He didn’t reply. He hardly heard me, I think. For a few days I left it, then I asked again. And again. And again.
‘I’m sorry. I’m just tired.“
And so I turned my attention to her treasure box. Hester’s keys were still in there, still shiny, though Emmeline had, so far as one could tell, forgotten their previous keeper. There were bits and pieces of Isabelle’s jewelry, the colored wrappers from the sweets Hester had given her one day, an alarming shard of glass from a broken green bottle, a length of ribbon with a gold edge that used to be mine, given to me by the Missus more years ago than I could remember. Underneath all the other junk there would still be the threads of silver she had worked out of the curtains the day Hester arrived. And half-hidden beneath the jumble of rubies, glass and junk, there was something that didn’t seem to belong. Something leather. I put my head on one side to get a better view. Ah! That was why she wanted it! Gold lettering. I A R. What was I A R? Or who was I A R? Tilting my head the other way I caught sight of something else. A tiny lock. And a tiny key. No wonder it was in Emmeline’s treasure box. Gold letters and a key. I should think it was her prize possession. And suddenly it struck me. I A R! Diary!
I worked for three hours. At first I was conscious of the height, kept looking down, had to force myself to go one more step up the ladder. And each time I moved the ladder, it took me several goes to get it safe. But gradually the task took me over. I hardly knew how high I was, so absorbed was my mind in the shape I was making. John stood by, mostly silent. Once in a while he made a comment—Watch your shadow! or Think of the back!—but mostly he just watched and smoked. It was only when I came down from the ladder for the last time, slipped the safety catch and telescoped it, that I realized how sore my hands were from the weight of the shears. But I didn’t care.
For six months things went on. We sequestered ourselves in a handful of rooms: the kitchen, where John still slept at night, the drawing room and the library. We girls used the back stairs to get from the kitchen to the one bedroom that seemed secure. The mattresses we slept on were those we had dragged from the old room, the beds themselves being too heavy to move. The house had felt too big anyway, since the household had been so diminished in number. We survivors felt more at ease in the security, the manageability of our smaller accommodation. All the same, we could never quite forget the rest of the house, slowly festering behind closed doors, like a moribund limb.
I didn’t open it until I had finished my transcription, and when I did, there wasn’t much to it.
She continued her silent work as though she hadn’t heard me.
I reached out a hand.
I helped myself to one of the cigarettes John had left in the shed, and smoked it, sending mean looks to the boy, who eyed it enviously. Then I sharpened the pruning shears. Then, liking the sharpening, I sharpened the garden knife, taking my time, doing it well. All the time, behind the rhythm of the stone against the blade, was the rhythm of the boy’s rake over the soil. Then I looked at the sun and thought it was getting late to be starting on the large bowler hat. Then I went to find John.
Do not despair. If your governess can be found, I will find her.
Dear Miss Lea,After all the assistance your father has given me over the years, may I say how glad I am to be able in some small way to return the favor to his daughter.
Mr. Drake hadn’t been able to trace Hester for me. On the other hand, I had found Emmeline.
I went to get the ladder from the shed to trim the big bowler hat, and the ladder was gone. The boy I didn’t like was in the kitchen garden with the rake. I went up to him, scowling. “Where’s the ladder?” It was the first time I had spoken to him.
But for some reason, the boy wasn’t an outsider to John. Perhaps because he came from John’s world, the world of men, the world I didn’t know.
I kept going. And I found what I was looking for. A window, almost overgrown with ivy, and with such a denseness of evergreen leaf between it and the garden that the glimmer of light escaping from it would never be noticed.
“Change?”
‘Tired!“ she exclaimed. ”You look like death warmed up! A proper meal would put you right. Whatever’s the matter with you?“
My initial researches in the United Kingdom have revealed no indication of the whereabouts of Miss Hester Barrow after her period of employment at Angelfield. I have found a certain number of documents relating to her life before that period, and I am compiling a report that you should have within a few weeks.
I waited for her to go before I looked. A ring. She had given me a ring.
