The girl said slowly, “Oh! Wait a sec. I’ll get my mum.” She left the door open and kept looking back at Christmas as she walked inside the house. The small boy bounced happily beside her as she went.
“What happened there? Do you know her?”
Christmas shrugged, equally bemused, “I don’t think so.” She looked around the porch, before taking a few steps back onto the path to look at the building. She said hesitantly, “But this place feels familiar.”
We waited at the door where the smell of desserts and candies floated out of the house, mingling with the scent of the jasmine that hung heavily from the porch timbers. Small children squealed as they ran out of the living room, past the front door and up the stairs at the back of the entrance hall. Moments later they came back down the stairs, swarming into the living room and beyond to the back of the house. Two children paused at the front door, turned their oval faces to us, mouths smeared with chocolate and cake. Another crowd of small bodies rushed into them, and swept them away inside.
Eventually a woman came to the door. She wore flat, soft, brown shoes, a pleated floral skirt, narrow at the waist, and a pale blue shirt, spotted with tiny flecks of chocolate. Her fair hair was bobbed. She appeared to be about forty years of age, although I knew that might be a significant underestimate in this particular village. She nodded a greeting to me.
As her gaze turned to Christmas she stepped back momentarily. Putting an arm out to the window shelf beside the door, she steadied herself. “Oh my! Hello dear.”
Christmas leaned forward, a frown furrowing her brow. “Auntie Nessa?”
“Christmas!”
The women sprang together like magnets. They hugged. Vanessa’s eyes were instantly wet. She embraced Christmas tightly, one hand behind her head, the other hand at her back, while she kissed the top of her head and her cheek. After a moment a trace of discomfort showed on the older woman’s face. She slackened her hold saying, “What do you have in your pockets?”
“Oh, sorry about the guns. And the knife.”
“Really? Why do you have weapons?”
“Oh, you know. Ready for anything. This is my friend Zav.” And to me she said, “Zav, this is my Aunt Vanessa.” Christmas put her arm through mine as she spoke.
Vanessa looked at me appraisingly and shook my hand.
“We’re here to see Sophie,” I said.
“She’s not here,” she said quickly, looking at Christmas. Then with more composure, she added, “but please come in. It’s been years, Christmas. Do you remember this place?”
“A little.”
“You only visited two or three times, when you were small.”
Inside, we halted now and then while small children went barreling past with toy guns that sprayed bubbles, others galloping on imaginary horses or bouncing by on inflatable animals. Some trundled past on tiny carts which knocked the paint from the door frames and collided with furniture, knocking plants and family pictures over.
I picked up a framed photograph from the floor before a wheel could roll over it. The picture showed Vanessa and a man in his fifties, who I guessed was her husband. They were standing on an unseen platform behind a line of eight adults and around fifty small children, two rows standing, one row sitting. Three children had become bored by the photographer’s arrangements and had broken free, running around in front of the group.
Vanessa pointed to the image, “That’s me and Frank with six of our adult children, two son-in-laws and our grandchildren, six months ago. This is a joint birthday party today. The parents will be here this evening.”
Christmas took the picture, studied it thoughtfully and put it on top of the fridge when we reached the kitchen.
Vanessa made us cool drinks while children pulled at her skirt. They demanded that she dispense food, drink, sympathy and compensation for bruises and injured pride, and arbitration in the sharing of toys. Complainants with hot faces sobbed and pointed at aggressors who needed to be reprimanded without spoiling the overall ambience. She managed all of this adroitly while delegating duties to her lieutenants, Kelly, Katie and Sam, telling them that she’d be away for twenty minutes and asking if they could cope.
They reassured her and started rounding-up children for new games.
Vanessa ushered us upstairs, deflecting new demands by cooing to various children, “Go and see Auntie Sam and she’ll sort it out for you.”
We eventually reached the topmost room. The tranquil space of Vanessa’s study was a small room with blue upper walls that sloped with the roof shape. A dormer window looked out onto the back garden where around forty children continued their rampage.
Vanessa turned her desk chair away from the computer to face us. Christmas sat in an easy chair. I sat in a creaking wicker item. A small coffee table held our drinks.
“Why do you want to see Sophie?”
I said, “We think she might have been involved in the death of someone who’d been staying with my neighbor. A young Polish truck driver. His name is Aleksy Naumowicz. I think she had dinner with him. He died from a venomous bite on his neck.”
Vanessa put a hand to her mouth. She swallowed hard. Slowly she said, “Sophie called me from Canada four months ago.” Blowing her nose on a tissue, she wiped her eyes and her face.
I asked, “Did she tell you about this boy?”
“No. She came home one night last year. She was upset. She said something terrible had happened. She packed and left within a couple of days. What’s your involvement exactly?”
“Aleksy’s mother asked me to find out what happened to her son.”
“How did you end up with Sophie’s name?”
“Well I guessed that there must be a lot more deaths from venomous bites, so I looked for a village with a ring of death around it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A lot of people die close to this village, Mrs Miller.”
“How many?”
“I reckon about fifty people over the last five years.”
