The Whispers of Wilderwood Hall (15 page)

Headphones plugged in her ears, Weezy is sprawled on the back seat, her skin steaming through her leggings and hoodie as she dries off in the heat of the car. Her wet T-shirt, bra and knickers are bundled in a ball on the floor.

I think I totally freaked her out, screaming the way I did when she swam up under me. Apart from saying sorry at the pool, she hasn't said another word to me. She's probably wondering when the first train back to Somerset or boarding school is so she can get as far away from her unhinged stepsister as possible.

Mum, driving, looks quickly at me in the passenger seat and mouths “OK?”

We've
all got headphones in. Mum's are connecting her to a call with RJ. Mine are connected to nothing at all. I shoved them in out of habit but I'm not in the mood for music.

Anyway, I nod a yes at Mum, and turn to stare out of the window at the green, wooded countryside zooming by. And then I realize I can still hear Mum's conversation, while she thinks I've tuned out.

“Hello? RJ? Can you speak? Sorry – it all got a bit mad back there.”

“Sure.” I can just make out the mumble of RJ's reply through her headset. He's a singer, after all. He can't help but boom. “Are her panic attacks getting worse, do you think?”

My heart lurches. My stepdad's voice might be faint, but when you're being talked about, it's like you have a special radar that locks in to the words on your behalf.

I'm well-trained in that, thanks to my crowd at school. Shaniya and the others were always commenting on the state of my hair, on how lame my school shoes were, how embarrassingly keen I was in class or anything else they could dissect about me.

So
what I have has a name, according to RJ, and Mum too, presumably. I have panic attacks… ?

Out of the corner of my eye I see Mum turn to check I'm not getting any of this. So I stay completely still, pretending I'm not.

“She'll be fine,” says Mum. “Just give it a little time.”

“But how much time?” I hear RJ say.

What does he mean “How much time?”

Did I guess right earlier? That RJ is going to spend a chunk of his money on sending me to Inverkellen as soon as I settle down and quit panicking? It might be why Mum's been having all these calls the last few days. Why I felt she's been a bit secretive with me. It's not ALL been about Weezy, has it? RJ doesn't seem to have a problem with packing his
own
daughter away, so why would he hesitate to do the same with me… ?

(Here come the waves, here come the waves…)

“
Aaaarghh!
”

A sudden scream cuts through my rising, bubbling stress. What's happened? Is there a car coming on the wrong side? Has a deer jumped in front of the car? I whip around to face Mum and see that she's beaming with love and joy.

“
YES!” she yelps, nearly losing control of the car on a corner.

Automatically, I put a hand out on the dashboard and brace myself, but Mum straightens the car up again.

“Baby, you're cutting out,” Mum says urgently. “Say that again. When? RJ! RJ! Oh, he's gone…”

“What's wrong?” Weezy leans between the seats and asks.

“Nothing's wrong,” Mum says, sounding giddy now. “Your dad's cancelled some dates on the band's promo tour. He's coming home, to Wilderwood. He's on his way now!”

It's like a switch tripped inside Weezy and her whole face lights up at the news. Mum is so happy she's crying. And I just go rigid and still, not knowing what to think or how to feel…

The switch in Weezy has stayed at “on”. There's excitement in her eyes and a new softness in her face. Mum can see it too, and takes advantage of the moment.

“He's
so
looking forward to seeing you, Weezy,” Mum says warmly as we clamber out of the car.

Weezy looks across at Mum and gives her a
sweet,
nervous smile. It makes her look more like a six-year-old about to meet Santa in a department store grotto than the sulky girl we've had to put up with the last twenty-four hours.

“I'm
still
angry with him,” says Weezy, though she doesn't look particularly angry any more.

“Well, feel free to shout at him when he gets here,” Mum says cheerfully as she walks over to Weezy and risks slipping her arm around her waist. “It's a huge place with no neighbours, so yell as loud as you like…”

I watch, waiting for Weezy to shrug off Mum's arm, but she doesn't. Instead, she smiles again, wider this time, and she and Mum walk companionably towards the back door of the East Wing.

In that second, I feel almost invisible, a complete outsider in this unexpected bonding moment.

Well, if I'm an outsider, I might as well
stay
outside, I decide.

And the glint of light in the corner of my eye as I got out of the car just now settles it for me.

It might mean that Flora's near, or I'm close, depending on how this strange slither through time works.

“
I'm just going to hang out here,” I announce.

“Are you sure?” asks Mum, looking at me closely. “I was going to break out the cheesecake to celebrate the news!”

“I'll have some later,” I tell her, and leave Mum and Weezy to go indoors. Mum hesitates, keys in hand, and shoots me a questioning look.

“I'm fine. Bit travel-sick. I'll get some air,” I tell her, and walk off.

I'm alone at last, but it's not exactly peaceful. Even out here the drone of drills and crash of hammers disturbs the quiet of the gardens. But I try my best to blank out the noise as I amble along the short L of the East Wing, trailing my fingers along the rough stone wall, my eyes on the ivy-covered fountain up ahead. Wonderfully, I feel the whisperings in my fingers straight away.

“
You will not
…” a man's voice murmurs. “
You will not
…”

It grows louder and clearer as I walk, and I'm concentrating so hard I nearly trip over the girl huddled on the ground right in front of me, her back to the granite wall.

“Flora!” I say, righting myself and then dropping down beside her. “Is something wrong?”

