Fly or Fall

by Gilli Allan

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Wife and mother, Nell, fears change, but it is forced upon her by her manipulative husband, Trevor. Finding herself in a new world of flirtation and casual infidelity, her principles are undermined and she?s tempted. Should she emulate the behaviour of her new friends or stick with the safe and familiar? But everything Nell has accepted at face value has a dark side.  Everyone - even her nearest and dearest - has been lying. She?s even deceived herself. The presentiment of disaster, first felt as a tremor at the start of the story, rumbles into a full blown earthquake. When the dust settles, nothing is as it previously seemed. And when an unlikely love blossoms from the wreckage of her life, she fears it is doomed. The future, for the woman who feared change, is irrevocably altered. But has she been broken, or has she transformed herself?

Release date: August 18, 2015

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 428

Sample

Prologue

2006

The cartoon rabbit ran straight off the edge of the cliff. He hung, oblivious to his predicament, feet pedalling the empty air. There was a snigger, halfway between laughter and derision, from the twins.

Perhaps belief is everything, I thought. If you believe you’re still on the same level, that life hasn’t changed, you won’t see the void which has opened beneath your feet. And if you don’t see it, you don’t fall. Inevitably, the rabbit did stop running, and did look down. I felt with him the nightmare lurch of panic, the sudden plunge downwards as he dropped out of frame. The result was explosive – as the dust cleared, a precisely incised, rabbit-shaped crater was revealed at the foot of the cliff.

‘I still can’t believe the amount of money …’ I murmured with a dazed shake of my head.

‘So? What’s your problem? Any normal person would be jumping for joy.’ We were speaking quietly; the twins had yet to be told their father wanted to move, let alone that, without even putting the house on the market, we’d received an eye-watering offer for it.

‘I’m not arguing,’ I defended myself half-heartedly. ‘But I suppose I’ve always thought the amount it might sell for was academic. We have to live somewhere. Your job’s here, our friends are here, the kids go to school here. Why sell?’

‘We’ve been through this. There’s nothing to keep us, not really. Why stay in Battersea when we could live in the country? Clean air, green fields, a house with a proper garden and a driveway … maybe even a garage, to park the car off-road?’

I hadn’t reacted the way he’d wanted and expected, and I could hardly explain why to myself, let alone to him. Why did I have such a sense of foreboding? If I agreed to sell and move out of London, our lives would change in countless superficial and practical ways but, to use Trevor’s words, they’d be changes which most normal people would regard as improvements to the style and quality of life. To him, it was a no-brainer. Why stay in a property worth so much money when we could sell it and move somewhere better but cheaper in the country? Deflated by my reaction to his plans he had to work hard to keep his irritation in check.

‘But it’s such an unremarkable house.’

‘For God’s sake, Nell. Where have you been? You’ve heard about the property boom?’

‘But it’s smaller than the others in the terrace, with a much smaller garden. I never in a million years thought … Anyway, what about your job?’

He sighed deeply. ‘I’m a teacher, I can get a job anywhere.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘I’m not dragging us off to the depths of the country on a wing and a prayer. I’ll make sure I’ve something to go to. I may quit teaching altogether.’

‘But you love teaching?’

‘I used to,’ he retorted darkly. I felt I was being drawn into an Alice in Wonderland world where all my certainties were being turned upside down. ‘Look, the whys and wherefores are not important … the important thing is this.’ He waved the formal offer at me. His taut, flushed face betrayed his excitement, as he contemplated a very different future to the one I’d envisaged.

‘I don’t want … we don’t need so much money. Wealth can be very corrupting.’

He sighed again. ‘Of course it seems a lot to us because we’ve been scraping along for years. It’s only recently things have eased up a bit. But we’ll still need a house to live in.’ His tabby, greying beard received another vigorous raking. ‘We’ll only have the balance to play with.’

‘I know that.’

‘Sure, our lives are going to change. But we are who we are. It is possible to be comfortably off, to have a few hundred thousand in an investment account, without abandoning your ideals. Unless you truly believe our principles are so flaky? The kind you adopt when you’re poor then slough off like a snake’s skin as soon as your circumstances improve?’

‘No one really knows how they’ll respond to temptation until they’re exposed to it. It’s a leap into the dark. Perhaps I am going to develop a taste for furs and diamonds and love affairs. And you? Fast cars and bimbos?’

