Toby's Room Page 2

  Her thoughts scrabbled for a footing. All the time, underneath, she was becoming more and more angry. For there was another possible explanation: that Toby had been conducting a rather nasty, schoolboy experiment to find out what it was like to be close, in that way, with a girl. But then, why would he need to do that? She knew perfectly well that young men had access to sexual experiences that girls like her knew nothing about. So why would he need to experiment on her?

  She looked back over the last twenty-four hours: saw herself coming downstairs in the red dress, sitting at the dinner table boasting about having an admirer. Had it seemed to him that she was moving away, leaving him? His reaching out for her had felt a bit like that. He’d grabbed her the way a drowning man grabs a log.

  By the time they got back to the house, she’d developed a headache, the beginnings of a migraine perhaps. She clutched at the excuse of illness and ran upstairs to her room, passing her mother on the stairs, but not stopping to speak.

  ‘What’s the matter with Elinor?’ Mother asked Toby.

  ‘Not feeling very well. Bit too much sun, I think.’

  That made her angry too: the cool, rational, accepted explanation which emphasized her weakness, not his. She slammed her bedroom door, stood with her back to it and then, slowly, as if she had to force a passage through her throat, she began to cry: ugly, wrenching sobs that made her a stranger to herself.

  Elinor missed lunch, but went downstairs for dinner, because she knew her absence would only arouse curiosity, and perhaps concern. Part of her expected, even hoped, that Toby would have made some excuse to return to London, but no, there he was, laughing and talking, just as he normally did. Though perhaps drinking rather more than usual.

  She made an effort, chatting to her father, ignoring her mother and Rachel, flirting outrageously with Tim, no longer the little schoolgirl sister-in-law. Oh, no. Looking round the table, she resolved that never again would she impersonate the girl they still thought she was.

  Toby didn’t look at her from beginning to end of the meal, but she made herself speak to him. Where the children were concerned, her mother was an acute observer, and though she’d never in a million years guess the truth, she’d notice the tension between herself and Toby if they weren’t talking and assume they’d argued. She wouldn’t rest till she found out what it was about, so a quarrel would have to be invented, and in that imaginary dispute Mother would side with Toby, and once more Elinor would be in the wrong. Somehow or other Elinor was going to have to get through the rest of the evening without arousing suspicion.

  After dinner, she suggested cards. She knew Father would back her up: he loved his family but their conversation bored him. So the table was set up, partners chosen and all conversation was thereby at an end. Toby dealt the cards, smiled in her direction once or twice, but without meeting her eyes. Or was she imagining the change in him? Even now a little, niggling worm of doubt remained. Was she being – dread word – hysterical? Her mother had accused her of that often enough in the past. Elinor knew that even if there were any family discussion of the incident she would be made to feel entirely in the wrong. But there would be no discussion.

  So the evening dragged on, until ten o’clock when she was able to plead the remains of a headache and retire early to bed.

  Once in her room, she threw the window wide open, but didn’t switch on the lamp. No point inviting moths into the room, though she didn’t dislike them, and certainly wasn’t terrified of them as Rachel was. She thought she looked a bit like a moth herself, fluttering to and fro in front of the mirror as she undressed and brushed her hair. It was too hot for a nightdress; she needed to feel cool, clean sheets against her skin. Only they didn’t stay cool. She threw them off, looked down at the white mounds of her breasts, and pressed her clenched fists hard into the pit of her stomach where she’d felt that treacherous melting. Never again. She would never, never, let her body betray her in that way again. A little self-consciously, she began to cry, but almost at once gave up in disgust. What had happened was too awful for tears. She’d been frightened of him and he hadn’t cared: Toby, who’d always protected her. She saw his face hanging over her, the glazed eyes, the groping, sea-anemone mouth; he hadn’t looked like Toby at all. And then, when he pulled her against him, she’d felt –

  Downstairs, a door opened. Voices: people wishing each other goodnight. Footsteps: coming slowly and heavily, or quickly and lightly, up the stairs. The floorboards grumbled under the pressure of so many feet. Two thuds, seconds apart: one of the men taking his shoes off. Then silence, gradually deepening, until at last the old house curled up around the sleepers, and slept too.

