From Dark Places (6 page)

“Go away!” she hissed, as loud as she dared.

“Don’t be like that,” he called up. “It’s taken me so long to find this place.” He consulted a scrap of paper in his hand. “Are you Mrs Spencer?”

“No!” she waved him away again. She glanced back at her grandmother who was now frowning at her. “Just a wasp Grand-Mama,” she lied. “Please could I have a glass of milk before we start?”

“Of course, dear,” the old woman hauled her bones out of the chair and with back bent, went to the kitchen.

“Listen,” she leant back out over the window box. “You have to leave, right now!”

“Does a Mrs Spencer live with you?” he asked, seeming oblivious to her panic.

“You don’t understand!” she replied, ignoring the question. “My Grand-Mama will turn you into a frog!”

He threw his head back and laughed. “That’s priceless! Is she a witch?”

“Yes!” By now he was holding his sides, stumbling slightly as the belly laugh shook him. “I’m serious!”

“So what are you supposed to be? A princess?”

She blinked. Perhaps he was the one she had been waiting for. None of the others had guessed.

“Are you a Prince?” she asked breathlessly.

He shook his head, wiping a tear from one eye as he struggled to stop laughing. “Baby, I’m no Prince.”

“Who’s that?” her grandmother shrieked from the doorway. “Who are you talking to?”

Beth’s stomach lurched and she spun around. “Please don’t be angry, Grand-Mama!”

“Is it a
man
?” Beth didn’t need to reply, the dreadful blushing gave her away.

She watched her grandmother dump the glass of milk onto the nearest bookshelf and storm over to the window. She yanked Beth out of the way with her bony hand and peered down at the youth below.

“I think he might be a Prince,” Beth gushed.

“He doesn’t look like one to me,” Grand-Mama replied grimly.

“But he guessed that I’m a Princess.”

The old woman scowled at her and peered back down at him. “What do you want?”

“I’m here about the advert. Are you Mrs Spencer?”

Advert? Beth was puzzled. What on earth was an advert?

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” the old woman replied, the suspicion gone from her voice. “It’s number five, press the buzzer and I’ll let you in.”

The old woman pulled herself back into the living room.

Beth chewed her thumbnail anxiously. “Please don’t let him in Grand-Mama! Please don’t turn him into a frog!”

“Hush now, child,” came the reply. “You think he might be a Prince?” At Beth’s eager nod, the old woman smacked her wrinkled lips. “I’ll test him. If he passes, we might have a Prince in disguise—though I doubt it. And if he fails—if he’s just another filthy-minded young upstart wanting to deflower you before your Prince comes, well—he’ll get what he deserves.”

Beth bit her lip, hoping beyond all else the young man waiting eagerly below was more than he appeared. “Couldn’t you just let him go, Grand-Mama?”

“No. He’ll get what he deserves, I told you. Now go to your room and don’t make any noise. I need to make my special tea for him.”

Grand-Mama shut the window and Beth followed her out of the room, watching the old woman rub her hands together gleefully as she shuffled down the hallway, pausing only to usher her into her bedroom and lock the door.

Beth sat heavily on her bed. She heard the door buzzer and listened to the sound of the young man climbing the stairs and being admitted by her grandmother. She didn’t even know his name.

She looked at the glass tank at the far end of her room, and tears began to prick at the corners of her eyes. She went over and peered through the glass at the frogs sitting there despondently.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I told you to leave, but you wouldn’t.”

They croaked back at her. She imagined what they were trying to say. ‘Let us out!’ ‘Turn us back into men!’

“I can’t let you out,” she whispered. “Grand-Mama would know it was me. I’m sorry.”

She pulled herself away and went to the door, pressing against it, ear flat against the wood. Silence. The kitchen was at the other end of the apartment with two doors shut between. She wondered whether her Prince would walk through her door soon, or whether he’d arrive as a frog. Unable to determine anything by eavesdropping, she drifted around her bedroom, looking at the framed pictures on the wall.

