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  Laetitia felt her throat tighten; all trace of her had been erased from the room she had occupied since the age of eleven, since Daddy had left and Wellwood was sold. The panelled door that had connected her room to her mother’s was gone, replaced by a modern flat-planed effort. For years, after the nightmares stopped, the old pitch pine door had been concealed on her side by a bookcase, and on her mother’s by a wardrobe. Now the new sleek version stood slightly ajar, offering a glimpse of her mother’s bedroom, completely redecorated too by the looks of things. Ah, the master bedroom with en suite. Of course.

  Laetitia moved slowly across the bathroom floor, feeling scruffy, her trainers squeaking on the dark grey tiles. She looked in the mirror. Her red jumper seemed to have expanded, to have indistinct edges, which bled into the metallic tones around her. Her brown eyes, her dark hair even, were splashes of colour. Though she could hardly imagine much splashing in here. Not even of water.

  Lizzie Borden. Didn’t she stand naked in a small basin to wash away the blood of her butchered parents? Set aside the bloody axe and step into the clean water? Didn’t she rinse off every drop without spilling any over the side, without leaving the minutest spatter on her body as forensic evidence? Did that happen? Or had she just made it up? Lizzie Borden took an axe, gave her mother forty whacks …

  There was no bath. There would be no long sudsy soaks, water slopping onto the floor as you adjusted your position for reading. She slid open the glass shower door and looked inside. So clean and modern it was clinical. You couldn’t wash away your sins in here; a place like this admitted no sin. No colour, no mess, no sin. The door glided shut again at the merest touch.

  What do you think, darling? Do you like it?

  How long had her mother been standing at the door watching her?

  No. I don’t.

  But it’s so contemporary, don’t you agree? I thought you’d love it. She stepped into the room, crystal glass held in front of her, whisky glowing like a lamp, scattering pieces of amber light around the mirrored surfaces, little flecks of it dancing on her face. The smell of alcohol challenged the asepsis. It was René Bouchard who did it, you know. The designer? Famous for his cutting-edge ideas?

  Never heard of him.

  Oh, darling, you must have. He did the Phillipses’ bathroom too. Her mother glanced around for somewhere to set her glass, thought better of it, took another sip instead. I think he’s done a much finer job here.

  This was my room.

  But, darling, have you seen your new room yet? Her mother made her way to the door. She must have taken her slippers off downstairs because she tiptoed barefoot now on the ribbed tiles. It was slate, wasn’t it; it would be cold on her feet. Her beige cardigan was over her shoulders and Laetitia thought her retreating back looked hunched. Defeated. In spite of her new light hair, its gloss and upswing. She was downbeat.

  I know where it is, Mother. I don’t need a guided tour. Her mother cast her a hurt, quivering glance from the doorway, took a slug of whisky and walked to the stairs. Laetitia followed her out and watched from the landing as she shifted her glass into her left hand, so that she could hold on to the banister on the way down. She felt for each stair carefully, as if it were dark, as if she were already drunk.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck! Laetitia picked up her rucksack and walked round the curve of the corridor to the boxroom. A strong smell of fresh paint escaped from the cracks round the door. Julian, I wish you were here with me. She breathed in deeply, thought she caught a whiff of his tobacco. The power of the mind. Maybe if she concentrated hard enough she could conjure him up, all of him. They could go into her new room together. A new beginning. She pulled air into her lungs again and opened the door.

  Before she switched the light on, she stood, trying to make out the changes in the almost dark, barely touched in this corner by the dim bulb on the landing; she wanted to absorb the room in stages. All the old Wellwood furniture Mother had stored here, piled to the ceiling, had gone: the Chinese dresser and the other pieces of chinoiserie; the Japanese screen with the gold peacocks à la Whistler; the rolled-up Afghan rugs; the paintings. The gewgaws and fripperies, the rest of the expensive tat. What on earth had Mother done with it all?

