The worst part was that when I unlocked the front door I forgot, for a blessed, sweet split second, that Daddy was dead. I called out his name, softly, not to wake him, and then realised. I kicked off the remaining shoe, and I remember how alone I felt. And this feeling – there in that cold, tiled hall, in my empty childhood home – it was sad, and terrifying, but there was something curiously blank about the feeling. I was on my own now.
Charles poured the rest of the wine into his glass. He pushed his plate away, just an inch or so. ‘Very nice, Sylvia,’ he said and smiled at her. ‘Thank you.’ I looked over at her, hands sunk into the blue apron with the white stripes, jutting her jaw out to blow upwards air to cool her flushed face, her fringe damp with the heat. She was smiling, not at him, at something far away.
‘There’s pudding,’ she said. ‘Kitty, hurry up and finish, darling.’
Kitty was wearing a green-blue cotton dress, a vibrant, dazzling colour that brought out the honey in her thick hair, the tan in her golden skin, the green in her eyes. A bee landed on my plate and I hesitated, but Joss laughed. ‘Go on, little friend.’ He let it crawl onto his knuckles. ‘Five more weeks for you to make hay.’
‘It’s not hay,’ said Merry, with the pedantic tone of youth. ‘They don’t make hay, Joss.’
‘I know, Benny, OK? It’s an expression. Eat your tea.’
‘Don’t call me Benny! It’s Melissa!’ Merry’s face crumpled.
Joss flicked his hair and turned to me, knife and fork in hand. ‘Merry’s pretty thick so we call her Benny, like Benny from Crossroads, you know?’
‘I’m not thick.’
‘Daddy says she has to marry well. Kitty’s the brains, aren’t you, Kits?’
Kitty raised one shoulder, very slightly. ‘Shut up, Joss.’
‘You be quiet, Kitty,’ said her father, in a low voice, and she looked up.
‘Sure, PF.’ I saw her face. She was – not scared of him, Kitty was never scared. But she was wary of him. She pressed her lips together, as if forcibly reminding herself to be quiet. When she caught me looking at her, she glared. Yes? her expression said. What do you want, freak?
‘Daddy, make Joss say I’m not th—’
‘Well, Jane, we’ll have to show you around,’ Charles said, as if no one had spoken. Neatly, he speared the single remaining piece of chicken on the serving plate. ‘Walk you through the Collecting, explain a bit of our rather unusual history down here.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘Of course, to a townie like you, no doubt it’ll all seem very odd. But if you’re going to take part in the Collecting . . .’
‘Is she?’ said Merry, eyes wide. ‘Really? Will she still be here then?’
I saw the twins looking at each other. ‘Why not?’ Charles said to me with a smile. ‘If we’re stuck with you for the summer, we might as well make use of you, what? She could be the Outsider.’
I gave an inane grin but I felt as though he’d punched me.
‘Don’t joke,’ said Sylvia. ‘Charles is joking, darling. He means one of the Beloved Girls. That’s what we always had in mind. Tradition has it they should be twins, but this is perfect.’ She was nodding at her husband, eagerly. ‘Yes? Two girls, the same age, same height – you two even look similar. Your father would have liked that, Janey, knowing you were taking part in it . . .’
I didn’t want to talk about Daddy. I said as politely as I could: ‘I’m not that sure what the ceremony is, I’m afraid. Something to do with bees, isn’t it?’
‘Ah!’ Charles laughed, as though delighted, but, as ever, his eyes weren’t smiling. He struck his wine glass with a spoon. ‘It probably seems rather arcane to others, but it’s important to us.’
Sylvia began collecting the plates. ‘Kitty, Merry, help clear away, please. No, not you, Janey darling. Stay there, talk to Joss and Charles.’
‘Our little tradition,’ said Charles. I saw him glare at his wife, for interrupting him. ‘Here in this forgotten corner of the world. The locals like it, and we do, and that’s all there is to it. This year it’s later than normal, to celebrate the twins’ eighteenth on the 31 August.’
Then, I thought it was crazy that one old tradition could be the focal point of everyone’s efforts for the best part of the summer. Then, of course, I knew absolutely nothing.
‘What do I do?’
Charles gave an airy wave. ‘Ah, it’s not for tonight. The main thing now is for you to relax and have a jolly nice holiday, before – what is it you’re doing, in the autumn?’
