The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox (8 page)

'Ocht,' she said to them, 'ocht,' and then something about coming away in. She touched their faces, Esme's and Kitty's, and their hair, talking on about bairns and bonny and lassies.

Esme thought for a moment that this was the grandmother but she saw that her mother gave this woman only the very tips of her fingers to shake.

The grandmother was waiting in the parlour. She had on a long black skirt that reached to the ground and she moved as if she was on wheels. Esme doesn't think she ever saw her feet. She proffered a cheek for her son to kiss, then surveyed Esme and Kitty through pince-nez.

'Ishbel,' she said to their mother, who was suddenly standing very erect and very alert on the hearthrug, 'something will have to be done about the clothes.'

That night, Esme and Kitty curled round each other in a big bed, their teeth chattering. Esme could have sworn that even her hair was feeling the cold. They lay for a while, waiting for the heat of the stone hot-water bottle to seep through their socks, listening to the sound of the house, to each other's breathing, to the clip-clop of a horse outside in the street.

Esme waited a moment, then uttered a single word into the dark: 'Ocht.'

Kitty exploded into giggles and Esme felt Kitty's head brush against her shoulder as she clutched her arm.

'Ocht,' Esme said, again and again, between spasms of laughter, 'ocht ocht ocht.'

The door opened and their father appeared. 'Be quiet,' he said, 'the pair of you. Your mother is trying to rest.'

—gathered the holly that afternoon in the Hermitage, with a kitchen knife. I wouldn't do it, I was scared of the spines tearing at my skin (I'd been soaking my hands in warm water and lemon for weeks, of course, everybody did). But she pulled it from me and said, don't be a goose, I'll do it. You'll tear your dress, I said, and Mother will be angry, but she didn't care. Esme never cared. And she did, tear it, I mean, and Mother was vexed with us both when we got back. You are responsible even if Esme isn't, she said to me, you are responsible because Esme isn't, and we'd have to take it with us on our next visit to Mrs MacPherson. Mrs Mac, she liked to be called, made the dress I wore that evening. It was the most beautiful frock imaginable. We had three fittings, for it had to be right, Mother said. White organdie with an orange-blossom trim, I was terrified the holly would rip at it so Esme carried it as we walked there, taking care on the ice because our shoes were thin. Her dress was strange: she wouldn't have the organdie, she wanted red, she said, crimson was the word she used. Velvet. I will have a crimson velvet, she said to Mrs Mac as she stood at the fire. You will not, Mother said from the sofa, you are the granddaughter of an advocate, not a saloon girl, and she was paying, you see, so Esme had to settle for a kind of
burgundy taffeta. Wine, Mrs Mac called it, which I think made her feel—

—wine is kept in the cut-glass decanters on the table behind the sofa. A wedding present from an uncle. I liked them at first but they are a devil, excuse my French, to dust. One must use a small brush, an old, softened toothbrush or similar, to get into all the fissures. I would ideally like to be rid of them, give them to a younger family member, say, as a wedding gift, a fine present they would make, but he likes them there. He takes a glass at dinner, only one, two on a Saturday night, and I must fill it only half full because it needs to breathe, he said, and I said, I've never heard such nonsense in all my life, wine can't breathe, you dunderhead, this last part said under my breath, of course, because it doesn't do to—

—and Mother said she must cut her hair, all of it, to the chin. But Esme wouldn't have it. Mother got out the pudding bowl from the kitchen cupboard and what did Esme do but take it from her and hurl it, smash, to the floor. It's my hair, she shouted, and I'll do as I please. Well. Mother couldn't speak, she was that angry. You will wait until your father gets home, Mother said, and her voice was still as ice, just get out of my sight, go off to school. The bowl in pieces all over the stone flags. Mother tried to—

—I wasn't to go to school. It wasn't done, a girl my age. I was to stay and help with the house, to go on calls with Mother. It wouldn't be long, she said, before I was married myself. And then I'd have a house of my own. With looks
like yours, she said. So she took me about their acquaintances and she and I went to tea and to golf parties and church socials and suchlike and Mother would invite young men to the house. There was a time when I wanted to take a secretarial course. I thought I would have been good at the typing and I could have answered the telephone, I had a nice voice, I thought anyway, but Father maintained that the right thing was—

