The Lost Child (14 page)

And I remember a good friend of ours coming to tea and bringing her toddler, who was the same age as our boy. And I know that we spread a rug and some toys on the lawn and all lay around laughing and talking and drinking tea in the sunshine and daisies, so it must have been a happy afternoon. But in my memory, the proportions are all wrong and it's dark and skewed and it doesn't look like my life.

Two startling things about this time. First, that it passed. I came out of it. And second, by the end of it, about six or nine months after that third baby was born, I'd written a novel.

I don't know whether it was before or after the novel was published that my boy wrote me his first letter, but I still have it now on my wall in a little clip frame. Written on an upside-down postcard, the letters are individually drawn, like stick animals.
You wrote a good novel I love you very much [ou, Julie

He never in his life called me Julie except on that card. And he didn't know what a novel was. Nobble, he used to call it. He was about four years old. He was delicious. I loved him so much. We loved each other.

I suppose I would like to think that little scribbled postcard might survive the next two hundred years.

They are slightly older than us - attractive, good-humoured, friendly and charismatic people. The kind of people who, in more innocent times, we'd choose to have a drink with anyway.

The mother tells us their story. It's worse than ours, if only because it involves two children and a whole lot more years. As she speaks I feel tears welling up in my eyes, but I don't know whether they're for her or for me. Certainly there's something heart-stopping about hearing a total stranger reveal themselves in such an open, undefended way. The loss of children. Not many things are worse.

We all drink coffee. And we tell them our story too. And the light spills in and downstairs people are wandering through white spaces, leaflets in hand, looking at art.

We tell them how much it means, that they're willing to talk to us about this, sharing like this.

At least you know you're not alone, says the man, who has colourful socks and, when he's not talking about his children, twinkling eyes.

Out there all over the country, plenty of families are dealing with this, says the woman, flicking a look at the London skies. Far more than anyone realises. Seriously. It's a whole new way to lose your kids.

I look closely at her face and I recognise the weight of grief behind her eyes. Her face, but also mine.
A whole new way to lose your kids.

Welcome to the loamy darkness,

between slick bodies

and the glow of mobile phones,

a meaningless moment in which to forget,

get off with strangers, loose our heads.

In which to forget there's a world outside,

come on cheer up, we're here to socialise,

in here there ain't no serial killers,

to pick off girls of the night.

But somehow though everyone's smiling.

5

THE FIRST TIME julia Yelloly and I are due to meet we have to cancel because snow lies thick all over Suffolk and the trains aren't running.

Now, on a warmish Sunday afternoon a couple of weeks later, I'm waiting on the road outside All Saints, Woodton when a pale yellow car turns on to the road. Primrose yellow. She's already waving to me as she pulls up and parks half on, half off the grassy verge.

Your great-great-great-niece.

She's thirty-something, dark wavy hair, lively eyes. She's been in Bungay training for a triathlon and she has on blue trousers and a red fleece. No make-up. Cheeks blazing with cold. I ask her if she realises that her car's the exact same colour as the old Yelloly coach, and she laughs but I'm not sure she knows what I'm talking about.

After several weeks of emails, we're shy with each other, both talking too fast, interrupting then apologising, falling over each other's words. Together we make our way through the little wrought-iron gate, up the gravel path and into the dim silence of the church. After standing a moment to look again at your family plaques, we settle ourselves in a pew about halfway down the aisle. There's no one else here. Just us and the vaulted ceiling, stained-glass windows and
Yelloly
written over and over on these walls. Your familiar coat of arms with its frothing red plumes.
Spes Mea Christus.

Julia pulls her bag up on her knees and shows me what she's brought. First, her copy of Florence's book, which I'm welcome to borrow. No more having to go and read it in the British Library. I tell her I'll take huge care of it.

And two smallish watercolour paintings in frames - not the original frames, she points out quickly - both clearly and recognisably Woodton Hall. There's a little bit of land in front and it looks as if the view is probably done from just here, by the church. On the back of one a typed white sticker:

I've never taken it out of the frame, but I'm presuming that's what it says on the back of the painting, Julia says.

I look carefully at the picture. Misty grey-green Norfolk copses, brush-blobs of colour - a suggestion of brightness and wetness in the air.
Given to me.
. .
in April
1838 . . .
who was so deservedly and truly beloved.

Painted just weeks before your death.

It must be one of the very last things Mary painted before she died, I say.

