Chapter Six
SIX
Upstairs I find myself in a gloomy hallway with scuffed skirting boards and faded floral wallpaper. At one end, a doorway leading into the small bathroom with a mustard-yellow bathtub and a narrow window of frosted glass, the upper corner gaffer-taped where a crack runs through it. At the other, Billy’s room. It’s a box room, small and dark and stuffy, with a narrow bed pushed against a wall covered in posters of footballers and racing cars, the wallpaper scraped away in long, curling strips. I unfasten my suitcase and lift out my washbag, putting it carefully on the bed. Inside it is the small package the doctor gave me the previous day. I hadn’t told Oscar about the doctor’s appointment. It hadn’t gone on the calendar, or in the notepad next to the phone. I’d kept it a secret, barely believing I would be brave enough to attend, even as I’d stood outside the surgery in the sweltering heat, my heart palpitating. “I had a pregnancy scare,” I told the doctor, knitting my fingers between my knees and leaning forward on the leatherette chair, “and I really ju— I can’t. Do you understand that? I can’t be pregnant, not now.”
The doctor looked at me sympathetically, eyes dropping briefly to my engagement ring. She did not ask me any further questions as she filled out a prescription for the pill, and I was relieved. After all, how could I explain that the thought of having a baby with the man I am due to marry fills me with anxiety? That the idea of Oscar being a father—cautious, dutiful, resigned—makes me feel cold with a dread which I can’t name and daren’t examine, afraid of what it might mean? Instead I silently carried the little white box home from the chemist wrapped in a scarf and hidden in the bottom of my handbag. After all, if you’re careful, you’re safe, right? I turn back to my case and push aside the folded clothes, reaching into the small inner pocket. I pull out the photograph, carefully and reverently folded, the one taken in a restaurant in Crete with my brother in the background, appearing just over my shoulder. I study it, pressing my fingers gently to Eddie’s form. A psychometry token of my own, I think.
“That your husband?”
I jolt, looking up to see a young girl in the doorway. She is barefoot, pressing her toes deep into the carpet. With her denim cutoffs and wheat-colored hair, she’s a miniature version of Alice, only she has a frank, open gaze and a curiosity I hadn’t seen in her older sister.
“No, it’s my brother. You must be Tamsin.” I quickly fold the photograph away. “You gave me a fright.”
“You’re in Billy’s room. Poor you. He farts like mad.” She covers her mouth to hide a muffled laugh.
“Oh dear. But I think he’s sleeping with your mum and dad, so I should be safe. Do you share a room with your sister?”
She nods, chewing one of her fingernails. A soft toy hangs over her forearm, limbs dangling.
“That must be nice. I used to share a room with my brother when we were younger.”
“Alice hates it. Said she can’t wait to leave home.”
I study her. All three of the Webber children have a confidence I never had as a child; a willingness to look adults in the eye without fear of their scrutiny. It’s slightly disturbing. I’ve always assumed most children had been whittled into quiet obedience like Eddie and I had. It’s a shock.
Tamsin steps right into the room. It’s only small, and she is suddenly very close to me, enough that I can smell her breath, slightly sour. She looks around her with unconcealed distaste for her brother’s toys and clutter. She hooks her hands into her pockets, one leg wrapping around the other like a yogi.
“You’re here because there’s something wrong with Alice. Aren’t you?”
“Yes. But that’s not quite—”
“Will we be in the newspaper?”
“It’s not up to me, Tamsin. We’ll have to see what happens.”
“Huh.” She loses interest then, reaching for one of Billy’s toy cars. She spins the wheels of it with the palm of her hand. Her nose wrinkles. “I don’t like this room. It’s too small. My dad says when we get our new house we can have a bedroom each and I’m going to get a cat of my very own.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah. We’ll have enough room for a pinball machine and a pool table, he says. Mum said she wants a tumble dryer with lots of different settings. Will you come live with us, too? You won’t have to sleep in Billy’s disgusting old room neither.”
“Well, I’ll be married by then, Tamsin, so I think I’ll need to live with my husband.”