John collected buckets of rainwater and emptied them; he peeled vegetables for the pot; he went to the farm and returned with milk and butter. But after every task, his slowly gathered energy seemed exhausted, and every time I wondered whether he would have the strength to heave his lean frame up from the table to get on with the next thing.
‘Why don’t we play?“
Stretched out on the ground, with John’s hand clutched in mine and shards of gravel digging into my temple, I watched time pass. The shadow of the library bay spread across the gravel and reached the farthest rungs of the ladder. Rung after rung it crept up the ladder toward us. It reached the safety catch.
John shrugged and looked away, uneasy.
Eventually he went to the shed, where he sharpened the pruning shears with his old smooth rhythm. Then we lifted down the long ladders and carried them out-of-doors. “Like this,” he said, reaching to show me the safety catch on the ladder. He extended the ladder against the solid garden wall. I practiced the safety catch a few times, then went up a few feet and down again. “It won’t feel so secure when it’s resting against yew,” he told me. “It’s safe enough, if you get it right. You have to get a feel for it.”
The boy came. He was taller than John and broader across the shoulders. They stood hands in pockets, the two of them, and discussed the day’s work, and then the boy started. He had a measured, patient way of digging; the smooth, constant chime of spade on soil got on my nerves. “Why do we have to have him?” I wanted to know. “He’s an outsider just like the others.”
John nodded. “Not bad,” he pronounced. “You’ll do.”
Directly inside the window, Miss Winter’s sister sat at a table. Opposite her was Judith. She was spooning mouthfuls of soup between the invalid’s raw, patched lips. Suddenly, midway between bowl and mouth, Judith paused and looked directly toward me. She couldn’t see me; there was too much ivy. She must have felt the touch of my gaze. After a moment’s pause, she turned back to her task and carried on. But not before I had noticed something strange about the spoon. It was a silver spoon with an elongated A in the form of a stylized angel ornamenting the handle.
But I was already gone. I didn’t want to know what it was he had to say.
Three times he let me rest the ladder against the tree before he was satisfied it was safe. And then I took the shears and went up.
He grasped me under my arms; I slumped against him; he helped me gently down to the grass. “I’ll help you,” he said. “I will.”
John was listless. He did rouse himself to do the unthinkable, though: He got a boy to help in the garden. “It’ll be all right,” he said. “It’s only old Proctor’s boy, Ambrose. He’s a quiet lad. It won’t be for long. Only till I get the house fixed up.”
It didn’t bear thinking about. Yet how not to think? While I was noticing the whiteness of John’s hair, I noticed, too, the deep grooves cut into the earth by the feet of the ladder as it lurched away from under him. No other signs. Gravel is not sand or snow or even newly dug earth. It does not hold a footprint. No trace to show how someone might have come, how they might have loitered at the base of the ladder, how, when they had finished whatthey came for, they calmly walked away. For all the gravel could tell me, it might have been a ghost.
And then we went to the topiary garden. He led me to a medium-size yew shape that had grown shaggy. I went to rest the ladder against it, but “No, no,” he cried. “Too impatient.” Three times he walked slowly around the tree. Then he sat down on the ground and lit a cigarette. I sat down and he lit one for me, too. “Never cut into the sun,” he told me. And “Don’t cut into your own shadow.” He drew a few times on his cigarette. “Be wary of clouds. Don’t let them skew your line when they blow about. Find something permanent in your line of vision. A roof or a fence. That’s your anchor. And never be in a hurry. Three times as long in the looking as in the cutting.” He never lifted his eye from the tree all the time he spoke, and neither did I. “You have to have a feeling for the back of the tree while you’re trimming the front, and the other way around. And don’t just cut with the shears. Use your whole arm. All the way up to your shoulder.”
The ladder was lying on the ground. Its two sections made a crazy clock-hands angle; the metal channel that was supposed to hold them at a constant six o’clock had been wrenched from the wood, and great splinters protruded from the gash in the side rail. Beside the ladder lay John. He did not move when I touched his shoulder, but he was warm as the sun that touched his splayed limbs and his bloodied hair. He was staring straight up into the clear blue sky, but the blue of his eyes was strangely overcast.
