The Summer of Secrets (4 page)

The cottages were set back from the canal’s edge and fronted with gardens partly concealed by a thick and overgrown hedge. Beyond them, a minor road crossed the canal by way of a small hump-backed bridge, the rough grey stonework supporting long strands of trailing moss and a burst of pink and white flowers. The sound of an engine broke the quiet, changing gear with a wrench on the approach to the bridge. Helen edged closer to the cottage hedges as the car went over. She heard a spurt of gravel as it sped up on the far side. At the same moment, she saw again the flash of the kingfisher. This time it landed on a branch near to the bridge; she took a step that way, her eyes fixed on the compact shape. It was bigger than she’d imagined, and motionless on its perch, almost all beak from this angle.

‘They’re good luck, they are.’

The voice came from behind the hedge, a sound so unexpected that Helen started. She turned to see the top of an old woman’s head. It nodded towards the bridge.

‘Good luck and prosperity.’

Helen smiled uncertainly at her.

‘That’s what they symbolize.’ The woman gave a grim smile. ‘Good luck and prosperity, if you believe in it.’

Helen looked away in time to see the kingfisher launch itself and disappear from sight. ‘I’ve never seen one before.’

The woman gave a nod, and started to shuffle along to the gate at the end of the row of cottages. There were four in all, the gardens in various degrees of wildness, separated from one another by the remains of wooden fences. They all joined up to the one path, which ran parallel to the canal, bordered by the hedge and ending at a gate going through to the lane. Helen watched the woman bend over to place an empty milk bottle on the ground. In spite of the day’s heat, she was wearing an assortment of cardigans, and thick tights under her misshapen grey skirt. When she drew level again, she paused.

‘If you’re here after that lot at the end, they’re not in.’ She gave a sniff. ‘Proper crew, they are. Music and shouting at all hours.’

She carried on towards the second cottage. Helen opened her mouth in a question, but before it came she changed her mind. Instead she lifted a hand and called out.

‘Thank you.’ She wasn’t sure what she was thanking her for, but still. ‘Thank you, Mrs—’

‘Tyler.’ The woman went through the door without a backward glance. ‘For sixty years and not many to go.’ The door shut behind her.

There didn’t seem much point in hanging about, but Helen stayed to throw a few more stones before heading home, taking her time in case they came by. When she got home, something was wedged in the letter box, a fat book, the pages slightly spread and wrinkled. Had it been there all along? Surely she’d have noticed? It took some minutes of wiggling to get it free.
Ulysses.
Wasn’t he Greek? Something was scribbled on the inside cover. ‘
Had this lying around. Thought it would make a good start.
’ The letters were small and tight, and she hadn’t signed her name. Helen turned to the first page, doubts starting to flicker as she tried to work out what was going on. It wasn’t her usual thing, but it gave her a connection, anyway. She needed to try, that was all.

In the garden again, she tried to get comfortable. The book was thick enough to need both hands to keep it open, and doing that lying down made her back hurt. She wriggled into a sitting position and leaned against the tree, with her knees propping the book’s weight.

Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.

She riffled through the pages. Seven hundred to go. And she hadn’t understood a word so far. With a groan, she turned the page and flattened it down. She had to do it. But first she might let her eyes close for a second.

A lean, golden-skinned boy was standing above her. He used his foot to turn the book over from where it had fallen face down.

‘
Ulysses
, huh?’ He grinned. ‘Joyce always makes me go to sleep too. How are you getting on with it?’

Helen’s neck ached. How long had she been asleep? She had a hideous vision of herself with her mouth open, snoring in the sun. Sitting up, she fiddled her hair straight. What were you supposed to say in a situation like this, anyway? He answered for her by holding out a hand.

‘Seth.’

His hair was the same brown as Victoria’s, but curly, standing out from his face and falling a good few inches below his shoulders. Helen remembered his hand, and held her own out. He took it in a firm grasp and then dropped to the ground beside her. With an air of being completely at home, he let himself fall back and tilted his face up towards the sun, his eyes closed.

‘I’ve only been back for an hour, and I’ve spent most of that trying to round people up. The twins were up a tree in someone’s garden, and now Victoria has disappeared again. I thought she might be here.’ He opened one eye in joke consternation. ‘You are Helen, aren’t you? Pippa’s horse-riding friend?’

