‘Really?’ Alice knows her tone is a little judgemental, though she doesn’t mean to be. For all she knows Mitch Fisher could be Mr Wonderful. And it’s Faith’s life, not hers. She’s hardly made a success of her own love life.
‘Yes! Really.’ Faith laughs. ‘Seriously. I like him.’
‘Well, that’s good. I’m happy for you.’
Alice splashes more wine into both glasses. ‘The police called earlier,’ she says. ‘Just before you arrived.’ She takes a breath. ‘They’re no longer looking into my dad’s hit and run.’
Faith widens her eyes, shoots forward in her seat. ‘Oh my God, why not?’
Alice shrugs. ‘The case is still open.’ She takes a gulp of wine. ‘But they still have no leads.’
Faith reaches across, takes hold of Alice’s hand. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘No, no it’s not fine. It’s bloody awful.’
‘Maybe something will turn up at some point.’ But she suspects they will never find the person who took her father from her.
*
It’s gone eleven when Faith gets up and attempts to push creases from her dungarees. ‘I should make a move,’ she says, as Henry pads over. She gives his ears a gentle rub. ‘You’re such a lovely boy, aren’t you?’
‘He is.’ Alice rises too, stretches her arms above her head. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without him over the last few months. He’s a good friend.’
Faith’s gaze drifts through into the dining room, focusing on Alice’s sculpture on the table. ‘Wow! Did you make that?’
Alice nods, and makes her way into the dining area, Faith right behind her. She rests her hand on the sculpture she found in the loft earlier. ‘It’s called Gothic House. I made it a long time ago, when I first started sculpting.’
‘Well it’s amazing. You’re so talented.’
‘Thank you.’ She feels a blush creeping up her neck. She’s never been good at accepting praise – something inside her always saying, ‘You don’t deserve it, Alice.’
‘Are you thinking of selling it?’
Alice shrugs. She hadn’t thought about it, but maybe it would be for the best. Her father never liked it, and she’s not sure she likes it herself. ‘I guess I cou
ld.’ She breaks off, wondering whether to tell Faith the whole story – about the photograph she received in the post that triggered her search for the piece in the first place, but decides against it. Amongst other things it’s late. She’s tired. ‘Could you take it with you?’ she says. ‘Put it in the shop window?’
‘Of course, happy to.’
Alice grabs her phone, and takes a photo of the clay replica of Flynn House. ‘I’ll put it on Instagram too. It may attract buyers.’ She hasn’t put anything on her Instagram profile since her father died, a clear reminder that her life has stood still for too long. But something inside her is buzzing, telling her it’s about to start moving again.
Faith picks up the sculpture, studies it with a look of fascination. ‘It really is amazing.’ She lifts her gaze, meets Alice’s eyes. ‘How much do you want on the price tag?’
Alice shrugs. She doesn’t know anymore.
‘Tell you what, leave it with me.’ Faith leans forward, kisses Alice’s cheek. ‘I promise I’ll get you a good price.’
*
Once Faith has gone, Alice uploads the picture of her sculpture onto her Instagram account:
A piece I made some time ago, available at ‘Alice’s Sculptures in Wonderland’ in Whitby #FlynnHouse #Gothic
Chapter 5
Late October 2019
Alice
There is a ventriloquist’s doll in the window of the antique shop down by Whitby Harbour. He sits between a glossy brown Beswick horse with a chipped hoof, and a mustard-yellow art-deco vase. The doll is dressed in a faded-black suit, a red bow tie attached to a yellowing shirt. His black hair is combed back from his frozen face. His shiny red lips want to talk.
As Alice passes by, she feels his stare. ‘He’s a bit freaky, isn’t he, Henry?’ she says, as though the dog understands what she’s saying. Despite a shiver down her spine, she’s drawn to the puppet. In fact, she has always had a bit of a thing for anything macabre. Her sculptures are always dark. She blames her father for that – his influence as her only role model.
‘Hey,’ she whispers, raising her hand in a wave, as though the puppet can hear her. She glances about to check nobody is listening. The street is quiet. ‘I’m as barking as you, Henry,’ she says to the dog, ruffling his glossy coat. ‘Did you see what I did there?’
She makes her way towards Whitby Bridge, her canvas bag dangling over her shoulder, but she can’t resist looking back, just once, half-expecting the puppet to be waving. Of course, he isn’t.
It’s a chilly grey October morning, and the tips of her ears and nose begin to tingle with the cold. The sea air tastes salty on her tongue, as she stops for a moment halfway across the bridge, pulling her woolly hat down over her ears. The sea matches the grey of the clouds like a Fifties twin set. Fishing boats and trawlers bob on the water, lobster pots stacked on the harbourside.
‘Dad used to love this place,’ she says, bending to kiss the dog’s head. ‘It was his inspiration. But then you know that more than anyone, don’t you, gorgeous boy?’
Before tears invade, she straightens up, and turns from the nostalgic view, taking a deep breath. Yanking on Henry’s lead, she pulls him away from a pug he seems to have taken a liking to, and makes her way to the other side of the bridge, before heading up Church Street towards ‘Alice’s Sculptures in Wonderland’, the shop she named after her favourite book, which her father read to her when she was a child.
Once there she stares in the shop window. The shop’s woodwork is charcoal black, and a sign – black with gold lettering – is fixed to the wall.
Several of her fantastical sculptures are snuggled into silky black fabric amongst small pumpkins, but there’s no sign of Gothic House.
She pushes the door open, and steps inside. The walls seem to wrap around her like a hug, and the slight smell of damp that she can’t quite get rid of, and the aroma of coffee percolating, are familiar and comforting. It’s good to be back – a step in the right direction.
