The Legacy (29 page)

B
eth finds me in the study. I am curled up in a leather bucket chair. I stood on the desk to get this book of wild flowers down from the top shelf. It brought a shower of dead flies with it, a smell of past lives. Now it’s open, heavy across my knees, at a double-page spread of yellow marsh flags. Ragged, buttery irises. Nonchalantly drooped petals on tall stems, like pennants on a still day. I recognized them as soon as I saw them. Marsh flags.

“The rain’s stopped. Do you fancy a quick walk?” Beth asks. She has plaited her hair, put on clean jeans and a sweater the color of raspberries.

“Absolutely,” I say, all astonishment. “Yes, let’s.”

“What were you reading?”

“Oh, just about wild flowers. There were three old pillowcases up in the press. They had yellow flowers embroidered on them, and I wanted to know what they were.”

“What were they?”

“Marsh flags. Does that ring any bells with you?”

“No. Should it? What kind of bell?”

“Probably a misplaced bell. I’ll just get some wellies on.”

We don’t walk very far, since the sky is like charcoal on the horizon. Just down into the village and then up to the barrow. I am sure I see one of the girls from the solstice party through the window of the pub. Sitting by the fire, accepting a fresh pint from a man whose back is turned to me. There’s a welcoming drench of wood smoke and beer and voices from the doorway, but we carry on past. Lots of villagers out and about today. Walking off the cake and puddings. They all greet us, although I am sure we are not recognized. A few faces tug at me. They slot into my memories somewhere, but too seamlessly for me to pick them out. A stout woman rides past on her horse, silver tinsel woven into its tail.

We cross the tawny grassland up to the barrow, scare up two dozen glossy rooks that had been strutting purposefully. The wind whisks them away, and from a distance they look like ragged shot-holes in the sky. Beth links her arm through mine, walks with a swinging step.

“You seem happy today?” I ask her, carefully.

“I am. I’ve come to a decision.”

“Oh? What kind of decision?” We’ve reached the barrow. Beth lets go of my arm, conquers the mound in three long strides and turns to gaze over my head into the distance.

“I’m going. I’m not staying,” she says, throwing her arms wide, girlish, dramatic. She takes a huge breath, lets it out with emphasis.

“What do you mean? Going where?”

“Going home, of course. Later today. I’ve packed!” she laughs, as if she is wild, reckless. “I’m taking
that
road,” she says, squinting and pointing to the line of tall poplars that march along the lane out of the village.

“You can’t!” The thought of being alone in the house fills me with a dread I can’t define. I would rather dive to the bottom of the pond, let it suck me down. I feel something like panic sputtering in my stomach.

“Of course I can. Why stay? What are we even
doing
here? I can’t even remember why we came. Can you?”

“We came to . . . we came to sort things out. To . . . decide what we wanted to do!” I grope for words.

“Come on, Erica. Neither of us wants to live here.” She drops her arms as she says this, looks at me suddenly. “You don’t, do you? You don’t want to live here? You don’t want to stay?”

“I don’t know yet!”

“But . . . you can’t want to. It’s
Meredith’s
house. Everything about it says
Meredith
. And then there’s . . . the other thing.”

“Henry?” I say. She nods, just once. Short and sharp. “It’s
our
house, Beth. Yours and mine now.”

“Oh my God, you want to stay. You do, don’t you?” She is utterly incredulous.

“I don’t know! I don’t know. Not for ever, perhaps. For a while, maybe. I don’t know. But please don’t go, Beth! Not yet. I’m . . . I’m not done. I can’t go yet and I can’t stay here on my own. Please. Stay a bit longer.” On top of the barrow Beth sags. I have stabbed her, let out all the air. We are quiet for a while. The wind rolls over the ridge, trembles the grasses. I see Beth shiver. She looks impossibly lonely up there.

At length she comes down to me, her eyes lowered.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“What do you mean, you’re not done yet?” Her voice is flat now, lifeless.

