The Girl in the Red Coat (10 page)

Dorothy wipes her smile away with the tea towel she’s been using as a serviette and the smile comes off onto the white cloth in a red mess.

‘No, child. You see there really is no room.’

‘Couldn’t she have a nightlight? A little candle maybe? It would be a light in her darkness,’ Grandad says.

‘Would that help? Do you think that would help you, child?’ Dorothy asks.

And I say I suppose so even though I don’t think really it will help at all. Not with the flickering shadows that a candle makes leaping about. I even think it might make things worse. But Dorothy’s already up and going through one of the kitchen drawers and looking.

‘Here, I knew we had one.’ She holds up a candle in its little metal tin. It’s the same as the ones me and Mum sometimes put along both sides of the garden path at home when we have visitors. We light them all at once so the visitors can see their way to the house. But we use hundreds of them to do this and Dorothy is only holding up one.

‘Perfect,’ says Grandad. ‘Just the thing.’ And he helps himself to more beer.

‘Time to say goodnight, Carmel.’ Dorothy says this
quickly. Perhaps she realises I was going to ask about changing where I sleep again. I sigh and try to pretend to myself that a little candle is going to make a big difference and how cosy it’s going to feel now in that great big room.

She lights the candle then puts it in a china pot. ‘Come, child. I’ll tuck you in and say goodnight and see to it that you are as snug as a bug. Say goodnight to your grandfather.’

I say goodnight and he turns his cheek towards me. ‘A goodnight kiss?’

I’m not sure if I want to kiss him goodnight. But I do anyway. I sort of touch my lips onto his cheek and it feels very hard and solid there and it makes me think of the skin of pigs that hang up – stiff and dead – in the butcher’s shop.

‘Night night, sweetheart,’ he says, then gives a little burp.

I follow Dorothy up the stairs, dragging on my new shoes, because I want to put off going to bed as long as possible. In the corridor the flame in Dorothy’s hand shines through her skin and blood so there’s a big red hand floating up. Her shadow in a long skirt is on the wall. I look back and see my shadow, following behind, with my puffy shadow skirt sticking out. We
both
look like the paper puppets now and I wonder what story we’d be telling if we were.

I change into my new nightie by crouching on the other side of the bed and Dorothy tucks me in and puts the candle on the table next to me.

‘There, my dear, dear child. Doesn’t that make everything better?’

I’m about to say, ‘No, not really,’ but I realise there wouldn’t be much point. I say, ‘Yes, Dorothy,’ and she smoothes my hair back onto my pillow and goes away.

When I can’t hear her any more it begins. The shadows that the candle makes dance around the room and the dark places look like black holes waiting to eat me up. Every time I spend five minutes in this room it seems to come alive. It wakes up because I’m there and it’s worse than ever tonight. There’s shuffling and rustling all around. Then I hear quick footsteps running across the floor and I can’t stand it any more. I’m so frightened it feels like my insides are freezing. So I pick up the candle with one hand and get hold of my blankets by the corners in the other and run down the corridor dragging them until I’m at the staircase with the light shining up it. I leave the blankets and take the candle and go back to my bedroom quickly to get my pillow. Then I carefully put the tea light on a post which is flat on top. I sort out my pillow and blankets to make a bed at the top of the stairs. I have some blankets above and some underneath and I crawl into the bed I’ve made. It feels a lot better there even if it is hard underneath.

Courage, Carmel. Courage.

I turn my back on my bedroom. All that muttering and shuffling can get along by itself, I’m not going to have anything to do with it. I put my face so some light can shine onto it.

Downstairs I can hear Dorothy and Grandad’s voices rising and falling, rising and falling. Except after a while it’s only Grandad’s voice and Dorothy has gone quiet. Or when she does say something it’s very small and flat. I close my eyes and think of home to make me feel better. I make pictures of it flash up in my head: the mugs hanging up on hooks over the sink; our two toothbrushes in a glass in the bathroom; the moon shining huge over the rooftop; the red
bucket by the back door; the fire making crinkly noises in winter as a log burns.

Mum in one of her flowery tops. Daisies. She’s hanging up a wooden sign we just bought, it says: T
HERE’S
N
O
P
LACE
L
IKE
H
OME
, and when she’s finished she dusts her hands off and says, ‘What d’you think, Carmel?’ and her eyes are shining out their lovely blue lights and I jump up and down and shout, ‘There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home,’ and she laughs.

I’m thinking of these things so hard I hardly notice at first Grandad’s voice has got louder and louder. When I do realise I open my eyes wide and hold my breath listening, stretching out my ears. Grandad sounds strange, like he’s in pain, or upset and angry. I can’t help hearing now he’s so loud, though I can’t understand what he’s shouting.

‘I had to do it, Dorothy. I had to. I was compelled, how can I make you understand that? She’s the one. The one, the one. You need to stop talking to me now. Stop your fearfulness. Be told. I had no choice in the matter. If I explained for a hundred years you still wouldn’t understand.’

