by Jill Childs
I forced myself to lie down again and steady my breathing. My eyes focussed on the black emptiness under Lucy’s bed. I worked hard at making out shapes there. A soft toy. A crumpled tissue. A stray picture book, dotted with clumps of dust and hair.
Slowly, the tension in my body eased. No need to be spooked. No-one was there. It was my imagination, that was all. We had each other, Lucy and I. We needed one another.
My breathing deepened as my heart rate settled back to normal and I fell asleep.
* * *
Dominic was striding round the kitchen when I brought Lucy down the next morning. He was wearing jeans and a baggy shirt and waving a piece of buttered toast in his hand. The kitchen smelt of recently brewed coffee and singed toast.
Lucy ran across to him at once and he scooped her up, lifted her high into the air, then pulled her close into his arms and nuzzled her face with his nose, tickling her until she squealed. He ran his fingers through the clumps of shortened hair and ruffled them until they stood on end.
She hesitated, suddenly wary, as if she feared being told off.
‘It’ll soon grow.’ He kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Just don’t do it again, ok?’
He brought the half-eaten toast to her mouth.
‘Now, Princess, toast?’
She stayed nestled against him as he sat down heavily at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee at his elbow, and they shared the toast, taking turns, bite by bite.
I hesitated. I was tempted to turn away and leave them. I wasn’t wanted here. Get rid of her. I hadn’t forgotten.
He lifted his head at last to me, all charm.
‘Well, hello.’ He smiled. My body felt at once stiff and unnatural, my hands clumsy at my sides. ‘I gather you’ve been holding the fort. Caroline’s so grateful. And so am I.’ He hesitated. ‘I was rather afraid you’d bolted.’
I blinked. ‘Bolted?’
He fed the last bit of toast to Lucy who crunched it up, her eyes on his face.
‘Couldn’t help noticing your bed was empty last night. Didn’t mean to peek. The door was ajar.’
I flushed. There was something knowing in his manner. Had he heard me after all when I stumbled up the stairs, running away from their conversation? Poor little mouse, listening in.
‘Lucy had a bad dream. That’s all. I stayed with her, in case she was frightened.’
He turned his attention back to his daughter. ‘A bad dream, little Lucy? Well, that’s not good.’
She lifted her hands and ran them over his face, tracing his nose, his cheeks, teasing back his hair and fluffing it with her small fingers. She looked happy, there on his lap with his strong arms wrapped round her. They both did. As if two missing pieces had slotted together and found home.
I shook myself into life and went to boil eggs for our breakfast, put more toast on. I kept my back to Dominic, hoping he’d leave soon.
Later, he set Lucy down on her booster seat. I put her boiled egg and soldiers in front of her and lopped off the top of the shell.
He leaned forward as he reached for his coffee and checked out the egg.
‘Perfect! How does she do that, Lucy? A baby bear egg – not too runny, not too hard, just right.’
She beamed at him, then picked up a finger of toast and dunked it in the egg.
He stood close enough for me to smell the fresh scent of his soap, as he poured himself more coffee from the pot.
‘Thank you.’ He kept his voice too low for Lucy to hear. ‘Caroline’s so excited about her business. It’s been tough for her, moving back.’
I said quietly: ‘I stayed this week because Caroline practically begged me. I’m waiting for my father’s affairs to be settled so I can sell his house and look at buying my own place. I’m not sure where. I’ve told Caroline I’ll hang on a few more days here – a week at most – until she gets proper childcare in place…’
His eyes widened in surprise. I hadn’t meant to make a speech, just to be clear. I’d ended up sounding more strident than I’d intended. I turned away, embarrassed, and concentrated on manoeuvring my own egg into the egg cup without dropping it.
‘Of course.’ He sounded taken aback. ‘Has she upset you? She’d be mortified if she had, I’m sure.’
I scraped butter across a second piece of toast and cut it into fingers, conscious of his eyes on me, of his breath, laced with coffee.
‘Not at all.’ I put the toast on a plate. ‘I’m just explaining.’
