CHAPTER FIVE
Mal had been unable to get an appointment until Monday. Now here she was back at the Department of Justice, but in the office of the Registrar of the Tribunal. She had already been waiting half an hour for him to put in an appearance, but was not about to complain. She had been accepted as a special ‘squeeze-in’ and had agreed to whatever was necessary. Work had been told she was on a home visit and she would be – only later.
Friday morning she had spoken to Dr. Stubbs before grand rounds, filling him in on events and submitting her new proposal. She would keep Nigella with her where she was staying until she could find her own place. For this she would need extra money, over and above the Disability Services funding and therefore needed to apply for a carer’s allowance.
Her continued degree of personal involvement in this case still surprised him, but he had to admit, Miss Patchford could not be left where she was. Nor could he come up with any other suggestion and in the end, she had won him to her side. He had finished up being very supportive and in fact, instrumental in getting her this appointment so promptly. Her emphasis that ‘time is of the essence’ had struck home and he knew from recent experience what a ‘Jack Russell’ she could be. A carer’s stipend would allow for that all important financial freedom, to achieve those superior outcomes.
Saturday she had been able to discuss her problem with Deszree. In the past week they had been good together and already Deszree was feeling she had made a wise decision, letting Mallory into her life. She was taken aback however, by this new development. Did she have the capacity to go along with another tenant on a trial basis? The extra money would certainly help. She had been hoping for someone long-term, still this might work. She was on rotating shifts and someone home most of the time would be a good safe-guard against vandals, an increasing worry in this neighbourhood. Hers was a good-natured heart and she was willing, at this stage, to be well-disposed toward a casualty recovering from a car crash. She believed everyone needed down time when they were getting over a bad trot.
Leafing through back issues of Home and Garden, Mal pondered on how long she had to go before her results came through. Even if she were granted the allowance, she still needed full-time employment. Nigella was not like a Uni. student, able to sling her pack at a moment’s notice. Now, more than ever she wanted to stay at the QEH, able to slip home at lunch-time if need be.
“Mr. Bingham will see you now,” his secretary informed her.
She chucked the magazine back onto the pile and rose as her heart began to race. So much hung on this! It seemed everything she undertook lately was of an unstable or unpredictable nature, never straight forward. Maybe that’s just my lot in life.
Mr. Bingham was in his middle years and looked as though the world had treated him very well. He had come to the Tribunal by way of jurisprudence and his approach was locked into an evidence-based frame. Mal’s preference was to be interviewed by someone acquainted, even if only obliquely, with those who have suffered cognitive and/or emotional hardship. She sighed. It was not in her competency to pick and choose. At least she was here and he was listening.
“So, you were granted guardianship with the expectation you would be practising your profession, err … Miss Mason?” Mr. Bingham checked his papers then regarded her inquiringly over the black rims of his glasses.
She nodded; her mouth too dry to speak.
“Then you have current employment?” he demanded.
“Well …” she temporised: “… I am working, but it’s on a part-time basis at the moment.”
“Oh. And why is that?” Damn it! This isn’t going well at all.”
“I haven’t … actually … well … I expect to receive my graduation notification … any day now,” was her circuitous response. “The Department will make it official then.”
It was obvious Mr. Bingham was not ready to hand over the Government’s money without knowing all the ‘ins and outs’ of the situation. The interview continued in this vein for a further twenty minutes, Mal becoming more and more despondent with each query. Eventually the Registrar began asking for details about the young person in question. She did her best to put her case forward in the most sympathetic light, falling back on the arguments that had proved successful with Dr. Stubbs, but this time projected through the prism of Fulton House.
He listened without interruption, all the while assessing the strength of her suit from his solicitor’s perspective. Suddenly, the probity and rectitude expressed by this young woman’s words penetrated his layers of legal formulae and he saw through to the underlying exigencies of the problem. He watched her more closely and appreciated her directness. What were her final words? Everyone has the right to their own purpose and agency in life. How true. It was in his power to grant this and he would. However, there would be a proviso.
“Miss Mason,” he paused as he speared her with a constricted look. She would be mistaken if she thought this was being granted lightly. Mal’s apprehensive eyes never left his severe face. “This allowance is being granted with the understanding you have gainful employment. The money is to support the client, not keep you when you can’t get a job.” This last was delivered in stern, forceful tones.
“Oh, I quite understand, Mr. Bingham.”
“You will inform me of that event …” he was forthright: “… then the change order will go through when you have completed the paper-work.” His eyes continued to fasten hers with an uncompromising stare.
“Yes, Mr. Bingham.” Mal was abruptly reminded of her days at Guilfoyle Park, in Lord Patchford’s study. It seemed some things don’t change; those in authority still dictate and in the same manner.
That evening found Mal once more in Cory’s office, in the basement of Fulton House. She had taken the easy chair and he was relaxed behind his desk.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out for Nigella. Like you, I thought this would be a suitable place for her, but really, she doesn’t have the skills to fit in.”
Mal was over the whole issue and had moved on, but privately she felt there had been a severe climate of negligence. True, since her outburst no problems, but Nigella was not that girl who had originally come here. There had been a regression and now she was reminded more of the first day on grand rounds. It could be acknowledged the disorder was not as severe and she still did talk to her, but there was no interaction with others. Her responses were on the most superficial of levels. With a modest degree of optimism however, she felt she could bring her round again. There was no carer’s stipend yet, but she was sure it would come through. Meanwhile she needed to get Nigella home just as soon as she could manage it.
She had cleared it with Monica to take Wednesday off and agreed with her to make up the lost hours on two consecutive Saturday mornings. She did not want to leave Nigella on her first day and although alone Thursday and Friday, she would be close enough to pop over. There would be no-one to upset her and if Deszree were home she would be in her room, sleeping.
The termination formalities completed Mal went up to see Nigella. She did not socialise at all now; she had retreated into her painting. This seemed to give her solace, being more at ease in her own company. Rachelle had tried sitting with her for short periods, but the girl never opened up.
In her studies, Mal had come across the disorder known as selective mutism. Now she began to worry that the recent traumatic events in Nigella’s life had brought on this condition. The books claimed it was more likely to stem from a familial disposition, where there was a history of phobias. She herself, suspected an element of self-punishment to all this, perhaps in the manner of anorexia nervosa. The ability to speak was not actually lost. Whatever the cause, she hoped she would be able to come through this silent period and that it was not some anomalous form of mutism. She did so want for her happiness.
Following the knock and the announcement: “Hi it’s me,” she slipped past the door and gave her a big hug. Immediately she admired the work then suggested she take a break. “I have something to ask you.” Nigella set her brushes in the water and joined her on the side of the bed. Mal leaned back against the pillows and took her with her. Comfortably settled in her arms she asked: “What is it?”
