The Doll House. Phoebe Morgan

      Ashley pulls the door to and goes down the corridor, pausing at the doorway to Benji’s room. She has done this ever since he was born: stop outside his door and listen to the rise and fall of his breathing. She holds her own breath as she listens. God knows what would happen if she couldn’t actually hear him.

      Ashley retrieves the tea bags from her mother’s cupboard. She hopes Corinne is all right; her sister is prone to getting things out of proportion, seeing significance in everything even when there is none. She panics easily, always has. The doll house is a typical example. Their dad’s death hit Corinne particularly hard, Ashley knows it did. Perhaps the fertility treatment has brought the feelings to the surface.

      She goes over to her mother’s landline and dials her husband again. The phone rings and she is about to give up when James answers, his voice sounding gruff.

      ‘James? Are you OK?’ A spurt of worry grips her heart and she presses the phone to her ear, listening for another voice in the background. Is there someone there, is there somebody with him?

      She waits, counts to three. Perhaps she is imagining it. The phone can distort. She takes a big gulp of tea.

      ‘Are you coming down today? Everyone wants to see you. We’ll probably go for lunch.’ Ashley can feel herself holding her breath.

      James clears his throat and when he speaks his voice sounds more like himself. The energy leaves her suddenly and she has to lean against the counter. What is the matter with her?

      ‘I’ll be on the next train.’

      Ashley remains in the kitchen after they hang up, holding the phone to her chest. Her friend Megan’s voice filters through her ears, Are you worried, Ashley? Ashley, are you worried?

      Then

       I don’t tell anyone what we do any more. I did once, when I was younger, when I was just little, I wrote about it for my school project. The title was ‘What I Did at the Weekend’. It was in art and design class and the teacher asked us to draw a picture of what we did on our Saturday and Sunday. But it wasn’t just a normal drawing, we were allowed to use all different materials. That means paint and glue and felt tip pen. Mrs Sanderson said I could do whatever I liked and so I picked up all the shoeboxes from the corner of the classroom, the spare ones from when we made bug boxes, and I started to build a house.

       I used Sellotape and Pritt Stick (although that didn’t work very well) and I put the boxes one on top of the other, because the house we go to is quite big. Then I added in windows for us to look through and a door, although we aren’t allowed to go through that yet but Mummy says we will one day.

       It looked really good, everyone said so, even that boy Toby who is mean to me. So that means it really was good. The teacher asked me if that was my house and I said yes, yes, it is my house, and then I had to go to the toilet and I felt a bit sick because I knew I had told a lie. Mummy says lies are what adults say and I felt scared then because I thought I must be becoming an adult. I don’t think I want to be an adult. They’re not very nice to each other. I wrote down a story to go with the picture, but then when the teacher saw it, she crossed it all out with a big red pen, she said I had to learn the difference between making something up and telling the truth. I was telling the truth though. It’s just that no one believed me.

       I told Mummy what had happened and she was cross, she told me that what we do is our special secret and that I haven’t to tell anyone ever again. She didn’t hit me or anything, she never does that, but she looked at me like what I had done was really serious and so I felt frightened. I turned my face against the wall but she spun me round, her hands digging into my shoulders, and she put her face all close to mine and she said that I must never tell anybody because if I do we will get into big trouble, both of us, and especially her and if she is taken away then nobody will look after me at all, because she’s sure as hell the only one doing it now.

       ‘Sure as hell’ is what she said. I’ve never heard anyone say that before but I don’t like the sound of it. I kept my mouth zipped shut the rest of the night, zip zip zip. Nothing came out of my mouth at all. Next time at school I’m going to say we went to the beach, because that’s what Natasha next to me always does. The teacher will think we’re friends, which is another lie. But at least that won’t make Mummy cross.

       Sometimes I think it is all my fault, that I’m not a good enough child for Mummy. That she wants a different one, a better one, a daughter with longer hair or a nicer face. I feel all sad when I think that, and I try extra hard to be good. I don’t complain when we visit the house three nights running, I don’t cry when she forgets to sign my reading book, I don’t make a fuss when the dinner is cold fish fingers again. But none of it makes a difference, she still talks about it all the time, about how badly her life has turned out. She asks the air sometimes, she says, what did I do to deserve this?

       Once I asked her if she meant me, deserve me, and then she looked a bit sorry and she gave me a cuddle. She smelled a bit funny but for once I didn’t mind.

       ‘No,’ she said, ‘That’s not what I mean. I just wanted better for you, that’s all. For both of us. I still do.

       I want that too, but I don’t know how we’re going to get it.

10

       Kent

       Corinne

      I don’t know why my mother lied, but I do know that the doll house isn’t in the attic. I keep looking at her, trying to catch her eye, but it’s as though she is avoiding me; she is constantly doing something, talking to Ashley, playing games with Benji.

      I can’t shake the kernel of worry in my mind, the possibility that the things I’ve found – the chimney and tiny door – really are from the house. That someone has left them both for me to find. What I don’t know is why. It makes no sense. I don’t know why someone would do it, I don’t know who would do it, or what on earth it would mean.

      Did Mum throw Dad’s things away without telling us? Maybe they made her too sad. Has she forgotten where they are, is that it? I try to think of the last time I saw his stuff. I remember packing everything away after the funeral, but it is all a bit of a blur. Ashley guided me through most of it, her stomach stretching out before her, walked me past the row of well-wishers as though I was a zombie. It was just before Holly was born. I close my eyes for a second, remembering the sadness of the day. Dad had a mahogany coffin, a wreath of yellow daffodils. Lots of people came – people from the architectural scene, designers, all of them singing his praises. ‘Highest of the high-flyers, your old man,’ one guy said to me, and I felt the praise warm on my skin in spite of my grief.

      Mum really struggled; I think of her face, almost hidden by her big black hat. She had been almost completely silent for the whole day. Maybe she did find it too hard keeping his things. Even as I try to rationalise, I can’t shake the feeling that she knows more than she said last night.

      ‘Corinneeeeee!’ Benji is tapping his fork against my arm. There’s a smear of mashed potato on it but I don’t mind. I ruffle his hair and feel Dominic watching me from across the table. I catch his eye and smile. His cheeks are red from the cold outside and his hair’s a bit messy. He looks gorgeous.

      We’re at a pub in the Kent countryside having lunch; it’s all very rural, surrounded by open fields. I keep seeing burly men who look like they’ve come straight from a hunt; it’s a far cry from our tangle of streets in Crouch End.

      James arrived about an hour ago. He seems a bit strained and he’s been sipping at the same pint for ages. I watch him lean over to prise Lucy’s fingers away from her mobile phone. I need to remember to thank him for the money.

      I spot my chance when he eventually goes to the bar to get more wine for Mum and Ashley.

      ‘I’ll