Eglantine Read online

  I didn’t, either. So far, Mrs Procter hadn’t been any help. She told me at lunchtime that she hadn’t been able to find Eglantine’s fairytale anywhere. But she promised to fax it through to her old English lecturer, who was an ‘expert’ on Victorian literature. If the fairytale existed anywhere, he would be able to find it, she said.

  Meanwhile, I would just have to sit and wait.

  ‘One thing I do think we should do,’ said Mum, ‘is paint Bethan’s room again. I really think we should do that tomorrow.’

  Ray paused in the act of winding spaghetti around his fork. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘What’s the point? I’m sure it won’t do any good. The writing will just come back again.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s black now, Ray. The room is black – have you looked at it, lately? And black is a bad colour. It’s associated with inactivity: stagnant water energy. Death. Diminishment. In the psyche, black plays the role of the shadow figure. Whereas white is the colour of healing and purifying.’

  Ray sighed. ‘So you want me to paint it again. Is that right?’ he said.

  ‘Please.’

  He couldn’t say no, though he wasn’t happy. He went to bed grumpy, and Mum went to bed worried. Bethan went to bed and snored. Talk about thunder energy. Even when I threw a pillow at his head, he didn’t wake up.

  I felt like stuffing something up his nose – or down his throat. And I wondered gloomily if that was Eglantine’s problem. Perhaps she just didn’t like it when people snored.

  I dreamed about Eglantine, that night, though it wasn’t the stomach-pump dream. I dreamed of a hand – Eglantine’s hand. It was pale and thin. There was too much hair on it. All I could see was the hand, with a frill of lace around its wrist, holding a pen. It was writing and writing. It went on and on. But it wasn’t writing on a wall.

  It was writing in a journal, like mine. A bound book of blank pages – blank, white pages. The writing was familiar. The words were familiar.

  I woke to the sound of Mum screaming, and fell over as I rushed, half-asleep, to the door.

  It was morning. The sun was up. Mum stood on the landing, shaking from head to foot. When I grabbed her arm, and begged to know what was wrong, she pointed.

  Eglantine had written a new line of text. But it wasn’t inside Bethan’s room.

  It was on the wall of the landing.

  CHAPTER # eleven

  ‘We’ve got to leave!’ Mum gabbled. ‘We’ve got to leave this house now!’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ said Ray. ‘Calm down, Judy.’

  ‘Didn’t you see? Ray, it’s escaped out of the room!’

  ‘And do you know why? Because the walls of that room are black, now.’ Ray stirred sugar into Mum’s coffee and brought it over to her. She was sitting at the kitchen table. ‘You can’t see what’s written inside that room any more,’ he said, ‘so the writing’s moved outside it. All we have to do is paint the room again. Like you said. Then it will move back inside.’

  ‘But it can get out, Ray! This means that it can get out! It might be roaming all over the house every night. It might have been in our bedroom!’

  Bethan began to snivel. I was so surprised that I put my arm around him.

  ‘Look,’ said Ray. He spoke quite sternly. Even though he’s not very big, and wears glasses, and hasn’t got much in the way of muscles, he looked quite scary, then. He looked like someone that no one – not even Eglantine – should be messing with.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘let’s not overreact, eh? Let’s not start frightening each other. Judy? This isn’t useful.’

  Mum blinked. She glanced at Bethan, and cleared her throat, and said, ‘No. Okay. Um . . . right.’

  ‘First of all, we should have breakfast and get dressed,’ Ray went on. ‘Then I’ll go and get some white paint, and you can ring Trish or the psychic or whoever you want to ring, and we’ll decide what to do from there. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Mum. ‘It was that wretched Bryce. He got me all worked up.’

  ‘I know,’ Ray replied, soothingly. ‘It’s all right, kids. We’ll sort it out. Now . . .’ He took a deep breath. ‘Anyone for pancakes?’

  After breakfast, I went back upstairs. My hands were shaking as I studied the line on the landing wall (So the smooth-faced boy that came the morrow eve) before entering Bethan’s bedroom again. Stepping into it was like stepping into a cave. The walls and ceiling were black, with pinpricks of white paint showing through here and there, like stars in a night sky. All the little piles of pebbles and rice and stuff had been taken away. So had the sheets that had been draped over Bethan’s furniture.