“Jellie, how would you like to leave this place and come live with me?”
Her response was immediate. “Oh can I Mal? I will be so much happier with you.”
“That’s good Possum. Now just one thing – I don’t live alone.” Her eyes narrowed as she observed the reaction. Totally deflated, the girl looked crestfallen. There was a lengthy silence as she assessed her fate. More people … I don’t like people, she complained, but only to herself. Even so, in the end she knew she would rather be there than here.
“It’s all right. I’m sharing a unit with a very nice lady. Her name’s Deszree.”
“A ‘unit’, what’s that?” The voice was muffled as she had buried her head into Mal’s shoulder. Mal lifted it up so Nigella could see her face.
“It’s another word for ‘rooms’, you know when single people used to live alone? Well, a lot of people are like that now … when they can’t afford a whole house. It just means it’s very small. Think of …” she thought for a moment, how to explain it? “… like being in a doll’s house and we live in a section with the kitchen and bathroom in it.”
The idea was intriguing, but she just could not imagine how this would be. She remembered her own doll’s house. It had so many storeys and lovely rooms. Mama and Papa kept collecting more and more furniture for her to play with. They said she could rearrange it as many times as she liked.
“It’s not a really big house,” Mal continued, letting the girl settle again. “There’re six units and we’ll be in #4. It’s up the stairs, but you can manage them now. People call them ‘self-contained’ because we’ll have everything we need in there.”
“When can we go?” Her eagerness had returned and she wanted it now.
“I can’t get off until Wednesday, but then we’ll have the whole day together to properly explore.”
Again she was disappointed, but only one day to wait was better than lots.
* * *
The next day Mal received a surprise SMS. She had not expected to hear from Kylie once their studies were over. Congatsonyr1stclassKy.What does she know? Mal sent her a text immediately. The reply: CU5:30studentsUKy.
Before going over Mal dropped in briefly on Nigella. She needed to put some of the packing in train, just the bits and pieces she could get into bags and boxes. Last time they had had the benefit of the nursing home bus – this time it was all up to her.
Nigella was quite put out she had to leave early, but Mal stood her ground. She did not want a state of dependency to grow any further, although she sympathised with her position. “Look, be good Jellie. You won’t be alone for long, OK?” Reluctantly she inclined her head. I must learn, she thought.
Her chores completed Mal rode straight over to the coffee lounge, but was still a few minutes late. Daylight had begun to drain from the advancing winter sky when Kylie spotted her through the old panes of the casement window. The early evening light was just edging its way past the screening branches of a tall Plane Tree, but still she picked her out easily. The bicycle stand was positioned under it and she watched closely as the woman locked hers next to all the others then mounted the Union steps, bounding lightly on the balls of her feet. She’s looking fitter than ever. Her heart skipped a beat. Mal deftly threaded her way through the tables, mostly occupied at this time of day, then plonked herself down on the two-seat banquette located in the corner, next to her vigilant friend. “Hi you, you’re looking coo-ool.”
“You too,” Kylie responded with a smile. She was wearing her hair long and loose now. It suited her Mal thought, having a natural curl which the hairdresser had styled in attractive layers. She had bought them each an Ice-Coffee.
“Thanks muchly.” Mal held up the carton before tipping it to her lips. “So … what do you know?”
She smiled again in close collusion. “I was over at the Faculty office trying to get the information I need to pursue a joint degree in law, like how we discussed, you know.” Mal nodded and putting down the drink, sat back.
“Just before I’d decided I’d done enough, the Registrar came through and informed me that the results had just been posted. They receive a copy in addition to the Gazette publication. Of course, I looked us up and there we were so … I sent you the SMS.” Now she too, sat back feeling well content.
“Oh, Ky this is absolutely wonderful news.” Mal was so relieved. “I hoped that was what your message meant, but wasn’t willing to believe it, coming so soon. Congrats. to you too.” She raised the carton in salute.
“Yep, we made it. I was sure you would … you were always such a manic mark-monkey,” she teased.
“I’m not really,” she defended herself. “It was just that so much has been given up by my family for this success. In a way, I couldn’t afford to risk failure … not from lack of application anyway.” For a moment her eyes touched Kylie’s with blunt frankness then they crinkled at the corners as she tossed her head back and laughed throatily: “Now all that worry’s history. Well, not for you if you go on to out-do us and specialize.” The brilliant blue eyes twinkled at her roguishly.
Kylie had watched mesmerised, falling to the magnetism all over again, a perturbed energy zinging along her veins. What is it about this girl? “Well, why don’t we make the most of it and celebrate?” She decided to gamble everything: “Just the two of us, I know the perfect place.”
“Listen Ky, thank you so much for making my day, but really I can’t.” She looked genuinely sorry. Kylie knew better than to press the issue and tried her best to cover the acute disappointment: “Perhaps, some other time.” The smile was forced. Dramatically she stood, reconciling herself to the fact that it would be back to her on-line date after all. They were getting closer to setting up a meet anyway. “I have to go. So once again congratulations.” This time the voice was bright as cut crystal. She gathered her things. “See you around.”
Mal got up and walked with her. “I am sorry Ky. It would have been a nice chance to really catch up. Another time would be good.” She held open the swinging door. “Let’s not lose touch.”
Kylie turned abruptly to shoot her an intense look. “Do you mean that Mallory?” the possibility that all was not at an end crash-landed into her brain. The result: an instantaneous, breath-drawing hope sharp, hardly coherent, but still exciting to her heart.
“Yes Ky I do, absolutely.” she pronounced sincerely, her low voice mingling conviction with faint surprise. In a detached section of her mind, a guarded portion to which she could decamp all too easily, she had realised that not to see this woman again had left her with a genuine emotion of sadness. The sentiment had articulated itself totally unexpectedly.
Riding back to Fulton House she speculated on her next move. She would phone her parents tonight. They would be overjoyed for her. If she could get back at Christmas it would be a real celebration. Her mind caught on a heart-stopping thought. Nigella might not be ready by then and I won’t go alone. Have to hold fire on that one. Her dominant imperative was to contact Mr. Bingham. Momentarily panic squeezed her. She wondered if he would insist on sighting the employment papers and the certificate before proceeding to the next stage. She really wanted to slice through the red-tape.Don’t go jumping the gun! For sure Monica would be pleased. Mal knew she really needed to rely on her hours, then she could table her an exclusive client list. How great to be earning proper money.
The move to the unit went surprisingly smoothly, but it did take a long time. She used her bike for most of it, but to transfer the painting gear and suitcase, caught the bus. After lunch at the residence, she made sure Nigella was dressed warmly, including her gloves for appearances then she was ready to go. She took her leave on a rather formal note. Mal recognised the Edwardian protocols, but everyone else felt they were indulging the oddball antics of the mentally unbalanced. Serious hand-shaking preceded the farewells, accompanying Nigella’s hesitant words of thanks and appreciation. She watched their pantomime of formality, but respected the effort to give the girl a good send-off. Nigella in her turn, was trying her best to come out of her shell and show appropriate refinement.