A moment's pause as we both think about this. In the foreground of both pictures is a small male figure, red waistcoat, a dark hat and what looks like a gun.

Do you think that could be one of her brothers? Julia says. Or else may be a servant?

Nick was already dead, I say. It could be John or Sam.

I ask where she got the pictures.

Would you believe, I was just given them, she says. It was so lucky. I was on my way to see Cavendish Hall, you know where my father's family had lived? And I stopped off at an antique shop in Long Melford to ask directions and when the man heard I was a Yelloly he said: 0 h well, then you'd better have these. He just gave them to me!

I smile. She has the same bright, frank warmth as her father. I wonder if it's a Yelloly quality. Were you like this?

Well, that's it, she says. That's all I've got.

Feeling slightly awkward because it still doesn't really seem right that I should have looked at it first, I ask her if she knows about the box her father has lent me. I tell her it contains some wonderful stuff It's funny, she says with a little frown, I never even knew anything about it. He's never ever mentioned it to me.

I'm not sure he knew he had it, I tell her. Or at least he'd never really looked at it. Not until I came to lunch and he got it down.

It's incredible what families can sit on for hundreds of years, she says, smiling.

I tell her I still haven't managed to find your grave even though I've tried so hard, searching this whole churchyard more than once.

She thinks about this.

Well, I was pretty sure my father knew. But now I think he was perhaps referring to the other graves, you know, the ones at Stansted. That's Stansted in Suffolk, by the way, not Essex.

We decide to go and walk around the churchyard anyway - see If we can tell where the pictures were done from - and, as we walk out into the weak winter sun, I realise what's been bothering me about Julia's face.

That portrait on your parents' landing, the one of Mary's sister Sarah, with the long gold earrings. It's just so incredibly like you!

Really?

Seriously. The expression, the colouring, everything. I can't believe no one's ever said it before.

She laughs and shakes her head and tells me no, no one ever has, but, out here in the chilly spring light, it's true. If your sister Sarah had hennaed her hair and worn a red fleece, turquoise hood and blue combat trousers and come straight from triathlon training at Bungay, this is exactly how she would have looked.

Because of all the snow that's melted, I expect, says Julia. A couple of weeks ago this must have been several inches deep.

And now it feels almost like spring, I say.

Blinking in the sunshine, we make our way across to where the older graves are, each of us carrying a framed picture done by you in our hands. We're facing out from the back of the church now, away from the road, looking out towards where Woodton Hall must once have stood.

Wow! Look at that! Julia shouts as something flaps away. A bam owl!

Definitely a bam owl, she says again. A good omen!

Really?

Of course.

Yeah, I think so. I'm pretty sure. My father and I had a look quite a few years ago. We just went a little way up the path.

I tell her I did exactly the same a few weeks ago.

I didn't go far, though. I wasn't sure if people lived there or not. There's a house up there that looks like it's been recently done up.

Now julia glances at the path.

God, I'd so love to go and see where the Hall stood, she says.

I know. So would I.

She gives me a look and I begin to laugh.

Well, I don't see what's to stop us going a little bit further up the path than we've already been, she says.

The worst that can happen is we just have to apologise and leave, I agree.

She looks triumphant.

And look, we don't even need to go round, we can easily get over here.

And she hands me your picture to hold and begins to hoist herself up, easily, gracefully, over the grey stone wall, stopping only to cast a critical glance at my clothes. They're not exactly urban, but they weren't put on with wall-climbing in mind.

Will you be able to do it? she asks me.

Of course!

She slithers down on the other side and laughs. I hand her the pictures and follow her over without too much difficulty, keeping quiet as a nettle licks my shin.

Together we walk over a carpet of snowdrops towards the space once occupied by Woodton Hall.

So why isn't it in either of Mary's paintings? I say.

julia holds hers out at ann's length and squints.

Maybe she was standing more to the right when she painted it?

It's either off the edge of the picture, or the tree's not as old as it looks. Maybe it was a small tree back then.

Do they really grow that fast?

I've no idea. I doubt it.

Beyond the cedar, directly in front of us now, there's a drive and some cars and a low gabled cottage on the left and, to the right, the old garden wall and a curl of smoke someone's having a bonfire. A glimpse of a man.

oh God. julia touches my ann. Are we going to have to say something?

The man hasn't seen us. He's walking in the other direction.

I hesitate.

Shall we just go and knock on the door?

Do we dare?

I dare if you dare. I mean at least you are a real Yelloly. You have every reason to be here.

