Saving Sophia (2 page)

Burnt orchids

“I cannot believe that beautiful place is now owned by that awful man!” yells Mum, slamming forks back into the cutlery drawer. “‘A golf course’, he says! We’ll have to start a campaign to Save the Grange – signatures, letters to the papers, lobby the Department of the Environment.”

“Will we?” asks Dad. He’s watering his cuttings with a pipette, five drops each.

“You know we will – it’s the most wonderful site, completely untouched since the ’20s, and the barn’s full of horseshoe bats.” Mum jams the drawer and yanks it backwards and forwards until a chip of
wood pings into the room. “And I’m sure there were burnt orchids there last time I went. Then there’s the walled garden, and that orchard stuffed with mistletoe – the last cider orchard in the village. It’s just…magnificent. The whole thing’s tragic.”

“Ah,” says Dad.

“Oh,
honestly
,” says Mum, and she stomps back out into the almost completely dark garden.

“Oh dear,” says Dad, shaking his head.

I look at him. “What is the Grange?”

Dad sighs. “Last known nesting spot of the Devon corncrake, and awash with nightingales in June—”

“Yes, yes,” I interrupt. “Is it where Irene used to live?”

Dad straightens and wipes a speck from his glasses. “Yes. And of course Irene was a bit of a hero in your mum’s eyes. I don’t know what’s upsetting her more, the fact that it was Irene’s home or the scientific interest of the place.”

I think about the house. I never knew it was called the Grange; it was always just “Irene’s house” to me. I’m sure the grounds are special, the orchards are pretty, but they’re only trees after all – it’s the Irene part that worries me. “What about the actual
stuff inside? Will he have inherited that, too?”

“I expect so,” says Dad, inspecting the pipette. “Usually the whole lot goes to the relatives.”

I remember the sitting room. Sunlight over the wooden floor, tatty Persian rugs, the smell of wood smoke, an aeroplane propeller. Irene’s mohair rug folded over her lumpy old legs. And the bookcases: rows and rows of old paperbacks, adventure stories, mysteries, romances, hours and hours of reading. I think of the man in the expensive suit slinging them into a heap and an unexpected tear springs to my eye.

“But, Dad – that’s not right – I mean, he didn’t even know her. Who keeps her memories?”

“How do you mean?”

“Once the house is gone, and the stuff’s gone, what’s left of Irene?”

Dad shrugs. “Her deeds, I suppose. The amazing things she did. Sadly, Lottie, the rest’s not really up to us.”

Upstairs, Ned flushes the toilet and a sound like an ocean liner starting its engine reverberates through the house.

“What will he do with it all?”

“If he hasn’t already, he’ll probably sell the things
that are worth anything in an auction and give the rest of it to house clearers. I’m afraid, in the end, most people just use a skip to clear out the things they can’t sell.”

“That’s terrible,” I say. “No wonder Mum’s upset.” I imagine the man going through Irene’s personal things, her dressing table dotted with perfume bottles, the cupboard of old wooden toys, and throwing things into a bin bag. “She had a lovely Noah’s Ark, I used to play with it, half the animals had legs missing – I couldn’t bear him chucking that out.”

Dad sighs. “It’s hard, but it’s the way of the world, love. Perhaps Irene wasn’t thinking very clearly when she left it to him. Though we
have
only met him for a minute – he might be very sensitive underneath.”

“He doesn’t look sensitive. He looks more like a bouncer.”

“But they’re only things, love. It’s the woman herself that’s important.” He gazes out of the window as if she was standing in the garden. “Irene Challis was a wonderful woman. She flew spitfire aeroplanes in the war, you know, taking them from the factories and delivering them to the airfields.”

He smiles at me, and peers into a pot of earth. “She didn’t have radio and had to fly blind into the fog.” He stops to stare into the distance. “She crash-landed in Scotland once in one of those fogs.”

“In
Calm Before the Storm,
Richard Standfast lands a plane in the desert in a sandstorm,” I say.

