Human Croquet Part 1

HUMAN CROQUET.

Kate Atkinson.

BEGINNING.

STREETS OF TREES.

Call me Isobel. (It's my name.) This is my history. Where shall I begin?

Before the beginning is the void and the void belongs in neither time nor s.p.a.ce and is therefore beyond our imagination.

Nothing will come of nothing, unless it's the beginning of the world. This is how it begins, with the word and the word is life. The void is transformed by a gigantic firecracker allowing time to dawn and imagination to begin.

The first nuclei arrive hydrogen and helium followed, a few million years later, by their atoms and eventually, millions more years later, the molecules form. Aeons pa.s.s. The clouds of gas in s.p.a.ce begin to condense into galaxies and stars, including our own Sun. In 1650, Archbishop James Ussher, in his Annals of the World, calculates that G.o.d made Heaven and Earth on the evening of Sat.u.r.day, October 22, 4004 BC. Other people are less specific and date it to some four and a half billion years ago.

Then the trees come. Forests of giant ferns wave in the warm damp swamps of the Carboniferous Era. The first conifers appear and the great coal fields are laid down. Everywhere you look, flies are being trapped in drops of amber which are the tears of poor Phaeton's sisters, who were turned by grief into black poplars (populus nigra). The flowering and the broad-leaved trees make their first appearance and eventually the trees crawl out of the swamps on to the dry land.

Here, where this story takes place (in the grim north), here was once forest, oceans of forest, the great Forest of Lythe. Ancient forest, an impenetrable thicket of Scots pine, birch and aspen, of English elm and wych elm, common hazel, oak and holly, the forest which once covered England and to which, if left alone, it might one day return. The forest has the world to itself for a long time.

Chop. The stone and flint tools signalled the end of the beginning, the beginning of the end. The alchemy of copper and tin made new bronze axes that shaved more trees from the earth. Then came iron (the great destroyer) and the iron axes cut the forest down faster than it could grow back and the iron ploughshares dug up the land that was once forest.

The woodcutters coppiced and pollarded and chopped away at the ash and the beech, the oak, the hornbeam and the tangled thorns. The miners dug and smelted while the charcoal-burners piled their stacks high. Soon you could hardly move in the forest for bodgers and cloggers, hoop-makers and wattle-hurdlers. Wild boars rooted and domestic pigs snuffled, geese clacked and wolves howled and deer were startled at every turning in the path. Chop! Trees were transformed into other things into clogs and winepresses, carts and tools, houses and furniture. The English forests sailed the oceans of the world and found new lands full of wilderness and more forests waiting to be cut down.

But there was a secret mystery at the heart of the heart of the forest. When the forest was cut down, where did the mystery go? Some say there were fairies in the forest angry, bad-tempered creatures (the unwashed children of Eve), ill-met by moonlight, who loitered with intent on banks of wild thyme listening furiously to the encroaching axes. Where did they go when the forest no longer existed? And what about the wolves? What happened to them? (Just because you can't see something doesn't mean it isn't there.) The small village of Lythe emerged from the shrinking forest, a straggle of cottages and a church with a square clocktower. Its inhabitants tramped back and forward with their eggs and capons and occasionally their virtue to Glebelands, the nearest town, only two miles away a thriving marketplace and a hotbed of glovers and butchers, blacksmiths and vintners, rogues and recusants.

In 1580, or thereabouts, a stranger rode into Lythe, one Francis Fairfax, as dark and swarthy of countenance as a Moor. Francis Fairfax, lately enn.o.bled by the Queen, was in receipt, from the Queen's own hand, of a great swathe of land north of the village, on the edge of what remained of the forest. Here he built himself Fairfax Manor, a modern house of brick and plaster and timbers from his newly owned forest oaks.

This Francis was a soldier and an adventurer. He had even made the great grey ocean crossing and seen the newfoundlands and virgin territories with their three-headed monsters and feathered savages. Some said he was the Queen's own spy, crossing the Channel on her secret business as frequently as others crossed Glebelands Green Moor.

Some also said that he had a beautiful child wife, herself already with child, locked away in the attics of Fairfax Manor. Others said the woman in the attics was not his child wife but his mad wife. There was even a rumour that his attics were full of dead wives, all of them hanging from butcher's hooks. There were even those who said (this even more unlikely) that he was the Queen's lover and that the great Gloriana had borne him a clandestine child which was being raised in Fairfax Manor. In the attics, naturally.