—when I left I thought of the bed, our bed, empty, every night. Don't get me wrong, I was happy to be married. More than happy. And I had a beautiful house. But sometimes I wanted to go back, to lie in the bed we'd shared, I wanted to be there on her side, where she'd always lain, and look up at the ceiling but of course—

—what was it she found so funny about Mrs Mac? I forget. There was something and Esme used always to try to bring it into conversation while we were there. I used to have a pain from trying not to laugh! It made Mother cross. You are to behave, Esme, do you hear, she used to warn, as we arrived at Mrs Mac's gate. Mrs Mac's mouth was always full of pins and you had to stand on a low stool to be fitted. I loved it. Esme hated it, of course. The standing still was harder for her. It's never as nice as you imagine it's going to be, she said, when she got her wine dress. I remember that. She was sitting on the bed with the box before her and she held it up by the waist. The seams aren't straight, she said, and I looked and they weren't but I said, of course they are, they're fine, and you should have seen the look she gave me—

—terribly cold, I am. Terribly. I have to say I am not entirely sure where I am. But I don't want anyone to know this so I shall sit tight and perhaps someone will—

—what I call a button. That was it. She loved that more than anything and would put on the voice and pick up something, always something very ordinary, and say, now this is what I call a spoon, this is what I call a curtain, because Mrs Mac would look up at you as you stood there on the special stool and say, now, in here I'll put what I call a button. It used to make Mother so cross because we would both laugh and laugh. Don't mock those less fortunate than yourselves, she would say, with her mouth pursed. But Esme loved the way Mrs Mac said it and I always knew that she was waiting for it, every time we went there, and it used to make me very—

—someone in the room. There is someone in the room. A woman in a white blouse. She is pulling the curtains shut. Who are you, I say, and she turns. I'm your nurse, she says, now go to sleep. I look at the window. What I call a window, I say, and I laugh and—

When Iris arrives at Cauldstone, the social worker or Key Worker or whatever she is, is waiting for her in the lobby. An orderly leads them down a corridor. They enter a room and Esme is standing at a counter, a curled fist resting on its surface. She turns sharply and looks Iris up and down. 'They are fetching my box,' she says.

No hello, Iris thinks, no how are you, no thanks for coming to get me. Nothing. Was there, she wonders, a flicker of recognition? Does Esme know who she is? She has no idea. 'Your box?' Iris asks.

'Admissions box,' the orderly chips in. 'All the stuff she had with her when she came in. However long ago that was. How long has it been, Euphemia?'

'Sixty-one years, five months, four days,' Esme incants, in a clear, staccato voice.

The orderly chuckles like someone whose pet has just performed a favourite trick. 'She keeps a record every day, don't you, Euphemia?' She shakes her head, then drops her voice to a whisper. 'Between you and me,' she mutters to Iris, 'they'll be lucky if they find it. God knows what's in there. She hasn't shut up about it all morning. I'm surprised she remembers anything at all, the amount of—'

The orderly breaks off. A man in an overall has appeared, carrying a dented tin box.

'Wonders will never cease.' The orderly laughs and nudges Iris.

Iris stands and goes over to Esme's side. Esme is fumbling with the lock. Iris reaches out and pushes back the catch and Esme lifts the lid. There is a musty smell, like old books, and Esme puts her hand down into the box. Iris watches as she pulls out a brown lace-up shoe, the leather split and curled, an indeterminate article of clothing in faded blue check, a handkerchief with the initial E in uneven chainstitch, a tortoiseshell comb, a watch.

Esme picks up every item, holds it for a second, then discards it. She works quickly, intently, ignoring both Iris and the orderly. Iris has to bend to pick up the watch when it falls to the floor and she sees that its hands are frozen at ten past twelve. She is wondering whether it was midday or midnight, when she sees Esme peer into the depths of the box, then glance again at the discarded things.

'What is it?' Iris asks.

Esme falls on the heap and starts searching through it, flinging things aside.

'What are you looking for?' Iris asks. She offers her the watch. 'Is it this?'

Esme looks up, sees the watch in Iris's outstretched hand and shakes her head. She holds up the blue check material and Iris sees that it is a dress, a woollen dress, that it's crumpled and two of the buttons are missing, torn out from the fabric. Esme is shaking it, as if something might be caught in its folds, then casts it aside.