‘Do try to keep a sense of proportion. It’s not that kind of dosh.’

‘I am joking.’ But as I said the words I knew I wasn’t joking, not really. I had cloaked my real misgivings in the facile.

‘Anyway, how come you get to have love affairs and I get the bimbos?’ he added with a rueful smile. ‘Sounds a bit discriminatory to me.’

‘What is the male equivalent of a bimbo? A gigolo? A toy boy? Chance would be a fine thing.’

Much of the discussion so far had been conducted in this half-joking, half-serious vein. My insides still bubbled with a mixture of shocked surprise and apprehension bordering on hysteria; I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. For me, it was still too soon to properly and calmly evaluate what all this would really mean to us. At length he spoke again.

‘You think I don’t understand, but I do.’ His tone was now conciliatory, bordering on the condescending.

I remained silent, repressing the urge to flash back, ‘Good for you.’

‘I know all this has been a shock. I know the last few months since Beryl died, have been hard on you. Losing your surviving parent has got to change your perspective on life and the way you live it. Even when she had long ceased to be the mother you knew. We always knew you’d inherit the house. The probate will soon be sorted and we … you’ll get the title deeds. What the house is worth is the only new element for you.’

But not for him? Had he been comparing house prices for years? Weighing up what my mother’s death could mean for us? I sensed a ‘But’ coming, possibly an ultimatum. Did he want to secure my compliance here and now? Yet, as he proceeded, I saw apprehension in his eyes.

‘Seriously, Nell, it’s down to you. If you really don’t want to sell the house and realise some of the profits by moving out and down-pricing, then I can’t force you.’

I glanced away from his intent stare, back towards the TV, which now flickered in the corner without its cynical audience of two. Since I’d last looked, Bugs Bunny had not only survived his fall but had triumphed over his pursuers, in the interim mysteriously achieving a lifestyle of wealth and opulence. As the title music swelled, the final frame revealed him lying back complacently against a pile of harem cushions, a jewelled turban balanced between his ears, the inevitable carrot held pinched in his fingers like a cigar.

‘Beats me why you can’t just accept it and rejoice?’ Trevor persisted doggedly. ‘Our ship’s come in. It’s our turn.’

He made my misgivings seem increasingly nebulous and perverse. How could I continue to resist? One moment I’d felt like I was at the edge of a precipice, facing a leap into the unknown, yet still clinging to the possibility of retreat. Now I realised the world had shifted on its axis; there could be no going back. The secure ground had vanished from beneath my feet. I had only two options left – to fall or to fly.

Chapter One

2007

‘I’ve got to the point, Fliss, where I honestly think I’d be glad to catch Alex out. At least it would give me the excuse I want.’

‘But what do you suspect, Kate? Is he or isn’t he?’ Felicity asked.

‘I honestly can’t tell. He isn’t like Brian.’

‘Oh, Brian.’ Felicity interjected, in the gloomy tones of one whose husband’s failings were well known to all. But whether he failed by being faithful or faithless was not clear to me.

I felt the same kind of guilty fascination as if I were eavesdropping on the gossip in a Chelsea wine bar. Except this wasn’t London – London was my old life – and I was not an eavesdropper. Had they forgotten me? Surely the unguarded and intimate nature of their conversation was not meant to be shared with a stranger? I knew one of these women only slightly and the other I’d met just under an hour ago. Yet here I was, in this beautiful house, in a part of the country I was still unfamiliar with, a slightly embarrassed audience to their giggly, girly confessions.

‘Alex doesn’t admit to it,’ Katherine continued, ‘but he has plenty of opportunity.’

‘I don’t know why you have these attacks of conscience. If you feel it do it, as they say. No need to be blatant. Even if he did find out, would it be the end of the world? Would he care? Brian certainly doesn’t. It’s not like it’s ever serious and you’re “in love” or anything. I never am. Don’t really know what it means.’

Katherine shrugged, but her mouth compressed.

I had lived through the first few months in our new house like a sleepwalker. Nothing was substantial, edges were blurred, sounds muffled. I still performed the routine chores which revolved around clothing and feeding the family, but automatically my brain disengaged. Even rising from bed each morning was a struggle; the clinging comfort of sleep was far more seductive than the call of duty. Had it not been for the prospect of heating engineers, electricians, or window fitters arriving to continue the various jobs which had been commissioned, I wondered if I’d ever have been able to drag myself from bed at all. If and when the workmen did make an appearance, I would have as little contact with them as possible beyond making them endless drinks. A friendly remark too often led to a protracted commentary on the shortcomings of other customers and their unrealistic expectations, or the comparative merits of local pubs.