It is fact, not rumour, that the Queen stayed at Fairfax Manor in the course of escaping an outbreak of plague in London, sometime in the summer of 1582, and was observed admiring the b.u.t.ter-yellow quince and flouris.h.i.+ng medlar trees and dining on the results of a splendid early morning deer hunt.

Fairfax Manor was famous for the thrill of its deer chases, the softness of its goose-feather mattresses, the excellence of its kitchens, the ingenuity of its entertainments. Sir Francis became a famous patron of poets and aspiring playwrights. Some say that Shakespeare himself spent time at Fairfax Manor. Keen supporters of this explanation of Shakespeare's famous lost years of which there are several, mostly mad point to the evidence of the initials "WS" carved into the bark of the great Lady Oak and still visible to the keen eye to this day. Detractors of this theory point out that another member of the Fairfax household, his son's tutor, a Walter Stukesly, can claim the same initials.

Perhaps Master Stukesly was the author of the magnificent masque (The Masque of Adonis) which Sir Francis ordered up for the Queen's entertainment during her midsummer visit to Lythe. We can imagine the theatricals being performed, using the great forest as a backdrop, the lamps glimmering in the trees, the many mechanical devices used in the telling of the tragic tale, the youthful Adonis dying in the arms of a young boy Venus under the Lady Oak a young, handsome oak much of an age with Francis Fairfax that once stood at the heart of the heart of the forest and now guarded its entrance.

It was not long after the Queen's departure from Lythe that Francis's wife first appeared, a real one made of flesh and blood and not kept in the attics, but none the less an enigmatic creature whose beginning and end were veiled in mystery. She arrived, they said, at the door of Fairfax Manor one wild, storm-driven night, dressed in neither shoes nor hose nor petticoat, dressed in nothing in fact but her silk-soft skin yet with not a drop of rain on her, nor one red hair on her head blown out of its place.

She came, she said, from an even grimmer north and her name was Mary (like the dreaded Caledonian queen herself). She did not persist in her nakedness and allowed herself to be clothed in silks and furs and velvets and clasped in jewels by an eager Sir Francis. On her wedding morning Sir Francis presented her with the famous Fairfax jewel much sought after by metal detectors and historians well doc.u.mented in Sir Thomas A'hearne's famous Travels around England but not seen for nearly four hundred years. (For the record, a gold lozenge locket, studded with emeralds and pearls and opening to reveal a miniature Dance of Death believed by some to have been painted by Nicholas Hilliard, in homage to his mentor, Holbein.) The new Lady Fairfax favoured green kirtle and petticoats and stomacher, as green as the vert that hides the deer from the hunter. Only her cambric s.h.i.+ft was white this piece of information being offered by the midwife brought in from Glebelands for the arrival of the Fairfax firstborn. Onlyborn. It was, she reported when she had been returned to town, a perfectly normal baby (a boy) but Sir Francis was a madman who insisted that the poor midwife had her eyes bound in every room but the birth-chamber and who swore her to secrecy about what she saw that night. Whatever it was that the poor woman did see was never broadcast for she was conveniently struck by lightning as she raised a tankard of ale to wet the baby's head.

Lady Fairfax, it was reported, was strangely fond of wandering into the forest dressed in her green damasks and silks, her hound Finn her only companion. Sometimes she could be found sitting under the green guardians.h.i.+p of the Lady Oak, singing an unbearably sweet song about her home, like a Ruth amid alien green. More than once, Sir Francis's game steward had frightened himself half to death by mistaking her for a timid hart, bolting away from him in a flash of green. What if one day he were to shoot off an arrow into her fair green breast?

Then she vanished as instantly and mysteriously as she had once arrived. Sir Francis returned home from a day's hunting with a fine plump doe shot through the heart and found her gone. A kitchen maid, an ignorant girl, claimed she saw Lady Fairfax disappearing from underneath the Lady Oak, fading away until her green brocade dress was indistinguishable from the surrounding trees. As Lady Fairfax had grown dimmer, the girl reported, she had placed a dreadful curse on the Fairfaxes, past and future, and her monstrous shrieks had echoed in the air long after she herself was invisible. The cook clattered the girl about her head with a porringer for her fanciful notions.

