The Turn of the Key(64)

“Shit.” I began mopping up, twisting at the same time to see the source of the voice. There was no one there, at least, no one visible.

“Who’s there?” I called, and this time I heard a creak from the direction of the stairs, a single creak, so eerily like those of the night before that my heart skipped a beat. “Who is it?” I called again, more aggressively than I had intended, and strode angrily out into the hallway.

Above me a small figure hesitated at the top of the stairs. Ellie. Her face was worried, her lip trembling.

“Oh, sweetheart . . .” I felt instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, you scared me. I didn’t mean to snap. Come down.”

“I’m not allowed,” she said. She had a blanket in her hands, twisting the silky trim between her fingers, and with her bottom lip stuck out and wobbling dangerously close to tears, she looked suddenly much younger than her five years.

“Of course you are. Who says you’re not allowed?”

“Mummy. We’re not allowed out of our rooms until the bunny clock’s ears go up.”

Oh. Suddenly I remembered the paragraph in the binder about Ellie’s early rising, and the rule about the Happy bunny clock, which clicked over to the wide-awake bunny at six. I looked back through the arch to the kitchen clock—5:47.

Well, I couldn’t exactly contradict Sandra’s rule . . . but here we were, and there was a large part of me that was relieved to see another human being. Somehow with Ellie around, the ghosts of the night before seemed to retreat back into absurdity.

“Well . . . ,” I said slowly, trying to pick my way between backing up my employer, and compassion to a small child hovering on the verge of crying. “Well, you’re up now. Just this once, I think we can pretend the bunny woke up early.”

“But what will Mummy say?”

“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t,” I said, and then bit my lip. It’s one of the cardinal rules of childcare—don’t ask a child to keep secrets from a parent. That’s the path to all kinds of risky behavior and misunderstandings. But I’d said it now, and hopefully Ellie had read it as a lighthearted remark rather than an invitation to conspire against her mother. I couldn’t help but glance up at the camera in the corner—but surely Sandra wouldn’t be awake at 6:00 a.m. unless she had to be. “Come on down and we’ll have a hot chocolate together and then when the bunny wakes up you can go up and get dressed.”

Down in the kitchen, Ellie sat on one of the high stools, kicking her heels against the legs of the chair, while I heated up milk on the induction burner and stirred in hot chocolate powder. As Ellie drank, and I sipped my now-cooling coffee, we talked, about school, about her best friend Carry, about missing the dogs, and at last I ventured to ask about whether she missed her parents. Her face crumpled a little at that.

“Can we phone Mummy again tonight?”

“Yes, of course. We can try, anyway. She’s been very busy, you know that.”

Ellie nodded. Then, looking out of the window she said, “He’s gone, hasn’t he?”

“Who?” I was confused. Was she talking about her father, or Jack? Or perhaps . . . perhaps someone else? “Who’s gone?”

She didn’t answer, only kicked her legs against the stool.

“I like it better when he’s gone. He makes them do things they don’t want to do.”

I don’t know why, but the words gave me a sharp flashback to something I had barely thought about since my very first night here—that crumpled, unfinished note from Katya. The words sounded inside my head, as though someone had whispered them urgently into my ear. I wanted to tell you to please be—

Suddenly it felt more like a warning than ever.

“Who?” I said, more urgently this time. “Who are you talking about, Ellie?”

But she misunderstood my question, or perhaps deliberately chose to misinterpret it.

“The girls.” Her voice was matter of fact. And then she put down her hot chocolate and slid from the stool. “Can I go and watch some TV?”

“Ellie, wait,” I said, standing too, feeling my heart suddenly pounding in my chest. “Who are you talking about? Who’s gone? Who makes the girls do things?”

But I was too urgent, and as my hand closed on her wrist, she pulled away, suddenly frightened by my intensity.

“Nothing. I don’t remember. I made it up. Maddie told me to say it. I didn’t say it anyway.” The excuses tumbled out, one after another, each as silly as the one before, and she twisted her small hand out of my grip. I had no idea what to say. I thought about following her as she slipped from the room, and the sound of the Peppa Pig theme tune filtered back into the play room, but I knew it wouldn’t work. I had scared her and missed my chance. I should have asked more casually. Now she had closed down in that way that small children do when they realize they have said something more momentous than they meant to. It was the same panic I had seen in little children when they repeated an inappropriate word without understanding the reaction it would elicit—a startled attempt to pedal back from a response they had not anticipated, followed by total shut down, and a denial that they ever said it. If I pushed Ellie now, I would only be shooting myself in the foot, and preventing any further confidences.

The girls . . . He makes them do things they don’t want to do . . .