The Scrapbook (12 page)

The naked bulb suspended from the central beam in the attic tumbles shadow across the narrow space, creating angles that don't exist. Tarnished metal chests loom from the corners and then retreat as light briefly glances over them and swings away. A spider, rendered grotesque and huge, shifts on a pile of blankets. I keep a wary eye on it as I sort through boxes.
In a cracked, tan leather folder I find Granny Ivy's marriage certificate and mum's birth certificate. I rip the thin paper as I spread it open and tear mum's name down the centre.

There are fat little parcels of letters from people I've never heard of
(We must meet up next year, all my love Doreen. Thank you so much for the pickles, Arthur ate half a jar in one sitting! Love Janet)
and one from the great-aunt, just a couple of sentences on unlined paper, as brisk and unsentimental as my memory of her.
Ivy, I got your letter and I'll do as you ask. Please don't contact me again. Rose.

If mum ever corresponded with anyone, ever, she must have destroyed the evidence a long time ago. It's as if she had no past. There's nothing of hers at all up here, though there are plenty of my old drawings and school reports, sorted into date order and inserted into paper folders. I know without asking that it was my granny, not my mum, who would have done that.

The spider has disappeared the next time I look over and so I decide to retreat to the landing to sort through the bags there. My enthusiasm is starting to ebb, last night's angry determination segueing into a mild nausea that, since I got pregnant, hits me whenever my stomach's empty. I call out to mum but she doesn't answer.

Granny Ivy's household accounts, her payslips from the post office, lots and lots of old till receipts. I rummage for a while and then look at my watch. It's nearly time for lunch. There's still no sound from beneath me. It's as if mum's holding her breath down there. I wade through the bags and paper to check she's still alive.

She's in her chair, staring out of the window. She pretends not to have heard me come in and flinches dramatically.

‘Everything okay, mum? I'll make us some pasta soon for lunch and then I'll start on the dresser in the kitchen, so if there's anything in there you want to hide now's your chance.'

She remains frigidly fixated on the window but there's an almost-smile tugging at her mouth. She looks sly, pleased with herself. ‘Haven't found anything yet, then? I knew you wouldn't.'

I take her empty glass and tilt it towards her. ‘Another water?'

She looks up at me, lips thinned to nothing. ‘Oh, that would be lovely, Fern. Thanks so much.' Her hands are shaking.

The power that I have over her is a visible thing. It hangs in the tremble of her fingers, hardens in the grim clench of her cheek muscles as she refuses to ask for that one thing she wants above all else. The nausea swells inside me. I can try telling myself that this is purely for her own good but I know that I'm denying her her only solace just because I can, because it's the most effective way of punishing her.

I try to soften my voice, smooth out the mocking edge it's so easy to use with her. ‘Just a couple more bags then I'll be done upstairs. And, no, I haven't found anything yet. If I hadn't seen dad with my own eyes I'd think you were making him up. But then, if you weren't sat right here I'd be doubting your existence as well, you've done such a good job of scrubbing yourself right off the face of the earth. Are you sure you don't work as a spy?'

I really can't help myself.

The last two bags are full of what looks like fabric. Granny Ivy's unfinished sewing? I empty them out over the carpet and pounce on a lovely green velvet bag. There's no way mum's getting her hands on that. I undo the clasp and pull out the contents. Envelopes, all addressed to the great-aunt and all in Granny Ivy's handwriting. I recognise the spiky, flourished lettering, the ferociously stabbed
t
's. They all smell faintly of the lavender she sprinkled over everything.

I take them into my bedroom and spread them across the bed, one by one.

Dear Rose,

June 22
nd
'42

I won't offer any excuses; I can't imagine you'd want to hear them. And I won't even say that I'm sorry because I'd do it again tomorrow. But I do regret hurting you. I do regret that.

I hope the parents are doing everything they can to be a comfort to you. I hope mother's stopped crying by now, though it's only been a few hours so I can't imagine she has. She really did turn the most extraordinary shade of red didn't she? I thought for a moment that she'd collapse right there in front of me, and that might just have been too much for my conscience. Thankfully I didn't have to find out.

Edgar is just discovering that he doesn't have sea legs, the poor thing. I, on the other hand, am calm and sickness free, which is remarkable considering my situation. Hardly the most romantic of elopements, so I hope you will take some pleasure from that. We've barely spoken a word since we left you, and I was so eager to get him away from the island before he could change his mind I forgot to take my blue coat. You can have it, I know you've always wanted it.

I also left my crystals. They're in a grey velvet bag under my bed. Please bury them, but don't touch them with bare skin. I hadn't rinsed them in salt water so they'll still hold a charge from the last charm.

I sit here on deck, shivering in my thin dress, imagining you all gathered around the stove in the kitchen and dripping poison onto the table. But at least mother will have the satisfaction of being proved right about me! I just hope she's not gloating too much at your expense. She always prophesised I'd create a scandal that would bring our good name to its knees, didn't she?

But it could have been worse, couldn't it? We could have waited until after you and Edgar were married and then ran away together. Or we could have carried on an affair through the years, with me as the spinster elder sister always at your home or making excuses for him to visit me. There's only so many leaky taps that require a man's attention before his wife starts to get suspicious.

I do wish we hadn't left it so close to the wedding though, I do really. And you looked so beautiful in your dress, the last time you tried it on. Did you know that I wanted to rip it off you? Did you ever glance up from the mirror and see the jealousy on my face as I hovered behind you? I always tried not to think of you as a rival but you were so perfect in your white lace. I couldn't understand how he could want me when he could have you. But nevertheless here we all are.

