The Distant Hours (36 page)

And then, somehow, I was inside. The whole place felt abandoned. Dust coated the corridor floors, the paintings hung crooked on the walls, the curtains had all faded, but it was more than just the way it looked. The air was stale, cloying, and I felt as if I’d been locked within a box inside a dark and musty attic.

A noise then, a whispery, rustling sound, and the merest suggestion of movement. At the end of the hall was Juniper, dressed in the same silky dress she’d been wearing when I visited the castle. I was aware of a strange sense within me, the dream’s pervasive mood of profound and troubled longing. I knew, although she didn’t say a word, that this was October 1941 and she was waiting for Thomas Cavill to arrive. A door appeared behind her, the entrance to the good parlour. There was music, a tune I felt I knew.

I followed her into the room where a table had been set. The room was thick with anticipation, and I drifted around the table, counting the places, knowing, though I’m not sure how, that one was set for me and another for my mum. Juniper was saying something then, that is, her lips were moving but I couldn’t make out any words.

Then, suddenly, I was at the parlour window, only, in a strange dream twist of logic, it was my mother’s kitchen window too, and I was staring at the glass pane. I looked outside and it was stormy and I realized there was a glistening, black moat. Movement and a dark figure began to emerge; my heart struck like a bell. I knew it was the Mud Man and I was frozen where I stood. My feet had become one with the floor, but just when I was about to scream, my fear suddenly disappeared. I was filled instead with a flood of yearning and sorrow and, quite unexpectedly, desire.

I woke with a start, catching my dream in the process of dissolving. Tattered fancies hung like ghosts in the room’s corners and I lay very still for a time, willing them not to dissipate. It seemed to me that even the slightest movement, the merest hint of morning sunlight, would burn the imprints off like fog. And I didn’t want to lose them yet. The dream had been so vivid, the heaviness of longing so real that when I pressed my hand against my chest I half-expected to find the skin bruised. After a time, the sun rose high enough to slide across the rooftop of Singer & Sons and pry through the gaps in my curtains and the dream’s spell was broken. I sat up with a sigh and noticed Gran’s shoebox on the end of the bed. At the sight of all those envelopes addressed to Elephant and Castle, details of the night before came rushing back and I was hit by the sudden, clear-light-of-day guilt of someone who’d glutted on a feast of fat and sugar and someone else’s secrets. No matter how glad I was to have acquired the voice, the pictures, the small sense of my mum, and no matter how convincing my justifications (the letters were written long ago; they were intended for an audience; she’d never have to know), I couldn’t erase the expression on Rita’s face as she’d given me the box and told me to have a good old read; the hint of triumph, as if we two shared a secret now, a bond, a connection that excluded her sister. The warm feeling of holding the little girl’s hand had gone, leaving only the sneak’s remorse in its place.

I would have to confess my crime, that much was certain, but I made a deal with myself. If I managed to leave the house without running into Mum, I could have a day’s grace to consider how best to do it. On the other hand, if I ran into her before I reached the door, I would confess all, then and there. I dressed quickly and quietly, took stealthy care of all additional grooming needs, rescued my tote from the lounge – all was going brilliantly until I reached the kitchen. Mum was standing by the kettle, robe fastened around her middle, a little higher than it should be, giving her an odd snowman-like shape.

‘Morning, Edie,’ she said, glancing over her shoulder.

Too late to backtrack. ‘Morning, Mum.’

‘Sleep well?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

I was rustling up an excuse for skipping breakfast when she put a cup of tea on the table in front of me and said, ‘And how was Samantha’s party?’

‘Colourful. Noisy.’ I gave her a quick smile. ‘You know Sam.’

‘I didn’t hear you come in last night. I left you some supper.’

‘Oh . . .’

‘I wasn’t sure, but I see you didn’t—’

‘I was pretty tired—’

‘Of course.’