He nodded, but he didn’t seem satisfied. ‘Well, we’re grateful like I said. You’re like family to Caroline, you know. One of the few people she’s stayed in touch with over the years. She’s got no relatives to speak of. Well, apart from her mother.’
He said that pointedly, as if he were challenging me to disagree.
‘Families are funny things,’ I said lightly.
I took my plate and went to sit beside Lucy, cracked open my egg.
He said, more loudly: ‘Anyway, Lucy, you coming with Daddy this morning? Good plan?’
She turned at once to nod, her eyes shining.
‘Eat your breakfast, Princess, and I’ll go upstairs and get ready. How about driving to the big park? See if we can find a few ducks to bother – deal? We’ll take them some frozen peas.’
He winked at me. ‘Apparently bread’s out. Not good for their little stomachs. Who knew?’
He took his coffee and disappeared, leaving Lucy beaming as she powered through her breakfast.
* * *
Once the two of them set off together, I searched through the cupboard under the stairs and pulled out an old bucket, an brush with worn bristles, some stiffened cloths and a squirty half-empty bottle of cleaning fluid and headed down to the beach house.
The outside air was fresh. A light breeze was blowing in from the sea, but the sky overhead was bright with autumn sunshine and the waves tranquil and low.
I started outside, brushing away the dead leaves and soil which had blown up against the door, then tipping a bucket of water over the stone flags set there and scrubbing until they emerged again from the dirt.
I propped open the door and let the salty breeze in, diluting the stale air inside. I re-filled the bucket and washed out the cloths, then set to work. I made my way slowly through the hut, bathroom to tiny kitchenette, and finally the main studio-sitting room itself. After an hour or so, I took off my sweater and hung it on the back of a chair, my body sweaty and hot with the physical effort.
At moments, it seemed as if someone was watching me and I found myself turning quickly to see. Nothing but empty space. The mood was different this time, not spooky but benign. A friendly invisible companion, close at hand, keeping me company as I worked.
I tried not to mind it. I thought, as I scrubbed, of my mum. She’d worked hard herself, all her life. I’d come home from school to find her up a stepladder, her hair tied back in a scarf, rubber gloves on her hands as she washed down walls, cleaned windows, kept the house spotless. She took such pride in it.
After an hour or so, I took a break. My hair prickled with sweat. I stood for a moment and rested, my hands on my hips. I looked round the small kitchen, which gleamed again now. I’d buy some cold drinks and re-stock the fridge. I could buy some snacks on Monday. I could even get a kettle and set up a tea and coffee tray.
I nodded, imagining. I could bring Lucy here for lunch after nursery, why not? She’d love it. I’d surprise her, when it was ready, with a picnic and some treats. Maybe on Monday. I’d get her some biscuits and heat up some milk or hot chocolate. In the afternoon, we could set up the trestle table and do some painting.
I pushed back my sleeves again. I’d clean the windows next. The light, streaming in from across the sea, would transform the place.
I emptied another bucket of filthy water into the undergrowth, rinsed out the cloths and got back to work. The vast window which looked out towards the sea was caked with dirt and it was a relief to soak it off.
Afterwards, I stoo
d back to admire the difference I’d made and smiled to myself. The view was stunning. No wonder it was used as a studio.
I gazed out towards the horizon, then along the cliffs. A moving shape in the water caught my eye and I screened my eyes from the sun and tried to peer more intently. The flashing arms of a swimmer, rounding the bluff, low and strong in the water, carved foaming lines through the water. Caroline? I shook my head. I didn’t understand her. Why hadn’t she gone out with her husband and daughter? They had so little time together as a family. She’d hardly seen either of them this week.
I turned my attention back to the interior of the beach house. It was rich now with sunlight. I was exhilarated by a sense of seizing back this neglected property and turning it into something special, somewhere to enjoy.
I placed a chair under the skylight in the sloping roof and tried to reach high enough to clean it off, at least on the inside, resorting in the end to a wet cloth wrapped round the bristles of the broom. I shifted what dust and cobwebs I could.