If it hadn't been for the baby maybe I wouldn't have taken him, or maybe he wouldn't have come, but I don't believe that. Even before I found out about her (and it will be a her, I sense it) we talked about his leaving you and about us being together properly, in daylight. It was just a matter of time and courage, and this bump beneath my dress gave us the latter.

I can imagine what you're thinking, and no I didn't. I've never planned anything in my life, you of all people know that, though I suppose that the frequency of our meetings and the intensity of our love meant that the odds were stacked in favour of me falling pregnant. But I didn't plan it. Honest, Rose, I didn't.

As to the other thing that I'm sure you've been wondering about: yes I did. There, does that make you feel better? I didn't play fair! But from the first moment I saw him, that afternoon you brought him home to show him off, I loved him. I couldn't take my eyes from his hedgehog hands, his fingers bristling with splinters and his palms so pink and tender. I wanted to close my mouth over them, feel for each of those splinters with my tongue and pull them out with my teeth. So I used a love spell on him, and for that I
am
sorry. Neither of us will know whether I could have won him through feminine wiles alone, and if I had the time again I wouldn't put it to the test. I couldn't risk losing him. You see, I love him more than anything. More than myself, more than the island, and more than you.

I have to check on him now so I'm going to finish this letter. It'll take ages to find him in the dark, and we've been told we can't even light a candle as the glow will carry so far. I'll post this as soon as we get to the mainland, and I'll write again when we have an address. Please excuse my scrawl, I only have moonlight to guide me.

The island's going to miss its charmer, and I'm going to miss the island. I'm going to miss you too, if I'm allowed to say that. When the war is over we may come back. As to our private war, Rosy Rose, please give me a sign when hostilities are suspended and you can forgive me. I know it can't be soon, but I hope it will happen.

With my love,

Ivy

Dearest Rose,

Oct 13
th
'42

Sad news. We lost our little girl, seven months in and on the night of our wedding. The nurse at the hospital let me wrap her up in the white shawl I'd crocheted and hold her for a while before they took her away. She was so beautiful, Rose, she reminded me of you. Her eyes were shut so I couldn't see their colour but I know they were brown. Her lashes were longer than mine, they lay as feathery fine as peacock's tails on her cheeks, and her lids shimmered like the insides of scallop shells. I felt such an urge to crouch on the bed with my legs spread wide and push her back inside me. My body her coffin. Surely she'd be happier nestled in the cushion of my flesh than wrapped in wood and given to the earth? But they took her as soon as I tried and I haven't seen her since.

I'm still in the hospital, though I should be allowed to go home tomorrow. I had septicaemia after I lost her and I was almost lost too. If it weren't for Edgar I'd have happily followed my little girl into the after world but he never let me forget him, howling at me to live and causing such a scene in the corridor there was very nearly a fight.

She took a breath in, just one, before she died and so technically was a living birth and entitled to be baptised. I refused; do you think that was wrong of me? The nurses said that she would be cast into limbo if I didn't, but I still said no. I couldn't tell them that if her soul's floating in limbo then there's a chance I can reach out to her and console her, maybe even tether her and bring her back to me, but if she's in heaven then she's gone forever. Once those gates are shut they stay closed.

I had the same dream three nights in a row before she died. There was a time when I would have paid heed to such dreams but over the last few months I've become complacent with love and sluggish with happiness and I can only blame myself for that. You were my dream, Rose, and when I think of it now I can't imagine how I could have ignored its warning.

It was your wedding day. You stood in our garden at home (I mean
our
garden, our childhood garden), dressed in your white lace, your hair tucked into a veil. You were marrying Edgar. I watched you watch him and I felt overcome with joy for you both despite my own love for him. It was wonderful.

It started to rain and I stepped forward and held you in my arms, trying to shield you from the worst of the downpour. No matter how I covered you with my body you got wetter and wetter, but you rested against me so serenely, eyes shut, not minding the damage to your dress. I stayed dry and though you started to shiver I was warm.

When it stopped raining we both undressed and redressed in each other's clothing, so that you too would be warm, on your wedding day. And then Edgar took my hand and led me through the garden and out of the gate. When we reached the road I looked back and you were standing in my violet silk, your ruined veil sodden around your face, watching us walk away from you. In your hand, in place of a bouquet, you held the white shawl I'd crocheted for my little girl. It trailed from your fingers and down onto the ground.
Into
the ground, like a thread connecting you to the earth.

It feels as if we've been cursed.

Our house is sweet, though small, but with a lovely little garden at the back. It would have been perfect. I've planted two delicate pink rose bushes, one either side of the door, so that I will be reminded of you every time I return home. Edgar has found work in a sawmill and he whittles tiny figurines for me in his breaks. I have a collection of dancing animals on the sill above the fireplace and intricate trees in miniature. I love the symmetry of that; trees felled and then re-born as carvings of themselves.

You would hate it here, the land doesn't ever seem to end. It scares me, the thought that I could walk and walk and never reach the end of it.

I think of you often, Rose, and always with a heart full of love. We never speak about you and I have to tell you that we still don't regret what we did. Not yet anyway. I adore him more with each passing day, and even in the midst of this tragedy the touch of his fingertips against my neck pulls my stomach up into my throat and butterflies fly from my mouth.

I hope you have it in you to pity me and mourn your little niece. We'll bury her next week. I was going to name her Fern.

Our wedding night was a dead infant curled on bloodied bed sheets and our honeymoon was a hospital ward. It's as if God's punishing me.