Ann Pilling - The Empty Frame

“Poor old Mags. You do mind him being here though, don’t you, Sam? Why?”

Sam sat back on his heels. “I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t think it would matter so much. I know Dad and Mum care about us just the same but it feels different now, that’s all. It’s how I feel. I can’t help it.”

Floss said, “But Sam, he cries in the night, he really sobs. It’s awful.”

“I know.”

“The fostering person told Mum and Dad he’d been beaten, and shut in cupboards, things like that. And when she was ill his mother made him do all the housework. He was only little, it went on for ages. How could she?”

“I’ve told you, because she was sick, in her mind. They don’t keep people in hospital for nothing. They must think Magnus is better off with us, for now.”

Silence fell in the shabby, familiar sitting room. Privately, both sister and brother had minded the coming of Magnus, an eleven-year-old boy to whom these terrible things had happened, but they’d promised their parents that they’d try to make him feel welcome. And they were trying. It was hard though, with somebody so unresponsive.

“He won’t be with us for ever,” Floss said firmly.

“No.” But Sam didn’t sound very convinced. His parents had big hearts. He suspected they would hold on to Magnus, if it was humanly possible.

“Well, this holiday might help,” Floss said, perking up. She had more or less decided not to audition for Lady Macbeth and at once she felt a lot more cheerful. “Tell me where we’re going, again.”

“Why don’t you look it up for yourself?” Sam said, putting his map inside a folder labelled ABBEY in neat, square printing.

“I’ve not had time, with the play and everything. Come on.”

“Well, I’ve told you, it’s on a river,” Sam said. “Mum’s cousin sent that booklet about it, you could have read it.” But actually he quite liked telling Floss things. She was cleverer than he was, though not in the same league as Magnus. “It started as a kind of religious house, for pilgrims travelling to shrines. They used to stay there on the way.”

“Sort of – mediaeval bed and breakfast?”

“Yes. But they said prayers for you.”

“Then what happened to it?”

“Well, according to the book some monks took over, Henry the Eighth chucked them out in the end. He seems to have got quite fond of the place himself. He could sail down to it from London, on the river. Queen Elizabeth slept there too.”

Floss snorted. “Come off it. Surely you don’t believe that. ”

“Why not? She slept everywhere.”

“Well, that’s what I mean. So how did Mum’s relation come to own it?”

“I’m not sure she does own it, not the whole place. There’s a man called Stickley. He’s related to her and he’s the one that seems to run it. I think it was left to them both in a will.”

“ Stickley… ” Floss mused. “It sounds horrible. So why did they turn it into a sports centre? It must have been gorgeous once, from that picture Mum showed us.”

“They needed money to keep it going, I suppose. At least they still live in it. Anyhow, we’ll have the run of the whole place, with luck. There’s a swimming pool, and tennis courts, and all those keep-fit machines.”

“Ugh,” said Floss.

“It might get your weight down,” Sam said slyly. “I don’t suppose Lady Macbeth went to Weight Watchers. All that wringing of hands – she was probably anorexic.”

Floss picked up the Shakespeare. This time she really would throw it at him. But then she put it down again hurriedly. Someone had crept into the room, switched on the television and was sitting in front of it, perched very neatly on a bean bag.

“Hi, Mags,” she said to the small humped figure. “Are you all packed up? The taxi’ll be here soon.”

“Yes.”

“Put in your swimming things?” Sam said. “There’s a pool and there won’t be anyone else there, with luck.”

Magnus didn’t reply but stared at the television screen on which some politicians were arguing about the dumping of nuclear waste. He was odd. He often watched the most boring programmes but if you looked closely you could see that he wasn’t watching at all but staring beyond the screen, thinking his own private thoughts.

“Come and talk to us, Mags,” Floss said gently, switching off the TV and joining him on the bean bag. As she squished down, some white pellets seeped out of a hole. Magnus picked them up and put them carefully on the mantelpiece. “It needs mending,” he said, “or it’ll get worse. I could sew it up, while your mother’s away.”

“Yes, but listen, you don’t have to. She doesn’t expect you to do things like that.”

Magnus liked doing little chores but their mother tried to discourage him. His own mother had made him do the housework. Theirs wanted him to have some childhood, before it was too late.

He was nearly twelve now, two years younger than Floss and three years younger than Sam. He was short too, like them, but very thin and bony. Now and again Floss tried giving him little hugs but he didn’t seem to like them, and besides, it was like putting your arms round the frail and delicate skeleton of a tiny bird. You felt he might crack. He had fine pale hair, an ashy gold, and deep brown eyes.

“Lovely colouring,” Mum said, the night he arrived. “He’ll break a few hearts, he’s going to be absolutely gorgeous.” And Floss, fighting with unexpected jealousy, had said “Yes”. (Nobody had ever said she was gorgeous.) But Magnus had turned away his face.

The journey to the Abbey took much longer than they had expected because they had to go on three separate trains, zig-zagging down the country. They were on their own, with Sam in charge, and they had their instructions. If anything went wrong, or they got separated, they had to phone Cousin M at the Abbey, or the airport hotel where their parents were staying. They flew out next morning to a flat in Majorca which Cousin M was lending them for a holiday. Magnus could have gone with them, he was very attached to Mum. But he’d decided to go off with Sam and Floss instead, which had pleased everybody because the main purpose of Mum and Dad’s going away had been to leave the three children to get to know each other.

It was nearly dark when a taxi drove them into the Abbey grounds. Magnus had fallen asleep and the others were trying hard not to. They were keen to see everything but it had been a very long day and they were even more keen to drop into a comfortable bed. As the taxi crunched up a long gravelled drive towards a dark hump of buildings, an owl hooted and bats swooped down towards the windscreen, then away. Sam felt excited. “It’s like a film set,” he said, “it’s brilliant!”

“Mm,” Floss muttered. She wasn’t sure. It seemed a bit spooky to her. And why had Mum’s cousin sent a taxi for them, instead of coming herself? That didn’t feel very friendly. But then she too felt a little tug of excitement. She could smell water, a lovely river smell.

The taxi stopped in front of a great arched doorway, flood-lit, with tubs of flowers on the steps. They glimpsed low buildings of pinky-yellow stone stretching away on both sides, ending in the black humps of trees pricked out by a few lights that seemed quite far away, perhaps across the invisible water.

While the driver pulled out the bags they clambered out and shook themselves straight. Magnus was still half asleep and swayed slightly as they stood waiting in the strong light while someone, dashing out, paid the taxi man and waved him goodbye. Floss half put her arm round him but she felt him shrink away. “Sorry…” she muttered. She really must remember that he didn’t like to be touched.