The ride on the bus turned out to be a fraught experience. Not the presence of the other passengers, there were not too many, but the closeness and speed of the passing traffic. This was unnerving, until she could feel assured there would be no collision. At first she clung to Mal, but eventually relaxed, enjoying the sights and sounds. Mal perceived that once she was confident, she really had quite the venturesome spirit. A hundred years ago, she surmised, she would have been a comparative ‘Modern Miss’. Perhaps even a suffragette.
Alighting at their stop, it was only a short walk to the unit for which Mal gave thanks since the sky was a threatening heavy grey, streaked with charcoal. They proceeded at Nigella’s pace, allowing her eyes time to explore this strange environment. It was not as affluent as the Lychette neighbourhood, but the grounds surrounding the low-rise apartments were not over-grown and their privet hedges had been neatly trimmed. The odd visitor’s car was parked at the curb side, which occasioned close scrutiny from Nigella as she walked past. She held tightly to Mal’s arm, but inside her mind was running free. You have to get used to this. You can’t hold on to the past. You must let it go. She was seeing her new world for the first time and needed to take it all in. Every detail held its own fascination.
The unit complex did not look anything like her doll’s house. It was a big, rectangular box with lots of little windows and the staircases were outside. Inside certainly, as she wandered around, the rooms were very small and she was amazed that anyone could fit all their belongings into such tiny spaces.
“This is our room Jellie.” Mal threw open the door and as soon as Nigella walked in, she saw there was only one bed and asked: “Will I sleep somewhere else?”
“No … we both sleep here,” she explained, bending down to pull out a slab of foam. “I shall make up my bed on this.”
“How can that be a bed? It has no legs.” She was stupefied.
Mal laughed heartily. “That’s no problem. Lots of people have a mattress on the floor. It’s not so bad. You might like to try it sometime after you’ve settled in, then you’ll see.”
She was not so sure. Even the servants had had some sort of pallet, certainly better than this. She looked around for the wardrobe. Mal guessed her query and slid open the sliding mirror door of the closet. “See, our clothes hang here.” She stepped back: “Your side … and mine. Now that is an admirable device, she marvelled.
It was almost three o’clock by the time Mal had their things sorted, then she decided to make them afternoon tea. Deszree would be home from her morning shift and this would make a nice introduction. Nigella had hung up her outdoor things and felt relaxed in a knitted top and skirt, sitting at the kitchen table watching all the preparations. Suddenly, she heard a key in the lock and immediately was overcome with the desire to run to the room. Mal picked up the apprehension in her troubled eyes.
“It’s OK Jellie. That will be Deszree. She’s really nice, you’ll like her. You don’t have to talk ‘hello’ is enough, all right?” She gave her a smile of encouragement as she set down a plate of Digestives and called out: “I’ve made us a pot of tea.”
Nigella regarded the older woman and remembered Miss Hewitt. No older than she, maybe the same age as Mrs. Aldred, but she did not take over in the same way. The greeting was kindly and she did not mind saying: “Hello.” Mal maintained the flow of conversation which gave both parties a chance to adjust to the other. Deszree observed how reclusive this young woman was. Embers of alarm would smoulder and spark in those arresting eyes, but before flaring into a total retreat, the threat would evaporate, leaving a mystified air to her gentle expression. She was aware of her strangeness, but could not identify it. No doubt she was a girl of contrasts; of great fragility. Her heart went out to her.
At the conclusion of tea, Deszree declared she would take herself off for a ‘nanna’ nap. After she had gone, Nigella asked what that was and following the explanation, smiled her understanding. “I think I could do with one of those too. Is it all right?”
“Of course Jellie,” she acknowledged as she put away the dishes. “That will be good, because I have to go out. I’ll be back for dinner. You can stay in our room if you like, or you can join Deszree to watch TV. She won’t mind.”
“I’d like to listen to music, I think … until you return. She looked once more for approval.
“That’s fine. Do whatever pleases you. This is your home now,” she assured her.
That morning she had phoned the Department to give Monica confirmation of her Degree and then made an appointment to see Mr. Bingham. She did not see him in person, but the relevant papers had been left with his secretary for her to complete and sign. This did not take long and quickly she was gone. At last everything was falling into place. Work – money – and Nigella safe.
Following dinner they watched a music show then Mal started to prepare them for bed. The evening had gone pleasantly with Deszree, but Nigella had remained silent and she could see she was beginning to feel the strain. In their room she pulled out the foam to make up a proper bed. When Nigella returned from the bathroom she climbed into hers and curled on her side to watch the transformation. Perhaps the slab would not be so bad. When Mal got back she asked if she would mind if the light were left on, just the lamp. The dark made her panicky.
“Oh Pumpkin there’s nothing to be scared of. You’re with me now.” She sat on the side of the bed and watched gently as she softly stroked her hand across the bare shoulder. “Can you tell me why?” She said nothing. “I’ll stay with you here.” Mal stretched her length on top of the bed and Nigella adjusted her position to make room. They still felt nice and close, despite the covers as they lay face to face. She could feel Mal’s steady heart-beat.
Eventually she spoke, but did not look up. “I can’t tell you about that Mal, but I do want to talk to you about something else. Is that all right?” their eyes met.
“You can tell me anything Jellie, you know that. We share everything, don’t we? At least, whatever we want to share isn’t it?”
She took a moment, then inhaled a deep breath and looked down again. “You know my room was next to the washroom. One evening I heard a girl sobbing,” with this she raised her head and regarded Mal sadly. “It was such a heart wrenching sound I had to see if I could help. So when she came out, I called from my doorway to ask if she was all right. She stopped and looked at me and I could tell she was about to take off, so I opened the door wider and invited her in. She was another skinny girl like Tyra.”
“Tyra, I don’t think I’ve heard that name before.”
“She’s the one with the tongue stud and tattoos.”
Mal just nodded. She could come back to her later. “What’s this girl’s name?”
“Merryn Devery. I sat her down and asked if she could tell me her problem. Oh Mal, she had such a sorry tale to relate. Her story has not left my thoughts.” There was a disconsolate inflection to her words and Mal could see she had been powerfully impacted. Had she been battling with all this in silence, and hurting to the point of desperation? Was this the cause of her recent, mute regression?
“Is … Merryn … still at Fulton House?”
Unable to speak just then, she could only return the sympathetic pressure of Mal’s hand. At last she found her voice and took up the narrative. “No. And this was part of her problem. She was due to leave and she didn’t want to.” The bleak eyes searched her face imploringly.
