The Pearl in the Attic Read online

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  Karen McCombie

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  For Kate and Penny, who can see

  Ally Pally from their own attic…

  Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Family #fail

  Down the Rabbit Hole

  Keep Calm and Panic

  Knock, Knock, Who’s There?

  Nana’s Secret World…

  The Pearl in the Attic: Chapter 1

  Two (Surprises) for the Price of One

  The Pearl in the Attic: Chapter 2

  Not Pleased to Meet You

  The Pearl in the Attic: Chapter 3

  How to Know It All – Or Not Quite

  The Pearl in the Attic: Chapter 4

  The Snow Globe of Life

  The Pearl in the Attic: Chapter 5

  The Lost and the Found

  The Pearl in the Attic: Chapter 6

  The Same, With a Twist of Different

  The Pearl in the Attic: Chapter 7

  The Story Behind the Story…

  The Wait-and-See Game

  Family #notsofail

  Epilogue

  Also by Karen McCombie

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Hornsey, North London, 1947

  Tom slammed the door of the attic, ran over to the iron bedstead and punched his pillow till feathers puffed clean out of it.

  His mother would be cross about the burst pillow, of course, but it was better than taking his rage out where it was due.

  Oh, yes; his little brothers had done it again.

  Destroyed something precious.

  Last month one of them had broken a wing off his prized RAF bomber plane, and neither of them had owned up to it. On Tuesday, he’d found them posting his brand-new Subbuteo football players down the big cracks between the floorboards in the stockroom at the back of the shop.

  But today … today they had damaged something old Auntie Gertrude had trusted Tom with.

  He was so angry with himself; when he took the folded package of papers home from her house, tied so neatly with red ribbon, Tom knew he should’ve come straight up to the flat and read the story here in the quiet and calm at the top of the house.

  Instead, he’d gone along the alleyway at the side of the shop, and into the yard. His father would be busy in the bakery at the back there as usual, but Dad always liked to hear news of Grandad Will and Granny Mary, and old Auntie Gertrude too, after Tom had taken them round a fresh loaf and a bag of scones for their afternoon tea.

  But the twins were in the yard, roaring and jumping in puddles, not caring if they risked Mum coming out of the back door of the shop and telling them off for ruining their shoes and muddying their socks.

  Maybe it was the fact that they were already so grubby that they were more aware of the yellowed but tidy folds of paper in their big brother’s hand.

  Before he knew it, Tom was ambushed, one twin crashing into him and pinning his arms, the other grabbing the story right out of his hands.

  “Whee!” the twins had yelled, running around like imps, throwing the ribbon-wrapped package from one to the other, till the scarlet bow unravelled and the pages fluttered like dying butterflies into the muddy puddles of the bare yard.

  When Tom began yelling – swearing at them, even – the boys started up with their usual sobs, realizing, too late as always, that they’d behaved badly.

  “Tom! Language!” Mum had said, appearing at the back door, having heard the commotion from the shop.

  “They’re only little, Tom,” said his dad, coming to the doorway of the bakery and wiping his hands on a towel. “What was so important about a few bits of paper anyway, lad?”

  Tom didn’t stop to explain.

  He ran back out into the alleyway, around the plate-glass window of the shop, and in through the front door that would lead him to the flat above.

  Now – with a few white feathers twirling gently, like delicate parachutes, on to the bedside rug – Tom’s anger began to ebb, and remorse took over.

  He walked over to the little window in the sloped ceiling and pushed it open.

  And there was his favourite view … past the roofs and chimney pots of the buildings opposite, Alexandra Palace hunkered grandly on its hill, surveying all of Hornsey down below.

  “How am I going to tell her?” he muttered to himself as he watched the dark dots of faraway birds dance and swoop about the glass domes and towers of the palace.

  Tom winced as he remembered the hopeful expression on Auntie Gertrude’s face as she took the package out of a drawer and handed it to him. A sweet scent of lavender had drifted out with it.

