Stone Girl

The scent of roses and fresh grass reminds Eleanor that summer is finally here. She sets the laundry basket on the ground and pulls down the washing line. As it lowers, she glances over her shoulder. The regular thump of a ball against the next door's wall jars with the chirruping birdsong. Eleanor flinches each time it connects. He’s too small to see him over the hedge, but she hears the boy sniff back his hay fever in an equally rhythmic pattern. Eleanor shakes her head and reaches into her basket to retrieve a towel. Something in her back twinges. Her skin begins to tingle, and she looks up. It has been at least a week since there was any blue in the sky, but now it is as clear and perfect as stained glass. She realizes it’s the first of June. A memory stirs. She pushes it away along with the back pain.

With the laundry hung, Eleanor picks up the empty basket and makes her way back to the house. A sudden breeze almost takes her breath. The child’s swing at the end of the garden begins to creak back and forth on its rotten old ropes. She looks at the washing, four towels, and two king-size sheets, billowing with a gentle flap that sends the sweet scent of lilac and lilies up the garden path. ‘Good,’ she thinks. ‘They’ll dry quickly.’ Just as she turns away, something catches in the corner of her eyes, a dark shape silhouetted behind one of the sheets, and a bright childish giggle rings in the air. but when she looks back again, nothing is there except the laundry. A twig snaps nearby, and a blackbird hops from under the hedge. Eleanor smiles and goes back indoors.

As she waits for the kettle to boil she flips over the wall calendar and glances over the month to see whose birthdays she must remember. The new picture is pretty, ethereal even; with delicate green fronds of moss draping over trees and statues. Sunlight glints through leaves and casts light over the stone face of a beautiful young girl as she looks sorrowfully down at the ground below. The statue is resting on something. Eleanor peers closer and sees it’s a grave. She looks for the description: Bonaventure Cemetery. ‘Why would anyone put a graveyard on a calendar?’ she muses.

The kettle boils, and she pours a cup of tea. She opens the biscuit tin, but when she takes out a bourbon, it has gone soft. She could swear she only bought them a couple of days ago. She decides it’s still edible, puts it on the side of her saucer, and heads for the study.

Graham is overseas at a conference all week, and the house seems cold and empty despite the summer warmth. She pulls a fleece throw from the back of the chair and lays it over her legs. The leather squeaks as she sinks down, and the high wings block her peripheral vision. She closes her eyes for a moment. The image of the grave girl is imprinted on the inside of her eyelids. She opens them again, picks up her book, slides in her finger to replace the bookmark, and presses open the pages. She is greeted by Catherine Moreland creeping about Northanger Abbey in the dead of night. For a while, she’s gripped. Walking through dark corridors and exploring dusty abandoned rooms. Candlelight casts eerie shadows across austere walls and dramatic portraits. A noise filters into her subconscious. At first, it is a part of the plot, and then it is not. Hammering hard, fist on wood. Eleanor leaps from her chair, sending the book tumbling to the floor, clamping shut so her page is lost. The teacup rattles in the saucer as the table at her side shudders with her exertion. She scurries to the front door.

There is a small shape on the other side of the glass.

“Who is it?” She calls through the door.

“It's Ricky from next door Mrs. Can I get my ball back.” He adds a ‘Please?” as an afterthought.

Eleanor’s pounding heart has begun to regulate. She unhooks the chain and unbolts the door. As she opens it the child on the step sinks back down from his tiptoes and grins up sheepishly.

“Sorry Mrs, It went over by mistake.”

Eleanor sighs.

“Come on through then.” She leads the child down the hall and through the kitchen. She watches him go into the garden. For a moment, he searches the lawn, then he stops. Something has caught his eye. Eleanor goes closer to the window and watches him. He tilts his head like a curious puppy and takes a tentative step towards the washing line. He is the younger of her neighbour’s boys, about six or seven years old. She can’t quite recall. She remembers her own child. She tries not to let her mind go there, but she can’t stop it. She looks over at the calendar, at the smooth timeless face of the stone girl. Twenty years to the day since she last saw Livy. A cold fist seems to clench tight around her chest, and a sickly lump rises in her throat. She turns back to the window, but the boy is gone. Goose bumps prickle up her back and down her arms. A comb of ice runs through her hair. She is out the back door and running before she can rationalize.

“Ricky?”

Sheets are blowing violently as she tries to push her way through. They wrap around her, clinging and grasping like long white arms. She swears she can see a small pair of bare feet running toward the back fence. She thought Ricky was wearing trainers.

“Ricky?”

Her cry is urgent now, anguished and familiar. She has screamed out a child’s name like that once before.

“Livy” she screams then slaps her hand over her mouth.

Another cry now. Not her voice.

“Ricky, where are you?”

Eleanor tries to steady her breath. The garden is empty, except for the washing. Not a trace, no ball, no footprints, not a crumpled flower or trampled blade of grass. There is nowhere he could be. The end of the garden is hemmed in by a high wooden fence. Eleanor looks toward the swing, expecting to see the boy there, giggling away, trying to go higher and higher, just as her daughter had once done. The bar is creaking back and forth, but the child is not there.

