‘Mum,’ I whisper as I turn the pages and see those quirky line drawings I had loved so much as a child.
The day after Mum’s funeral Georgie had come upstairs to find me. I had barely left my room since the accident. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I wanted to hide away and pretend it had never happened, that Mum had just popped out somewhere and was going to be back soon. Georgie tried to make conversation but I turned away and faced the wall. I heard her put something on the side table, then she said, ‘The police found this in Mum’s car. I think she must have bought it for you.’ After she’d left the room I turned over to see what she had put there and when I saw the book I felt my heart burst into a thousand pieces. But then I remembered Geoffrey’s words – ‘These stories were written for any child who has ever felt out of place’ – and I picked up the book and started to read.
Once upon a time there was a boy called Angus. Now, young Angus was sad because he was all alone. I don’t know if you’ve ever felt alone before, truly alone, without a friend in the world. You see, when you are alone, the world can seem like a terrifying place, a cold place, with ghouls and monsters hiding at every turn.
Even now, all these years later, I can still remember whole sections of that book. I read it over and over again those first few months after Mum’s death until I became so familiar with the characters and the house and the story, I convinced myself they must be real.
What I found reassuring, as I read the book again and again and again, was that unlike real life, which was scary and unpredictable, stories were safe. I knew where I was with a story. It had a beginning, a middle and an end, a clear direction. Real life, on the other hand, was like being lost in the woods with no map and no hope of finding the way home.
I knew that Angus, a motherless child like me, would find solace at the end of the story. He went on adventures with three little ghost children, who had died in the house in 1680. They had returned from the dead to help Angus learn how to live without his mum and they were helped on this quest by a strange glass blackbird who sat on the sideboard inside the house and mysteriously came to life whenever the children and Angus needed him. It sounds quite dark now, but back then I didn’t find anything scary about it. It was comforting.
I remember wishing that I had a bird like that, a protector who could take me to another world, even for just a few hours. However, I knew that could never happen so the world inside the book became the next best thing. I used to dream I’d been inside that house, walked along its corridors, climbed its wooden staircase, talked to Angus and the ghosts. In my grief, I convinced myself they were real.
This book had been the only light in my life during the dark weeks and months following her death. And now, just when I’m feeling despondent, it has found me again. It’s like Mum is watching me, telling me everything is going to be all right.
I hear footsteps outside the room. Dawn is bringing the group back in. I quickly slip the book into my bag and head out of the flat, heart thumping with exhilaration. Jamie taps my arm as I hurry down the steps. ‘Miss Adams, what were your thoughts?’ he says, gripping his clipboard tightly.
‘Oh, it will make a lovely home for someone,’ I say, feeling the reassuring bulk of the book in my bag. ‘But it’s not for me.’
11. Now
Angus looks up and sees that the sky is on fire. Golden snakes wriggle and squirm in the air before exploding into glittering rain. He stands for a moment, marvelling at the colours, the way the rockets look most beautiful in the final moments before they die.
Delicious smells fill the air. His mouth waters as he smells the heady scent of hotdogs with crisp fried onions, candyfloss, hot plum juice.
The garden is alive with people, most of them dressed in white; painted-faced men walk on stilts and ghost women breathe orange fire. Catherine wheels spin on the ancient wall while little spirits weave in and out of the maze, their eyes reflecting the lights in the sky.
‘Who are all these people?’ says Angus as the air rings with laughter. ‘Where have they come from?’
‘Why, these are your guests,’ says the bird. ‘Come now, children, step forward and greet your host.’
Angus’s heart thuds as two boys step out of the crowd.
They are dressed in the clothes of days gone by – like the Cavaliers Angus likes to read about in his storybooks – their hairstyles long and curled, their necks concealed by white ruffs, their feet clad in polished buckled boots.
‘At last,’ says the taller of the two, who, the bird whispers, is called Tom. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’
‘We have to go and find her now,’ says the other, who, the bird informs him, is called Cecil.