“Everyone has to move on eventually.”
Her voice became unsteady, tears were threatening, but she carried on. I saw the scars.” The voice was almost a whisper: “She had cut herself so many times.”
“Merryn cut herself?”
“Yes. She said she couldn’t resist the urge to hurt her body. She said she felt her body had betrayed her and it made her feel dirty and evil. But she only feels better for a short time. I can hear her voice still as she said: ‘It doesn’t go away. It always comes again’.” She swallowed hard. “They were sending her back to her parents who are not kind people. This is what has made me so unhappy.”
The girl’s distress ignited a filament of sympathy which flared at this account, like a burning fuse. How could she help? Had Jellie’s view distorted the reality? I need to bring her into balance. “Tell me her story. Maybe together we can work something out?”
“Oh Mal, that would be so good. I do so want to be of help, but alone I couldn’t see what to do.”
“Tell me Jellie,” she pressed gently. There was a long pause, broken only by Nigella’s gulping breaths.
“She told me her father had died and then her mother remarried. She told me about using substances which made them forget all about her and when they didn’t, they … they did bad things …” She stopped, trying to regain her composure. “… But she did them too because of the hurt she felt inside. But she doesn’t want to be that girl.” Again a long breath and when she continued her voice was raspy as if her throat ached. “The authorities are sending her back.” She turned her dark eyes to look at Mal questioningly: “How can they be so cruel? She’s really a nice girl … underneath those scars.”
Mal said nothing for a while, trying to digest all she had heard. She searched the girl’s face. “Her parents could be regretting how they treated their daughter and even now are vowing to do better.”
Nigella assessed this, then: “Do you think she was going back to a happier home?”
“It’s a possibility. If they had pledged to give up drugs … had promised to go into Rehab.” She looked at the serious face. “We have to be careful not to jump to a wrong conclusion Jellie. I can tell you’ve been very affected by this, but possibly your picture is skewed and things aren’t so bad. Would you like me to call Cory and see if I can find out the circumstances? But even in my position as a social worker, I can’t go seeking an intervention order without sufficient grounds.”
By now she could feel some tension had eased out of the young body and the response was a sleepy: “That would be good Mal. If I could just know that she’s all right.”
“I’ll speak to Cory as soon as I can, I promise.” She needed to get her settled. “Now … how about I turn the light off, but open the drapes? There’s a hunter’s moon shining in a clear sky up there … and I’ll be next to you down here.” She gave her a little squeeze: “Good idea, eh?”
“I can try with you here.”
Mal found her feet giving her a brief peck ‘good night’ and saying: “That’s my girl,” before crossing to the window. She looked out at the twinkling stars: Our first night together and hoped it would go well for Nigella. She turned back to observe the sleeping form revealed in the lunar radiance penetrating the dark shadows of the room. The thick lashes that fringed the now closed lids stood out blackly against the pallid cheeks. This time the face looked to be at peace.
* * *
Two weeks later, Nigella and Mal were sitting out on the front balcony, crunching through cereal. It was early, but neither could remain asleep and they did not want to disturb Deszree. It was a peaceful time, just the palest whisper of dawn managing to diffuse through the vaporous clouds and although the night’s chill was still in the air, they were protected in their cosy alcove. The sun’s hazy brush gilded the veiled heads of the neighbourhood trees, imparting a magical glow to the morning. It was theirs alone.
“Jellie?”
“Mm…m,” she had just taken a big gulp of apple juice.
“You know how you were going to paint Patchford House for us …?”
“Yes, I hadn’t forgotten. It’s just there’s been too much of late.”
“Not a drama. I was wondering if you would like to take a drive to the country and we’ll go check up on the old place.”
Nigella was stupefied. She put down her spoon. The possibility of visiting her home had never occurred to her. “Can we really do that?”
“Just to look, mind. We couldn’t go inside.”
“No, just to see it again …” It felt as though her heart had stopped in her chest and she could hardly catch her breath. “Really true!” her heart started again in an excited rush. It would be so wonderful … just to be there.
“Yes. I can hire a car and we can take a picnic. It could be your birthday treat. I know it’s not ’til tomorrow, but treats are better early than late, don’t you think?”
“My birthday, that date hasn’t been in my head, but now you remind me … yes, tomorrow will be the tenth. I so easily lose track of time, let alone the days. Anyway, birthday or no, I’d love to visit the Park.
“Great. I’ll ‘T’ it up and we can pick up something for lunch on the way. Dress warmly Jellie ’cos we’ll want to find a nice spot to eat. I’ll leave a note for Deszree, letting her know we’re gone for the day.”
“You think you can find it again?” she asked dubiously, reflecting upon how far away they lived.
“No problem. We have detailed maps in the twenty-first century too.” She tilted her head with that characteristic gleam of amusement, so infectious she could not help but join in, with a widening smile.
By ten o’clock they were merrily rolling along having left the outskirts of the city. The roads were wider and straighter and Mal could open up. When they entered the motorway Nigella found it hard to take it all in. The M1 with its flyovers and multitude of lanes made her feel she was on another planet, but she delighted in their speed. Mal was driving an old model Mazda 323 which she had hired for the weekend.
A leaden November sky had been threatening rain since they left and now a mist of fine drizzle was steadily descending. No matter, Nigella was enjoying being out on the open road, the overcast weather unable to dampen her high spirits. For a while she was mesmerised, watching the water as it spattered the windscreen, the individual dribbles racing each other down the glass and running together in rivulets, before the wiper blades made them do it all over again.
From time to time Mal threw quick glances to her passenger. She looked so much happier these days. Her red beret and scarf, in contrast to her black hair, now curling to shoulder length, gave her a festive, vibrant appearance. These past weeks had fashioned an amazing transformation in her. Those demoralizing fears had been allayed, allowing her to grow in confidence and Deszree had just the right manner, too. Also, the routine if their daily lives had given her an empowering sense of security; so much so in fact, dependency on the meds had cut right back. Now she was truly living in the present.
An unexpected benefit from this had been an improvement in her ability to concentrate and therefore study. She was loving her books and she had gone a few times with Mal to the library, enjoying her own browsing. On their last visit, the librarian had guided her through the intricacies of the computer. To Mal’s surprise, she had taken to it with ease. She had also developed a healthy appetite, gaining weight and filling out in all the right places.
Really, more the woman than the girl, Mal speculated, and it suits her. She’s the loveliest creature. It’s more than the beauty of feature or colouring, it’s her vitality; her new awareness at the thrill of it all.
They took the turn-off for Guilfoyle and Mal observed it no longer said ‘village’. The road dipped, curved and entered a section where the tree canopy was so broad, the branches almost met in the middle, creating a shady tunnel. She thought it prudent to prepare Nigella for possible changes. She wanted this to be a happy experience, not one filled with disappointment or worse, dumbfounding shock.