I lifted the paintings, two at a time, and stacked them outside the door, ready to take them up to the house when I’d finished. The very last to go was the unfinished painting on the easel. I lifted the sheet to look once more at the thin, tortured figure, screaming at the world, then covered it and left it outside with the others. It disturbed me.
Now the paintings were out, I had more room to work. I washed down the walls, seeing brightness return to the lemon paint as it reflected the sun streaming in from the picture window and down from the skylight above. My arms ached. I hadn’t had such a workout since I cleaned out Mum and Dad’s home in the weeks before I left. That had been so desolate. A time of endings, of death and emptiness. This felt the opposite. A restoration. A new beginning.
When my energy was finally spent, I sat on the floor against the wall, looking with satisfaction round the clean, bright room and the endless sea beyond. I was suffused with a sense of well-being. Lucy and I would have fun here this week, I was sure. I’d make her feel safe, protected from whatever troubles plagued her so much in the dingy nursery with the bars on its windows.
I didn’t know why I felt so drawn to this place, but it had reached for me from the moment I saw it. It was somewhere I could imagine curling up to read, somewhere to be alone. To find myself again.
I headed outside and flicked through the stack of canvases leaning there. I soon found what I was looking for, my favourite, and pulled it out. It was the figure of the little girl in the pink coat, bent over and poking about between the rocks, her plaited hair falling forward.
I chose one of the empty nails on the lemon wall, hung it and stepped back to consider the effect, then worked again at straightening it up, then checked a second time and smiled, pleased. Whoever she was and wherever she was now, I somehow felt the painter was pleased too.
The main house was silent when I headed inside. I struggled up the stairs with the paintings, two at a time, all the way to the small attic, above even Lucy’s bedroom, and pushed them out of sight in the stuffy box room there, alongside rolls of mouldering carpet.
When it was done, I poured myself a glass of water and drank it off, then took a mug of tea and my borrowed crime novel back to the beach house. I was about to settle on the rug when I saw how grimy it was. I carried it outside and gave it a hearty shake in the breeze, sending dust and fragments of grit and stone flying into the undergrowth. It was too big to fit into a washing machine, but I could tackle it with carpet shampoo. Not this time though. I’d had enough for now. Maybe it was something I could do with Lucy. We could make a game of it.
I dragged the rug back inside, draped over my shoulder and outstretched arm and was about to throw it back into place when something caught my eye. A glint between the floorboards. A stray shaft of sunlight, strong now as the sun approached its midday height, winked on polished metal as I moved towards it.
I dropped the rug in a heap to one side and went down onto my hands and knees for a closer look. My first thought was jewellery. A necklace or bracelet which had fallen through the crack and was waiting to be found.
I loomed over it and tried to poke my nails into the narrow gap between the floorboards to feel for something trapped there. My fingertips found a slight indentation in the wood, barely visible but just enough for me to get some leverage. When I flicked the edge, the side of the board lifted easily, looser and lighter than it looked. I found myself looking down at a rectangular metal box set snugly into a hole beneath.
A second piece of wood lifted away just as easily, giving me a full view of the top. It was a gunmetal grey safe with a protruding round handle, inset with a blue number pad for the combination. I fitted my hand round the handle and tried to turn it. It was locked.
I looked round, checking uneasily that no one had appeared at the window to see what I was doing. All I could see was a tableau of rock, sea and sky.
I bent forwards and tried to prise the safe out of the hole. No movement. I pressed my fingers down into the gap along one end and strained to push it towards me, to give myself more room to work. Nothing. It held, as if it were bolted or cemented into place.
I ran my hand over the smooth metal top and my fingers came away covered with a light grimy sheen. I sat back on my heels and considered.
The beach house was abandoned by the previous owners, Caroline had said. Had this belonged to them? What had the woman in the village I called the house – Dr Lamley’s old place? Did the Lamley family use this safe as a secure hiding place for cash or deeds or accounts – anything precious that risked being stolen or lost in a fire in the main house? Maybe Caroline and Dominic didn’t even know about it. I bit my lip, thinking.
