Jennifer waited for some sign of grief after her mother’s death, and at last, four days later in the middle of a blustery afternoon as she folded and pressed woollen skirts and jumpers into a small blue suitcase, she felt it. It was a heavy feeling inside, as if she were carrying a weight under her skin. But the grief wasn’t normal because she’d never loved her mother; she only wished that someone else had given birth to her and it was a painful truth she told no one. Her head pounded with another headache, they’d been more frequent lately. Taking a sweeping glance around the apartment in Russell Square, she heaved the case from the bed and rushed downstairs to the waiting taxi cab heading for Victoria station. She didn’t want to return to the family home, but she had to think of her sister Helen who needed support, and the photographs if any still existed. She’d have to find them before someone else did.
Dulwich in autumn was an appealing peaceful haven; orange, yellow and russet leaves fluttered softly from tall trees that lined wide quiet streets. On Evan’s road she glanced at the green painted flower shop with bunches of scented roses and lilies. She passed row upon row of impressive houses with porch lanterns, high walls and gated entrances, stone hawks guarded one property their expressions aloof. Jennifer hugged her tan coat close and tucked her hands into the pockets as a chilly breeze swept over her. Halting outside Dulwich College she watched the sun spill its sparkling light over the top of the majestic roof, emphasising the striking elegance of the building. A group of athletic boys played cricket, their loud calls rang across the field breaking the reverie of the street. She moved her fingers over the cold metal barred railing as she imagined neat desks, choirs and brass concerts in the evening. Dulwich College had recently been used as a setting for an American costume drama but she couldn’t recall the name. Closing her eyes she listened to the quiet pulse of Dulwich, it was melodic and light, like the ticking of an old clock you hadn’t heard for a while but recalled with great clarity.
She could feel the slowing of time. The speed and chaos of London were behind her now. Although not far away, London seemed very distant somehow, as if she’d stepped from one time into another. Her mind quietened and her breath slowed. Change wasn’t a common occurrence here. Dulwich was not the kind of place you could imagine anything bad happening, she thought, it had the tranquil image of a safe haven. It was this very illusion that had always unnerved her as a child growing up here. She’d seen what lay under Dulwich’s quiet demeanour, the gloomy undercurrents and human cruelty that were never visible on the surface, but instead lay submerged underneath a glossy picturesque coating.
On Ashford road she stared up at the old Edwardian house that was her childhood home, ivy smothered one side of the white painted house while carved woodwork adorned the balconies. A curtain twitched upstairs. She pushed the rusty gate, and it swung open with a tired groan. She listened to its familiar clang behind her. A shiver pricked her spine as she stepped towards the front door. She hesitated for a moment, wanting to delay the encounter with her aunt. Suddenly, she turned on her heels and hurried around the back to the paved garden.
Memories she didn’t want dredged up, flooded her mind, one after the other, like slides from a projector. The air felt suffocating, even though it wasn’t warm. Her throat constricted. She leaned against the big oak tree and closed her eyes; her hands touching the brittle bark of the tree. The past was here, like a black gaping hole ready to swallow her into its depths if she allowed it. If I keep thinking like this, she thought pensively, I’ll be ruined. She eyed the glass summerhouse; its door stood wide open and inviting. She headed towards it. Inside she sat on the white lounger feeling the gentle rock under her body as it moved to and fro. The plants inside were blossoming under heated lamps, their fragrance heavy in the air. She stood up and fingered the delicate petals gently. Fumbling inside her handbag she yanked a hair band and tied her long blonde hair into a ponytail.
“Jennifer…..Jennifer.”
“Damn it.” She spoke aloud.
She listened to the shrill call of her name across the garden but didn’t rush to respond. A moment later Aunt Sara’s bulky frame appeared in the doorway blocking the light, her shape seemed predatory. She eyed Jennifer with the same expression of impatience she remembered as a child. Aunt Sara had never lost the ability to make Jennifer feel inferior with one severe glance.
“So this is where you’re hiding.”
“I wouldn’t call it hiding.”
Aunt Sara threw up her arms in exasperation. Her beady eyes seemed too small for a big face.
“How long have you been here?”
“A few minutes.”
“You’re going to have to sit with your sister. You know I need to go to London to finalise the funeral arrangements.”
Jennifer heaved a heavy sigh and followed her aunt who plodded ahead slowly as if every step was an effort.
