The Beloved Girls

by Harriet Evans

  He looked a little surprised. ‘It’s OK,’ he said, shortly. This wasn’t the right thing to say, obviously. He lay against my chest, and his head squashed into my breasts, and it was uncomfortable. And I wanted to put my nightdress back on, and just get into bed and sleep.

  We were silent for about five minutes. I only started to feel bad then to be honest, the feeling I had used him. And slowly the realisation that I had made a mistake, somehow, played a bad hand.

  ‘I’ll let you get some sleep.’ He gave me an awkward, hideous kiss where we both pursed our lips. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That was my first time.’

  ‘Mummy said it would be,’ he said, pulling on his shorts then shrugging himself back into one of his floral shirts. ‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘Really, thank you.’

  ‘Sylvia?’ I said, stupidly.

  ‘You don’t think that’s weird, do you? It sounds odd. But we were talking about it.’

  Perhaps it was normal for boys to discuss taking the virginity of an old family friend’s daughter first with their mother. It didn’t seem particularly normal to me. But the more time I spent with them the more I couldn’t see whether or not I was the one with the problem.

  I wanted to appease him now, not show that I was offended, so I said: ‘No, course not,’ and waved my hand, almost airily.

  Then he was gone, and I was left alone in the dark room, staring out of the window at the dark night, a feeling of nausea growing inside me.

  The following day I found myself alone with Sylvia, clearing the table outside after lunch. I think she probably engineered it, but I looked up and everyone else had vanished.

  ‘How are you today?’ Sylvia said. She was loading the old willow pattern plates onto the wicker tray, and she paused, brushing crumbs from her hands. The bell-sleeves of her floral lawn cotton shirt swung as she moved, to and fro.

  I knew the real reason she was asking, and that she knew what had happened. In fact I felt sore, inside, and my thighs ached. But I couldn’t face telling her I thought she should mind her own business. So instead I chose to misunderstand her.

  ‘I’m fine. A bit nervous. I didn’t sleep well last night. It’s silly, when the exam results can’t be changed. I know I’ve failed, so I don’t know why I’m even nervous.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Sylvia, I wrote Tuesday as one of the answers in my English exam. Just Tuesday.’

  ‘Of course. Rory, get away. There’s no leftovers for you. God, this heat.’ She looked down at Rory, hanging around hopefully at her feet, and pushed him with one leg. I kneeled down, ruffling his soft ears, feeling his wet tongue on my knee.

  Then I picked up the water jug, and a stack of glasses, and put them on the tray.

  ‘Janey, do you still want to go to university?’

  ‘More than anything.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ She said it impatiently, like she knew the answer. ‘And have you really tried to talk to your mother about it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Your father wanted you to go.’ Her face was watchful, secretive.

  I thought she was having a go at me for not trying in the exams. I said: ‘I couldn’t get my brain to work. I didn’t care. It’s so stupid of me. There’s no money, anyway. I have to get a job. My mother says she can’t support me.’

  ‘She’s selling the house, isn’t she?’ I can remember her watching me, her small, set face unreadable.

  ‘Yep. Daddy had all the debts. And she and Martin need the money. He’s got kids too.’

  I was constantly hearing about Jeanette and Adam. Jeanette was training to be a dentist and Adam wanted to be an artist, a job which apparently necessitated him being bailed out by his father several times a year. According to my mother, they were virtually perfect in every respect.

  ‘You’re entitled to a share of the house, Janey,’ Sylvia said. She glanced around. ‘You know that, don’t you? Your father – oh, but perhaps you don’t want to discuss it. But you are.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said, and held up my hand. A bee buzzed, really loudly, right at my ear, and I jumped, and she laughed.

  ‘They are annoying, aren’t they? Come, bring those in.’ She pushed Rory again, harder this time. ‘Oh damn you, Rory boy. No.’ She was cross suddenly, her voice vicious. ‘Stop begging. Always bloody begging.’ The force of her leg surprised him. ‘Shoo! Go on! Go and find Charles.’

  With a yelp, he trotted slowly down the steps and across the lawn. ‘Is the gate out to the chapel closed? Yes? Oh, Janey, please don’t stack the glasses like that next time. They’re crystal, and they’ll crack.’

