She hears Una’s tread on the stairs. She hopes she’s taken her shoes off. Kathryn will have to go down in a minute and check whether Una locked the front door properly – she won’t be able to sleep until she does. She glances at the clock on her bedside table. It’s nearly midnight. Who was the man Una was with tonight? She said at her interview she didn’t have a boyfriend. She can’t see her mother liking that very much. Elspeth wants her girls to be at her beck and call, with no family ties or commitments. When Matilde had acquired a boyfriend, all hell had broken loose. Luckily he hadn’t lasted long. Her mother had put paid to that.
She wonders how Ed and the boys are doing. Despite spending two nights every week with Elspeth （much to Ed’s chagrin, mainly because he has to get off his backside and take some parental responsibility）， she still misses her family when she’s away. Her real, imperfect, annoying family. Being in this house stirs up memories she’d rather forget, even after all this time, although Elspeth has more or less wiped away any sign of the past. But Kathryn is still haunted by it. And by Matilde and Jemima. She can still see their mark on the walls, the carpets, still feel their energy in every room. They are like spirits that refuse to be exorcized.
Kathryn sits on the edge of the bed and gathers her thoughts. They are all over the place, like wayward toddlers running off in different directions. She tries to bring them together in her mind: her mother, Jemima, Una and the boy she was with, and Lewis. Lewis. Her mind pauses on the gardener. What was her mother arguing with him about in the garden? She’d gone down to the kitchen to talk to Aggie and seen her mother and Lewis having a heated discussion out on the patio despite the rain settling on their shoulders and hair. What has Lewis done wrong now? Another gardener about to bite the dust, no doubt.
When Kathryn’s sure that Una is safely ensconced in her bedroom, she pads down the stairs to check the front door. Una forgot to double-lock it, just as Kathryn had suspected she would – she’d have to talk to her about it tomorrow. Kathryn turns the bolt clockwise, latching it into place. Then she stands with her back to it, surveying the large hallway and the doors to the rooms coming off it: the library, the snug, the sitting room, the dining room that nobody uses, the stairs that lead to the basement kitchen. The only light comes from the landing upstairs. Her mother is fast asleep – she checked on her about an hour ago. She’s a heavy sleeper so Kathryn doubts she heard Una come in, or Kathryn walking about the house.
The Cuckoo’s Nest. She remembers when her mother named the house. She hadn’t long moved in. It was typical of Elspeth’s dark, sadistic sense of humour. ‘The cuckoo,’ she’d said, stroking a finger down Kathryn’s silky eleven-year-old cheek. ‘It’s perfect, my dear, because that’s exactly what you are.’
Kathryn runs her hand along the gleaming teak banister as she returns to her room. This house will be hers one day. She’s worked hard for it, put up with her mother’s bad behaviour, her moods and her put-downs and her demands over the years. She’s put Elspeth before her own family. Yes, Kathryn deserves it. And she’s waited a long time for it. Nothing will get in the way of that. No, it will be hers and hers alone. The cuckoo. The cuckoo’s nest.
10
Una
It must have been Kathryn in my room. I can’t imagine it would have been Elspeth. She’s asleep by nine thirty most nights and she finds the narrow staircase that leads up here tricky to navigate. Kathryn must have a spare key. I’m shocked that she took the effort to unlock the door and creep in, knowing I was out. Why? Why was she invading my personal space and watching me from the window? Was she spying on me? I shudder at the thought.
I glance around my room. Has she touched anything? Maybe she’d been looking for something. I pick up the clothes I left on the bed and, remembering my vow of tidiness, I fold them and put them away in a drawer. Nothing seems out of place.
Kathryn must have seen me with Vince. She’ll have got the wrong idea about us. I’ll have to find a way of setting the record straight tomorrow – although I have to be tactful because I don’t want her to think I’m accusing her of being in my room. Even though I know it was her, I can’t actually prove it. And it is her mother’s house, after all.
I find it hard to sleep. I keep tossing and turning, thinking of Vince and the pub, of Kathryn and Elspeth. When I do drift off, I dream that I’m morphing into Matilde, then Jemima and that someone is chasing me but I can’t see who. I wake up sweating, my heart racing. I’m exhausted when the alarm on my mobile goes off at six the next morning, ready for another day.