I stood up and left John without looking back. I went around the house to the kitchen garden. The boy was still there; he was putting the rake and the broom away. He stopped when he saw me approach, stared at me. And then, when I stopped—Don’t faint! Don’t faint! I told myself—he came running forward to catch me. I watched him as though from a long, long way away. And I didn’t faint. Not quite. Instead, when he came close, I felt a voice rise up inside myself, words that I didn’t choose to say, but which forced their way out of my strangled throat. “Why doesn’t anybody help me?”
The sensible girl deserted me. All of a sudden I was only myself, just a stupid child, almost nothing at all.
‘He might not have a tongue, but he’s got eyes in his head.“
Then, full of dignified self-pity, I stood up and walked out of the room.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Just tired. That’s all.”
‘What shall I do?“ I whispered.
You won’t leave me, will you? I wanted to say. Because I won’t leave you. We’ll stay here forever. Together. Whatever John-the-dig says.
‘Let’s play getting married. You can be the bride. Go on. You can wear… this.“ I pulled a yellow piece of gauzy stuff from the pile of finery in the corner. ”It’s like a veil, look.“ She didn’t look up, not even when I tossed it over her head. She just brushed it out of her eyes and carried on picking at her sequin.
Rung, after rung, after rung, the shadow of the bay crept nearer and nearer. It reached John’s worsted trousers, then his green shirt, then his hair—how thin his hair had grown! Why had I not taken better care of him?
‘Inside?“ I suggested, and he was more than happy to concur.
The safety catch. Why had John not checked the safety catch? Surely he would have checked it? Of course he would. But if he did check it, then how… why… ?
‘And how you see it now, from a distance, keep that in your head when you’re seeing it close up.“
Everything was cold. The gravel, John’s hand, my heart.
‘You’re growing up. It won’t be the same, will it? It’s one thing, being children, but when you’re grown up…“
I was ready.
It wasn’t until the end of the afternoon that she came to find me on the window seat in the library. I had drawn the curtain to hide me, but shecame straight to the place and peered around. I heard her approaching steps, felt the curtain move when she lifted it. Forehead pressed against the glass, I was watching the drops of rain against the window-pane. The wind was making them shiver; they were constantly threatening to set off on one of their zigzag courses where they swallow up every droplet in their path and leave a brief silvery trail behind. She came to me and rested her head against my shoulder. I shrugged her off angrily. Would not turn and speak to her. She took my hand and slipped something onto my finger.
‘I won’t always be here,“ he said eventually. ”Things can’t go on forever like this.“ He sketched a vague gesture that took in the house, its inhabitants, the life we led in it. ”One day things will have to change.“
He ignored my brusqueness and answered me politely. “Mr. Digence took it. He’s around the front, fixing the roof.”
I twisted the stone inward, to the palm side of my finger, and brought it close to the window. The light brought the stone to life. Green, like the color of my eyes. Green, like the color of Emmeline’s eyes. She had given me a ring. I closed my fingers into my palm and made a tight fist with the stone at its heart.
It didn’t bear thinking about.
Yours sincerely, Emmanuel DrakeI put the letter away in a drawer, then pulled on my coat and gloves. “Come on, then,” I said to Shadow.
‘What shall I do?“ My voice frightened me.
Keeping flat to the wall, and with the branches tangling in my hair, I wriggled back out of the shrubbery. The cat watched me as I brushed the bits of broken twig and dead leaves from my sleeves and shoulders.
Emmeline spent much of her time inventing card games. “Play with me. Oh, go on, do play,” she would pester. Eventually I gave in and played. Obscure games with ever-shifting rules, games only she understood, and which she always won, which gave her constant delight. She took baths. She never lost her love of soap and hot water, spent hours luxuriating in the water I’d heated for the laundry and washing up. I didn’t begrudge her. It was better if at least one of us could be happy.
