ALTHOUGH MARIA RICHARDSON and many of the adults present wept freely at the funeral, Beth and I remained calm. It seemed to us that our endless discussions of the summer term, our macabre meetings in the Glory Hole and Polly’s relentless questioning of us had been a rehearsal. We each believed – as Mrs Derby shepherded us into a small village church with a star-spangled ceiling and Mrs Venus’s coffin appeared, followed by Polly’s – that we now understood the lessons of the summer: we inhabited a brutal, dangerous world and would never be safe. But while we were young, we were less safe than the others – the adults.
We stood side by side, bound together by our love for each other and our bond with Polly. Beth’s friendship with Polly was coming to an end, but my own feelings for Polly were entering a new phase. We had tied ourselves to each other through the exchange of blood. Perhaps the call of grief had infected my mind, but it seemed to me that Polly’s presence in my life was stronger in death than it had been before. Watching her coffin moving down the aisle to the altar, I smelt a trace of orange cinnamon on my breath: Polly’s scent. And turning around to see people staring at me, I caught a glimpse of gold and scarlet. How else could I explain Peter Venus’s inconsolable grief, which intensified on seeing me in the congregation?
‘Trust your gut,’ Malone and Leboeuf had told me. So I knew. I knew, instinctively, that I would see Polly again. I was learning to live without my mother, but Polly was life itself.
My father and Nina arrived late and squeezed down the pew to sit beside me. Nina attempted to take my hand but I refused to touch her. I would never like her and I wasn’t going to start pretending now.
My father and Nina had come to take me away for a short holiday. Their arrival in London, precipitated by a call from Mrs Derby, had apparently steeled Pa’s resolve to remove me from school. He believed that having me living with them, in daily contact with Nina’s affection, would revive my well-being, dispelling the accumulation of misfortune I had accrued over the years. He blamed my ability to attract disaster on Mama’s excessive hysteria and my bad luck at meeting the Venuses. Pa had somehow managed to expunge his own part in my story, reinventing himself as a benevolent benefactor in a more stable future.
Thankfully, on one point at least, Nina and I agreed: I should remain at school. Though sympathetic towards me, my stepmother was heavily pregnant and absorbed, as most mothers-to-be are, by her child. The truth was that I wasn’t a priority to her. I’ve been led to understand that very gently, very persuasively, Nina wore Pa down with arguments suggesting that remaining at school in Devon would be in my best interest. She was right. I was determined to remain close to Mrs Derby and Miss Edith. I believed they held the key to my sanity. I knew that until I could understand what had happened to Polly and the babies in Miss Fielding’s trunk, I would never be at ease with myself. And I liked Mrs Derby much more than I did Nina.
Nevertheless, counting the thoughts streaming through Nina’s head at Polly’s funeral, absorbing her mood of impending maternal bliss, I was aware that she was moved by the ceremony and that she found my calm detachment throughout disturbing. What did she expect? Tears? I had shed all my tears long ago. I was exhausted by other people’s thoughts, their inner voices reverberating in my mind. I wanted to go to sleep for a long time. I wanted to be with Polly.
When the coffins were carried from the village church into the steady drizzle of a grey January afternoon, Peter and Theo, weeping openly, followed. Nina and Pa, his protective hand on my shoulder, led me to the graveside with other well wishers. Many of them were wiping tears from their eyes, and as the vicar intoned the final words of the burial rite and the coffins were lowered, Nina started crying as well. She found Theo and Peter’s grief overwhelming. It was certainly distressing, but I had seen far worse, having witnessed Polly’s murder and discovered her body, and their tears left me numb. I wanted Polly. I wanted my best friend alive again. Half-supporting each other, Peter and Theo threw earth on the coffins, followed by a single white rose from each of them.
Then Peter walked towards us and stopped in front of me. Trying to hold his emotion in check, he cried: ‘Forgive me, Ajuba. Please forgive me.’
I wanted Polly. I wanted her so badly that had I been alone I would have crawled into her coffin with her.
Expressing his condolences, Pa led Peter away. I suppose they had a lot to talk about. After all, both of them had had wives who had killed themselves rather than live without them. Mama, however, had forgotten to take me with her.
The funeral was over and the mourners were going their separate ways when Nina approached the Derbys. She was giving them a date on which I would return to school when Miss Edith, in a black astrakhan coat, drew Mrs Derby aside. The Bradshaws had stopped at the church gate. It seemed they were waiting for Miss Edith to join them.
‘Did the child talk to you?’ Miss Edith enquired. ‘I told her that she should.’
The events of the past weeks had aged Miss Edith. Her lips were blue with cold and, walking with a stick, she made her way very carefully along the shining cobbled path, slippery with drizzle. Sarah Derby took her by the arm, guiding her to the Bradshaws. ‘Yes, she did,’ she replied. ‘But I didn’t believe her.’
‘I didn’t want to believe her.’ Miss Edith stopped a few yards from Belinda Bradshaw, observing her impatience to be gone. She smiled. Belinda had offered her a lift so she would have to wait for her.
Intensifying her grip on Sarah Derby’s arm, Miss Edith asked: ‘Do you think she’s going to be all right?’
In the moments before the question was answered, they both looked over at me. They were concerned with what I was experiencing behind my calm demeanour. They didn’t realise that standing to one side I could hear their thoughts trickling to the rhythm of their voices. They had no idea how deeply I absorbed the sensations passing between them. But there’s nothing wrong with me, I wanted to tell her. I had never been more lucid. It was then, I think, that I realised how much Miss Edith liked me and I grasped that with time and persistence on my part, and help from Malone and Leboeuf, one day I would understand how Polly’s murder was linked to Miss Fielding’s trunk.
‘Will she be all right?’ Miss Edith repeated.
‘I think so,’ Sarah Derby answered at last. ‘I certainly hope so.’
The two women parted, looking at me once again. I turned, catching a glimpse of scarlet and gold. They had caught sight of Polly standing behind me. I smiled, knowing that soon I would see Polly as well.