The picture of her grandfather was first. What a handsome fellow the old monarch had been, King Clark Gable the First. Grand-Mama still loved him very much. Next she stopped at the picture of her father, the usurped King David Beckham the First. He was handsome too. Grand-Mama said she was beautiful because beauty ran in the family. Her gaze drifted to the portrait of her poor dead mother, Queen Gwyneth Paltrow. Such a sad smile. Grand-Mama said she had the same blonde hair as her late mother. She wondered what it would have been like to know her.

Beth moved on to the picture of the huge white castle. Even though she knew every single detail it had to offer, she still spent hours gazing at it. To think she had been born there, and should have grown up there. If it hadn’t been for that evil usurper, and his army of dark fairies, she’d be there now, with her mother and father. They’d play in the vast royal gardens and go horse riding and have picnics.

But no, she was here, hiding in a small apartment in North London. She moved onto the next picture, one of her parents on the day of their coronation, this one a line drawing by the court artist. She took a deep breath and held the bitterness in check. As Grand-Mama had told her many times, she should be grateful. Grateful Grand-Mama had seen the army coming. Grateful Grand-Mama had saved her and these few treasures of their former life. Some days it was easier to be grateful than others.

Beth wished she had put the paper in her shoe, rather than stuff it down the side of the chair. Who could have made paper like that? Where did it come from? It looked like it had been torn out of something, but she had never seen a book with paper like that before. And those pictures! They were beyond anything she had ever imagined.

She moved onto the picture of the lost summer palace. She knew so little of the world. She thought about the young man being tested now. What was that word he used?

Advert?

Grand-Mama had never told her anything about that. Her world was the apartment, sewing and lessons all princesses needed to learn. Perhaps adverts were something to do with the Evil King’s reign. Or perhaps it was a secret code word only Grand-Mama knew, like in the stories.

That certainly was something she was grateful for; Grand-Mama’s protection from the Evil King’s spies. They could be anywhere. Three of the frogs in the tank were young men who had been spies. If not for Grand-Mama, heaven knows what would have happened.

She heard the key turn in the lock and held her breath. The door opened and she knew instantly her hopes had been ridiculous. A new frog wriggled in her grandmother’s claw-like grip. Beth’s hands flew to her mouth and she squeezed her eyes shut.

“Oh! Not another—not another!”

“Now now, I told you he didn’t look like a prince,” Grand-Mama reminded her as she shuffled to the glass tank and dropped the new resident inside. He croaked in protest. “Now dry your eyes, be grateful I know what to do with these horrid young men, and pick a name for this new one. I have to tidy up the mess, and have the building cleaner come to collect the rubbish. Magic is very messy as you know and it’s no place for a princess. I will be back later to unlock the door.”

She left Beth standing in front of the tank, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. She looked forlornly at the new frog, croaking away in confusion and knelt down in front of him.

“Sorry,” she said. “I did warn you.”

Beth wept, listening to the cleaner’s arrival, and the sound of thuds as the rubbish was brought out into the hallway. The steady heavy bump echoed in the stairwell as it was taken downstairs.

How on earth could magic create so much rubbish?

She took a deep breath and tried to think of something else.

“Now I need to give you a name,” she told the new frog. “From henceforth, you shall be known as—Lord White. In memory of those white clothes you wore when you came to find me. Lord White, meet your new friends. This is Lord Dimples, Lord Nervous, Lord…”

She broke down, sinking the rest of the way to the floor, unable to bring herself to name all of her grandmother’s victims. The ten frogs croaked on, agitated by their confinement. Ten lords leapt futilely for the top of the tank, with as much hope of escape as the girl weeping on the other side of the glass.

SUNDAY LUNCH

They arrived at the same time and he parked his car behind hers. They embraced outside the garden gate.

“You okay, sis?”

Carrie shrugged. “Better. Do you know what this is about?”

Josh shook his head. “She didn’t say, but she sounded better.”

“I haven’t spoken to her since last week. Work’s been mental.”

“You need a new job,” he put an arm around her, knowing this was as hard for her as it was for him. “Come on, let’s see how she is.”

They walked up the garden path together to the bright blue door. As he rang the doorbell, he found himself smiling at the memory of the day it was painted. Dad had showed him how to remove the letter box so it wouldn’t be brushed, then dropped it in the paint pot.

He could feel Carrie tense when the bell rang inside. “What if she’s like last time?”