  ‘What do you want?’ I said aloud, trying to stop my voice from shaking the way my hands were. I was on the verge of tears. For the first time, I was feeling . . . not frightened, exactly, but anxious. Very, very anxious. ‘Eglantine? What is it, with you?’

  And then I remembered my dream.

  I remembered the hand, writing, writing, writing. In a journal, not on a wall. In a book.

  Perhaps Eglantine hadn’t been reading the fairytale after all. Perhaps she had been writing it because it was her own story, out of her own head, but she hadn’t been able to finish it before she died.

  Perhaps she was obsessed with the story, and couldn’t rest in peace until she’d finished it.

  I leaned against the wall, thinking hard. It seemed to make sense. I wasn’t a writer myself, but I was a reader and a solver of puzzles. I knew how hard it was, sometimes, to let something go. To put a book down, turn off the light, and fall asleep. I remembered all the times I’d taken a torch to bed, so that I could secretly finish something. I remembered how often I’d lain awake, turning words or numbers or plots around and around in my head. What if Eglantine had been the same? What if she had felt the same about writing stories as I sometimes did about reading them? What if she had felt absolutely compelled to get the words out of her mind, onto the page?

  I remembered what Mum had said about Eglantine’s willpower. Perhaps the full force of her will had been directed towards finishing and publishing her story, so that she would become famous. Or maybe in the hope that the boy who had disappointed her would read her story, and feel ashamed that he hadn’t loved her as much as Osric had loved Emilie.

  Maybe I was right. Maybe I’d found the root of the problem. But even if I had, what good would it do me? Because, after all, I couldn’t finish the story for her. I’d tried already, and it hadn’t worked. If an ending was what she wanted, I couldn’t supply the right kind of ending. I didn’t see how anybody could. Not if the story had been coming out of her own head.

  I went downstairs and looked very carefully through Idylls of the King, but it was no good. Eglantine hadn’t marked it with a single note or comment of any kind – except her name, and the date, and the quote from Milton.

  ‘Don’t run away with that,’ Mum remarked, as she passed me on her way out the door. ‘The psychic’s coming tonight, and she said it would help if we had any personal items. Belonging to Eglantine.’

  ‘Oh!’ I said. ‘You mean you’ve rung the psychic?’

  ‘I’ve rung the psychic. I told her it was an emergency.’ ‘Do you think she can help?’

  ‘She said she’d try. She said she’s had one or two successes in the past.’ Mum paused, with her hand on the doorknob. ‘I’m going shopping. Is there anything you need, specially?’

  My own bedroom, I thought, but didn’t say it aloud.

  ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t touch that book,’ she added, pulling open the front door. ‘God knows where it’s been, Allie. Ray’s right – we should have burned it.’

  ‘But then what would the psychic have used?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t care.’

  ‘Mum! Wait!’ She was halfway down the front path, so I stuck my head out the window. ‘Mum, what’s the psychic’s name?’

  ‘Delora Starburn.’

  Delora Starburn! I wondered if it was a made-up name, and decided that it proba
bly was. I wondered what sort of person gave herself a name like that, and pictured someone very much like Trish, only with wilder hair.

  I was wrong, though. Delora Starburn didn’t look a bit like Trish. When she arrived, late that afternoon, she was wearing pink leather trousers (with legs on them that ended halfway down her calves), very high heels, a jacket trimmed with fake fur, and lots of makeup. Her hair was long and blond, except where a streak of darker hair showed at the parting. Her skin was so tanned that it had almost cracked in places; she had a square face and a rough, squawking voice like a cockatoo’s. Her breath smelled of cigarette smoke.

  ‘Hello, sweetie,’ she beamed when I opened the front door. ‘Is your mum home? She’s expecting me.’

  ‘Are you the -?’

  ‘I’m Delora. Who are you?’

  My first thought was: shouldn’t you already know who I am? Being a psychic, and everything? But of course I didn’t say it.

  ‘I’m Alethea.’

  ‘What a gorgeous name! Oh, hello. Judy, is it?

  I’m Delora.’

