The Pull of the Moon (10 page)

Hilly was still very quiet at that stage. She’d begun to regain her confidence, but she hadn’t had a boyfriend in all the time I’d known her, so the speed of the Trevor thing
took me by surprise. I went away for one weekend to attend my grandparents’ Golden Wedding and I came back to find Trevor had spent the night. Next thing anyone knew, the church was booked
and Hilly was sporting an engagement ring. Apart from the two of them, I was the only one who knew for sure that Hilly was pregnant. We were so close then, Hilly and I. We depended on each
other.

When Sophie and Bethany got older, they did the maths and actually used to tease their parents about this ‘shotgun wedding’ – they knew they were on safe ground, because
everyone could see what a devoted couple their parents were. Hilly always said the baby made no difference –they would have ended up together eventually – it was meant to be. I never
begged to differ. What was the point? I didn’twant to lose my best friend.

We are well down our bottle of wine before Hilly says: ‘Tell me about this thing with Danny’s mother. Did you manage to find out why she wants to see you so badly?’

I have already mentioned receiving a letter from Mrs Ivanisovic, so I am prepared for this. ‘Poor old thing hasn’t got long to go, I suppose. She probably just wants someone to
reminisce with – someone who knew Danny. I think most of her close family are dead now. The ones that are left probably don’t remember him.’

‘It must be awful to outlive your children,’ Hilly says.

‘It
would
be fairer if we all died in age order,’ I say, half laughing.

Hilly nods. ‘Look at my mother. It’s a terrible thing to say, I know, but I have sometimes thought she would be better off dead – and yet she looks set to go on for
ever.’

‘Anyway, I got this second letter asking me to go and see her, so I’ve promised to drive up there tomorrow.’

Hilly looks surprised and concerned. ‘That’s very good of you, Kate. Does she realize how far it is for you?’

‘I suppose she must do. I couldn’t refuse her really, poor old thing.’

‘You’re so good,’ says Hilly. She means it too. Hilly is always convinced of my goodness and will have nothing said to the contrary. In fact, Hilly is invariably prepared to
think well of everyone. She’s such a gentle soul herself that she finds it difficult to encompass any notion of evil in others. Deliberate misdeeds occasion her not only pain, but genuine
bewilderment. She cannot conceive of how anyone could set out to deliberately harm another. Half a century of life experience has done nothing to dent this innocent faith in human nature – it
is part of her charm.

No wonder it was dangerous to introduce her to Trevor. They were two of a kind in many ways. He became one of those rare, saintly headmasters, beloved even of the bad kids. Thirty years’
worth of pupils turned out for his funeral. They had to relay the service outside on loudspeakers. You couldn’t see the coffin for flowers.

Hilly has brought some brochures for us to look through while we drink our coffee. We’re planning a holiday to the Greek islands – sunshine and archaeology – with Shirley
Valentine type romance entirely off the agenda. The brochures have been conveyed to the restaurant in Hilly’s bag, the latest in a long succession of massive handbags with which she is always
equipped. It’s another family joke, Hilly’s bags. Whenever anyone expresses a need for any item, however large or obscure, the girls always announce that ‘Mum has probably got one
in her bag.’

I know all the family jokes, you see – the ones about the shotgun wedding and the giant handbags – because I am almost one of the family, like a sort of honorary relation, or old
family retainer. Hilly and Trevor’s girls never guessing how I once hoped to be so much more.

After I drop Hilly off, I don’t go straight home. Instead I drive in the opposite direction. The route is so familiar that I could do it blindfold. I slow down to make the turn into
Menlove Avenue, then let the car creep the last hundred yards or so down the wide tree-lined road, before I finally park, halfway between two street lamps. I switch off the lights, kill the engine,
and sit in the quiet darkness, staring at the lighted windows of a house a few doors away. A lot of the houses are dark already, but the occupants of this one seldom retire much before
eleven-thirty.

