Saving Sophia Part 1

Saving Sophia.

Fleur Hitchc.o.c.k.

aLottie,a says Ned, thundering uninvited into my bedroom. aWill they let me take Oddjob to Bream?a I stare at the thing in his hand. It used to be a stick insect, it might still be a stick insect, but mostly, it just looks like a stick.

aNot now, Ned, Iam busy,a I say. aActually, could you get out of my room?a Heas still standing there. I can feel it, but I go back to the tricky business of hiding my makeup deep inside my bag and try to ignore him. Itas Dadas old rucksack and Iam packing it to take with me to Bream Lodge Active Pursuit Centre.

I donat want to go.

I really donat want to go. But Ned wants to go so I have to go a" because we always do everything together, whether or not I want to, and anyway Mum and Dad want to go moth-hunting in Cornwall a" WITHOUT US.

Not that I want to go moth-hunting.

I stuff two old paperbacks down the side of the bag. The Mystery of the Severed Foot, and One Against Many.

aNed, go away a" I didnat ask you in.a aWhy are you stealing Mumas books?a aNed, GO AWAY!a He charges out, slamming my bedroom door behind him and the lump of plaster shaped like the Isle of Wight thatas been clinging to the ceiling finally gives up the struggle against gravity, and crashes to the floor.

aSoreeeeeee,a he says, sticking his head back around the door. aActually, she a" Mum a" wants you.a And he slams the door again.

aWhy?a I say, picking my way through a cloud of plaster dust.

Nedas already halfway up the stepladder to the loft. It replaces the stairs that fell down last August when Dad tried to fix them. aDunno,a he says. aSheas not cross with you or anything.a He vanishes into the darkness.

Letting the rucksack slide to the ground, I creep out on to the landing. I donat want to pack because I donat want to go to stupid Bream Lodge, which is as utterly dull as this place; absolutely nothing happens here, absolutely nothing happens there. Perhaps if I havenat packed, I wonat have to go and I can be bored in my own bed, or not bored, because in my bed I can read, and when I read, I can escape.

For a wonderful moment I let myself into the world of stories. Itas a place where things happen and interesting people live. I go there every night. I read and I dream, and Iam happy because itas full of colour and excitement.

Behind me, a final small piece of plaster slips from the ceiling and plummets to the floor.

My life is not just dull, itas s.k.a.n.ky, too.

Mum, Dad and another womanas voice float up from the kitchen below. It sounds like Miss Sackb.u.t.t from school but it canat possibly be. Iave kept this house a closely guarded secret for the whole year that Iave been in her cla.s.s and Iave let no one, absolutely no one, in or anywhere near the place. There is no way that I want anyone to know anything about our house; if they knew how grim it was, Iad never live it down.

I stand and listen at the top of the stairs.

Itas all because of my parents. Theyare not normal; theyare scientists. For fun, they read pamphlets about soil composition. Visit the compost heap. Or, for a treat, they take us to the National Humus Society headquarters in Okehampton where we eat alfalfa sprout sandwiches.

Sunday lunch is road kill.

I bet no one else has parents like mine.

I think of the last parentsa evening a" Dad smelled of silage, Mum wore a boiler suit a" and I shudder.

I wish they could be like other people a" wear suits, work in offices, eat ready meals. Watch telly. Then I could have friends home.

I could have friends. Full stop.

I approach the staircase. Iam going as quietly as I can, but the steps are tricky; the third treadas missing and the rest creak like coffins. When I reach the bottom, I lurk in the dark shadow under the stairs so that I can see into the kitchen.

Thereas a man. A stranger. Heas tall and wearing a very expensive suit. I know itas an expensive suit because Sarah-Jane Parkinsa dad wears one like it so it must be. His face is turned away from me but I can see thereas a twitch in his smoothly shaven jaw. Everything about him is perfectly turned out. Like a really smart bouncer.

I stare hard through the gap, collecting every clue I can from his appearance.

