Jean returned the pressure of Alice’s fleshless grip.
“Don’t torture yourself about what might or might not have happened to Gretchen. We can never know for certain.”
And yet I do, she thought. Everything she had been told confirmed Kitty’s story of her strange night visitor. No angel, then, but this troubled boy, standing over Gretchen while she slept her drugged sleep. She could feel the burden, as it passed to her from Alice, pressing down on her, forcing the air from her lungs, as heavy as a grown man.
“Well, you must do as you see fit. He’s beyond harm now and I will be too before much longer.”
“I’m glad you told me,” said Jean.
It was a lie of kindness. She felt a wave of nostalgia for her previous anxieties and dilemmas. What comfortable worries they now seemed. Having set out in pursuit of the truth, she had now learned something it would have been better not to know. She would never again be able to look on Margaret with the same innocent delight, unspoiled by fear of what the future might bring.
“Will you pass my purse?” Alice was saying, indicating the bedside unit behind Jean’s chair. “I want to show you something.”
Jean located the red leather wallet from among the few belongings and watched as Alice withdrew a buckled photograph with shaking fingers. It was the size of a playing card and showed a dark-haired boy of about seven holding a cricket bat. He was standing in a garden, in front of a wicket chalked on a wooden fence, and was poised to receive a delivery, caught in a moment of perfect absorption. Jean couldn’t help scanning it for any likeness to Margaret, but the image was too small to make any meaningful comparisons.
“That’s Vicky, before he got ill,” said Alice. “He was such a lovely boy.”
“I can see that.”
“Promise me you won’t think of him as a monster. He was only a child himself. And whatever he did, he did because he was ill, not evil.”
“I don’t.”
“Whatever he may have gone on to do, he was all we had left of my sister and he meant the world to us.”
38
The bell was ringing as Jean climbed the stairs carrying a tray of supper—an omelette with a slice of tinned ham—a glass of milk and Dorrie’s letter, which had arrived that morning.
She had thought Mrs. Melsom’s gift of a little brass handbell a kindness, but after a few nights of jumping up to answer its tinkling summons was beginning to wonder if it wasn’t an act of revenge. Since her return from the hospital, her mother appeared to have developed quite a taste for a life lived in bed. No amount of hinting, cajoling or stern admonishment could tempt her back downstairs. Her legs were too weak, her balance too precarious; the armchair too uncomfortable. It was as much as she could do to totter along the landing to the bathroom. Steps would be unthinkable.
“This looks nice,” she said, pouring a molehill of salt onto her plate. “You can’t beat eggs,” and then she stopped, realizing she had accidentally made a joke and unsure how to proceed.
Jean sat on the dressing table stool, looking at her reflection in the winged mirror—two infinite rows of Jeans with the same hunted expression swooped away from her.
“Are you not having anything yourself?”
“No,” Jean replied. “I’m feeling a bit nauseous.”
She hadn’t eaten more than toast for twenty-four hours and even that had turned to ash in her mouth. Her visit to Alice had robbed her of all energy and appetite.
“Shall I read to you again tonight?”
She had discovered that it was impossible to think, fret or agonize while reading aloud. Housework, listening to music, reading to herself or any of the other traditional distractions did nothing to quieten the clamouring in her head. They were making great progress with The Nine Tailors. Of course, her thoughts could only be held off for so long; as soon as she was quiet they came swarming back.
“Yes, please.”
“What does Dorrie have to say?”
Now, more than ever, she felt the absence of a sister to confide in. It might have helped to talk to someone quite unconnected with the Tilburys, who could listen without judging. In Jean’s experience people tended to be divided into two camps: sympathizers and advisers. Dorrie, too much of a hedonist herself to expect much of others, was a sympathizer. She would only listen and comfort. Her mother was firmly in the other camp. Unhappiness had not softened her to the suffering of others; quite the reverse.
Her mother skimmed through the air-mailed letter, filleting for what she considered to be “news”—chiefly sickness and health, and the twins’ achievements. Matters pertaining to her son-in-law, Kenneth, whom she held responsible for luring Dorrie overseas, were of no interest.