“I know Mal. It’s all right, don’t fuss. Naturally things won’t be the same. I just want to see it again. Just knowing it’s here has made such a difference to me. You can’t imagine.”
Her enthusiasm was contagious, but Mal could feel a deep tension building inside her. The significance of this trip was not inconsiderable. As they approached closer she felt her heart hammering and lurching. She cast her mind back to the weeks of problem sleeping she had endured on her ‘return’, when she would awake with caustic images of unreality. In those days she had felt so tired, as if she had been struggling for a long time with no end in sight; certainly no victory. Sometimes she would get the shakes and open her mouth to speak, but no words came. She recollected how she had felt, as though chunks of her had been ripped out – and the excruciating pain. Not a physical pain; that can be let go. No, the emotional hovering between the literal and the abstract which, upon recall is as vivid as ever, like it was yesterday. Those breathless times when it seemed she would pass out in a heart attack, but in truth the pain was in her head. She started abruptly as Nigella’s excited words pierced her introspection.
“I can see the spire of Saint Austell’s.” Her neck was craning at an impossible angle. They had come out of the woods and Mal was turning onto what before had been a dirt road, but now was bitumen. The rain had eased and shafts of light were trying to lance their way through the thinning clouds. The lane, still wet from the previous downpour glistened as the Mazda’s wheels sprayed small fountains over the grass verge. She slowed and they wound down their windows the better to see. Pungent and biting smells of the country assailed their nostrils: muddy streams, rotting leaves and wet bark, carried to them on stiff gusts of wind, streaming hectically between the remaining trees. Faintly in the distance, the peel of church bells for noontime, intoned harmoniously through the yielding morning air.
Neither spoke, too intent on seeing and absorbing all they could on their slow progress toward the ultimate destination. Sprawling subdivisions surrounded the perimeter of the original village much to Mal’s disappointment, but she bowed to the inevitable. However the wide, medieval streets still remained, now more majestically tree-lined. There too, was the Punch Bowl Inn, opposite the Methodist church. She kept a sharp look-out for the Pogue’s cottage and spotted it at the far end. It had been taken over by trendy ‘tree’ changers able to afford an ‘eco’ retreat, for weekend ‘getaways’. Indeed, it looked well cared for with its neat flower beds and freshly painted picket fence.
Through the village and past the farms – in all the years from Mal’s vantage point, these did not appear to have altered. She remembered those walks to the stables, set at a brisk pace against the dank morning chills. Even the Larks still wheeled and swooped, screeching out their high-pitched calls, the same as they had done when they were the only sounds to pierce the dawn’s eerie hush.
Over the brow of the hill – there it was – opening up to their gaze on a low aerial view; the whole imposing edifice including the extensive grounds. It was magical, bathed as it was in the soft glow of autumnal sunshine. Nigella let out an involuntary ‘oh’ as her heart beat madly in her chest and her mind surged with the crowding images of Mona, Patchy and her dear parents. The whole scene became re-animated by people from her past and every site where her eyes rested was embedded in memory. Old Jake was there with Burrow. Even Mallory, as she had been in those faded corduroys. I wasn’t insane after all!
Mal turned the car into a narrower lane which fell steeply at a fast gradient. She pulled over and they got out, standing still one beside the other as they contemplated their fill. The stately proportions of Patchford House were as arresting as ever, arched over by a wide, grey sky. Nigella’s hand reached out, but Mal took her and encircled her shoulders. Together they let their memories flood back. No stemming of these tides! They lived in the moment, enchanted moments of confirmation. The shadowy, most ominous of the fears, whatever had bedevilled them, they were laid to rest right there, right then. Here was a watershed experience and from this second on, they were released to a new-found freedom. At last, each in her own way could move on. Yes, there was a long road ahead, but they would travel it together.
Mal’s hold tightened and she said impulsively: “Jellie, I could wish this moment would never end.”
Nigella turned within the protective embrace. “My very thoughts, thank you so much for thinking of this and bringing me here.” The passionate eyes sparkled with green fire into the bewitched face before her. Their glistening sheen stemmed from the unshed tears of her barely contained emotion. It seemed even their hearts beat in unison.
“Shall we see if we can get closer?” Mal’s azure eyes gave out a flash of brilliance of equal intensity as she felt the urge to kiss this lithe creature, her womanly form touching from breast to thigh so close against her body; not with fierce passion, but with a profound, penetrating love. Moving on could solve the problem of her committing some rash act, to be regretted later.
Now hand in hand, as their feet wove a dark green trail through the pale, water speckled pasture, they approached the Patchford stables. No horse odours or sounds came to them. It was an office block! They could see the odd car parked out front, in what was now a brick and pebble-dashed courtyard. Cautiously, they skirted around the buildings following the line of a new, chain-link fence. After some time it brought them to the front gates. They were the same massive, wrought iron they remembered, but standing wide open. A big sign proclaimed the property belonged to Omega Pharmaceutical Industries: West Midlands Division. They looked at each other, surprise momentarily smoothing their faces of all expression.
“Time will not stand still in the path of progress I guess,” Mal observed philosophically.
“What does this mean?” Nigella asked dismayed.
“I’m not sure,” she replied guardedly. “Perhaps the family fell on hard times and the place had to be sold.”
“Oh no,” was the unthinking response: “Papa has lots of money.”
“You forget Jellie, there’ve been two world wars since then,” she reminded her reluctantly: “And the fortunes of war don’t always turn out positively. Sir Eustace could have been caught in the crossfire.” She said nothing, her mind absorbing this new reality as her gaze made its way up the drive to rest on the spirited stone horses, but no longer plunging through a deluge of diamond droplets. They remained just outside for some time. Mal could only guess what was passing through Nigella’s mind. Her wistful, pool black eyes; the faraway smile wrung her heart as her own sharp memories besieged her recollections. She permitted her to look on until eventually she turned saying: “It must be time for our picnic.”
The walk back to the car was slow and silent, but they remained hand in hand. Finally Mal ventured to ask where she would like to eat.
“Shall we go to the rise and overlook Featherstone Copse, like we did that day?”
“You remember that Jellie?”
Nigella did not answer immediately as if trying to decide amongst several choices. “I’m remembering many things,” was her eventual response.
They drove to the other side, but instead of trekking across the field, Mal continued around, following the curve of the road. Where she stopped gave them almost the same view as Nigella’s original water colour. Even the same misty crowns of widely branched trees formed the backdrop. A slight rain began as slow, heavy drops so they stayed in the protected confines of the car.