It wasn’t just the workmen. I’d always been bored by the type of social interaction which went no further than the latest Daily Mail headline, or the rise and rise of house prices. I knew no one in the neighbourhood and, beyond the superficial politenesses involved in shopping, I’d avoided friendly overtures. The knowledge that if I was lonely and isolated it was my own fault, made it no easier to break free from the bondage of inertia.

Then, one morning in March, I’d found myself in a house full of electricians, and the power switched off. While I would have preferred to stay within the secure confines of my own four walls – even without the iron, washing machine, or vacuum cleaner – I couldn’t tolerate being stuck indoors with no radio to occupy my mind and drown out the disturbing clunks, scrapes, and drilling which emanated from somewhere upstairs. The need for batteries forced me to overcome my hermit-like tendencies and walk to the town centre.

In the supermarket checkout queue the young woman behind me made a remark about the length of my hair, which that day was plaited to beyond my waist. I responded with a comment on her trolley piled high with multi-packs of burgers, fizzy drinks, and crisps. It was an inconsequential exchange and I left the shop soon after, not expecting to see the woman ever again, let alone make a friend of her. Overburdened with carrier bags I was faced with the long walk home. Why had I bought so much when batteries were all I’d come out for? Then I noticed the sign, ‘Flower Yard Café’, and an arrow.

The short passage opened into a paved courtyard where some unoccupied tables and chairs were arranged; it was still too chilly to brave the open air. Two other small shops shared Flower Yard with the café; one specialising in needlecraft and the other a boutique called Lilibeth’s. I’d only just sat down at the one free table inside the café when the woman from the supermarket made her flamboyant entrance. Perhaps it was inevitable that we should share the table, and within minutes, under her friendly interrogation, I found myself explaining the reasons for our move from London. Felicity also demanded to know the age of the twins and which school they went to, the style, size, and location of our house, what Trevor did for a living, and what cars we had. This last query evinced some surprise when I admitted I didn’t drive.

By the time we’d finished our coffee she’d offered to introduce me at her health and sports club, invited me to an Ann Summers party, and recommended a reliable firm of local builders. She then gave me and my shopping a lift home. This ‘coffee morning’, at her friend’s house, was the first social event she had arranged on my behalf.

A mill race flowed alongside Katherine Hunt’s house. Though traces still remained, the mill wheel was no longer attached to the side-wall. Outside, an old red-brick outbuilding, with wide double doors, was surely big enough for three cars, and there must have been a room above the garage, as exterior steps lead up to a side-door beneath the roof.

The interior matched the external impression of the converted watermill. Two red setters lay prone in a patch of sun near the French windows. When I’d first entered the sitting room, one of them raised its head, emitting a low rumbling growl. At its mistress’ reassurance it lay its head down again, bestowing a desultory lick on the ear of its companion in passing.

Katherine’s hair was a sleek tawny blonde, which hung thick and gleaming to her jaw, her make-up was immaculate but discreet. The lines of her figure were long and smoothly modelled; she moved with the suppleness and grace of the very fit – at ease in her Jaeger casuals, in her Homes & Gardens house. The realisation that she was not particularly good-looking was delayed, coming almost as a surprise. She certainly had none of the obvious prettiness of Felicity Jackson.

I wondered why these women were such close friends – on the face of it they seemed very different. Physically, Felicity was shorter, more delicately boned than Kate, and her elaborately made-up face was haloed by a stiff web of highlighted curls. She was also younger and more extrovert in dress and personality. An expression of my mother’s popped into my head. A working class woman herself, Beryl had strong views about respectability. She’d have characterised Felicity as a bit flashy, and probably no better than she ought to be; while Katherine had class. There was no other word for it, even in my lexicon; she offered us wine when anyone else would have offered coffee. In the face of all this sophistication, and as a complete stranger to her elegant home, the flippant tone of the conversation jangled. And with nothing whatsoever to contribute, I felt trapped in the unwilling role of voyeur. I looked back towards Felicity.

‘It’s not as if you haven’t had a very tempting offer recently. Well worth the risk,’ Felicity continued, with an exaggerated wink. Katherine smiled ruefully.

