Identical, page 17
‘I’ll serve it out – after you’ve made sure nothing’s missing,’ I say, holding my ground by the stove. I wave the wooden spoon in the direction of the door in a bossy fashion. Did Cecily ever behave like this?
He raises his eyebrows at me, clearly thinking I’m being paranoid, but does as I ask. He comes back five minutes later. ‘All present and correct,’ he says, slipping into his chair at the table. He’s eaten a couple of mouthfuls before he looks at me, and I can see he’s trying to find something positive to say about the food. ‘Interesting,’ he manages. ‘Nothing of yours is missing, is it?’
‘No,’ I say, hiding my face in my glass of water. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Okay then,’ he says. ‘All’s well that ends well.’
Why did I lie to him? It just slipped out. I can’t retract it now. Maybe I’m mistaken. Maybe I put the cash somewhere else, and I’ve forgotten. Like the trainers lined up neatly on the doormat.
As I get ready for bed, I stand on something small and hard. It digs into my sole and I yelp, bending down to unstick a tiny, green ball from my skin. I stare at it on my palm, and then realise it’s a dried pea. I remember the bag of them stuffed into Cecily’s drawer. I guess this one went astray and has been lying around all this time, and I never noticed it. Or has someone been through Cecily’s drawers and disturbed her things? I remember Ambrose Stone. How he’d looked at me so intensely, interrogating me silently. He was suspicious of me. I open all the drawers and look closely at the things inside. Have they been tampered with? I can’t tell.
I lie awake in my sister’s double bed. Street lighting seeps through the blue curtains, bringing a faint colour, making the room oceanic, drowned shapes of furniture becoming water-logged, benthic. I can’t sleep.
All those drawings of Hawksmoor, Cecily’s memories pinned to paper, revisited and reshaped. The words she wrote about divorce and sin. The word ‘DIE’ written over and over. Is she still here in Exeter? Is she downing vodkas in a pub right now, having sex with a man? Was it her who came back to the house, who went through the drawers, took the cash, and moved her trainers? The puzzle goes round and round in my head, never falling into a pattern, resisting any sense. But one thing I do know is that the bond between us has gone, the invisible thread snapped. I thought it had been broken seventeen years ago, that snowy morning by the tarn when we’d argued. But then we’d found each other again through our letters, and I believed the connection between us had been restored, the shining cord pulled tight and secure again.
She’s keeping secrets from me. Perhaps she always has.
27
CECILY
Nothing happened between me and Gabriel Greenwood for the rest of that year. Nothing that seemed in any way momentous. We smiled at each other in the lecture hall, and if we bumped into each other on the paths around campus, we stopped for a moment to talk about unimportant things, the weather, my studies. I tried not to say or do anything that would give him cause to pity me, or think me an oddball, and I took care to laugh in the way other girls did, with my head thrown back, and to look at him from under my lashes.
But however ordinary our conversations, our mutual awareness of the other was almost tangible, like a note resonating in the air, pinging back and forth between us, atoms fizzing and dancing. It was healing to have his attention.
One day he asked me why I was always alone. And I’d been truthful, no hair flicking or eyelash batting. ‘I don’t need anyone else,’ I told him. ‘I’m not like other people.’ I waited for him to be repelled or embarrassed.
But he’d nodded. ‘I can see that,’ he’d said. ‘I admire you for being true to yourself.’
Dear Alice,
I have something exciting to tell you! Yesterday, I was in Exmouth shopping centre when it started to pour, so I dashed for the nearest coffee house to get out of the rain and crashed into someone just inside the entrance. I was beginning to apologise when I realised who it was. Can you guess? The tutor I told you about!
‘We may have to stay put for a while,’ he said. ‘Can I buy you a coffee?’
You can imagine how much I wanted to shout ‘Yes!!’ as loudly as I could – but you would have been proud of me. I managed a shrug and a casual, ‘Okay. Why not?’
We sat at a corner table, making our drinks last. I’d been prepared for him to act the lecturer and do all the talking. But it was a proper conversation, with both of us taking turns to ask questions, listening, and answering.
