The Dress (Everyday Magic Trilogy: Book 1) (20 page)

And yet, in recent weeks, there had been changes.

Just little things, but Ella noticed them.

The letters in blue airmail envelopes that had always seemed to find their way to wherever they were living, seemed to be coming with more regularity. Ella had picked them up from Mamma’s dressing-table and tried, a few times now, to decipher the thin pages but, of course, they were written by Madaar-Bozorg and so she couldn’t understand a word.

But also the things that Mamma didn’t say. She wasn’t using Italian words quite so much any more and her mind seemed to be returning, with regularity, to her childhood, the Old Country.

Just yesterday, flicking through a magazine, she’d said, ‘Oh, my aunt used to make this for me. This cake with honey and almonds and rosewater. It was my absolute favourite.’ And she’d said the name of the cake in the Old Language, sounding it out for Ella. She’d seemed genuinely pleased at the memory.

Another time she’d said, ‘Do you know, Ella, that our family own a house in the mountains, north of Tehran? It is such a
beautiful
place. The air so fresh. The pomegranate trees. I want to take you there one day…’

Ella found her mind drifting to this every time she swam. In the swimming pool, things cooled again. She could feel the blurred edges of her body being recast into firmer shapes.

She lay on her back under a lid of grey cloud, the rain prickling her face. She let herself hang there, in the pool’s centre, and watch the steam rising from the water.

The surface was perfectly still.

The chestnut trees at the edge of the pool were thickening under the heavy air, drinking the stickiness into their green folds, growing darker, more brooding.

*

‘Want to see something?’

Katrina looked up from the maths problem they were supposed to be solving and grinned conspiratorially.

‘What sort of thing?’ said Ella carefully. She had good reason to be wary of Katrina’s show-and-tells. 

‘Something a bit creepy. Something I’ve never shown anyone else…’

She wiggled her eyebrows. ‘So
do
you? Simple yes or no.’

Ella sighed and laid down her pen. She knew that she wasn’t going to get any more homework done.

‘OK, but no funny business, alright?’

Katrina rolled her eyes and crossed her heart with fake solemnity. She grabbed Ella’s hand and pulled her out of the chair.

‘Come on. But we’ve got to be Quiet As The Grave,’ she said in her stage whisper.

They stood on the large landing, Katrina straining for the slightest sound. The clattering of pans in the kitchen and the faint hum of Leonora’s radio programme drifted up from far below them.

They crept past the door to Katrina’s parents’ bedroom, Katrina wincing as a floorboard creaked under Ella’s feet. Mrs Cushworth usually took one of her naps at this time in the afternoon and didn’t emerge from her bedroom until dinnertime.

They reached the far side of the staircase and Katrina slipped a key from the back pocket of her jeans and inserted it in a door that looked like all the others on the second floor.

She gestured for Ella to follow.

Ella realised that she was standing in a teenage boy’s bedroom. It was a smaller room than Katrina’s. There was a single bed with a duvet cover patterned with the Leeds United Football Club logo and a framed football strip on the wall above. Lined up on the windowsill at precise intervals were various bits of what looked like mechanical parts – cogs, pulleys, levers.

There was a large oak desk stacked with books and a shelf lined with more bits of machinery and large chunks of what looked like rock. 

It was as if the occupant of the room had just stepped out for a moment – except that the bed was neatly made, the pillowcases smoothed.

Ella realised that Katrina was scrutinising her face for reactions.

‘Whose room
is
this?’ she whispered.

‘My dead brother’s,’ said Katrina. ‘Told you it was creepy. Weird, isn’t it? Mum keeps it like this. She doesn’t even let Leonora clean it. She spends hours in here on her own, dusting his bits of engine, his mouldy old books, his stupid fossil collection…’

Ella didn’t know what to say. She remembered what Billy had told her about Katrina’s brother.

‘What was his name?’ she said.

‘Laurence. Poncey name or what? I called him Potato Head. Always had his head in a book. He was like my dad. You know, brainy but absolutely no common sense. Always inventing useless things…’

She picked up a piece of engine and fondled the outline of it with her thumb.

‘Mum’s never got over it. He was her favourite, you see. Her darling little boy. Her genius.’

‘How did he die?’ said Ella, softly.

