The Empty Frame
Authors: Ann Pilling
Ann Pilling
For Joe, with love always
There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment.
1 John 4, 18
The Admiral relates how he was sitting up late one night with his brother, over a game of chess, in a panelled room overlooked by the portrait of Lady Hoby. “We had finished playing, and my brother had gone up to bed. I stood for some time with my back to the wall, turning over the day in my mind. Minutes passed. I suddenly realised the presence of someone standing behind me. I tore round. It was Dame Hoby. The frame on the wall was empty. Terrified, I fled the room.”
from
The Story of Bisham Abbey
by Piers Compton
Floss was fed up. She was looking at herself in the mirror and she didn't like what she saw, neither her mop of dark hair, so frizzy and so coarse (“panscrubbers” a boy had said once) nor her stupid little nose, nor the fact that she was too short to be an actress and seemed to be putting on weight. She didn't even like her name.
Floss was short for Flossie, and both were short for Florence. She hated all her names this morning, she wanted something dignified and mysterious, a name like Hepzibah or Beatrice, something with history behind it.
“Sam, what do you think Lady Macbeth's name was?” she asked her brother, who was sprawled across the floor looking at a map. He too was stocky and short and he too had pan-scrubber hair, though it didn't seem to bother him.
“Dunno. Mavis I should think.”
Floss threw her book at him. It was Mum's
Complete Shakespeare
, it was big.
“Ouch! For heaven's sake, Floss.”
“Sorry.” She rescued the book, relieved to find that it was still in one piece. “It's just that I'm so depressed. I'll never get this part. My hair's not right and I'm too short. They'll give it to Anna Houghton. She's tall and she's got the most brilliant hair.”
“Looks aren't everything,” Sam said. “Anna Houghton's dim, anyhow. I bet she doesn't understand what the play's about. Which bit are you doing, anyway?”
“The sleepwalking scene, where she comes on wringing her hands, when she can't get rid of the guilt about them having murdered the old king. It's funny, when they actually kill him she's the strong one. Macbeth behaves like a real wimp. But when things start catching up with them she's the one that goes mad.”
“And what happens?”
“She kills herself â but not on the stage.”
“Glad about that,” Sam said. “I don't fancy watching you do that to yourself. Go for it anyhow, that's what Mum and Dad said. I bet you'll get it.”
Floss curled up again in her chair and tried to get the lines into her head. Their year was putting on
Scenes from Shakespeare
for the school's Christmas drama competition, and she wanted to be Lady Macbeth. She had planned to get the part word-perfect by the end of the summer holiday, but now they were going away and she
wasn't sure she'd be able to learn all the lines. Perhaps she'd relax, instead of swotting up Shakespeare. The audition might be too nerve-racking. Anyhow, there was Magnus. Mum and Dad had said they must look after him.
“Do you think it'll be all right, going away with Magnus?” she asked Sam. At first he didn't answer, merely crouched lower over his map. Magnus, the boy their parents were fostering and who now lived with them, was a subject they found it difficult to discuss. They both had strong feelings about him.
“It's on a river,” he said, “quite a big one. It looks like a tributary of the Thames. There'll be boats I should think. It'll be great if this hot weather keeps up. There's a swimming pool too.”
“But what about Magnus? I don't think he can swim.”
“He'll be fine. We can teach him,” Sam said easily. He was the unflappable type, a good foil for Floss who tended to panic.
“What do you really feel about Magnus living here?” Floss asked him, shutting the book. She was definitely abandoning Shakespeare for the day.
Sam folded his map up, very precisely and slowly. Then he took in a deep breath and let it out, also very slowly. “I'm not sure,” he said. “It's not that I don't like him. I mean there's nothing to dislike, is there? He hardly ever speaks.”
“No, but when he does it's something he's really thought about. Have you noticed? I think he's rather clever.” The truth was that Floss thought Magnus quite amazingly clever. When he came out with his quick, precise observations she felt like a dinosaur plodding around in gum boots.
“Well of course he's clever,” Sam said. “But then, his father was some kind of genius wasn't he, in a university?”
“I think so. I wish we knew a bit more, though. I mean, I know it's awful, how he's been treated, but we've got to live with him.”
