The House of Memories (13 page)

Dear Felix,

I miss you. You know that by now, but I want to say it again. I wish I didn’t have to say it. Every day I wish everything was different. I wish I could change everything that happened.

There is no way any of us can make sense of this. There is no reason it happened. I know the circumstances—of course I know the circumstances—but it doesn’t matter how many times I think it over. I cannot find a single reason to justify your being taken from our lives this soon. It was an accident. It was an accident. I hate the word accident more than I hate any word in the world.

The entire world could have continued as it was with you in it. In the huge scheme of things, the great stage of the world, why did the universe, God, whoever is in charge, if there is anyone in charge, deem it necessary to take you out of the picture? What difference would it have made to the whole world to let you live? You weren’t even two years old. I can’t understand it. There are tyrants, thieves, crooks, murderers, wife-beaters, embezzlers and torturers allowed to walk on this earth every day and someone, somewhere, decides that they can keep living but that you can’t. Felix, I can’t bear it.

You didn’t just live. You glowed. You glowed from the start to the finish of every day. There was a sparkle in your eye, a spark and a sparkle. You loved life. You did things with glee and joy. You brought glee and joy into our lives. You made us all laugh. You entertained us. You made us all realize that days can be hard but life is worth living, that the sound of a baby’s laughter can feel like a big deep breath of the best air in the world.

We are all so sad. All of us. You leaving us—you being taken from us—has torn us all apart. I don’t know if that will ever be fixed. How can it be, when you are gone? When each of us is hurting so much—in different ways but hurting from the same thing. Before this happened, I’d always thought something like this would bring people together, to grieve, to try to find a way of going on. Now I understand why it is the opposite. It hurts too much to be able to share it.

I miss you, Felix. I miss you every single day.

S
ince I’d got Charlie’s e-mail mentioning the Famous Five and Secret Seven, I’d found myself thinking back to those detective books of my childhood. If memory served me right, the basic approach to solving a crime—in children’s books at least—was to wear a disguise or hide in some bracken and wait for the suspect, or in my case suspects, to make an elementary mistake.

I wasn’t sure if that would work in this instance. After three days in the house, I hadn’t even met the four tutors. It didn’t help that my sleep patterns were still disturbed from my flight. By the time I woke up each morning, they’d already left, a sink full of dishes the only sign they’d been there. Each night so far, they’d all been out until late, studying or tutoring, I presumed. From my bedroom, I’d hear them come in, hear murmured voices, but it didn’t seem like the right time to get up and introduce myself. I finally decided the best way to meet was at a house dinner.

I’d knocked on Lucas’s door the previous night. He was on the phone, but gestured for me to come in while he brought the conversation to an end.

“I do hate those cold calls,” he said after he’d hung up. “Do they seriously think I’ll agree to buy a new roof after one random conversation with a stranger?”

“You actually do need a new roof,” I said. “I’m sure I heard water dripping last night.”

“I’ll add it to the list,” he said. “So, Ella, how are your investigations going?”

Nowhere, I admitted. I mentioned my idea of a dinner. Lucas thought it was an excellent plan.

“What’s the best way of asking them?” I asked. “Should I put notes under their doors? And do you know if any of them have any food allergies, or are vegetarians?”

To my amazement, he took out a smartphone and tapped out a message. Within two minutes, four messages came back. They were all free on Saturday and no, no allergies, no vegetarians.

“You don’t have to look quite so shocked, Ella,” Lucas said. “I can turn on a TV too.”

On my way out, I stopped. “Lucas, your tutors . . . do they know about—”

“They know you’re my niece. That you worked as an editor. That’s all they needed to know.”

I took my time planning the dinner. I spent Saturday shopping, cleaning and preparing the three courses: mushroom and herb soup, roast chicken with a complicated potato gratin and four other vegetable side dishes, and a twice-cooked chocolate pudding. As dusk fell, I set the table in the dining room. I lit the fire and a row of candles, set out Lucas’s best china, opened bottles of wine and polished glasses. By ten to seven the room was quiet and ready, the aroma of cooking drifting across from the kitchen. By two minutes past seven, everyone was there. Lucas’s tutors were not only clever but punctual.

Lucas made the introductions. “This is Ella, your new overlord, cook and housekeeper. If there’s no food in the house from now on, blame her, not me.”

“No more cornflakes for dinner?” the pink-haired girl said. “Three cheers for Ella!”

As I was introduced, I mentally paired each of them with their CVs. Peggy with the pink hair—the literature student from Newcastle. Harry, tall and skinny—the scientist from Liverpool. Darin, handsome, short, originally from Iran—languages. Mark, stocky, freckles and glasses—the mathematician from Brighton.

