1982
One cold February morning, when I’d been awake for most of the night, I took out my notebook and scanned through the lists of suspects. Time and again, my eyes returned to the top of the list. Edward Lily. What if I interviewed him?
Dressing quickly, I grabbed a few biscuits for my breakfast and hurried out the house, cutting through the green and the woods to get to Lemon Tree Cottage. When I arrived, the windows of the cottage were open and a vacuum cleaner droned from inside. Dare I knock on the door? Walking past and down the lane, I ate ginger nuts as I considered what to do.
The roof of the cottage next door seemed worse than ever. Great gashes had been ripped into the thatch. It gave the house a creepy feel as if it had been under attack. The woman who lived there was by the washing line, a peg in her mouth as she stretched to hang up a sheet while her little boy sat on the ground batting his fists on the cloth.
I didn’t think about what I was going to say until I clicked the gate open and stepped onto their path. The woman turned at the sound and, taking the peg from her mouth, studied me suspiciously. ‘You’re not selling anything, are you?’ she said. I shook my head. Of course not. ‘Or wanting something for the church?’ More likely, but I shook my head again and added a resounding ‘No’ to be sure she understood.
She nodded gravely. ‘So how can I help you?’
Putting on my most adult voice, words came out unplanned. ‘I was visiting your neighbour, but there’s so much noise, vacuuming and suchlike’ – I sounded like Grandma Grace – ‘they didn’t hear the doorbell.’
‘Doorbell?’
Oh God. Please say they had a doorbell. I hadn’t thought of that.
‘Maybe it doesn’t work. Have you tried knocking?’
I nodded firmly. ‘Yes, I have.’
‘Well,’ said the woman, using the peg and fishing out a couple more from the pocket of her apron. ‘In that case you’d better wait until the noise dies down.’ As if to demonstrate the opposite, the child yelled.
I stayed where I was, trying to think of a question to ask. Failure, together with the appearance of the woman’s dungaree-clad husband wielding an axe, made me leave. Mumbling thanks, I headed back to the gate as the man crossed the lawn in the direction of a wood shed.
The woman watched me silently until I was on the lane. ‘They’re going away,’ she called after me.
Crack. The man split a log in two.
‘Oh?’ I tried to seem casual. ‘Where?’
‘Spain, I imagine. Leastways, that’s what he said. Although . . .’ The child got tangled with the washing. She leaned to pick him up and settled him on her hip. The man stopped chopping. I waited a moment or two longer before I prompted her again.
‘Although?’
‘The girl might not go with him.’
My heart beat faster. ‘What girl?’
‘His daughter. According to Geoff’ – she nodded towards her husband – ‘she’s staying here. Well. When I say here, I mean England.’
Geoff gave a grimace of acknowledgement. I looked at him curiously. How did he know?
‘Heard it in the village,’ said the woman. ‘You know the gossips. Must be true.’ She smiled in a way that made me think she wasn’t serious.
I asked when they might be going. ‘Tuesday,’ she said, leaning awkwardly to pick up the empty laundry basket. ‘Lunchtime.’
Before I went home, I took another look at Lemon Tree Cottage. It was quiet now. Windows closed. No sign of the person who’d been vacuuming. No sign of anybody at all. My heart thudded. What if Edward Lily was spreading rumours about going back to Spain and leaving Lydia in England? What if he was pretending the cottage would be empty so that nobody would come? My sister might be a prisoner, locked up in a cellar or an attic room. You heard about these things on the news. People locked away for years and never found until one day they escaped or a neighbour or a friend became suspicious and broke in.
I formed a plan. It was Sunday. I’d bunk off school on Tuesday afternoon when Edward Lily should be gone and come back. No one would notice. And if they did, they’d let me off, like they always did. Making allowances for the missing girl’s little sister.
When Tuesday came, I got ready as usual. Having breakfast, packing my bag and shrugging on Gabriella’s parka, which I’d adopted now. I spent the morning at school – pleased for once that no one took any notice of how quiet I was in class – thinking about what I would do when I got to Lemon Tree Cottage. What I might find.
At lunchtime, I ate macaroni cheese quickly. Passing Martha on my way out of the canteen, I avoided her gaze. We hadn’t spoken since I’d shouted at her. I was sticking to my word; I never wanted to speak to her again.
Heading for the gates, I walked as if it was normal to leave at this time. But as soon as the school was out of sight, I set off with a tremendous sense of anticipation and excitement. I was sure I’d find something at the cottage – a sign at least that would help me understand. Or else she’d be there – Gabriella. I pictured her standing at the window like Lydia had done, watching for me on the lane. Now I dashed up the hill like Hermes – as if I had wings on my feet. But I wasn’t a messenger, I was Odysseus – on a quest to find my sister.