‘Kidney failure,’ said Katrina. ‘He was waiting for a transplant. Mum and Dad were just getting checked out to see if they could give him one of theirs… but then he got really sick…’

She shrugged her shoulders.

Ella pulled her cardigan closer around her body. The Signals were strong in here. It reminded her of the first day that she’d stepped into Katrina’s hallway, of the colours she’d felt plucking at her throat, her elbows.

Here in this room, she could feel the air stirring around her, making little eddies of cold. It was like what happened when you dropped a pebble in a still pond and the ripples spread out endlessly across the surface of the water. It was as if, just by being here, she’d somehow disturbed the surfaces of the room and now concentric circles of silver and blue were spreading out all around her body. 

‘How long ago?’ Her voice came out in a dry whisper.

Outside the room, there was a sudden noise of floorboards popping. They both jumped.

Katrina froze, her eyes wide, listening again.

Ella wondered if they were imagining it. The sound of footsteps receding, as if someone had been standing listening right outside the door and was now walking softly away.

‘C’mon,’ she said, finally, ‘Mum’ll kill me if she finds us in here.’

She placed the piece of metal back on the shelf – gently, precisely – and then opened the door a crack.

‘Quick. Now. Coast’s clear.’

Later, when they were safely back in Katrina’s bedroom, positioned in the pink leather armchairs, their textbooks spread across their knees, Ella glanced up to meet Katrina’stare. 

Her face was pale, serious, and she was watching her intently with those eyes of hers – one blue, one brown.

‘To answer your question, Ella-Pella, it was six years ago when he died. The Potato Head. It happened when I was nine.’

She shut her copy of
New GCSE Maths Revision
with a
snap.

‘Katrina. I’m so sorry…’ Ella said. ‘Do you want to…? I mean, would it help to…?’

‘Talk about it?’ said Katrina, pulling a face. ‘Not really. I think I want to be on my own now, El. We’re finished, anyway, aren’t we? I’ll see you here on Friday for the party.’
 

15.
Handkerchief with embroidered initial, F. Lace edging. 1930s.

Ella wishes that she were invisible.

She wants to slip silently past all the guests, kicking off her shoes, feeling the cool tiles against her bare feet.

No one would see her as she moved through the hallway, running her hand along the white wall, letting her fingers linger over the plaster border, its weave of vines and flowers.

At the foot of the staircase, she’d step out of the black dress, turning her body through the pools of light from the stained glass windows, letting red and yellow fall all over her, splashing her hair, her arms, her bare shoulders.

‘Ella, Ella-issima, you’re miles away,
tesora
.’

Mamma is looking at her, a smile hiding at the corners of her mouth.

‘Come on, Dippy Day-Dream. I want to show off my beautiful daughter.’

Ella smiles and smiles until her lips are dry and her teeth throb. She smiles at Katrina’s mother and at Katrina’s father, who she meets now for the first time. She smiles at Councillor Pike and at Mrs Cossington and at all her mother’s customers. She even returns the smug smile that hovers over Katrina’s face, Katrina lingering like a ghost on the stairs in her dress – pink, of course – made by Mamma. There’s a blotch of red light falling through the stained glass window and seeping over her right cheek like fake blood.

She takes the glass flute from the silver tray and follows David’s immaculately tailored back into the drawing-room. She looks at the pattern in the Indian rug. She admires, when prompted by Mamma, the prints on the walls, someone’s particularly lovely pair of earrings, a vase of white roses. She smiles and smiles again.

All the time, she feels The Signals, pressing at her throat and elbows, pushing up between her shoulderblades like tiny pairs of hands.

Run
, they whisper.
Run
.

*

In the television room, in front of the vast TV, a group of men had sunk into the enormous leather sofas.

The window blinds were inching their way silently down the windows, as if all by themselves.

‘They’re on very sophisticated motion sensors,’ Katrina’s father explained. ‘They pick up over there on anyone entering the room.’ He pointed to the door. ‘Invisible, huh? All hidden behind the cornicing… And then they adjust to the exact levels of light at any one time, to minimise reflection on the screen.’