  Not a breath of wind. A fringe of ivy leaves – black against the moonlight – surrounded the open window, but not one of them stirred. Normally, even on a still night, there’d be some noise. A susurration of leaves, sounding so like the sea that sometimes she drifted off to sleep pretending she was lying on a beach with nothing above her but the stars. No hope of that tonight. An owl hooted, once, twice, then silence again, except for the whisper of blood in her ears.

  Was Toby lying awake like her? No, he’d drunk so much wine at dinner he’d be straight off to sleep. Imagining his untroubled sleep – Toby’s breath hardly moving the sheet that covered him – became a kind of torment. After a while, it became intolerable. She had to do something. Reaching for her nightdress, she got out of bed and let herself quietly out of her room.

  On the landing she stopped and listened: a squeal of bedsprings as somebody turned over; her father’s fractured snore. She tiptoed along the corridor, avoiding the places where she knew the floorboards creaked. She’d made this groping journey so often in the past: the unimaginably distant past when she and Toby had been best friends as well as brother and sister. He’d shielded her from Mother’s constant carping, the comparisons with Rachel that were never in her favour, the chill of their father’s absence. And now, for some unfathomable reason, he’d left her to face all that on her own.

  Outside his door, she hesitated. There was still time to turn back, only she couldn’t, not now, she was too angry. Something had to be done to dent his complacency. She turned the knob and slipped in. Once inside the room, she held her breath. Listened again. Yes, he was asleep, though not snoring: slow, calm, steady breaths. Not a care in the world.

  She crossed to the bed and looked down at him. Like her, he’d left the curtains open; his skin in the moonlight had the glitter of salt. Leaning towards him, she felt his breath on her face. She knew there was something she wanted to do, but she didn’t know what it was. Jerk him awake? Shock him out of that infuriatingly peaceful, deep sleep? Yes, but how? There was a jug of water on the washstand near the bed. She twined her fingers round the handle, raised it high above her head …

  And then, just as she was about to pour, he opened his eyes. He didn’t move, or speak, or try to get out of the way. He simply lay there, looking up at her. In the dimness, his light-famished pupils flared to twice their normal size, and forever afterwards, when she tried to recapture this moment, she remembered his eyes as black. Neither of them spoke. Slowly, she lowered the jug.

  The chink, as she set it down on the marble stand, seemed to release him. He reached out, closed his hand gently round her wrist, and pulled her down towards him.

  Two

  Every window gaped wide, as if the house were gasping for breath. Barely visible above the trees, a small, hard, white sun threatened the heat to come. Mother’s precious lawn had turned yellow, with bald patches here and there where the cracked earth showed through.

  Elinor chased clumps of pale yellow scrambled egg around her plate. It was absolutely necessary that she should appear to eat, but so far she hadn’t managed to force one mouthful down.

  ‘Water?’ Mother asked. She topped up her own and Elinor’s glass without waiting for a reply.

  ‘Look at Hobbes,’ Elinor said.

  Hearing his name, Hobbes raised his head, fixed
his bloodshot eyes on her for a moment, then sank his slobbering jowls on to his paws again.

  Her mother’s face softened, as it never did when she looked at Elinor. ‘Poor old thing, he really hates this weather.’

  ‘Yes, imagine this in a fur coat.’

  They ate in silence for a while.

  ‘You were very quiet last night,’ Mother said.

  ‘Headache, I expect. Where is everybody?’

  ‘Rachel’s having a lie-in. Your father’s in his study, been up since six, and Tim and Toby have gone shooting.’

  ‘Toby hates shooting.’

  Her mother’s jaw clicked as she chewed on a triangle of dry toast. ‘Well, that’s where they’ve gone.’

  Conversation wilted in the heat. Soon there was no sound except for a discreet, well-bred scraping of knives on plates. Elinor could feel her mother’s gaze heavy on the side of her face. She put her fork down.