Francis Fairfax fulfilled the requirements of a cursed man burning to death in his own bed in 1605 along with most of his household. William, his son, was rescued by servants and grew up to be a sickly kind of boy, hanging on to life just long enough to father his likeness.

The Fairfaxes abandoned the charred remains of Fairfax Manor and moved to Glebelands where their fortunes declined. Fairfax Manor crumbled to dust in the air, the fine parkland reverted to nature and within a handful of years you would never have known it had ever been there.

Over the next hundred years the land was parcelled up and sold at auction. An eighteenth-century Fairfax, Thomas, lost the last of the land in the South Sea Bubble and the Fairfaxes were all but forgotten except for Lady Mary who was occasionally sighted, dressed all in green, disconsolate and gloomy, and occasionally with her head under her arm for good effect.

The forest itself was gradually removed, the last of it taken during the Napoleonic War for fighting s.h.i.+ps. By the time the nineteenth century really got going, all that remained of the once great Forest of Lythe was a large wood known as Boscrambe Woods, thirty miles to the north of Glebelands and just beyond the boundaries of Lythe the Lady Oak itself.

By 1840 Glebelands was a great manufacturing town whose engines thrummed and throbbed and whose chimneys smoked dark clouds of uncertain chemicals into the sky over its crowded slum streets. The owner of one of these factories, Samuel Fairfax, philanthropist and manufacturer of Argand gas burners, briefly revived the family fortunes with his mission to illuminate the entire town with gas lamps.

The Fairfaxes were able to buy a large town house with all the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs servants and a coach and accounts in every shop. The Fairfax women wore dresses of French velvet and Nottingham lace and talked nonsense all day long while Samuel Fairfax dreamed of buying back the tract of land where Fairfax Manor once stood and making a country park where the people of Glebelands could clean their sooty lungs and exercise their rickety limbs. He was hoping that this would be his living memorial Fairfax Park, he murmured happily as he looked over possible designs for the ma.s.sive wrought-iron entrance gates and just as he pointed to a particularly rococo pattern ('Restoration') his heart stopped beating and he fell face first on to the pattern book. The park was never built.

Gas lamps were overtaken by electric ones, the Fairfaxes failed to see the new technology coming and grew slowly poorer until, in 1880, one Joseph Fairfax, grandson to Samuel, realized where the future lay and put the remaining family money into retail a small grocery shop in a side street. The business gradually prospered, and ten years later 'Fairfax and Son Licensed Grocers' moved into the High Street.

Joseph Fairfax had one son and no daughters. The son, Leonard, wooed and won a girl called Charlotte Tait, the daughter of the owner of a small enamelware factory. The Taits were of stern Nonconformist stock and Charlotte was not above lending a hand in the shop when required, although she soon fell pregnant with her eldest child, an ugly girl named Madge.

The villagers of Lythe meanwhile waited for Glebelands to crawl across the remaining few fields towards them and swallow them up. While they were waiting a war happened and took three-quarters of the young men of Lythe (three to be precise) and as the war drew to a close no-one cared very much when most of the village, along with the land where Fairfax Manor had stood, was sold to a local builder.

The builder, a man called Maurice Smith, had a vision, the dream of a master-builder a garden suburb, an estate of modern, comfortable housing for the postwar, post-servant world of small families. Streets of detached and semi-detached houses with neat front gardens and large back gardens where children could play, Father could grow vegetables and roses and Mother could park Baby in his pram and take afternoon tea on the lawn with her genteel friends. On the land that once housed Sir Francis and his household, Maurice Smith built his streets of houses. Houses in mock-Tudor and pebble-dash stucco, houses with cas.e.m.e.nt windows and porches and tiled vestibules. Houses with three and four bedrooms and the most up-to-date plumbing, porcelain sinks and efficient back boilers; cool, airy larders, and enamelled gas cookers.

