Chris watched her mother’s fingers begin the walk up the carpeted stairs from the hall to the first landing. She continued in a lower voice:
‘It took time for Kathleen to place the woman she saw on the film. Then one day she did. On the Saturday when he came to swap the tapes she plucked up her courage and told Doctor Ramsay. She didn’t like to admit she noticed what went on at the White House. She was so grateful that he gave her the chance to look for Alice by seeing the tapes. When he said he didn’t know anything about Jackie Masters she accepted what he told her. After that Doctor Ramsay changed the meeting place with Jackie, but this didn’t help him. He must have brooded all that last week. It was harder to face Kathleen. He was caught between these two women, one so innocent and the other as corrupt as himself. Isabel always there at home keeping an eye. That Saturday lunchtime he took the coward’s way out.’
‘Why hasn’t this Jackie said anything?’ Eleanor reached past the tiny roll top desk and ran a finger lightly along the cushions on the miniature sofa at the back of the room that was Doctor Ramsay’s study.
‘Kath has said that if she writes anything, she will tell the police Jackie was blackmailing Doctor Ramsay. When the truth comes out, it won’t benefit Jackie Masters. That’s the deal. Jackie was so sure Kathleen would be pleased she had made him suffer and hounded him to death.’ Chris gave a wry smile. ‘Kath’s not like that.’
Eleanor was a small girl again, caught up in the magic of her game. There were no dolls in the replica study. The husband doll was missing. She jogged the desk with her wrist as her hand delved deeper into the book-lined aperture. She felt along the painted panels to the right of the fireplace. Their heads touched as they both leaned closer in towards the tiny room. Eleanor pressed the little carved Tudor rose that formed part of a series ranged along the wall at picture rail height. The partition wall slid to one side.
They could only just see into the cavity they had revealed.
There was someone in there.
Eleanor squeezed her thumb and forefinger into the tiny gap and tenderly lifted out the little doll. She cradled her in her palm. Together they examined her in the lamplight. At the same moment they gave a start. Someone had knotted a strip of cotton around the doll’s head. She had been gagged and blindfolded.
‘He’s been here,’ Chris whispered.
‘Yes.’ Eleanor breathed deeply to stop herself vomiting.‘He must have wanted to be found out. But after that summer no one played up here again.’
Eleanor slipped the thin band of material off the doll’s eyes and held her upright, gently turning her around, showing her the room.
‘You know we have to tell, don’t you?’ Eleanor chose the words Alice would have used. Alice, who always said and did the right thing. ‘We know where she is now. Kathleen is all that matters.’
‘What shall we do?’ Chris longed to be small again with her mother in charge.
‘Let Isabel have one last party.’
Eleanor rearranged the furniture in one of the bedrooms on the right hand side of the house. This had been Gina’s bedroom. Alice loved her room. She hauled the bed over to the window where the sun would shine in on Alice’s pillows first thing in the morning. Then she fetched the counterpane from the master bedroom. The initials E.I.R. were embroidered on one of the small squares.
‘Isabel made these bed spreads for me one afternoon when it was just us in the house. She didn’t often do things with me. At the time it meant a lot.’ She folded the quilt over so that it would fit the small bed in the room she had prepared. Very slowly, because no one likes to be whizzed through the air before they can get their breath, she carried the little doll over and enveloped her in the quilt. They shuffled backwards so that Chris could close the giant frontage.
Eleanor crouched close to the window of the room where Alice was tucked up in her bed. The window was open so she could hear the soft repetitive sound of the waves on the shore as she slept. Eleanor recited from her favourite book in a lullaby voice that Chris could hardly hear:
‘…Thus grew the tale of Wonderland:
Thus slowly, one by one,
Its quaint events were hammered out
And now the tale is done,
And home we steer, a merry crew,
Beneath the setting sun…’
They paused on the dark landing. Chris drew close to her Mum and, taking hold of her hand, put into it the rounded lump of glass that Kathleen had given her when she moved into Alice’s bedroom.
‘Here, have this. It’s for luck.’
‘Where did you get it?’ Eleanor saw Mrs Jackson’s overheated flat, Jaffa cakes heaped on a plate and she felt the warm weight of Crawford nestling on her lap.
‘Kathleen gave it to me. I don’t need luck. I’m going to be fine.’
‘And you reckon I need every bit I can get!’
‘I imagined you’d like it. It looks precious, although I don’t expect it’s worth anything.’
‘It is worth a lot to me. Thank you,’ Eleanor murmured.
Chris checked the time on her watch in the light from a shaft of moonlight slanting through the window. The fog had cleared. The century was about to end.
She knew that the Ramsays would survive. There would be more parties. She had studied them for weeks. They had given her lots of opportunities to. After all she was a Ramsay too.
The two women interlocked fingers and together they descended the stairs. The countdown for the year 2000 began:
‘…ten… nine… eight… seven… six…’
Acknowledgements
A novel might start in the privacy of a ‘room of one’s own’ but the final version involves the contribution of others.
I would like to thank the team at Myriad Editions and in particular Candida Lacey, who is a tenacious, risk-taking publisher. Corinne Pearlman’s consistently positive presence, along with Candida’s kindness and generosity, made the whole process of seeing a manuscript through to a book truly enjoyable. My thanks also to Colin Kennedy for his part in this process.
Lisa Holloway’s unwavering belief in this novel encouraged me and her advice and feedback was always spot on.
Sarah Roberts Salon is South London’s premier hairdresser; besides skilfully wielding scissors, Sarah, and her mother Ann, have been great supporters of the book.
Thanks to Katrina Heather for being the best pilates and yoga coach a girl could have.
Jeanette Winterson’s comments and help have been invaluable – thank you.
Melissa Benn has long been an important friend and ‘writing-companion’, giving suggestions and much-appreciated support.
My thanks to Melanie Lockett for her considered perception. And for her vocal appreciation of this novel – her ‘word of mouth’ has given it many new readers.