The next morning, I lie in bed for a while longer than usual, thinking about the night before and my close encounter with danger. Who was the man in the Draper house? I am not sure what to do about it because I shouldn’t have been trespassing in the first place. I feel I should tell Grace; she would know what to do, but I can already picture the disappointed look on her face when she realises I ignored her advice to steer clear of the house. The longer I lie in bed, the more I start to worry. What if that man had been some sort of caretaker? What if he calls the police? I wonder if he realises that I live just across the street.
I roll out of bed and reach underneath it for my dance bag to start my morning stretches. I sift wearily through the contents for my leather ballet slippers, rubbing sleep out of my eyes, but they are not in here. My heart stops, and I cast my eyes around the bedroom. One of them is lying on the floor and I snatch it up to my heart, but where is the other one? I start sifting through drawers and my wardrobe, even stripping the bed sheets back as my panic mounts. Then I remember. I removed my ballet shoe and threw it at the mystery man in the Draper house. It was what gave me the distance to make my escape.
I swallow hard and make my way downstairs to the kitchen, where I can hear an awful clanging and a terrible burnt smell wafting through the hallway. I push open the door and find a harried-looking Grace in an apron, her usually neat hair in tufts and streaked with flour. I let out an involuntary snort and she glares murderously at me.
‘Sorry,’ I giggle. ‘But you do look a state. What on earth are you doing?’
‘I’m trying to bake a cake,’ she says with exasperation, her cheeks flushed with the effort of beating a rather sloppy-looking batter around the bowl. ‘I thought it was supposed to be easy, but this is my third attempt and we’re nearly out of eggs.’
I lean over her and glance at the sad excuse for a cake mix. ‘You need more flour.’
‘How do you know?’ she asks sceptically.
‘I just do. Here, let me help. I’ll sift it in while you keep beating.’
I lift the bag of flour above the bowl and begin shaking it over the bowl while Grace stirs. Once it is all mixed in, we both dip our fingers into the batter and give it a try. ‘That’s actually not too bad!’ she says with pleasant surprise. ‘Thanks, Clem, you’re a lifesaver.’
‘What’s it for?’ I ask, and her pink cheeks grow even rosier as she opens the oven.
‘It’s for Jacob’s birthday,’ she replies hastily, avoiding my gaze. ‘He’s been going on and on for weeks about how he never gets a birthday cake, and I thought if I made him one he might finally shut up about it.’
‘Such a kind sentiment.’ I grin, licking the remaining batter off the spoon.
‘Did you want something, or did you just come by to offer your criticism?’ she replies drily, straightening up again and placing her hands on her hips.
‘Ah, well actually, I do need something …’ I reply sheepishly. ‘I think I need a new pair of shoes.’
‘Well, why don’t you ask Mother? She has your savings book.’
‘Not those kind of shoes,’ I say quietly, then look over my shoulder to check the coast is clear before whispering, ‘ballet shoes. I hate to ask, but you know she won’t allow me to spend my savings on anything for ballet.’
‘Oh, Clem, I feel like it was only yesterday we bought your last pair. Surely you must have stopped growing by now?’
‘I know, I’m sorry!’ I groan. ‘I haven’t outgrown them, I … I have worn through them,’ I lie, losing the courage to tell her about last night.
She raises her eyebrows. ‘What were you doing in them?’
‘Just dancing,’ I reply casually, keeping my eyes fixed on the spoon in my hand as she sighs.
‘Well, it will have to wait until this evening. I’ll be picking up my pay cheque at the library later on today. Can you make do with your pointe shoes for now? And can you please try and make this pair last a little—!’ She stops mid-sentence as I fly at her.
‘Thank you, thank you, thank you!’ I exclaim with relief. ‘You really are the best sister anyone could ever ask for.’
‘Well, you did save my bacon with the cake, so we’ll call it even,’ she says with a smile.
I am finally starting to relax and think I may have got away scot-free with my midnight excursion when there is a sharp rap at the door, and I start in surprise. I leap up to answer it, but Grace is quicker and beats me to the hallway.
‘No, Grace, don’t!’ I cry, but she has the door open before I even make it to the hall. I spy Mrs Arbuthnot at the doorway with a very grave expression on her face; I don’t think I have ever been so relieved to see her. Grace is nodding gently while Mrs Arbuthnot lets forth a tirade of information at her before catching my eye.