Oh, but I felt like a heel! And the unfortunate pudding effect of Mum’s robe made her seem more vulnerable than ever, which made me feel even worse. I sat where she’d put the tea, drew a decisive breath and said, ‘Mum, there’s something I need to—’

‘
Ah!
’ She winced, sucked her finger then shook it quickly. ‘Steam,’ she said, blowing lightly across her fingertip. ‘It’s this silly new kettle.’

‘Can I fetch you some ice?’

‘I’ll just run it under cold water.’ She turned on the tap. ‘It’s something in the shape of the spout. I don’t know why they keep redesigning things that work perfectly well already.’

I took another breath, but let it out again as she continued talking.

‘I wish they’d just focus their attention on something useful. A cure for cancer, perhaps.’ She turned off the tap.

‘Mum, there’s something I really need—’

‘I’ll be right back, Edie; let me take your father his tea lest the bell begin to toll.’

She disappeared upstairs and I waited, wondering what I was going to say, how I was going to say it, whether it was possible to phrase my sin in such a way that she might understand. A fond hope, but I dismissed it swiftly. There is no kind way of telling someone you’ve been peeking through the keyhole at them.

I could hear the edges of the low conversation Mum was having with Dad, then his door closing, then footsteps. I stood quickly. What was I thinking? I needed more time; it was foolish just to rush in; a little thought would make all the difference – but then she was in the kitchen saying, ‘That ought to keep His Nibs happy for the next fifteen minutes,’ and I was still standing somewhat awkwardly behind my chair, as natural as a bad actor in a play.

‘You’re off already?’ she said, surprised. ‘You haven’t even had your tea.’

‘I, ah . . .’

‘You were saying something, weren’t you?’

I picked up my teacup and studied the contents closely. ‘I . . .’

‘Well?’ She tightened the belt of her robe, waiting for me, the merest hint of concern narrowing her eyes. ‘What is it?’

Who was I kidding? More thought, a few additional hours: none of it was going to change the facts. I let out a sigh of resignation. ‘I have something for you.’

I went back up to my room and collected the letters from beneath my bed.

Mum watched my return, a slight crease in her brow, and I laid the box on the table between us.

‘Slippers?’ She frowned lightly, first at her slipper-clad feet, then at me. ‘Well, thank you, Edie. One can never have too many pairs.’

‘No, but you see, they’re not—’

‘Your gran.’ She smiled suddenly, a distant memory firing. ‘Your gran used to wear this type.’ And the look she gave me then was so unguarded, so unexpectedly pleased, that it was all I could do not to seize the lid from the box and declare myself the ghastly traitor that I was. ‘Did you know that, Edie? Is that why you bought them? It’s a wonder you could still find the old—’

‘They’re not slippers, Mum. Open the box; please, just open it.’

‘Edie?’ An uncertain smile as she sat in the nearest chair and pulled the box towards her. She offered me a last wavering glance before turning her attention to the lid, lifting it and frowning at the pile of discoloured envelopes within.

My blood ran hot and thin, like petrol beneath my skin, as I watched the emotions flit across her face. Confusion, suspicion, then the intake of breath heralding recognition. Later, as I ran the memory over in my mind, I could pinpoint the precise instant at which the scrawled handwriting on the top envelope metamorphosed into a lived experience. I saw her face change, her features adopting, once more, those of the almost-thirteen-year-old girl who’d written the first letter to her parents, telling them about the castle in which she’d found herself; she was there again, caught in the original moment of composition.

Mum’s fingers rested on her lips, her cheek, then hovered above the soft indentation at the base of her throat, until finally, after what seemed an age, she reached tentatively into the box, withdrew the pile of envelopes and sat holding them in both hands. Hands that were shaking. She spoke without meeting my eyes. ‘Where did you . . . ?’

‘Rita.’

She released a slow sigh, nodded as if she’d been given the answer to something she should have guessed. ‘How did she come by them? Did she say?’

‘They were with Gran’s things, after she died.’

A noise that might have been the start of a laugh, wistful, surprised, a little bit sad. ‘I can’t believe she kept them.’

‘You wrote them,’ I said softly. ‘Of course she kept them.’