Heas spotless, and despite looking like heas auditioning for the next James Bond movie, thereas something altogether piggily pink about him, something that reminds me of a sausage, or a pork chop. Itas probably the short blonde bristles sticking out over his collar.

Behind him bobs a minty green dress, stretched tight over a round shape. It is Miss Sackb.u.t.t and sheas talking. aSo when Mr Pinehead asked if he could meet someone else who was going on the school trip to Bream Lodge, I thought of Lottie, sheas such a sensible girl, just the sort of influence Sophia needs, and Iam so sorry, I should have rung, but thereas so little time, and he very sweetly offered to give me a lift in his rather wonderful car, and I still need to pack, seeing as weare off tomorrowaa Her voice tails off. I wonder if sheas caught sight of the South American fungi that Dadas been cultivating on top of the fridge.

Wonderful car? Definitely a spy.

aOf course, of course.a Thatas Dadas voice. aBream, excellent spot a" home of the first Earl of Bream of course, he of the breadplants, eighteenth century castle, built in the baronial stylea"a aBob, shhhh,a says Mum. aThey want to know about the outward-bound place.a She addresses the man. aItas not very smart, you know.a aWe donat need smart a" just safe,a he says. Heas got a soft voice that doesnat go with the twitchy jaw. aSomewhere to keep Sophia tucked up and cosy while we get on with one or two things. Good idea of yours, Miss Sackb.u.t.t, keeping the children busy over the holidays.a aOh a" thank you, yes,a says Miss Sackb.u.t.t. She lets out a silly high-pitched laugh. The same one she does when the vicar comes to school. She fancies him, too. aIt does prove helpful to some parents.a aItas supposed to be educational as well,a says Mum, grinding eggsh.e.l.ls in a pestle and mortar with such force that she has to shout over the noise.

aNaturally, educational too,a says the man, abut itas very handy, and a" like here a" a long way from London. Almost remote.a Mum looks at him over her pestle and mortar. aSo,a she says. aWhat brings you here, Mr Pinehead? To our aremotea patch of England?a aBusiness,a he replies. He pulls at his cufflinks. Theyare gold, they catch the light.

aOh, how interesting a" what kind of business?a asks Miss Sackb.u.t.t.

aYes, what exactly?a says Mum, pausing in the demolition of the eggsh.e.l.ls.

Thereas a long silence. I wait for him to say MI5. Instead he says, aA bit of property development.a aGosh a" how thrilling!a giggles Miss Sackb.u.t.t. aDo tell, where?a aPlace called the Grange?a he says. aItas up a tiny laneaa His voice tails off and I hear Mumas sharp intake of breath.

aGoodness a" anyway,a she says, too loudly. aI wouldnat really call Bream cosy. More like shabby. Your daughter might find it a bit basic.a Miss Sackb.u.t.t raises her eyebrows. aShabby? Oh, I wouldnat say that. Itas just back to nature; there are no frills, if thatas what you mean. Anyway, I thought it would be good if the girls met before we left.a aLOTTIE!a yells Mum. I can tell that the pink man mentioning the Grange has irritated her.

Miss Sackb.u.t.t sidesteps suddenly, as if sheas avoiding something on the floor. Mumas got a broom out and sheas making the noises of someone who wants to drive people away: fierce sweeping and cupboard doors slamming. Then she says, aDo excuse me, Miss Sackb.u.t.t, Mr Pinehead. I just need to see to the chickens.a A cold draught on my face, a clunk, and Mum goes out of the back door. She slams it so hard that it bounces back open and swings wide, letting all the cold damp of the outside join the warm damp of the inside.

aOf course they should meet a" LOTTIE!a bellows Dad.

Iall have to go in now.

Apart from Miss Sackb.u.t.t and the man, thereas a girl I couldnat see before: a slight, perfect girl probably my age. She looks absolutely nothing like the man, who has his hand resting on her shoulder. Heas too blond with sharp pale eyes, while sheas dark, her skin a delicious dark brown, her eyes practically black. She has a long plait threaded with gold running down her back. If she told me she was an Indian princess, Iad believe her.