Dad looks at me over his glasses. “Yes, Lottie, but deserts don’t have stone walls and sheep and bothies. Irene got clear of the wreckage and walked miles on her own across Scotland in gale-force winds with nothing but an aviator’s map to guide her. So far as I know she had nothing to eat. Took her a week.

“Anyway, she was a bit of a looker, by all reports. She was married and widowed twice during the war, and after the war, she married again, this time to a surgeon, but she never had any children.” Dad refills his pipette from a jug of clear liquid. “Instead, she trained as a doctor, and then as an eye surgeon. She worked as a volunteer for the Red Cross in war zones in her holidays. By the time your mother knew her, she’d retired, her husband had died and she was fundraising for the Red Cross, growing vegetables and reading those detective novels with
a magnifying glass. By the end, she was almost completely blind.”

“I never realised that,” I say. “Though I remember her feeling the animals from the Ark before telling me which ones were which. She had big lumpy hands.”

“Arthritis,” says Dad.

“And very thick glasses,” says Ned, bursting into the kitchen. “She had newts in her pond, and played old records on an old record player.”

“She always gave us custard creams and grape juice,” I say.

“She played crazy golf with us in the garden,” says Ned. “With a cup and a ping pong ball.”

“She wore shorts and had veiny legs. And she laughed a lot.”

“Yes, and she sang beautifully, and played the piano until she died.” Dad loads up a tray of cuttings. “I think you’d describe her voice as a rich contralto. Anyway, your mum was devoted to her; she wouldn’t want to see her house ruined.” He pushes out through the back door. “If it was redeveloped, it would break her heart.”

“Yes, it would,” says Mum, crashing in through the door again, swinging the plucked chicken
behind her. “I couldn’t bear to see more men like that one rolling up in their BMWs and swinging their golf clubs over what used to be Irene’s lawn. I’d… I’d cry.”

“I bet they’d build a swimming pool in the walled garden,” says Ned. “And put lights all over the place which would confuse the glow-worms so they’d all die.”

I watch Mum hacking the chicken into squares and throwing them into a casserole pot. She sniffs loudly.

“Couldn’t we rescue all the stuff that’s hers?” I say. “All the books?”

Mum lays down the cleaver and goes over to run her bloodied hands under the tap. “They’re not ours, Lottie, so strictly speaking that would be stealing. But it all seems very odd to me. I thought Irene had left everything to a great niece. I’ve been waiting to hear from the solicitors about it.” Mum glances at the Welsh dresser. “I’ve got a key. Somewhere. And I’ve already borrowed a few books but unless that man has a penchant for adventure fiction, I don’t think he’ll miss them. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to rescue one or two other things.”

“Well, then it would be all right, wouldn’t it?” I
say. “Because other than that it’s only a house, and the last time I saw it, it had little trees growing out of the gutters and moss all over the stone – it needs doing up, it could be lovely if it was a spa…” I stop. Mum’s eyes have filled with tears, and I feel out of my depth.

She turns towards me. “It’s not that it doesn’t need doing up, Lottie – it would be lovely to see it restored to its former glory. But there’s a difference between wrenching up trees and putting in golf bunkers, and simply mowing the grass.” Mum wipes her nose on her sleeve. “And a hotel is a very different thing to a home; I just can’t bear to think of it all ripped out and replaced with fakery, it would be—”

“I understand,” I say quietly. Although I don’t, not entirely. Apart from anything else, I don’t know how I feel about it. I don’t want the man in the expensive suit to have Irene’s things; I don’t really want him bossing builders about, standing by Irene’s old iron bedstead, his shined shoes on her worn rag-rug, but I also love the idea of what the house could become, the skanky kitchen gone, the rooms all white and gleaming. The steps cleared and fixed. The trees cut back away from the front
of the house.

I open my mouth to speak again, and decide not to.

Perhaps I’ll ask Sophia about it while we’re away; she must know something.

If she’ll want to be seen with me.