“Eleanor, did Ricky come round to collect his ball?”

Eleanor runs to the hedge, face white as her laundry, and coated in sweat.

“Oh, Grace. Yes, he did. He was here a moment ago, but then he ran off. He must have gone by me and into the house.

“Send him home,” Grace replies. There is a wariness in her tone that makes Eleanor hesitate.

“Of course,” she tries to force a smile, but it’s more of a grimace.

She can feel Grace watching her as she hurries back to the house. She leaves the door open and begins to look for the boy.

“Ricky? Ricky, this is no place to play hide and seek,” she chastises the empty rooms. “Your Mum is looking for you. You need to go home.” With each room she enters, her breathing grows more unsteady. In the bedrooms, she opens wardrobes and cupboards. She looks under beds and behind chairs. Finally, exhausted, she runs through the kitchen and out to the garden. Grace is still standing at the other side of the hedge, waiting, arms folded and eyes narrowed. Eleanor runs towards the washing line and stops short. Right at the bottom corner of one of the sheets are two left-hand prints, one a little larger than the other.

“Is Aiden at home?” Eleanor wonders. Grace looks at her for a moment.

“No, he’s at school. Ricky’s home with an ear infection.”

“Of course.” Eleanor has long since forgotten term dates and school hours.

“Eleanor,” Grace’s expression is shifting from anger to concern, “Where’s Ricky?”

Eleanor lowers her eyes. Her chest is so tight she feels she will feint. The ground beings to move and the sky seems to darken. She leans against the hedge.

“I can’t find him. I’ve been right through the house. Maybe you should come round.” This is not a question but a plea and the other woman feels it.

Moments later, Grace and Eleanor are hunting again. Each room is turned over, the garden fully searched. They stop by the washing line. The swing is still blowing in the breeze, squeaking on its hinges like an invisible child is driving it with even precision. There’s no trace of Ricky, only the hand prints on the sheet. Grace decides the boy must have somehow gone past them both and is probably at home hiding in his bedroom, laughing at them. Grace goes home.

Eleanor checks the laundry, but it’s not quite dry. She decides to leave it out and goes inside. It is mid-afternoon, and she’s missed lunch. She makes a sandwich and turns on the TV to watch the afternoon movie. It has barely begun when there is another knock on the door. ‘What now,’ she whispers under her breath. It’s Grace again.

“He’s not home either.” Grace is looking pale and clammy. Her hands are shaking and Eleanor needs no explanation. It is a feeling she knew well once, and one that lives in her still when she lets it. “Should I call the police?” Grace stammers.

“Is there a friend he might have called on?” Just because Eleanor didn’t see a second child in the garden, didn’t mean there wasn’t one. There was that handprint.

“I already called around.” Grace looks as though she might be sick. Eleanor invites her in and makes her a sweet tea. They are sitting in the living room. Eleanor watches as Grace’s eyes gravitate to the photograph on the bookcase.

“How old was Olivia?”

Eleanor hates this conversation. The Grant’s only moved in eleven years ago, long after Livy. There had been no need to ask about the incident; it had been in all the papers.

“Nine.” Her reply is flat and icy. She doesn’t mean it to be but Grace hears the chill and looks down at her tea.

“Sorry,” Grace is saying. “I just…” She lets the thought die.

“No, it’s fine. I just find it hard. And today of all days.”

“Why today? Oh! It’s the anniversary.” There is an odd silence as both women register the coincidence. “I think I should call the police.”

Eleanor nods and fetches the handset. As she gives it to Grace their hands touch and for a moment Eleanor finds comfort in a solidarity that she has never had before. There were support groups of course and grief councillors, but no one had ever really made her feel understood.

*

It is late evening. The police have been and gone. Two uniformed women had sat in her living room for some time taking notes, though they had seemed more interested in Eleanor than little Ricky. They’d asked where Graham was and checked with the hotel and his company. They had asked far too many questions about Livy which infuriated Eleanor as much as it had Grace. Finally, Peter returned from work and took Grace home, and then the police left.

Now Eleanor is sitting in bed with her book. The bedside light is mellow and her eyes are beginning to droop. Her mind has not stopped all day. She pities Grace and her family and yet her thoughts are not of Ricky, but her daughter. She remembers Livy’s long red hair flowing out behind her as she used to play on the swing. The ring of her laughter and the soft tone of her young voice. She remembers the smell of her skin and how she used to bite the side of her thumb when she was nervous. As her eyes close, Eleanor is sure she can hear Livy giggling. She sits up sharply and looks around - nothing.

She turns off the light and puffs up her pillow. As she settles down she hears it again. The light goes back on and Eleanor’s heart is crashing against her ribcage. Perhaps Ricky is hiding in the house after all. She calls out but there is only silence. Deciding she must be going crazy after such a traumatic day she leaves the light on and tries to get some sleep.