For the first time, I spoke about Hawksmoor, and I could see how much it interested him. He’s a historian, so of course the house is going to fascinate him.
He likes me, Alice. I know he does. He had to get back to Uni, and nothing was said or arranged. But I have a feeling that this isn’t the end. I think it’s the beginning of something.
Write soon.
Love Cecily
I left some things out of the letter. I didn’t think there was any point in telling her that I’d lied to Gabriel about being an only child. It would just hurt her feelings and she might not accept that I had to keep up Daddy’s pretence. I understood Daddy’s reasoning: Henry had committed the sin of suicide, and Alice had betrayed our religion by going to a kibbutz and she’d betrayed our family by abandoning us. It wasn’t all my fault.
Once I’d told the lie, I couldn’t un-tell it.
Easter at Hawksmoor. Father Michael, hurrying from his flock at St Mary’s to give us communion at home, was more shrunken inside his white and gold finery than ever as he intoned over Easter Vigil Midnight Mass with trembling hands, his foul breath spewing the stench of cat food and rotting vegetal matter over us as we knelt with bowed heads. Tall candles spluttered, spinning shadows over Daddy’s face as he accepted the body of Christ onto his tongue. Then Father Michael was speaking over me, but I couldn’t stop my mind from flitting back to the moment in the café when Gabriel had said it was time to leave, and how I’d taken my chance, daring to rest my fingers on his wrist. ‘Maybe we could do this again sometime?’
He’d jerked away from my touch, shoving his hand into his jacket pocket, stumbling over his chair as he got to his feet, cheeks flushed, his expression a fusion of embarrassment and regret. ‘I… I’m sorry, Cecily. It’s probably not a good idea.’
I’d felt my own face redden. Had I got it wrong? Made a fool of myself, again? But I didn’t need him to voice his attraction to me. It was there in the way he opened his body towards me, the softness in his eyes, pupils overspilling with darkness. He liked me. He just couldn’t admit it to a student. I knew then that something would happen between us eventually. I was certain of it. We would keep meeting, bumping into each other. It was a matter of chemistry and physics. The story of love repeating itself.
Gabriel wasn’t wealthy or Catholic. But he could convert, and he loved history, so he’d respect Hawksmoor. He could talk to Daddy about the things he was interested in – great country houses, the Civil War, Tudors and Plantagenets. My mind rushed on, imagining the future. When Gabriel became my boyfriend, and later, who knows, my husband, then he’d direct his passion into Hawksmoor, becoming my companion and support when we lived here.
At lunch the next day, as soon as the blessing was over, my parents picked up their knives and forks. I endured the chomp of teeth and smack of lips, as we concentrated on the meal that a girl from the village had prepared and served. Mummy had whispered to me earlier that nobody could conjure a meal out of scraps like Jane. The Labs lay stranded on their rotund bellies, wheezing under the table. Dilly, now blind, was curled in Mummy’s lap.
After a few minutes of silence, I put down my fork. ‘I’m doing well at my studies, Daddy,’ I said, looking at him expectantly. ‘My tutor says I’m on track to get a good 2:1, maybe even a First.’
He shot me a brief disbelieving glare and pushed some carrot and slice of folded meat into his mouth, chewing methodically.
‘That’s wonderful, darling,’ Mummy said, blotting her lips with her napkin, glancing at Daddy.
‘I was thinking of doing a law conversion course after my degree,’ I went on eagerly. ‘I could earn a lot as a solicitor, or even a barrister.’
‘The subject of money is vulgar,’ Daddy snapped. ‘And I won’t have idle chatter at the table. Especially on a Sunday.’
Why don’t you love me? The childish words caught inside me. Why can’t you see how hard I’m trying?
I could never replace Alice, never make up for the loss of Henry and all he’d seemed to promise for Hawksmoor, for the future. But the house would be mine, after Daddy was dead, it would belong to me. There were no other male heirs, and although Daddy wouldn’t want it to go to a woman, I would find a way to save it from ruin. Daddy must know that, even if he couldn’t speak of it to me. He knew how much the house meant to me, how it bound us together.