  For the next ten minutes, Delora talked nonstop. She clattered down the hall, exclaiming over ‘this gorgeous, gorgeous house’. When she was introduced to Richard Boyer, who had wanted to be on hand during our ‘psychical experiment’, she practically shrieked with delight, declared that he must be a Virgo (‘Am I right? I knew it!’), and launched into a long, confusing story about her cousin’s computer, which had ‘gremlins’ in it that were destroying her cousin’s life work. She even managed to talk while she was drinking a glass of wine. Clacking about on her high heels, she cooed over Mum’s Tasmanian-ash kitchen cupboards and explained that she was late because there had been a pile-up on the freeway, and a huge traffic jam.

  ‘Oh, thank you, sweetie!’ she exclaimed, when I presented her with Idylls of the King. ‘This was hers, you say? Oh, good.’

  ‘There’s her name,’ I pointed out, turning to the flyleaf.

  ‘Yes, I see. I didn’t even know if I’d make it at all, because my car, I tell you, it’s falling apart, it’s such a bomb . . .’

  Everyone sat around dumbly as she raved on. We were trying to be polite, but wondering all the time when she was actually going to knuckle down and do some work. Finally, however, she finished her wine, set the glass down on the kitchen table, and declared, ‘Right. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  Then she left the room. We could hear her noisy heels on the staircase.

  ‘What’s she doing?’ Bethan asked Mum.

  ‘I – I don’t know.’ Mum looked at Ray. ‘Do you think – I mean -’ ‘She’s probably going to the toilet,’ Ray retorted, drily. ‘Don’t worry. She’ll be back. There’s no one up there to talk to.’

  ‘She’s not at all what I expected,’ Mum remarked, and turned to Richard. ‘Are psychics usually like that?’

  But Richard just giggled nervously, and shrugged, and pushed his glasses up his nose.

  ‘Well . . . I suppose I’d better get on with dinner,’ Mum sighed. ‘Thank God it’s spaghetti. Looks as if we might be feeding her, as well.’

  Delora was upstairs for nearly an hour. After about fifteen minutes, Mum began to get worried, but Ray told her not to fret, because if Delora needed anything, she would certainly ask for it. (‘I don’t think she’d be backward in coming forward,’ he said.) At six o’clock, Mum served up the spaghetti and salad, insisting that Richard join us, even though he protested that he didn’t want to put her to any trouble. As we ate, we kept listening for footsteps on the stairs. Mum, I think, listened particularly hard; at one point she made a comment about Delora stealing her jewellery, and she was only half-joking.

  Nobody else talked much. Richard told us a story about an English goldsmith named Frederick Thompson, who in 1905 suddenly found himself painting pictures. At the same time, he began to suffer from hallucinations – visions of country scenes – which became the subjects of these pictures. A year after he started to paint, he went to an exhibition of works by an artist named Robert Swain Gifford, who had died some years earlier. He heard a voice in his head say, ‘You see what I have done. Can you not take up and finish my work?’

  It was soon discovered that Frederick’s paintings closely resembled scenes which had been well known to the painter Robert Gifford – but which Frederick himself had never seen.

  ‘Lordy,’ said Ray, when Richard had finished. ‘I hope I don’t start getting hallucinations. That’s all I need.’

  ‘The moment anyone starts getting hallucinations, we’re moving house,’ Mum declared. Then she caught her breath, as high heels sounded overhead. They began to rap briskly down the stairs, signalling Delora’s return.

  We waited anxiously, our mouths full of food.

  ‘Well,’ Delora said brightly, upon entering the kitchen. ‘That was interesting.’ I noticed that, despite her encouraging smile, she looked different. Less bouncy. Her eyes seemed tired – almost dazed – and her hair was ruffled. Her wrinkles were more obvious.

  ‘There’s a massive amount of disruption up there, really massive,’ she went on, collapsing into a chair. Gratefully, she accepted Mum’s offer of another glass of wine. ‘I could feel it the minute I walked in.’

  ‘That room has an electromagnetic reading of point twelve,’ Richard observed, but Delora didn’t seem to hear. She swallowed a mouthful of wine, shut her eyes, massaged her forehead, and continued.

  ‘Did you say that this girl – this Eglantine – did you say that she died of starvation?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, when no one else did.

  ‘Well, that’s odd.’ Delora was frowning. Her eyes were still shut. ‘Because I would almost have thought that she’d drowned. I had the impression of someone falling into water.’