“I need to . . . find out what happened. I need to remember.” A half-truth. I can’t tell her about her splinter. I can’t let her know what I am working toward. She would snatch herself away, not let me touch; just like Eddie with his swollen finger.

“Remember what?”

I stare at her. She must know what I’m talking about.

“About
Henry
, Beth. I need to remember what happened to Henry.” She glares at me now, eyes reflecting the gray sky. She searches my face, and I wait.

“You remember what happened. Don’t lie. You were old enough.”

“But I don’t. I really don’t,” I say. “Please tell me.” Beth looks away, past the rooftops and chimney trails of the village below and into the east, as if projecting herself there.

“No. I won’t tell you,” she says. “I won’t tell anyone. Not
ever
.”

“Please, Beth! I have to know!”

“No! And if . . . if you love me, you’ll stop asking.”

“Does Dinny know?”

“Yes, of
course
Dinny knows. Why don’t you ask him?” She flicks her eyes at me. There’s a chilly touch of resentment there. For an instant, then it’s gone. “But you know, too. And if you really don’t remember then . . . then maybe that’s a good thing.” She walks away from me, along the ridge toward the house.

She stops at the dew pond. This is the first time she’s been back to it, that I know of, and it halts her so abruptly that I almost run into her. The wind skids over its surface, turns it matt and ugly. I expect to see her crying, but her eyes are dry and hard. The sad lines on her face, etched deeper than ever. She stares down into it.

“I was so scared, the first time you swam here,” she murmurs, so quietly I can hardly hear. “I thought you wouldn’t be able to get out. Like the hedgehog in the pond at home, that time. Do you remember? It had swum around and around until it was too exhausted to swim any more, and then it just drowned. All those videos we were shown at school—never to swim in quarries or rivers. I thought water without chlorine in it had some dreadful, lurking power that waited and watched and ate little kids.”

“I remember you yelling at me like a harpy.”

“I was scared for you,” she says, shrugging minutely. “Now you spend all your time being scared for me. Except today.
Why
do I have to stay? You must see that . . . it’s bad for me, being here?”

“No, I . . . I think it could be good for you,” I force myself to say.

“What do you mean?” she asks me, darkly. My heart beats faster.

“I mean what I say. You can’t keep running from this, Beth! Please! If you would just talk about it—”

“No! I’ve told you—over and over. Not to you and not to anybody!”

“Why not to me? I’m your
sister
, Beth, nothing you could tell me would make me love you any less! Nothing,” I say firmly.

“That’s what you think, is it? That there’s something despicable in me that I’m trying to hide?” she whispers.

“No, Beth, that’s what I
don’t
think! You’re not listening to me! But you
are
hiding something—you can’t deny it. I have no secrets from you!”

“Everybody has secrets, Erica,” she snaps. It’s true, and I look away.

“All I want is for us to be able to leave this place behind . . .”

“Good! That’s what I want, too! So let’s do it—let’s leave.”

“Leaving it isn’t the same as leaving it
behind
, Beth! Look at you—since we’ve been back here it’s been like sharing the house with a ghost! You’re . . . miserable and you seem determined to stay that way!” I shout.

“What are you
talking
about?” Beth shouts back at me, spreading her hands in fury. “
You’re
the one determined to keep me here—you’re the one determined to make me miserable! I only came here at all because you pressured me into it!”

“I’m determined to get rid of whatever it is that’s keeping you down, Beth. And it’s here—I know it is. It’s here at this house—don’t walk away from me!” I grab her arm, stop her. Beth is breathing hard, will not look me in the eye. Her face is pale.

“If you don’t let me go, I might not ever forgive you. I don’t know what I will do,” she says, her voice trembling. Startled, I drop my hand from her arm but I don’t think this is what she means. I am afraid of what she will do. My resolve wavers, but I fight to hold on to it.