Inside the kitchen it was eerily quiet, only a gentle humming from the fridge. She could smell lemons and spotted a bowl of fresh lemons on the kitchen table. She watched her aunt struggle into a winter coat that was a size too small, she eyed Jennifer with marked impatience.
“I’ll be back in a few hours and we’ll discuss everything then.”
“What’s there to discuss? I thought we’d already decided everything.”
Aunt Sara didn’t answer; she shook her head and strode out of the room muttering under her breath. Jennifer heard the front door slam shut.
She stared at the white shiny tableware stacked on the cupboard; everything had to be in its place, she thought. For a moment she had a sudden urge to pick the plates up one by one and smash them on the floor. Everything in the room was immaculate from the gleaming work surfaces to the food in the cupboards, she swung open a cabinet door and stared at the tins, every label facing forward neatly, each one in its category, she picked up a couple of cans and moved them out of place. On the fridge door she spotted the hand written notes written by her mother, the writing small and spidery and she felt a wave of nausea. Lists and more lists, how well she remembered them and what would happen if she didn’t follow the rules that were written. She tore one of the notes from its well-organized place and scrunched it into a ball dropping it into the bin. She studied the space where the note had been in wonder, as if at any moment she expected her mother to stride into the room and slap her. Pouring a cup of breakfast tea she went in search of Helen.
The living room was wide with ceiling beams and oak panelled flooring but there was nothing personal displayed. Nothing to indicate that someone with a personality or identity lived here, no books, or ornaments or interests, it was plain and efficient and had always reminded Jennifer of a rented holiday home. Helen was curled up on one of the black leather couches gazing at the ceiling as if she were deciphering a unique code that no one else could see. She didn’t acknowledge Jennifer’s presence.
Flopping down on the spare couch she glanced across at her younger sister Helen willing her to communicate, to say something, anything to break the monotony of silence. Helen was wearing a short sleeved pretty white summer dress with little red flowers, which was too thin and light for the time of year. Her blonde hair was swept back from her pale face, making her look younger than her twenty-six years. Her body looked frail as if it were tired of everything, including eating. Apart from her constant expression of bewilderment, everything about Helen looked normal but since the accident, Helen hadn’t spoken a word in six years.
Jennifer sighed.
The steady beat of the Grandfather clock ticked despondently.
“Home hasn’t changed.” She spoke loudly cutting into the silence of the house.
Helen lowered her gaze from the spot on the ceiling and her calm blue eyes focused on Jennifer. Something passed between them; she could feel it even though nothing was said. She’d always wondered what her sister was thinking; she imagined her thoughts were like a Jackson Pollock painting, strange shapes and distorted lines that you couldn’t decipher. Was Helen aware that her mother had died at the weekend? She wondered. Helen could hear what people said, the words were not the problem. It was the construction of sentences and meaning she struggled with. The doctor had described her mind as jumble, words were taken in but they were processed as a fragmented muddle.
Jennifer stood up; it was time to start checking the house to make sure there was no evidence of the past.
“I’m going to take a look upstairs Helen.”
She didn’t know why she was speaking, Helen didn’t understand but she deserved to be spoken to like a human being, although Aunt Sara ignored her existence most of the time.
Stepping up the staircase, her hand ran along the carved wooden bannister, she gazed at the family portraits all lined up, mostly shots of her mother looking elegant and reserved. There was only one of Jennifer with her mother, her mother smiled from the picture; Jennifer’s smile was noticeably strained. She remembered the photograph well, she was nine years old. The small of her back had been pinched that day and it hurt all afternoon she thought bitterly. She heard a noise, and turning around to see Helen half-way up the stairs watching her warily.
“Helen, go back downstairs and rest.” She said.
Helen froze but stood her ground refusing to move. She stared at the photograph Jennifer had been looking at.
Jennifer stepped half-way down the staircase and patted Helen’s arm reassuringly.
“Alright, come up if you must but watch your step.”