‘Find who?’ says Angus as the boys take his hands in theirs and guide him to the maze.
‘Why, Iris, of course,’ say the boys in unison.
The maze seems to go on forever and Angus is certain he will take a wrong turn and lose his way. His feet are leading him on, seemingly independent of his body. As he reaches the end of the maze he feels the air grow thinner. He has lost the boys somewhere in the centre and is now heading out alone. He looks up and sees, to his amazement, that the sun is blazing in the sky, the day has come.
I open my eyes and see a figure standing by the window. Bright sunshine, golden walls. Iris is here in her blue smock. But then, as I come to, I see it’s Georgie. She’s wearing a pale-blue blouse, the light from the window making the fabric shimmer. And the walls aren’t golden, it’s just a trick of the light.
‘It’s a beautiful morning,’ she says. ‘Why don’t we go and have a walk on the common?’
The dream is still with me, attached to my consciousness like a second skin. That had always been my favourite part of the story, the moment Angus meets Iris at the end of the maze. It always made me tingle; the fact that Angus had walked from darkness into light in a matter of moments. I remember the feeling of excitement as I read the story, holding my breath as Angus prepared to meet his friend, his Iris.
‘What time is it?’ I mutter, sitting up in bed and wiping the sleep from my eyes.
‘Just gone ten,’ says Georgie, stepping away from the window. ‘I thought … after everything you went through yesterday you could do with a lie-in. I’ve got the day off so I thought the two of us could do something together. Have a walk on the common, maybe have lunch in the village.’
The thought of going into the village and facing all those yoga-trim Yummy Mummies who frequent its shops and cafes makes my heart sink but I know staying in bed, enclosed inside four walls, is not what I need right now.
‘A walk would be good,’ I say, putting on my best ‘everything is fine’ face for Georgie. ‘Give me ten minutes to get ready.’
She smiles though she can’t hide the worried look in her eyes. I feel wretched for what I put her through last night, having to see me being led away by the police like that. I’ll make it up to her, I tell myself as she leaves the room and heads downstairs. Buy her lunch in that new French place that’s opened up in the village. I look down and see the letters scattered on the floor. A feeling of dread rises up inside me as I look at my childish writing. All I can think is that Dad must have found them in the loft or something and he’s decided to return them to me now in some misguided attempt at recovering our relationship. I need to get them out of my sight. I climb out of bed, then scoop the letters up and put them into the bottom drawer, underneath a pile of winter sweaters.
Fifteen minutes later, washed and dressed, I accompany Georgie along the narrow lane that connects their row of houses to the wild expanse of Wimbledon Common. The sun beats down on us as we cross the road, weaving in and out of dog walkers and families who have been lured out of their houses by the glorious weather.
‘Summer’s last hoorah,’ says Georgie, lifting her face to the sky. ‘Things always feel better when the sun shines.’
She turns to me and takes my arm gently.
‘I meant what I said last night, Nessa
,’ she says, pausing as a young black spaniel bounds across the path in front of us. ‘Whatever is going on, whatever it is that’s bothering you. You can tell me. Keeping things bottled up is never a good thing in the long run. I know that more than anyone.’
Her smile fades and as she looks into the middle distance I remember those months after Harry’s birth when we thought we’d lost her. Becoming a mother to Imogen had emboldened Georgie but Harry’s birth seemed to diminish her. I remember how she had folded in on herself, barely eating or sleeping, talking in a strange, stilted fashion, sitting motionless on the old armchair in the living room. None of us knew what had happened to her, couldn’t work out where our bright, extroverted Georgie had gone. Only when she was diagnosed with postnatal depression after almost a year did it all make sense. She later said that the trauma of Harry’s birth – he was breech and Georgie was given an emergency Caesarean – had sent her into shock. Professional help was sought and after a few months of medication something of the old Georgie was returned to us. Yet she had left a part of herself behind in that maternity ward. The carefree fearlessness had been replaced with a seriousness, a sense that the world was something to protect against rather than explore. I couldn’t understand it at the time, how someone could change so much, but then I look at my own life over the last year and feel the same sense of disconnect. Who was that sensible, happy girl and where did she go?