I forced myself to swallow greasy beef and chunks of potato, soggy with gravy. Leaving anything on my plate would draw more of Daddy’s disapproval. He was like a wounded tiger, still hurting from the pain the other two had inflicted on him, still stunned by their betrayal. He’d never been comfortable with expressing softer sentiments. I’d always had to look below the surface, hunting for the unspoken truth of his love for me in small gestures and glances, things that could easily be missed by someone less vigilant.
I walked through the house after lunch, going into the vast kitchen, where the new girl hunched over the sink washing the lunch dishes. I glanced into the cobwebby scullery and empty buttery, remembering Jude’s joke about butts. The boot room smelt fusty with old dog collars and piles of wellingtons, ancient soles rimmed with desiccated clumps of mud, although it was emptier without the others’ things. In the drawing room, I ran my fingers over dusty furniture, fondling folds of Miss Haversham-style curtains. I stroked the dulled pewter curves and plates of the suit of armour.
In the corridor to the left of the main staircase, I noticed the last of the blood red Chinese porcelain vases was missing. The one with a crack in it, from when Henry had knocked it off with a tennis ball. Between the portraits hanging on the wainscotting, two naked rectangles glared at me. The missing paintings had been my favourites, especially the one by Leon Bonnat of two sisters embracing. My throat constricted. For years, Daddy had been selling off the contents of the house. I placed my palm flat inside the outline of the missing Bonnat and closed my eyes. I thought I could sense a pulse throbbing weakly deep inside the fibres of the ancient oak panelling.
I continued my pilgrimage upstairs and sat on Alice’s stripped bed in her old room; the stained ticking mattress sagging beneath me. The wardrobe and chest of drawers were empty of anything except moth balls and withered conkers. I took out her latest letter and unfolded it.
Dear Cecily,
Sorry it’s been a while since I’ve written, but I got your letter about Gabriel just before I left for Greece. (I’ve enclosed my new address here.) I gave up being an au pair – the father turned out to be a creep, and the kids were hard work. I’ve been travelling with a couple of the people I made friends with on the kibbutz. They came to see me in Paris and persuaded me to go with them. (Didn’t take a lot of persuading!) We’re staying on Mykonos and I’ve got a job in a bar owned by an English couple. I live above the bar, and my room faces the back yard, full of flies and hot as an oven, but the work is easy, and every morning I swim in the Aegean Sea, and meet up with the other two to explore the island. Down on the quay, grizzled old men mend nets, while hopeful pelicans look for a free lunch. Donkeys are led up and down the cobbled streets, the baskets on their backs full of vegetables and olives. There’s a boy here, an Italian guy, with the biggest moustache I’ve ever seen, who says he can get me work in a Mexican circus as a dancing girl! Can you imagine how exciting that would be!
I’m so happy you’ve clicked with Gabriel. He sounds lovely. Older men are so sexy! Fingers crossed that he asks you out soon.
Have you been back to Hawksmoor recently? How is Mummy? I won’t ask about him. But I’m guessing he’s as mean and bad tempered as ever. It must be strange to be there without me and Henry. I have dreams about Henry sometimes – I’m there on the roof, and I manage to catch him before he jumps. But in other dreams, he slips through my fingers, and I watch him tumbling through space. I wake up crying.
Love, Alice
I crumpled the letter inside my fist. I’d tried to tell her the truth about what happened that day, but I always ended up ripping my efforts into pieces. I didn’t want her to hate me.
‘Henry?’ I’d whispered through his locked bedroom door, my hand flat against the wood.
‘Cecily? Thank God.’ His voice was just the other side, sharp with fear and hope. ‘What’s going on? Where’s Jude?’
‘You’re going to be alright. Daddy’s sending you to a doctor.’
‘A doctor? What do you mean?’
‘Some sort of therapist I think he said. I overheard him talking to Mummy in the drawing room.’
There was silence, and then his voice came again. ‘Unlock the door, Cecily.’
‘I can’t.’ I’d taken a step back, scalded by his request.
