The Midnight Gate (8 page)

“Have you found my grandmother?” asked Belladonna.

“No, dear. Though according to our records, you also have an aunt, living in London. Why didn't you tell us about her?”

Belladonna looked from one to the other and shrugged. It was late, she was tired, and she just couldn't think of stories or excuses anymore. All she wanted to do was go home and get into her own bed and have this all be over.

“Well, as it happens, we haven't been able to reach her either,” said Mrs. Lazenby in a tone that implied that if Belladonna had mentioned it earlier, they would certainly have been able to do so.

“So…,” began Belladonna with a sinking heart, “what does that mean? Are you going to send me to an orphanage?”

“No, dear,” said Miss Kitson, smiling. “We try not to do that these days. The family unit is important, so we try to place our … clients with families.”

“Families?”

“Temporarily,” said Mrs. Lazenby quickly. “Foster homes, they're called.”

“But, I don't want to.… My Grandma will be back; she must've just gone somewhere. Have you looked?”

“Of course we've looked,” said Mrs. Lazenby. “And if she's still missing by this time tomorrow, we'll let the police know that she's a missing person, but until then, we have to deal with you. That is, we need to find you some nice people to stay with.”

Belladonna just stared at them. She knew that if she tried to speak, she'd burst into tears.

“Most of our foster parents are up to their ears, unfortunately,” said Miss Kitson cheerfully. “But by sheer chance, the Proctors are completely available.”

Belladonna didn't say anything. The two women looked at each other.

“The Proctors are really wonderful people,” said Mrs. Lazenby, patting the fat file in front of her. “You're a very lucky girl.”

“They've been on our books for years,” added Miss Kitson. “And they live quite close by, so there'll be no problems with school.”

“So,” said Mrs. Lazenby, standing up, “let's get you over there and into a warm bed. I'm sure things will look much better in the morning.”

Miss Kitson jumped to her feet as well, as if their display of energy would make Belladonna feel better, which of course it couldn't.

She picked up her backpack and stood up slowly. Mrs. Lazenby steered her out of the office, pulling a face at Miss Kitson on the way that she thought Belladonna couldn't see but which communicated her feeling that this particular “client” was being just a bit too sulky and ungrateful for her liking.

“Best of luck!” called Miss Kitson brightly as they disappeared into the maze of cubicles and corridors. “Not that you'll need it!”

Belladonna followed Mrs. Lazenby back toward the entrance. It was dark outside now and even the air inside felt cold. She glanced to her left as they neared the front door and found herself looking into the break room. There were old couches, chairs, and tables scattered about and a television suspended from one wall. It was playing cartoons and there was the ghost of the sad boy lying on the couch, not looking sad at all. He waved as Belladonna passed.

And then they were outside in the dark, and the chill February wind whipped around their faces.

“Ooh!” said Mrs. Lazenby, shivering. “It's starting to feel like it might snow. This way: My car's just over here. You don't look very warm. Are you warm?”

“I'm fine,” muttered Belladonna as Mrs. Lazenby unlocked an old hatchback and cleared papers, sweets wrappers, and empty coffee cups from the front seat.

Belladonna slid into the passenger seat and closed the door. Mrs. Lazenby adjusted the rearview mirror and smiled encouragingly.

“Here we go!”

Belladonna felt a little guilty. Mrs. Lazenby was trying really hard to be cheerful and it seemed a bit rude not to at least respond with a smile, but somehow she couldn't muster even that. How could this have happened? This morning, everything had seemed fine. And there was the trip to the monastery. Had that been today? It felt like weeks ago.

The car lurched forward.

“Oops!” said Mrs. Lazenby. “Reverse would probably be a good idea.”

The monastery … There was something … Belladonna racked her brains. No, it wasn't at the monastery, it was on the bus, on the trip there. It was something Louise Pargiter had said: “Enjoy your last day of freedom.”

Could that be it? Could all this be Sophie Warren's revenge? Belladonna felt the anger beginning to boil in her veins. She took a deep breath … no, it was silly. Sophie didn't know she was living at her parents' house, and even if she did, how would she know that her grandmother didn't live there too? And anyway, who'd listen to a schoolgirl?

