The Secret Book of Flora Lea: a Novel, page 11
Bridie and Harry gazed at Flora with smiles. Hazel noticed the look, and something mean inside her made her want to holler that she, Hazel Mersey Linden, was the one who created all their stories, and they were meant for just Flora.
Bridie didn’t need to know everything about everything.
But Hazel also knew that stories didn’t belong to anyone. They were everywhere. She should be happy they’d found themselves in a place where a mum told such tales. And yet Hazel resisted feeling happy; it wasn’t fair to Mum, who was without a doubt sitting at home worrying.
Just the thought of Mum brought a flash of tears to her eyes, unnoticed by Bridie and Harry, who were devoting all their attention to Flora. And why wouldn’t they? She was the cute one, the one with the singsong voice and the blond curls and button nose. Flora was the one worth loving. Flora was the one, Hazel knew, they all adored.
CHAPTER 16
September 1939
That first night in Binsey, the sisters curled up tightly in bed together. Flora whispered to Hazel, “Bridie’s nice.”
“Yes, she is,” Hazel answered. “And we must be just as lovely, like Mum said. This will all be over soon enough. England will win the war, and we’ll go home. We must be patient.”
Flora lay still and quiet, as if she’d just heard the first Hazel-story she didn’t altogether believe.
“Take me to Whisperwood,” Flora said, her tone demanding.
“Okay.” Hazel paused dramatically, taking a big breath before starting. “I see a shimmering door right there.” Hazel waved her hand through the air, and they snuggled closer as she found the words awaiting her.
“Not that long ago and not so far away, in a land that is right here,” Hazel whispered into the dark, “there was a place where anything could happen, where we might become anything we wish, where a river of stars runs through its woodlands. Keep your eyes open for hidden doorways! They’re everywhere, but visible only to those who are worthy. And we are worthy.”
“Yes,” Flora said, her voice soaked with sleepiness.
“The forest is thick with the sweet smell of pine and something like…”
“Candy,” Flora interjected.
Hazel said, “Yes, like melting caramel.”
“What are we?” Flora asked, snuggling closer, her eyes shut tight.
“Hold on. It’s coming. I feel it in the wind blowing through the trees. Follow me down the crooked path to the river. Keep up now, Flora.”
“I’m coming!”
“I think I have a paw… do you?”
“Oh, yes, it’s big,” Flora exclaimed. “What kind is it?”
“I think we are—”
“Lions! We are lions!” Flora cried out.
“Headed to the river to drink stars,” Hazel said. “Stars make lions stronger.”
Hazel’s voice took them through the forest, past a talking hawk, over a bridge made of glass, under a canopy of trees that sang songs, and to the river with an owl flying behind them keeping watch. And off, far off, the tiptop of a castle rose above; it was a wonderful place they might someday reach if they never gave up.
Flora was asleep before they reached the castle and Hazel stopped the story, thinking she too was just about to fall asleep, her eyelids heavy and thick. But then she didn’t. Instead, she thought of Mum and their empty bedrooms at home.
She slipped out of the bed and flicked on the small bedside lamp. On the dresser rested the postcard they would send Mum tomorrow. With the pencil from her knapsack, she sat on the edge of the bed to write with the postcard balanced on her knees.
She imagined her mum checking the postbox every hour looking for the note. What would she want to hear?
Dear Mum,
We are in a cozy cottage in Binsey with the Aberdeen family—a mum named Bridgette and boy named Harry, who chose us to come live with them. Please come visit. We are safe. We already miss you so much. Your loving daughters, Hazel and Flora.
She set the postcard on the dresser and crawled into bed next to her sister, wondering what kind of story they’d found themselves in the middle of—wondrous or horrifying, she couldn’t yet know.
* * *
Hazel dreamed of a postcard flying over London, then fluttering to the ground before it reached its destination, washing away down the gutter, rushing, rushing toward the sewers below Bloomsbury.
She woke to rain pattering on the rooftop and tinkling against the windowpanes. The dream wasn’t a premonition—she hoped—it was just the outside world entering the dream world. Hazel shook off a feeling of dread and rose quickly, enticed by the aroma of something rich and tasty.