  “Here’s a little bit of … well, almost family history, Tom,” she said. “It’s a sad story, but I think you’re old enough to know it now. Come back tomorrow and we’ll have a talk about it, eh?”

  And tomorrow, he’d have to tell her he’d read nothing more than the first page – For Aunt Gertrude, with love and regret, Ruby, with a date of 28 August, 1928.

  Tom had peeked at that much of the story on the way home, but knowing how important it had seemed to Auntie Gertrude, he’d been determined to save the rest till he had peace to read it properly.

  “Ha!” Tom laughed to himself wryly.

  And then it came … an answering giggle.

  He hadn’t heard that for a while.

  Like an echo from another room, he’d sometimes hear them: girls laughing softly, or chatting, sometimes a shush.

  Tom had never been afraid.

  The voices had come to him, just now and then, since he was small. They were only ever here, in the attic.

  The faint trails of girlish sounds were a comfort when he was curled up in his bed, feeling ever so small and alone under the slanted ceiling, with only the sky and stars above it.

  Another giggle and another, so faint that they might be carried on the wind… Tom smiled, his shoulders relaxing.

  It was as if his attic companions were letting him know he was all right, they were all right, everything would be all right.

  Taking a deep breath in, Tom knew what to do. He’d run back downstairs and see if he could salvage any of the soggy pages of the story.

  And he’d ask Dad to bake the best cake that rationing would allow, to take to Auntie Gertrude tomorrow…

  Family #fail

  Chelmsford, Essex, 2017

  I feel like throwing my stupid homework out of the living room window.

  Wouldn’t that be great?

  Wheee!

  Bye-bye, so long, got better things to do.

  How delicious would it be to watch it soar through the air and end up three floors down in the car park of our block of flats? Even better if someone reversed their car over it!

  But I guess I’d better not throw my homework anywhere, since it’s online, and – more importantly – on Mum’s work laptop.

  CHUCK! *crunch*

  Still, how am I meant to actually DO this assignment?

  I stare again at the Show My Homework App on-screen…

  Scarlet Sita Jones: Class 8E

  Spanish: set by Miss Kendrick

  Write about your extended family: Who are they? What are they like? Where and when do you see them?

  OK, OK, I get it. Miss Kendrick expects a ton of Spanish vocabulary around the subjec
t: stuff about swimming with cousins on seaside holidays; visiting aunties and uncles who always “Ooh!” over how much you’ve grown; grandads who try to teach you how to do magic tricks or tell you corny jokes or ask if you’ve got yourself a boyfriend yet. All the usual, normal whatevers.

  The thing is, I can’t come up with all the usual, normal whatevers.

  Being the only child of an only child pretty much limits the whole extended family thing, especially if you have a gran you barely see and an invisible grandad on the other side of the world. As for my so-called father – don’t even go there.

  So yep, there’s just Mum and me, me and Mum.

  And even we don’t have that much in common.

  How do you say “My family sucks at being a family” in Spanish?

  Hurray for Google Translate…

  I quickly type in the sentence and get Mi familia apesta a ser una familia in return.

  Copy.

  Paste.

  Press DONE.

  Sorry, Miss Kendrick. I know it probably doesn’t remotely mean what I want it to mean, but that’s the best I can do.

  So what now – watch something on Netflix? Or see if Bella or Aisha is around on Snapchat or Instagram? Yeah, one or the other, or both at the same time – after I get myself a snack. I’m starving, there’s a leftover slab of M&S chocolate-and-vanilla cheesecake in the fridge, and tea (a ready meal I heated up about five seconds after I got home from school) was forever ago.

  But uh-oh … can I bear to go into the kitchen right now? Mum’s friend Nicki is round. I can hear her through the wall. Her shrieky voice is just a high-pitched blur, but I can more or less guess what she’s saying to Mum, since everything is always a look-at-me boast: “Did I tell you about the new four-wheel drive we’re getting, Ren?”; “Hey, Ren, guess what – Bill’s whisking me off to Paris, without the kids!”; “No word of a lie, Ren, Conor’s teacher said he’s like some kind of maths genius.”