As I grew closer and reached the brow of the hill, my nerve failed. What if there was nothing to find? What if my chase was useless? I had no other ideas. No other leads to follow. By the time I arrived at the cottage, my heart was pounding with dread. I hovered by the gate. The sun disappeared behind a cloud and the cottage dropped into shade. Time ticked on, the sun came back out and the silence was broken by a blackbird. Gathering my courage, I stepped forward into the gloom and took the path around the back of the house. The birdsong stopped abruptly and I had a sudden feeling of being in a different world, where living creatures weren’t welcome.
The back garden started broadly and tapered towards a group of fruit trees. I skirted the house, gradually getting closer to the bricks and mortar, the drainpipes and windows, like an animal stalking its prey. Soon I was touching the walls, running my fingers across the rough surfaces, trying to sense what was inside.
All the windows were shuttered except one. At the back of the house was a flat-roofed porch supported by two thick, wooden uprights, and above that, there was a small, rectangular window. It occurred to me that if I could pull myself onto the porch, I’d be able to see into the first floor of the house. I looked around for something to stand on. There was a water butt cast away on its side on a flower bed by the fence. It was made of thick green plastic. I was sure if I turned it upside down, I could climb on and it would take my weight. I rolled the barrel across to the porch and settled it into position beside one of the wooden posts.
The light was failing and there was a chill in the air that raised goosebumps on my skin. But I wasn’t ready to go home, even though I might have to walk back in semi-darkness, along the lane and past the fields. I told myself it would be worth it as I climbed onto the barrel, steadying myself, holding on to the post for balance and gripping the rough surface of the flat roof as I hoisted myself until one elbow was there. Hauling myself upwards, kicking my feet as they lifted from the barrel, I was suddenly on the roof, crouching like Jasper, ready to spring, though I didn’t feel nearly as agile.
Breathing slowly, I edged to the side of the house. Was the flat roof strong enough? I imagined it giving way beneath me, one leg falling through and me left hanging on to the window ledge – stuck, with no one knowing where I was. Gingerly, I crept forward.
I pressed my face against the glass, hands cupping my eyes. Now I was looking onto a small, dim landing – the midpoint on an L-shaped staircase. Another short flight of steps rose to the main landing where there was a bookcase against the wall, crammed and untidy. All of a sudden, as I was staring at the books, I sensed movement – something bright and fluttering, a piece of clothing, someone looking back at me.
Surprised, I backed away, only remembering at the last moment that I was on a roof. Stopping myself, I scrambled downwards, hanging, searching with my feet for the barrel, realising it was falling away. My heart was thudding as I let myself go and landed on the ground, perfectly, amazingly, legs bent, arms forward and balancing, like a gymnast. For a second I wanted to climb back up. Was it Gabriella I’d seen? That was what I’d come for, wasn’t it? To see if she was here. But now there was a sound. A window opening? Footsteps on the stairs?
I fled along the darkening lane and out onto the main road. I kept on going, my feet pounding the tarmac, dodging an oncoming car that blared its horn. Athlete. Marathon runner. It was as if I’d inhabited Gabriella’s body. Or she mine. I ran home without stopping and burst through the front door.
Mum was coming out of the kitchen as I stood in the hall bent double, gasping for breath, all heroics gone. And when I looked at her, I realised how selfish I’d been, going out without telling her. Mum always hated that.
I waited to be scolded for my scratched arms and torn clothes, at the very least to be sent to my room; but Mum was looking at me as if she hardly saw me. Had she even noticed I’d been gone? And now my ankle hurt from what I thought had been a perfect landing, and the pain was crawling, upwards, through my body. Yet there was worse pain on Mum’s face. She seemed ten years older than she had the last time I looked, and her hair, I noticed, was more grey than fair. I stifled the sob that was trying to escape, let my shoulders sag and my head droop. She touched my shoulder. ‘Your tea’s on the table,’ she said quietly. I gave a miserable nod before trudging to the bathroom to wash my scratched and muddy hands.
The water was soothing. I closed my eyes and considered what I’d seen. The flutter of a skirt or a dress, perhaps a scarf. Bright orange. It had been a person, but I hadn’t seen a face. I’d been too afraid and quick to escape. What if it had been Gabriella waving for me to stay? What if I’d deserted her?
That evening, I went through the motions of my routine, mumbling responses to my parents. All the while I was telling myself there was only one way to find out the truth. I’d have to return to the cottage.
The next day I left the house for school as usual before slipping back and dumping my bag behind the bushes in the front garden. Setting off again, I pulled up the hood of the parka, felt the scraggy fur against my face and the pang of what was missing: Gabriella’s scent. It was disappearing, displaced by mine.