‘I know you worry about me, Georgie,’ I say as we head across the vast stretch of scorched grass. ‘But really, everything’s fine. All that stuff with the police, it was just a mistake. They got it wrong.’
She turns to me, and I see my reflection in her mirrored Wayfarers.
‘But of all the people,’ she says, lowering her voice as two giggling young girls walk past us. ‘Geoffrey Rivers. We all know how much he … well, how much solace you got from his books after Mum’s death.’
The sun is reaching its height and as it burns into my face I see him, standing at the door, and I shiver, despite the heat.
‘I told you, Georgie,’ I say as we join the overgrown path that leads to the village. ‘It was all a misunderstanding.’
As I walk, Geoffrey’s face appears in my mind.
‘Look, I know it can’t be easy for you at the moment,’ says Georgie. ‘With the break-up and all that. And it’s such a shame because you and Connor seemed so happy. It’s sad to see things fall apart.’
She takes my arm again and, as we continue to walk, Geoffrey’s face dissolves in the sun.
‘Yes,’ I say, watching a procession of young horse riders from the village stables skirt the road alongside us. ‘But Connor and I just weren’t right for each other. We can’t all be like you and Jack.’
‘God, if we’re the poster kids for a happy relationship then you’re all screwed,’ she says, laughing. ‘Try sharing a bed for more than twenty years with someone who snores like he does. That’s surely grounds for divorce.’
‘If the only complaint you have in all that time is the fact that he snores, then I’m sorry, dear sister, but I have no sympathy for you.’
‘True,’ she says, holding her hands in the air. ‘But he also leaves the milk out, which is a sackable offence, surely?’
We laugh and for a few moments it feels like old times again. Back when I was Vanessa, the successful marketing manager leading a team of five in my plush office in Chelsea, and I would spend my Saturdays catching up with Georgie over a bottle of dry white in the village. That feels like a different planet now, that time, that life.
‘There really is nothing to worry about,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve had a bit of a blip but I’m coming out the other side. I can feel it.’
‘Good,’ says Vanessa, squeezing my arm. ‘It hurts me to see you so low.’
We reach the end of the common and as we stand waiting to cross the road I see something up ahead, a flash of yellow. As we draw closer I see a satchel that looks just like the one I bought Lottie for Christmas a couple of years ago. And then I recognize the tight red curls, the broad shoulders.
‘It’s Lottie,’ I say, quickening my step. ‘Over there by the bookshop, look.’
‘Where? I can’t –’
As she’s speaking, a dark figure springs in between us. In the strobed light it looks like a horned demon.
‘What the hell?’ I scream, staggering backwards.
Then, as the sun disappears behind a cloud, the figure takes form and I hear sniggering.
It’s someone dressed up as a cartoon horse.
‘Sorry to scare you,’ it cries in a cut-glass accent. ‘Just after some spare change. It’s all for a good cause. The folks at the riding school are raising funds to provide new facilities for disabled kids.’
I watch as my sister takes out her purse and places a five-pound note in the collecting tin.
‘Thank you, ladies,’ chirps the horse. ‘Have a lovely day.’
As it departs, Georgie shakes her head and laughs.
‘Are you all right?’ she says, taking my arm. ‘You got an awful shock.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say, feeling rather foolish.
‘I don’t think that was Lottie,’ says Georgie as we head past the bookshop where I thought I’d seen her. ‘She wouldn’t come to Wimbledon without getting in touch to say hi, surely? After all, it was just a silly quarrel.’