‘I’m going to secretarial college.’
‘I see. Very good idea, for a girl to get a sensible job. Lots of girls at Letham’s with no idea for the future at all. Go back home and – what? Get under everyone’s feet.’ I blinked, wondering what Miss Minas would say if she could hear this. ‘At least be a chalet girl, or learn to type, or finishing school, or something.’
‘Yes,’ said Kitty, nodding earnestly. ‘Polly Baring’s going to Lucie Clayton. You learn how to get out of a car the right way. And you meet all sorts of suitable people.’
‘Ideal for BJ Baring,’ said Joss, with a snort.
‘Catherine here is the brains in the family.’ Charles ignored them. ‘Her mother’s sorted the whole thing out. Taken her round colleges, the lot. And good for her, she’s got the offer, she’s going, and we’re very proud. Though I’m not sure if Cambridge isn’t a bit of a waste of time, but anyway.’
I stared at my wine glass, which had been refilled. I genuinely didn’t understand. ‘Why would it be a waste of time?’
‘Well. If you go, you ought to use what you learn. And if you spend the rest of your life – how does one put this – not using it, then aren’t you, well, taking the place of a chap who’d really benefit?’
‘He means women, Janey.’ Kitty’s voice was silky smooth. ‘He thinks it’s a waste if I’m going to marry someone rich for him and be a good wifey at home for the rest of my lifey.’
‘Oh!’ I frowned. ‘Who are you marrying?’
Luckily, this was apparently such a silly question they both laughed.
‘I’m not going, anyway, so it doesn’t really matter,’ said Kitty. ‘I’m going travelling. I’m going to see the world and I’m never coming back.’
She said this quite matter-of-factly, but what was stranger still was that her father did not appear to register that she’d spoken at all. ‘Go and help your mother,’ he said, smiling.
‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I said I’d phone Giles.’
Joss’s head jerked up. I’d almost forgotten he was there. ‘Are you meeting up with Giles tonight?’ he demanded.
Another bee now ambled onto Charles’s cheese plate, possibly scenting the quince jelly. Charles lowered his thumb onto it, from the side, avoiding the sting at the base. I could see the wings, the soft velvet of the fur, the split second before he squashed it. There was a crackling sound, like cartilage tearing. Charles flicked the dead insect away. He stared at Kitty, his small eyes running over her, up and down her body.
‘Go and help your mother. You little tart.’
Kitty pushed away from the table. She stood behind her father and stared at him, from behind. The sight of her obvious loathing was so palpable it sharpened the taste of the wine in my mouth.
Joss continued, trying to keep it light. ‘Hey, Kitty, if you speak to him, to Giles, yeah? Can you – say hi from me. Tell him we should grab a pint at the Leper soon. With the other chaps. Kitty?’ But Kitty had walked away, as though he hadn’t spoken.
Charles muttered something under his breath. Joss cleared his throat and said hurriedly: ‘Giles Leigh-Smith is my best mate. From Farrars. The Leigh-Smiths are in the big house over there, past Minehead. He’s a great chap.’ He pushed the wine bottle towards me.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You told me.’
‘Did I? Oh. Well, he is. Here,’ he said. ‘Have another glass. Come on.’
As I lifted the bottle, footsteps sounded on the gravel. Someone singing. It was
a reedy, determined voice, and even recalling it now makes me nauseous – a swooping, terrifying nausea.
‘I’ll sing you one, O,
Green come for the comb, O!
What is your one, O?
One is one and all alone and evermore shall be so.’
To my astonishment no one really seemed to react. A woman appeared, marching in time really, swinging her arms. She wore mud-caked wellingtons, had a bobbled, ancient tweed skirt on, a shapeless pie-crust blouse, short, cropped, curly hair. Her eyes were cast down – she did not look at them, nor make any effort to greet them, but kept on singing.
‘I’ll sing you two, O,
Two come for the comb, O!’
Her hair was an indeterminate, dirty blonde-grey and it was impossible, without seeing her face, to work out how old she was, what kind of person she was, and then I saw her face, saw that it was the eyes, not able to make contact with anyone, swooping and whirling in their sockets, that gave everything away.
‘Two, two, the beloved girls, clothed all in green – Oh!’ She stopped and looked up. ‘Charles, hello!’
