25 Evie

25

I dream of children playing in the garden and singing.

Ring-a-ring o' rosies,

A pocket full of posies.

A-tishoo! A-tishoo!

We all fall down.

My history teacher, Mr Poole, told us this nursery rhyme dates back to the Great Plague and that a ‘rosie' was a stinky rash that developed on sufferers, and that posies were put in pockets to conceal the smell. Once I knew the origins, it stopped being cheerful or playful.

I heard it first in the attic room in the big house. I stood on tiptoes, trying to reach the windowsill to pull myself up and glimpse the children who were singing in the garden. Were they like me? I wondered. Would I be allowed out to play one day when I could talk?

The room had a sagging single bed with brass knobs on the frame, a bedside table with wormholes, and a single wooden chair with a faded floral pattern on the cushion. By the end of my stay, I knew every cobweb in every corner. I knew when the sun arrived as a thin strip of light on the wall, and how it thickened and descended and crossed the floor.

The housekeeper came three times a day, bringing me food and medicines and emptying my chamber pot. She would straighten my bedclothes and fluff up my pillows and tell me not to speak.

‘I know yer don't understand most of what ah'm saying,' she said, ‘but I'll keep talkin' because you must get lonely up here.'

She would point to the tray of food. ‘Now eat everything. Ye're skinny as a twig.'

Later, she asked, ‘Do you understand me?'

I nodded.

She touched her throat with her hand. ‘Does it hurt?'

I nodded again.

‘Less than before?'

Another nod.

The children were still singing. I looked at the window.

‘Sorry about the racket,' she said. ‘Mah weans make more noise than a bagpipe being beaten to death with a broom.'

I didn't know what a bagpipe was or why it had to be beaten with a broom. I made a writing gesture, wanting a pencil and paper.

‘Cannae do that, pet. The laird won't allow it,' she said.

After she'd gone, I pushed the bed closer to the window and lifted myself by bracing my elbows on the sill. I could see the fields and trees and the fringe of mountains that were changing colour as the sun went down. But not the garden. It was always below me, out of sight, like the faces of the children.

One morning, the woman brought a dress for me to wear. A dark blue smock and a white blouse. ‘It's old, but nice enough,' she said. ‘And it should fit because you're still a twig.'

She waited for me to get changed and escorted me along the hallway and down the marble stairs. ‘Keep going,' she said, her hand on the small of my back. ‘Right to the bottom.'

At the foot of the stairs, I waited for her directions. We went along a wide corridor to the library. That's when I saw the painting above the fireplace of the old man with his dogs. A figure squatted beside the fire, with a blackened stick in his hand. I thought he was burning books, but the flame was feeding on kindling and cut wood.

He tossed the stick into the fire and straightened, brushing his hands together.

‘Hello, Adina, welcome.'

His hands were pale and hairless, with long tapered fingers. He motioned me to come closer, into the light of the bay window.

‘You're not as pretty as she is, but that can't be helped.'

I tried to speak but couldn't make my voice work.

He was leaning on the mantelpiece. ‘Do you know how many children die in the world every year, Adina? Five million. War, poverty, disease, famine, neglect – it's a terrible toll, a waste, but you are safe now.'

The woman was still in the room. ‘Is she ready?' he asks.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Does she understand English?'

‘Aye, but her voice was damaged.'

‘Is it permanent?'

‘The doctors said it could take another month.'

‘Well, do something with her hair and put some colour in her cheeks.'

That evening, wearing the same dress, I made my way down the stairs and across the foyer and through the doors. Turning back, I saw what the house looked like from the outside – and the garden where the children sang ‘Ring o' Rosies'.

A car was waiting. The rear door was open. A man sat inside. He was tall, dark-haired and tanned, dressed in a charcoal-grey suit. A gold ring glinted on his wedding finger. He patted the seat next to him.

‘Hello, Adina. You can call me uncle.'

* * *

Cyrus answers my knock. He's dressed in boxer shorts and tattoos.

‘It's five in the morning,' he says.

‘We have to go back,' I say.

‘Why?'

‘He said I wasn't as pretty as she is.'

‘As pretty as who?'

‘Exactly.'