“Please, Beth. Please stay here with me. At least until the new year. Let’s just . . . figure this out. Whatever it is.”

“Figure it out?” she echoes me, bitterly. “It’s not a riddle, Erica.”

“I know that. But life can’t go on the way it has been. This is our
chance
, Beth—our chance to put things right.”

“Some things can’t be undone, Erica. The sooner you accept that the better,” she whispers. Tears are bright in her eyes, but when she looks up at me they are full of anger. “It can’t be put right!” she snaps, and storms away from me. I pause before I follow her, find that I am shaking.

F
or the rest of the day we play hide and seek. This house always was perfect for it. The rain comes in sideways, drafts creep down the chimneys. I bring Harry inside and make him a cup of sweet tea. He sits at the kitchen table sucking it from his teaspoon like a child. He drips water onto the floor, fills the room with the smell of wet wool. But I can’t find Beth to give her a cup of tea. I can’t find her to ask what she wants for dinner, if she wants to go out anywhere, if she wants to rent a film from the garage on the road to Devizes. I feel it is my job, now, to fill her time. Time I am forcing her to spend here. But she melts into the house like a cat, and I stomp from room to room in vain.

Henry once left her hiding for hours. Left her alone, trapped, panicked. He made me part of it, again. I was small. I must have been—Caroline was still alive. Earlier that day she’d been wheeled outside to the terrace. She had one of those grand old wicker wheelchairs. No gray NHS metal and plastic for her. It creaked as it rolled along, fine spokes glinting, but Henry said it was Caroline that creaked, because she was so old and mummified. I knew it was nonsense but even so, each time I heard it, I would think of papery skin tearing; of hair that would crumble to dust if you touched it; of a tongue gone stiff and woody in a shrivelled mouth. We were never made to kiss her, if we didn’t want to. Mum saw to that, and thank goodness.

By then she was mostly bedridden, but it was a fine day and we were all there—Clifford and Mary, my parents. She was wheeled to the table, presented with her lunch on a tray that slotted into the frame of the chair. The housekeeper brought out the soup in a white china tureen shaped like a giant cauliflower, and there were potatoes and salad and ham on the table. I was told off for dipping my fingers into the melted butter at the bottom of the potato bowl. Meredith helped Caroline to eat, sometimes feeding her the way you feed a baby. Meredith frowned as she did it; pinched her lips tightly together. Caroline’s hair was thin. I could see her scalp through it and it
did
look papery. The conversation went on around her, and I kept my eyes carefully on my plate. Only once did she speak up and, though her voice was louder than I expected, the words crept out ponderously.

“Is that man Dinsdale still alive?” She dropped her fork as she spoke, as if holding it and speaking were too many things to do at once. It clattered loudly, down onto the paving slabs.

“No, Mother. He’s not,” Meredith answered, and I burned with the knowledge that there were in fact many Dinsdales, alive and well not two hundred meters from where we sat. I knew better than to speak at the table. Caroline made a small sound, high and wavering, which could have been anything. Satisfaction, perhaps. “I believe his son is, however,” Meredith added.

“Can’t you get
rid
of him, child?” Caroline asked, and I was as puzzled to hear Meredith called
child
as I was outraged at the question. Across the table, Henry smirked, kicked me in the shin.

“No more than you could,” Meredith countered.

“Travellers,” Caroline mumbled. “They were meant to go. They were meant to move on,” she said.

“They go. And then they come back again,” Meredith muttered. “And sadly there is very little I can do about it.” At this Caroline went still. An unnatural pause, as if she was going to say something else. Everybody at the table waited, but she did not speak again. Meredith folded her napkin crisply onto her lap, began to serve herself with salad. But the frown stayed, knitted between her brows, and when I looked at Caroline she was staring out across the lawn, eyes boring into the far trees as though she could see straight through them. Her head wobbled on her neck, and from time to time her hands would twitch involuntarily, but that far, pale gaze never wavered.