“Well, I'm not sure I'd go round telling people about my mother going to pieces, when my father had just walked out without a word, and had never come back. They sound
weird.
That's when his mother started doing strange things, and ill-treating him, according to Dad.”
“But why did nobody
know
?”
“Well, I think she, sort of, withdrew from everybody, with Magnus. She actually went to live in another town, where no one knew her. His father had been teaching him at home, so his school wouldn't have missed him and I suppose outsiders didn't want to barge in. I mean, they must have been very respectable, not the kind of people social workers are asked to investigate, unless someone tells them to.”
“And nobody did?”
“No, not until it was too late, not according to Mum and Dad.”
“I wonder why the father walked out?”
“Dunno, but I don't think he went off with someone else. Dad said he'd got very stressed-out, about his work, he said it was all that mattered to him. He was obviously an unbalanced kind of person. That's why he pushed Magnus so hard, at his lessons. I should think it's why he won't always co-operate now, at school. He's digging his heels in. Don't blame him either.”
“He's getting a lot better though.”
“Yes, I know.”
“But why didn't the mother protect Magnus more? That's what mothers do.”
“Perhaps she was frightened of the father. She can't have been very tough, she's had some kind of mega mental breakdown now, that's why he can't go to see her.”
“Poor old Mags. You do mind him being here though, don't you, Sam? Why?”
Sam sat back on his heels. “I don't know,” he said. “I didn't think it would matter so much. I know Dad and Mum care about us just the same but it feels different now, that's all. It's how I feel. I can't help it.”
Floss said, “But Sam, he cries in the night, he really sobs. It's awful.”
“I know.”
“The fostering person told Mum and Dad he'd been beaten, and shut in cupboards, things like that. And when she was ill his mother made him do all the housework. He was only little, it went on for ages. How
could
she?”
“I've told you, because she was sick, in her mind. They don't keep people in hospital for nothing. They must think Magnus is better off with us, for now.”
Silence fell in the shabby, familiar sitting room. Privately, both sister and brother had minded the coming of Magnus, an eleven-year-old boy to whom these terrible things had happened, but they'd promised their parents that they'd try to make him feel welcome. And they were trying. It was hard though, with somebody so unresponsive.
“He won't be with us for ever,” Floss said firmly.
“No.” But Sam didn't sound very convinced. His parents had big hearts. He suspected they would hold on to Magnus, if it was humanly possible.
“Well, this holiday might help,” Floss said, perking up. She had more or less decided not to audition for Lady Macbeth and at once she felt a lot more cheerful. “Tell me where we're going, again.”
“Why don't you look it up for yourself?” Sam said, putting his map inside a folder labelled ABBEY in neat, square printing.
“I've not had time, with the play and everything. Come on.”
“Well, I've told you, it's on a river,” Sam said. “Mum's cousin sent that booklet about it, you could have read it.” But actually he quite liked telling Floss things. She was cleverer than he was, though not in the same league as Magnus. “It started as a kind of religious house, for pilgrims travelling to shrines. They used to stay there on the way.”
“Sort of â mediaeval bed and breakfast?”
“Yes. But they said prayers for you.”
“Then what happened to it?”
“Well, according to the book some monks took over, Henry the Eighth chucked them out in the end. He seems to have got quite fond of the place himself. He could sail down to it from London, on the river. Queen Elizabeth slept there too.”
Floss snorted. “Come off it. Surely you don't believe
that.
”
“Why not? She slept everywhere.”
“Well, that's what I mean. So how did Mum's relation come to own it?”
“I'm not sure she does own it, not the whole place. There's a man called Stickley. He's related to her and he's the one that seems to run it. I think it was left to them both in a will.”
“
Stickleyâ¦
” Floss mused. “It sounds horrible. So why did they turn it into a sports centre? It must have
been gorgeous once, from that picture Mum showed us.”
“They needed money to keep it going, I suppose. At least they still live in it. Anyhow, we'll have the run of the whole place, with luck. There's a swimming pool, and tennis courts, and all those keep-fit machines.”
“Ugh,” said Floss.
“It might get your weight down,” Sam said slyly. “I don't suppose Lady Macbeth went to Weight Watchers. All that wringing of hands â she was probably anorexic.”