  ‘I’m – I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It took me a long time to understand all this.’ She smiled, brushing her black bob out of her face with one arm, rubbing the lavender between her fingers.

  We went inside, to the cool of the kitchen. I carried the plates over to the sink. Some of them were cracked, with chips at the edges, I noticed now. Sylvia pulled gloves on, and started running the tap.

  ‘They vanish when it’s time to tidy up, you know? But that means they don’t know what I get up to half the time, do they?’ She squirted rather too much washing-up liquid in, with a large looping movement. ‘Now, let me get started, shall I, and then I’ll go and check on Rory. Poor old boy, he’s suddenly rather old, but I should have more patience. It’s my greatest failing.’

  ‘I think you’re very patient,’ I said, softly.

  ‘It’s not patience when you’re not there anyway,’ she said. ‘If you’ve taken yourself somewhere else.’

  I watched as a shelf of bubbles rose up over the bowl, sliding down the side. ‘Daddy always said patience was all very well as long as you don’t have to be patient for too long.’

  She turned to me with a smile. ‘In that, as in all things, your father was right.’

  ‘How – can I ask you something?’ I began, trying to keep the quaver out of my voice. But it was time. Every other occasion when I’d been on the verge of asking, something had happened, or Sylvia had vanished on some pretext. I had to ask her. ‘How did you know him?’

  She looked down, closed her eyes, then opened them, and stared up at me.

  ‘Your father saved my life, darling,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you know?’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘I was almost killed in a – an accident. He was there, he leaped in. Sometimes I wonder, though . . .’ She broke off. ‘I wonder what would have happened if things had been different that day. And, Janey, I don’t know the answer.’

  ‘I –’ I rubbed one leg with my shoe, awkward, like a stork. ‘I’m sorry. He never talked about it. About lots of things.’

  Sylvia fiddled with the buttons on her shirt, then put her small hand to the hollow below her throat. ‘No. No one really did, afterwards.’

  The foam in the bowl hissed, and hummed, as it began to sink down into the water. She was still.

  ‘I knew your father as a child. He and Mummy were very close. My poor mother.’ She stopped and I nodded, encouragingly. ‘I’d have been all alone in the world were it not for Simon. He looked after me. He encouraged me to go to art college – oh, to do all the things Mummy would have wanted me to do. He was my legal guardian for a while, that’s why I use his surname, as a memento, a thank you to him, and that’s why I wanted Kitty to have his name as her middle name. So there’d be a connection.’ Her eyes were alight – she was smiling, her lovely face lit up, as was so often the way when people talked about my father. ‘He honestly – you know he had a way about him, and I noticed it when you came to stay before, because he did it with you – he brought out the best in me. He listened to me. Even if I wasn’t saying anything. Isn’t that right?’

  I nodded, and tears started in my eyes, but it was OK. It was so good to talk about him with someone who understood. ‘That’s what I miss most about him.’

  ‘Oh yes, darling.’ She rubbed her temples. �
�Oh yes. And I was quite small when I met him, only twelve, and he made me feel like an important person. Like I mattered. My father didn’t ever do that, and Mummy had so many problems she couldn’t. Simon always did. After Mummy died, you know, he sorted me out. It wasn’t just art college.’ She swallowed. ‘Oh God, Janey. He even bought me my shoes. Imagine that, my shoes. All the wrong size, and all of that, but he was trying to help, to do it right.’ Sylvia looked quite different, like someone else entirely. Her eyes were dark crescents, glinting with memory.

  ‘Oh, me too,’ I said. ‘You know, when Mum left and he had to take everything on –’ I stopped. ‘I’m sorry, it’s not the same.’

  ‘It’s very similar, Janey. How strange, I never thought of it before. He had a practice run looking after me.’

  ‘I didn’t realise.’ We looked at each other, smiling.