Streets with broad pavements and trees, lots of trees a canopy of trees over the tarmac, a mantle of green around the houses and their happy occupants. Trees that would give pleasure, that could be observed in bud and new leaf, unfurling their green fingers on the streets of houses, raising their sheltering leafy arms over the dwellers within. Different trees for every street Ash Street, Chestnut Avenue, Holly Tree Lane, Hawthorn Close, Oak Road, Laurel Bank, Rowan Street, Sycamore Street, Willow Road. The forest of trees had become a wilderness of streets.

But at night, in the quiet of the dead time, if you listened carefully, you could imagine the wolves howling.

The Lady Oak grew on, solitary and ancient, in the field behind the dog-leg of Hawthorn Close and Chestnut Avenue. Points of weakness in the tree had been plugged with cement and old iron crutches propped up its weary limbs but in summer its leafy crown was still green and thick enough for a rookery and at dusk the birds flew caw cawing into its welcoming branches.

At the end of Hawthorn Close was the master-builder's first house Arden the one he built as his showpiece, on the long-lost foundations of Fairfax Manor. Arden had fine parquet floors and light-oak panelling. It had a craftsman-built oak staircase with acorn finials and its turret follies were capped with round blue Welsh slates, overlapping like a dragon's scales.

The master-builder had intended the house for himself but Leonard Fairfax offered him such a good price that he couldn't bring himself to refuse. And so the Fairfax family returned, unwittingly, to its ancestral abode.

Charlotte Fairfax had given birth (difficult though it was to imagine this) to two more children after Madge, in order Vinny (Lavinia) and Gordon ('my baby!'). Gordon was much younger, an afterthought ('my surprise!'). When they moved into Arden, Madge had already left to marry an adulterous bank clerk and moved to Mirfield and Vinny was a grown woman of twenty, but Gordon was still a little boy. Gordon had introduced Charlotte to a new emotion. At night she would creep into his new little room under the eaves and gaze at his sleeping face in the soft halo of the nightlight and surprise herself with the overwhelming love she felt for him.

But time has already begun to fly, soon Eliza will come and ruin everything. Eliza will be my mother. I am Isobel Fairfax, I am the alpha and omega of narrators (I am omniscient) and I know the beginning and the end. The beginning is the word and the end is silence. And in between are all the stories. This is one of mine.

PRESENT.

SOMETHING WEIRD.

Is...o...b..l. A peal of bells. Isabella Tarantella a mad dance. I am mad, therefore I am. Mad. Am I? Belle, Bella, Best, never let it rest. Bella Belle, doubly foreign for beautiful, but I'm not foreign. Am I beautiful? No, apparently not.

My human geography is extraordinary. I'm as large as England. My hands are as big as the Lakes, my belly the size of Dartmoor and my b.r.e.a.s.t.s rise up like the Peaks. My spine is the Pennines, my mouth the Mallyan Spout. My hair flows into the Humber estuary and causes it to flood and my nose is a white cliff at Dover. I'm a big girl, in other words.

There's a strange feeling on the streets of trees, although what it is exactly I wouldn't like to say. I'm lying in my bed staring up at my attic window which is full of nothing but early morning sky, a blank blue page, an uncharted day waiting to be filled. It's the first day of April and it's my birthday, my sixteenth the mythic one, the legendary one. The traditional age for spindles to start p.r.i.c.king and suitors to come calling and a host of other symbolic s.e.xual imagery to suddenly manifest itself, but I haven't even been kissed by a man yet, not unless you count my father, Gordon, who leaves his sad, paternal kisses on my cheek like unsettling little insects.

My birthday has been heralded by something weird a kind of odoriferous spirit (dumb and invisible) that's attached itself to me like an aromatic shadow. At first I mistook it for nothing more than the scent of wet hawthorn. On its own this is a sad enough perfume, but the hawthorn has brought with it a strange musty smell that isn't confined to Hawthorn Close but follows me everywhere I go. It walks down the street with me and accompanies me into other people's houses (and then leaves again with me, there's no shaking it off). It floats along the school corridors with me and sits next to me on buses and the seat remains empty no matter how crowded the bus gets.

It's the fragrance of last year's apples and the smell of the insides of very old books with a base note of dead, wet rose-petals. It's the distillation of loneliness, an incredibly sad smell, the essence of sorrowfulness and stoppered-up sighs. If it were a commercial perfume it would never sell. Imagine people being offered testers at brightly lit perfume counters, 'Have you tried Melancholy, madam?' and then spending the rest of the day with the uncomfortable feeling that someone has placed a cold pebble of misery in their stomachs.