She had found a specialty cheese shop that also sold pies. Nigella chose a pork pie. The Melton Mowbray had been a favourite of hers and Mal indulged herself with a Roquefort and asparagus quiche. On the drive out they had passed road-side stalls offering fruit and vegetables and in the end had chosen juicy, Victoria plums. Everything was washed down with bottles of cold mineral water; a simple lunch, tasty and satisfying. Not much was said, but such exchanges as passed between them were companionable. After eating, Mal suggested they spend the afternoon in a drive to Stratford-upon-Avon. “You’ve been there before haven’t you?”
“Yes. I’d love to see it again. Will it have changed, too?”
“Not the old town. I’m pretty sure that will still be as you remember.”
Despite the continuing cloudburst, visibility remained good enough for Nigella to enjoy the English countryside in autumn. The Oaks and Beeches were resplendent in red and gold, but many Poplars and Chestnuts had lost their leaves. For her it was all good. Her reminiscences allowed her to re-live childhood moments which became empowering and life affirming. These events had happened – she was passing through the same places – recalling the people and even some of the verbal exchanges. As a child she had really only spoken freely in the school-room, or to Ramona; when she was older sometimes to Ambrose.
Stratford was a wonderland. The Festival theatre was new, but Ann Hathaway’s cottage and the other black and white buildings were enchanting. They drank tea in a restored hostelry where attention to architectural detail had been unstinting and like the other patrons, mostly tourists, let their eyes enjoy the ersatz step back in time.
A lively discussion ensued: who was the real Shakespeare? Nigella was from the period when the popular theory was in Sir Francis Bacon’s camp, but Mal was all for the latest contender – Sir Henry Neville. Despite their differences, they were in agreement that Shakespeare himself seemed to lack sufficient education and international, courtly position to have written so copiously and with such erudition.
Mal had thought to return via Warwick, to round-out the experience, but time constraints prohibited this trip. She was anxious not to be late; the sun was setting only too early and already shadows had started to deepen, softening the outlines of the old houses. On the drive back Nigella’s eyelids began to droop as she became dozy. Mal reckoned the day had been a success despite the shocks. She had borne them well and now could rest.
Deszree listened to Nigella’s account of the day with delight. She was happy to see how much the girl had come out of her herself. She had grown quite fond of her and was kindly disposed, knowing what traumas had been sustained. Watching her blossom was an unexpected pleasure.
Mal had the Mazda until five o’clock the next day. To make the most of it, she proposed a trip up north. “I could show you some of the industrial heart-land of England, in contrast to its rural side.”
“Oh yes! I could see for myself the changes that have been wrought by those ’men of steel’ Papa used to worry about. Did they do much harm?”
“You’ll see Jellie. I don’t think it’s so bad. I’m sure you’ll notice how much cleaner and brighter everywhere is.”
She took them for lunch in the most stylish restaurant in Manchester. It was located in the newest addition to the city’s skyline, the forty-eight storey Manchester Hilton. Preparation and forewarnings had been extensive to make sure Nigella could appreciate this day’s outing to the fullest.
“I want you to know something of the spectacular side of this twenty-first century.”
“Yes, I want to catch up on everything.”
Today they both had dressed their best. Mal had taken Nigella clothes’ shopping, suggesting she look around to choose for herself. She had bought a selection of dainty underwear and some smart clothes. For this outing she had chosen her cream, linen suit the lapels edged in a light brown braid and a pale green blouse, tied at the neck in a floppy bow. For the first time she wore high-heeled shoes. They were hand-tooled leather, but the heel was not too high. Mal put together the outfit she had worn for her tribunal interview. This would be a special day.
First, Nigella’s entrance through automatic doors into a modern lobby – her wonder and amazement were rhapsodic. Her first elevator ride; the height was fearful. She would not let go of Mal, seeking protection against her rising anxiety. Fortunately it was a regular Otis not a glass pod, so she only had to experience the feeling and not watch the ground as it fell away below her.
For the penthouse level it was necessary to finish their journey on the escalator. Mal had not anticipated this, but there was no turning back; it was not too long and only moving at a moderate speed. Nigella looked up aghast; the lift, now this.
“It’s OK Jellie you just put your foot on the bottom step and let it take you.” She looked back at Mal, uncertain.
“Look, I’ll show you. I’ll jump on, go up a little way and come back down to get you, OK?” She nodded and Mal stepped on sideways, maintaining eye contact. She called back. “You see, nothing awful happened.”
She watched as a couple passed by and without breaking their conversation, mounted the moving steps. Mal turned right round and ran lightly down against the gradient. The man moved out of her way with a surprised look as she jumped off at the girl’s side.
“Hold my hand we’ll step on together, on three: 1 – 2 – 3 – step! She managed it and her heels did not get stuck. Mal had said nothing about getting off, but was confident she could drag her with her. Nigella put her hand on the moving rail – words failed her. What an astonishing experience!
“All right Jellie, with me: 1– 2 – 3 – they were off. She gave her a hug. “Cool, eh?” Nigella looked down, still not quite able to believe what she had just done.
“Mal, will I have to run down like you?”
“No, there’s a down side. It’s over here.” She walked across the distance and now Nigella saw the same staircase in reverse.
“Want to try? Come on – on three.” They did it again and this time Mal found her quite eager to ascend. “No more now. We’ll do it again after lunch,” she declared, when Nigella was ready to repeat the down side.
The Atlantis Room presented formal dining at its best. The next set of doors swished to behind them, preserving perfect climate control, while the sumptuous decor surrounded the patrons with the height of luxury. Mal had made enquiries at the time of reservation to ensure Nigella would experience just the right ambiance. Her eyes flashed in delight at the sight of the five-star-service. The chairs were present-day, but the upholstery in shades of purple, woven with a silver thread made them supremely elegant. Neo-classical music played softly in the background. Nigella looked for the orchestra then guessed it was a CD. No matter, she loved it all.
“You remember when we had tea at Fortnum and Mason’s …?” she enthused: “… being here lets me know we really did do those things and then I believe I can believe in myself too.”
They were at reception, waiting to be seated and the intimacy of her look as she focused her eyes on Mal’s face spoke volumes. Mal had the impression of sunlight, breaking free of a restraining cloud.
This was Sunday so the restaurant was well attended, but with an advanced booking she had secured a window table. Nigella was provided with a panoramic view of the city. Adapting quickly to the unexpected, she soon lost her fear of being so far above the ground. She marvelled at the impressive and unusual sights afforded by her bird’s eye perspective. She felt the thrill of it.
The waiter arrived and placed a napkin across their knees and offered a menu. There was a varied selection of Nigella’s favourite foods. She could indulge her taste-buds to their total satisfaction. For dessert Mal chose a Tiramisu for Nigella to try and then presented her with a birthday gift and card. She loved the words with its Forever Friends bear, holding up a big red heart, wrapped around in a spangle of stardust. When she opened the long box, she could not believe her eyes – a delicate, ovalfaced watch, its gold link band stretched out on a bed of blue silk. For a moment she was speechless. Mal got up and went round to put it on her wrist. “It’s only 9-carat, but I hope you think it’s pretty.”
