Sophie (7 page)

“You killed Ol' Grady, and you forced her back into her dusty drawing room, but you were too late to stop the dreams. There wasn’t anything you could do about that. The memories were still there, somewhere, but they weren’t real; they couldn’t be dealt with in the same way. You must have felt—angry, about it. Like you’d failed. You didn’t like to fail at things.”

“Lose control, you mean?”

“Exactly.” I smile to myself, slightly. He says, “It must have hurt you. I understand. I know how you felt.”

I blink at that. How much did Matthew understand? How much did he know, back then? It is a frightening thought; to hear him speak, you could imagine him completely innocent of the realities around him, oblivious for ages to the truth of what—who—Ol' Grady was. Is that how it was? Or is it just how he wishes it was? I hear only what he says. And this, this last, seems almost a confession.

After a while, he continues. “I went back to the quarry, you know.” It seems a statement made at random, and I wait for him to follow it up, but he doesn’t. Instead, he gets to his feet, paces the length of the kitchen, peers between the cracks of the plywood sheets that cover the window. There is less lightning now, and his face remains dark. He seems to be looking for something, and it occurs to me abruptly that he is trying to see the hilltop behind the house where the quarry lies. The hiss and beat of rain echoes upstairs, and there are the creaks and mutterings of the old house around me. For a minute, while he stands there motionless, it is almost as if I am alone. I feel a sharp, overpowering urge to start crying, to bury my face in my arm and forget where I am. It would be very easy.

I say, “What can you see?”

He looks round, surprised by my voice. “Not much. The rain’s too thick. . . .” His voice trails off absently, and he turns back to the window. He is there for a while longer, and then he goes back to his place opposite me. The candle casts his shadow large and fluttering on the plaster of the wall, and in that instant I can imagine Ol' Grady sliding around the walls of the nursery, reaching for him through the bars.

The summer was nearly over. Sometimes the smell of bonfire smoke from the farm reached us on the breeze.

It happened in the night, and Sophie shook me awake to the sound of vehicles pulling up on the drive outside. There were voices downstairs. There was an ambulance, and Doctor Roberts was there, too. In the kitchen, with Sophie and me standing by silently, he told my mother about cot deaths, how it could happen at any time, for no reason. There was nothing she could have done. My father was not home. My mother sat like a statue, her hands folded precisely as alabaster on the smooth surface of the table.

Afterwards, I asked Sophie, “Is the baby dead, then?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Oh,” I said. We sat on the stairs. There were voices still in the kitchen, and then a crunch on the gravel of the driveway as a car arrived.

“Is Mummy upset?”

“I don’t know.”

“Doctor Roberts said there wasn’t anything we could do,” I said.

Sophie nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

A door slammed. We sat there, ignored, as the rest of the house went about their business around us.

seven

I struggle to find something to fill the silence. In the end, I say, “What did you feel? Then?”

“I hardly know anymore.” His voice is hoarse, unpleasant. “A lot happened since then, wouldn’t you say? It’s not so easy to disregard everything else.”

“Can’t you—try to?”

He sighs. “I don’t know what I felt. Some kind of disappointment, I suppose. Nothing much. Nobody seemed to feel anything. It wasn’t just me.”

“You don’t think they were just keeping it hidden?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. That sounds more . . . humane, doesn’t it? Maybe that’s what it was.”

His eyes dart around the room, as if he is looking for something. He says, “The next time I saw Caitlyn was at Mummy’s funeral. She was older. She saw me, but either she didn’t recognize me or she chose not to. She was with a man I’d never seen before. I think they were married.” He runs his hand irritably through his hair. “I didn’t mind. She was just something else that had passed out of our lives by then. It’s strange. She didn’t look happy, and I was pleased.”

“Would you still be, now?”

“I shouldn’t think so. I was only eleven. Everything was—everything was coming apart. You know. Maybe I felt that she deserved it.”

“What for?”

“Oh, shut up, for fuck’s sake.” He pushes his hand through his hair again, and lets his brow drop into his palm. He sits there, cradling his head, and I watch him without speaking. Again, I am afraid at what I have glimpsed.

If Matthew was predictable, everything would be fine; but he is not, and his changes of mood and of interest frighten me. I know, when I am honest with myself, that I am in more danger here than I thought at first. I also know that, realistically, I have very little chance of developing things to my advantage. I am not even sure whether what I am doing—waiting, and watching—is the wisest course, whether I shouldn’t instead try to confront him again. I squeeze my right eye closed, and feel my cheek burn; no. I tried confrontation before, and it got me nowhere then.

I am beginning to feel that there is nothing I can do, that there is no way out of this. Matthew, opposite me, head down and not speaking, is simultaneously my enemy and the only hope I have. It is ridiculous. I don’t even know exactly what I am trying to escape.

I have my small store of weapons: the bruise on the side of my face, the reminders of the world outside, the scraps of information about Matthew that I keep telling myself will eventually build into something I can use. What if they never do? What if there is no coherence in what he’s saying? The irony is that, to avoid whatever madness this is, I am going to have to trust him, however hard that may turn out to be. I bite down on my lower lip sharply. I know I can do it, if I keep strong.