‘He’s a goodlad,“ John said time and time again in answer to my questions. ”He’s a hard worker. He doesn’t ask too many questions, and he doesn’t talk too much.“
Before we closed up the rooms, Emmeline had gone through cupboards belonging to Isabelle and taken dresses and scent bottles and shoes, which she hoarded in our campsite of a bedroom. It was like trying to sleep in a dressing-up box. Emmeline wore the dresses. Some were out of date by ten years, others—belonging to Isabelle’s mother, I presume—were thirty and forty years old. Emmeline entertained us in the evenings by making dramatic entrances into the kitchen in the more extravagant outfits. The dresses made her look older than fifteen; they made her look womanly. I remembered Hester’s conversation with the doctor in the garden—There is no reason why Emmeline should not marry one day—and I remembered what the Missus had told me about Isabelle and the picnics—She was the kind of girl men can’t look at without wanting to touch—and I felt a sudden anxiety. But then she flopped down on a kitchen chair, took a pack of cards from a silk purse and said, all child, “Play cards with me, go on.” I was half reassured, but still, I made sure she did not leave the house in her finery.
My researches are by no means at an end. I have not yet exhausted my investigation of the Italian connection, and it is more than likely that some detail arising from the early years will throw up a new line of inquiry.
I had seen a spoon like that before. A. Angel. Angelfield. Emmeline had a spoon like that, and so did Aurelius.
My story isn’t boring you, is it, Miss Lea?“ I endured a number of such comments the following day as, unable to suppress my yawns, I fidgeted and rubbed my eyes while listening to Miss Winter’s narration.
There were white pressure marks on my wrist where she had held me.
Did I really look like that? I wondered. Oh, I knew what a good match my eyes were to hers in the mirror. And I knew we had the same sideways kink underneath the weight of red hair at the back of our necks. And I knew the impact we could make on the villagers on those rare occasions when we walked arm in arm down The Street in matching dresses. But still, I didn’t look like Emmeline, did I? My face could not do that placid concentration. It would be screwed up in frustration. I would be biting my lip, pushing my hair angrily back over my shoulder and out of the way, huffing with impatience. I would not be tranquil like Emmeline. I would bite the sequins off with my teeth.
Quick as a flash—her looks could be deceiving—Emmeline’s hand came down like a vise on my wrist and stopped me from touching. Still she didn’t look at me. She moved my hand away with a firm movement and brought the lid down on her box.
‘I’m going to go away,“ I said experimentally. My voice didn’t sound terribly convincing. ”I am. And I’m going to leave you here. I’m going to grow up and live on my own.“
‘Shall we go to the topiary garden?“ I asked him. ”You might show me what to do there.“
I stood well back to study my work. I walked three times around the tree. My heart leaped. It was good.
Emmeline was in the bedroom, picking sequins off an evening scarf for her treasure box. I sat down beside her. She was too absorbed in her task to look up when I came in. Her plump, tapered fingers picked relentlessly at a sequin until it came away, then dropped it into the box. It was slow work, but then Emmeline had all the time in the world. Her calm face never changed as she bent over the scarf. Lips together. Her gaze at once intent and dreamy. Every so often her eyelids descended, closing off the green irises, then, as soon as they had touched the lower lid, rising again to reveal the green unchanged.
She pursed her lips and regarded me sternly, but I said nothing more, and she took up her story.
We finished the cigarettes and stubbed out the ends under the toes of our boots.
That, I knew, would take forever.
With the death of John-the-dig still fresh in my mind, the vision of Miss Winter’s face, bereft, still dominating my memory, I barely noticed the letter that was waiting for me in my room.
He followed me downstairs and outdoors, and we took the path along the side of the house. Here and there a shrub grown against the wall caused the path to drift; imperceptibly it led away from the wall, away from the house, to the mazelike enticements of the garden. I resisted its easy curve and continued straight on. Keeping the house wall always on my left meant squeezing behind an ever-widening thicket of densely grown, mature shrubs. Their gnarled stems caught my ankles; I had to wrap my scarf around my face to avoid being scratched. The cat accompanied me so far, then stopped, overwhelmed by the thickness of the undergrowth.