Nigella inhaled deeply and breathed out softly: “Mal it is so lovely.” She admired the effect. “Thank you so much.” She reached up to bring her face close for a kiss and the unmistakable warmth in the emerald centres of her eyes drove straight to Mal’s heart. The synergy between them was perfect. For the rest of her life she would be enslaved to this vital creature, but she knew the day would surely come when some handsome man would sweep her off her feet and she would be consumed by his love. Then she would be lost to her forever. Impatiently she pushed away the intrusive, unwanted prospect. Stop this Mal. Savour the good times. Appreciate what you have now and share Jellie’s happiness with her. There’s no point in torturing yourself with unrealistic hopes.
She returned to her seat. “Jellie, would you like to try a special coffee? I don’t think you’ve ever tasted a café latté.”
“Oh yes. Now I’m nineteen I’m all grown-up,” she laughed, then instantly stopped, her face turning a deathly white.
“Jellie, what is it?” There was an edge of alarm in her voice. The change in Nigella had been so dramatic. Nothing was said until the waiter had put their coffees in place then Nigella looked at Mal.
“I just remembered something Mama gave me.” Her black brows drew together in close thought.
“Yes?”
“It was a letter that was to be opened on my nineteenth birthday,” she said slowly.
“Do you have it?” Mal had never seen a letter amongst her possessions.
“No … o, I don’t.” The usually soft mouth was set.
“This letter … it’s very important? Have you lost it?”
“No … o, I haven’t.” Her breathing turned uneven. Mal was beginning to find this exchange perplexing. What had happened to her?
“Jellie, try your coffee before it gets cold. Do you want sugar?” She passed over the silver bowl.
For a moment then, images of her mother’s boudoir had buffeted her mind and her mother’s voice had ambushed her thoughts; that mystifying day when she had said such frightening things. She sucked in her breath and for a fleeting second, teetered on the brink of a forgotten world, without warning, uninvited. Mama you scared me so much. I hadn’t known what to think … and now I am nineteen. What had it all been about? She felt she was floundering, out of her depth. Something was at the margin of her consciousness, but it was too elusive. She had the feeling this letter was pivotal, but was unable to apprehend its significance. Her emotions were being tossed every-which-way, but she had no control over this cascading torrent. There were times yet when grief could creep up, unexpectedly and crush her with its swift markers of misery. Her hand, still poised over the cup began to stir. Mal could not begin to speculate on the memories this letter had prompted, but it was obvious they were absorbing and wholly compelling. Eventually, the glassy look in those disturbed eyes began to clear.
Oh rose of my heart, what is this new threat? Where have you gone? She was overwhelmed by the distress she saw on that harrowed face. “Perhaps, with more time you will remember?” she suggested, wanting to see that happy disposition return. Nigella only nodded in mute agreement. Already she had slipped away to a private place, her hand pressed once more against the base of her neck.
* * *
Mal dropped Nigella at the unit and returned the car, just within the time limit and caught the bus. She found her curled up on top of the bed, but she swung her legs over when she came in, the lounging skirt falling open to reveal her favourite panda slippers on her feet.
“This has been a lovely weekend Mal. You’re very good to me.”
“Don’t get up Jellie, stay resting, I’ll stretch out too.” Side by side they let their bodies relax as they re-lived the busy last two days.
“Jellie …?” Mal had just had a thought.
“Mm…m …”
“How about I get your box from the crate in community storage and we have a proper look through for that letter?”
“What now?” She was not sure she felt up to going there, not after all this.
“Is there any point in putting it off? You might as well know what it’s all about, sooner than later, don’t you reckon?” She sat up and looked at her questioningly. “I know where Deszree keeps the key,” she added persuasively.
Nigella sat up too. “I guess … if you think …” she agreed reluctantly, but the shakes had set in, affecting her hands and making her legs unstable. This time Mal was on a mission and did not notice.
“Won’t be a tick. We can spread everything out on the bed in a good light.” She wanted to get to the bottom of this and was not one to wait. The box in question had been used by the hospital to store the patient’s belongings. Upon discharge, they would be re-packed in their own suitcase, but of course this had not happened, so Nigella still had her ‘hospital’ box. With the move, it had gone straight into storage with Mal’s stuff. All tenants had the right of use of these wire bins and the system worked well.
Their crate had the same number as the unit so it was at the far end. She found the box easily amongst all the other things – heavy-duty, brown cardboard. For closure, its lid was held down with red twine, bound around two paper buttons in a figure of eight. About the size of a square suitcase, it could not hold much.
She placed it down next to Nigella who reluctantly undid the string and slowly lifted the lid. Inside everything was packed in separate plastic bags. One by one she took them out, then proceeded to go back to examine each in turn. Basically, they consisted of the clothes she had been found in: her blouse and good walking serge skirt, the small-brimmed hat and its sprightly feather, the Russian cardigan, her button boots and woollen stockings. She took a moment, hesitating to go further. As she began sorting through, twisting each garment between trembling hands, her eyes filled with tears. Recognition washed over her, almost more than she could bear. The reality of her egocentric self was overwhelming and at the same time confronting, taking her to a scary place. Her mad plan – that daring escape in the night – that erratic drive with its disastrous consequences….
Mal had set a controlled expression on her face, but with the release of each article, her management slipped. She willed herself not to break down and for all that she wanted answers, she would not trample on the consuming emotions this unsettling process might be laying bare. It was too traumatic; harder than she could ever have imagined. No letter came to light. Nothing!
“Your coat isn’t here,” she observed suspiciously. “Where is it? You might have put it in the pocket.”
She took a deep breath in an effort to pull herself together. “I wasn’t wearing it in the Runabout,” she whispered: “You put our things behind the bench seat.”
Of course, only what we were wearing would have travelled with us.
“It was probably packed away in the portmanteau, unless there were pockets in your skirt?”
“No … o, no pocket in my skirt, but there is one in the cardigan.” Even to her eyes the jacket looked very old fashioned. She reached inside and felt around, hoping this would be it. No letter, but her fingers curled onto a hard object in a small plastic bag. By degrees, she brought it out and they stared in wonder at the contents: a delicate key on a fine, gold chain.
Mal lifted her eyes. “What is it for?”
Nigella’s gaze never left the key as she slowly explained: “It’s the key to the letter.”
This sounded too cryptic. Whatever is going on with her? Poor Jellie! “I don’t understand.” She shot her a look of concern. “You’re not making sense, Jellie.” Apprehension welled up on her tongue like a bitter taste. Has she finally tipped over the edge?
