A Trick of the Light by Ali Carter (books for 5 year olds to read themselves TXT) 📗

The first door on her left took a shove from her shoulder before it scraped across a crowning wooden floor. We all hovered in the doorway as she went in. There was a sunken single bed pushed up against the wall and a wardrobe against another, opposite. A pokey curtained window with a few ragged hardbacks piled chaotically on its ledge faced us. Zoe read out the label on the moleskin bag. ‘Giles Chesterton, you’re in here. But, before you make yourself at home, come and I’ll talk you through the plumbing.’

Into a large carpeted bathroom we all went.

‘Urgh,’ said Lianne, peering into the deep bathtub.

‘Oh,’ said Zoe enthusiastically, ‘don’t worry about those stains on the enamel, they’re from years of dripping water. Brown but not dirty.’ Then, holding her hair back with one hand, she bent to give the cold tap a firm twist – it didn’t make the slightest bit of difference; the water continued to drip.

‘Look,’ said Zoe, who was now walking towards a china crapper. Honestly it was, Thomas Crapper’s genuine article, the name stamped on the cistern high up on the wall. ‘I want to show you how to pull the chain.’

Giles’s nose made a noise as he held back a laugh and Zoe proceeded, with no idea what had amused him. ‘You must draw this wooden handle down until the water comes. A little old-fashioned quirk.’

Once she’d demonstrated the method we left the bathroom and, thanks to labels on suitcases, most rooms and people were quickly paired off. ‘Susie,’ she said, heading for the semi-darkness at the far end of the corridor, ‘here’s where you are.’ Mustering strength, she flung the door open. A great gust of freezing air shot out.

‘Oh gosh.’ Zoe rushed in to slam the little window shut. ‘Sorry about that. I’ve been airing the house. I do hope you’ll be happy in here.’

‘Yes, thank you,’ I smiled, longing for her to lend me a blanket.

But she left, pulling the door shut behind her.

I put John Buchan’s The 39 Steps on the side table and dumped my suitcase on the floor. I felt lost and cold and low. The wallpaper was peeling at every join, the iron bedstead conjured wartime hospital scenes and the curtains, only moments ago flapping outside, were wet. I took in a deep breath and the pervasive smell of must shot up my nose. That hard-to-grasp-hold-of essence of green shrubbery letting off steam in a particularly damp and lacking-in-daylight part of the garden. Down by the pond, round the back of the boat hut. In I breathed just to make sure. Yup. Damp.

I kicked off my shoes and then, in the hopes it would warm me up, unpacked as quickly as I possibly could. Bending down and up, down and up, hurriedly hanging my things in the mahogany wardrobe then to and fro the window shelf, arranging my toiletries. All the time telling myself off for acting spoilt. I’m jolly lucky to have a roof over my head.

Done and dusted I flung myself down on the bed. The duvet bounced up at my feet and something fell to the floor.

A crusty, marble-eyed teddy bear is now in my hands and my heartbeat is rising. I can’t shake off the horror of Chucky from Child’s Play and those decal eyes. Mr Bear went flying up in the air, landed on top of the wardrobe and disappeared. He’s gone. Phew.

I rested my weary head on the pillow and looked up at the bubbles of damp on the ceiling. It took me back to my childhood room where often I would make myself dizzy, circling my eyes around the wet yellow rings. Lying here now, doing the same, I suddenly remember I must text Mum. She’d been nervous about my journey today, despite the fact I’ve driven to Scotland several times before. All those trips with my ex, to visit his mother…Mum must have forgotten. No surprise. She’s never given any weight to relationships past. Not her fault. My mother didn’t have any boyfriends before Dad, so how can she possibly understand a broken heart?

I got out my mobile. There’s no reception. Oh crumbs. I simply must find a solution for getting in touch, I know she’ll have been waiting to hear from me all day – mobile on loud, in her pocket. Mum’s anxiety is a new trait, born from our heart-to-heart at Christmas. As Dad had put it, ‘this is a conversation for you and your mother’. Ever since, our relationship has been sticky. I can’t afford to cause them any worry. I must let Mum know I’ve arrived safe.

I found the internet. No password – no neighbours, no need, I suppose. Mum refuses to use WhatsApp – ‘Far too many lines of communication these days’ – so I’ll just have to Wi-Fi call her instead.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Susie, everything okay? Have you arrived?’ Her breath was short.

‘Yes, yes. I’m here at last.’

‘Oh good,’ she sighed. ‘I got your father to check the weather. I think you’re going to wake to snow. Oh love, I do hope you’re going to be okay.’

Londoners eh. They think snow is a beast come to bring everything to a grinding stop. They see none of the magic, the pure white forming heavy quilts on pine trees, delicate crystals on window panes and billowing sheets across the landscape. To them it is a nuisance, grey slush, ‘ankle dirt, unavoidable ankle dirt’ is what my father calls it.

‘I’ll be fine. Please don’t worry. I’m looking forward to the week ahead.’

‘We’ll be thinking of you and wait to hear when you’re safely back in Sussex.’

I’d arrived, that’s what mattered, now she could hang up. Neither of my parents use the telephone for proper conversation. The in-between details could wait until we were next face to face.

‘Bye, Susie, have fun. We love you.’

‘Bye. Love to Dad.’

I was glad I’d called. Hearing Mum’s voice brought comfort to me in this strange house. As for them