Identical, page 4
Alice jerked away with a muffled exclamation, and stalked off towards the tarn, her attitude clearly saying that I wasn’t to follow. I stood alone in the drive, wiping the slime on my skirt, before I examined the small red indentations in the fat base of my thumb where Alice’s teeth had found their mark.
7
CECILY
Up here on the hill, the wind flies straight from the channel, grabbing at my hair, whipping strands into my eyes, and across my forehead. It’s too short to hook behind my ears and I keep pushing it back, as I squint down towards the distant lights of Exeter. I have a good idea where our street is and settle my gaze in that direction, wondering how Alice is coping and if Gabriel and Bea are suspicious of the woman living with them, confused by the differences they can probably sense. We might be mirror image twins, but I noticed from an early age that people preferred her to me; they smiled at her more, wanted to be her friend. I could never understand what made her more attractive. Even Daddy liked her better – and she despised him.
Since I married Gabriel, I’ve lived in this town. It’s my safe place, my burrow. I never expected to find a sense of belonging outside the Lake District and Hawksmoor. I don’t like to think of Alice in my home, touching my things, changing my routine, being me. But I need her. I can’t do this without her.
I discover a packet of crushed crisps in my pocket and rip it open, finishing the lot before I stop for breath. I probe the salt-skinned roof of my mouth with my tongue, hooking hidden crumbs from my teeth. When I was a child, I used to worry that gluttony would be my undoing. How ironic. It’s such a small sin when I’m already guilty twice-over of the worst of all. Thou shalt not kill. Those murder mysteries Gabriel likes so much contain the clues to why and how the crime is committed. The ‘why’ in this case is obvious; the ‘how’ less so. I still haven’t worked out my method, but I need to get on with it. Two days have already gone by, and Alice must be upset and worried that I haven’t left the promised address and telephone number. I have a moment of regret, before I remember that she was implicit in the second sin. I can’t take all the blame.
Perhaps God won’t understand the balancing act of my reasoning, and this will be the transgression that casts me into hell for eternity. But I have no choice, not after my conversation with Edith Baxter.
The first time I saw her, it was a Sunday morning after church and I was kneeling on damp grass by the drive, my arms a cross-hatching of bloodied scratches. I heard a crunch of wheels over gravel and watched as a Morris Minor parked in front of the house and a woman got out, straightening her felt hat. I knew we weren’t expecting visitors – we hardly ever had them – and I stood up from behind the straggly roses, clutching the trowel, to get a better look. ‘Hello?’ I said. The stranger gasped and pressed her palm over her heart.
‘I’m here to see Edmund Deveraux,’ she said, recovering herself. She spoke as if she knew Daddy, but I’d never seen her before. If this woman really knew him, I thought, she’d know that he hated being disturbed on a Sunday, especially this close to lunch.
I gripped the trowel in earthy fingers, dithering. She had a stern, craggy face with an impressive nose and thin mouth. Blinking rapidly, her fingers touched the buttons on her shabby tweed jacket. I didn’t want to be the one to tell Daddy there was a visitor. He’d been known to throw something at people who disturbed his work – there were cannon balls and daggers on his desk, as well as books, so it was always a risk. I shook my head and ducked down behind the roses again, spying on her through a tangle of thorny stems and sticky weeds. After tugging on the bell pull, she stood, fiddling with her skirt, muttering to herself. There was a volley of barking. Eventually, the door was opened by Alice. They both disappeared inside. I waited a moment and crept after them.
Alice appeared from the long gallery.
‘Where is she?’ I asked.
‘He asked me to bring her to the library,’ Alice said, eyes wide. ‘But you should have seen the look on his face when I told him who was here!’ She gave a mock shudder. ‘Rather her than me.’
A glance passed between us, and we nodded in silent agreement, hurrying down the corridors. The library door was shut, and we waited with our ears pressed to the thick wedge of wood, holding our breath to listen better. Sounds were muffled, but I could make out the low tone of Daddy’s voice. He wasn’t shouting, but it was worse when he spoke quietly, the threat was in the hush. The woman’s voice was weak as it rose and wavered. I could only catch odd words, ‘time’ and ‘cruel.’ Then there was the shuffle of shoes approaching the door. We fled towards the back stairs, skidding around the corner, and crouched out of sight behind the wall on the first step, hands clamped over our mouths.