I think about Lottie’s face when I told her I was moving out, the way she changed her phone number, the fact that she had left the country for a new life and not got in touch. Lottie hates me for what I did. If it was her I’ve just seen, then it’s further proof that our friendship is over. To be back in the UK and still not get in touch. That means something.
‘So, how about lunch in the village?’ says Georgie as we reach the high street. ‘Maybe even a sneaky bottle of Chablis for old times’ sake.’
It sounds heavenly and the old me would be there like a shot, ordering a plate of moules and spending the afternoon putting the world to rights, but the shock of seeing Lottie and then that horse springing up out of nowhere has shaken me. I think of Bains last night, his eyes boring into me, and suddenly it feels like everyone else is doing the same. Watching me. Judging me.
‘I’m sorry, Georgie, but the sun’s given me a headache,’ I say, putting my hand to my temple. ‘Do you mind if we go home?’
Georgie doesn’t object, though I know she really wanted to have lunch and relax. As we turn and head back across the common, she slips her hand in mine and gives it a reassuring squeeze, just as she used to when I was a kid. That small gesture brings tears to my eyes, though I tell Georgie it’s the sun and the onset of a migraine that is making them water. I don’t know whether she believes me, but she doesn’t press it, and when we get back to the house she busies herself getting me a glass of water and two painkillers.
Back in the bedroom I lie on the bed staring at the ceiling, my head full of Bains and Geoffrey. I need to know what is being said, how the news sites are reporting it. A flutter of panic courses through me as I imagine my name splashed across the internet. I sit up and take my phone from the bedside table then type the words ‘Geoffrey Rivers’ into the search engine.
RECLUSIVE CHILDREN’S AUTHOR FOUND DEAD: POLICE LAUNCH MURDER INQUIRY
No, I can’t face it. Instead I click on a piece from the Observer in which the great and the good of the literary world have offered tributes and condolences. ‘Geoffrey set the benchmark for those who followed …’ ‘A light has gone out today …’ ‘Geoffrey’s stories will live on in the hearts of so many children …’ One writer refers to Angus, the child protagonist of the Holly Maze House books, as ‘a modern-day Christopher Robin’.
The tributes soon become overwhelming and I have to put the phone away. But as I lie on the bed, Geoffrey’s face flashes in front of me, his eyes cold, as though with disgust. Then another memory assaults me: the sound of leather smashing against skin, the spurt of blood, the smell of sweat.
My heart starts to race and
I sit up, try to remember the calming breathing exercises Anne taught us in the mindfulness session she ran last year. As I exhale I hear voices filtering up from the kitchen.
Jack is home from work. His voice is raised and I can hear Georgie trying to reason with him. They’re talking about me. ‘In bed?’ I hear him say. ‘But it’s the middle of the day. This can’t go on.’
I pull the covers over my head to block out his voice but in the darkness I see Geoffrey lying at the foot of the stairs, his eyes to the ceiling. I throw the covers off, jump up and go to the window. Outside the road is still and peaceful, the afternoon sun casting strange shadows on the walls of the houses across the way.
I can’t allow myself to think of what happened. The sound of Geoffrey gasping for breath as he fought for his life. No, I must wipe it from my mind.
My phone begins to ring on the table next to me. The noise of it makes me jump. I pick it up and look at the screen. It says ‘unknown number’. I answer it, tentatively.
‘Hello?’
There’s a pause, then I hear someone sigh heavily.
‘Hello? Who’s there?’ I say. ‘Who is this?’
There’s another sigh and then whoever it is ends the call.
I stand at the window, holding the phone in my hands, trying to work out who it could have been. Connor? No, because his number would have shown up. It could just have been a sales call, I tell myself, putting the phone back on the table. These things happen all the time but because I’m in a heightened state I’m attaching more significance to it. I have to calm down.
Just then the front door slams. I look out of the window and see Jack storming across the common. Downstairs, I hear Georgie clattering dishes. I turn from the window and slump down on the bed, putting my head in my hands. This is all my fault.
The Perfect Life Page 8