Over the next half hour, I did my best to make small talk as I topped up their predinner drinks. Lucas being there helped. It almost felt normal. I realized I’d forgotten how enjoyable it was to be in a big warm room, surrounded by the hum of conversation, wine flowing, the prospect of dinner ahead. I’d been a waitress in restaurants night after night, of course, but this was different.

At seven thirty, everyone took their seats at the long table. I brought in the first course of soup. I’d turned down all their offers of help.

“I could get used to this,” Harry said.

“I already have,” Mark said, shaking out his napkin.

As they ate, they talked and teased one another, and Lucas too. It was clear they had a good relationship with him. The conversation flowed around me, a discussion about a current political scandal, Britain’s stance on the EU, their opinions informed and lively. I stayed quiet, watching and listening. They didn’t look like thieves or criminals. They looked like exactly what they were—bright, intelligent students enjoying dinner together.

“Enough idle talk about current affairs,” Lucas said, after I’d collected six soup bowls and five sets of compliments. “Why don’t you all tell Ella a little about yourselves?”

“Through the medium of song?” asked Darin, the language tutor. “Let me fetch my lute.”

Peggy, seated beside him, grinned. “I’ll start. I’m from Newcastle, Ella, hence the amusing accent. My interests are cats, jigsaw puzzles and saving the world. When I grow up, I want to marry a footballer and never work again.”

“She’s lying about the footballer,” Harry, the scientist from Liverpool, said. “She couldn’t name a sports team if you put a starter’s gun to her head. I’m the sports fan, Ella. I have a thirty-five-run average at cricket, a phenomenal memory for rugby statistics and a charming disposition.”

Mark was next. “I’m an only child, a solitary being. I wander lonely as a cloud. I’m from Brighton, in the county of East Sussex. Chief attractions, a burned-out pier and a stony beach. I thoroughly recommend it for a day trip. Just be sure to buy a return ticket.”

“You’re sure I can’t fetch my lute?” Darin said. “I’ll keep it short. Ten verses max.”

“Ten verses too long, Darin,” Peggy said. “Your turn, Ella.”

“Ella’s on duty,” Lucas said smoothly. “If we distract her, we’ll never get our dinner.”

Over the main course, they switched from scientific discussions to Greek history to Shakespearean quotes to the latest YouTube pop sensation. Perhaps they were putting it on for me, but it was like tuning into a lively radio program, all wit, banter and intelligence. I had to force myself to remember why I was here: not to enjoy their company and conversation, but to try to catch one of them out.

As I served coffee, the subject moved to their students. Not the bright, high-achieving ones. The others. Lucas had told me he insisted on confidentiality outside the house. Many of the students were the children of well-known people, after all. But here in the privacy of the dining room, it was clearly open season.

I heard about Cassandra, a fourteen-year-old student being tutored by Mark for her maths and by Darin for Spanish and Italian. She was being difficult again, they reported to Lucas. Her father—a rock star, I gathered—hadn’t been home for a week and it wasn’t because he was on tour. Her mother had taken to her bed, spending most of the day sleeping or smoking dope. Cassandra was texting her way through her lessons, if she deigned to turn up at all. Lucas asked questions and made notes.

Harry spoke about another student, the teenage son of a merchant banker, who had failed his most recent exams again, despite extra coaching from himself, Peggy and Darin.

“I’ve done all I can, Lucas,” Harry said, “but the fact remains. He’s thick as a plank.”

“We don’t use terms like that in this house,” Lucas said.

“I’m sorry, but it’s true, Lucas,” Peggy said. “I’ve tried every trick I could think of to coach him through
Hamlet
but nothing seems to stick.”

“He’s not thick,” Darin said. “He’s spoiled and lazy. He told me there’s no point in him studying or going to university. His father will get him a job, degree or no degree.”

“That new student in Mayfair is the same,” Peggy said. “I did three extra sessions with her this week, Lucas, as you suggested, but it’s like pushing a boulder uphill. I know her father has won the Booker or the Pulitzer, but the sad truth is she can’t string two words together. She can barely spell. She’s not interested either. All she wants to do is work with horses.”

“Keep at it for now,” Lucas said. “I’ll ask Henrietta to do another appraisal.”

“It’ll take more than Henrietta to fix her,” Peggy said. “It doesn’t help that her father is
obsessed
with her going to Cambridge. If he tells me one more time that he had the best years of his life there, I’ll—”

“Tell him you went to Oxford?” Harry said.

They all laughed. I saw Lucas make another note.

After coffee, they left for their rooms. They’d offered to help tidy up, but I insisted I was happy to do it all myself. The ground floor was soon quiet again. In the kitchen on my own, I was the noisy one, working my way through the dishes. I wondered whether a dishwasher featured in Lucas’s renovation plans.

As I worked, I tried to imagine one of them stealing from their clients. I couldn’t. They all seemed too straightforward. Fun, clever. Of course, they’d shown me their best sides, kept any secrets to themselves. Didn’t we all? Wasn’t that self-preservation? I’d done the same thing myself tonight. Pretended. Smiled, asked questions, even laughed. I realized it was the closest I’d come to feeling normal, to behaving like a normal person, in twenty months.