Hazel had placed her hand on the brass doorknob when she realized a piece of paper had been slipped under the door. She picked it up.
In the soft morning light, Hazel looked at a pencil drawing of Berry. It was remarkably realistic, like a blurry photo, the stuffed animal’s fur thick and even worn thin on his paws where Flora held and rubbed him against her cheek. Berry sat up, his head flopped slightly to the left, face and fur soft in the pencil marks.
This drawing was obviously for Flora, and it was sweet. The kindness erased Hazel’s disturbing dream. She placed the paper on the wooden bedside table before heading to the kitchen, where Bridie was making porridge and sausage.
“Good morning,” Hazel said, unsure of her own voice in this quiet place.
Bridie turned. “Good morning, sweet pea.”
Hazel had never been called sweet pea before. She kind of liked it.
“You ready for some breakfast and tea?”
“I am. Flora is still sleeping. Should I wake her?”
“Let her be. This has all been quite the shock. Now have a seat, my dear.”
Hazel sat, crossing her legs at the ankles like the queen for she so wanted Bridie to know she had chosen well, that she had taken in polite and good girls. Bridie set the porridge in a creamware bowl, and a plate of mashed sausage smelled so divine that Hazel wanted to dive for it without asking.
The porridge was thick and lumpy, just the way Hazel liked it; a lake of cream floated on top, and Hazel dipped her spoon to watch the cream river through the porridge. She took her first bite. Though she’d never say such a thing out loud, it was so much better than Mum’s. What an awful thing to think.
“You like it?” Bridie said.
“Oh, yes, very much! The cream—”
“—is from our cow.”
“It’s not from the market?” It took Hazel a minute to think through this, never having given too much thought to where things came from, only that Mum bought milk in the market and that rationing had kept so much from them.
Bridie sat beside Hazel. “Yes, at first light Harry goes to milk our cow. We’re lucky. Not everyone can get such things right now.”
“I wish you had a cow that made sugar. It’s been so long.”
Bridie laughed softly. “You, my dear, are going to be just fine here in the Aberdeen home. Harry was right to choose you.”
Choose her.
Harry had chosen her.
Nothing could be done to suppress Hazel’s smile.
“And here he comes,” Bridie said, and pointed out the window. Harry appeared as a form of brown coat and red knit cap, jogging down the hill toward the house. In an instant, the rain stopped and the sun burst through a low flat cloud, ripping it apart like a piece of paper. Rays of light, filtered hazy in the mist, fell upon Harry as he paused at the field’s edge. He lifted his face to the warmth and smiled before running toward the front door.
What a place this was, Hazel thought. All the wide green space to run; the rippling of the sky that touched a horizon of trees unobscured by a cathedral or tall building. It was as if by taking a simple train ride the world had unfolded, presenting itself in long stretches of rolling hills and heather fields. Look, it said to Hazel, there is so much more than you ever knew. The feeling of little minnows swimming in her stomach—a thrill that this world would change her forever.
“Hathel!” A distressed cry rang out, and Hazel jumped from the table, tripping over Bridie’s foot in a rush to the bedroom, only steps away.
She hugged her sister close and told her they were safe and that there was a lovely breakfast waiting.
“I thought you left me!” said Flora.
“Never. I would never leave you.”
CHAPTER 17
March 1960
Hazel walked the towpath beside the River Thames toward Binsey and Bridie, the words she had uttered long ago still echoing down the winding river: “I would never leave you.”
She’d broken that promise.
The spring grass grew so green it looked painted with emerald hues, and shadows sketched lacy patterns on the ground. At the river’s edge, alder and aspen rose high, green buds on their branches. Wildflowers were bursting, white as snow, raspberry red, and blue as sky.
She’d come to see Bridie for the first time in twenty years, and now she wished that Barnaby or Kelty had accompanied her. Early that morning she’d made the impulsive decision to come; Bridie was the first person on her list.
