When Grace and I return home, it is to find that there has been no development in the case of our mysterious new neighbour. The removal vans have all left, and the street is quiet once more, but there is not a single light on in the old Draper house.
‘Maybe they sent their belongings ahead of them?’ I suggest as we walk past, both our eyes glued to the old three-storey townhouse.
‘Maybe the electricity has been cut off …’ Graces muses. ‘Or maybe the Drapers didn’t have electricity installed and were still using candles.’
‘Well, that doesn’t make sense,’ I scoff. ‘We would still be able to see flickering candlelight if that were the case.’
‘Oh, Clem, but what if our new neighbour doesn’t have any candles?’ she insists, her blue eyes wide and shining. ‘Perhaps we should take some round …’
‘You’re beginning to sound like Mrs Arbuthnot,’ I warn her, narrowing my eyes, and the two of us burst into fits of giggles as we traipse up the steps to our own front door.
I gaze back across the street at the old Draper house while Grace fiddles with her key in the lock. It really is a very beautiful building. Somehow, despite having been empty for so long, it is dilapidated in a rather romantic way. It is almost as if the old house has been asleep for many years, and is ready to be awoken by its new owner. A wrought-iron fence, bordered with overgrown roses, encircles a chipped and battered mosaic pathway up to the red-brick facade. Each floor boasts a huge bay window, and I imagine how the daylight must come flooding in each morning, casting splashes of colour from the stained-glass across the floor like scattered boiled sweets. But my favourite part is the gabled attic, right at the very top, where a round window, paned in white, shines like a full moon. It is nothing like our house, which is simply rundown from neglect. Our house was once magnificent too, when Father was still alive. I remember it was always warm, and it felt so full of light. Father was always bringing home interesting new curios too – big brass telescopes, leather-bound books with gold embossed titles, framed collections of iridescent beetles and delicate butterflies. One by one, all of these magnificent memories have been sold off to pay the bills, all to keep this ramshackle ruin of grandeur running. If it weren’t for the memories that the house holds, I don’t know if I would say it was worth it.
‘Clementine?’ Grace says, and I spin around in surprise. She has the door open and is already in the hall, pulling off her boots. ‘Come in quickly, and shut the door!’ she hisses. ‘You’re letting all the cold in.’
I hurry inside and close the door behind me as quietly as I can, anxious not to disturb Mother.
‘Whose turn is it to cook tonight?’ Grace asks, shaking off her coat and wandering down the hall towards the kitchen.
‘Definitely yours,’ I reply firmly, following after her. The kitchen is freezing cold, and I recoil slightly from the drop in temperature, running to the Aga to turn the heat up.
‘Fine, but if I cook, you have to take it upstairs to Mother,’ she reminds me, and I wilt at the prospect. ‘And you have to wash the dishes, and you have to eat my cooking,’ she finishes, listing the consequences like punishments on her fingers.
‘In that case, it is definitely my turn to cook.’ I grimace, and she squeezes my shoulder affectionately.
‘I had better say hello and collect her breakfast tray,’ Grace sighs, then glides out of the room.
I rootle through the cupboards in search of inspiration, but they are practically empty. I find a solitary tin of baked beans, half a loaf of rather stale bread and a couple of slightly greying sausages. I give the sausages a sniff and they seem alright, so I chop them into thin slices and pop them in a pan with the last knob of butter. My stomach growls hungrily as I begin slicing up the bread, attempting to make it go round all three of us. I hear Grace’s footsteps on the stairs as I empty the beans into a saucepan and pop them on the stove. She sighs as she enters the kitchen and places Mother’s tray down by the sink.
‘Everything alright?’ I ask tentatively, glancing over my shoulder. Her hands are clutching the kitchen counter tightly and her head is hung low, but she whips around to look at me with her classic everything-is-fine smile.
‘Yes, of course!’ she lies. ‘Mother’s not hungry, so the good news is there will be more for the two of us.’
‘She’s cross about breakfast, isn’t she?’ I cut to the chase, and Grace sighs.
‘Is it really so difficult to just check on her when you wake up?’ she pleads.
‘I didn’t do it on purpose!’ I snap. Grace always tries to keep the peace, but that so often means bowing to Mother’s pressure. ‘Is it really so hard for her to get out of bed and collect her own tray?’