Only friends lie for you…

The coach leaves in ten minutes. Dad's offered to drive us to school but I wish he hadn't. Our car was built in the last century – the last millennium, even. It used to be red, but the red's gone and now it's kind of silver, except at the bottom where it's still red. Last time Mum took it to a car wash half the paint came off.

I hate it.

On the way here, we passed Irene's house, shaded by the tall ash trees that now surround it. A squirrel threw itself along the branches as we drove past, and the windows looked back at us blank and dark.

It made me feel deeply sad.

And cross.

We park next to a huge black Range Rover that is so big our car could probably park inside it. At the back stands Sophia, looking tiny, by a pile of green and gold luggage that includes a tennis racket and a violin. They seem ambitious for Bream that, as I remember it, is mostly mud or sand. She doesn't look very happy.

I try to think of something to say.
Hi – remember me? The one who talks too much?
Or
Sorry about Mum and the dead chicken.
Or
I'm beautiful inside, I'm just trapped in blubber
.

I don't say any of it.

Dad springs out of our car and I realise he's wearing a boiler suit and orange wellingtons and is in need of containing in case he attempts any social interaction. I struggle out past Ned's walking poles and grab Dad, pushing him back towards the car before he has a chance to mingle.

“Can you get my bag out, please, it's really heavy?” I ask as Ned nudges past and plunges into the boot of the car through the back seat before dragging his bag over my foot.

“Ow! Ned!” I squeal, but he ignores me.

“Are you wearing make-up, sis?” he asks. “Miss Sackbutt won't like that – how'd you sneak it past Mum?”

“Shhh! Ned, shut up or I'll use Oddjob as a hairclip.”

“Oh, I didn't bring him in the end; brought Pinky and Perky instead. Thought Roman snails would be less trouble. Oh, and Dad, thanks for lending me the compass watch,” he says, tightening the laces on his walking boots. “So looking forward to orienteering on the moor. I've already signed up.”

“Excellent stuff,” says Dad, pulling out my backpack and wincing at the weight. “Shame you couldn't have the smaller one, Lottie, but if Mum and I go to Cornwall for a couple of days moth-hunting, then we'll need it. You'll mostly be flopping about in the mud at Bream, I should imagine; just leave this old thing in the bunkhouse.”

I kick my ridiculous rucksack. It looks like something the Victorian army might have used on manoeuvres. I glance around; everyone else has something small and pretty with logos and nylon iPod holders. I could cry.

Dad gives it an affectionate stroke. “Took me to the Hindu Kush, this rucksack. Probably still got
Afghan mountain sand in the pockets.” He slaps it to demonstrate and a cloud of dust covers several nearby parents. “Sorry,” he says, and gives me a peck on the cheek. “Shall I get out of here – would that be a good idea, pet?”

I nod, blinking back the tears.

“Oh – and just in case – I know you're not supposed to take any money, but here's some change.” He drops a fifty pence coin into my hand. “You never know.”

“Bye, Dad,” says Ned.

“Bye, both. Have a good time, don't be a bother to Miss S.” Dad leaps back into the car, slamming the door and leaving a flake of red paint on the tarmac.

I watch the car disappear down the road. Ned goes to join his friends, Tom and Ollie. They're comparing penknives and sleeping bags.

I kick the rucksack once more, and sit on it. I'm probably crushing my illicit packets of real factory-made crisps, but I don't honestly care; I'd like to stick the stupid thing through a shredder and I'd run away if it wasn't that the whole world must be staring at me, all the parents in their proper suits, mothers in skirts with tights and
high heels, fathers with ties.

And all the other children.

I sneak a look around. Sophia's dad's talking to Mrs Parkin. She's fluttering her eyelashes at him. He's leaning on a gatepost, his long legs loosely crossed at the ankle. I can't work out what I think about him. He's smart, he's smooth, he's probably really clever, but somehow, I don't trust him.

He seems like he belongs on another planet.

He's probably spying on the Parkins; they're probably part of the international sausage-meat trade. Except I think that Sarah-Jane's dad is actually a neurosurgeon. Whatever they all are, they've got far more money and far more style than we have.