‘Hello there, old girl,’ said Charles, smiling that white-toothy smile that never reached his eyes and which now turned my stomach. ‘Have you eaten? Stay and take some tuck.’
‘I’m having a sort of midnight feast later, jolly good idea,’ said this stranger, hitching up her skirt and standing, legs apart, hands on hips. ‘Hello, Charles, hello, Joss, hello. Ah. I don’t know you. I’m Rosalind Hunter. Charles’s big sister.’
‘This is Jane Lestrange. One of Sylvia’s lame ducks.’ Ros reached out her hand, but made no move towards me, and I stayed in my seat, unsure what to do. Her eyes ranged over us, the table, never quite resting on any one thing, and then she looked up and gazed out towards the cliffs. ‘Not long now, brother! Not long to wait! Do you remember the summer Father got the day wrong?’
‘Yes, Lindy. I do.’
‘Out in the pouring rain, scrabbling about for comb, stung to bits, that boy with him who slipped!’ She clapped her hands. ‘Comb everywhere, crushed on the floor, what a damned waste of honey, don’t you think?’
Charles nodded. She gave a little shiver, then a smile. ‘Anyways, lovely to meet you, Jane. They’ve been looking forward to you coming. Give her the booklet, Charles, will you? Pammy’s booklet. Think she’d like it. Read up on the history, what?’
Charles turned away from his sister, fiddling with the corkscrew. ‘Oh do shut up, Lindy. She’s just got here.’
‘Right right, then. Now, must be off. Hello, Rory. Will you come with me?’
She looked down and fondled the dog, longingly, but Rory slunk away from the caress of her red, nail-bitten fingers.
‘Leftover ratatouille, Lindy. In the kitchen.’
‘Oh.’ She stopped, at her brother’s voice. ‘Yup, thanks, Charles.’
She stalked into the house through the back door, still singing.
‘One is one and all alone and evermore shall be so.’
I could hear her talking to Sylvia. Low voices, the clatter of plates, then the singing starting up again, reverberating in the old house. Then more footsteps, the sound growing fainter, the front door slammed, and the noise was gone.
‘Five weeks,’ said Sylvia, appearing a moment later with a tray and putting down glass bowls filled with dark-red strawberries topped with thick, yellow cream. ‘We’ll have to plan what you’re to do here, dear Janey. There’s lots of places to see – interesting things like . . .’ She waved her fork vaguely. ‘. . . the beach, and Larcombe castle, and Exmoor, and the railway . . . Here’s Kitty, hello, darling!’ she said, anxiously. Joss looked up at his sister.
‘Did Giles say about band practice? Kitty?’
Kitty turned to her brother, watching him almost curiously. ‘He didn’t mention it.’
‘But it’s tomorrow. You are coming, aren’t you?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Jesus, Kitty. He’ll find another girl singer if you won’t play ball.’ Joss turned to me. ‘I’m in a band. Kitty’s doing some singing for us. My mate, Giles – oh, I just told you about him. Well, he has stables we can practise in. You should come some time. And there’s a plan to go to the pub on the night of the A-level results, and you can watch some gigs, too. Don’t worry, we’ll show you a wonderful summer.’ He smiled at me with those lovely grey eyes that were almost like his sister’s, his slim fingers pausing in the act of spearing a strawberry, and dipped it into the little bowl of honey at the centre of the table. ‘Won’t we? Gosh, Mum, this really is gorgeous.’
I ate some more and nodded. When my mother left, I was almost thirteen. Daddy learned to cook, and the results were mixed, often wildly successful, often not. Certainly the kitchen was often a total mess, but he was good at cleaning up afterwards. Once, not long after she’d gone, my mother turned up – some excuse about a handbag that could only be here. It’s strange but having left, I think, she missed us. She let herself in at the back door, talking as she entered, and found us throwing noodles at the wall to see if they’d stick. She turned and went back to Martin. We just carried on.
We were finishing pudding when it happened. Rory gave a little growl from where he had collapsed at his mistress’s feet, then started barking.
‘Oh God,’ said Charles, rolling his eyes. ‘The dog’s got ideas again.’
Joss looked up, then followed his father’s gaze. ‘Do you see?’
‘Can’t quite tell yet.’ Charles wiped his mouth with a napkin, still staring up, and put it down on the table. ‘Yes, look.’