‘She’s not well, Clem.’
‘She had energy enough to enquire after the Drapers,’ I grumble under my breath.
Grace sighs again and rubs her eyes, then wrinkles her nose. ‘Something is burning.’
‘Oh, blast!’ I cry and turn back to the stove where the beans are boiling furiously in the saucepan.
I scrape as much as I can from the pan onto the toast, avoiding the charred layer of sauce at the bottom, and spoon the sausages on top, then hand a plate to Grace who eyes it suspiciously.
‘Bon appetit,’ I grin, and her face finally cracks into a genuine smile as we tuck in.
Once Grace and I have cleaned up after dinner, we both drag our tired bodies up the staircase to bed. Grace stops on the landing and gazes wistfully towards the bedroom we once shared. After our father passed away, Mother insisted that Grace move into his bedroom. She swore it was to give us both more space, but we both know Mother would go to any length to keep the two of us apart, terrified that our close bond may lead us to revolt against her. I miss sharing a room with Grace too. We used to have so much fun, lining up our teddy bears and dolls, pretending they were at school. Grace would always teach them English, reading to them from whichever book she currently had her nose in. I would lie on the floor, resting my chin on my hands and join the teddies and dolls in rapt silence as we enjoyed her dramatic reading. Then, afterwards, I would teach them ballet, and Grace would take turns moving their soft limbs into the correct positions. We would swap clothes too, sharing practically everything in our wardrobe, all the lovely dresses that Father bought for us, with satin bows and lace trim, all of which are long gone now.
Grace blinks slowly, then refocuses her gaze on me. I wonder if she is thinking about the same memories as me. ‘Night, Clem,’ she whispers, then kisses me on the cheek and floats up the second flight of stairs to her bedroom.
I pause where I am for a moment, listening intently for any sound from Mother’s bedroom. When I don’t hear anything, I creep past her door, careful to avoid the squeaky floorboard in case I wake her, and softly close the door to my bedroom. I look longingly at my bed for a moment, but I can’t sleep just yet. I sit on the edge of the bed and pull my ballet shoes from my bag, sliding my feet into the familiar, worn, soft leather slippers. I point and flex my toes a couple of times, then lift myself off the bed and rest one hand on the dresser and begin practising my tendus, extending my leg along the floor until only the very tip of my toe remains anchored. I practise my barre exercises diligently every night before I go to sleep and every morning as soon as I wake up. There is something meditative about the process, the control I must exert over my body. I don’t think I could sleep if I ever missed a practice, but I wouldn’t know as it never happens.
I am halfway through my fondus when something outside the window catches my eye and I stop with my leg outstretched in mid-air. There is a warm, flickering light coming from across the street. One of our neighbours must have lit a fire in the grate – nothing out of the ordinary, summer is drawing to an end and the nights are getting cooler, so I don’t know why it strikes me as peculiar. I gently bring my foot down to the ground and pad across the floor to the window, and that is when I realise why the light caught my attention. It is coming from the Draper house.
I feel my pulse begin to race and instinctively reach my fingers out as if I could touch the enchanted house from here, but all I feel is the cold glass of my own windowpane. I am rooted to the spot as a million possibilities dance through my mind. Have the new owners moved in? I wonder if anybody saw them arrive. If it had been Mrs Arbuthnot, she would have been sure to inform the whole street. A disturbing thought begins to niggle at the back of my mind: what if an intruder has broken in? I should simply finish my practice, change into my nightgown and go to sleep. I know that is what I should do, but my feet make up their mind before my head does, and the next thing I know, I am whisking my way downstairs and out of the front door.
The night air has a bite to it and I wish I had thought to take my coat. My feet, though, aren’t bothered by such trivial matters, numb as they are from years of ballet training. The road is bathed in orange light from the tall street lamps, but I keep to the darkness, my leather-soled ballet slippers allowing me to approach the Draper house with the stealth of a cat. I stop at the wrought-iron gate, my fingers on the latch. I look around but the street is deserted, so I push it open and wince as it creaks. I step softly up the mosaic path to the front window where the flickering light is coming from, but the sill is too high and I can’t get a good view. I glance around the front garden, then decide to try the back gate. This time, I don’t have to worry about making too much noise as the gate is already open and swinging softly on its hinges in the chilling breeze. I slip through and make my way down the side of the house, shrouded in shadow. As I reach the back garden, a fox darts across the lawn and I almost let out a scream, clasping my hand tightly across my mouth just in time as my heart thunders against my ribs. I should turn back, it is a warning, I tell myself, but still I walk on.