‘I instantly regretted turning him down. Only it’s a tad embarrassing having to say, “Oh, hang on a minute, can I have another think about your leg-over proposition?”’

‘He didn’t put it like that, did he?’

‘No, but it amounted to the same thing. But glorious though the experience is bound to be, or so you assure me …’

‘Mmmm,’ Felicity groaned, then waggled her tongue. ‘Believe me.’

With raised brows and shake of her head at her friend, Kate continued. ‘It can’t be such an ego boost when we both know how many others he’s sniffed round.’

‘Do you mind?’ Felicity said.

‘I’m sorry, but how else does a man hone his skills except by doing the rounds? Anyway, I’ve missed my chance, he’ll probably settle down now.’

‘A leopard doesn’t change his spots. Have you seen her? Don’t understand the attraction myself. But, we’re not being very fair to Eleanor.’ She turned to me with a little smirk. ‘You don’t know who we’re talking about, unless …? Have you met him already? You are getting Bill to do up your house, aren’t you? You know, William Lynch. Man for all Reasons? I gave you his card.’

‘Oh, Mr Lynch. So far I’ve only spoken to him on the phone.’

‘Ooh,’ she exclaimed with a theatrical shiver. ‘Exciting, isn’t it? Having work done on the house.’

Surprised, I laughed ‘Like banging your head against a brick wall. Great when it’s over.’

‘Oh, no, I love it. I adore having workmen around. I’m dead jealous of you.’

‘Jealous?’ It astounded me that anyone could find enjoyment in the upheaval, the dirt and mess, the mistakes and tardy corrections; the men who failed to arrive on the appointed day and who then failed to phone and explain why. ‘When they do come, they’re late, then they disappear again halfway through the afternoon.’

‘You’ll have none of that malarkey with Bill and co.,’ Felicity said with a wink.

The circumstances of our move were now reiterated briefly for Katherine’s benefit. Unlikely that either of these women would understand my unease at the amount we’d realised from the sale of the house, or my regret at moving to their town. Instead, I turned the story into a comedy. I described how I’d panicked on discovery that the inheritance tax was due before we could realise any money; how the bank, which had only ever been a disembodied and reproving voice in letters about overdrafts and late payments, suddenly became helpful and assigned us a financial adviser; and how Trevor managed everything, with our new best friend giving us every assistance. The tax was paid and the house sold for an amount I could still scarcely credit.

‘Why haven’t I got any wealthy relations who could pop off, leaving me mega bucks and mansions? No one’s filthy rich in my family, and anyway, they’ve all got squillions of kids. It’s not fair.’ Felicity said, pouting.

‘My mother had no money and the house was a small, end of terrace. I still can’t understand …’

‘If I had the choice I’d live in London,’ Felicity continued, blithely ignoring my continuing mystification. ‘But why on earth did you move here?’

Why indeed? The old part of Downland was undeniably pretty, but the majority of the town was unremarkable. It was like so many others in the home counties, and though set in lovely countryside, we could hardly claim to have achieved Trevor’s sudden ambition to live in England’s rural depths.

‘Well, London’s dirty, noisy, and overcrowded.’ All true, yet I felt the treachery; I still regretted leaving those polluted streets, still thought of London as home.

Felicity said, ‘Oh, I know. I used to share a flat in Fulham. Not a million miles from your old place. And where was your flat, Kate? Petticoat Lane?’

‘Portobello Road.’

‘I knew you were somewhere trendy with a market. I’d only want to live somewhere dead posh like Regent’s Park or Hampstead Village. But this place is so dead.’

‘Trevor was fed up with teaching.’ I could have added that I’d known nothing of his disillusionment. ‘And he heard through the grapevine of a job going in BCEC in Redgate.’ I expected to be further quizzed on my explanation, but Felicity was in a groove.

‘Don’t get me wrong … but why the east side of town? You must have been able to afford a house in a smarter area.’

‘Honestly, Fliss,’ Katherine laughed. ‘You’re so rude.’

‘Look, don’t mind me … the words are out of my mouth before I think. I mean Old Town … over our side of the main road.’

‘The original village of Downland,’ Katherine amplified.

‘It’s generally thought the place to live around here.’

‘We didn’t have time to explore the possibilities. Finding the house was a fluke. Driving back from Redgate after he’d been offered the job, there were road works on the London Road. To avoid the jam he turned off and found himself driving along Fairfield. He saw a man putting up the “For Sale” board. Having found his way back to the High Street he spotted Whitclift’s Estate Agent and stopped –’

‘There was space to park? That was a fluke!’