Sheas staring at the floor.

I blush. The flooras filthy, even filthier than normal. Dadas been taking plant cuttings on the kitchen table all day. There are five hundred tiny pots lined up and waiting to go into the green house, each with its own twig. Then I realise sheas staring at my shoes. Mumas old red-leather walking boots; Iave been trying them on for size.

I blush again.

aCharlotte, meet Sophia; Sophia, Lottie,a says Miss Sackb.u.t.t, a particularly idiotic smile spreading across her face. aLottieas such a sensible girl, and sheas a big fan of detective novels, arenat you, Lottie? Whodunnits, Cluedo, you know the kind. aMurder in the librarya and all that. Do you like that sort of thing, Sophia?a A look of incomprehension crosses Sophiaas face and I glare at Miss Sackb.u.t.t. Sheas made me sound like a frump and anyway sheas got it all wrong a" Iam not sensible, I am never sensible. And I donat like whodunnits, I like challenges: heroes facing the impossible, life and death situations, people clinging to the sides of mountains by their fingertips. Sophia looks up at me for an explanation.

aItas only because thereas nothing else to do round hereaa It sounds lame, and I realise that the best thing would be to keep my mouth shut but instead I keep talking.

aSo I really like reading, especially adventure fiction. Itas really excitingaa Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

The kitchen falls silent, as if everyoneas run out of things to say. The blond man clears his throat and checks his phone. Miss Sackb.u.t.t coughs, and I hear Mum down by the chicken sheds, clanking bin lids and slamming gates. Dad rootles in a cupboard, searching for something.

A slug makes its way out of the kitchen door.

aWhat kind of thing do you read, Sophia?a I ask, my mouth forming the words of its own accord.

Sophia shrugs. I give myself an imaginary kick and vow not to say another word.

aSo.a Miss Sackb.u.t.t must find the silence as agonising as I do because she touches the man on the sleeve and giggles. aOh dear, yes, the Grange, my, what a place.a She stops.

The man looks at her as if head like to brush her hand away, but smiles instead. He doesnat use his eyes, but his mouth stretches wide.

aI didnat realise the Grange was even on the market,a says Dad, reaching into a cupboard.

aIt wasnat, isnat,a the man says, smoothly. aWe inherited it, unexpectedly. Now Iam toying with how best to deal with it. Looking at the potential a" turning it into a country-house hotel, golf, spa, you know the sort of thing.a aI didnat teach you, did I, Mr Pinehead?a asks Miss Sackb.u.t.t suddenly, peering into one of Mumas gla.s.s tanks. aSo many people have been through my hands.a About half a centimetre from the end of her nose a scorpion stops what itas doing and peers back.

The man rubs his hair. Itas short, and I suspect that thereas less of it than head like. aEr a" no. Iam not local a" Iave never been down here before, in fact. And what a lovely, unsophisticated part of the world it is. Anyway, the old lady that owned the Grange, she was a, er, distant relative.a aGoodness a" lucky you,a says Dad, not really listening. aRight,a he adds, slamming a plastic bottle on to the table and uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the lid with his teeth. aNew friends going to Bream Lodge, that calls for a celebration, donat you think, Lottie? This yearas gooseberry champagne a" whoad like to try a little?a He waves the bottle at Miss Sackb.u.t.t and grabs four smeary gla.s.ses from the draining board.

Miss Sackb.u.t.t wears spectacles that make her look like an owl and she can do this thing with her eyes to make them perfectly round. She does this now and gazes owlishly at the thick yellow liquid, before resting her lip doubtfully on the edge of the cloudy gla.s.s. About now, sheall get the smell of the gooseberries, slightly fermented and sour. I watch to see if sheall go ahead and drink it.

It looks exactly like a cup of fresh horse wee.