‘Oh good, Clementine, you’re here too!’ she trills as I step closer. She is holding a pile of pamphlets in her hand and her expression is anxious, but her eyes shine with the kind of excitement she only gets from meddling in other people’s business. ‘I was just explaining to your sister, there was a break-in on the street last night.’
‘Oh,’ I say guiltily, dropping my gaze to my feet.
‘Oh, indeed!’ she replies. ‘I’ve never heard anything like it in all my years living here. Poor Mr Draper, what must he think of his neighbours …’
‘Mr Draper?’ I ask sharply, my head snapping back up.
‘Why, yes. The break-in was at his house. Poor man has only just moved in, and he’s been frightfully unwell apparently.’
So that must have been our elusive new neighbour who I threw my ballet slipper at. My stomach churns uncomfortably.
‘I didn’t realise anybody had moved in yet,’ Grace replies. ‘Is he related to the original Drapers or is it coincidence?’
‘He’s their grandson apparently, an American though.’ She whispers the word ‘American’ like it is a slur. ‘Oh, you should hear how he says coffee! Most peculiar, but not to be helped … He is from New York originally, and he has only been in London for a couple of days. He’s recently back from some overseas expedition apparently. He’s a botanist, don’t you know? An important one,’ Mrs Arbuthnot says proudly, in the same way she goes on about her son Archie, rather than a new neighbour who is barely more than a stranger. I must admit, I am impressed with how much information she has managed to garner on him already when most of us have seen hide nor hair of him. ‘Anyway, I have taken it upon myself to set up a neighbourhood lookout,’ she continues, handing one of the pamphlets to Grace. ‘We all must do our bit to keep this street safe. Just think if the perpetrator had broken in here where you three ladies are all alone, or worse, into my house! No, it won’t do. We must snuff these culprits out at once.’
Grace takes the pamphlet and scans over it. ‘Thank you, Mrs Arbuthnot,’ she says in her most polite voice. ‘We’ll be sure to share this with our mother.’
Mrs Arbuthnot’s eyes narrow with curiosity briefly. ‘And how is your mother, dear? We miss her dreadfully at the Women’s Institute. Will you let her know?’
‘We will pass on the message,’ Grace says a little more firmly as Mrs Arbuthnot tries to peer past her to get a better look at the house. Grace moves her body slightly to block the view, and Mrs Arbuthnot looks disgruntled for a moment before correcting her features.
‘Very well. I’d best be getting on to the other houses,’ she says sniffily. ‘Do think long and hard about signing up, won’t you? I know my Archie would if he were still living on this street.’ And with that, she turns on her heel, potters down the path and takes off up the street again.
There is silence for a moment as Grace closes the door, then turns slowly to face me with a look of concern. ‘Clem, what did you do?’ she asks slowly.
‘I love how you assume this has something to do with me!’ I retort hotly, feeling my cheeks blaze scarlet.
Grace gives me a long hard look, but I refuse to come clean, so she sighs and makes for the stairs. ‘I suppose I had better give this to Mother.’
An hour later, I am in the midst of the most horrible task of de-cobwebbing the ceilings, when the door knocks a second time and I am convinced that the game is up. Perhaps Mrs Arbuthnot’s neighbourhood lookout has already sniffed me out. Grace has left for work, and I contemplate not opening the door at all, but I fear that they will keep knocking and wake Mother. Between a visit from the police and the wrath of my mother, I choose arrest. I wonder if they will let me continue practising ballet in my cell, and I hope that they will let Grace and Rudi visit at least once per week. I pause with my hand on the door and take one last breath of freedom as I pull it open; but I don’t find a policeman on the other side. Instead, I am greeted by a pair of startlingly green eyes, only now they are not hidden behind a mass of hair and beard. The man before me is clean shaven, his dark-blonde hair swept back beneath a grey fedora hat. He looks much younger than he did last night, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with a broad chest and shoulders, but he looks a bit hollowed out in the cheeks and there are dark shadows under his eyes. I recall Mrs Arbuthnot saying he had been unwell after some exotic expedition, which would explain the groaning I heard last night, I suppose. I take a step back, half in surprise, half in case whatever he had is still infectious.