On the first floor she stopped outside her father’s study. Pushing open the door she stepped inside the musty room, it smelled of dust. Her father had died five years earlier yet the room looked exactly as he had left it, her mother hadn’t changed a thing. She stared at the jade velvet drapes tied with a cord, a large bureau desk with paperweight and letter holder, the worn brown leather chair she remembered so clearly, tall wall cabinets stuffed with folders and books leaned against the wall. The air in the room seemed heavy with painful recollections, as if they were all stuffed into the study, each one fighting for dominance in her thoughts. I must not focus on them; she said to herself, I must not think about it. She moved to the desk and flung open the drawers one by one, sifting through papers and manuscripts, notes and notepads. One of the drawers wouldn’t budge and she found the key in its usual place, in the bottom of an ornamental vase by the window. Opening it she rummaged through finance papers and finance magazines but there was nothing else of interest. Perhaps they had all been destroyed, she knew it was a possibility. She opened the glass cabinet lined with books and files and began taking them from the shelves one by one, making sure she placed them back carefully.
She felt a hand pressed into the small of her back and dropped a file to the floor where it landed with a thud. Startled, she swung around to face Helen. Helen’s eyes implored. She grabbed Jennifer’s hands and tugged hard.
“I’m busy Helen we’ll do something together in a little while.” She tried to pull her hands free, but Helen’s tug became more desperate and needy.
Frustrated she gave in. Whatever was bothering her wouldn’t take long to sort out surely. She let Helen guide her out of the room and up to the third floor. She pointed to her bedroom at the very end of the corridor. Jennifer followed close behind. Inside the bedroom she inhaled a vibrant flowery perfume, white lace curtains billowed as a cool draft seeped into the room. She glanced at the open wardrobe full of summer dresses. Helen didn’t seem to want to wear any clothes related to winter. Jennifer closed the windows remembering the Christmas Helen had been hit by the car; it didn’t seem like six years ago. It had been wet and icy and she’d slipped into the road, the car had been speeding. It was a moment that had lasted no more than two minutes, but the affects would spread through the long years.
Helen was pointing excitedly to the mattress.
“What is it Helen? What do you want me to do?”
Helen continued to point.
Jennifer looked at the mattress, wondering if this was some kind of silly game she didn’t know the rules too. Shrugging, she bent down and her hand searched. She couldn’t feel anything.
She pushed her hand further back and was surprised to feel paper, or something that felt like paper. She lifted the mattress a little higher with one hand and stared at the envelope hidden there. She pulled it out slowly and looked at it for a long moment in silence. The paper was yellowed with age. She opened it. Inside she stared at the Polaroid photographs, graphic images that didn’t seem to have anything to do with her. She didn’t seem related to Jennifer, although they shared the same features. Jennifer stared at the younger version of herself, and for a moment it seemed as if she were looking at photographs of an old friend, someone she’d known briefly in the past. How frail and small she looked, she thought.
She blinked fiercely against hot tears; she understood that it wouldn’t be good to cry now. She was relieved that she could destroy them; she’d thought they’d all gone but he’d kept these few somewhere and Helen had found them. She was grateful. Glancing up at Helen she gazed at her sister’s face as if seeing her for the first time.
“You do understand some things.” She said.
Helen didn’t answer; she was as silent and mute as always. Jennifer felt a feeling of disappointment crash inside her, for a minute she’d thought that Helen was going to speak. Nevertheless, she had understood the importance of these photographs to Jennifer, which meant she could comprehend more than then they’d imagined.
“Has anyone else seen them?” She asked.
Helen shook her head.
With the photographs tight in her hands, she beckoned to Helen and dashed down the stairs, casting glances back to make sure her sister was following. Through the living room she ran, into the kitchen and out into the garden. Catching her breath she threw the photographs on the ground in a small pile and knelt down. Taking a lighter from her pocket, she cupped her hands around the yellow flame and lit the corner of a photograph. The flames grew and moved quickly, curling and devouring the photographs and the naked images of her as a child. Her mother had known about them, but she’d not said a word, only told her not to complain, everyone was silent about her father’s needs.
When the photographs had turned to ashes she felt comforted, as if burning them had destroyed the memory of those moments, although she knew it wasn’t going to be that simple. The husky smell of smoke filled the air. She heard a sound, it was high pitched and ugly, sounding more like the mournful wail of an animal in pain than a human being. She looked at her sister standing there in her thin summer dress; the short bursts of sound were coming from her throat. Jennifer listened to its strange disturbing tone breaking the silence; her sister’s face was contorted as she desperately tried to form words. Their eyes met and a moment of intense empathy passed between them. In that moment, it seemed as if the pulse of Dulwich had moved from its usual melodic beat, to a thumping crescendo and she was glad.