With the engine stilled I can hear the thin breeze working the tree branches overheard. When another car turns into the road I sit very still, my fingers poised ready to fire the ignition, but
the other vehicle passes by without noticing me and goes out of sight round the bend. I keep glancing around, more alive than ever to the risks I run in coming here since the conversation with
Marjorie a couple of days ago. I just can’t understand why I didn’t see her. She must have parked a lot further down the road and gone into one of the houses behind me; from which I
deduce that her friend must live at the Harding Lane end of the road. As a precaution I’ve got the car facing in the opposite direction tonight – to make sure that she can’t sneak
up on me. I really ought not to have come at all. I can’t afford to let her catch me a second time.

I spend a few minutes staring at each of the houses in turn, wondering which of them is inhabited by the pesky Gwenda: hoping I’ve chosen a spot which is obscured from her net curtain
twitching by the row of trees which edges the pavement.

Some of the houses in Menlove Avenue have acquired UPVC window frames or trendy blinds, but the one I come to see hasn’t changed much in twenty years. The front garden still runs its
annual cycle of daffodils, roses and fallen leaves. There used to be a stone sundial but that went a long time ago -vandalized perhaps, or pinched; it goes on even in the better neighbourhoods
these days, in spite of what Marjorie might like to think. They’ve had those orangey-brown curtains up for about three years. The previous pair were a blue and silver stripe.

From where I’m sitting, I can see when their hall light goes on; then the upstairs bay is illuminated, almost to the second when its ground-floor counterpart goes dark. I can’t see
inside the bedroom from this angle, but I glimpse the hand that draws the curtains – a woman’s hand – or maybe it’s a man’s – impossible to see from this
distance. Sometimes I imagine I can see more than I really do.

The bedroom curtains are pale beige with a pattern of flowers. The curtains must be lined because once drawn they trap the light inside, reducing it to a pale glow against the darker brickwork;
and after a few minutes this dims still further. They must have switched off the main light – probably sitting up in bed, reading perhaps, or supping Horlicks by the light of the bedside
lamp. I don’t know why I imagine bedside lamps rather than wall lights.

Another car takes me by surprise. I failed to notice its approach and shrink back into my seat in the split second that the headlights sweep across me. It continues out of sight, leaving me
alone to my vigil.

When the window goes completely dark, I start the engine and drive away.

ELEVEN

Each of us approached the upcoming seance in our own way, keeping whatever doubts we entertained to ourselves. I put a good face on it – not wanting to be labelled a
scaredy cat. It wasn’t that I was scared of the supernatural – which I didn’t entirely believe in: I was much more afraid of becoming so taut with nerves that I jumped or squealed
at anything, thereby attracting ridicule when it turned out to be a great big tease. Simon seemed much as usual. He told us a long involved story which culminated in a fellow student accidentally
ending up locked out of his room, standing stark naked on a ledge outside his window. Simon’s deliberate drawl invariably added to our hilarity, but somehow I sensed that tonight no one was
giving him their full attention. Trudie seemed charged with nervous excitement, as if possessed of a secret she was dying to share with the rest of us, but could not. She was planning a virtuoso
performance, no doubt about it, I thought. Yet, of the four of us, I fancy it was Danny who was most affected. I don’t think the others noticed, but I detected an artificial heartiness in his
voice and saw his fingers stray several times towards his neck, seeking the missing talisman.

As the sun was dipping behind the shrubbery, Trudie observed that she felt chilly and went inside to put on something warmer. I got up and followed her into the house to use the bathroom. When I
emerged on to the landing, Trudie was just coming out of her bedroom. On catching sight of me she beckoned excitedly, saying, ‘Come and see.’

I accompanied her into the room, picking my way across the tangle of discarded clothing strewn across the floor. Trudie’s bedroom window faced west and was high enough to afford a view
over the shrubbery, straight down the hill to Bettis Wood. The sun’s topmost edge was disappearing behind the tree tops, which were strangely aglow with its dying light.

‘Look,’ she whispered. ‘Red, like blood. I’ve never seen it do that before. It’s a sign.’

‘It’s just the sunset. A trick of the light.’

Trudie shook her head. ‘It’s a sign,’ she said emphatically. Something in her voice unnerved me. I was uncomfortably aware that Trudie was no longer the ringmaster, putting on
a show for us. Trudie believed in this stuff and was scared by it. She was no longer in control.