  When the light snapped on she found herself gaping at a modern furniture showroom. A compact and well-appointed study bedroom – the estate agent speak instantly parsed itself in her mind. Funny how it had infiltrated the language. Her old single Wellwood bed had been replaced by a futon. Of course. A double one, in cream-coloured cotton, with red and yellow and blue scatter cushions. She picked up a yellow one and hugged it to her. In front of the window, on a brand-new glass-topped desk, was a laptop computer, a standard lamp in stainless steel above it in an elegant arc. The wardrobe looked like birch. As opposed to pine or oak or beech. She opened the door to find her clothes hung neatly, put her hand in between a cotton shirt and a long skirt and moved them along the rail garment by garment. All there. It seemed her mother hadn’t taken this opportunity to do a fashion makeover. A Color-Me-Beautiful transformation. They were definitely all there, the ones she hadn’t brought down to Cambridge. All there and all black. Most of them. No colour. Or hardly any. Brown. Slate grey. The yellow cushion glowed like something standing in for sunshine against her clothes. She tossed it back onto the futon. The walls were yellow too, a pale, fresh yellow. One was taken up entirely by glass shelves. Her books were there. All those she’d left behind. In alphabetical order by author by the looks of things. The ragged spine of her Blake stood out – Songs of Innocence and of Experience; she took it down, flicked through it.

  O Rose thou art sick.

  The invisible worm,

  That flies in the night

  In the howling storm:

  Has found out thy bed

  Of crimson joy:

  And his dark secret love

  Does thy life destroy.

  Her finger traced the arching thorns on Blake’s etching, circled the fat round rose that looked more like a peony, avoided the worm, followed the little figure emerging with its arms outstretched, the spirit of joy extruded. Extruded. She remem- bered that day, sitting on a low wall in the quad, reading the poem, the start she gave when Julian came upon her. And the whole wide universe Blake had opened up shrank instantly to eight black lines on a page. Her backside chilled on the cold stone, her fingers frozen. No matter how often she’d read it since, she could never get it back. That hugeness.

  Her stereo was there too; her CDs. Some of her boxes of notes from Cambridge. The toy rabbit Julian gave her in second year, dark brown and furry, nibbling forever on a green silk lettuce leaf, with paler stitching for the veins.

  Oh God. She’d have to go down and talk to Mother.

  The chair was on castors; moulded wood with slits on the back. She sat down and rolled herself in to the desk. The glass top felt cool to touch. She’d have preferred wood probably. Warmer. But the glass did look good, it had to be said. She bent down and breathed on the pale turquoise surface, misting it over. With her finger she wrote:

  LETTUCE

  LAETITIA

  The mist cleared before she’d finished her name and all the letters dispersed. Nothing there but a few smudges. She pulled her sleeve down over her hand and rubbed at the marks till the glass was transparent again. The edge of it was smooth, curved, opaque like sea glass; she rolled herself closer till her waist was against it. The laptop was one of those titanium affairs. Beautiful. She ran her hand over it. Mother must have spent a packet on this lot. An absolute fortune. The button on the front of the computer released the spring sweetly. She opened the lid. No, better not. She shut it again. Mother would be waiting for her downstairs, drinking herself stupid, nursing her grievances. Love-rat husband. Ungrateful daughter. Wellwood, Wellwood. She stood up, took a deep breath, plucked the rabbit from the shelf and looked into its brown button eyes.

  Well, Julian, what d’you think? Shall we stay? Hmm? What’s your opinion? Nothing to say for your
self ? What, nothing at all! Lettuce worked its soporific magic, has it? Mr McGregor will catch you, if you’re not careful. She waggled it till its ears flopped from side to side. If you’re not very, very careful. She set the toy down on top of the laptop. Look after this for me, will you. I won’t be long.

  When Laetitia went in, her mother was sitting with her feet tucked under her on the sofa, whisky glass in one hand. Smoking!

  Since when did you start smoking, Mother?