“She won’t be. She sounded better.”

They stayed quiet, listening to the footsteps come up the hallway. Josh tightened his arm around Carrie’s shoulder as the door opened.

“Hello, darlings!”

They didn’t move for a beat. It had been so long since they’d seen her smile they didn’t know how to react. Not only that, she was wearing lipstick. And her hair looked neat. Josh noted the ironed dress, the apron covered in flour.

“Well don’t just stand there, come in! The kettle’s on.”

Carrie stepped forwards and embraced her mother. Josh hung back waiting for his turn. When it came, he felt his mother’s bones too easily through the dress. She seemed older. But then again, they all did.

They drifted after her to the kitchen, the smell of Sunday lunch greeting them, making his stomach grumble impatiently. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d had Sunday lunch here.

“Go into the sitting room and I’ll bring you a cup of tea.” She smiled at them both and they left her in the kitchen, chinking china.

“She looks better,” Carrie whispered. “I haven’t seen her look so good since the funeral.”

“Yeah,” Josh agreed. “I think the worst of it’s over.”

They drank tea to the sound of the carriage clock ticking on the mantel piece and their mother’s roasting pans clattering in the kitchen. He thought of a childhood of gnawing hunger, waiting for Sunday lunch to be served, with only the weekly repeat of Lost in Space to entertain him, whilst Carrie drew pictures and his Dad cut the grass. Middle class banality that bored him to tears back then, and yet he yearned for it now. The smell of the roast dinner, the ticking of the clock, the sound of the pans, all conspired to make the hole inside him ache for a different reason.

“I miss him,” he said quietly.

“We all do.”

Josh wanted to shout at her,“You didn’t even like him!” But he didn’t. He just sat there, sipping the tea that was still too hot. He watched his sister and felt guilty. She had found it harder after the funeral; she had taken the brunt of it here whilst he dealt with all the paperwork and the inquest. He reached across and squeezed her hand, wanting to apologise silently for thinking so badly of her. She smiled at him, oblivious, caught up in her own thoughts.

“Go through to the dining room, darlings. Lunch will only be a minute.”

He followed Carrie into the dining room, bumping into her when she stopped abruptly.

“What’s wrong?”

He moved past her to see the dining table laid for four. His mouth went dry.

“Sit down then,” his mother said cheerily, passing them with a plate laden with a roast chicken.

They watched her put it at the head of the table, just like she had every Sunday for all those years. The sight of it made him expect his father to come in, rubbing his hands together, saying ‘lovely chicken, mother’ with a happy chuckle before picking up the carving knife.

Josh wondered if he had to sit there now. He approached the chair slowly, as if treading on his father’s body to get there.

“What are you doing?” his mother asked sharply and he froze. “That’s your father’s chair.” She pointed at the one he had always sat at. “That’s yours.”

She hurried out before he could answer. Carrie flopped into her chair and buried her face in her hands. “I knew it, I knew she wasn’t better. She’s lost it. She still thinks he’s in the bloody garden.”

Josh could only stand there, staring at the steaming chicken waiting to be carved. Before long his mother bustled back in with a huge bowl of vegetables, depositing them in the centre of the table.

“Sit down, Josh, there’s a good boy.”

He sat, looking at his sister across the table, who was doing all she could not to cry. He didn’t know what to say or do, he just sat there, dumb.

His mother took her apron off, draping it over the back of her chair. She frowned at Carrie. “What’s wrong?”

Josh watched his sister burst into tears and his mother frown at her, bemused. “Mum,” he started, but didn’t know how to finish. He swallowed. “Mum, Dad’s not going to carve the chicken.” It sounded ridiculous.

“Of course he isn’t,” his mother sighed, bustling to the opposite side of the table to take up the carving knife and fork in her hands. “But it doesn’t mean we don’t lay a place, out of respect. Now Carrie, stop snivelling like that. Josh, elbows off the table. Honestly, just because I’m old, it doesn’t mean I’m losing my mind.”

THE ART OF DESIRE

Five minutes after the end of nursery Abby was still engrossed in her painting. It didn’t bother her that all of the other children had gone home. The picture had to be the best, with the brightest colours.