I should tell them, of course. As soon as I saw them. Who knew what might be inside? Maybe nothing at all. But whoever last used this safe had left it locked. Why? Surely, if they were leaving the property for good, selling it on to Caroline and Dominic, they’d make a point of emptying it and then walk away leaving it open, available for the new householders to use? I frowned.
I ran my hands over the metal, trying to divine it by touch.
Above, the little girl in the painting bent forward, her back turned to me. If she knew the secret of what still lay inside, she wasn’t giving it up to me. Not yet
* * *
That evening, once Lucy was settled in bed, all that distance away at the top of the house, the three of us ate together in the chilly dining room.
Caroline sat at one end of the polished wooden table and Dominic at the other. I was placed awkwardly between them, facing an empty space.
Caroline had clearly put a lot of work into the cooking and I was impressed. The red berry sauce she served with the steak was one of the best I’d ever tasted although when I ventured to say so, she laughed as she thanked me. I suspected the two of them exchanged a stealthy glance, presumably at my expense, when I turned my eyes back to my plate to eat.
I felt my cheeks redden, imagining them making fun of me later when they were alone together.
The little mouse liked gnawing on that one, Caro. Well done.
Well, she’s only used to stale cheese, after all.
I chewed each mouthful more times than I needed to, suddenly finding it difficult to swallow. The sauce became cloying. I’d make an excuse as soon as the main course was over. I’d slip upstairs, saying I wanted to check on Lucy, pretending I’d heard her cry out, and forget to come down again. I didn’t care. Dominic would be gone again in another day. They’d welcome time alone together.
He reached for the bottle of wine, suspended in its silver cradle, a rich, mellow red that was already going to my head, and strode around the table to refresh our glasses, one by one.
As he settled back into his chair again and spread his napkin on his lap, he said, ‘I saw a nursery smock on Lucy’s peg.’
I didn’t answer. Did he not know? There was a warning note in his voice.
‘Oh yes, Sophie found a sweet little place in the v
illage, didn’t you, Soph?’ Caroline said. ‘What’s it called? Little Monsters?’
Both pairs of eyes turned on me.
‘Little Monkeys.’ I wasn’t clear if it was a joke or if she’d really forgotten.
‘Wouldn’t “little princesses” be more apt for our Lucy?’
Caroline waved a hand. Her rings glinted in the low light. ‘Ah yes. Of course. Your little princess.’
A strained silence.
I said brightly after a few moments: ‘She seems to like it. The staff are very gentle and they do a lot of activities with them. It might help her make some friends here.’
Caroline reached for her glass and drank. ‘She’s just trying mornings, darling. That’s all. But once she settles, they’ll take her all week. Do her good.’
He lifted his gaze and looked down the length of the table at his wife. ‘Did you think of perhaps consulting me about this before you enrolled her? As I’m her father?’
I shrank into my chair, wishing I were somewhere else.
Caroline seemed unperturbed. She leaned forward, her fingers reaching for the long stem of her glass. ‘Well, as her mother, as the person left in charge of her all week long, I suppose it was a decision I felt qualified to make. As Sophie says, it’s about time she made some friends. Maybe they can help her.’
‘Help her?’
I said, lamely, ‘I didn’t mean—'
Caroline spoke over me: ‘Help her. With her problems, Dominic. Do you want me to go on?’
He set down his knife and fork with a clatter and pushed back his chair and said to me, all brittle politeness, ‘Would you excuse me a moment, Sophie?’
He strode out of the room and through to the kitchen, next door. The wooden serving hatch between the two rooms wasn’t properly closed and the noise of the sudden torrent of flowing water, as the tap was wrenched on, reached me clearly. A glass or cup filled, then the tap was switched off just as abruptly.
When he came back, his cheeks were still red but he acted as if nothing had happened. As he settled in his chair again, he turned to me and said, ‘So tell me, Sophie. Who’ve you met from the village? I hear they’re a friendly bunch, if you make an effort.’