She turned to her with a sharp twist of her neck and held her with an inflexible stare. “It’s a long story. I won’t go into details, but … this key will unlock the safe where the letter lies.
Oh better! She is all right. Now I get it. “Fancy, all this time you’d forgotten you had it.” Nigella inclined her head, her face unreadable as gradually she withdrew the key and chain. “So where’s the safe?”
This time before answering, she slid the key back and forth along the chain through whitened fingers. In an unsteady voice she pronounced: “At Patchford House.” Now she directed her eyes full toward Mal, the hopelessness of the situation writ large on her troubled face.
Patchford House of course. “Bloody hell, out of reach.” Mal gave a shrug of frustration as her hands bunched to knots. This sucks! The girl’s concern was reflected twofold in her own eyes. “Oh screw this,” she cried out in thwarted impatience: “How can we ever get it back?”
“I guess it’s lost to us now,” she observed, discouraged. “There can be no way of finding such a small thing …” she said softly, “… as a letter.” Mal stretched out her hand for Nigella to take, but instead she collapsed into her arms. “I remember too much.” Sobs shook her body in slow, heaving spasms as a myriad of unexpected memories propelled the air from her lungs.
Mal held on tight. “Can you tell me?” she asked gently.”
Still trembling she articulated: “I can’t. No … I can’t, not ever.” Disgust was draining through her body leaving it feeling sick, as the turmoil from that day hit her once again even more forcefully. Lacking understanding, unworthiness still held her in its possession, the grip merciless.
“It’s all right Jellie. When the time is right, that’s OK.” She continued to give support with a close hold, as she had done so many times before; donating her strength to get her through. Nigella was too distraught to grasp the portent of the letter, but she knew it was significant, a form of telescopic lens to the past. However her mind could not stretch far enough; she had to let it go.
The working week was a busy one for Mal, but lurking in the back of her mind, no matter what the current problem, was the conundrum of the mystery letter. Could it still be in its original hiding place? She was in the know about the safe, hidden behind the picture. If the new owners had taken over everything, including the contents, they might have retained some of the original decor. A lot would depend on how extensive the remodelling had been.
Wednesday evening they were relaxing after dinner, only the two of them tonight. TV was on in the background. Mal hit the mute button, and caught Nigella’s attention.
“Jellie, I’ve given a lot of thought to your letter.”
“It’s no good. I’ve put it behind me.” She closed her eyes then looked at Mal. “There’s nothing we can do. It’s gone … literally, long gone.”
She held up her hand. “Not so fast Jellie, hear me out.” Her perceptive eyes scanned the sweet face, no longer full of innocence. She had not been herself since they had opened that box. Somehow its impact had been more far-reaching than either had ever expected. Her wandering attention snagged on a problematical thought: Has it turned out to be one of Pandora’s? Nigella had not referred to it again, but she felt impelled to get it sorted. This letter obviously represented something momentous. Apart from its contents, it was a direct link with her mother, so important right now. Well at any time really, forever and ever … amen.
“Jellie, what do you say to our going back to the Park, on the weekend?” Nigella furrowed her brow and gave a slow, trembling exhalation, trying to control the feelings of dismay the suggestion had aroused.
“Mal, what are you saying?” she asked, her voice rising with incredulity as her mind brimmed over with some distinctly unpleasant possibilities. Knock on that big front door and ask permission to look around? Worse still … be shooed off at the point of a gun?
Mal responded with a watery smile: “It’d be all right. We’d wait ’til dark then see if we can slip in and find the safe.” She knew it was hair-brained, but she was sure it was do-able. Nigella forced down a wave of panic; to re-tread those corridors, to find Mama’s dressing-room? Opening up old memories like wounds too recently healed, the scar tissue still too fragile. Her spirits took an abrupt scroll back.
“No Mal, I can’t do it. I’m not that brave.” From the other perspective however, to contemplate disappointment was also hurtful. Everything was so muddling; she was in a twilight state of existence; the process of transfiguration not yet complete.
Mal could see she was asking a lot. Was it too much? But I can’t do it alone. I need her knowledge. She would be my guide. “We won’t go if you really feel you can’t, but if I go alone, searching will take me that much longer.” She fastened her hyacinth-blue eyes on her and with a cajoling voice continued: “I need your help Jellie. You know the house and the terrain like the back of your hand. It’s you who could get us in and out. You know what we’re looking for.”
She pictured the gravel walkway, the door to the basement solid and unyielding. She heard the cry in the night accusing, uncompromising; the pursuing foot-falls unrelenting. “No Mal, it’s too risky. What if we were discovered? I remember Papa saying he would have trespassers shot.” Her body chilled at the thought and her face paled, a look of horror filling her dark eyes. Inwardly Mal acknowledged her fear, but was of no doubt the venture should go forward; there must be a resolution to this. The only approach she could see was head-on. She leaned closer and stretched out a reassuring hand.
“Jellie, Jellie, it won’t be that bad. We know the place will be empty at night. It’s a business now not a residence. The only thing, we must be alert to their security. All we have to do is get inside and get upstairs. We won’t go anywhere near the manufacturing section.” She was filling the air with the excitement of suppressed energy, the effect refreshing and re-vitalising. Nigella did want this letter, more than anything and the possibility that it might still be there had to be explored. Hope sprang into her heart as the blood running through her veins, coursed with renewed vigour.
Mal was continuing: “We just have to find out if they use the upper levels for their private offices and pray they haven’t changed them.” Lifting her voice she declared, on a more positive note: “Executives like their quarters to look opulent, so it’s not beyond the realm of possibility, they’ve retained some of the original furnishings.” She took Nigella’s hands and gave them a squeeze. “We can do this thing … we wait, we watch. When we’re sure it’s clear … we make our move … what do you think?” The earnest eyes sought confirmation. The soft hands squeezed back.
“I would like to do it … I’m not sure if I have the courage … to carry it off.” She turned a dark, beseeching gaze on Mal, the nagging fear still lingering.
“We’d be systematic. We’ll plan it out together. Make sure all our bases are covered.”
“What do you mean, ‘bases covered’?” her black, arched brows rose like wings about to take flight from her pallid face, her reservations not yet allayed.
“Oh sorry Pumpkin, it’s just an expression to say we’d be really, really careful.” She got up to get them a cold drink. “You know, I wouldn’t let any harm come to you, or me for that matter. We can take our time and plan it down to the last detail.” She returned with two cans and popping the tops explained as though there had been no interruption: “It will have to be late Saturday night, early Sunday morning. We know they don’t do any processing weekends, there were so few cars.”
Accepting the drink she laughed. “I haven’t said ‘yes’ yet,” but the flush to her rounded, ivory cheeks betrayed the excitement this prospect had awakened in her.