He raises his head, clasps his hands together in front of his mouth, and stares at me. I realize that I hardly know the man who is looking out of his eyes.

“What are you thinking?” he says.

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“I really don’t know. I’m too frightened to think.”

He looks surprised at that. “You don’t have to be frightened. But at least you’re being truthful now. That’s good.”

I have to bite back laughter; the confession wasn’t planned, only came out that way by chance. I really
am
too frightened to think. That thought sobers me, and I realize that if I keep speaking what is in my head, I will make a mistake—sooner or later. The laughter in me vanishes instantly.

Between then and my ninth birthday, there was a fallow period, where nothing of great joy or great sadness happened, and which memory has compressed into one or two sharp images. Watching rabbits at dusk in the fields across the lane. A playground scrap where, for once, I came off best. Sophie’s annoyance when, nine years old, she had to wear braces on her teeth for a time to correct some small irregularity—although I remember that nobody teased her about them. Holding hands with Elizabeth Anne after school, and hoping fervently that no one had noticed. Catching a bird that had flown into the kitchen through the open door, and feeling its madly beating heart before I let it go. Good memories, all of them. And, of course, I grew taller, and older, wore long trousers to school for the first time.

All this time, though, it was still just the two of us. The summer holiday in which Sophie turned eleven, and I nine, saw us playing in the same places as three years previously, although perhaps the games were different.

Walking back from school, the air was thickly fragrant with bonfire smoke. A silver bank of cloud hung low down in the western sky, although the light was clear enough. The hedges and roadsides were laden with the browns and reds of autumn, and the conker trees were heavy with spiky fruit. Our class was doing fruits and seeds for science, so I knew several of the more common species by name, and understood how wind dispersal worked for dandelions and sycamores, but not for holly. Sophie and I were chatting away about the day’s work, which teachers we liked and what had happened. We saw less of one another during the day than we had before; among the older children, the boundaries between different year groups hardened so that, even at break time, we hardly ever spoke.

“I’m building an aeroplane,” I said.

“Where are you going to fly to?”

“Silly. A model. There’s four of us, and we’ve got most of the wings done now. It’s made out of balsa wood, and we’re covering it with paper and dope and stuff.”

“Yeah? When’s it going to be finished?”

“Before half-term,” I said airily. In fact, there had been arguments over who should design the camouflage, and half-term was quite an optimistic date.

“I’d like to see it when it’s finished,” Sophie said. She pointed up across the hill we were passing. “See there?”

“What?” I asked. It was the old farm where we had once stolen bricks.

“They’re selling it,” Sophie said. “Tessa’s dad works there sometimes. There’s a really big company that’s moved in and bought them up. I don’t know what they’re going to do, but they’re obviously after land around here.”

“Do you think they’d want our house?” I asked.

“I don’t know. We’re quite a bit farther away, you know. And I haven’t noticed anything.” She meant she hadn’t overheard anything. “Probably not. We’re in a funny little dip, you know? Where the stream cuts down. So probably it’s too awkward a site for anything serious.”

“Is that why the fields are empty?”

“The ones behind the house? Yeah, that’s right. But all these will be, too, soon enough.” She waved a hand to indicate the farmland off to the side of the road. “Anyway, I thought it might be useful to know. So little happens around here normally.” She shook her head.

“Mr. Fergus wanted to see you, didn’t he?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“What about?”

She turned and grinned. “Nosy little bugger. He wanted to talk to me about schools. You know, where I’m going to go after this. It’s exam time next year.”

“Why didn’t he talk to Mummy?”

“I think he has. They seem to reckon I could get a scholarship. It would mean extra lessons and stuff.”

“And? Are you going to try?”

“I don’t know. Fergus is only interested because of the prestige factor for his shitty little school. And it’s not as if we
needed
a scholarship financially. You wouldn’t catch Mother talking about a bursary instead, for example. So I really don’t know. I don’t know if I want a scholarship.”

“You’re going to pretend to be stupid, then?”

She laughed quietly. “That sort of thing, maybe. They think they’ve sorted it all out between them, I expect. I’ll think about it.”

We walked on in silence for a while, enjoying the waves of light and shadow racing across the hillside. A strong wind was starting to blow; we could see its full effect in the distance, where trees were rippling on the skyline.

“I thought, once the plane’s done, I could launch it from the top edge of the quarry,” I said. “See if it really flies.”

“Yeah, why not. But don’t bring any of the others, will you? It’s good to have a place that’s just our own.”

“I know,” I said. “If it’s finished in time, we could do that at half-term. If I can borrow it for a few days. And if it doesn’t rain, of course,” I added doubtfully.

“Unpredictable thing, the future,” Sophie said. “You can never be sure what might happen. You can’t even imagine it, necessarily. That’s chaos theory for you.”