‘The rest is history. The job started in the autumn. He didn’t want to commute from Battersea for longer than necessary. So …’

‘Did he see David at Whitclift’s?’

‘I don’t know. An older man dealt with the sale. I never met him.’

‘That’ll have been Reg Whitclift, the owner.’

‘Apparently the house had only just come on the market with immediate vacant possession,’ I went on. ‘The executors wanted a quick sale. With our new friend, the financial adviser at the bank, we were able to raise a bridging loan very speedily. The whole transaction went through so fast we were here before I’d really made up my mind whether I even wanted to move at all, let alone leave London. I think I must have been in some kind of a daydream when I first saw the house. The day we moved in the weather was bad. The house looked so stark and depressing. And the interior …! Well, it was far more run-down than I’d noticed and it came as a shock when I properly took on board how much work lay ahead of us.’

‘Still, you’ll make it nice.’ Felicity’s voice lacked conviction.

That she was unimpressed by my house was unsurprising. When she’d come over that morning to pick me up there was still a sink full of washing up and a tottering pile of ironing in the antiquated kitchen. In the sitting room, dust bloomed every surface and the sparse furniture was old, chipped, and shabby. The sitting room carpet, which had virtually been wall to wall in our last house, was a faded, threadbare island. The comparison with the mill could not have been more stark. I looked around at the ancient beams, the paintings, the Liberty print wallpaper and covers. Wood gleamed with centuries of polish, oriental rugs covered the floor; everywhere there was foliage and flowers.

‘These roses are stunning, Kate.’ I leant toward the ingle-nook fireplace where the long-stemmed yellow buds were arranged in a Delft jug on the flagged hearth. They had no fragrance.

‘They’ll probably die without opening any further. All the flowers in this room arrived yesterday from Alex … wedding anniversary.’

‘How wonderful. I can’t remember the last time Trevor gave me flowers.’

‘There’s more to a good relationship than flowers,’ she said flatly. ‘Flowers are easy.’

‘I’m not complaining. Everyone’s different, aren’t they? If you don’t marry a flower giver you can’t expect him to suddenly turn into one.’

‘If he did I’d be suspicious,’ Felicity intervened, sharply. ‘So … when’s the new work on your house due to start?’

‘No idea. We’ll know more when Bill Lynch comes over to look at the job.’

Felicity settled back with an inscrutable smile. ‘Time will tell. But …’ with a sudden frown, she added, ‘perhaps you’re not in the market for a bit of fun?’

‘If you mean what I think you mean then, no, I’m not.’

‘I can’t believe you’ve never been tempted.’ Her tone was almost hectoring.

‘Don’t badger Eleanor, not everyone’s like you,’ Katherine said.

‘You don’t mind, do you, Nell? It won’t go any further,’ Felicity persisted silkily, fluttering her false eyelashes. ‘Tell Fliss?’

Pressured to come up with something, I said, ‘There’s really nothing to tell. In the old days, when we were younger and still went to parties, I suppose I flirted a bit.’ I could feel myself flush. ‘I’m past all that now.’

‘What? You’ve got more opportunity than I have. Your kids are teenagers. Old enough to be left.’

‘It’s nothing to do with opportunity. Anyway, I …’ I searched fruitlessly for some expression that wouldn’t sound such a prosaic cliché to these women. ‘I’m happily married.’

‘Oh, wow. What has that got to do with anything? And what does it mean anyway?’

‘Teenagers, did you say?’ Kate interrupted. ‘Good God. You must have married young?

‘Look at the time!’ To my relief Felicity stood up, ending any further inquisition. ‘I’ve got to collect Chelsea from ballet class at half past. Then she’s got swimming after lunch. Don’t worry, I’ll drop you off first, Nell. I’m always rushing. I’ll be glad when she starts at Greenways.’

‘Greenways?’ I queried.

Felicity was gathering her things together. ‘Primary school. Next to Saint Stephen’s. Dane’s already there. Chelsea starts her nursery year in the autumn. It’s only small, about twelve children per class. It costs us, but it’s worth it. Dane loves it. There’s none of the rougher element, if you know what I mean. Didn’t want our kids mixing with that lot off the council estate. And there’s even some gypsy kids at the state primary.’ She stood and began pulling on her jacket.