‘Hey, Alice.’ Faith smiles from behind the counter, surrounded by her homemade jewellery. Alice agreed a few months back that she could sell it at the shop. ‘Ooh, and how lovely to see gorgeous Henry too,’ Faith adds.
Alice fishes the sculpture she’s been working on from her bag, strips away black tissue paper, and puts it on the counter. ‘Ta da! What do you think?’
‘Wow! It’s amazing,’ Faith says, as she strokes Henry, who seems delighted to see her. ‘As I’ve said before, you are one talented lady.’
‘Thanks.’ Alice feels the usual blush creeping up her neck.
Faith moves her hand from Henry’s back, and he sprawls on the floor, and closes his eyes. She stares at the sculpture of a desperate-looking figure made from twisted copper, a man clambering out of a grave, his hands stretching upwards, fingers contorted, mouth wide open as though screaming, flesh torn. ‘Though I wouldn’t want to spend too long inside your head,’ she says.
Alice smiles, and places the piece on the shelf above the counter. ‘It’s called Zombie.’
‘Really? Why?’ Faith laughs at her own attempt at humour, but continues to stare up at it, as though mesmerised. ‘Someone will bite your hand off for it, Alice – it’s truly amazing.’
It is one of the busiest times in Whitby, with Halloween approaching and the Bram Stoker’s Dracula connection. Alice knows it’s a good time for sales.
‘We’ve been really busy over the last few days.’ Faith’s lips curl into a smile.
‘That’s great.’ Alice tries for upbeat as she shuffles out of her coat and hangs it on one of the hooks by the back door, wishing she could shake the memories of the police coming through the door in January, telling her the awful news about her father.
Faith touches her arm, and Alice startles, realising she’s floated away into her own thoughts. ‘It’s so good to see you here,’ Faith says. ‘And, just to say again, I can be out of here, as soon as you’re ready to return. Just tell me to sling my hook as soon as you are ready to come back full-time. It will make my day to see you back where you belong.’
Alice shakes her head. ‘I’m not quite ready to go full-time yet. I’ll take it slow. As I said before, part-time will suit me to start with. It will give me more time on my artwork.’
‘Well, whatever is best for you …’ Faith smiles. Tilts her head. ‘Coffee?’
‘Love one.’
Faith rises, goes to head away. ‘Mitch would like to meet you, if you’re up for it.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because you’re my friend, and he’s my … It’s fine if you don’t feel ready. I’ll completely understand.’
Panic rises inside Alice. Is she ready to start socialising again? She knows she’s got to start somewhere, but she’s not sure she wants to begin with a complete stranger.
‘I’ve told him so much about you.’ Faith heads through the door into the tiny kitchen area, and Alice is relieved she doesn’t have to make a decision right now.
Five minutes later, Faith is back, putting steaming mugs onto the counter. ‘Ooh, I meant to say, I sold Gothic House this morning.’ Her face lights up with pride, as she peers at Alice from under her fringe and blows on her coffee.
‘Wow! That’s fantastic. I wondered where it was.’
‘Some bloke was waiting for me to open up this morning.’ She sits down. ‘Said he’d seen a picture of it on Instagram. Cameron something-or-other. Loves your work. Didn’t even flinch at the price tag.’
What was the price tag? Alice’s gaze drifts to the half-empty shelves. She needs to do more work, and a bubble of motivation rises inside her.
‘He said he’s one of your followers.’ Faith sips her drink. ‘He’s going to direct message you.’
‘Is he? Why?’
Faith shrugs. ‘No idea, though he’s rather gorgeous.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’
Faith laughs. ‘He went over the top about Gothic House. Oh, and he asked if you based the piece
on Flynn House in Suffolk, but I—’
She covers her mouth. How is this all connected?
‘Are you OK, sweetie? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Alice lowers her hand. ‘The idea came from …’ She’s not sure how much to tell Faith about her recurring dreams. ‘My imagination,’ she says, her voice high and shaky.
The door swings opens, and two young women enter. Suddenly the shop feels too warm. Alice grabs her coat. ‘Come on, Henry.’ She pats her thigh, and he rises and plods over to her – much happier to go on walks now. ‘Good boy,’ she adds, fastening his lead.
‘You off already?’ Faith furrows her forehead.
‘I’ve got a bit of a headache, that’s all.’
‘Well, how about we meet for a drink later?’
‘Maybe. Text me.’ Alice raises her hand and heads out of the shop, her mind racing. Who is this Cameron? And, more importantly, what is her own connection to Flynn House?
Chapter 6
Late October 2019
Alice
Alice lies on her yoga mat in the lounge of Butterfly Cottage, dressed in lilac leggings and a black vest top, her eyes closed, her hair loose about her shoulders. This is her favourite bit of her yoga routine: the corpse pose.
She barely needs to hear the instructor on the TV; Alice knows this pose so well. But the woman’s voice is comforting, reassuring. ‘Surrender to the stillness, stretch those legs, relax those ankles. Let your mind and body combine. Find yourself in a beautiful stillness. Rest in peace.’
*
Alice sees Faith pushing through the throng with two glasses. It feels strange being in a crowded bar after not going out much for so long. She fiddles with her watch, her anxiety level high. She needs to beat this. Get her life back on track.
‘There you go,’ Faith says, handing her a glass of white wine. ‘Get that down you.’
Alice takes a gulp, the zesty, dry tang of Sauvignon Blanc on her tongue just what she needs.
Faith sits down opposite, takes a long swig from her pint of lager. She’s average height, but small-framed. The glass looks too big for her. She glances at her phone, then towards the door. ‘He should be here by around quarter to eight.’
The Island House Page 3