‘Ah! Just the person I was hoping to see,’ he drawls, his chin held high as he removes his hat with a wide smile that reveals a row of perfectly white, straight teeth. ‘I believe I have something that belongs to you.’ His accent is peculiar, not as strong as I had expected from the way Mrs Arbuthnot had described, but not quite British either. There is a strange lilt to his speech, a bouncy rhythm that exudes confidence and energy. He reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket and hands me something small, smooth and pink. I grasp at the ballet shoe and tuck it quickly into my own pocket. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says, ‘I won’t be telling anyone about our little mishap. This shall be one mystery the neighbourhood brigade shall not solve.’ His eyes sparkle as he speaks and he barely manages to conceal his smile. Something tells me I am going to like our new neighbour.
‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Draper,’ I say politely. ‘I would appreciate that incident staying between the two of us … and, for what it’s worth, I am terribly sorry about last night.’
‘Why, not at all. For which part though? Breaking into my house or throwing your shoe at me?’ He grins and I blush deep crimson. ‘And please don’t call me Mr Draper, that makes me sound downright ancient. My name is August. A pleasure to properly make your acquaintance, Miss …?’
‘Harrington,’ I reply, offering him my hand. ‘Clementine Harrington.’
He shakes it and I notice how small my hand is in his. His arms are incredibly tanned, and his palms are rough with callouses. ‘Clementine? That’s a peculiar name,’ he muses as he lets go.
‘No more peculiar than August,’ I quip and he throws back his head and laughs as I slap my hand across my mouth. ‘Sorry,’ I mumble from behind my fingers. ‘That was very rude. My name is a bit of a point of contention.’
‘No, you’re quite right. In fact, it is worse than you think, Miss Harrington.’ He looks around him, then leans in closer so that I can smell the bergamot notes in his cologne. ‘My mother was fascinated with Ancient Rome when she was pregnant, and my full name is actually Augustus, but you must swear never to tell anyone. I don’t think I could live it down.’
‘I’ll take it to the grave,’ I swear solemnly. I don’t know what I was expecting from our new neighbour, but it was not this. The man before me is so incredibly charming that I find myself at ease with him almost at once.
‘Well, there you go then. We both have a secret of each other’s to protect.’ He nods, and the corners of my lips tug up into a smile as a little ember of warmth glows in my chest. There is something about sharing secrets that instantly connects two people.
‘Now, Clementine, I would love to shoot the breeze with you all morning, but I did come here with a mission,’ he says, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Tell me, is your father home?’
‘Oh,’ I say abruptly. ‘No, he’s dead.’
His green eyes widen in shock at the blunder. ‘Oh gosh, I am sorry.’
‘It’s OK, it was a long time ago.’ I shrug.
‘Nevertheless, it never gets much easier, does it? Both my parents passed away when I was fifteen, and I still miss them every day …’ His eyes lose focus for a moment and I feel a pang of sympathy for him. I wonder if he is terribly lonely in that big house all on his own, but before I can say anything, he snaps out of it and smiles widely again. ‘What about your mother, is she around?’
I let out a humourless chuckle and cross my arms, leaning against the door jamb. ‘You haven’t been told much about our family yet, have you?’ I reply with a stoic smile. ‘I’m surprised Mrs Arbuthnot hasn’t given you a ring binder with the detailed history of all your neighbours. She must be slipping in her old age.’
‘Ah, yes …’ he says uncomfortably. ‘Interesting woman, Mrs Arbuthnot. Very involved in the community, I gather.’
‘Involved is one word for it,’ I mutter and his green eyes twinkle mischievously. ‘Mother isn’t well,’ I say, bringing him up to speed. ‘She’s rather infirm and doesn’t leave the house much.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he says politely, but he can’t hide the intrigue on his face. ‘In which case, Clementine, may I leave it to you to pass on the message that I am planning a dinner party to introduce myself to the neighbourhood this Friday, and I would be delighted if your family could attend.’
My pulse quickens at the thought of a dinner party, and I think once again of the cupboard stuffed full of food in August Draper’s kitchen. ‘That’s very kind of you. I will pass on the message,’ I reply, and he nods then takes off back down the steps. He stops on the pathway and turns back around just as I am about to close the door.
‘Oh, and Miss Harrington, I do hope you didn’t mistake my calling your name peculiar as an insult. I think it is rather beautiful.’
I feel my face flush with colour as he places his hat back on his head, opens the gate, and takes off up the street.