Then everything goes quiet.

DAY 7

‘They’re here.’ Maria was looking out of the window. ‘Beth, it’s your parents, they’ve arrived.’

I peered out of the window and I could see my dad trying to open the door of the pearl-grey Jaguar. Two or three press people still turned up sporadically and now a photographer was flashing his camera through the car window.

‘Remember,’ said Maria. ‘If we tell them about the sighting, they mustn’t in any circumstances talk to the press. The last thing we want is a journo putting a spanner in the works. The information’s very vague.’

A woman had walked into a police station somewhere in the Midlands. She’d been out with her dog and seen the figure of a girl in red looking out of a window. She couldn’t remember which street. They were going to retrace her steps.

This was one sighting of the many. Each time they told me not to get my hopes up – I don’t think they even told me about them all. Leads to me were silver wires that could reach out to where she was. I imagined us both tugging, one on either end, so we could feel each other’s vibrations. They sent convulsions of excitement and anxiety through my body. It was like this now – I was in a state of high alert.

‘I’ll tell them – but they won’t talk to anyone. They’re not that type.’

Maria breathed out. ‘Good.’

I looked out of the window again and a slim woman dressed in beige with hair carefully curled close to her head was coming up the path. It had been years since I’d seen her and she’d aged.

I ran to the door and as I wrenched it open I heard a sound coming from me. ‘Mum, mum, mum’ – the sound that starts with a pressing together of the lips and rounds the mouth in one convulsive seizure. I felt as if ancient cords were working my mouth independently into that shape.

My father finally came through the gate – the angle of his small, pointing beard on display, cross and harassed. ‘No,’ I heard him say, his voice carrying, tight and clipped. ‘No. Get away from me.’

My mother’s awkward embrace smelled of her familiar cool metallic perfume. Over her shoulder I looked into my father’s face, set grim and folded.

I took them inside and tried to invoke my mantra to calm myself down – open the cupboard door, teapot out, lift the kettle with your hand, drop the bags into the pot … Maria was introducing herself in quiet tones behind my back.

Why did we argue? It seemed so ridiculous, irrelevant now in the face of this, this rending of the earth. They’d disapproved of Paul, called him a useless tinker to his face. I’d given up the idea of university to go off with him, set up our business, start a life. I was an only child too, maybe that played its part? They were more than disappointed, they were furious, acting as if Paul was some powerful Svengali who’d mesmerised me. I invited them to the wedding. My mother phoned and asked, why wasn’t it Catholic? But even if it was, they wouldn’t be coming anyway. Not to see
me marrying him. Finally, after Carmel was born, even our phone exchanges fizzled out so they hadn’t seen her since she was a baby. Paul gently aided me in this, I could see later. It must have been a relief to him, this cutting of the ties. They’d been so awful to him, putting down the phone if he answered, even – who could blame him? Later, I wondered if it had had a bearing on our marriage ending. If maybe the fissure hadn’t gone away at all but ran through our lives, deep buried, black. Paul had told me a few days before he left it was a blessed relief to him, to be with Lucy and no one disapproving or disappointed.

I made the tea and Maria left us alone to sit around the table like three strangers, which we were. They’d had to fly back from Spain and their faces looked wide-eyed with shock behind their cheerful suntans.

‘This is a terrible business. Terrible.’ My father frowned. ‘What can be done about it? What?’ Nobody answered and he fell silent.

Mum put out her hand and placed it on my arm; I saw the liver spots on her skin. ‘I’ve seen her picture in the papers. I’ve got a photograph of my mother as a child, all ringlets and great big eyes, and I couldn’t believe how alike they look. She’s beautiful, Beth. So lovely and innocent. Who would want to do a thing like this?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said quietly. ‘I don’t know.’

My father still looked angry. ‘And what’s that husband of yours about now?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What’s he up to? Where is he?’

‘Dad, Paul left me, about a year ago. He left me for another woman.’ I let them absorb the information. Was it
me, or did I detect a smirk on my father’s face, a certain ‘I told you so’ in the jut of his small grey beard?

‘Oh, Beth.’ My mother’s cool hand reached out again.

‘I don’t care any more. I really don’t – all I care about is getting Carmel back. Everything else is … nonsense. The fact that Paul left me is nothing, absolutely nothing.’ I trailed off.

‘Anyway, maybe it was for the best …?’ my mother murmured.

I leapt to my feet; amazed they could be dwelling on this past history, even now.

‘I’ve lost my daughter,’ I bellowed across the tea things at them, ‘do you not know that?’

My father buried his face in his hands and started sobbing.