Floss picked up the Shakespeare. This time she really
would
throw it at him. But then she put it down again hurriedly. Someone had crept into the room, switched on the television and was sitting in front of it, perched very neatly on a bean bag.
“Hi, Mags,” she said to the small humped figure. “Are you all packed up? The taxi'll be here soon.”
“Yes.”
“Put in your swimming things?” Sam said. “There's a pool and there won't be anyone else there, with luck.”
Magnus didn't reply but stared at the television screen on which some politicians were arguing about the dumping of nuclear waste. He was odd. He often watched the most boring programmes but if you looked closely you could see that he wasn't watching at all but staring beyond the screen, thinking his own private thoughts.
“Come and talk to us, Mags,” Floss said gently, switching off the TV and joining him on the bean bag. As she squished down, some white pellets seeped out of a hole. Magnus picked them up and put them carefully on the mantelpiece. “It needs mending,” he said, “or it'll get worse. I could sew it up, while your mother's away.”
“Yes, but listen, you don't have to. She doesn't expect you to do things like that.”
Magnus liked doing little chores but their mother tried to discourage him. His own mother had made him do the housework. Theirs wanted him to have some childhood, before it was too late.
He was nearly twelve now, two years younger than Floss and three years younger than Sam. He was short too, like them, but very thin and bony. Now and again Floss tried giving him little hugs but he didn't seem to like them, and besides, it was like putting your arms round the frail and delicate skeleton of a tiny bird. You felt he might crack. He had fine pale hair, an ashy gold, and deep brown eyes.
“Lovely colouring,” Mum said, the night he arrived. “He'll break a few hearts, he's going to be absolutely gorgeous.” And Floss, fighting with unexpected jealousy, had said “Yes”. (Nobody had ever said
she
was gorgeous.) But Magnus had turned away his face.
The journey to the Abbey took much longer than they had expected because they had to go on three separate trains, zig-zagging down the country. They were on their own, with Sam in charge, and they had their instructions. If anything went wrong, or they got separated, they had to phone Cousin M at the Abbey, or the airport hotel where their parents were staying. They flew out next morning to a flat in Majorca which Cousin M was lending them for a holiday. Magnus could have gone with them, he was very attached to Mum. But he'd decided to go off with Sam and Floss instead, which had pleased everybody because the main purpose of Mum and Dad's going away had been to leave the three children to get to know each other.
It was nearly dark when a taxi drove them into the Abbey grounds. Magnus had fallen asleep and the others were trying hard not to. They were keen to see everything but it had been a very long day and they were even more keen to drop into a comfortable bed. As the taxi crunched up a long gravelled drive towards a dark hump of buildings, an owl hooted and bats swooped down towards the windscreen, then away. Sam felt excited. “It's like a film set,” he said, “it's brilliant!”
“Mm,” Floss muttered. She wasn't sure. It seemed a bit spooky to her. And why had Mum's cousin sent a taxi for them, instead of coming herself? That didn't
feel very friendly. But then she too felt a little tug of excitement. She could smell water, a lovely river smell.
The taxi stopped in front of a great arched doorway, flood-lit, with tubs of flowers on the steps. They glimpsed low buildings of pinky-yellow stone stretching away on both sides, ending in the black humps of trees pricked out by a few lights that seemed quite far away, perhaps across the invisible water.
While the driver pulled out the bags they clambered out and shook themselves straight. Magnus was still half asleep and swayed slightly as they stood waiting in the strong light while someone, dashing out, paid the taxi man and waved him goodbye. Floss half put her arm round him but she felt him shrink away. “Sorry⦔ she muttered. She really must remember that he didn't like to be touched.
Then, “My
dears
,” said a voice, “so sorry. I had it all planned, reception committee at the station, et cett, then you got held up.
Wretched
trains.”
“I did phone,” said Sam. He was rather pleased with himself, getting the three of them safely halfway across England.
“My dear, of course you did, only then â Cecil. Well, it delayed his meal. Then I lost Arthur. Then a man from Shell telephoned, to try and book a conference â good news of course, but it made me even more behind. I just thought a taxi would be quicker. Now come in,
for goodness' sake. There's food all ready. The luggage can go up later. Come and get warm. It's always cold in this part of the Abbey.” She laughed. “I'm afraid there's a price to be paid for all this antiquity. Still, we've got a good fire going.”