'There, next to my left shoulder,' I tell Audrey (my friend), and Audrey breathes deeply, and says, 'No.'

'Nothing?'

'Nothing,' Audrey (also my next-door neighbour) shakes her head. Charles (my brother) makes a ridiculous snout and snuffs like a truffling pig. 'No, you're imagining it,' he says and turns away quickly to hide his suddenly sad-dog face.

Poor Charles, he is two years older than me but I'm already six inches taller than him. I am nearly two yards high in my bare feet. A gigantic English oak (quercus robustus). My body a trunk, my feet taproots, my toes probing like pale little moles through the dark soil. My head a crown of leaves growing towards the light. What if this keeps up? I'll shoot up through the troposphere, the stratosphere and up into the vastness of s.p.a.ce where I'll be able to wear a coronet made from the Pleiades, a shawl spun out of the Milky Way. Dearie, dearie me, as Mrs Baxter (Audrey's mother) would say.

I'm already five foot ten, growing at more than an inch a year if this does keep up then by the time I'm twenty I'll be over six foot. 'By the time I'm forty,' I count on my fingers, 'I'll be nearly eight feet tall.'

'Dearie me,' Mrs Baxter says, frowning as she tries to imagine this.

'By the time I'm seventy,' I calculate darkly, 'I'll be over eleven feet high. I'll be a fairground attraction.' The Giant Girl of Glebelands. 'You're a real woman now,' Mrs Baxter says, surveying my skysc.r.a.per statistics. But as opposed to what? An unreal woman? My mother (Eliza) is an unreal woman, gone and almost forgotten, slipping the bonds of reality the day she walked off into a wood and never came back.

'You're a big girl,' Mr Rice (the lodger) ogles me nastily as we squeeze past each other in the dining-room door. Mr Rice is a travelling salesman and we must hope that some day soon he will wake up and find that he's been transformed into a giant insect.

It's a shame that Charles has stuck at such an unheroic height. He claims that he used to be five foot five but that the last time he measured himself, which he does frequently, he was only five foot four. 'I'm shrinking,' he reports miserably. Perhaps he is shrinking, while I keep on growing (there's no stopping me). Perhaps we're bound together by some weird law of sibling physics, the two ends of a linear elastic universe where one must shrink as the other expands. 'He's a real short-a.r.s.e,' Vinny (our aunt) says, more succinctly.

Charles is as ugly as a storybook dwarf. His arms are too long for his barrel-shaped body, his neck too short for his big head, an overgrown homunculus. Sadly, his (once lovely) copper curls have turned red and wiry and his freckled face is now as pocked and cratered as a lifeless planet, while his big Adam's apple bobs up and down like a c.o.x's Orange Pippin at Hallowe'en. It's a shame I can't transplant some of my inches, I have far more than I need, after all.

Girls are not attracted to Charles and so far he hasn't managed to persuade a single one to go out with him. 'I'll probably die a virgin,' he says mournfully. Poor Charles, he too has never been kissed. One solution, I suppose, would be for us to kiss each other, but the idea of incest though quite attractive in Jacobean tragedy is less so on the home front. 'I mean, incest,' I say to Audrey, 'it's hard to imagine, isn't it?'

'Is it?' she says, her sad doves' eyes staring at some point in s.p.a.ce so that she looks like a saint about to be martyred. She is also one of the unkissed her father, Mr Baxter (the local primary school headmaster), won't let a boy anywhere near Audrey. Mr Baxter, despite Mrs Baxter's protestations, has decided that Audrey isn't ever going to grow up. If Audrey does develop womanly curves and wiles then Mr Baxter will probably lock her at the top of a very high tower. And if boys ever start noticing those womanly curves and wiles then it's a fair bet that Mr Baxter will kill them, picking them off one by one as they attempt to scale the heights of Sithean's privet and s.h.i.+n up the long golden-red rope of Audrey's beautiful hair.