  How Mum puts up with it I’ll never know. Though she says my friends Bella and Aisha are as bad, even if their boasts are more about how many followers they have on Instagram or how many zillion Primark vouchers they got on their birthdays.

  Thinking of my friends gives me an idea; I grab the home phone from its dock and press it to my ear. The dead burr of no connection hums in my ear.

  “Yeah, sure, Bella … uh-huh…” I mumble into the mouthpiece as I head out of the living room, cross the box-sized hall and walk into the glare of the all-white, too-bright tiny kitchen. “Really? Wow…”

  Nicki, with her mane of expensively dyed blonde hair, has her back to me. Mum is sitting on the other side of the just-big-enough-for-two table, still wearing her smartest pale-grey suit, since Nicki turned up with a bottle of wine and her list of boasts before Mum had a chance to change. You know, it always amazes me how my mother can look as pristine and groomed at the end of the day as she does at the beginning; her dark brown bob is glass-smooth, her make-up photo-shoot perfect.

  And now she glances up at me with her kohl-edged cat eyes, giving me that certain laser look she’s so expert at. Its meaning is pretty interchangeable; sometimes she aims it my way when I’ve told her I’ve done all my homework (“Really, Scarlet?”), or sometimes it’s like a secret, silent “Don’t even think about it” (like when I asked for a two-week advance on my pocket money and Mum somehow knew it was for a crop top she wouldn’t approve of).

  It’s silly, but I can’t figure out the meaning of the stare straightaway, and for a second or two, I sort of feel as if the psychic message she’s beaming might be, “Help … rescue me from this bore-a-thon, Scarlet!”

  But nah; like I say, Mum and me aren’t matey mum-and-daughter types. You won’t find us wandering arm-in-arm round shopping centres together, or snuggled on the sofa with nachos and a box set of Gilmore Girls, and we certainly don’t end text conversations with Xxx.

  In fact, Mum’s probably just staring at me ’cause she’s guessed that I’m totally faking the phone conversation so I can get in and out of the kitchen – and fridge – without doing more than giving Nicki a quick, preoccupied wave.

  Well, it’s working just fine; Nicki is wiggling her perfectly manicured fingernails back at me, and blasts a not-actually-interested-in-you-anyway smile in my direction. The only time Nicki properly paid attention to me recently was when I dyed my hair lilac. When I say “paid attention”, of course I mean “burst out laughing”.

  “Mmm, that’s what I said,” I waffle off the top of my head as I open the fridge and grab the plate with the cheesecake. “Yeah? No way! I mean—”

  BRRR-BRRR! BRRR-BRRR!

  I nearly jump a metre in the air when the phone goes and RINGS on me, right when I’m mid-sentence in my pretend conversation. My whole face blushes a fiery pink in the glossy, reflective surface of the nearest kitchen cabinet door.

  Fumbling madly, I press the button to accept the call. At the same time, I turn to see Mum’s laser gaze on me, more narrowed and glowering than ever. Nicki hasn’t even noticed that I’ve been caught out in a lie; she’s too busy flicking through some eBay posts on her Samsung and is blathering on about bidding on something she probably doesn’t need.

  “Uh, hello?” I say to the real-life caller.

  “Hello,” a woman’s voice answers. “Could I speak to a Ms Renuka Chaudhary, please?”

  “Huh?”

  I know that isn’t a very mature, polite way to respond, but I’m kind of stunned.

  Sure, that version of her name is on Mum’s birth certificate, but to everyone, always, Mum is just Ren. Ren Jones; I can see it clearly now on the ID card on the lanyard Mum wears to work every day, the one that’s now been deposited on the kitchen table beside a bowl of peanuts Mum hastily put out for her visitor.

  “Scarlet?” Mum frowns impatiently at me, motioning me to get on with it and speak, or at least pass her the phone.