Her
arms are clasped tightly around her knees, so tightly her knuckles are white. When she raises her face to me she looks mad with grief.

“Mr Stewart has just this minute told me I'm not to go!”

“Mr Stewart?” I say. “Who is he again? And where are you not allowed to go?”

“He is the butler,” Flora says, wiping her wet nose with the back of her hand. “He came past with a packing chest on the stairs and I took the chance to mention the trip to America, and to ask what we maids should pack for ourselves.”

“And what did Mr Stewart say to that?” I ask her.

“He tells me that I misunderstood. That not
all
the household will go. That I will not go.”

“Flora, no!” I gasp.

“Oh, yes. The others, they will all see London. All of them, right down to Minnie, because the mistress cannot do without Mrs Wallace to cook for the family – especially not in some foreign place, she says – and Mrs Wallace says she will not manage without her
Minnie
.” Flora practically spits out that last name.

“And then they will sail together over the great
Atlantic
Ocean. Minnie and Ann and Jean and the rest; they'll spend their half-days off wandering the streets of New York…”

“But why aren't you going along too?”

“Mr Stewart announced that a few staff must stay behind to maintain the house till the master and his family are back in three months' time,” Flora says bitterly. “And so Mr Sykes the under-butler is to stay, but he is old and lazy and will hide away in his rooms drinking beer all day. And Mrs Strachan is to employ an elderly lady from the village to come and stay, and she is to help me clean all the rugs and carpets and linen while everyone is gone.”

Flora's acute disappointment hangs like a cloud over her. I scan my brain, trying to think of something comforting to say.

“Well, at least you won't have
that
lot moaning at you all the time,” I say, and am rewarded with a small, watery smile.

“Yes, I suppose that
is
something I should be glad for,” says Flora, though it's obviously not much comfort to her.

“What about your parents? Or brothers and sisters?” I ask, hoping a mention of her family might
cheer
her up. I realize I know nothing of them. “Can you take some days off since the household is away, and go see them?”

“I've been home just once this last year. My family live too far away for me to visit,” she says, roughly smearing the wetness from her face with her hands. “And I don't have the fare anyway; I must save my wages and send them to my parents to keep my little brothers and sisters fed and clothed. They're all Mother cares for; to her and my father, all I'm really good for is earning now that I'm grown.”

How incredibly scary to have that responsibility at fourteen. I can't begin to imagine what a weight that must be and how isolated Flora must be all the time.

“Hey, it's not as bad as what
you're
going through,” I say, settling myself down properly beside her, “but it makes you feel any better, I'm having a pretty miserable time where
I
come from.”

“Why? Are people being cruel to you too?” asks Flora, setting aside her own unhappiness and gazing at me with real concern.

But where do I start? I think about telling her everything, like my new, niggling worry that RJ
might
try and persuade Mum to send me away, and about Weezy arriving here, like a storm cloud. Or how Shaniya broke my confidence into tiny little pieces over the course of Year Eight. I even think about telling Flora the story of my runaway dad and the uselessness of my distant (in both senses of the word) grandmother. Instead, I realize there's one quick, shortcut way to tell her how I feel.

“I'm just so lonely.”

“But do you not live with your mother?” asks Flora.

“Yes,” I say, picturing my lovely mum, with her new secrets and her new husband. “But my mother has remarried. And it feels like I'm losing her…”

Shaniya would've snorted at this point, telling me to get real and not be so dramatic. She'd make her clever, sharp digs about me being spoiled. But I'm not talking in London, and I'm not with Shaniya, thank goodness. I'm with Flora. And even though she doesn't know the version of the world I come from, she seems to understand me.

“We're both the same,” says Flora, lifting a skinny arm from around her knees and wrapping it around my shoulders instead. “We're
both
lonely. But we
don't
have to be any more. Not now we've found each other.”

She gently rests her head against mine. I close my eyes and my shoulders sink as the stress leaves them. It feels so good to think I might have found a true friend in this strange place, in this strange way.

“Can you sing me that song?” Flora asks in a quiet voice. “The one you were singing this morning? It reminds me of my shadow dream…”

My mind is so scattered with all that's happened in the last few days that it takes me a second to think what she's talking about. And then I remember, and begin to softly murmur the words to “Turn the Corner”.

Right now I might not be too sure about the man who wrote these lyrics, but the words themselves seem pretty perfect for me and Flora. By the second time I sing the chorus, she knows it and begins to harmonize in a sweet high voice.

“
Turn the corner
…”

“
There I'll stand
…”

“
Turn the corner
…”

“
Take my hand
…”

“
Turn the corner
…”

“
Don't be scared
…”

“
Turn the corner
…”

“
I'll be there!
”

As our voices fade, the waves seem so far away I can barely feel them…

Till the shrill screech of a drill shakes me awake, and I'm just a girl, sitting on a cold stone slab, all by herself.

“He's here! HE'S HERE!” Mum yells from somewhere in the East Wing.

And then I make out the pattering of feet as she – and Weezy? – hurry down the back stairs.

But I already know RJ's arrived, because I'm at my bedroom window and have just watched the dark-windowed hire car turn and slowly crunch to a stop in the parking place by the old stables.

Well, I guess the secret of who the true owner of the house is will be well and truly out pretty soon. Day Four at Wilderwood Hall and the gossip will start, 'cause some of Mr Fraser's work crew are bound to recognize RJ, or possibly even
be
big fans of White Star Line.