Mum was shaking her head. ‘But it wasn’t like that . . . my mother and I, we weren’t like that.’

I thought of
The Book of Magical Wet Animals
. My mother and I weren’t like that either, or so I’d thought. ‘I suppose that’s what parents do.’

Mum fumbled envelopes from the pile, fanning them out in her hands. ‘Things from the past,’ she said, more to herself than to me. ‘Things I’d worked so hard to put behind me.’ Her fingers lightly traced the drift of envelopes. ‘Now it seems no matter where I turn . . .’

My heart had begun to race at the promise of revelation. ‘Why do you want to forget the past, Mum?’

But she didn’t answer, not right then. The photograph, smaller than the letters, had fallen loose from the pile, just as it had the night before, slipping onto the table. She inhaled, before lifting it higher, rubbing her thumb across its surface; the expression on her face was vulnerable, pained. ‘Such a long time ago, yet sometimes . . .’

She seemed to remember then that I was there. Made a show of tucking the photograph back amongst the letters, casually, as if it meant little to her. She looked directly at me. ‘Your gran and I . . . it was never easy. We were very different people, we always had been, but my evacuation brought certain things to the fore. We fought and she never forgave me.’

‘Because you wanted to transfer to grammar school?’

Everything seemed to freeze then, even the natural circulations in the air stopped their swirling.

Mum looked as if she’d been struck. She spoke quietly, a quaver in her voice: ‘You read them? You read my letters?’

I swallowed; nodded jerkily.

‘How could you, Edith? These are private.’

All my earlier justifications dissolved like flecks of tissue in the rain. Shame made my eyes water so that everything seemed bleached, including Mum’s face. Colour had dissolved from her skin, leaving only a splatter of small freckles across her nose so that she looked like her thirteen-year-old self. ‘I just . . . I wanted to know.’

‘It’s none of your
business
to know,’ Mum hissed. ‘It’s got nothing to do with you.’ She seized the box, clutched it tightly to her chest, and after a moment’s indecision hurried towards the door.

‘But it does,’ I said to myself, then louder, my voice trembling, ‘you lied to me.’

A stumble in her step –

‘About Juniper’s letter, about Milderhurst, about everything; we
did
go back – ’

The slightest hesitation in the doorway, but she didn’t turn and she didn’t stop.

‘ – I
remember
it.’

And I was alone again, surrounded by that peculiar glassy silence that follows when something fragile has been broken. At the top of the stairs a door slammed shut.

A fortnight had passed since then, and even by our standards relations were icy. We’d maintained a ghastly civility, for Dad’s sake as much as because it was our style, nodding and smiling but never speaking a word that wasn’t of the ‘Please pass the salt’ variety. I felt guilty and self-righteous in turn; proud and interested in the girl who loved books as much as I did, angry and hurt by the woman who refused to share the merest part of herself with me.

Most of all though, I regretted having told her about the letters. I cursed whoever it was that said honesty was the best policy, turned a keen eye back to the letting pages, and fed our cold war by making sure I was barely around. It wasn’t difficult: the edits for
Ghosts of Romney Marsh
were under way so I had a perfectly valid reason for putting in long hours at the office. Herbert, for his part, was pleased to have the company. My industry, he said, reminded him of the ‘good old days’ when the war had finally ended, England was getting back on its feet, and he and Mr Brown were rushing about acquiring manuscripts and filling orders.

So it was, on the Saturday of the library visit, when I tucked my file of newspaper printouts beneath my arm, checked my watch and realized it had only just gone one, I didn’t head for home. Dad was sweating on his kidnapping research, but he’d wait until our
Mud Man
session that evening. I started for Notting Hill instead. Swept along by the promise of good company, welcome distraction, and maybe even a little something for lunch.

I had forgotten that Herbert was away for the weekend, delivering the keynote address at the Annual Meeting of the Bookbinders Association. The shades at Billing & Brown were down and the office was sombre and lifeless. As I stepped across the threshold and was met by utter stillness, I felt a deflation out of all proportion.