*

Eleanor is dreaming of Northanger Abbey. She has taken Eleanor Tilney’s place and Grace has become Catherine. She is showing her around the house, only, it’s this house, not the abbey. She opens cupboards and searches wardrobes. Someone seems to be crying but it is neither she nor her companion. The rooms are dark and louring. Shadows hang from every piece of furniture and moonlight is dancing sliver patterns over the floor. Something scuffles behind her. Eleanor spins around in her Georgian nightgown but nothing is there. Someone calls her name from outside. She rushes to the window. Down on the lawn, the laundry still flaps. She had forgotten to go back out to fetch it. Now the white sheets shimmer and flutter like great ghosts and the towels jump about like lively children. Behind a sheet she catches a glimpse of a shape. A child stands, feet visible but the body masked. A flash of red hair flows out sideways.

“Livy,” she calls. The child laughs and runs away. A cold chill drops over Eleanor like a heavy, wet blanket. She begins to shiver as she runs after her child slowly, as though running through water. Livy is too fast; she vanishes through the fence into the garden behind. Now they are in the park where Eleanor last saw her alive. Livy is on the roundabout, spinning it faster and faster. Another child is with her. He’s crying for his mum, but Livy won’t stop spinning him. Then, she is on the swings. Just as she had been that day. The sun is out, and the day is hot. Really hot. Eleanor had forgotten that. She is sitting on a bench reading while her daughter plays. Her head is down, and she is lost in the pages. When she looks up, her daughter is gone. Eleanor groans in her sleep, but there is no one there to comfort her. There is frantic searching. Livy is not found.

Something crashes in the room, and Eleanor is awake. She screams, but Graham isn’t there. Downstairs, there is a creak, and Eleanor doesn’t know whether to run down to see what it is or shut herself in. She holds her breath. Nothing happens. She wants to call out to see if Ricky is still hiding in her house despite the police search. But she can’t find her voice. She glances at the clock, quarter past three. She considers calling Graham; it would only be ten pm in New York, but there’s no phone in the bedroom, and she left her mobile in the kitchen. Instead, she gets up and goes to the window. Their room is at the back of the house. She can see the garden. The laundry is still there, but the wind has dropped. Everything is still, except in the far corner. From here, she can see over the sheets, right to the back fence. Something is moving beneath the tree. She listens, and she can hear the gentle creak of the swing as it eases back and forth. For a moment, she can swear she sees a pair of legs pushing forward, white knee socks, and a flash of a long red plait, small hands gripping the ropes. She cups her hands around her face to block out the light in the room. She opens the window to call out, but then she sees the swing is not moving after all. There is just the big white cat from two doors down on a mouse hunt. He pounces on his catch. Eleanor goes back to bed.

This time when she closes her eyes, she sees the stone girl from the calendar. Her face is an older version of Livy’s. Eleanor stares up at the ceiling. At the far end of the room, something moves. A muffled sound like whimpering. Then the dirty laundry basket tips on its side and Eleanor screams. She keeps on screaming as it rolls towards her. A muffled sob comes from somewhere inside it. The lid flips open and a pair of Graham’s trousers tip out. Her heart pounds. Then she sees his little hands reaching out.

“Ricky’ she is crying for joy now. She pulls the confused, sleepy child out from the tall container and hugs him tight. He screams at first then throws his arms around her neck when he recognises her. He buries his tears into her shoulder. They had looked in the laundry basket on their search but no one had thought to pull the clothes out and look beneath. He must have climbed in and fallen asleep. Without hesitation, Eleanor carries him downstairs and bangs on her neighbours front door until the hall light flicks on and a tear-stained Grace pulls it open. As her friend scoops her child into her arms and falls to her knees, Eleanor feels a hard stab of jealousy cut right through her.

“Where was he?” Peter asks.

Eleanor tells them and the child looks up at her, shaking his head.

“I only got in there coz she told me to.”

Eleanor tries to understand, “Who told you to?”

Grace is eyeing Eleanor with something that is uncomfortably like suspicion.

“Livy,” he says. “She was playing in the garden when I went to get my ball. She wanted to play hide and seek but then there were lots of people and she said I should get in the basket and stay still ‘til everyone had gone again.”

“And then you fell asleep?” Peter has not made the connection. Ricky nods, his eyes beginning to well with tears again.

Eleanor feels as though all her blood is draining from her body and pooling on the floor.

“How do you know that name?” Her voice sounds so sharp it could cut glass.

“She told me.”

Eleanor tries to swallow.

“What does she look like?”

The boy shrugs and looks up at her warily.

“Bigger than me and has long hair that’s orange.”

Eleanor grips the wall.

“How dare you child!” she says through gritted teeth. “He must have heard about her from someone. Cruel boy.” She hisses, then turns and walks away. Behind her, she can hear Ricky protesting to his parents and Grace chastising him. She goes back into her house and closes the door, shutting them out.

*

In the morning Eleanor goes out to collect the washing, making plans to call Graham just as soon as he is awake. Her mind is churning over and over the anger at Ricky’s cruel trick when she tugs down one of the sheets from the line. She sees the hand prints in the corner and curses the child again for making her need to rewash. Then she looks again at the two different-sized prints, clearly not from the same child. In the corner of the garden the swing begins to creak back and forth and she can swear she can hear a bright familiar laughter.

(c) 2015