I turn the fifty pence over in my hand. Fifty pence? What can you buy with that? When did Dad last go to the shops?

I gaze at a ladybird scurrying over the tarmac. It skirts Ollie's trainer and hides in a crack by a bollard.

“That your dad, Charlotte?” asks Sarah-Jane Parkin, from behind me.

I nod, fighting back the tears but they sneak past my eyelids.

“Oh,” she says. “Does he always wear those wellingtons?”

I don't answer. Sarah-Jane is probably the last person I'd choose to go on any kind of holiday with; it's really better to watch ladybirds crossing the tarmac than make conversation with her.

“Are you wearing make up, Charlotte?” asks Sarah-Jane. “Looks a bit – green.”

I stare at the ladybird; the eyeshadow was probably a mistake, especially now, when it must be all over my face.

“Hello,” says a voice. “Lottie, isn't it?”

I look up. Sophia is standing there. She's wearing a small backpack and seems to have abandoned the rest of her stuff.

“And who are you?” demands Sarah-Jane. “How do you know Charlotte?”

Sophia smiles. “I'm Sophia. We met at her house last night,” she says. She's got a clear strong voice, surprising for someone so slight.

“Ooooooh-ooo,” says Sarah-Jane, doing an imitation of a siren. “You've been to Charlotte's house! No one's ever been to Charlotte's house. What's it like?”

My blood freezes. No, honestly it does, and then
it boils while I wait for Sophia to sign my death sentence.

“It's – a house,” she says, quietly. “Just a house.”

I breathe again and nearly cry because Sophia has just been so nice.

“Really?” asks Sarah-Jane. “How disappointing. I always thought with all that naturalist stuff it would be weird, you know,
planty
, with things growing and breeding, and yuk.”

Sophia shrugs, smiles at me, then turns as Miss Sackbutt, wearing a pale yellow tracksuit and cardie, climbs on to a suitcase and clears her throat.

“Shh – everyone, everyone – girls, boys, can we quieten the chatter monster?” There's a deep silence as we all stare. Miss Sackbutt reddens, she takes off her glasses and cleans them on the corner of her cardigan. I've always had her in the Enid Blyton category, an escapee from Malory Towers; all grown up but stuck in the past. Her first name begins with an A. Agatha? Agnes?

She starts talking. “Well, thank you all. I just wanted to say a few words about safety and paying attention. Ollie, Ned, Tom!” The boys stop, stare, and shuffle their feet.

“We're off on our adventure to Bream. There will
be myself, Mr G, and Miss Wesson to accompany you.”

“Miss Wesson?” mutters Sarah-Jane. “Who's she?” There's a general murmur as all the parents ask the same question.

“Miss Wesson?” calls Miss Sackbutt, and a trim woman in tight-fitting leggings and a skimpy vest springs to Miss Sackbutt's side. She's oddly tanned, like someone washed her in sunshine but forgot to do it on both sides, and I can see a tiny earpiece lodged in her hair. Maybe she's really a robot put together by a mad scientist who doesn't entirely understand how human beings work.

Beside her is a small dog. A terrier. Like its owner, it's all muscle.

Miss Wesson smiles at us. That is, her mouth smiles but her eyes don't. She jogs from foot to foot and stretches her neck like runners do before a race, while glancing around the assembled parents and children. “Hi,” she says, and then as if she's suddenly aware that we're all waiting for her to say something else, she adds, “Great.”

Miss Sackbutt stares at her for a millisecond too long before saying: “Miss Wesson is here for security reasons. She'll be checking that we all
have a safe and enjoyable time at Bream.” I can tell Miss Sackbutt is groping for things to say; it's the way she looks when she tells us a school trip has been cancelled and we're going to go pond dipping instead. “She's here to… She will, um, ensure everyone's safety while we're on the trip – away – from here.”

I glance at Sophia. She's staring at Miss Wesson as if she knows her.

I look back at Miss Wesson. She's staring at Sophia in exactly the same way.