  ‘Come here,’ she said, and she took me into her arms, pulling me towards her. She smelled of lavender. She was very thin. ‘Oh Janey, I’m so sorry.’ Her ridged nails pressed into my shoulders, and I could feel her warmth, flowing into my tired body. We were still, and then she stepped back. I said:

  ‘When Mum left. He had to do all of that. Periods, and everything. And he did it really well,’ I said, realising this was true, and that I hadn’t ever felt how strange it was. ‘He hired a student to be there when I got back from school to cook me dinner, and he was always back by six. I’d have done my homework, and then we’d just chat. I’d help him clear away and then we’d go for a walk, or discuss the news, or watch TV. He never made it seem hard, or stressful. He’d just got on with it.’

  It hit me again in the throat, that I would never see him again. That I still could not understand why, how, what had happened to him to make him feel he had to kill himself. To leave me.

  I let my head hang, my chin resting on my chest. I couldn’t speak, or even look at her. The full tide of grief, the waves that receded then crashed over me at the strangest times, hit me, and this time it was so powerful it was an almost physical reaction. I could not reach for breath. The bee buzzed around me again; I brushed it angrily away, too forcefully.

  ‘Oh Janey,’ Sylvia whispered, very very quietly, and I knew she knew what I was thinking.

  Her face was so close to mine. ‘My darling, beloved girl. You were so beloved to him, you understand that, don’t you?’ I was swaying, worried I might faint. She caught my hands. ‘You know – it wasn’t you. It was that he couldn’t live any more. I understand. Do you – you do understand? Please say you do.’

  ‘No,’ I shook my head. ‘Not really.’

  I could hear the others, outside, someone shouting at someone else. It recalled me to myself, to where we were.

  ‘Listen.’ She waved a washing-up brush at me. ‘You damn well listen, Janey. Simon Lestrange saved me. He saved countless people’s lives out in Italy, did you know that? And my God, he wasn’t like some people.’ And she actually spat on the floor. A wobbly grey-white blob, like a jellyfish, landed between us. ‘He saw such terrible things, in the war. He couldn’t get over them. But he left a sort of legacy, of doing good, of spreading love. And he loved you so very much.’

  ‘You must have missed him, if he brought you up and then you married someone, weren’t you quite young?’ I said, awkwardly trying to veer away from the subject.

  ‘Oh. Well, sort of.’ She turned away. ‘He introduced me to Charles, actually.’

  My face ached; I was so surprised I must have showed it as she nodded.

  ‘Yes, he knew him in the war. Yes. So – well, I married Charles, and moved away. I didn’t see your father for years.’ The basin was full, water splashing loudly, and her voice was sinking with every word, I realised, slowly, subtly decreasing in volume so no one but us could hear. ‘He tried his best to make sure, but –’ She stopped.

  Now was the moment. ‘Sylvia.’

  ‘Yes?’

  I plunged in. ‘He left me a note, when he died. It was about you.’

  She turned the tap off, and put her wet hand on mine. The kitchen was silent, and all I could hear outside was Rory whimpering, more loudly now. Someone was still shouting.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, with a soft hiss. ‘Do you have it?’

  I nodded.

  ‘What did it say, my dear?’

  She took both my hands in hers, clutching them tight. I cast my eyes downwards, darting them from side to side. ‘It said: Rescue Sylvia.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, softly. ‘Yes, my dear. But how? Yes.’ She stuck her little chin out, like a determined child. ‘Oh, Janey. It’s too late for me. Darling Simon.’ She made a clicking sound, like a key turning in a lock. ‘He didn’t believe it was possible. That was the problem.’

  The whimpering from outside was louder, more a kind of screaming. As thudding footsteps approached the house, I realised. Something had happened.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Help! Oh Jesus, help!’

  She and I were locked together, her hand on my wrist, her velvet eyes boring into mine.

  ‘Mummy! Rory! They’ve – oh Jesus, they’ve got him!’

  ‘They’ve – what?’ And Sylvia broke away from me, water splashing everywhere, and ran to the door.

  The midday sun was blinding. Sylvia was running, across the lawn, followed by Merry. Someone was screaming – I saw in the gateway by the entrance to the chapel that it was Kitty, and as I emerged, outside the boundary of the house, I saw why.

  Rory was leaping up and down, with more energy than I had ever seen, and for a split second it didn’t make sense, and then I saw them.