But it's you who's writing about Mary!

But even If we wanted to change our minds, we couldn't. Already there are faces at the window. Small white faces. Kids? Still clutching your paintings, we knock on the door.

Two women, one of them wiping her hands on a tea towel, look a bit startled when we say the name Yelloly. They wave at the bonfire man, who's walking towards us in his wellington boots. They take the paintings from us and study them carefully, wordlessly, and we ask if they know that Woodton Hall once stood here.

They're still staring as I continue to explain.

I'm Julie and I'm trying to write about it. But this is Julia, and she's a real Yelloly.

The women and the man all look at each other for about three seconds, then they start to laugh.

You'd better come in, says the first woman. Yes, we know all about the old Hall and the Yellolys. It's just - well, this may take some time.

Oh dear, I say. You're just about to have lunch.

We've come at a terrible time, says Julia.

Not at all, Elaine says. This is exciting!

We follow her through a dim corridor into a dark and elegant wooden-floored dining room.

What a beautiful room, says Julia and we stare around us while Elaine bends down to the low sideboard and pulls out box files, piles of papers, spreads them on the table.

This is all that's left of the Hall, Woodton Hall, this bit where we live, she says. We did this place up ourselves, from scratch. It was quite derelict. We think it was the stables or the servants' quarters or whatever.

This room was definitely stables, says Steve, who has taken off his wellingtons and padded in. Just there where you're standing was a kind of a byre. And there was a great big pile of manure the very first time we walked in here.

All right, Steve, thanks very much, laughs Elaine.

You mean you put down this floor? says Julia. But it looks so original.

Steve looks pleased.

Now take off your coats, sit down, he says, and I slip my coat off and sit next to Julia, who's already settled herself at the dining table.

Cup of tea anyone? offers Steve and Elaine's friend, who has just popped her head round the door. Julia and I look at each other.

This is so kind of you, says Julia. But aren't we keeping you from your lunch?

Lunch can wait, says Elaine firmly.

We say that in that case we'd love a cup of tea.

This is turning out to be the strangest day, I tell Steve.

It's so lucky, Julia adds, that we came and knocked, because you see we so almost didn't -

Oh but you shouldn't have hesitated! Steve says and he beams at us. Now, which one's Julie and which one's Julia?

We tell him.

And are you sisters?

We laugh.

We actually only just met this afternoon.

Now Steve and Elaine look at each other. You're not serious? You two have only just met?

About half an hour ago. It's quite funny, isn't it? says Julia.

And I look out of the window at that view which is straight out of your album - the hazy greens and greys of Woodton, the ragged, windblown skies - and I think, Yes, it's funny.

Elaine puts some more documents on the table. A view of Woodton, 1842, Dilapidated.

It was pulled down soon after that, she says. You do know about the curse?

Julia and I flick a look at each other. The tea arrives and is put down on the table.

What curse?

Ah well, you should get in touch with this man Patrick Baron Suckling, Steve says. It was nothing to do with the Yellolys really. It was the Sucklings, so he knows all about it. And they - what was his daughter called? Wait a minute, it'll come. He lives in Spain but she's in Norwich, I think. Or she was. Here you go - Caroline. Caroline Suckling.

Suckling. Your sister Anna married the Revd Robert Suckling. A descendant of theirs, then. I write down the names and phone numbers.

There was this family called Fellowes - lived at Shottisham Castle. Still do, some of them. An amazing place not far away, you should go. And sometime I don't know when - 17something, certainly, there was a row over a woman and heFellowes, I think - kicked a Suckling down the steps of Woodton Hall. And he put a curse on the place and said he wouldn't rest till it was pulled down, brick by brick.

And this was before the Yellolys came?

Oh yes, goodness, long before. And every Suckling started to die after that. They died young, all the men did anyway.

What a horrible story, julia says.

Elaine and Steve say they need to go and eat lunch now, but we're very welcome to sit and drink our tea and look at the documents.

Take your time, says Elaine. It's no trouble at all.

And if you've got time, after lunch I'll show you round if you like, Steve says. I can show you exactly where the walls of the Hall stood.

Left alone, julia and I start sifting through the papers on the table.

I wonder if the Yellolys knew about the curse, says Julia. I mean they were fine when they came to Woodton, weren't they - and then they all started dying.

I tell her this had crossed my mind too.

I ask her if it feels strange, to be a Yelloly sitting here in the very house - or the stables anyway - after all this time.