‘Do your children go to the same school?’ I asked Katherine, uneasy with the direction of the conversation.

She laughed. ‘They’re all at the High. Oliver’s doing A-Levels this summer, Tris is in Year 9. Starts his coursework for the GCSEs in the autumn, and Cressida’s in year 7.’ Before I had time to comment that the ages of her youngest two bracketed the age of my twins, she went on. ‘It’s a very good school, an independent, so no danger of gypsies there either!’

Gypsies again? ‘Is there a site near here?’ I asked carefully.

‘Not an official site,’ Felicity said, moving towards the hallway. ‘But they’re not proper gypsies. They’re … whatcha call ’em, hippies, travellers. There’s a field by Marshmead, on the north edge of the downs; it’s part of a farm, but it’s pretty scrubby and apart from letting it out to a funfair for a few weeks every summer, the farmer doesn’t do much with it. This family in a converted bus have been kind of camping there for the last few months. It’s unofficial. I mean, you need planning permission for a campsite, don’t you? The people who live nearby are up in arms. They’ve been trying for years to put a stop to the funfair and now this. It drags down the neighbourhood, doesn’t it? And if this family are allowed to stay, the locals are scared it’ll set a trend. There’ll be a wagon train all making for the same field. Look, I’m sorry, Kate, we’ve really got to go, but first I need a pee.’

I exhaled slowly, unhooking my own coat, and noticing for the first time how worn and out of date it looked. Katherine obviously shared Felicity’s opinions, and both assumed I would agree. Now that I had abandoned shabbily trendy, politically correct Battersea for this manicured enclave of middle-class respectability, quite different assumptions were being made about my attitudes. That the so-called gypsy children were being sent to school at all demonstrated a degree of responsibility on the parents’ part. In my view, it was better to support such families, to provide legal sites, or low-cost housing in areas where they wanted to live, rather than harry them from one illegal site to another.

‘Now, about my Ann Summers party. Are you both coming?’ Felicity asked as she emerged from the cloakroom.

Chapter Two

As I shoved clothes into the washing machine and set it going, an item on Radio 4 caught my attention. There was plenty I could be doing, but I paused, turning up the volume to counteract the noise of the old machine. In front of me, on a raised stone plinth, was the big, dappled grey oven which had been included in the house sale. It was surprisingly clean considering its age. Mounted on the wall, and implausibly small and flimsy beside its massive neighbour, was the new, gas-fired replacement for the original solid-fuel boiler. Crazed white tiles bordered by a black and white chequered strip covered the walls halfway up. Above was the ‘contemporary’ wallpaper which had struck me so forcibly when I’d first walked into the kitchen.

There’d been a similar 1950s design – bright primary colours in a bold, modernist pattern – papering the walls of my Aunt Sissy’s kitchen. It evoked in me a queasy, almost nightmarish response. Back then I’d no opinion on its artistic merit or whether it was dated, but I’d been intrigued by it, and spent ages staring, trying to decipher the bottles, fruits, and vegetables disguised within the distorted shapes. Though not much older than her sister, my maiden Aunt Sissy had been old-fashioned all her life, according to my mother. What did I know? That last summer I spent with her, in her seaside house, I was still just a child, on the cusp of adolescence. But the physical development of puberty had kicked in well before my emotional or mental maturity. It was unsurprising that Aunt Sissy should have forbidden me from going out alone in the evening, let alone to the funfair – a den of iniquity in her opinion. But that night was to be my rebellion, a rebellion that left me frightened and disturbed.

I don’t know how long I stayed at the fair but I ran all the way back to her house – heart pumping, breath gasping – scared by something I didn’t truly comprehend. By creeping in via the back door, I’d hoped either to avoid or postpone the confrontation, but the light snapped on in the kitchen, dazzling me. Around Aunt Sissy, statuesque in her maroon dressing gown, the vivid abstract patterns of the wallpaper sprang into lurid frame. There was no anger in her expression. Instead, her cheeks were ashen and sucked in, her mouth pinched with distress. I knew at once this was not going to be a normal telling off – I knew something awful had happened, something which was to push me across the threshold into unwanted adulthood.

The memory of those events breathed a chill prickle over my skin. I shuddered slightly, thinking we would have to do something about that wallpaper very soon – if only strip it off. I’d prefer grey plaster to those creepy, surreal shapes.

A heavy, reverberating double knock at