The Mysterious Affair at Castaway House (12 page)

‘But you must have been told, surely. I mean, who you are, what your name is.’ I frowned. ‘You know what your name is? Your real name.’

He shook his head. ‘I know nothing. As I said, I was born on the docks.’ He took another sip of tea.

‘Yes, but …’ I hesitated. ‘People don’t just turn up. Somebody must have been looking for you.’

He shrugged. ‘Alas, not in my case. It appears that nobody wanted to recover me at all.’

‘But that’s awful.’

‘Not at all. Who needs memories? Weighing one down with a lot of nonsense.’ He nodded firmly. ‘Frank was of the same opinion. He used to say that if I’d ever wanted to remember my past, it would have come back a long time ago.’

I looked down at the table top and thought of my own nonsense and how if I could erase my memories – at least, certain ones – then I surely would. Another thought occurred to me. ‘So when you came here before, to Castaway
House, it must have been before you lost your memory.’

Dockie shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. I could have been here last year and forgotten about it. Frank remembered things for me, you see, but now Frank is dead and I have to rely on myself. And, as you see, I am not very reliable.’

‘Perhaps if you knew who the photograph was of …’ I stood up. ‘Perhaps that would help?’ I trailed off, feeling inadequate, as if nothing I could say would ever match the enormity of losing who you’d once been.

He waved a hand in the chilly air. ‘I need no help. When one has a faulty brain, one must learn to adapt to the flow of the river.’ He frowned. ‘Except that I find myself here, without the slightest notion of why, when I could be in my own room with Mrs O’Shea bringing me soup on a tray.’

‘I made you soup yesterday.’ I went to the kitchenette and looked through one of the bags. ‘By the way, I brought you this.’

Dockie squinted at the bottle of Wincarnis Tonic Wine in confusion. ‘Hmm.’

I put it on the side. ‘You’ve some more things arriving this afternoon. Look, the money’s on the table, okay? You can count it.’

He gave a dismissive shake of his head. ‘You’re a good girl,’ he murmured, and as I went past he held out a hand. ‘Thank you.’

I smiled at the hand, not really wanting to touch it. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘And now, to rest.’ He put his cup of tea on the floor.

I opened the door and swung back on it, looking down at him. ‘Do you want me to … I don’t know, pop down tomorrow? Make sure you’re all right?’

‘Oh no. You’ve done quite enough.’ He nodded, and guilt curled my spine because I really had done quite enough.

‘I shall be fine now,’ he went on. ‘I have food and clothes and a good wine. What more could I want?’

‘Well.’ I waggled my fingers. ‘Bye-bye, then. I mean, I’m sure I’ll bump into you in the hall or something.’

‘I shall return to Dublin as soon as I am fit.’ He wheezed out a sigh. ‘What a foolish adventure.’

I left him staring blearily at his holey socks, twisted into the end of the bedclothes, and climbed the stairs back to the ground floor. I was walking along the passageway towards the hallway when I realized I’d forgotten the shoes. They were still in their pristine box, wrapped in tissue paper, in an innocent-looking Bradley’s bag sitting beside the door.

I closed my eyes and leaned on the snail-shell end of the banister. I should go back now, make up some excuse about just checking if he was still all right, then whip up the bag and high-tail it away. ‘I didn’t know he was ill,’ I muttered to the painted-over Anaglypta below the dado rail, scuffed by a hundred passing bodies.

At that moment the telephone pealed into life and I jumped out of my skin.

I stared at it, frozen, as it rang, accusing me. I felt unable to take a step towards it or away; instead I clung to the banister like a life raft, as the overhead light clicked off and I was left in the dim milky light of the afternoon.

The phone continued to ring and then I heard a growled, ‘All right, all right, I’m coming.’ The door to the ground-floor flat burst open and I steeled myself, gripping the banister harder, as Star emerged with an apron over her Mod-girl striped top. She switched on the light, darted to the phone and, as she picked it up, saw me and gasped as loudly as I’d done when Dockie had surprised me just now.

‘Shit,’ she muttered as she pulled the receiver towards her, and shook her head sharply before barking into the phone, ‘Helmstone 4895.’

I smiled a weak apology, but she frowned at me and said into the receiver, ‘Who’s that? Rosie?’