‘I’ve told you before, the matter is settled,’ we heard him say. ‘You’re wasting your time. I’d better not catch you on my property again.’
‘Damn you. You have no heart,’ we heard her say, and there was a sob in her voice. ‘I hope you and your family rot in hell.’
I gasped in shock, and a shiver of excitement ran through me. This was just the sort of thing I should be writing in my diary. It would add some melodrama to the ordinary details about what I’d eaten for breakfast and whether Alice or Henry had beaten me at Monopoly. We hunched on the step, hardly daring to take a breath until both pairs of footsteps had faded away. ‘Blimey,’ Alice looked at me with her eyebrows halfway up her forehead, ‘she cursed us!’
‘It wasn’t a proper curse,’ I said, crossing myself to be safe. ‘God will protect us.’ But my pulse flickered and jumped. ‘Did you find out who she is?’
Alice screwed up her face. ‘I think she said… Miss Baxter. Edith Baxter.’
‘Doesn’t mean anything to me.’
‘Me neither.’ Alice made a face. ‘Wonder what he did to her.’
‘Nothing,’ I said, getting up from the step. ‘She’s probably mad. She looked mad, didn’t she?’
The gong rang. ‘You’ve got earth on your chin,’ Alice told me. ‘And you haven’t changed for lunch.’
I looked down at the blackened knees of my gardening jeans, and leapt to my feet, scrambling up the stairs, panic rising in my throat, Mother of God, don’t let me be late.
The innocence of it. Worried about a bit of mud on my knees, about being late for lunch.
8
ALICE
I’ll leave Gabriel a note saying I have a headache and keep out of his way in Cecily’s room this evening. Meanwhile, I have a day to fill. I wander around the house barefoot, peering into rooms. The whole place is full of bad Feng Shui. The Chinese believe a man’s destiny is bound to his environment, so Cecily, Henry and I never stood a chance. But Cecily could improve the flow of energy here. For a start, she’s got the wrong curtains in the bay window. Vertical lines on fabric shut out the world like a prison cell, and furniture should never block the outside either. The sofa is right in front of the window. I heave at it, pulling at one arm, then getting all my weight behind it, to push it across the floorboards. I arrange it in the middle of the room looking towards the bay. Then I reposition a small table on the other side of it. For some reason, her house has no plants. I love indoor greenery; it brings life and energy.
If I had my own place, I’d fill it with living things, plants, some rescue dogs and cats, a parrot maybe. But because I’m always on the move, I’ve never had a pet, never even had a plant for more than a month or so. I can’t imagine what it must be like to limit your life to one town, one house, one man. I think of Ekkehard, my latest lover, a sax player I’d met in a club in Berlin. I’d liked the clean lines of his body, his dextrous fingers and generous laugh. Musicians understand how to love lightly and move on – their existence is as peripatetic as mine – they don’t think in terms of ownership.
The phone rings in the hall, the sound startling in the quiet house. At last! I rush to snatch it up. ‘Cecily!’
But it’s just someone for Gabriel, and I scribble their name on the jotter next to the telephone on the table with a dull heart. She should have called by now. It’s selfish of her – and what if there’s an emergency? There is an emergency. The proposed talk. It’s almost as if she doesn’t care if I’m discovered.
Upstairs, to take my mind off it, I consider the problem of her bed. The headboard is up against the dividing wall of the bathroom. The loo is just the other side, and the soil pipes must run under the bed. Seriously bad energy. I try to move the bloody thing, but it weighs as much as a bus. I manage to shift it a few inches, and then give up. I look out of the window into the unfamiliar street. A blonde woman is jogging past, her tight behind encased in purple leggings, a matching pair of trainers on her feet. She looks up just as she passes under the window and slows a fraction, waving. Surprised, I raise my hand in a jerky mimic. I suppose she knows Cecily. She said most of her friends were connected to the church. This woman doesn’t look the type. But then, like drug dealers and thieves, you can’t tell by appearance alone.