'Sithean' is the name of the Baxters' house. 'She-ann', Mrs Baxter explains in her lovely douce accent, is a Scottish word. Mrs Baxter was once the daughter of a Church of Scotland minister and was brought up in Perths.h.i.+re ('Pairrrths.h.i.+yer') which accounts no doubt for her accent. Mrs Baxter is as nice as her accent and Mr Baxter is as nasty as the thin dark moustache which outlines his upper lip and as bad-tempered as the foul pipe he smokes, or 'a reeking lum' in Mrs Baxter's parlance.

Tall and gaunt, Mr Baxter is the son of a coal miner and still carries a seam of coal in his voice, despite his tortoisesh.e.l.l gla.s.ses and his tweed jackets with leather-patched elbows. It's very difficult to say how old he is without knowing. Mrs Baxter knows how old he is though, she'd be hard put to forget as Mr Baxter makes a point of reminding her often ('Remember, Moira I am older than you and I do know more'). Both Audrey and Mrs Baxter call Mr Baxter 'Daddy'. When she was a pupil in his cla.s.s, Audrey had to call him 'Mr Baxter' and if she ever forgot and called him 'Daddy', he would make her stand at the front of the cla.s.s for the rest of the lesson. Neither of them calls him 'Peter' which is his name.

Poor Charles. I'm convinced things would be better for him if he could be taller. 'Why it isn't for you, is it?' he replies testily. Sometimes I catch myself thinking impossible things like, if we still had our mother then Charles would be taller.

'Was our mother tall?' Charles asks Vinny. Vinny as old as the century (sixty) but not as optimistic. Our Aunt Vinny is our father's sister, not our mother's. Our mother had no relatives apparently although she must have had them once, unless she hatched from an egg like Helen of Troy, and even then, Leda must have sat on the nest, surely? Our father, Gordon, is tall, 'but Eliza?' Vinny screws up her face in a theatrical attempt to remember, but sees only a blur. The different features can be dredged up the black hair, the tilted nose, the thin ankles but the composite Eliza lacks all substance. 'Can't remember,' she says dismissively, as usual.

'I think she was very tall,' Charles says, forgetting perhaps how very small he was last time we saw her. 'Are you sure she wasn't red-headed?' he adds hopefully.

'n.o.body was red-headed,' Vinny says decisively.

'Somebody must have been.'

Absence of Eliza has shaped our lives. She walked away, 'up sticks and left with her fancy man' as Vinny puts it, and for some reason forgot to take us with her. Perhaps it was a fit of absent-mindedness, perhaps she meant to come back but couldn't find the way. Stranger things have happened; our own father for example, himself went missing after our mother disappeared and when he came back seven years later claimed amnesia as his excuse. 'Time off for bad behaviour,' vinegary Vinny explains cryptically.

We have waited nearly all our lives for the sound of her foot on the path, her key in the door, waited for her walking back into our lives (I'm home, darling!) as if nothing has happened. It wouldn't be the first time. 'Anna Fellows from Cambridge, Ma.s.sachusetts,' Charles reports (he is an expert on such things), 'left her house in 1879 and walked back in again twenty years later as if nothing had happened.'

If my mother was going to come back wouldn't she come back in time (as it were) for my sixteenth birthday?

It's as if Eliza never lived, there are no remnants of her life no photographs, no letters, no keepsakes the things that anchor people in reality are all missing. Memories of her are like the shadows of a dream, tantalizing and out of reach. With Gordon, 'our dad', the one person whom you might expect to remember Eliza best, there's no conversation to be had at all, the subject makes him mute.

'She must have been off her head (or 'aff her heid') to leave two such bonny children,' Mrs Baxter opines gently. (All children are bonny to Mrs Baxter.) Vinny verifies, frequently, that our mother was indeed 'off her head'. As opposed to 'on her head'? But then if she was on her head she would be upside down and therefore also mad, surely? Perhaps 'off her head' as in no longer being attached to her head? Perhaps she is dead and wandering around on the astral plane with her head tucked underneath her arm like a music-hall ghost, exchanging pleasantries with the Green Lady.

If only we had some maternal souvenirs, some evidence to prove she once existed a sc.r.a.p of her handwriting, say. How we would pore over the dullest, most prosaic of messages See you at lunchtime! or Don't forget to buy bread trying to decipher her personality, her overwhelming love for her children, searching for the cryptically encoded message that would explain why she had to leave. But she's left behind not a single letter of the alphabet for us from which we can reconstruct her and we have to make her up from emptiness and airy s.p.a.ces and wind on water.