This was my last chance. My last theory. There was no one else to ask and nowhere else to look. I had no plan, but even so, when I arrived at the cottage I knocked. No answer. I lifted the mat, looked behind the empty milk bottles. People left their keys in the most obvious of places. Not Edward Lily. There was nothing by the back door, either, although the shutters on one of the ground-floor windows had been drawn back. Pressing my face to the glass, I looked into a small, cluttered kitchen. I had to get inside. Where else would someone hide a key? Above the door. I stood on tiptoe and ran my fingers along the ledge, felt cold metal and pulled down the key in triumph.
A moment’s hesitation. What if Edward Lily hadn’t gone away? What would he do if he found me inside his house? Would he call the police – or worse? Taking a deep breath, I gripped the key and fitted it into the lock.
As soon as I stepped into the kitchen and scanned the room, I sensed the presence of a woman – a warm, perfumed smell of flowers. There were cups on the draining table, wine glasses too. I moved across and opened the fridge. There was a bottle of milk, the silver top pierced, the contents half gone. I sniffed it. Fresh. There were sausages on a plate, vegetables, a bottle of opened wine. And the Aga was still warm. The neighbour was wrong. Edward Lily hadn’t gone away. He was here with Lydia still.
I tiptoed out into the hall and listened. No sound. Not even the ticking of a clock. The carpet was thick and muffled my footsteps. A large table stood by the door beside a stand with a wax coat hanging from one of its hooks. There was a pile of letters on the table including a large brown envelope, thick enough for a magazine or a brochure. I looked at the postmark. Oxford. If Edward Lily was here, he would have opened these letters. Yet someone must have taken them from the mat.
Outside, the gate clicked. I froze. Footsteps on the path. I backed away, preparing to escape. The letter box clattered as a leaflet was pushed through. The footsteps retreated and I relaxed.
Living room next. The curtains were drawn and it took my eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom. The room smelled of woodsmoke and tobacco. For a second I paused, taken back to the day Gabriella had disappeared. The ashtray, the visitor in our house.
I looked around me. The furniture was solid: a straight-backed sofa, a chintz-covered chair, a velvet chaise longue. A wooden pipe rack. There was a coffee table marred by a spiral of tea stains. Over the fireplace hung a mirror with a gilded frame. Around the room were vases with flowers left dying, a sorrowful yucca plant, an elaborate bronze urn, wooden icons of saints, painted in blue and gold, and beside the fireplace was a carving of a giraffe.
There were a few magazines left on the arm of one of the chairs and a brochure was open on top. It showed a photo of a huge old house. It reminded me of Saint Barnabas. And yet this place looked more like a hospital. There were nurses in some of the pictures. And private rooms with beds.
The staircase paused on a small landing as I’d seen before. I stayed there for a moment looking out the window. Nothing stirred. The garden was desolate. The sky grey. I crept up the second flight of stairs. The idea that Gabriella was held in the cottage against her will was fading but I needed to be sure.
The first door on the landing was ajar. It was a small room with a double bed that almost filled the space. A lamp with a bronze base and a leaf-patterned shade stood on the bedside table, and a bright orange robe lay across the foot of the bed. This must be the flash of colour I’d seen through the window. I lifted the robe to inhale the scent. It was fresh and unfamiliar. It smelled of flowers. Roses, perhaps.
Now there was a noise: the sound of a gate slamming. My heart hammered. Swinging around, I dropped the robe and ran from the room and down the stairs, arms outstretched for balance, body banging against the walls. I flew out the back, desperate to get away, not caring about the noise I made, or why I’d come in the first place, leaving the door swinging as I heard voices and the sound of a key.
Out on the lane, I picked up my pace, forcing myself to run without looking back. And as I fled a second time from Lemon Tree Cottage disappointment gripped my chest and squeezed my insides. Gabriella wasn’t in the cottage. It wasn’t her scent, or her voice. It wasn’t her clothes lying on the bed. It wasn’t her hands touching the things in Edward Lily’s house, or her lips drinking from his glasses.
I slowed my pace and limped down the hill, tears brimming. Was this the end of my investigation? Where else was I supposed to look?
In the village, a group of boys were heading towards me on the narrow path, their hands wrapped around cans of beer. There wasn’t room to pass them. I’d have to step onto the road. But I held my ground. I didn’t care. And as they looked at me with their sullen faces, I lifted my chin, and glared from beneath my hood. They could say what they wanted. It didn’t touch me. I was on a quest to find my sister. Their importance had shrunk. I was strong and they were weak. I was afraid of nothing.
They lowered their eyes and stepped off the path, making way for me, and I suddenly realised why – nothing they said, or were prepared to do, could be worse than what they thought had been done to Gabriella.
For the first time, I doubted that she was hiding out. Maybe people were right. Something terrible had happened to my sister and she was never coming home.