  He had obviously wandered out of the house and into the ruins. Later, we noticed the ancient candlestick, left by me and Merry on the chapel floor propping open the door. Poor blind Rory must have stumbled into it, knocked it over, and this had disturbed them – maybe they were trying to break away again. They were stinging him, over and over again, covering his patchy, balding body, the sound of their raging hum, rising and falling, but all the time unbelievably loud, and with it his whimpering, agonised, harsh screams. It was the worst sound I have ever heard.

  ‘No!’ Merry screamed, darting forward, but Kitty held her back, throwing her arms around her.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, they’ll get you,’ she said, calmly, her face white, golden hair falling over her shoulders. ‘Stay there.’

  ‘You too,’ Sylvia called. ‘Kitty, you mustn’t go near them. Rory –’ She covered her face in her hands and ran towards him and the swarm, kicking out blindly with her feet just as she had done to Rory only a few short minutes ago. It made no difference. Suddenly Rory stopped jumping, the rasping keening scream ceased and he sank to the ground, and was still.

  Merry was sobbing. Sylvia retreated, brushing them away, her eyes peeking over her fingers which were clamped to her mouth, knuckles white, as if the effort of stopping sound coming from her mouth was almost too much for her.

  At first I couldn’t quite process what I’d seen, that it had happened. And when I looked again, they had swept off, moving surprisingly slowly, a black spectre drifting towards the edge of the woods.

  ‘Aunty Ros said it’d happen, if we left it too long to collect, and Mrs Red,’ said Kitty. She put her arm round her sister. ‘It’s OK, Merry. Darling, it’s OK. He was old. It’s done now. It’s OK.’

  I knew she didn’t believe it.

  ‘He – wasn’t – wasn’t that old,’ Merry sobbed. Kitty kissed her hair, tenderly, looking up at the sky with huge fearful eyes.

  Sylvia was quite still. I heard Joss and Charles, thundering towards us. The wind, out towards the sea, was picking up. It ruffled Rory’s dear, matted, patchy fur. I saw him move, just a twitch of the nose, and realised that was the moment he actually died.

  ‘What the hell – oh Jesus,’ said Charles, and then he stopped. ‘Dear Jesus.’ He flinched, turning his head away.

  They stood there, the five of them, and no one went towards Rory, as if they were afraid to touch him.r />
  ‘Did they all go?’

  ‘No.’ Kitty answered him. ‘It wasn’t all of them. I’d say it was about a third.’

  ‘Good.’ He held his arm up, shielding his eyes from the sight of it. ‘We’ll have to bury him,’ Charles said, after a moment’s pause. ‘The pheromones are dangerous. The stings are all over him. It might attract them back, or a rival swarm, or the hornets and wasps. Get him in the ground whilst he’s still warm.’

  ‘Dad, how can you?’ Merry sobbed. Kitty squeezed her tightly.

  ‘If we leave him here overnight something else will come along and tear him to bits,’ said her father. ‘I’ll go and get the shovel. Damn them. What on earth is it with them, this year?’

  ‘I’ll get his basket blanket,’ said Kitty. ‘We can wrap him up in it.’ Sylvia, as if roused from a stupor, nodded.

  ‘Do, my darling girl. Do. Please be careful, Kitty. They may come back this way.’

  Thudding footsteps sounded around the side of the house; Kitty groaned. ‘For God’s sake,’ she hissed. ‘Not now. Not bloody now.’

  It was Rosalind, of course, I knew that before I saw her. The glazed expression, the furious set of her mouth both at such variance with each other. She was marching even more crazily than usual, towards us this time, arms swinging wildly about.

  ‘I’ll give you one, O,

  One come for the comb, O!’

  ‘I can’t listen to this,’ Joss said, quietly. ‘I’ll go and get the shovel. Jesus, Mummy, this is – it’s too much. It’s all too much.’

  Rosalind had stopped, and was staring at Sylvia. She bared her mouth in a wide smile; I saw then most of her teeth were brown, rotten or missing. ‘Did they get something?’

  ‘They killed Rory,’ Sylvia said, shortly.

  ‘Two, two, the beloved girls, clothed all in green, O – What a shame. I’m sorry. Still, he was very old. One is one and all alone and evermore shall be so!’

  I saw Sylvia turn away, loathing on her face.

  ‘Do you remember when they killed Sybilla? Charles, do you remember?’