'She wasn't a saint, your mum, you know,' Debbie says, reducing Eliza to her own pedestrian vocabulary. Eliza (or, at any rate, the idea of Eliza), isn't a cosy person, 'our mum'. Invisible, she has grown sublime the Virgin Mary and the Queen of Sheba, the queen of heaven and the queen of night in one person, the sovereign of our unseen, imaginary universe (home). 'Well not from what your dad says,' Debbie says smugly. But what does 'our dad' say? Nothing to us, that's for sure.

Who is Debbie? She is the fat, wan subst.i.tute that four years ago 'our dad' chose to replace 'our mum' with. In his seven-year voyage on the waters of Lethe (the north island of New Zealand actually), Gordon forgot all about Eliza (not to mention us) and came back with a different wife altogether. The Debbie-wife with brown permed curls, little piggy eyelashes and stubby fingers that end in bitten-off nails. The doll wife, with her round face and eyes the colour of dirty dishwater and a voice that contains flat Ess.e.x marshes washed with a slight antipodean whine. The child wife, only a handful of years older than us. s.n.a.t.c.hed from her cradle by Gordon, according to Vinny, Vinny who is the Debbie-wife's arch-enemy. 'Think of me as your big sister,' Debbie said when she first arrived. She's changed her tune now, I think she would rather not be related to us at all.

How could Gordon have forgotten his own children? His own wife? In his lost years at the bottom of the world did he hear Abenazaar's wicked invitation ('New wives for old!') and trade in our mother for the Debbie-wife? Perhaps even now the treasure that was Eliza (greater than a king's ransom) is trapped in some dismal cave somewhere waiting for us to find her and release her.

It is hard to know what tales Gordon might have spun Debbie in the downunderworld but he didn't seem to have prepared her very well for the reality of his life back home. 'So these are your kiddies, Gordon?' she said with an air of incredulity when Gordon introduced her to us. She was probably expecting two charming little moppets, delighted to be relieved of their motherless state. Gordon didn't seem to realize that in the seven intervening years we'd become underground children, living in a dark place where the sun never shone.

Heaven only knows what she was expecting of Arden Manderley, a nice suburban semi perhaps, maybe even a small castle where the air was sweet but surely not this desolate mock-Tudor museum. And as for Vinny 'h.e.l.lo, Auntie V,' Debbie said, sticking out her hand and grabbing Vinny's claw, 'it's so lovely to meet you at last,' so that 'Auntie V's' face nearly cracked. 'Auntie V? Auntie V?' we heard her muttering later, 'I'm n.o.body's b.l.o.o.d.y auntie,' obviously forgetting that actually she was our b.l.o.o.d.y auntie.

My brother Charles left school with no talents discernible to his teachers. He works now in the electrical goods department of Temple's, Glebelands magnificent department store built to outdo the great London stores and once boasting a small Arcadian bower on its roof, complete with green sward, rippling brooks and a herd of grazing cattle. That was a long time ago, of course, almost in the time of myth (1902) and Charles must content himself with a more mundane environment amongst an a.s.sorted miscellanea of vacuum cleaners, hand whisks and radiograms. Charles seems neither particularly happy nor particularly unhappy with this life. I think that most of his time is taken up with daydreaming. He's the kind of boy I can't imagine ever thinking of Charles as a man who believes that at any moment something incredibly exciting might unexpectedly happen and change his life for ever. Much like everyone else in fact. 'Don't you think that something ' his eyes nearly pop out of his head as he searches for the words to articulate the feeling, 'that something's about to happen?'

'No,' I lie, for there's no point in encouraging him.