I shook my head frantically and waved my hands. Star continued to look at me as she said, ‘No, I’m sorry, she’s just gone out … No, no idea. Sorry.’

Thank you
, I mouthed to her. She nodded at me and curled the telephone wire around her long fingers. ‘Okay. Do you want me to ask her to call you back?’ She paused. ‘Oh. Well. Look, I’ll make sure she sees it, anyway.’

I took a step away from the stairs towards Star as she took the chalk from its shelf and scrawled on the board,
Rosie – your mother called. Again
. ‘On the top floor, yes,’ she was saying. ‘Yes. Yes, I know her.’

I leaned my head on the wall as Star turned slightly away from me. Odd notes had been scribbled all over the area beside the telephone, perhaps in the days before the blackboard, and they loomed in close-up:
Carry Me Home 5
:
2 (D’cster 3.18), Oral 15/-, Full £3, Tel. Mr Rattle 8390 (urgent!)

‘Um … well, fine, I suppose.’ I noticed two spots of pink light up Star’s cheeks. I had never seen her blush
before. ‘As far as I know. Yes. I suppose. Very happy … No, no, carry on.’

I heard the tinny chip of my mother’s voice speaking through the wire, and felt my own cheeks burn red. I looked away from Star, towards the open door to the ground-floor flat, through which I could make out a small hallway and, beyond that, what seemed to be a bedroom.

‘Well, the thing is, you see, I don’t really know her all that well,’ said Star, turning slowly back towards me. ‘A boyfriend?’

I shook my head again, my eyes bulging inside their sockets. Star nodded slowly, listening. The telephone wire spun long waves about her fingers. Her sharp haircut gleamed under the overhead light. It suddenly occurred to me that Star belonged even less to Castaway House than I did. She’d have fitted in more on a yacht, holding a glass of champagne in one hand, wearing a one-piece swimsuit and laughing at the spray kicked up by the turns of the boat.

‘No. Not that I’ve noticed.’ Star looked me up and down and said, in a careless sort of way, ‘Not at all. She doesn’t seem the sort … Oh well. I’m sure she’s fine … It’s – um – it’s Star … as in, you know, the night sky.’

I waited, my heart hammering, as Star said, ‘I’ll tell her … All right then … Goodbye.’

She placed the receiver carefully back on the telephone and surveyed me, her head to one side. ‘She wanted to know if you had a boyfriend.’

I smiled. ‘You know what mothers are like. Always worrying.’ I spread my palms out. ‘Anyway, you know I haven’t.’

Star leaned one elbow on the end of the banister. ‘And she asked if you’d broken up with anyone. If I knew about any man who’d upset you.’

I pressed myself back against the wall. ‘My mum!’ I laughed. ‘She thinks there’s some big secret behind it all. The Reason Rosie Left Home.’

Star reached out and touched my shoulder. ‘You can tell me, you know.’

‘There’s nothing to tell.’ I drew away from the wall, into her touch. ‘Nothing important. Anyway,
you’ve
got secrets.’

Star snatched her hand back as if I were fire. ‘What do you mean?’

I smiled. ‘You know …’ I said teasingly.

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said rapidly. ‘And if you listen to stupid gossip, then you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.’

I gaped. ‘What? I only meant that you told me you knew nothing about the flat, when you clearly do.’ I nodded at the open doorway opposite.

Star glanced over. ‘Oh.’

I narrowed my eyes. ‘Then why am I an idiot?’

‘I didn’t mean it.’ She smiled hurriedly. ‘I’m sorry. I was just … It doesn’t matter. You’re not an idiot. You’re the opposite.’

‘But what gossip? What do people say?’

‘Nothing.’ She glared at me, daring me to pursue my line of enquiry, and I realized that we were at an impasse.

I nodded. ‘Okay. So tell me about the flat.’

She looked back at it and her body sagged. ‘It’s the landlord’s, all right? And I’m supposed to clean it. That’s
my job.’ She waggled her head to indicate the irony of the final phrase.

‘So why didn’t you tell me yesterday?’ I wondered what the gossip could be, what people would have dared to say about Star.