The manas got one, too. His eyebrows have gone up into his hairline. I donat suppose this is his usual kind of drink, and I watch Sophia watching him. Sheas got a smile on her face. She catches my eye before staring down at the floor again.

Dad picks up his gla.s.s and knocks the liquid back, then slams it on to the table before refilling it. aNectar,a he declares. aStrained through Cleoas winter tights to remove the yeast mothers and mixed with my secret ingredient.a Oh no.

aWhatas the secret ingredient?a asks Miss Sackb.u.t.t, her mouth shrinking to a tiny circle and her eyebrows lifting above the rims of her spectacles.

Dad leans to whisper in her ear and Miss Sackb.u.t.tas mouth drops open; the gla.s.s, rescued by Dad, makes it back to the table, and the man puts his by the sink. Untouched.

Dad starts talking about Bream Lodge, and I catch Sophiaas eye again; this time she risks a proper smile and I smile back.

Like a shadow, Ned appears at my elbow with a bag of Mumas homemade parsnip and beetroot crisps. He offers them to Sophia. She takes a microscopic shard of beetroot crisp and slips it in between her teeth.

aGood, arenat they?a says Ned, and she nods, presumably because she canat speak. I grab a parsnip crisp and grind it with my molars. Itas horrible. Not only is it thick and chewy, but itas stale. I sigh. Just as it looks like someone interestingas going to Bream, she has to come to the house first. Sheall never be my friend now. Ever.

I watch as she takes the beetroot crisp out of her mouth and slips it into one of Dadas flowerpots.

I canat blame her.

The manas talking. aSophiaas between schools at the moment and I need a few business days a" a quick trip to New York, tedious visits to the planners, bank manager, lots of dull stuff. Property developmentas new to me, so it all takes longer than it ought. Thatas why I took advantage of the Bream Lodge trip, and there was a spare place, and Sophia seemed happy to goaa Heas not a regular property developer? I revert to my earlier a.n.a.lysis. So he could still be a spy. Or a butcher who goes to New York? A meatball specialist, perhaps. Or is it industrial espionage? Heas off to spy on American fast-food companies. I look at him again. I can just see him sneaking past vats of boiling meat with a micro camera in his hand.

Sophia glides across the kitchen, eyeing the tanks of scorpions. Sheas pretending to study her nails which, perfectly filed, lie at the end of her delicate fingers. Sheas utterly beautiful.

I blush again, because Iam not. Iam an appleshaped thing; red-cheeked with hazel eyes, coa.r.s.e mousey-brown hair and crooked teeth. My clothes donat fit and Iam aware that, unlike Sophiaas, my stomach curls over the top of my trousers.

We might as well come from different planets, but I think I want Sophia as my friend. Quite badly.

Ned empties the few crisps he hasnat eaten into a pudding basin and Mum bursts through the kitchen door, speckled with goosegra.s.s seeds. Sheas holding a dead chicken upside down by its back legs.

aSupper,a she cries, thwacking it down on the table. aWhen Iave plucked and drawn it.a She gazes round the room, challenging anyone to say anything.

The chickenas glazed eye stares up at the lampshade.

I canat even look.

I simply want to die.

aI cannot believe that beautiful place is now owned by that awful man!a yells Mum, slamming forks back into the cutlery drawer. aaA golf coursea, he says! Weall have to start a campaign to Save the Grange a" signatures, letters to the papers, lobby the Department of the Environment.a aWill we?a asks Dad. Heas watering his cuttings with a pipette, five drops each.

aYou know we will a" itas the most wonderful site, completely untouched since the a20s, and the barnas full of horseshoe bats.a Mum jams the drawer and yanks it backwards and forwards until a chip of wood pings into the room. aAnd Iam sure there were burnt orchids there last time I went. Then thereas the walled garden, and that orchard stuffed with mistletoe a" the last cider orchard in the village. Itas justamagnificent. The whole thingas tragic.a aAh,a says Dad.

aOh, honestly,a says Mum, and she stomps back out into the almost completely dark garden.

aOh dear,a says Dad, shaking his head.