The house is built in a similar layout to our own, with the kitchen at the back, leading to the garden. Our own kitchen door is rarely locked, usually because I forget, something which Grace and I quarrel over at least once a week. If there is an intruder, perhaps this is how they got inside. I make a solemn vow under my breath never to leave it unlocked again. I try the door and am unsurprised when it opens with a little shove. I close it quietly behind me, then stop dead in my tracks as it hits me that after years of daydreaming, wondering and speculating, I am finally inside the Draper house. I gaze around the kitchen in wonder, running my fingers across the smooth marble countertops. Heat is rolling off the Aga in waves – the new owners are obviously wealthy – and my muscles finally relax as I stop shivering. I pull open a drawer, full of glistening brass cutlery. I reach up on my tiptoes to open a cupboard and find it stuffed to bursting with food. My stomach pangs painfully, hardly satisfied from my meagre supper, as I scan my eyes across tinned peaches, tomatoes, marrowfat peas, baked beans … I can almost taste the sugary-sweet sauce and my mouth begins to water. I contemplate taking a tin when I remember that I am here to perhaps catch an intruder, not to become one myself. I close the cupboard again firmly and march quickly from the kitchen, leaving the temptation behind.
I fumble around in the darkness of the hallway for a moment, praying that no one is watching me from the shadows. That is when I hear a light groaning sound and stand frozen to the spot. Is it the creaking of the old house or something more sinister? My brain screams at me to turn and flee, I shouldn’t be here, but my feet have a mind of their own and they creep along the polished wooden floorboards. Flicking honey-coloured light pours out of a room at the end of the hallway, and I walk ‘possessed’ towards it. The door is open just enough for me to squeeze inside.
The groaning is louder in here, but I still can’t see where it might be coming from. I look around the room, rooted to the spot by the door. A deep velvet sofa sits in the middle of the room, atop a large Persian rug, covered in a bundle of blankets. The walls are hung with the most beautiful botanical illustrations. I quietly cross the parquet floor to look more closely at one of them. It is a fine pen and ink detail of some tropical-looking plant I have never seen before. I reach out and trace my fingers against the fine lines of the stem. A grand fireplace is situated against the wall, and the remains of the fire which caught my attention have burned down to a handful of glowing coals. It is too warm and I begin to feel a little faint as I try to cool my hot cheeks with the back of my hand. The groaning starts again, and I jump in surprise, forgetting why I came here. I spin around, and to my horror, the pile of blankets on the sofa begins to move and unfurl. I am paralysed to the spot as an arm frees itself from the mass of blankets, followed by a bushy head of long dark-blonde hair, and finally a haggard and bearded face. A pair of piercing green eyes lock onto mine and for a moment I am not sure who is more terrified.
The man tries to say something, but whatever it is he wanted to say is drowned out by my scream. My fight or flight response finally kicks in, and I choose flight. I dash from the room as quickly as I can, knocking plants to the floor and tripping over piles of half-unpacked books. I can hear stumbling footsteps growing louder behind me, and I hop down the hallway, trying to remove my ballet slippers so I can throw them at the assailant as he gains on me. The first shoe finds its target, hitting the man square in the face. It is not very heavy, but I think the shock of the action surprises him long enough for me to gain some distance. I race back through the kitchen and turn the door handle, wrenching it open and tearing off into the night. I scarper back down the side of the house to the front garden, leap over the gate, my ballet tunic tearing on the wrought-iron spokes, but I keep going, my heart in my mouth. Thankfully the street is silent at this hour and I rush across the road, up the stone steps to home. I close the front door behind me as quietly as I can and lean against it for a moment, then lock and bolt it fast, my chest heaving up and down as adrenaline courses through me. I look down at my hands and they are shaking as I try to slow my breathing. I turn around and lift my eye to the peephole to see if the man followed me but the street is silent once again.