Читать книгу The Lost Ones - Anita Frank - Страница 17

Over the next few days my sister and I were constant companions. Madeleine grew increasingly at ease, and at times, as we walked arm in arm through the gardens observing the blossoming spring, she appeared completely carefree, her hand resting contentedly on her growing belly.

As a household we all began to muddle along quite nicely: I became inured to Lady Brightwell’s grizzling; Miss Scott started another matinee coat; Mrs Henge continued to efficiently haunt the corridors; and Maisie lent a breath of fresh air to each day. I came to look forward to her impish smile and revised my earlier judgement of her, recognising her now to be a sweet, spirited girl.

The only fly in the ointment was the continuing odd behaviour of my own maid. For some unfathomable reason, Annie Burrows had become fascinated with the nursery staircase, indeed, it seemed to exert some irresistible draw upon her. On numerous occasions I found her loitering at its foot, peering at the landing above, and once I even caught her halfway up, whispering into thin air, evoking uncomfortable memories of her father on the night of the fire.

As a child, I had made the conscious decision never to share what I had witnessed with anyone – not even Madeleine. I had been terrified of inadvertently causing further pain and my suspicions were only supposition after all, suppositions which in time – with maturity and logic – I came to dismiss completely. The re-emergence of such recollections now was as unsettling as it was unwanted. I did my best not to dwell on them.

One afternoon Madeleine and I had happily ensconced ourselves in the orangery. The light outside was that heavy gold hue that often presages a storm. We were quite comfortable on our wicker chairs amongst the aspidistras, looking forward to the cloudburst that was sure to come, anticipating the satisfying thunder of rain on the glass panels above us.

We were both engaged in embroidery, though the pastime was Madeleine’s forte not mine. I fumbled hopelessly with the needle and thread as I tried to create the image of a swan, but I failed to count the squares correctly and ended up having to unpick it all. I counted to ten under my breath in a bid to calm myself and rethreaded my needle.

‘Bother!’ Madeleine had been digging around in her embroidery case. ‘I must have left that lovely skein of blue we bought in town the other day in my room. I want it for the sky.’

Seeing an opportunity to escape my torturous needlework, I set down my things and insisted on retrieving it for her. I waved away her protests and promised I would be back directly. Madeleine laughed at my enthusiasm for the errand before merrily stitching on, humming an Irish air as I made my getaway.

As I proceeded to her room I was struck by how different the house felt when the ominous weight of night was not upon it: the corridors innocuous, the shadows cast by daylight somehow shallower and less daunting. It was much pleasanter altogether, and I made the journey to her room far more valiantly than I would have done on my own at night.

She had assured me the thread was on top of her dresser, but when I arrived, there was no sign of it. I looked to see if she had left it elsewhere, and immediately saw the music box sitting on her tallboy. My fingers lingered over the black lacquered wood, beautifully inlaid with mother of pearl. I lifted the lid, and tinny strains of ‘Für Elise’ filled the room. There was a tiny metal pin that turned slowly round as the music played, but the dainty ballerina who had once spun so elegantly upon it now lay motionless against the plush lining of the box, the gauze of her pink tutu crumpled beneath her. I remembered the day Lydia’s clumsy fingers had snapped the ballerina from her stand and how her tears of regret had failed to earn the forgiveness of her incensed elder sister. And I remembered too how on the day Lydia died, I had found Madeleine cradling the box, the broken ballerina in her hand. ‘Why did I shout at her so, Stella?’ she had sobbed. ‘It’s just a silly trinket. It didn’t really matter! It didn’t matter at all …’

I closed the lid of the box, and returned to the present, and that troublesome missing thread.

Thinking she may have slipped it into her bedside cabinet, I crossed the room and pulled open the drawer. There, tumbled together in a mêlée of limbs and rifles, were at least a dozen lead soldiers.

Coming so soon after my mournful memory, the discovery upset me more than I could say. Children’s treasured possessions: things not be shared lightly. I curled my fingers around a rifleman. He was down on one knee, his rifle thrust before him, the bayonet sharp. I turned it over and smoothed my thumb across the scratched lines I knew I would find on the painted base – LB. My fingers flared open and he clattered down onto the bodies of his comrades. Why did Madeleine have a drawer full of soldiers next to her bed? Had she indeed found them, as I had found mine? Or had she gathered them for some purpose known only to herself?

As theories careered through my mind, I abandoned my search for the thread. I rested my forehead on the door as I pulled it shut. The cool wood against my warm skin was as comforting as a damp cloth to a fevered brow. I took a steadying breath.