‘I’m sorry, Mum, Dad, but I can’t have you alienating Paul. He may not be my husband any more but he’s still Carmel’s dad and she needs both her parents.’ I moved over to my father, who was still weeping, and I put my hand on his arm. ‘It’s OK, Dad. Listen, they’re out, they’re out looking now. You mustn’t say anything to anyone – there’s been a sighting. A girl – in red – looking out of a window. The woman said, she said she looked like Carmel and she looked lost. They’re taking her back there – right now. As we speak.’

Excitement was gathering inside of me. I knew it was tenuous but this one somehow felt real. I could picture her – dreamy and lost, staring through a sash window. Shadows on her face.

Maria appeared behind us. She’d been listening all along, I could tell. ‘It’s going to take a while, Beth. This lady is quite elderly. She’s frail and … well, I’m afraid slightly
wandering in the mind. I’m sorry, they’re going to wait till six o’clock when her daughter can go with her. They’re going to have to retrace her walk and knock on every door.’

Later, I could bear it no longer. They didn’t want me to go but I told them I needed to get some fresh air, to phone me as soon as they heard anything.

Except I knew it wasn’t fresh air I wanted but to be looking, looking, looking. Under stones, in rain barrels, in sheds or barns, down behind shop counters. I slipped out of the side gate mad with the desire to look. I imagined in my fever she might have shrunk to the size of a tiny red charm, small enough to hang on a Christmas tree, or on a bracelet. That’s why I couldn’t find her. She’d fallen without me noticing and now I’d have to search in holes in trees and in the cracks in the ground. I’d have to put my ear right onto the earth and listen for her calls no bigger than a mouse’s squeak.

Out in the countryside I jumped over a low stone wall into a field of corn and walked, the green tips brushing against my fingers as I parted them to look on the ground beneath, like a hunting dog, moving my head from side to side looking: for a foot; a stray bead or hair; for that flash of red. It didn’t feel useless in that moment, it felt like I was on a mission, that there was a purpose to this search. But when I reached the corner of the field and scrambled up so I was standing on top of the wall, the scale of my task dawned on me. I gazed over field after field, each one the same as this, extending out into the horizon as far as my eye could see.

I looked at my phone: nothing. It was as if she’d vanished into thin air.

‘Where are you?’ I screamed across the empty fields. ‘Where are you?’

By day 30 we were a family again – me, Mum, Dad. They stayed with me, bringing carrier bags of supermarket food. Dad repainted the front fence; I told him not to, but he said he felt better with something to do. How ridiculous our feud felt now.

‘Stop looking,’ they told me as I left the house with my coat on.

‘I can’t,’ I said.

The girl at the window never was Carmel. They found her, but it was the granddaughter of the people who lived there. And it was a red dressing gown she’d been wearing, not a coat.

That day I searched the woods. By now I was as exhausted as the princess who was made to dance, over hill and dale, by her slippers. The ones she couldn’t take off. It was starting to get dark by the time I lay down next to a stream, pushing my face into the ground, not sitting up even to spit the gritty grains of earth from my mouth.

I lay there for a long time. So long, it seemed, that things turned from dark to light. Slowly, beams descended and soft silver light filtered through the trees. The silvery light reminded me of something and while my mind was groping towards the memory I was distracted by a humming. I lifted my head – there was a child across the other side of the stream. She was sitting, throwing pebbles into the water – each one tinkled as it fell – and I wondered what she was doing here in this isolated spot, what her parents were thinking letting her stray so far and all alone. And as I watched
there was a slow dawning realisation. This little girl wasn’t a stranger, I knew her. It was Carmel. It was my daughter.

I sat up.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she sniffed, and threw another stone.

I wanted to laugh then, at her being so sniffy, because relief was flooding into my bones like the most health-giving balm possible, an elixir.

‘Carmel, where have you been all this time, my love?’

She stood up. She wasn’t wearing her duffel coat but a little red jacket over a white dress, and the jacket was stitched with discs that shone out ruby red in the silver light. ‘I’m not too sure. You lost me,’ she said, and threw another stone into the water. ‘You lost me as if I was nothing but a bead. Or a ten-pence piece. You kept taking me to places where it could happen. You were doing it on purpose.’ More stones plinked into the stream.

‘No! That’s not true. You wanted to go to those places; the maze was your idea. Remember?’

She wrinkled up her eyes, then looked troubled. ‘Maybe. So did we both want to lose each other?’

‘Of course not – don’t say that or we won’t stay found. Now come to me and we’ll go home.’

She shook her head. ‘I won’t be able to get over this water, especially with my new shoes.’

Then she turned and started walking into the trees and I could see the wind blowing her hair so the strands lifted around her head.

‘Carmel, Carmel …’ I shouted at the receding figure. Then of course I woke, the shout with the soil in my throat, and stood looking at the bank opposite that seemed to vibrate with her presence still.

‘I will see the real you again,’ I vowed across the water, as if she was still there. ‘In this life or the next I
will
see you again.’

That was the last dream I had of her when she wasn’t walking backwards.