What if I had told them my story? What would have happened to the relaxed evening? It would have changed everything. Not just the mood in the room, but the way they treated me from then on. I knew that from experience. It was one of the many reasons I kept to myself. No one knew how to handle someone with a story like mine. I made people uncomfortable. Uneasy. I understood. Before it had happened, I wouldn’t have known what to say to people like me either.

I had a sudden memory of a grief clinic I’d gone to in Melbourne, after seeing an ad for it in my local community newspaper. One-on-one counseling hadn’t helped me. Perhaps this would. It was held in a room in my local library in St. Kilda. When I first walked in, I thought I’d come to the wrong place, to a book club or a music appreciation class. Everyone there looked so normal. I’d had a bad few days. It had been hard enough leaving my flat that night, let alone putting on makeup.

I stopped in the doorway. “Excuse me, but is this the—”

“Sad Room?” an old man said. They all laughed. I nearly left then.

“Come in,” another said. “Make yourself at home.”

They took turns sharing their stories. One after another. It was a room of pain. I stayed for the entire meeting but I didn’t speak. I was already too raw. I couldn’t bear to hear that so many other people were in agony too. I didn’t go again.

I used to be fun. I know that’s like someone describing themselves as edgy or zany. As Charlie said once, if you have to think about being cool, then you’re not cool. But I used to be a happy person. I loved life. I loved Aidan and my work and our life together and our apartment, and most of all, I loved Felix. Life wasn’t perfect, of course. I didn’t live in a fairy tale. Aidan and I got on very well, but we did have disagreements, like any couple juggling two careers and the care of a young child. We’d argue over who was doing the most housework, whose turn it was to do the shopping, whose turn it was to get to sleep in. But our arguments didn’t last long. They were passing clouds on our generally blue sky. I still thought the world was fair. I thought that if I was kind and polite, let strangers go in front of me in queues, indicated while driving and followed the rules of modern living and etiquette, only good things would happen to me. But now I know that’s not true. There are no safety nets, barriers or rules. I had just been lucky. And my luck had run out.

In the first year after Felix died, all I could see were the sadnesses and injustices of the world. Not only the massive events—the tsunamis, the earthquakes, the wars and the uprisings—though they made me cry, night after night in front of the TV. The small tragedies around me broke my heart too. The sight of lonely old people. Homeless people. Drug addicts. People in hospitals. One day, out shopping, I saw an old lady pushing her elderly husband in a wheelchair. She was trying to carry a large bag of groceries and push him at the same time. I wanted to help. I even took a step toward them but then I became too overwhelmed. What good would it do? What difference would I possibly make to their lives? What was the point in even trying? Another day, I overheard a young woman on the phone. She was on her own with a baby. I didn’t envy her the baby. I only wanted Felix. But I heard her fighting with the child’s father and she was so upset and angry, and the baby was crying, and all I could think of was the hardship ahead for her, for the three of them.

Standing at the sink, I felt the sadness descend again. The good mood from dinner faded, like color turning to black and white in my mind. Again, all I could think of was life’s dark side. The pointlessness of all we did, all our plans, our hopes. Why did any of us even bother, when in one instant, one second, it could all be taken away from us—

Stop! Stop thinking that way. Stay busy.

I decided to clean out the kitchen cupboards. They were filthy. There were more than a dozen around the room, some reaching from floor to ceiling. Some of the doors could barely close, the cupboards were so overcrowded. They probably hadn’t been tidied, let alone cleaned, since I lived here last. It was suddenly very important that I start on them right away.

I was still at it two hours later when Lucas came in to say good night. I was on my knees, reaching into the tallest of the store cupboards, trying to scrape something off the back wall. It looked like spilled treacle.

He stood and watched me for a moment. “You do know it’s after midnight?”

I nodded.

“Ella, they’ve been like that for the past three years. I’m sure they’ll wait another few hours.”

“I’m fine, Lucas, really. I’ve started, so I may as well finish.”

He hesitated, and then said good night.

It was nearly two a.m. by the time I went to bed.

Three days later, I had cleaned every cupboard in the house, polished every inch of the banisters, shaken out all the rugs and filled the freezer with casseroles, soups and stews. I’d left a note asking the tutors to leave out their linen. I’d laundered it all, then delivered fresh sheets and pillowcases back to their rooms. I’d washed the curtains in all the downstairs rooms. When I wasn’t working in the house, I was out walking in Hyde Park or Kensington Gardens. Even walking through the gates seemed to calm me. There were so many paths I could take, a different one each visit. I was in the center of London, but when I was walking in the park, there seemed to be nothing around me but the consolation of nature, quiet, space and light.