'It's not here,' she says. She looks, first at Iris, then at the orderly, then at the social worker, then at the man who brought the box. 'It's not here,' she repeats.

'What?' Iris says. 'What isn't there?'

'There must be another box,' Esme appeals to the man. 'Will you look for me?'

'There's just the one,' the man says. 'No more.'

'There must be. Are you sure? Will you check?'

The man shakes his head. 'Just the one,' he repeats.

Iris sees that Esme is near tears. She stretches out and touches her arm. 'What is it you're missing?' she asks.

Esme is breathing deeply. 'A length of ... of cloth,' she holds her hands apart, as if imagining it between them, 'green ... maybe wool.'

The four of them stare at her for a moment. The orderly makes a small, impatient noise; the man turns to leave.

Iris says, 'Are you sure it's not here?' She goes over to the box and looks into it. Then she picks up the fallen things one by one. Esme watches her and her expression is so hopeful, so desperate, that Iris cannot bear it when she realises that there is indeed no green cloth here.

Esme sits on a chair, shoulders slumped, staring into the middle distance as Iris signs a form, as the orderly gives her the address of the hostel to which she has agreed to drive Esme, as the social worker tells Esme that she will come and visit her in a couple of days to see how she's getting along, as Iris folds the blue check dress and wraps the single shoe, the handkerchief and the watch into it.

As she steps out into the sunshine with Esme, she turns to her. Esme is drawing the back of her hand across her cheek. It is a weary, resigned movement. She isn't looking at the sun or the trees or the driveway ahead of them. The tortoiseshell comb is gripped in her hand. At the bottom of the steps, she turns to Iris, her face full of confusion. 'They said it would be there. They promised they would put it in there for me.'

'I'm sorry,' Iris says, because she doesn't know what else to say.

'I wanted it,' she says. 'I just wanted it. And they promised.'

Esme leans forward to touch the dashboard. It is hot with the sun and vibrates slightly. The car goes over the humps in the driveway and she is thrown up then down in her seat.

She twists round suddenly. Cauldstone is being pulled away from her, as if reeled in on a string. The yellow walls look dirty and smudged from this distance and the windows reflect nothing but sky. Tiny figures toil back and forth in its shadow.

Esme turns back. She looks at the woman driving the car. She has hair cropped in at the neck, a silver ring on her thumb, a short skirt and red shoes that tie round her ankles. She is frowning and biting the inside of her cheek.

'You are Iris,' Esme says. She knows but she has to be sure. This person looks so oddly like Esme's mother, after all.

The woman glances at her and her expression is – what? Angry? No. Worried, maybe. Esme wonders what she is worried about. She thinks about asking her, but doesn't.

'Yes,' the woman says. 'That's right.'

Iris, Iris. Esme says the word to herself, forming the shapes inside her mouth. It's a gentle word, secret almost, she hardly needs to move her tongue at all. She thinks of blue-purple petals, the muscular ring of an eye.

The woman is speaking again. 'I'm Kitty's granddaughter. I came to see you the other—'

'Yes, yes, I know.'

Esme shuts her eyes, taps out three sets of three on her left hand, scans her mind for something to save her, but finds nothing. She opens her eyes again to light, to a lake, to the ducks and swans, right up close, so close that she feels if she leant out of the car she might be able to run her hand over their sleek wings, skim the surface of the cool lake water.

'Have you been out at all?' the woman is asking. 'I mean, since you went into—'

'No,' Esme says. She turns over the comb in her hand. You can see, from the back of it, the way the stones are glued into small holes in the tortoiseshell. She'd forgotten that.

'Never? In all that time?'

Esme turns it back, the right way up. 'There was no pass allocation for my ward,' she says. 'Where are we going?'

The woman shifts in her seat. Iris. Fiddles with a mirror suspended from the roof of the car. Her fingernails, Esme sees, are painted the emerald green of a beetle's wingcase.

'I'm taking you to a residential hostel. You won't be there for long. Just until they've found a place for you at a care home.'

'I'm leaving Cauldstone.'

'Yes.'

Esme knows this. She has known this for a while. But she didn't think it would happen. 'What is a residential hostel?'