I would have to discuss the soldiers with Madeleine, whether she wanted to or not. As I turned away from her door I caught sight of Lucien’s portrait and for some reason I stopped. It drew me like a moth to a flame – I longed to study it one more time. My feet seemed to possess a life of their own as I took step after step until Lucien loomed above me. I drew close to the canvas. I could see the cracking in the oil paint on his rosy cheeks, the white fleck in his blue eyes, the curl of the spaniel’s fur, the metallic sheen of the hoop and the silver buckle on the side of his shoe. My eyes searched every inch of the painting until I found what I was looking for, tucked into the bottom corner, almost concealed by the overlying shadow of paint: the army of lead soldiers.

I recoiled, bumping against the handrail. I couldn’t explain my strange reaction to the sight of the toy figures. It was only natural that a little boy would want to be painted with his prized posessions, but what was Madeleine doing with them? Before I could begin to draw any conclusions, a girl’s whisper stilled me. My head snapped towards the landing that stretched above me. I noticed the first door was ajar.

Gripping the banister, my gaze unwavering, I took a step up. The polished tread betrayed me with a creak but the whispers, little more than persistent breezes, continued. My chest grew tight as I mounted another step and then another, until at last I reached the landing. I stood before the first door and listened to the whispers, so soft I couldn’t catch the words – but I knew the voice.

I pushed the door wide.

‘What are you doing in here, Annie? Who are you talking to?’

‘I … no one, miss.’

‘I clearly heard you, Annie.’

‘Just myself then, miss,’ she replied, her expression shuttered.

Unable to contradict her, I turned my attention instead to my unfamiliar surroundings. I was in an eaves room of reasonable size, though it felt smaller due to the intruding angle of the ceiling, from which a single dormer window projected. Judging from its furnishings it had once been the school room – two hinged desks with attached plank seats stood side by side facing the teacher’s table, the wall behind which was adorned with a large, coloured map of the world. Above the small fireplace hung a framed, embroidered sampler stitched with a religious quote from the parable of the talents – it induced the reader not to squander their God-given gifts.

I surveyed my surroundings avidly, as if I had stumbled upon a secret treasure trove. I disturbed a lamina of dust as I ran my fingers over the cloth-covered story books lined up on the shelf and I couldn’t resist peeking beneath the desk lids, curious to discover any hidden artefacts.

‘The school room …’ I murmured to myself.

‘The nursery is next door, miss,’ Annie said, her tone beguiling. ‘Would you like to see it?’

‘Yes,’ I murmured. ‘Yes, I would.’

She led me back to the landing. I fancied she threw me a sly glance as she pushed open the second door and stepped aside. I detected a faint yet discernible odour, an unpleasant fusion of mothballs and damp, but it was otherwise a plain, inoffensive room, similar in size to the school room, with the same sloping roofs. Dust motes floated in the shaft of sunlight streaming through the dormer window, but the sun’s rays brought no warmth. Pushed up against the wall behind the door was a full-sized metal bedstead, a green ribbed coverlet tucked in around the hump of a pillow and fastened tight under the mattress. At the foot of the bed the chimney breast jutted out into the room, with a simple fireplace as before, though above this one hung a faded sampler declaring ‘We Are All God’s Children’. On the opposite wall was a child’s iron bedframe made up as the adult one, and next to that was an empty wooden cradle.

It may have been my imagination, but I couldn’t help feeling an oppressive aura about the room that went beyond the fustiness of the air and the pervading chill that sent goose-pimples down my arms. It felt somehow inhospitable, and I understood now Madeleine’s reluctance to use the room for her own baby. Indeed, I felt greatly relieved her child would be housed elsewhere.

The light streaming through the window vanished as scudding clouds covered the sun, casting a grey pallor over the room. There was a soft clatter. A small marble rolled across the floorboards towards us, skipping over the edges of each adjoining board. Its blue centre, the shape of a cat’s eye, spun hypnotically within the green glass ball. I was transfixed by its progress until it finally came to a stop by the tip of Annie’s shoe.

‘I must have knocked it down,’ she said. ‘Have you seen enough, miss?’

I nodded and allowed her to usher me from the room. She pulled the door shut behind her. I hesitated at the top of the stairs. I was filled with an irrational yet overwhelming sense of fear.

‘They’re so terribly steep,’ I muttered.

‘It’s a long way down, isn’t it, miss?’ Annie was so close behind me I could feel her breath on my cheek. Discomfort shunted me forward.

My fingers tightly gripped the cold curve of the banister. Steadily I made my way, the air growing warmer with each descending step. I experienced a peculiar sense of relief when I set both feet on the carpet at the bottom.

Later, when I had finally managed to dispense with my lingering unease, I thought back on the marble. Curiously, it had not appeared to be rolling away from Annie.

I could have sworn it was rolling straight for her.