We walked round the second slight bend in the road and our house came into view, huddled in its long garden in a dip in the land. In the drive, my father’s car was clearly visible.

“What do you think Daddy’s doing here?” I said.

“God knows. Another surprise visit. Maybe we’ll get something decent for supper.” Her tone was hard, unpleasant.

“It’s not his fault,” I said uncomfortably. Sophie shot a glance at me, one eyebrow raised.

“What’s not?”

“Him being away all the time.”

“It’s not? What, you think it’s his work or something that keeps him away?”

I stared back at her, not knowing what to say.

“Shit, you didn’t really think that, did you?” She shook her head again. “Christ. You don’t get the impression he just doesn’t like being with us all that much?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

She sighed, and then slapped my arm gently. “Hey. Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”

“It’s OK.” There were birds trailing across the sky near the wood, and I followed them with my eyes until they swept out of sight.

“Hey,” Sophie said after a pause, “did I tell you I got my period?”

“Did you?”

“Yeah. I’m the first in our class, I think.”

“How does it feel?”

“Odd. It’s nothing awful, though. I got really worried at one point, all that stuff about pains and cramps and things, but none of that’s happened.”

“Have you told Mummy?”

“No. Why, do you think I should? Like, walk into the drawing room and say, 'Hello, Mummy, did you know your daughter’s a functioning woman now?' “ She giggled. “I don’t think so. I used some loo paper, and then bought some towels and things in town.”

“Where did you get the money?” I asked. She looked at me strangely.

“I’ve been saving up,” she said. “Why? You think I nicked it or something?”

“No,” I said, hurriedly. “That’s not what I meant.”

She stared at me almost angrily for a second, and then her expression changed, and softened. “Ah, shit. Yeah, of course I nicked it. Anyway, who’s going to do that sort of thing for me if I don’t do it myself? One thing you do learn in this household, Mattie, is that you’ve got to look after yourself.” We turned into the drive, and our feet scrunched on the gravel. “One other thing, though. If you need any cash for anything, don’t for heaven’s sake try to take it yourself. You’d balls it up. Let me know, and I’ll give you some, OK?”

“OK,” I said, secretly rather shocked. And then, because we were about to enter the house, I stopped. “Sophie?”

“Yeah?”

I hesitated. “What did—I mean, how did you do it? Take it from her bag?”

A slow smile spread over her face. “No, stupid,” she said, and slapped me lightly again. “She’d notice. I took her cash card. The code’s written down in the telephone book. Pretty stupid, 'cos there’s no area code and this region uses five figure phone numbers.” She shrugged. “C'mon, let’s get something to eat.”

What Sophie had said about my father not really liking us preyed on my mind. That night in bed, I realized that she was undoubtedly right, and was confused that I hadn’t reached the same conclusions myself. Five of the children in my class had divorced or separated parents, but there was no way that I would ever have counted myself as a possible sixth. My parents weren’t separated; my father simply hardly lived with us, that was all. When I began to think of the situation in these terms, I found myself scared and worried. I found it more difficult still to see that the strange relationship between my parents, no matter how tenuous, was apparently a permanent one. In the end, I took some of these fears to Sophie. We were walking by the edge of the wood, supposedly collecting seeds for a project of mine.

“They say a creaking gate hangs longest,” she said. “That means even when something doesn’t look as if it’s OK, it may keep going for years. And some things that look shiny and wonderful are rotten inside, so it works the other way as well.”

“I suppose so,” I said. “It can’t be very nice.”

“You’re a real romantic, aren’t you?” she said. “Of course it’s not
nice
. But then, I couldn’t honestly say that Mummy’s a very
nice
person, could you?”

“Do you think it’s her fault?” I asked.

“Yes,” Sophie said sharply.

We had half-filled a plastic bag with a variety of winged and furred seeds. At the corner of the wood, near the fallen tree where once, two years before, we had brought a cousin of ours on a walk, we stopped and looked down on the farm.

“Do you think it’s empty?” I said.

“I don’t know. There’s a conker tree down there,” Sophie added. “They’re seeds, too.”

“Can we go and get some?”

“If you like. And those ones right down there are ordinary chestnuts. If we get some of those, we can eat them. We’ll have a chestnut roast.”

“Yeah!”

She grinned. “Come on, then. We can have a look at the farm on the way.”

Even at the time, I half suspected that Sophie’s real reason for cutting down across the fields was to see what had happened to the old farm, whether it had really been sold or not. We scrambled under barbed wire and over a dry-stone wall, and ended up on a winding track spanning the distance between the road and the farm buildings. The three chestnut trees were a little farther along it, the conker tree almost next to us. We spent a happy half an hour grubbing up spiky conker husks and rubbing them with our feet until they popped open to disgorge the glowing brown conkers. Quickly, I amassed a large collection in the bottom of the bag, as well as pockets full of the most impressive-looking. Then we went on down the lane to the chestnuts, and repeated the performance, only with less enthusiasm; too many of the cases revealed only wafer-thin, useless nuts. Eventually, though, we decided we had enough of these for a decent feast.