  ‘Shall we have coffee outside?’ her mother said.

  They took their cups on to the terrace where a table and chairs had been set up overlooking the lawn. The smell of dry grass tightened Elinor’s chest; she was finding it difficult to breathe.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. Looks like we’re in for another scorcher.’

  Her mother tested the cushion for dampness before sitting down. ‘It needs a thunderstorm, freshen things up.’

  As she spoke, the crack of a rifle sent wood pigeons blundering into the air. Elinor drew a deep breath, or as deep as she could manage, and gazed straight ahead.

  ‘You and Toby haven’t quarrelled, have you?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I thought I detected a bit of an atmosphere last night.’

  ‘No, I was just tired.’

  Mother sipped her coffee, put the cup down, dabbed her lips on the napkin. ‘I want to tell you something, Elinor.’

  This might have sounded like the beginning of a mother–daughter chat, except that she and her mother never had them. That was Rachel’s province. The bare minimum of information that had been imparted to Elinor when she reached the age of thirteen had been conveyed by Rachel, in this, as in all other things, their mother’s deputy.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever told you Toby was a twin?’

  This was the last thing she’d expected. ‘No, I had no idea. Well …’ She tried to gather her thoughts. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It died. She. It was a girl.’

  She swallowed, obviously finding it difficult to go on. She was a reticent woman – or vacant – Elinor had never been sure which, though she was inclined to favour vacancy. ‘Bland’ was the word. It was almost as if her mother’s beauty, which even now was remarkable, had taken the place of a personality.

  ‘I never felt really well when I was expecting him, and with Rachel I had – in fact, I felt wonderful; but with Toby, no. I was so breathless by the end I used to sleep sitting up. And then when I went into labour it was … Well, it was difficult. A whole day and half the following night.’

  Elinor winced. ‘I couldn’t do it.’

  ‘When you’re nine months pregnant, dear, you don’t have a lot of choice. Anyway, he was born, at last, and of course I felt relief and joy and all the things you do feel, and it actually took me quite a while to realize the midwife was looking worried. She called the doctor – he was downstairs having a drink with your father – and I’ll never forget him coming through the door.’ She cupped a hand over her right eye. ‘His eyes just bulged. And then there was a great flurry and panic and … this thing came out.’

  She was folding her napkin, carefully running her fingers along the creases. ‘It had died quite late in the pregnancy, six, seven months, something like that. Normally, if a baby dies, labour starts straight away, but for some reason it hadn’t. And so Toby went on growing and, as he grew, he’d flattened it against the side of the womb. They didn’t want me to see it, but I said, “No, I’ve got to.” I said if they didn’t let me see it, I’d only imagine far worse things …’ She glanced at Elinor, then quickly away. ‘I don’t know what the worse things would’ve been. It had turned into a kind of scroll. You know the parchment things the Romans used to write on? A bit like that, but with features, everything. You could tell it was a girl.’

  What to say? ‘That’s awful, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s called a papyrus twin, when that happens. Apparently, it’s very rare. The doctor and your father got quite excited.’

  ‘I’m sure Father didn’t.’

  Her mother smiled.

  ‘Does Toby know?’

  ‘I’ve never told him. Your father might have mentioned it, I don’t know.’

  Another burst of gunfire from the wood. Rooks, crows and pigeons were circling over the treetops now, the air full of their cries.

  ‘When he was little, Toby, he had this imaginary friend. I suppose a lot of children do, but this one was very real; I mean, we had to set a place for her at the table, and everything. I wasn’t worried, I thought it would all disappear as soon as he started playing with other children and made some real friends. But it didn’t. I used to lie awake at night sometimes and listen to him talking to her. I think I almost started to believe in her myself.’

  ‘Did she have a name?’

  ‘D’you know, I can’t remember.’

  ‘So what happened? Well, she’s not still here, is she?’

  Another, slightly acid, smile.

