Girl A(98)

‘You wouldn’t believe,’ he said, ‘the questions that I’ve been asked in the last fortnight.’

I was in my bedroom, with a book to hand, and I opened it. ‘Such as?’ I said.

‘About how we would like to be announced,’ he said. ‘About whether we would like champagne brought to us pre- or post-confetti.’

I found my place. There were a few neat flecks of rain on the window, and below it, Mum was gathering laundry. The lull of a dull Sunday.

‘About the placement,’ he was saying, ‘of fucking cutlery.’

He paused.

‘You’re still coming,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘I hope so,’ I said.

All of the arrangements had been made. I could see the journey: the train to London and the flight to Athens; the smaller plane after that, and a drive to a pink villa, fifty metres from the sea. Sometime after that, Ethan at the end of an aisle. Pleased to see me.

‘It means a great deal to me,’ he said, ‘that you’ll be there.’

‘As I said. I hope so.’

I spent the final afternoon in my bedroom, gutting the contents of my childhood and filling a bin bag with the scraps. The letters and gifts had continued to arrive long after the escape, even after we left the hospital. The nurses forwarded them to the cottage, accompanied by a series of wry covering notes. About a metre-high teddy bear: We’re not sure that this is age-appropriate. About a dismal, hand-painted replica of the photograph from the beach at Blackpool: We thought that this would give you a laugh. About a bottle of champagne: We don’t know what they were thinking.

That first year, there had been a novelty in owning things. My bed was lined with stuffed animals, the kind made for children of five or six. I erected a little shrine of gifts in the corner of my room, which I could peruse every day, inspecting a T-shirt or a football or a book, and setting it back, just where it had been. I arranged my cards along my windowsill, at just the right distance between the glass and the rim. Dear Girl A …

Even when I realized the absurdity of it – the fact that people at school selected their own belongings, rather than relying on the morbid fascination of strangers – I couldn’t bring myself to throw all of the items away. Now, filing through the remains of them, I shrank at the embarrassment of it. They were cracker gifts, unwanted and odd. There were picture books; board games with missing pieces; letters offering me a whole multitude of thoughts and prayers, with little idea of what had been lost. There was one letter which I had been waiting for, and when I came to it, I uncrossed my legs and crawled up to my bed, making myself comfortable. I wanted to savour it.

Dear Lex, the letter said. I have spent some time trying to put into words what I wish to say to you. You may not remember me. I taught you at Jasper Street Primary School between the ages of nine and ten. At the time, I was deeply troubled by your family’s situation. I think that I believed that education and books might be enough to save you – the notion of a young, naive teacher, who didn’t realize that she was out of her depth. I have spent many years regretting my failure to act on my concerns, both before and after I learnt what had happened to you and your siblings. I am so very sorry that I didn’t do more to help you. It is something that I will think about for the rest of my life. All the best, Lex, and – though books cannot save you from everything – I hope that you are still reading.

There was Miss Glade, her hand raised at the end of a cheerful corridor. I read the letter again, one more time, and added it to the black bag.

The last supper. In the afternoon, Dad disappeared, and returned with two bottles of the same red wine, held aloft.

‘Your favourite,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it?’

I didn’t recognize the label, but I nodded, and took the corkscrew from the drawer. ‘Thanks,’ I said.

‘To Lex,’ Dad said. ‘Always one for a comeback.’

The three of us drank, then took our seats at the table. For the first time during my stay, we were awkward, and I kept drinking, to hide it.

‘I didn’t do enough vegetables,’ Mum said. ‘Did I?’

‘It’s great,’ I said.

‘How did the clearing go?’

‘Another few bags. I’ll leave them in the bedroom. There’s a lot more space, now – you could use it.’

‘The way those parcels came,’ Mum said, ‘in the beginning. We thought they’d never stop.’ She glanced at Dad. ‘Dr K wanted us to throw them away. Do you remember that?’

‘Yes. I remember.’

‘I didn’t see the harm in it,’ she said. ‘Well. Except for the bees.’

It had been the first record in our family’s folklore. A large rectangular box arrived at breakfast time; the postman held it straight before him, like an offering, and set it on the doorstep. Handle with care, it said. Package Bees. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ he said, and retreated. The three of us stood at the front door and surveyed the box. Serious as a bomb disposal unit, and still in our dressing gowns. The bees were accompanied by an earnest, handwritten note, wishing me well, which concluded: We have found beekeeping to be extremely therapeutic.

‘Therapeutic,’ Dad said, laughing still.

A local beekeeper had retrieved the package. He was, he said, grateful that we had thought of him.