“He can come, too, if he wants.”
She’s grinning, excited. I’m surprised. What has happened to Alice so far sounds quite traumatic, although it’s possible their parents have shielded Tamsin from the worst of it. Still, though. I expected fear, concern at the very least.
“But won’t you be sad to leave here? This is your home, after all.”
She looks up at me and holds my gaze.
“Nuh-uh. This town is scary.”
“Okay, Tamsin, that’ll do.” It’s Lisa, coming up the stairs, a pile of laundry in her arms. “Let the poor woman unpack.”
Tamsin lingers a moment longer in the doorway, perhaps waiting for me to say something, to contradict her mother maybe. No, it’s all right, let her stay. When I don’t, she slowly lifts up her hand and waves goodbye to me. I wave back.
“She’ll talk the hind legs off a donkey, that one,” Lisa says as Tamsin heads for the stairs, trailing her hand along the wall. “Do you think you’ll be all right in here, Mina? It’s a bit cramped.”
“Oh yes, I will. This is so kind of you. Thank you.”
“No, thank you. Coming all the way down here, giving up your time. Here.” She holds up a silver mortise key, sliding it into the lock on the bedroom door. “We tend to hide these away from the kids; otherwise they’re a nightmare for locking each other either into or out of their rooms, but we thought you might find it useful for privacy. I know it must be a bit of a shock for you coming into this madhouse.”
I start to protest and she gives me a sympathetic smile.
“Don’t worry, Mina. I realize how it must seem to you, all this. I don’t know how much Sam’s told you but I’m really hoping you might be able to give us some answers about Alice. We’ve all been worried sick.”
“He mentioned you’ve pulled her out of school.”
“We had to, Mina. We didn’t have a choice. The things she was saying were scaring people—not just other kids, teachers, too. It got to the point where she had to be isolated at lunchtimes. No one would sit next to her in class.”
Her voice is quiet and slightly strained. She plucks nervously at the pile of laundry with her fingers, unable to meet my eye.
“I’m so sorry that was her experience. Adolescent mental health is something I’m really interested in, especially how it—” Lisa interrupts me by laughing softly and I tail off, confused.
“What?”
“Sorry, it’s just—‘mental health.’ Like Alice has got a broken brain or something.” I nod, and give Lisa a reassuring smile. I’ve been expecting this defensiveness, this disbelief. “Mental health” is a frightening term if you’re unfamiliar with it outside a clinical environment, seeming to conjure up images of a brain which is diseased or defective. I match the tone of my voice to hers, lean closer.
“It’s just a term to describe any number of conditions.”
“You know, I was always told there was a history of mental illness on my mother’s side because my great-grandmother found herself in St. Lawrence’s but it turns out she wasn’t mad, she was just poor. You know that used to happen a lot? Women being sent away to institutions for not having children, not wanting to get married or for having too little money? Makes me wonder if people would still like things to be that way.”
I speak carefully, can feel her agitation.
“I didn’t mean to suggest that Alice needs to be locked away.”
“It’s like already you’ve decided there’s something wrong with her. In the head, I mean.”
“Listen, Lisa—I’m here because Sam asked me to come and assess Alice from a psychological point of view. It’s my job to determine what’s underpinning her behavior and there are tests and methods I can use to do that. I don’t have any preconceptions about what this is.”
Lisa looks past me out the window. Downstairs, the front door slams and a male voice calls out. Immediately Tamsin flies out her bedroom yelling, “Dadd-eee!” and Billy’s feet clatter up the hallway. Lisa turns her head toward the noise.
“Ah!” she says, brightening. “Sounds like Paul’s home. Every day this happens. He comes in, winds the little ones up, then wonders why they’re too overexcited to sleep. Come on down and meet him when you’re done.”
I watch her leave, feeling hot and uncomfortable. Outside, the whump whump whump of helicopter blades passes overhead. They are dampening down the fields and heathland where the heather is dry as kindling and prone to sparking into quick, destructive flame.