Hazel had grabbed her rain slicker and wellies and had taken the train on the Piccadilly line toward Oxford. A cabbie who smelled of cabbage had dropped her off at the edge of Port Meadow. Hazel had walked slowly into Binsey, taking it all in as she went over the bridge and into the hamlet.
Hazel stopped at the edge of the dirt path, touched the soft part of a purple thistle while avoiding the prickles at its edge: Bridie’s favorites. A jackrabbit with one ear shorter than the other bounded from the grasses, paused to stare, and was off again. Hazel smiled sadly thinking of all the times Flora had wanted to be a rabbit and all the times she’d said no. Why? She had no idea.
Wandering down the path she thought maybe she should have brought flowers or a cake, or at least phoned before showing up on the doorstep. After twenty years, a bit of decorum might be called for.
Midmorning bloomed so warm that Hazel slipped off her rain jacket and tossed it over her arm as she passed the pub, The Perch. Mr. Nolan stood on the front stoop just as his father had done before him. He wore that amiable smile and energetic wave, still had that dark wavy hair and the denim button-down shirt. He didn’t recognize Hazel, and for that she was grateful. The hamlet was accustomed to walkers from Oxford, to those making a pilgrimage to the church and sacred well.
This morning she and Barnaby had gone about their morning routine of The Times, two soft boiled eggs, and tea with toast. Neither said a word about Whisperwood or the illustrations until he finally asked, “Have you decided what to do about the… parcel? I worry, my love.”
“Yesterday afternoon I tried to return them and now I own them.”
He’d sat back in his chair with one raised eyebrow. “Own them?”
After she’d finished explaining all that had happened, he’d shaken his head. “Wow. That’s a lucky break.”
“Lucky break? Barnaby, they’re worth a fortune. I have no idea how I’ll ever pay Edwin back. But I intend to find a way.”
He’d smiled. “Well, since I ruined two of them I’ll help…”
“No,” she’d interrupted.
“Well, all I know is this: Paris is in”—he counted fingers, exaggerating the movement—“ten days.” Then he’d kissed her before asking, “What are your plans today? A free woman without a job? Coffee shop with Kelty? Shopping on Carnaby? Packing for Paris?”
She hadn’t answered, as Binsey was foremost in her thoughts. Barnaby had kissed her goodbye and grabbed his coat from the peg by the front door.
Now, Hazel stopped at the end of Bridie’s cottage’s drive. Tire marks were worn into the dirt like tattoos, rainwater filling the divots and reflecting the high sun. A few steps ahead the cottage stood, as if waiting in a timeless pause.
Hazel hung back for a moment, looking at this place that had sheltered her for a year. The stones many shades of gray—dove, cloud, and nearly white—layered upon each other, solid and worn. The bright blue front door now had a brass knocker. The garden bloomed with emerald leaves and grass, the white narcissi stared with their yellow eyes.
A woman opened the door, holding her palm over her brow to block the afternoon sun. The tilt of her head was familiar.
Bridie.
Her hair was silver, pulled back into a knot that was coming loose. A breeze lifted her flowered dress by the hem, swirling the fabric around her. “You’re here!” she called out. “Halllooo.”
Did Bridie know it was her?
“Hazel!” Bridie broke into a run. “Is that you? My God, is it you?”
“It is,” Hazel called out. Her heart leapt as the woman ran toward her, and yet she stood still; expectant and yet also timid. The last time she’d stood where she now was, she’d called out, loud and clear—I never, ever want to see you again.
Then Bridie’s arms were around her, along with the aroma of rosemary, and she heard the sound of her name in that soothing voice.
“Hazel.”
Hazel wrapped her arms around Bridie, holding her close.
“Bridie,” Hazel said quietly, feeling the comfort and love she’d not felt for twenty years now.
Bridie let go, placed her hands on Hazel’s shoulders, and met her gaze with a mother’s tenderness.
“Now let me look at you. Just as beautiful and full of light as I remember. You are finally here. I have waited.”
“Waited?”