Rory’s barks grew louder. There was a thin stream of black in the deepening blue sky, heading towards us. I breathed in and put my hands on my head – I know it sounds silly, but it was instinctive. I pressed my palms against my half-scratchy, half-soft scalp, and my eye caught Kitty’s. She was staring up at the sky, a pulse beating in her throat, and she looked terrified.
‘What is it?’ I said.
‘The bees are overcrowded. Sometimes, in the evening, when they’ve all come back for the day, a few of them will try to make a break for it, and it looks like they’ll swarm. But they always turn back, at this time of year. It just can be rather a nuisance.’ Joss looked at his father. ‘Do you want me to deal with them, PF?’
‘Go down and make sure they’re all right,’ said Charles. ‘I’ve finished now.’ He drained his glass, took a toothpick from an ivory-and-silver case and was picking at his teeth. Kitty flicked her hair behind her shoulders, and took a deep breath.
‘Charles,’ said Sylvia.
There was a small pause. I watched Joss, heading down the lawn to the chapel beyond, late sunlight glinting in his hair.
‘Charles,’ Sylvia said again.
‘A minute, Sylvia.’
‘I want to go upstairs now,’ said Sylvia suddenly.
‘Good grief. Yes,’ Charles said briskly and stood up. I saw him glance at Kitty again.
‘Come on. Good night,’ said Sylvia, to me. ‘You’ve got towels, and the bathroom – oh, and – but never mind. Kitty will show you everything. Won’t you, Kitty? Keep her company? I hope you sleep well, darling – we’ll talk properly tomorrow. The bees and everything.’
‘Joss?’ Charles called. ‘Make sure the bolt is fastened.’
‘What?’
‘I said, make sure the bolt is fastened,’ Charles repeated. ‘Are you going deaf?’ He smiled at me, as if I was in on a joke with him. ‘I swear he’s going bloody deaf, Jane.’
Sylvia was smoothing down her skirt. She untied her apron, moving her hands over her hips, smoothing, polishing. ‘Charles. Now.’
‘Yes, yes.’ And she went into the house, Charles following her, their meal not quite finished, without another word.
‘They were in a hurry,’ I said, more for something to say into the silence, but neither of the girls met my eye.
A minute later, I heard them in the bedroom, which was just above us, the arched windows
open. They talked in low voices, then came a sigh and the sound of creaking furniture. There was silence for a while, as we ate the rest of the strawberries. The noises started, getting louder and louder and, as I realised what was going on, a terrible blush crept over me. The others didn’t seem to notice. No, that’s not true. Merry did. She was watching for my reaction, a blank expression on her face.
Sylvia’s cries, like jagged sobs, floated down to us. The evening was very still. Joss approached from across the lawn and stood leaning on the table. He cleared his throat, obviously wishing he’d stayed down with the bees for longer. Kitty flicked something from her nail.
‘Mummy gets in the mood after dinner, lately,’ said Merry, as we carried the plates into the messy kitchen to be left in a pile, presumably for Sylvia to wash later. ‘Most nights. You know? Daddy has to do it. It takes ages.’
The sounds from the bedroom were louder than ever, and Sylvia sounded as if she was in pain. There was a huge roar from Charles.
‘You know?’ said Merry, again. ‘Do you know what I mean, Janey?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I cleared my throat, humming as if occupied by something else. In the background, Kitty had put on a tape, clicked the deck shut. Prince’s Batman began, ‘The Future’, the first track, drowning out any background noise. She leaned against the dresser, arms folded, watching me. Merry was still babbling away.
‘Everyone does it. Don’t be prudish about it, will you? We’re not. So – will you keep your hair short? Like Lisa Stansfield? You could grow some kiss curls. It might be cool.’
Joss pressed my glass into my hand, refilled with wine. He and Merry sat down at the long kitchen table, and he gestured to me to sit, too. I honestly didn’t know what to say. I thought it was my fault for finding it weird that my hosts should excuse themselves hastily after dinner to engage in loud copulation.
‘No, I’m not like that.’ I took a long gulp from my wine glass. I reminded myself of my scheme to be a different person this summer, to change, shed my outer shell, to pupate into another butterfly. Daddy had chosen to leave me. I had left school, and I only had the summer before I was forced down another path not of my choosing. Let me be someone different, just for a short time. ‘Live and let live, I say.’
The Beloved Girls Page 15