The red glow faded from the tree tops – the change took a matter of seconds, then the sun was gone and the wood stood greenish black in the dusk, just as usual. The moment was over. The
sound of Danny’s guitar drifted up to us from the lawn. He was playing ‘Moonshadow’.

‘What do you think the lyrics mean?’ asked Trudie – and I noted with relief that she seemed back to normal.

‘I dunno – they’re a bit weird, aren’t they?’

‘I think the moonshadow is your fate,’ she said. ‘Everyone is pursued by their moonshadow and it always catches up with you, in the end. You just have to accept whatever
comes.’

I didn’t bother to reply. I had wasted too many school lunch breaks dissecting lyrics to divine their inner meanings.

When we got back to the garden, Danny and Simon were talking about the time when they had seen Ralph McTell at Birmingham Town Hall, Danny punctuating their remarks with occasional chords on his
guitar. Everything seemed calm and ordinary again, except for Danny every so often glancing at his watch. By eleven-thirty we began to run out of conversation. The air had become oppressive, but I
decided a storm couldn’t be imminent because the stars were still visible. Danny had been checking his watch at increasingly frequent intervals, until I begged him to desist as it was getting
on my nerves.

‘Why don’t we go up now and get it over with?’ he suggested, feigning a disinterested tone. ‘Then we can all go to bed. I don’t know about anyone else, but
I’m cream-crackered.’

‘Might as well,’ agreed Simon. ‘I don’t suppose your ghosts can tell the time anyway – do you reckon they’re on British Summer Time or not?’

Trudie didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘If everyone’s ready, let’s go up.’

As we rose to our feet, a breeze like a breath of hot air shimmered across the garden. Suddenly I didn’t want to go into the house at all. It loomed over us, a dark hulk of a place, full
of whispers and secrets – when we got inside and Simon switched on the kitchen lights, the glare seemed intense. We stood for a moment, blinking and uncertain, like burglars caught in the
act.

Trudie led the way upstairs. She had apparently regained her confidence, automatically assuming leadership of the project. Simon’s foot caught against the corner of a wooden chest which
stood on the landing at the top of the stairs: the resultant bang echoed around the stairwell.

‘Bloody hell, man,’ said Danny. ‘Talk about waking the dead. There’s no need to give them advance notice.’

He spoke in obvious jest, but there was no trace of irony in Trudie’s reply. ‘It’s all right. She already knows we’re coming. She’s pleased. It’s what she
wants.’

We had become accustomed to referring to Murdered Agnes in this casual fashion, but Trudie’s statement chilled me; it conjured up a mental image of Murdered Agnes calmly awaiting us in the
chosen room. When Trudie opened the door, I was almost surprised to find everything just as we had left it. The air was heady with incense and the candles were still burning. It came to me that
they ought not to have been. They should have burnt out long ago. I reminded myself that Trudie had slipped away several times during the evening, presumably to replenish them.

In accordance with the instructions Trudie had issued earlier, we sat cross-legged in a circle on the floor, holding hands. In best dinner-party fashion, we arranged ourselves boy, girl, boy,
girl, maintaining the silence which Trudie had emphasized was essential. ‘Once the circle is made, it mustn’t be broken,’ she’d warned us, so I had my plan of action clear
– keep quiet and hold hands – which suited me just fine.

Once we were settled into position, a stillness fell upon the room. The candle flames had been disturbed by our movements, but now they burned steady and clear. From where I was sitting I could
see a line of light from the landing, where the door and the floorboards didn’t quite meet. I had tinkered with ouija and seances at school, as teenage girls did and probably still do; but
these sessions had invariably dissolved into giggles, or else a member of the party had succumbed to the temptation to make strange noises and had to be ticked off by the rest for not taking the
enterprise seriously. I had half expected Danny or Simon to adopt this line, but neither of them did. The silence became intense – eventually broken by Trudie’s voice, low, melodious,
inviting: ‘You can come to us. We are ready.’

There was another pause. I noticed Danny’s crucifix, twinkling mischievously in the candlelight.

‘I can see her.’ Trudie exhaled the words softly.

I raised my eyes to see where Trudie was looking – for a split second anticipating a vision of Murdered Agnes in the room with us: but Trudie’s eyes were closed. Whatever she was
seeing was safely confined in her head.