'I'm just marking time at Temple's,' Charles says, in explanation of his remarkably dull outer life. (Ah, but what does he give it? B? C+? He should be careful, one day time might mark him. 'Och, without doubt,' Mrs Baxter says, 'that's the final reckoning.') Charles also has his hobbies to occupy him nothing so normal as stamp-collecting or bird-watching, the kind of pursuits that fulfil other suburban youth but an obsession with the mysteries of the unexplained world with aliens and flying saucers, with vanished civilizations and parallel worlds and time travel. He's preoccupied with life in other dimensions, yearning for the existence of a world other than this one. Perhaps because his life in this one is so unsatisfactory. 'They're out there somewhere,' he says, gazing longingly at the night sky. ('If they've got any sense they'll stay there,' snorts Vinny.) Mysterious disappearances are his speciality he doc.u.ments them obsessively in lined notebooks, page after page, in his babyish round hand, cataloguing the vanished from s.h.i.+ps and lighthouse keepers, to whole colonies of New World Puritans. 'Roanoke,' he says, his eyes lighting up with excitement, 'a whole colony of Puritans in America disappeared in 1587, including the first white child ever born in America.'

'Yeah, well that would be because the Red Indians killed them all, wouldn't it?' Carmen (McDade, my friend) says, leafing through one of his notebooks Carmen has no notion that private and property can coexist in the same sentence.

Charles is looking for a pattern. The vast numbers of s.h.i.+ps the boats found crewless on the high seas and the Mississippi riverboats that have sailed off into nothingness are not accountable to the perils of the sea but to alien kidnappings. The tendency ('Well, two anyway,' he admits reluctantly) of boys called Oliver to vanish on their way to the well for water, the number of farmers in the southern states of America observed disappearing in the act of crossing a field the writer Ambrose Bierce who wrote an essay on one such disappearance ent.i.tled, 'The Difficulty of Crossing a Field' ('and then disappeared himself, Izzie!') are all part of some vast otherworld conspiracy.

The category that excites him most, unsurprisingly given our own parents' tendency to disappear, are the individuals the society girl out for a downtown stroll, the man on the road from Leamington Spa to Coventry people who were going about their ordinary lives when they vanished into thin air.

'Benjamin Bathurst, Orion Williamson, Dorothy Arnold, James Worson' a curious litany of human erasures 'just like that!' Charles says, snapping his fingers like a bad conjuror, one red, red eyebrow c.o.c.ked in the cartoon position of surprise (whether relevant or not) that he favours for most conversations. People plucked from their lives as if by an invisible hand, 'Dematerialization, Izzie it could happen to anyone,' he says eagerly, 'at any moment.' Hardly a comforting thought. 'Your brother's a nut-cake,' Carmen says, sucking a mis-shapen mint so hard that it looks as if her cheeks have just imploded, 'he should see a trick-cyclist.'

But the real question, surely, is where do the people who vanish into thin air go? Do they all go to the same place? 'Thin air' must surely be a misnomer, for the air must be fairly choked with animals, children, people, s.h.i.+ps, aeroplanes, Amys and Amelias.

'What if our mother didn't run off,' Charles muses, sitting on the end of my bed now and staring out at the blue square of window-sky. 'What if she had simply dematerialized?' I point out to him that 'simply' might be the wrong word here, but I know what he means then she wouldn't have voluntarily abandoned her own children (us), leaving them to fend for themselves in a cold, cruel world. And so on.

'Shut up, Charles.' I put my head under the pillow. But I can still hear him.

'Aliens,' he says decisively, 'these people were all kidnapped by aliens. And our mother too,' he adds wistfully, 'that's what happened to her.'

'Kidnapped by aliens?'

'Well why not?' Charles says stoutly. 'Anything's possible.' But which is the most likely really a mother kidnapped by aliens or a mother who ran off with a fancy man?

'Aliens, definitely,' Charles says.

I sit up and give him a good hard punch in the ribs to shut him up. It's such a long time ago now (eleven years) but Charles can't let Eliza go. 'Go away, Charles.'

'No, no, no,' he says, his eyes alight with a kind of madness. 'I've found something.'

'Found what?' It's still only eight o'clock in the morning and Charles is in his pyjamas maroon-and-white striped flannel that say 'Age 12' on the label on the collar, but which he has never outgrown. If the aliens kidnap him will they believe what he tells them or what his label says? He seems to have forgotten that it's my birthday. 'It's my birthday, Charles.'

'Yeah, yeah, look-' From his striped breast-pocket he takes something wrapped in a large handkerchief. 'I found this', he says in a church-whisper, 'at the back of a drawer.'

'The back of a drawer?' (Not my birthday present then.) 'In the sideboard, I was looking for Sellotape.' (For my present, I hope.) 'Look!' he urges excitedly.