Читать книгу Hide And Seek - Amy Bird - Страница 20

Chapter Nine

-Will-

Ellie doesn’t say much when she comes down from the loft. My heart is still hammering away in my chest from the run up the stairs. For one absurd moment I think it is beating to the same rhythm as Max Reigate’s concerto. Those are the sort of mad thoughts you have, I suppose, when you think someone you love is in danger. Forget the life flashing before your eyes; my heart becomes a piano.

I’d expected – dreaded – a fallen Ellie, crumpled at the foot of the stairs. Or maybe clots of blood where they shouldn’t be. But she is composed, aloof almost. The only change to her is a bit of dust on her dress, and that she is clutching some photo albums. Two, I recognise. One, I don’t. I try to take hold of them from her, but she resists. “We can look at them after supper,” she says. She gives me a little kiss on the cheek. As she moves away from me, I see the Ellie spark in her eye. That mischievous look that was there when we first met and she claimed she was conducting research into sperm count (she abandoned the clip-board pretty quickly). Or when she turned up in my office, wearing nothing but a lab-coat. Or when she convinced me we should wear matching skeleton outfits to dinner to celebrate the anniversary of our engagement. It’s the only time I regretted proposing to her by putting a ring on a skeleton’s finger.

It doesn’t worry me, the look. Because nothing bad has ever happened when she has it. But I know it means we should expect something (other than the baby). Particularly when she has her head down, pretending to look demure, like now. She sits carefully at the dinner table, placing the albums beneath the chair, at her feet.

It’s not until we’re all seated, embarking on our individual boeufs en croute, that Ellie begins. She doesn’t speak straightaway. First, she clears her throat. I’ve been tapping away at the pastry with my knife, trying to break through to the layers beneath with the minimum damage. At the throat-clearing, I look up. So do Mum and Dad.

“I just want to say,” begins Ellie, “thank you so much for the crib.”

At first, I think she is referring to the one we were building yesterday. Which would be odd, because we bought that ourselves. But no.

“I only wish you’d told us earlier,” she continues. “We wouldn’t have bothered buying our own and trying to build it.”

This is another crib, then.

I look at Mum and Dad. They seem as bewildered as me.

“I mean,” Ellie continues. “You obviously got it quite some time ago. It will need some dusting down.”

The slightest hint of a frown starts to develop on Mum’s face.

Whatever Ellie has in store, I decide she could do with moving it along.

“Mum? Dad? What’s this about?” I ask. I carry on with trying to slice through the pastry without it flying everywhere. A crib is not a big enough matter to let my meal go cold over. At least, not unless I have to try all over again to assemble it.

“I’ve no idea,” says Mum. “Haven’t been up to the loft for years. It’s your Dad’s lair.”

“Oh come on, Mrs S, don’t be modest,” says Ellie, with a grin. It’s a wolf’s grin. All teeth, a precursor to ripping people apart. I take her hand under the table. Where is this going? She squeezes my hand and purses her lips at me. ‘I love you’, that means. Our code. I release her hand. All’s well, then. Must be. Ellie continues. “I know you had a role in the surprise. You can’t let Will’s dad” – she emphasises these words strangely – “take all the credit.”

“I’m not taking any credit,” says Dad.

Ellie smirks. “No,” she says. “I thought that was the case.”

I finally manage to cut neatly through the pastry. There is an inviting layer of mushroom stuffing and well-done beef underneath. We used to have it red. We can’t now, because of the toxins in the blood, might damage the baby.

“I’m sorry to have spoiled the surprise,” Ellie is saying.

“Come on, eat up,” I say, through a mouthful of meat. I see Mum glare. I swallow. My bad, talking with my mouth full. Then I see she is glaring at Ellie.

“I thought, at first, it must have been Will’s old crib. But of course, then I saw the initials.”

“Ellie, darling, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Mum. “Eat up, your food’s going cold, and there are two of you to feed.”

“Of course, it’s dark up there. But do you know, I distinctly thought I saw those initials.”

“I’ve never seen any initials on the crib,” says Dad. He is shooting glances at Mum now.

“I have no idea what’s going on,” I say, because I haven’t.

“There aren’t any initials on that crib, unless you’ve drawn them on yourself,” Mum snaps.

“Mum!” I say, shocked at her tone.

Ellie doesn’t seem to care, though. She just smiles more broadly.

“Oh, so you admit that there’s a crib, then?” she asks, making her first incision into the pastry. Neat, no fuss, no mess.

“Of course I admit there’s a crib. It’s Will’s old one.”

Ellie brings the knife out of the meat and makes another incision, forming a triangle.

“What? You have my old crib? Why didn’t you say? That’s awesome. Little Leo can have that. Oh, Christ,” I look at Ellie. “Was I meant to tell them the name yet? Sorry.”

Ellie does the ‘I love you’ oboe-player lip-purse again, before skewering the section of boeuf en croute she has separated from the rest.

“Just Will’s crib?” Ellie asks. “Not a hand-me-down from someone else?”

“Just Will’s,” says Mum.

I don’t know what Ellie’s game is. I’d say, maybe there isn’t one, maybe she is just pleased we have the crib. But I know Ellie. There is always a game. That aside, the key thing is that there is a crib, and my son will apparently sleep in the same crib that held me.

“Oh, I really want to see it!” I say. “Can we get it down, have a look? What’s it like, Ellie? Is it really cool?”

“It’s a real historical item,” Ellie says. “I know you’ll find it really interesting.”

“How come you didn’t tell me before, Mum?” I demand.

“Yes, how come?” asks Ellie.

“Oh, you know, we thought you’d want something more modern. That’s been up in the loft for years.”

“Came with you all the way from Dartington, did it?” asks Ellie.

“Of course,” says Mum. “Seeing as that’s where Will was born.”

“Such a wonder you’ve never noticed the initials, then.”

Mum is mid-mouthful of meat and cannot speak.

“M.C.R.,” says Ellie.

Dad’s knife shrieks across his plate.

I see him flick a glance to Mum. Ellie bites calmly into a mouthful of meat. Mum stares at her plate, then lifts up her chin and continues to eat. Dad watches her for a moment, then does the same.

If this Ellie’s big reveal, I don’t understand it. We don’t know anyone called M.C.R.

Unless?

No.

And I’m certainly not called M.C.R.

“It’s probably the maker’s name,” I say. “Like, ‘My Cribs Rock’.” I laugh at my own joke, then stop, because no one else has even giggled.

The rest of the meal continues in silence. I play the three letters over in my head. M.C.R.? Who is M.C.R.?

After we’ve eaten, and I’ve complimented Mum on the deliciousness of the meal, I announce that I’m going up to get the crib.

“I’ll come with you,” says Dad. “It’s too heavy for you to manage on your own.”

When Dad and I leave the table, Ellie follows. She catches my arm as we go into the hall, and pulls me back, so that we’re standing in the shadows of the staircase. I see she is holding the third photo album, the one I don’t recognise.

Ellie leans in close to me.

“M.C.R. stands for Max Charles Reigate,” she whispers. “The crib belonged to him. And he’s your father.”