  ‘You. You happened. As soon as you could walk, you followed Toby round like a little dog. I used to think he’d get tired of it, but he never did. And the girl vanished. He didn’t need her any more, you see. He had you.’

  Elinor was trying to read her mother’s expression. Jealousy? Yes. Resentment of their closeness, hers and Toby’s? Yes. But something else too. It occurred to her, for the first time, that perhaps Toby had formed so effective a barrier between herself and the rest of the family, that her mother might actually feel some grief for the loss of her.

  No, no. She was being over-analytical, or just plain stupid. Her mother wouldn’t feel anything for the loss of her, except, quite possibly, relief.

  And yet, if things had been different, she might have taken the place of the lost girl. In many families, that’s exactly what would have happened, but not in this one.

  She said, stiffly: ‘Thank you for telling me.’

  ‘I thought it might help … You’re getting to know a lot of new people and that’s good, of course, but sometimes I think perhaps Toby’s a bit afraid of losing you. He hasn’t been happy recently, and I don’t know why.’

  ‘No, but then we don’t know very much about him, do we?’

  She would have gone on, but her mother held up a hand. Toby and Tim were striding up the lawn.

  Elinor felt as though she was watching them from a great height, almost as if she were one of the birds that their guns had startled into the air. Two young men in shooting jackets and cord breeches, squinting into the sun, while on the terrace a woman and a girl, both in white dresses, rose to meet them. A jarring of two worlds, or so it seemed to her, looking down.

  Suddenly, she was hurtling to the ground. Back in her body, she stared at the thing that dangled from Toby’s hand: a gleam of white bone in a mess of blood-spiked fur, eyes filmed over. The silence gathered.

  ‘It’s a hare,’ she said.

  ‘Ye-es?’

  ‘It’s bad luck to kill a hare.’

  ‘Won’t stop you eating it, though, will it?’ Tim said, with an attempt at jocularity. He was no fool, he sensed the atmosphere; he just didn’t know what to do about it.

  ‘I thought it was a rabbit,’ Toby said.

  She could see how he hated it, the limp, lifeless thing in his hand. Looking through his eyes, from his brain outwards, she saw the hare come over the hill, flowing like water through the long grasses. Oh, he’d have called the bullet back if he could, she didn’t doubt that, but it was too late. Flies were alre
ady laying their eggs inside the bloody hole.

  ‘Elinor –’

  Refusing even to look at him, she turned and went back into the house.

  Three

  Climbing the stairs to her lodgings, Elinor felt vulnerable; an animal leaving a trail of blood behind in the snow. Even with the door locked, the gas ring lit and the kettle boiling, she still didn’t feel safe.

  She forced herself to butter a slice of stale bread, but her stomach rose at the sight of it. Although it was still early she went into the bedroom and undressed, wrapped a robe tightly round her and then sat down at the dressing table to brush her hair. The nightly ritual: she’d done this every night since she was four or five years old. The face in the mirror stared back at her with no sign of recognition.

  Suddenly, she was rummaging through the top drawer searching for her scissors. As soon as she found them, she began hacking away at her hair. The blades weren’t sharp enough; they mouthed thick clumps of hair like a snake struggling to ingest a rat. Still, she persevered. Floating between her and the glass, she saw the flattened, scroll-like body of the little female thing Toby had killed. Oh, what nonsense, of course he hadn’t killed it; he hadn’t killed anybody. It had died, that was all, it had died, and he went on growing, as he was bound to do, taking up more and more room until there was no space left for her.

  How quiet it was in these rooms. She’d not yet learned to live alone, though she’d been excited at the prospect, not nervous at all. She had close friends near by, Catherine and Ruthie, so she knew she wouldn’t be lonely. Now, she realized that silence has a sound; well, this kind of silence did anyway: toxic silence. Somewhere between a hum and a buzz. Only the crunching of the scissors through her hair interrupted it. When she’d finished cutting, she raised both hands to the nape of her neck, feeling the dangerous freedom of the shorn ends. Her hair lay in coils and question marks around her feet. She scooped it up and put it in the bin.