I look at him. aWhat is the Grange?a Dad sighs. aLast known nesting spot of the Devon corncrake, and awash with nightingales in Junea"a aYes, yes,a I interrupt. aIs it where Irene used to live?a Dad straightens and wipes a speck from his gla.s.ses. aYes. And of course Irene was a bit of a hero in your mumas eyes. I donat know whatas upsetting her more, the fact that it was Ireneas home or the scientific interest of the place.a I think about the house. I never knew it was called the Grange; it was always just aIreneas housea to me. Iam sure the grounds are special, the orchards are pretty, but theyare only trees after all a" itas the Irene part that worries me. aWhat about the actual stuff inside? Will he have inherited that, too?a aI expect so,a says Dad, inspecting the pipette. aUsually the whole lot goes to the relatives.a I remember the sitting room. Sunlight over the wooden floor, tatty Persian rugs, the smell of wood smoke, an aeroplane propeller. Ireneas mohair rug folded over her lumpy old legs. And the bookcases: rows and rows of old paperbacks, adventure stories, mysteries, romances, hours and hours of reading. I think of the man in the expensive suit slinging them into a heap and an unexpected tear springs to my eye.

aBut, Dad a" thatas not right a" I mean, he didnat even know her. Who keeps her memories?a aHow do you mean?a aOnce the house is gone, and the stuffas gone, whatas left of Irene?a Dad shrugs. aHer deeds, I suppose. The amazing things she did. Sadly, Lottie, the restas not really up to us.a Upstairs, Ned flushes the toilet and a sound like an ocean liner starting its engine reverberates through the house.

aWhat will he do with it all?a aIf he hasnat already, heall probably sell the things that are worth anything in an auction and give the rest of it to house clearers. Iam afraid, in the end, most people just use a skip to clear out the things they canat sell.a aThatas terrible,a I say. aNo wonder Mumas upset.a I imagine the man going through Ireneas personal things, her dressing table dotted with perfume bottles, the cupboard of old wooden toys, and throwing things into a bin bag. aShe had a lovely Noahas Ark, I used to play with it, half the animals had legs missing a" I couldnat bear him chucking that out.a Dad sighs. aItas hard, but itas the way of the world, love. Perhaps Irene wasnat thinking very clearly when she left it to him. Though we have only met him for a minute a" he might be very sensitive underneath.a aHe doesnat look sensitive. He looks more like a bouncer.a aBut theyare only things, love. Itas the woman herself thatas important.a He gazes out of the window as if she was standing in the garden. aIrene Challis was a wonderful woman. She flew spitfire aeroplanes in the war, you know, taking them from the factories and delivering them to the airfields.a He smiles at me, and peers into a pot of earth. aShe didnat have radio and had to fly blind into the fog.a He stops to stare into the distance. aShe crash-landed in Scotland once in one of those fogs.a aIn Calm Before the Storm, Richard Standfast lands a plane in the desert in a sandstorm,a I say.

Dad looks at me over his gla.s.ses. aYes, Lottie, but deserts donat have stone walls and sheep and bothies. Irene got clear of the wreckage and walked miles on her own across Scotland in gale-force winds with nothing but an aviatoras map to guide her. So far as I know she had nothing to eat. Took her a week.

aAnyway, she was a bit of a looker, by all reports. She was married and widowed twice during the war, and after the war, she married again, this time to a surgeon, but she never had any children.a Dad refills his pipette from a jug of clear liquid. aInstead, she trained as a doctor, and then as an eye surgeon. She worked as a volunteer for the Red Cross in war zones in her holidays. By the time your mother knew her, shead retired, her husband had died and she was fundraising for the Red Cross, growing vegetables and reading those detective novels with a magnifying gla.s.s. By the end, she was almost completely blind.a aI never realised that,a I say. aThough I remember her feeling the animals from the Ark before telling me which ones were which. She had big lumpy hands.a aArthritis,a says Dad.