‘Please. I just want to talk. I want to hear more about the doctor – what Daddy said about the therapy.’
The key was in the lock. What could be the harm? After all, I had good news.
His clothes and hair were still gritty with dust from his punishment in the priest hole, cobwebs draped over his shoulder like a ghostly hand. He’d looked at me with such need, it made me feel important. I’d sat on the bed next to him. ‘It’s alright,’ I’d said again. ‘You’re going to be cured of your illness. You’ll go away for a bit. There are special drugs.’
‘What about Jude? Where is he?’
I’d thought about what I’d seen that morning – Jude’s expression as he’d got into the car and been driven away. ‘He’s gone, Henry. He’s been sent away.’
Henry had let out a low moan. ‘Did he leave a message for me? He must have left a message?’
The hunger in his face seemed wrong, embarrassing. I’d looked away, thinking quickly about the right thing to tell him. ‘He said he didn’t want to see you again,’ I’d said. ‘He said to forget him. He knows it was a mistake. What happened between you. It was deviant. Sinful.’
‘No,’ he’d shuddered, ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I’m sorry, Henry, but it’s true.’ I’d held his desperate gaze with a steady return, reminding myself that I must not blink or look away. He had to believe me.
Then Henry’s face contorted, and a twist of anguished sobbing came from him, rising into a visceral howl. I was afraid it would bring Daddy thumping up the stairs and shushed him. He took no notice. Bent over, as if he’d been punched, he slumped with his face in his hands, the howl breaking down into snuffles and choking sounds, his shoulders juddering. Next to him, I’d clasped my palms between my thighs, my body rigid, wishing he’d stop and behave normally, make a joke, swear, call me Cilly. Anything but this awful display of emotion.
‘Henry. You’ll be fine,’ I’d said briskly. ‘You’ll be normal again.’
He’d straightened, scrubbing at his snotty face with his knuckles. ‘Normal?’ He’d given a short half-laugh, then he’d stood up with sudden intention and walked towards the door.
‘Where are you going?’ I’d trailed after him. ‘Daddy will be angry if you leave the room.’
‘Stay here.’ He’d rounded on me, his voice fierce. ‘Don’t follow me.’
‘Are you coming back?’
He’d given me a long look and shaken his head. ‘I’m not going to let him win.’
I’d been frightened by the cold, calm set of his features. His dead, dry eyes. All his passion suddenly gone. But perhaps that was a good sign.
After he’d gone, I’d waited a moment, angry that he didn’t care about getting me into trouble. He should have been relieved about getting help, pleased about the news I’d brought him. I’d left his room cautiously, looking up and down the corridor. Henry was nowhere to be seen.
I wonder now if I’d heard the creak of floorboards on the steps up to the attic as I’d slipped into my own room – but even if I had, how could I have known his intentions?
I didn’t hear him hit the ground. It was Mummy’s scream that sent me running to my window, looking down, not interpreting the shape on the gravel at first. Then with a gasp, reeling back in horror.
How could I tell Alice? She wouldn’t understand that I’d only been trying to do the right thing.
28
ALICE
The only clues I have are Cecily’s drawings and the weird bits of writing she’s scrawled around her sketches. I go upstairs and pull the wicker hamper out from under the bed. Sitting on the ground, I examine every drawing again, every sketch, every word she’s written. I take out the little notebook and find some blank pages, copying out her scribbled sentences:
Till death do us part.
No impact on legal status.
A marriage continues in the eyes of God.
Never ending.
He’ll disown me.
They suggest two simple facts: neither the Catholic church nor our father will accept divorce as an end to marriage. Only the death of husband or wife can end the pact.
She’s still bound by her faith, her vows, her need for Daddy’s approval. She’s not going to divorce Gabriel. She’ll only be free when he’s dead. ‘DIE’ she’s written over and over. ‘DIE, DIE, DIE’. I remember Jude’s words. I’m afraid she might be about to do something terrible. Did he mean something murderous? The greatest sin of all. I can’t believe that, and yet, a cold fear creeps inside me. It’s Gabriel who needs to die, if she’s going to be free.