  Since I was nineteen actually, darling. If you want to know. Her mother was staring at her with something close to defiance, chin up, looking her straight in the eye. If it’s any of your business. She leant forward and flicked a column of ash into a cup on the table in front of her. A china cup! It looked like one of her wedding china sets, the one from Nanny Rosenthal. A strand of her mother’s hair dipped in her whisky glass as she pulled herself upright. She took it out and sucked it. It hung like a rat’s tail when she let it go, a darker shade of dark gold than the rest, and she tilted her head back to look at Laetitia, waiting for her to say something. Daring her.

  Laetitia sat in the armchair nearest the door and leaned forward. My room is lovely, Mother. Thank you. It’s not what I was expecting.

  Her mother looked at her, took a swig of whisky. Drew on her cigarette. Said nothing.

  How did you manage to get all that done in such a short time? The bathroom too. It must have taken a humungous amount of organization. Must have cost you a fortune.

  Her mother shifted her buttocks on the sofa, remained silent. Her eyes were down, staring into her glass.

  At last she looked up and faced Laetitia. I do try, you know.

  I know, Mother, I know. I’m sorry. It was such a shock to come home and discover my room had been translated into a bathroom.

  Do you really like your new room?

  Laetitia studied her mother’s face. The little pads under her eyes were pink and puffy. She’d been crying. Yes, Mummy, I really do like it. Thank you. And I love the laptop.

  She blew out through her nose. That was your father’s idea.

  Daddy? I thought you said he wasn’t involved.

  How could I have afforded to do all that on my own? On my income? Her voice was raised now and her neck was flushed and mottled. How could I possibly —

  OK, Mother, OK. Look, I really, really like it. I love the colour. And the desk. The bookshelves. And thank you for arranging all my books and my clothes.

  Oh, I didn’t do that, dear; the removal firm did.

  You got a removal firm in to move my things from my room to one a few yards along the landing?

  Well, the designer wouldn’t do it. We were on a tight schedule, you know.

  God, Mother…

  Laetitia could see her teeter on the edge of taking umbrage again. Instead she set her glass on the table, stubbed her cigarette out in the cup, turned to Laetitia and attempted a smile.

  I am so glad you like the room, darling. I’m hugely relieved. What about the trunk? Do you like it too? That was my idea.

  What trunk?

  Laetitia’s trunk.

  What?

  Laetitia. Your namesake, Laetitia. Your father’s great-greataunt on his mother’s side.

  What are you talking about, Mother?

  Your father must have told you about her. Surely. The great free thinker in the family? The great Free Radical? Her mother was waving her hands out from the centre of her chest, as if presenting the woman on stage. The Great- great GREAT Aunt Laetitia!

  No, he hasn’t. Laetitia didn’t want to get into what was clearly another fertile region of marital discord.

  And I didn’t see a trunk. It crossed her mind that her mother might have lost the plot completely; been tipped over the edge by whisky and a surfeit of interior decorating.

  Go and take another look. It’s beside the futon. There’s a lamp on it. It’s just the right height for a bedside table when the futon’s down. Oh, and you’ll find your bedding in the cupboard opposite your room.

  Right.

  Her mother was reaching for the whisky bottle again, as Laetitia went out.

  It was in the corner next to the futon as her mother had said, smaller than the picture conjured up for Laetitia by the word ‘trunk’. She’d imagined some great curved-top chest with metal bands running across it and big studs and a huge hasp at the front with an ancient padlock. Like a pirate’s treasure chest, sitting at the bottom of the ocean, encrusted with barnacles. But this was small. Laetitia took the lamp off and set it on the floor. It had a flat top. And it seemed to be made of leather, not wood. More of a suitcase really, with thicker leather corners riveted on. Had she seen it before? A vague memory teased at the back of her mind. She kneeled and lifted it out of the corner onto the futon. It was heavy for its size. Full of bricks maybe. Not a body anyway; it was too small for a body. Laetitia had a quick flash of a severed head – Great-great whatever Aunt Laetitia’s head – locked away in her trunk for a hundred years, green and mouldering with staring eyes. A grisly discovery. A twenty-five-year-old West London woman yesterday made a grisly discovery in her newly decorated bedroom. Her mother, under heavy sedation, said: ‘We had no idea Aunt Laetitia was in the trunk. We thought she was in the family vault.’ A forensic anthropologist will today examine the remains to rule out foul play. She used the old trick her father had taught her to banish horrible visions and nightmares: make a funny story of it. Implicate Mother. The dead hare, blood seeping from the fur on its side.