So someone had been talking about her. ‘Yes.’ She felt her tongue begin to tangle already. ‘Though I don’t actually ride them at all. I mean, real horses. It was Pippa, she got really keen.’

He laughed, but it was a warm sound, comfortable somehow.

‘Pippa and her ponies. She has me leading them out to grass on a regular basis. It’s those pony club books she keeps reading.’ He had both eyes closed again. ‘So tell me: why are you out here on this beautiful day reading
Ulysses
? Can’t be for exams.’

Helen hoped he wouldn’t ask what she thought of it. ‘It’s for Victoria’s reading list.’

He gave her a sideways glance.

‘Victoria’s?’

‘Yes.’ Helen picked the book up and riffled the pages under her thumb. ‘She’s got a list of books, ones that no one ever finishes or something, and we’re going to read them all and compare …’ Her voice trailed off. She wasn’t sure it was making sense now she was saying it out loud. ‘She must have finished this one already.’

‘Did she tell you that? Because she’s having you on.’ Seth lifted a hand to shade his face. ‘Victoria’s never read anything longer than Enid Blyton.’

‘But …’ Helen stopped.

Seth’s voice interrupted the worry before it could take root.

‘She gets these schemes into her head sometimes. She’ll have big plans but never get past the first page. Ask her to explain the role of the main antagonist.’

Helen was unsure herself what he meant. They sat without talking, a faint buzz wavering in the background. Mr Weaver at his endless lawn-mowing, probably. For a mad moment Helen thought about telling him her mistake, how she’d actually wondered if they were related to people as boring as the Weavers. It would only turn into a rambling mess, though. The silence was making her feel uneasy, clumsy, and she turned to Seth in relief when he spoke.

‘I take it she’s not here then?’

‘What?’ Helen scrambled to follow what he meant. ‘Oh, Victoria? No, I haven’t seen her today.’

‘In that case –’ Seth sprang up into a squat and balanced on the balls of his feet, arms stretched out for balance – ‘I’d better carry on with my search.’ He continued into a stand and paused before spinning round on one toe and heading towards the gate. She thought she heard him say something over his shoulder. She thought it was, ‘Come over later, if you like,’ but she couldn’t be sure. He was gone before she could ask him to say it again.

She got to the cottage with the uncomfortable feeling of arriving at a party at the wrong time. What had Seth meant by ‘later’? What if she walked in and they were in the middle of tea? She played for time by looking at the other cottages. The first in the row was more or less derelict. Tiles were missing from the roof, the windows were covered with boards, and the front door hung at an angle from one hinge. The next one in was the Mrs Tyler’s. Clean windows, here, hung with spotless lace curtains. The door was painted green and, though the paint was peeling at the bottom, the brass knocker shone. The third in the row was in better condition than the first but seemed to be empty, the curtainless panes shadowed inside their brick edging. Beyond the Dovers’ cottage she could see the beginning of the bridge, although the hedge carried on around the corner, keeping the side of the cottage enclosed. Helen edged closer. There were boxes piled up against the front wall, and what appeared to be an old-fashioned car horn hanging from the door handle, the black rubber bulb twisted around with string.

She was about to go on when she saw something from the corner of her eye. One of the lace curtains in the second house had twitched, but it dropped back down again straight away. What if Mrs Tyler came out and started going on about noise again? The path carried on around the corner to what must be the back garden, where she could hear voices. Just as she was starting down it, Pippa came flying round, coming to a halt just in time, grabbing her hand and pulling her down behind the pile of boxes.

‘Sshhh, hide.’ Pippa buried her face in Helen’s shoulder, and Helen found herself closing her own eyes tightly in the long-forgotten ‘then you won’t see me’ response. She could smell Pippa’s hair, a mix of biscuit and something pungent and smoky. Not tobacco, more a hint of fragrance, something like the privet. One of her hands had ended up around Pippa’s back and, as footsteps approached, she tightened her grasp, mirroring Pippa’s hold on her own wrist. The footsteps came to a stop, and Helen could barely hold in the tension. Had hide and seek always been like this? She felt Pippa quiver as the sound of the feet retreated, and opened one eye. The sun seemed very bright, and she was aware of the rough wall against her back, the tingling of her folded knees. Beside her, Pippa shifted so her mouth was against Helen’s ear, but before the whisper took shape, a shadow leaped over them.