  “Have I got the right number?” the woman’s voice asks into the void of confusion.

  “Er, sure,” I mutter. “I’ll just get her for you…”

  I walk towards the little table and hand the phone over.

  “Hello? Er, yes … that’s me. What’s this about?” Mum answers in her crisp, boss-lady voice.

  As she listens to whatever is being said, her frown deepens and her eyes widen.

  “What! You have GOT to be joking!” Mum barks, getting up and tip-tapping out of the room in her patent black loafers. “What on earth… ?”

  “Oof!” laughs Nicki as Mum disappears off into the living room and closes the door behind her. “Sounds like someone at work has messed up!”

  “Mmm … maybe,” I mutter, feeling sorry for whoever is on the end of the line.

  Having Mum as a mum is intimidating enough. Having Mum as a boss must be as much fun as having a migraine every day. “You have GOT to be joking!” – along with the glower of doom – is one of her favourite tactics for making you feel as small and annoying as a nit.

  But according to the clock on the kitchen wall, it’s nearly half seven, so who’d still be at the office? And even if it was a work person, who would call my mum a name that’s well past its sell-by date?

  “Her team is all getting ready for that big conference next week, aren’t they?” Nicki says, distractedly going back to the eBay pages she’s been drooling over on her small screen.

  “Yeah,” I reply, thinking of the piles of work Mum’s been taking home every night lately.

  I don’t know what the conference is about, but that’s not saying much; I don’t even know what Mum’s job is exactly. We all had to talk about our parents’ work during a citizenship class in Year 7, and everyone’s eyes glazed over when I said she was a project manager for an online office innovation company. I swear even the teacher was yawning.

  “So, Scarlet, what are you up to at half-term?” Nicki asks, though I’m not sure she cares very much what the answer will be.

  I feel a little bubble of happiness at the thought of th
e holiday, though. One more day of school tomorrow and then nine glorious days of pyjama mornings and mooching with the girls in the afternoons. ’Cause of the conference, Mum will be stuck at work more than ever, so it’ll be like I’m living on my own. Now I’m thirteen, Mum’s finally given in and stopped signing me up for holiday clubs, and I plan on celebrating by living off a diet of cheesecake and Pringles and dancing around the flat to music that’s ridiculously loud. Maybe I’ll even leave dishes in the sink all day and drape clothes from the laundry basket all around the flat, just to see what it feels like to break my neat-freak mum’s no-mess rules. (Yes, of COURSE I’d have a mad binge of tidying ten minutes before she got home… )

  “I’m just going to take it easy,” I tell Nicki, though I can see she’s tuned out already – looks like she’s typing in a bid on a disgusting giant yellow leather handbag. “You know, robbing the Crown Jewels or inventing a cure for cancer, or maybe climbing up the fire escape to the roof and setting off a truckload of fireworks … that sort of thing.”

  “Uh-huh,” mumbles Nicki, uninterested and deaf to everything I’ve just said.

  OK, time for me and the cheesecake to leave.

  I’m still smiling at the idea of standing on the flat roof of our modern apartment block and waking up the whole of Chelmsford with an out-of-season fireworks display … but then my grin slips as Mum barges back into the kitchen.

  She has the strangest expression on her face

  I’ve literally never seen her look this way before.

  My very-together, always-organized, impressively immaculate mother seems suddenly lost, like … well, like some scared little kid.

  As a family, I know we’re an #epicfail; as a mum-and-daughter unit, we’re kind of lame. But she’s all I’ve got, and seeing Mum lose it makes me lose it.

  *SMASH* goes the plate, cheesecake splatterings and shards of china instantly coating the glaze-tiled floor.

  CRACK! goes an unknown something in the safe little world of us…

  Down the Rabbit Hole

  “Come on, come on!” Mum mutters.

  She’s not talking to me; she’s snarking impatiently at the thin air behind the glass where a helpful member of staff should be standing.