  Laetitia shifted the cushions out of the way and put her hands on top of the trunk. In the light now, she could see the letters L. G. almost rubbed off. Laetitia. Laetitia what? What did the G stand for? She’d have to ask Daddy. She ran her hands over it. It felt almost warm to touch. Not like something hauled up from the crypt. The attic! That’s where she’d seen it. The attic at Wellwood, in the far corner; the pile of boxes and suitcases and things near the grimy skylight. Strange she’d never thought to look in it then. But then her aim had always been to rummage quickly in the dressing-up box, choose her costume and get the hell back down the steps, before they got her. Whoever they were. The they that lurked in the attic and the barn and all the other dim spidery places round the house. And actually, once her father had overruled her mother and brought the dressing-up box down to the nursery, she never ventured up there again. Not that she could remember.

  There were two catches on the front of the trunk, brass apparently. A keyhole under each, also brass. No key as far as she could see. She touched the catch on the left, felt about for a way to release it. There was no give. The one on the right looked identical. She traced the edges of it, eased her finger-nail underneath, pressed the brass circle that surrounded the keyhole. Nothing. Had her mother kept the key? A way to force Laetitia to ask for it? Oh, I’m terribly sorry, darling. How silly of me. Here it is in the ice bucket. She wouldn’t put it past her. Her knees were getting sore on the wooden floor. She pushed the trunk over on the seat of the futon and sat next to it. Then she saw them. Fixed to the side with masking tape, two small keys on a brass key ring with some kind of round fob the size of a fifty-pence piece.

  Sorry, Mother.

  The tape came off easily, left a faint scuff on the leather surface. She scratched at it with her nail to remove any sticky residue, rubbed her fingers together till the little pellets of gum dropped off. Two keys. She looked at them lying in her palm. And some sort of medallion. With writing round the edge. Pretty well rubbed smooth, but perhaps decipherable. Later. One key was dulled brass with dark pockmarks, the top formed like a three-leafed plant. Trifolium. Trifoliate. A clover leaf. Or a shamrock? The ring went through a hole in the middle leaf. She turned it over and examined the other; it was made of some kind of grey metal, had a plain flat round head with a rim like a coin, and a soldered loop at the top for the key ring. Two different keys. One for the left lock and one for the right? She laid them side by side on her palm. No, the tiny shafts and the ends looked the
same, cut for identical locks. Forged. How were keys made in the late great Laetitia’s day? Filed by hand, most likely. By the blacksmith. Or the locksmith. Some kind of smith anyway. Laetitia, Laetitia. So, that was where her name had come from. Not plucked after all from Tatler’s list of the most popular girls’ names in 1977. Hardly popular, darling. Distinguished. What only the best families were calling their female sprogs. Two other Laetitias in her year at school; one in the year above. The four Letties. Or the four Titties, depending on whose gang you were in. None of them liked the name. Though it was better than some. Lalage, the babbling brook. Drusilla, for God’s sake! Portia. Better than all the Dianas and Fionas. The night Laetitia Latimer was expelled, Mary Underwood singing: Last night there were four Titties; tonight there’ll be but three… Jokes about three-cupped bras.

  She got up, set the keys on the glass desk, looked at her CD player. It was jammed into the second shelf, the one set high enough to accommodate her art books. The turquoise LED numbers pulsed into life when she switched on the power. She ran a nail along the edges of her CDs. God, alphabetical order here too. By composer for the classical stuff; by band or artist for the pop. She pulled out Bach’s Cello Suites and stuck it on. The sombre bowing swelled into the room, lapped at the edges of the furniture, sloshed about in the corners. Fit accompaniment, Laetitia. She picked up the keys, went back to the trunk and knelt in front of it.