“I find that hard to believe. And Sophie has no involvement in any of that. I’m guessing that whatever happened to the truck driver was accidental. Sophie would never hurt anyone.”
“How could it be accidental?”
Vanessa looked enquiringly at Christmas.
“He knows. He’s met Ariadne.”
I said, “We’re talking about the dry bite, aren’t we?”
She looked at my neck. “I’m sure you’ve realized that the bite is a reflex by now.”
I pulled my collar closer to my neck to hide the marks made by Christmas. “But if the women can withhold the venom, why didn’t Sophie? Aleksy had enough venom in him to kill a stable full of horses.”
“I don’t know. I can’t imagine it. Not with Sophie.”
“I was hoping to hear her account of what happened.”
“There’s not much I can do about that.”
“Running away implies guilt.”
“Ours is not the kind of defense that stands up well in court.”
“We know. That’s why we’re here instead of the police.”
We sat silently.
Eventually Christmas broke the stillness, “Aunty Nessa, I don’t remember Sophie.”
“You were very small when you last met her and you probably didn’t see her more than two or three times before Ray took you abroad. I think he wanted to reduce the amount of contact between us for…his own reasons. Understandable reasons, I think. He’s a good man. And I gather that since you’ve become an adult, you’ve been busy. I respected Ray’s wish and didn’t intrude. But I’ve always been here Christmas, if you ever wanted to see me.”
“I’ve been preoccupied, and this place and the people here were a dim memory. I think I’d forgotten the name Limewood, if I ever knew it. Coming here didn’t seem like a priority. University, career, adventures, making a life in London; those things have been taking up all of my time. And I think Dad might’ve distracted me with othe
r things. The last time I asked about you, he sent me to Florida on a flying course.”
“That sounds exciting.”
“He’s got a habit of sending me to do something exciting.”
They were studying each other. I could sense a question hanging in the air between them, neither of them keen to tackle it. But their close connection, manifesting spontaneously at the front door when they hugged, had created a micro-expressive environment of its own. They were reading every fleeting thought on each other’s faces, communicating through the physical language honed over millions of years. Though I could see it happening, it was like listening to a foreign language.
Finally, Christmas voiced the question, “Vanessa, is Sophie my sister?”
Christmas had dropped the familial title. I could see that Vanessa felt the weight of it immediately. Her face grappled with emotion, eyes flickering, breathing rapid. She looked down at the floor as though considering her attitude to the many questions that would lead from the answer. Her brow furrowed as though the computational task was too big. Or the emotional task was too big. She took a deep breath. Vanessa’s face relaxed for a moment, emotionless and then seemed to collapse. Tears ran down her cheeks. She put her hands to her face, her body hunched forward. She said quietly, “I knew this day would come.”
Frowning, Christmas murmured, “Why didn’t you want me?”
Vanessa’s breath came in gulps. As far as the two women were concerned, in that moment I was no longer in the room. An existential anguish that had been growing since the moment of their separation, enclosed them both.
“It wasn’t that I didn’t want you. I did want you. I wanted all of my children. But Frank and I were afraid and a little desperate. We knew we couldn’t support so many. We had to give up some of the babies for adoption.”
“You kept how many?”
“Nine. We gave three of you…up.” Vanessa sobbed into her hands.
“How did you choose?” Christmas didn’t move. Tears slowly dripped from her lower lids, running in a single line down each cheek.
Vanessa spoke haltingly, “We didn’t choose. Ray and Beth came to the hospital and they chose. Doug and Esther chose Michael and Grace. We were asking them to take on the responsibility, late in their lives. We had very few options, because of our special heritage. It had to be people who understood your origin. Who could keep you safe. Who understood about withdrawal and molting and your special strength and the other things. We let them choose. They chose you.”
“And then you had more children,” Christmas said flatly. Vanessa could cry as much as she wanted, but for the moment, Christmas was not ready to forgive her.
She looked up at the rebuke, “It was fifteen years later. Unplanned.” She hurriedly wiped away the tears striping her face. “But we had our own maternity hospital here by then. We could manage the size of the brood early. Six babies. Frank’s business was doing well. Things had changed for us.” She looked imploringly at Christmas, “And you will come to realize how strong the urge to have children is in our families. I couldn’t have disrupted your life by asking for you to come back, could I?”
We were all silent for a while.
Vanessa said, “Ray has been a great father. He’s given you a rare upbringing and a secure future. You have a confidence and a range of experience which we couldn’t have given you.”
“He nearly got me killed at least half a dozen times,” Christmas said energetically, “Do your children go around armed to the teeth? Do you have any idea how many men I’ve had to kill?”
“No, I haven’t and I don’t want to know. But you’re able to live outside, on your own terms. We have a siege mentality here. Ray and Beth did more for you than we could. Much more.”
A small fist began hammering on the outside of the study door. An imperious five-year-old voice demanded, “Nanny Ness, let me in!”
We each looked at the door. Our discussion was not over. But the interruption couldn’t be ignored.
“I can hear you!” said the small person outside.
Vanessa nodded at us and put her hand out flat to indicate that she would deal with the interruption. She wiped her tears away quickly with her hand, opened the door and picked up her grandson. “What are you doing up here?” she said softly.