Unless Sophie had told her mother. Maybe Mrs. Warren …

“Here we are!”

Belladonna looked up.

“What is that?” she blurted as the shadow of a huge building loomed before the tiny car.

“It's Shady Gardens,” said Mrs. Lazenby. “Isn't it spectacular? I'd thought they were going to demolish it, but apparently it's being saved. They say it's an architectural treasure, though when I was growing up, we always called it the Bullring.”

It was much more like a bullring than any shady gardens Belladonna had ever seen. It wasn't that it was tall—no more than four stories high so far as she could make out in the dark. But it was circular, spreading out on either side like a huge gladiatorial arena. Mrs. Lazenby drove through a wide arch on one side and into the center of the building. There were a few yellow lights scattered about near the entrances to stairwells, but all they really did was add to the general feeling of gloom.

Mrs. Lazenby parked the car, and Belladonna got out. There were a few scrubby bushes straining for life in the concrete, and near the middle was bit of beaten earth with a swing set on it. There was only one swing, though, swaying slightly in the breeze, the sound of its chains echoing around the courtyard. Belladonna pulled her jacket close, picked up her backpack, and followed Mrs. Lazenby to one of the stairwells.

“They're up here,” she said. “The lifts don't work, apparently. There's some big architectural firm from London coming to do the actual refurbishment. Mr. Proctor is just keeping an eye on the place. Don't suppose any of us will be able to afford to live here when they're done. Who would've thought, eh? I was sure it was going to be knocked down. Ah, here we are!”

She stopped in front of a bright green door. The doorknob was brightly polished and Belladonna could see a row of ornamental china dogs ranged across the windowsill. There were dark red curtains that had been drawn closed, but a few streaks of light broke across the walkway, and the sound of a television could be heard.

“Now, don't worry,” whispered Mrs. Lazenby. “Like I said, the Proctors have been on our books for years and have lots of experience. They're really nice people; you'll really like them.”

“Yes,” said Belladonna, as some sort of response seemed to be expected.

“They've been on our books for years,” repeated Mrs. Lazenby.

Belladonna glanced at her sharply. There was something odd about the way she said it, but Mrs. Lazenby just smiled and rang the doorbell.

The door was opened immediately, as if Mrs. Proctor had been standing just on the other side, waiting. But if Belladonna was doubtful at first, all of her concerns were soon swept away in the warmth of the greeting as she and Mrs. Lazenby were hurried into the sitting room, urged to sit down in front of the old gas fire, and given cups of tea and cream cakes.

Mr. Proctor was sitting in a sturdy wingback chair near the fire. He was thin and gangly and didn't seem entirely comfortable as he folded up his newspaper and tried to appear welcoming, but his wife more than made up for his awkwardness. Unlike her husband in almost every way, Mrs. Proctor was small and round, with glowing rosy cheeks and dark hair just starting to turn to gray, which was pulled back into an untidy bun that seemed to be held in place by two pencils.

“Well, now, you must be Belladonna!” she said, beaming. “I know this must be terribly hard for you, but don't worry, I'm sure you won't be here long. Better here than in some horrible cold office, eh?”

Belladonna tried to smile. She wanted to be polite but she wasn't sure how convincing she was being.

“Right,” said Mr. Proctor. “D'you have any bags?”

“Oh, er, no,” said Mrs. Lazenby, a little sheepishly. “It was all rather sudden, I'm afraid. We'll pick some things up for her in the morning. Why don't you give me your key, dear?”

Belladonna's heart leapt at the thought that a stranger would be rooting through her home, but she handed over the key without a word. It was as if a piece of her thought that Mrs. Lazenby might discover her parents, though she knew that was impossible.

“Well, let me show you up to your room anyway,” said Mr. Proctor, smiling. His eyes were a piercing pale gray that seemed all the paler in his tanned face. He smiled easily and winked at Belladonna as he led the way upstairs.

“Here you are,” he announced, pushing a door open. “The bathroom's right there, and me and Flo are across the hall there.”

