Eleanor pinpointed that moment on the doorstep as the sloughing off of her life and the first steps towards resurrecting Alice. As she unwittingly took part in a crude rehearsal for a reunion that could never be, she had decided to make it come true. She would be Alice living her life somewhere in the world, just as Mrs Howland came to hope she was. Yet even Eleanor was impotent to undo a tragedy. She had read enough fairy stories to know that an evil deed once done cannot be undone. Eleanor’s childish chatter that day could only be one of the cruelties of everyday life.
Both men were unequal to their parts, they could only stand helplessly until Doctor Ramsay snapped into action, talking like a telegram.
‘Have work to do. Back to London tomorrow. All go!’ He promised to be back in an hour.
Steve Howland leaned on the gate as the doctor’s car roared away, tyres screeching. He had not said a word and stayed where he was looking down the street in the direction that Alice had walked that last afternoon. He had thoughts he could not share, crude inventions about what had happened that Kath would be right to dismiss as jealous and even rude. So he said nothing. At last his wife called him inside to join in the tea with Doctor Ramsay’s daughter.
Eleanor was disappointed that, unlike the other time she had visited, Mr Howland did nothing during the tea without Mrs Howland prompting him. She had been looking forward to another tour of the tools in his garage and the go on his soldering iron he had promised her the time before to make up for Alice spoiling the tea.
She had pattered after Mrs Howland into the kitchen with wary steps, mindful of this first visit. Suppose Alice had been hiding brilliantly and had planned the tea as another surprise. Then she reminded herself that Alice reappearing could not happen. She relaxed at the sight of the neat, empty kitchen. Of course there would be no chocolate covered Alice lying in wait. This meant Eleanor had the opportunity to see the room properly and she admired the six plates propped up on shelves above the fridge. There were cat faces on them, a fluffy ginger with flourishing whiskers made her think of Crawford, so she told Mrs Howland about her cat and her visits to Mrs Jackson. The table was hidden beneath plates of cakes and jelly with a gigantic jug of orange squash right in the middle. Eleanor gaped at the mountain of food and swallowed. This time, she had no appetite. She was pushed firmly towards the chair that Alice had been sitting on when they found her coated all over with food that day.
‘Would you like some of your own cake, dear?’
‘No, that’s for you, thank you.’ Then remembering her lines. ‘It’s a present from me.’
‘Aren’t you lovely!’
It was finally growing cooler in the graveyard. The sun had left it altogether, but neither woman noticed as Eleanor recalled that she had forced herself to eat a large number of cakes and two bowlfuls of jelly, only by thinking of one mouthful at a time, chewing then swallowing, chew-swallow, chew-swallow. The trick was not to look at what was on her plate. This became her approach to life. A minute at a time and don’t look down.
When she left, Mrs Howland gave her the Crawford plate. This was a nice surprise, for although Mrs Howland had smiled and nodded as she talked, Eleanor had been sure she was not listening. Nor was Mr Howland because he nodded in the wrong places and mostly never spoke at all. Mrs Howland made him wrap the plate in newspaper, and then because he went into a trance she took over. There was a gap on the shelf where the plate had been. Eleanor saw Alice’s father notice this too.
As they got to the door, Mrs Howland rushed upstairs. Eleanor stayed in the hall with Mr Howland. She had tried smiling up at him, but he was like her clockwork sparrow and couldn’t strut or peck without Mrs Howland to work him. He had tapped at the barometer, which was pointed at Rain and Eleanor was just thinking that this was her chance to mention the soldering iron, when Mrs Howland came down again. She had held out her fist to Eleanor and then splayed out her hand to reveal a small purse. It was Alice’s purse. It had her name inside. She had tried to write all of it but had done ‘Alice’ in such big letters that there was only room for an ‘H’ and an ‘o’, which Eleanor had thought made her sound more jolly than she was. It was brown leather, patterned with gold spirals laced with blue and maroon flowers. Inside there were two threepenny bits.
‘Don’t give her that.’ Mr Howland had stopped examining the barometer.
‘She should have it.’
‘No. When she comes…’ He ran his hand down his face as if a different face would be there when he had finished, like the conjuror at Christmas.
Mrs Howland had hold of Eleanor’s hand and she pressed the purse into it. ‘Don’t be spending it on sweets, especially bubble gum. That’s very bad for you.’ She had stopped smiling, and was looking at her closely. Eleanor wanted to get away.
She slipped the purse into the pocket in her dress meant for tissues and dashed down the path to the car at the gate. Her father was sitting stiffly at the wheel like Parker in Thunderbirds and didn’t look round when Eleanor got into the back. She hadn’t thanked Alice’s Mum and Dad or said goodbye. She had forgotten they were her real parents and now it was too late. She only just remembered to look back to wave as she was driven away. The cottage door was shut. Eleanor was only eight, but with perfect understanding she divined it wasn’t Eleanor Ramsay that the Howlands had invited to tea, but Alice. From now on it would always be Alice.
Once Eleanor turned into Alice she tried to blot out Eleanor and what she had done or failed to do.
‘He knew though, didn’t he?’ Chris tripped over to Mark Ramsay’s grave. She stood unsteadily beside the mound. ‘He couldn’t bear what you’d done any longer and so he killed himself.’ Chris grabbed a handful of the soil and cupped it in her hands the way she made snowballs. They had done this together. She had made a snowman in the park with her Mum, she was sure of it. Until now she had totally forgotten this.
A moped puttered past on the lane and on the other side of the church a gate squeaked, followed by the clink of the latch.
‘It was an accident. ‘
‘There’s no such thing as an accident.’
‘Please come home.’
‘You’re mad. We can’t go home. It’s all over; can’t you see that? You’ve smashed things up for me as well as you. You’re sick and you need help but you have had all you’re getting from me.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘She’s going to come back with me.’ The voice was reedy but firm.
Kathleen Howland was on the path a few yards away. Her frailty augmented her aura of command.
When Jackie Masters had left, Kathleen had sat still in Steve’s chair looking at the empty grate. This time there was no offer of sugary tea; no attempt to shield her from exactly how it was.
Kathleen tilted her head and there was Alice’s photograph on the television. As the evening closed in and the living room grew dim, Alice’s eyes and nose, her pigtails and the painted seascape background faded to shades of grey. But for Kathleen her bright and cheerful smile remained just the same.
And at that moment Kathleen saw what she could do.
Part Three
August to December 1999
Twenty-Seven
On a warm sunny afternoon at the end of August, Kathleen eased open the window in Alice’s bedroom and surveyed the street below. Cars were parked bumper to bumper: there had been a fête on the green that afternoon and the lane was still busy with people – laconic couples, darting children, hot and tired parents were straggling along the pavement leading to the station, most licking ice creams or pecking at toffee apples while lugging spoils and homemade produce from which the magic had already faded.