  ‘Water?’ said Mum. ‘You mean, like bathwater?’

  ‘No. Like the sea.’ Delora opened her eyes. ‘A heavy sea, near a cliff. Did Eglantine ever fall into the sea?’

  I sat up straight. I swallowed. Can you guess what I was thinking?

  ‘No,’ I croaked, ‘but I bet Emilie did.’

  Everyone turned to look at me.

  ‘Emilie is the character in Eglantine’s fairytale,’ I explained, and gave everyone a quick sketch of the unfinished story. ‘It ended up with Emilie waiting for Osric on the edge of a cliff,’ I said, ‘while he battled with a storm. If Emilie fell into the sea, it would be an unhappy ending. No wonder Eglantine didn’t like the ending that I wrote – she wanted something like Romeo and Juliet.’ I then revealed my theory about Eglantine being a writer, unable to rest until her story was complete. ‘Maybe the only way to get rid of her,’ I concluded, ‘is to help her write the end of the story.’

  For a while, nobody spoke. Bethan kept stuffing food into his mouth, but he did it slowly, without taking his eyes off my face. Ray uttered a drawn-out, long-suffering sigh. Mum chewed on her fingernails. Richard pushed his glasses up his nose and glanced at Delora.

  Delora began to nod, thoughtfully.

  ‘Well, that makes sense,’ she said. ‘Okay. Right. Not a problem.’ She stood up. ‘Anybody got a pen and paper?’

  Startled glances were exchanged.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Mum.

  ‘I’m going to help her finish her story. It might take a while, though. Could I have a coffee, do you think, and – oh, something to write on? You got a card table, love, and a little chair?’

  Mum stood up slowly, wearing a dazed expression. So did Ray. They stumbled about, looking for coffee and card tables, while Richard began to gabble on – in his breathy, excited way – about channelling and automatists.

  While the card table was being erected in Bethan’s bedroom, Richard told me about someone called Mrs Curran, who had produced several astoundingly accurate historical novels between 1910 and 1930, set in periods about which she knew nothing. It was claimed she was simply the tool of a dead woman named Patience Worth, whose words were being ‘channelled’ through her.


  ‘I guess the same theory applies here,’ said Richard, hovering on the stairs. ‘I’d like to record it. Do you think Delora would mind being filmed?’

  ‘Ask her,’ I rejoined.

  So he did. And Delora replied that she’d be delighted, nothing would please her more than being stuck all night in a bedroom with Richard Boyer. She fluttered her eyelashes when she said this, and Richard looked a bit startled. I was surprised, too. But after studying him, I decided that he was quite handsome, behind his glasses – he had nice curly hair, at least, and big eyes, and a straight nose. He was younger than Delora, too.

  ‘I won’t even try to open myself up until the whole house is settled,’ Delora told Mum. ‘From what you’ve told me, she only manifests herself when you’re all asleep, so she obviously doesn’t like a lot of noise and movement. I’ll wait until you’re in bed, and see what I can do.’ She coughed into her nicotine-stained fingers. ‘I’m not promising anything, mind you, but I’ll do my best.’

  ‘And how much more will this cost?’ Mum asked. ‘I mean, if you’re here the whole night -’

  ‘Oh! Don’t worry about that,’ Richard interjected. ‘I’ll pay the extra fee.’

  ‘But Richard -’

  ‘No, no. Really. I want to see this.’

  Delora made a noise like someone presented with a particularly yummy piece of chocolate cake, and patted Richard’s cheek. ‘Gorgeous,’ she said. ‘I love him. I want to take him home in my purse.’ Then she sat down to polish off a bowl of spaghetti, and I went away to do my homework.

  For the rest of that evening, until I went to bed, I could hear Delora chattering away downstairs in the kitchen. She was still down there when I drifted off to sleep.

  I have to admit that I just couldn’t picture Eglantine Higgins getting on with Delora Star-burn. By this time, I had a very strong impression of Eglantine Higgins – I thought that she must have been quite serious, and fierce, and clever and poetic – and Delora didn’t seem to be any of those things. What’s more, Delora never stopped talking. How was she going to hear Eglantine if she never stopped talking?