She pulled a face and tugged at her apron. ‘Cleaning, all that housewife stuff: it isn’t good for my image, do you know what I mean?’

She caught my eye, and we both smiled at the same time, and our truce tightened. ‘That’s funny,’ I said, ‘I was just thinking that you belonged on a yacht.’

‘Oh, that’s nice.’ She sighed wistfully. ‘We could sail out into the ocean and dive for pearls. Johnny could steer the boat for us.’

‘Mmm,’ I grunted, pleased she’d included me in her daydream but irked she wanted Johnny there as well. ‘I’d always imagined the landlord to be that sort of wealthy tycoon – you know, yacht, permanent tan, beach house in Rio. I had no idea he lived downstairs.’

‘Oh.’ She nodded at the doorway. ‘The landlord doesn’t live there. He – er – just comes to stay every once in a while. Keeps an eye on things. Luckily, he doesn’t come very often.’ She winked.

‘Then who’s been driving me nuts with that awful whistling?’ When Star frowned, I added, ‘It’s definitely coming from the flat.’

‘I think you’ve already gone nuts. There’s been no one in the flat for weeks.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘Perhaps it’s mice.’

‘Whistling mice?’

‘Or – I don’t know. The wind. Yes, it’s probably that. You know what old places are like: full of holes.’

‘Listen.’ I indicated the telephone plinth. ‘Thanks for speaking to my mother. For telling her – I mean, for not telling her – I mean, reassuring her, okay?’

Star shrugged. ‘No problem.’

‘I’m just … not in the mood for speaking to her right now, that’s all.’

‘Hey, none of my business.’ She looked down at me as unspoken words hung in the air.

‘And I don’t care about any … gossip, or whatever it was, whatever people have said.’ All the same, I yearned to know the details. Perhaps another time.

‘Good,’ she said fiercely. ‘I knew you were better than that.’

‘If you say so,’ I replied, and on impulse I leaned towards her and pressed my lips to her smooth cheek. ‘Thank you.’

‘Oh!’ she said, surprised. She gripped the edge of the banister. She indicated the open door to the flat and smiled uncertainly. ‘I’ve – erm – got to get on. See you later, alligator.’

And then she was gone, the door closing behind her with a thud. I continued on up the stairs, the memory of Star’s cheek still imprinted on my lips. I let myself into the kitchen, made myself a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich, and I’d been sitting at the table for fifteen minutes listening to the crackle from Radio Luxembourg on Susan’s transistor radio before I remembered I still hadn’t picked up the shoes.

I moulded crumbs back into dough with my fist. The thought of going back to Dockie’s room made me shudder, with his rotten smell and his tales of brain injuries
and boarding houses, all wrapped up inside an old man with holes in his socks and his mind. The whole thing made me feel unutterably sad, and I was relieved he’d mentioned returning to Dublin, away from any place I could help him.

All the same, I had stolen money from him: two pounds five shillings to be precise – or four if I took one back for the gas meter. Stealing from an old man with a handicap – I’d actually done the reverse of a good turn. I drank the last of my tea, remembering that he had oodles of cash and I had none, and he’d never notice, and – well, it was done now, for better or worse.

Thinking of that –
For better or worse, for richer or poorer
, all of that – reminded me of the copy of
Northanger Abbey
Dr Feathers had lent me, and I reached into my handbag for it. Maybe tomorrow I would ask Mrs Hale all about it; if she’d known Robert Carver, what he’d been like, why somebody had scratched a belief in his innocence into the underside of the windowsill.

The book was an old hardback, in a much-worn green material, cracked at the spine and with loose pages that tried to flutter out when I opened it. There was a line drawing on the front of a young girl, and the title caressed the cover in what had once, I supposed, been a gold colour but was now a dull brown.

However, none of this interested me. Neither did the contents of the book; or, at least, not as much as the inked scrawl that covered the flyleaf at the back. The handwriting was perfectly neat, in a calligraphy I had never managed to achieve, but the words themselves darted about the page in a random order, like butterflies:

One floor below, the doorbell rang in three harsh bursts, but I ignored it. I went to the underside of the windowsill and found again the protestation of Robert Carver’s innocence. I squinted at the words etched into the wood, trying to work out if it was the same handwriting, but there was no way of telling for sure.