“No one will play with me.”
“Why is that? Were you being bad?”
“Not very bad. But…but…” and as he worked to get his mitigating argument together, the child looked into Vanessa’s face and asked, “but…why are you crying?”
More children appeared, having deduced that Vanessa was nowhere downstairs and must be in her private space. Alerted by the question, they were all soon chorusing, “Why are you crying?” Then, in the absence of a satisfactory answer, some of them started crying in sympathy.
Vanessa’s three younger daughters threaded their way through the growing crowd of small bodies to reach the landing. They asked the same question urgently, looking first to Christmas, who was plainly emotional, and then glaring briefly at me. Since I was the least affected, the upset appeared to be my fault.
“It’s just something sad,” Vanessa explained.
“About Sophie?” The girls looked at Christmas now with a kind of wonder. They wanted to talk to her. The inquiry on their faces seemed to be asking; why hadn’t they seen her before, and what was she doing here now?
“It’s a little about Sophie. Other things too. It’s alright. There’s nothing for you to worry about.” And to the small children the young grandmother said, “Have you had ice cream yet? Who would like ice cream?”
This proved to be a unanimously popular question. The great throng that had assembled on the stairs and landing, turned itself around awkwardly in the narrow space and made its way down the stairs with a degree of urgency in case all the ice cream might be given away and they would each somehow miss out.
Over the chorus of acceptances, Vanessa said to us, “Will you have ice cream with us? We can talk in the garden if you like.”
We went with the crowd.
Vanessa’s tears dried against the more immediate and urgent demands from her brigade of grandchildren.
I held Christmas’s hand and squeezed it. She leaned into me and I put my arm around her and kissed her cheek.
In the back garden we sat down on upholstered outdoor chairs in the middle of the lawn, surrounded by the fragrance of newly cut grass and blossoming shrubs.
With the world put right by ice cream, the five-year-olds resumed their games and swirled around us in a chaotic human cyclone.
Vanessa said to Christmas, “Can you ever forgive me?”
It turned out that Christmas was in a forgiving mood, which I thought very fortunate, given the number of weapons she was carrying.
“I was Ray and Beth’s only child and they loved me deeply. Dad contacts me every day. We play chess. You’re right for the most part. They’ve been great for me. But I missed out on this,” she waved to the multitude galloping around the garden. “I’m not sure what I think right now. I’ve always known it was one of you. You or one of the other ‘aunties’ who were floating around. Where are they now?”
“They’re all still here, in Limewood. We’ve stayed together for security.”
Christmas looked at me.
Vanessa continued, “They’re mostly married with large families. The boys moved a little further away. Made families elsewhere. It’s easier for them to find partners. They only have to explain the occasional molting episode and the greater physical strength. The first one takes a bit of preparation and the second is scarcely questioned. And they don’t seem to pass down the new genes. They have standard-sized, fairly unremarkable families. But one day you might face the same kind of issues that I had.”
“I won’t. And I’m pregnant.”
Vanessa looked at me.
Christmas answered on my behalf. “Yes, but he’s having nightmares. We’ll keep them all, unless they’re…monstrous.”
Vanessa got up and hugged Christmas. “If there’s anything I can do, call me. I’m here. If you can forgive me. Now that you’re older I can’t be accused of interfering. I’d like us to be closer.”
“I need some time. I sort of knew, but it’s still hard. I have more questions. For later. Not sure I’m up to hearing more revelations right now.”
Vanessa kissed her. She looked at the small children scampering past for a moment. “It’s been hard for me too. For years. I’ve thought about you every day.” She turned to me and said, “Are you ready to become a part of our community?”
“Not here. I’m a Londoner. Besides, that ring of death seems to be made up of outsiders.”
“Who exactly?”
I got out a list, looked around to see that we weren’t being overheard and started reading the names, cause of death and date, to Vanessa.
After I’d read a dozen names she said, “If there’s anything suspicious about those deaths there’s only one person that I know of, who might be responsible.”
“Miranda?” I asked.
“I’m not saying it is her. She’s always said that she’s keeping us safe. There’ve been rumors but I didn’t believe them. Didn’t want to believe them. But she’s changed these last few years. Less patient and more threatening. My girls tell us there’s something about Miranda we’re not seeing; me and Frank and the others here. Miranda leads the village council. We’ve had our own way in this village for three decades. She’s the architect of the masterplan, as she calls it. We trust her to end the siege. She has no children of her own. All of her maternal energy has gone into caring for our community.”
Christmas told Vanessa about the assassination attempt in the café in London and my escape from the armed gang on the moors.
Vanessa frowned, “We’ve heard stories about sudden disappearances. A lot of accidents, now that I think of it. I recognize some of the names on that list. People that Miranda considered a problem. Hearing them altogether, it’s hard to ignore a horrific conclusion. What do you intend doing?”
“I’ve got no proof of anything. Just statistical likelihood at the moment. The circle gives a clue to the other mystery; the one involving your daughter. That’s the reason we’re here. If Sophie gets in touch, let her know we’d like to talk.”