I look at the fussy little watch I’ve strapped on my wrist. My sister has the worst taste. I look again and check the thing hasn’t stopped working. It’s like I’ve fallen into a time warp. Hours have passed without me realising. I haven’t made supper yet. I decide to ignore Cecily’s list. I can’t face cooking meat. I run downstairs and root around in the fridge, realising I have just enough ingredients to throw together a ratatouille. I leave the food in a casserole on the side for the others to reheat, and delve into a drawer, unearth an old shopping list, turn it over and start to scribble a note to Gabriel, explaining that I’m ill, but I stop after a couple of words, realising he might see a difference in our handwriting. Mine is bigger, more of a scrawl than hers. I throw the note in the bin and try again, trying to forge Cecily’s cramped and careful script.
In the bathroom, I clean my teeth, washing my hands and face with the bar of soap on the sink that smells of orange blossom. I ignore Cecily’s beauty routine again. Too fiddly and time consuming, and I can’t concentrate, my ears straining to listen for the front door in case he comes home early. When I hear it open, his feet on the doormat and rustle of a jacket being taken off, I creep towards the landing, tracking his movements below me as he goes into the hall and kitchen. I retreat into Cecily’s room, shutting myself in, wishing there was a key to turn. Has he seen my message yet?
When his feet thunder up the stairs, I know he’s seen it. The approaching racket kick-starts my adrenaline. There’s a loud knock on my door. I throw myself onto the bed, pulling the covers over my head, breath stalling in my chest. If he comes in, I’ll pretend to be asleep. But what if he shakes me awake, or drags me out? Maybe better to answer him now, put on a weak voice, tell him I can’t speak for the pain in my head? He knocks again and says, ‘Cecily?’ I want to put my hands over my ears. He repeats her name, then I hear him sigh loudly. He goes away, muttering.
Later, I hear Bea coming home, the slam of the door, the stomp of her feet. She goes straight into the kitchen. I think of her furious response when I’d asked about her being hungry. They must both be downstairs. When the quiet murmur of their voices rises from the kitchen, I get out of the covers and sit on the bed cross-legged. Bea seems to be relaxed with her father. I hear laughter. Garlicky, tomatoey scents drift upstairs and my mouth waters. I wish I’d thought of making a sandwich and taking it upstairs with me – it’s my second night of going to bed hungry.
I learnt yoga on the island of Santorini, and in Kerala I spent time in ashrams where yoga was a daily ritual. With nothing else to occupy my time, I drag a chair over to the door and wedge it under the handle. My feet slip on acrylic tufts of carpet as I practice sun salutations, downward dog, upward dog, stretching out stiff hamstrings, working until my shoulders shake. But when I lie prone in shavasana, my mind refuses to be still. I have five days left.
Next morning, he asks me coldly if I’m feeling better and I can’t meet his eyes. He knows I was faking it. Monday can’t come fast enough. According to the plan, Cecily will arrive straight after the others go off to school and university, giving us a day together before Bea gets home. I’ll make sure I’ve disappeared by then to avoid any danger of us being caught with each other. That’s what we’ve agreed. I was excited and nervous about it, but now I’m having doubts – why hasn’t she rung me? She knows I’m alone here every day.
Watching Gabriel’s hunched shoulders as he prepares to leave the house, I decipher the hurt in his body. He hasn’t mentioned the talk again. I suppose he’s wary of further rejection. I wasn’t expecting him to care this much.
Bea avoids eye contact with me. She wolfs down her breakfast, kisses the cat, and escapes with her bag over her shoulder, leaving with her father. She brightens in his company, and I see her smile at something he says, a dimple appearing in her left cheek. After they’ve gone, I sink into a chair at the kitchen table, idly wiping toast crumbs into my palm. This house is full of the unspoken. And even though Cecily has created a tidy home full of order, the atmosphere reminds me of Hawksmoor. There’s something dark under the surface. Since leaving home, I promised myself that I wouldn’t be like my parents. I go out of my way to be truthful, never wanting to slip back into a life soured with secrets. Yet here I am, marooned in the middle of the biggest pretence of all.
