Free The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox by Maggie O'Farrell Page B
Authors: Maggie O'Farrell
days to see how she's getting along, as Iris folds the blue check dress and wraps the single shoe, the handkerchief and the watch into it.
As she steps out into the sunshine with Esme, she turns to her. Esme is drawing the back of her hand across her cheek. It is a weary, resigned movement. She isn't looking at the sun or the trees or the driveway ahead of them. The tortoiseshell comb is gripped in her hand. At the bottom of the steps, she turns to Iris, her face full of confusion. 'They said it would be there. They promised they would put it in there for me.'
'I'm sorry,' Iris says, because she doesn't know what else to say.
'I wanted it,' she says. 'I just wanted it. And they promised.'
Esme leans forward to touch the dashboard. It is hot with the sun and vibrates slightly. The car goes over the humps in the driveway and she is thrown up then down in her seat.
She twists round suddenly. Cauldstone is being pulled away from her, as if reeled in on a string. The yellow walls look dirty and smudged from this distance and the windows reflect nothing but sky. Tiny figures toil back and forth in its shadow.
Esme turns back. She looks at the woman driving the car. She has hair cropped in at the neck, a silver ring on her thumb, a short skirt and red shoes that tie round her ankles. She is frowning and biting the inside of her cheek.
'You are Iris,' Esme says. She knows but she has to be sure. This person looks so oddly like Esme's mother, after all.
The woman glances at her and her expression is – what? Angry? No. Worried, maybe. Esme wonders what she is worried about. She thinks about asking her, but doesn't.
'Yes,' the woman says. 'That's right.'
Iris, Iris. Esme says the word to herself, forming the shapes inside her mouth. It's a gentle word, secret almost, she hardly needs to move her tongue at all. She thinks of blue-purple petals, the muscular ring of an eye.
The woman is speaking again. 'I'm Kitty's granddaughter. I came to see you the other—'
'Yes, yes, I know.'
Esme shuts her eyes, taps out three sets of three on her left hand, scans her mind for something to save her, but finds nothing. She opens her eyes again to light, to a lake, to the ducks and swans, right up close, so close that she feels if she leant out of the car she might be able to run her hand over their sleek wings, skim the surface of the cool lake water.
'Have you been out at all?' the woman is asking. 'I mean, since you went into—'
'No,' Esme says. She turns over the comb in her hand. You can see, from the back of it, the way the stones are glued into small holes in the tortoiseshell. She'd forgotten that.
'Never? In all that time?'
Esme turns it back, the right way up. 'There was no pass allocation for my ward,' she says. 'Where are we going?'
The woman shifts in her seat. Iris. Fiddles with a mirror suspended from the roof of the car. Her fingernails, Esme sees, are painted the emerald green of a beetle's wingcase.
'I'm taking you to a residential hostel. You won't be there for long. Just until they've found a place for you at a care home.'
'I'm leaving Cauldstone.'
'Yes.'
Esme knows this. She has known this for a while. But she didn't think it would happen. 'What is a residential hostel?'
'It's like ... It's a place to sleep. To ... to live. There'll be lots of other women there.'
'Is it like Cauldstone?'
'No, no. Not at all.'
Esme sits back, rearranges her bag on her lap, looks out of the window at a tree with leaves so red it is as if they are on fire. She has a quick shuffle through things in her head. The garden, Kitty, the boat, the minister, their grandmother, that handkerchief. Their grandmother, she decides, and the department store.
Their grandmother had said she would take them into town. The preparation for this expedition takes up most of the morning. Esme is ready after breakfast but it seems her grandmother has letters she must write, then she needs to consult with the maid about tea, then the threat
As she steps out into the sunshine with Esme, she turns to her. Esme is drawing the back of her hand across her cheek. It is a weary, resigned movement. She isn't looking at the sun or the trees or the driveway ahead of them. The tortoiseshell comb is gripped in her hand. At the bottom of the steps, she turns to Iris, her face full of confusion. 'They said it would be there. They promised they would put it in there for me.'
'I'm sorry,' Iris says, because she doesn't know what else to say.
'I wanted it,' she says. 'I just wanted it. And they promised.'
Esme leans forward to touch the dashboard. It is hot with the sun and vibrates slightly. The car goes over the humps in the driveway and she is thrown up then down in her seat.
She twists round suddenly. Cauldstone is being pulled away from her, as if reeled in on a string. The yellow walls look dirty and smudged from this distance and the windows reflect nothing but sky. Tiny figures toil back and forth in its shadow.
Esme turns back. She looks at the woman driving the car. She has hair cropped in at the neck, a silver ring on her thumb, a short skirt and red shoes that tie round her ankles. She is frowning and biting the inside of her cheek.
'You are Iris,' Esme says. She knows but she has to be sure. This person looks so oddly like Esme's mother, after all.
The woman glances at her and her expression is – what? Angry? No. Worried, maybe. Esme wonders what she is worried about. She thinks about asking her, but doesn't.
'Yes,' the woman says. 'That's right.'
Iris, Iris. Esme says the word to herself, forming the shapes inside her mouth. It's a gentle word, secret almost, she hardly needs to move her tongue at all. She thinks of blue-purple petals, the muscular ring of an eye.
The woman is speaking again. 'I'm Kitty's granddaughter. I came to see you the other—'
'Yes, yes, I know.'
Esme shuts her eyes, taps out three sets of three on her left hand, scans her mind for something to save her, but finds nothing. She opens her eyes again to light, to a lake, to the ducks and swans, right up close, so close that she feels if she leant out of the car she might be able to run her hand over their sleek wings, skim the surface of the cool lake water.
'Have you been out at all?' the woman is asking. 'I mean, since you went into—'
'No,' Esme says. She turns over the comb in her hand. You can see, from the back of it, the way the stones are glued into small holes in the tortoiseshell. She'd forgotten that.
'Never? In all that time?'
Esme turns it back, the right way up. 'There was no pass allocation for my ward,' she says. 'Where are we going?'
The woman shifts in her seat. Iris. Fiddles with a mirror suspended from the roof of the car. Her fingernails, Esme sees, are painted the emerald green of a beetle's wingcase.
'I'm taking you to a residential hostel. You won't be there for long. Just until they've found a place for you at a care home.'
'I'm leaving Cauldstone.'
'Yes.'
Esme knows this. She has known this for a while. But she didn't think it would happen. 'What is a residential hostel?'
'It's like ... It's a place to sleep. To ... to live. There'll be lots of other women there.'
'Is it like Cauldstone?'
'No, no. Not at all.'
Esme sits back, rearranges her bag on her lap, looks out of the window at a tree with leaves so red it is as if they are on fire. She has a quick shuffle through things in her head. The garden, Kitty, the boat, the minister, their grandmother, that handkerchief. Their grandmother, she decides, and the department store.
Their grandmother had said she would take them into town. The preparation for this expedition takes up most of the morning. Esme is ready after breakfast but it seems her grandmother has letters she must write, then she needs to consult with the maid about tea, then the threat