Belladonna stepped into the room. It was bright and airy and clean as a new pin. It seemed to have been decorated with a mind to suiting anyone who might come, and Belladonna found herself wondering how many other children, frightened, worried, or relieved, had found a welcome here.

She turned and smiled at Mr. Proctor. “Thank you.”

“No problem at all. You settle in now, Belladonna.… That's a very long name, isn't it? Is there something they call you for short?”

“No, I'm just Belladonna.”

“Hmph. Well, you settle in. Flo'll come up and see to you in a bit. There are some girls' night things in that second drawer.”

Belladonna kept smiling until the door clicked shut, then she dropped her backpack next to the bed and sat down. Somehow the niceness of Mrs. Lazenby and the Proctors made it worse. It would have been so much easier if they'd been horrible. Then she could have run away and … and …

And what? She couldn't stay at home all the time. And what had happened to Grandma Johnson? Aunt Deirdre's disappearance had been one thing; she hadn't really known her, and everyone had always said she was odd, so it didn't seem so strange. But Grandma Johnson wasn't strange. She was reliable and responsible. She wouldn't just vanish. Not without saying something. Phoning. Or leaving a note. And the teapot was still warm!

“Is everything alright, dear?” Mrs. Proctor peeked around the edge of the door. She wasn't smiling now, she just seemed concerned. “Mrs. Lazenby's gone, but she'll be back tomorrow to check that everything's alright. Did Stan tell you about the girls' night things?”

“Um … yes, thank you.”

“I think you've probably been through a lot today, haven't you?”

Belladonna nodded.

“Well, you just get to bed. I'll bring you some hot chocolate. I spoke to Mrs. Lazenby and we both think it would be best if you stayed off school tomorrow and got your bearings a bit.”

“Thank you.”

“Right. Well, hop into bed and I'll be back with the cocoa.”

The door clicked shut. She waited for a few moments, then checked the drawer with the “night things.” She picked out some pajamas, changed into them, and scrambled into bed just as Mrs. Proctor returned with the hot chocolate.

“There you go, love,” she said.

Belladonna took the mug and sipped some of the chocolate. It was velvety and soft and slid easily down her throat. For the first time since the doorbell had rung at home, she actually felt safe. She smiled at Mrs. Proctor.

“Thank you.”

“Alright. Well, you settle down. It'll be morning before you know it.”

 

7

Shadows

BELLADONNA WOKE
slowly the next morning. For a moment she thought she was back in her own bed at home, listening to the clatter of dishes in the kitchen as her mother created some new breakfast surprise. But the clatter wasn't her mother, it was Mrs. Proctor, and the room wasn't her own, just a generic kids' room always ready for whatever waifs and strays came its way.

She got out of bed, feeling a little guilty and ungrateful. She had to remember that she was a guest and that it was really nice of the Proctors to take her in. She made her way to the bathroom and was surprised to see herself looking so tired. There were unfamiliar circles under her eyes and she seemed pale.
Well,
she thought,
probably only to be expected.
She cleaned her teeth and went downstairs.

Mrs. Proctor was waiting in the small kitchen, a packet of bacon in one hand.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” she said cheerfully. “You've had a good sleep; it's past ten o'clock. What would you like: bacon and eggs or cereal?”

“Um … cereal, thanks,” said Belladonna, sitting down at the table.

How could it be after ten? She always got up early.… But perhaps it was just the body's way of coping with things. Just sort of shutting down and letting you recharge. Except she didn't really feel recharged; she felt just as tired as when she'd gone to bed.

She ate her breakfast in silence as Mrs. Proctor talked about her morning and how Mr. Proctor had gone to visit the company that was going to be restoring the building, and how Belladonna must make herself at home, and had she noticed that there was a bit of a playground.

Belladonna listened and nodded at the appropriate moments and smiled when it seemed expected. By the time breakfast was over, she knew that the Proctors had lived here for over thirty years and had seen the old place fall into decline. She'd heard all about how they'd campaigned to save it (with more success than her mother had experienced with the theatre) and how they had been given the job of living on site while the architects did the preparatory work, and that they'd been promised one of the new apartments when it was all done.