“I knew one day you’d come. I knew that whether it was the fates or the furies, you would find your way to my door. Tell me why you’re here.” Bridie laughed, high and clear. “Oh, it doesn’t matter why. Not one bit. You are… finally here.” Her voice choked with emotion and her eyes were wet with tears. “Come in. Come in. There is so very much to catch up on, isn’t there?”
The cottage’s interior wrapped around Hazel like Bridie’s hug. Hazel glanced around to see the table where she’d done schoolwork with Harry; the plaid throw on the couch; the logs piled in a crisscross pattern in the brick fireplace. The scent of wood smoke, strong tea, and rosemary hung in the air. The wooden doorframes were honey-hued in the sunlight streaming through diamond-shaped windows. There was nothing here to accuse Hazel.
“Oh.” Hazel exhaled as the door shut behind her.
They entered the kitchen and Hazel glanced around; the door to her and Flora’s little end room off the kitchen was shut. She walked toward it, touched the egg-shaped brass knob, and then turned to Bridie, the tears she’d tamped down threatening now.
“You can go in,” Bridie said softly. “If you’d like. I sew in there now, and there’s a desk, but I can feel both of you when I enter; I can feel your bright lights and beautiful energy. I can feel you both.”
Hazel turned away from the room. “Not yet,” she said.
Then, as if feeling Hazel’s unspoken question lingering below the years: “It had to be you who came to me, Hazel. I could not come find you even if I’d wanted to.”
“Why?” Hazel asked.
“I tried once, years ago, and your sweet mum made it clear that you needed to heal, that you didn’t need to revisit that time over and over. I understood even as it broke my heart. But I have waited.”
To be waited for, what a wonder, Hazel thought, to have someone expectantly bide their time for her was absolutely glorious.
Hazel noticed a man’s tweed jacket was flung over a kitchen chair and a pair of large and very muddy boots stood to the right of the back door. Bridie smiled when she saw Hazel looking. “Yes, I married.”
“Oh, Bridie! Did your… did your ex show up?”
Bridie shook her head. “No,” she said.
“Who is it? Your husband? Do I know him?”
Bridie smiled shyly and gave an almost imperceptible nod. “It’s Johnny Nolan.”
“Mr. Nolan?” Hazel asked. “I saw him on my way here! I would have sat here through a thousand guesses before that one.”
“The town’s church outcast marries the pub owner,” she said with a grin.
“Well, I think it’s lovely,” Hazel said.
“But that’s not why you came here today. What at long last brings you back to me?”
“I am sorry.” Hazel said it before she knew what was falling out of her mouth. Maybe she should have spent the walk here deciding what to say.
Bridie looked over her shoulder from where she stood filling the kettle at the kitchen sink. “Whatever for, darling?”
“Everything. I ruined everything. Your life. Harry’s. Everyone. My mum’s.”
Bridie set the kettle on the burner and twisted the flame on high. She turned and set her palms on the counter behind her, tilted her head in that little-bird way, and shook her head slightly. “Whatever do you mean? I don’t understand.”
“When it happened.” Hazel slumped into a kitchen chair. “When Flora disappeared, I heard they blamed you. I read the papers. I know. Harry, too.”
“That is what police do.” Bridie came to Hazel and sat next to her.
“I wasn’t brave enough to tell them the truth. But I am here to tell it to you now.”
“You came here to tell me something?” Bridie asked.
“I did.”
“We’ll talk over tea.” Bridie set out teacups, sugar cubes, and cream. After the kettle sang, she poured the tea. She didn’t say another word, just gazed at Hazel with that look that had melted her heart and fear on the first day they’d arrived here from Bloomsbury.
“Bridie, did you know about the stories I told Flora?”
“The ones you read to her?” Bridie looked up as if the memory rested on the ceiling. “How that little girl loved Winnie-the-Pooh—Tigger the most. And Peter Pan.”
“No. Not those stories. The one I made up.”
“You made up a story? How grand!”
Hazel felt a flood of relief because if Bridie hadn’t known about Whisperwood, then maybe Flora was the one who told the story; maybe Flora was alive and the one carrying on the tale. Hazel told Bridie all about it, how she’d made up the land for Flora.