aAnd very thick gla.s.ses,a says Ned, bursting into the kitchen. aShe had newts in her pond, and played old records on an old record player.a aShe always gave us custard creams and grape juice,a I say.

aShe played crazy golf with us in the garden,a says Ned. aWith a cup and a ping pong ball.a aShe wore shorts and had veiny legs. And she laughed a lot.a aYes, and she sang beautifully, and played the piano until she died.a Dad loads up a tray of cuttings. aI think youad describe her voice as a rich contralto. Anyway, your mum was devoted to her; she wouldnat want to see her house ruined.a He pushes out through the back door. aIf it was redeveloped, it would break her heart.a aYes, it would,a says Mum, cras.h.i.+ng in through the door again, swinging the plucked chicken behind her. aI couldnat bear to see more men like that one rolling up in their BMWs and swinging their golf clubs over what used to be Ireneas lawn. Iada Iad cry.a aI bet theyad build a swimming pool in the walled garden,a says Ned. aAnd put lights all over the place which would confuse the glow-worms so theyad all die.a I watch Mum hacking the chicken into squares and throwing them into a ca.s.serole pot. She sniffs loudly.

aCouldnat we rescue all the stuff thatas hers?a I say. aAll the books?a Mum lays down the cleaver and goes over to run her bloodied hands under the tap. aTheyare not ours, Lottie, so strictly speaking that would be stealing. But it all seems very odd to me. I thought Irene had left everything to a great niece. Iave been waiting to hear from the solicitors about it.a Mum glances at the Welsh dresser. aIave got a key. Somewhere. And Iave already borrowed a few books but unless that man has a penchant for adventure fiction, I donat think heall miss them. Maybe it wouldnat hurt to rescue one or two other things.a aWell, then it would be all right, wouldnat it?a I say. aBecause other than that itas only a house, and the last time I saw it, it had little trees growing out of the gutters and moss all over the stone a" it needs doing up, it could be lovely if it was a spaaa I stop. Mumas eyes have filled with tears, and I feel out of my depth.

She turns towards me. aItas not that it doesnat need doing up, Lottie a" it would be lovely to see it restored to its former glory. But thereas a difference between wrenching up trees and putting in golf bunkers, and simply mowing the gra.s.s.a Mum wipes her nose on her sleeve. aAnd a hotel is a very different thing to a home; I just canat bear to think of it all ripped out and replaced with fakery, it would bea"a aI understand,a I say quietly. Although I donat, not entirely. Apart from anything else, I donat know how I feel about it. I donat want the man in the expensive suit to have Ireneas things; I donat really want him bossing builders about, standing by Ireneas old iron bedstead, his s.h.i.+ned shoes on her worn rag-rug, but I also love the idea of what the house could become, the s.k.a.n.ky kitchen gone, the rooms all white and gleaming. The steps cleared and fixed. The trees cut back away from the front of the house.

I open my mouth to speak again, and decide not to.

Perhaps Iall ask Sophia about it while weare away; she must know something.

If sheall want to be seen with me.

The coach leaves in ten minutes. Dadas offered to drive us to school but I wish he hadnat. Our car was built in the last century a" the last millennium, even. It used to be red, but the redas gone and now itas kind of silver, except at the bottom where itas still red. Last time Mum took it to a car wash half the paint came off.

I hate it.

On the way here, we pa.s.sed Ireneas house, shaded by the tall ash trees that now surround it. A squirrel threw itself along the branches as we drove past, and the windows looked back at us blank and dark.

It made me feel deeply sad.

And cross.

We park next to a huge black Range Rover that is so big our car could probably park inside it. At the back stands Sophia, looking tiny, by a pile of green and gold luggage that includes a tennis racket and a violin. They seem ambitious for Bream that, as I remember it, is mostly mud or sand. She doesnat look very happy.

I try to think of something to say. Hi a" remember me? The one who talks too much? Or Sorry about Mum and the dead chicken. Or Iam beautiful inside, Iam just trapped in blubber.