He crossed to the window. ‘Of course, you can adjust the settings to your own personal preferences. I like total darkness for film-viewing myself but my wife, well, she prefers a softly dimmed light…’

He gestured out of the window to the expanse of lawn shimmering into the distance. ‘Got the entire irrigation system – sprinklers, hidden hoses, all that stuff – linked up too. All works beautifully…’

‘Well,’ said David, smiling politely, ‘that’s very impressive. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.’

Mr Cushworth looked at them both with a suddenly self-conscious expression. Katrina saw that the collar of his carefully-pressed shirt was limp with sweat. The bold blue checks hung crumpled and askew. As if he could feel his eyes on her, Mr Cushworth undid the second button at his collar and began to unfasten his heavy silver cufflinks, folding his sleeves up over themselves as far as the elbow.

‘It’s going to revolutionise the way we live,’ he said, a little defensively. ‘DOMOHOME, we’re calling it. Because, of course, the correct term for home automation is
domotics
. See what we’ve done there?’ He gave a little nervous laugh.

He’s not at all like Katrina or her mum, thought Ella. He actually cares what we think. He doesn’t want David to think he’s stupid.

‘We’ve got Sony and a whole bunch of other people already signed up,’ Mr Cushworth went on. His voice was getting higher, faster, as if he sensed that David’s attention might be waning. ‘Been holding talks with Microsoft this past week, in fact. We’ve already got contracts with celebs and musicians and footballers. They can’t get enough of us, those guys.’

‘Is that so…?’ said David, stroking his chin. ‘Incredible.’

‘Yep,’ said Katrina’s father. ‘The world’s going mad for home automation. It’s the future. If you’re interested, I might have a few tips for you…’ He touched the side of his nose and winked at Ella.

David smiled. ‘Ah. I’m not an investing man, myself,’ he said. ‘Never understood how it all works. No, I’ll stick to medicine and leave the rest to the people that know what they’re doing. Men of business, like your good self.’

‘Well, don’t say I didn’t tip you off,’ said Katrina’s father. ‘You
do
have Blu-Ray though, I presume?’

‘I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you on that score too,’ said David, good- naturedly. ‘I hardly even have time to sit down most evenings. In fact, you’d probably think my TV set a bit of a museum piece. But it suits me just fine for now.

Mr Cushworth looked genuinely perplexed. There was a moment of silence in which he ran his finger around the rim of his wine glass.

Then a loud voice broke in.

Mrs Cushworth swept through the door, balancing a tray of canapés in one hand and a champagne flute in the other.

‘Graham, I really hope you’re not boring everyone to death,’ she said in her harsh, bright voice, then turned to us with her fake smile. ‘I do apologise for my husband, darlings. He’s getting to be an absolutely awful bore. I’ve told him. Haven’t I, Graham? I’ve told you over and over again, if I hear another thing about sprinklers or automated HVAC…’

‘That’s heating, ventilation and air conditioning…’ Mr Cushworth chipped in hopefully, his voice dying away as his wife shot him a look.

‘Yes,
dear
. Thank you for enlightening us. As I was saying, and I say it to him all the time,
all
the time, if I hear another darn thing about it, well, I might just slit my wrists. I certainly might just leave him for someone
a bit more interesting
, anyway…’

Her laugh whinnied around the room, drifting over the heads of the guests on the sofa, some of whom now hoisted themselves to a standing position and drifted off, muttering excuses about getting another drink, more of those delicious little snacks.

The familiar warm tide began at Ella’s neck and crept over her face. She could feel The Signals leaping between Mr and Mrs Cushworth, scratched shapes with red spikes, hers firm and jagged, his wavering, curling back on themselves, already beginning to fade to orange. 

David moved in swiftly. ‘I find it quite fascinating,‘ he said, ‘Quite, quite intriguing,‘ and he flashed Mrs Cushworth one of his friendliest smiles. ‘Yes, I think your husband should feel awfully proud of what he’s achieved here. As I understand it, and I don’t really know what I’m talking about, but it’s one thing building a purpose-designed modern home and quite another to update a house as old as… erm, your very beautiful period property here, concealing everything, retaining all the lovely features and so on…’ 

His voice was slow, purposeful, smooth as the
crema
on Mamma’s coffee. It was his reassuring-a-patient voice and it worked like a charm on Mrs Cushworth, bringing her back to herself, leaving her, for once, lost for words.