Phoebe Morgan - The Doll House

I’m trying to be quiet, trying not to make a sound. Mummy tells me that I shouldn’t complain, that we’re just playing the game. But it’s too cold tonight, and I’m hungry. The chocolate bar I had at school is swirling around in my stomach. I don’t think I’ll get anything else tonight, not if we don’t see them soon.

In the winter time it’s always cold like this, but Mummy never lets us leave. In the summer time it’s better, sometimes the game is almost fun. The garden is the best part, I like the way the grass feels against my knees, and the way the hole in the fence fits me perfectly, like it’s been built just for me. I’m really good at getting through it now, I never even snag my clothes any more. I’m almost perfect.

Now though it’s freezing and my hands are red, they burn like they’re set on fire. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and pretend that it’s summer time, all nice and warm, and that I can feel the rays of sun on my back from where I’m hiding. In summer I get to see animals. They have rabbits in cages but I don’t go near those any more. One time I did, I crept right up to the cage and put my fingers through the gap, touched one of the bunnies on his little soft nose. But when Mummy realised, she got very angry, she said I had to stay back in the shadows. She says the bunnies don’t belong to us. So I don’t see them any more, but I do get to see the little hedgehog that lives near the fence, and all the creepy-crawlies; the worms and the beetles that Mummy says I oughtn’t to touch. I do touch, though. I push my fingers into the dirt and pick them up, lay the worms flat on my hand and watch them wriggle. I don’t think they mind. It’s nice to have things to play with. I’m usually by myself.

Mummy suddenly leans forward, grabs my frozen hand in hers. I can feel the bones of her hand against mine, clutching me tight. It hurts.

‘Do you see them?’ she says, and I open up my eyes, blink in the darkness. It’s almost fully dark now but I look at the golden window, and I do see them. I see them all. My heart begins to thud.

1

Now

13 January 2017

London

Corinne

The house is huge. It sits like a broken sandcastle in the middle of the lawn, strangely out of place amongst the remnants of construction, discarded hats and polystyrene cups left by over-caffeinated builders. I cling to Dominic’s hand as we pick our way through the site. Two fold-up chairs are positioned mid-way across the lawn, their silver legs wet with cold condensation.

‘Dominic? You’re here early!’ A man is striding towards us, hand outstretched. I let go of Dominic and step backwards, feel the immediate rush of anxiety as we disengage.

‘You must be Warren.’ Dom smiles, reaching out to grasp the bigger man’s hand in his own. ‘This is my girlfriend, Corinne Hawes.’ He propels me forward slightly with his left hand. ‘She’s got the day off work so I thought I’d bring her along with me. Got a keen eye for a story too, so she might be of use!’

Neither of these things are exactly true. Dominic is a journalist; it’s easy to twist the truth, blur the lines. He’s good at it.

‘Thanks for coming down,’ Warren is saying, his voice loud and fast. ‘We really appreciate the coverage.’ Spittle connects the fleshy pouches of his lips, hangs horribly before separating itself into two sticky drops. He is moving as fast as he speaks, leading us both towards the house, raising a hand to builders as they walk past. The closer we get to the building, the worse I feel. It looms over us, white in the winter sun. There is something strange about it, something sad. It looks ruined. Forgotten.

‘So, Dominic, Dom, can I call you Dom?’ Warren continues without bothering to wait for an answer. ‘Dom, the thing is, this building is going to be a beauty by the time we’re finished with it. Yeah, it needs a bit of TLC, but that’s what we’re here for.’ He looks at me suddenly and winks. I recoil. He reminds me of Dom’s colleague Andy, the one who spent the entire Christmas party staring down my blouse, his eyes finding the gaps between the buttons on my chest. The memory makes me shudder. That man has never liked me since.

‘Shall we start off with a few questions, I’ll tell you what you need to know? Then you can take a few snaps, I know what you paparazzi are like!’ Warren laughs. I want to catch Dominic’s eye, share the horror of Warren together, but he’s scribbling in his notebook, little squiggles of grey against the white page.

We sit down at the chairs, I feel the wetness of the cold plastic seep through my jeans. The sun hits my eyes and I close them momentarily; they feel dry, the tear ducts emptied. Dom made me come with him today, told me I needed to get out of the flat. He said a week is long enough. He’s right, I know he is. I just can’t bear the fact that we’ve failed again, that another round of IVF has led to nothing. I feel empty.

‘Our readers love a good backstory,’ Dominic continues, and I find a glimmer of peace in the familiar rise and fall of his voice. ‘Especially with a building as beautiful as this.’

‘Well, let’s see,’ Warren says. ‘Carlington House – this is what’s left of it – was originally built back in 1792. It was designed by a guy named Robert Parler—’

Something shifts slightly in my brain, a bell of recognition.

‘I know Robert Parler,’ I say. ‘Well, not know him, of course. I mean I know of him; my dad told me.’

Dom smiles at me, his eyes flashing over the notepad.

‘Corinne’s dad was an architect too,’ he tells Warren, and I feel that familiar sucker-punch at the use of the past tense. It’s coming up to a year since Dad died. I miss him every single day. I miss him more than anyone thinks. I’m grateful to Dom for not saying Dad’s name – Warren will no doubt have heard of him and I don’t want to have to hear him start to suck up to me. People do that when they realise who my father was – one of the most well-known architects in London, famous in the industry and beyond. But it hurts to talk about him, and I feel fragile today, as though I’m made of glass that might shatter at any second.

‘Got yourself a smart little lady here, Dom!’ Warren grins. His teeth are too big for his mouth; I spy a piece of greenery stuck in his gums. ‘So, Parler does a grand job with Carlington and it passes through the hands of local landowners, the few that were wealthy enough. But then the Blitz rolls around, and we suffer some pretty major damage. Family living in it at the time, the littlest of their kiddies is found under the rubble nearly three months later. Three months, can you believe. Tragedy.’

Warren shakes his head, presses on gleefully. I picture tiny bones, birdlike under the aftermath of a bomb.

‘So, the thing is, the place never had the chance to shine until years later, must’ve been around twenty years ago.’ He pauses, stares for a moment at the house before us. I follow his gaze; there is a sudden movement, a shower of white dust spills from the collapsing roof. A trio of rooks fly out from the left-hand corner, shooting into the light, their spidery legs trailing behind them like stray threads in the ashy grey sky. One of them calls out, fleetingly, a short sharp cry that echoes in my chest.

‘Anyway, eventually someone spotted its potential. Employed a whole new round of builders, started work again. By that time, it was owned by the de Bonnier family, you know, they were a big deal in the jewellery business? Very wealthy back then.’ Warren sucks his teeth and raises his eyebrows at me.

Dominic, in the midst of writing, pauses and looks up. ‘You’ve not been at this twenty years though, surely?’