‘Boo!’ It was Seth, appearing like a genie from the other side of the boxes. Helen shrieked in spite of herself, and followed Pippa at a run down the side of the house.

It was shadowy inside, dusty glass obscuring what sunlight there was on this side. There was an old-fashioned sink, square and white, a wooden draining board piled high with plates. One wall was taken up with a sideboard, the shelves stacked with oddities. A line of teapots. A small gold statue of a seated figure holding out multiple arms in a fan shape. Bottles layered over with swirls of candlewax.

Pippa tugged at her arm. ‘We’re making real pizza. I’m having the one with peppers. Seth brought the olives back from Spain.’

Helen’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the change of light. Jars and boxes crowded every surface and Will was sprawled on the floor, building a complicated structure around the table legs. She tried to take everything in. Vintage tins balanced in a row along a narrow shelf, next to a rusted sign for soap. On the opposite wall, an embroidered panel glowed, what light there was reflected from hundreds of circular mirrors sewn into it. A stack of books were ready to topple at one end of the table, and she could see a pan of something involving tomatoes bubbling on the stove. Their heady, sharp smell filled the space around her. Seth came in from behind her and crossed to the other side, disappearing behind the printed fabric curtain which hung in the doorway. Victoria appeared immediately after, as if she was swapping with him, stopping at the far end of the table and not seeming to notice Helen’s presence. She opened a jar, scooped something out and popped it into her mouth. Then she held it out.

‘Olive?’

Helen had never tried an olive before. It was firmer than she’d expected, with green skin that didn’t give under the pressure of her fingers. She nibbled a tiny bit from the end, expecting the sourness of an unripe plum. It tasted of salt, though, followed by a not unpleasant taste, as if she was nibbling on the end of a grass stalk. She couldn’t decide if she liked it or not, but it seemed rude not to finish so she carried on, scraping fragments away from the stone with the edge of her front teeth.

The jar was nearly empty. Victoria angled it to get at the last few, offering them to Helen again. This time she shook her head. Victoria tipped them all into her own mouth and threw the spoon across the table. As it clattered into the sink, she spoke through the mouthful of olives:

‘Let’s go upstairs. The dough won’t be ready for ages.’

Helen stood in the doorway, wondering where she was supposed to go. There were clothes everywhere, in silted heaps on the floor and spilling out of drawers in tangled chaos. Something that could have been a chair stood by the window, but she felt shy about pushing stuff off to uncover it. Victoria showed no signs of unease. She flopped on to the bed, wriggling herself more comfortably into the folds of the thrown-back blankets.

‘Come on, sit down.’ She gestured to the other end of the bed.

Helen perched on the edge. ‘Should I take my shoes off?’

Victoria looked down at her own faded baseball boots, crossed in front of her on the bed sheets. She shrugged. ‘If you want to.’

‘But what if your mum … I mean …’

Victoria made a sound that was almost a laugh.

‘Believe me, she’d be the last person to notice.’

Helen took her shoes off anyway.

The walls of the room had been painted a streaky pale purple, and were covered in an overlapping patchwork of posters: classic movie adverts, pop groups and arty prints. The smell of new paint hung in the air. An image of her own room – neat and pink, with no pinholes allowed in the wallpaper – went across Helen’s mind. It wasn’t as if her mother ever saw it now anyway, so why did she still keep it so tidy? She felt like going home and tearing big chunks out of the walls.

‘Where do you get your posters from?’ She pushed herself further back across the bed, so she could lean against the wall. ‘I’ve never seen any that big.’

‘London, mostly.’ Victoria reached to push a drawing pin in more securely. ‘There was a great shop down the road from our last house. And my uncle gives me them sometimes.’

The showpiece hung at the head of the bed, old and battered and thin along the crease lines. The corners rolled over the drawing pins and the pink and orange background colours were faded and beautiful. The main figure was caught in profile, the colours blocked in varying shades of yellow and brown: it was a man like a side-burned lion, his arms holding drumsticks triumphantly aloft and his knees splayed out behind a drum kit. The circle of the bass drum was filled with a landscape, a crazed country cottage at the side of a winding road headed for the mountains. The drummer’s feet, planted firmly in a two-and-ten position, seemed at first sight to be wearing odd shoes, but closer inspection revealed that the foot on the right was hidden behind a highly decorated snail. Snail and man had matching, heavily ringed eyes.