I pull at the neckline of Cecily’s sweatshirt. I feel strangled, claustrophobic. Since childhood, I can’t stand to be confined. I pull on a jacket hanging on the coatrack and drop Cecily’s keys into one of the pockets. The jacket is a little too big for me, shoulders drooping, cuffs falling halfway down my hands. It must belong to Gabriel. The woollen fabric is worn and soft, smelling of clean earth and the sea. I find a loose button in the other pocket, a small shell, silvered with mother of pearl, a perfectly smooth black stone.
Exeter is a pretty town, full of painted Victorian villas, cobbled streets, and the screaming of gulls. Across rooftops, I glimpse the Gothic outlines of the cathedral, and the ruins of Rougemont Castle on a distant hill, exactly as Cecily described in her letters. As I make my way down the street, the sky opens before me like a thrown tablecloth of brilliant blue, white clouds smudging its surface in floury fingerprints. I’d forgotten how tender the colours are in England. The leaves are out and faces of crocuses and daffodils brighten front gardens. I get to a quay, busy with people. The river is a wide expanse of gleaming water, and I watch a large sailing boat motoring along. I’m guessing it’s heading for the choppier open sea.
A breeze catches the water, tossing up starbursts of light and spray. The big yacht disappears around a bend. I imagine triangles of white canvas swelling with wind, carrying the unknown sailors further and further away. My stomach aches, responding to a longing to escape on that boat. I was little more than a child when I left the country, going straight to a kibbutz near the Sea of Galilee, picking apples, and taking a grim pleasure in imagining my father’s apoplectic reaction if he knew where I was. Even after the kibbutz, my failed stint as an au pair, and travelling with new-found friends, I still thought I might return home after six months, a year, three years. But then there came a time when I knew it wasn’t possible any more.
But this ache is different – it’s not just me fretting at my lack of freedom, it’s also a hangover from the atmosphere this morning, the tension in the house – but it’s not my ache, not my problem. I shove my hands into my pockets and turn back. Bea will be home from school soon.
I find a health food shop on my way back and stock up on herbal teas, hummus, rye bread and lavender oil, using the cheque book Cecily left me. And there’s a flower shop, Blooming Lovely, where I buy a sturdy-looking peace lily and a couple of lucky bamboos and three earthenware pots. I arrange the plants in the living room on the floor by the bay window and put my shopping away in the kitchen cupboards. I’m switching the kettle on when Bea comes in. She startles when she sees me, and I continue to pour boiling water onto a fennel teabag, mashing it against the side of the cup, hoping I haven’t chosen another of her favourite mugs or committed some other unknown faux pas.
‘Bea,’ I say quickly before she can disappear up to her room. ‘Can we… Can we talk?’
She gives me a mistrustful look. ‘What about?’
‘Nothing in particular,’ I say, blowing onto the surface of my tea. ‘Just. I don’t know. Anything.’
She scowls at me. ‘Are you going senile?’
I laugh. ‘No!’ I smile. ‘I hope not. It’s just, well, I know things haven’t been good between us, and… and I want to try and change that…’ I push on, ‘and the best way is by talking. Right?’
She stares at me, wariness tightening her gaze. ‘You start, then.’
I feel a rush of relief. ‘First, I want to say sorry for anything I’ve done to upset you. And maybe we can talk about that when you’re ready. No rush,’ I add, hastily.
She snorts disparagingly.
‘Maybe I haven’t been a good listener in the past,’ I say, turning the cup in my hands. ‘But think of me as… as a new person. I had a chance to really think about things recently. And I’d like to do better.’
‘Maybe you can start by being nicer to Dad.’
I wasn’t expecting that. ‘Okay,’ I agree slowly. ‘I’ll try.’ I put my cup on the side. ‘I’ve bought some bread and hummus – want some? I’m starving.’
She shrugs and sits down. I put out a bowl of hummus, slice the rye bread, and throw together a green salad, placing them all on the table with plates and cutlery. She investigates the hummus, scooping it on her fingertip and sniffing it before she spreads it over a slice of bread.
‘Tell me about Courtney Love – why do you like her so much?’ I pour out two glasses of water for us.
She gives me a suspicious look. ‘Why?’
