The Lost Ones. Anita Frank
it into her bedside cabinet, I crossed the room and pulled open the drawer. There, tumbled together in a mêlée of limbs and rifles, were at least a dozen lead soldiers.
Coming so soon after my mournful memory, the discovery upset me more than I could say. Children’s treasured possessions: things not be shared lightly. I curled my fingers around a rifleman. He was down on one knee, his rifle thrust before him, the bayonet sharp. I turned it over and smoothed my thumb across the scratched lines I knew I would find on the painted base – LB. My fingers flared open and he clattered down onto the bodies of his comrades. Why did Madeleine have a drawer full of soldiers next to her bed? Had she indeed found them, as I had found mine? Or had she gathered them for some purpose known only to herself?
As theories careered through my mind, I abandoned my search for the thread. I rested my forehead on the door as I pulled it shut. The cool wood against my warm skin was as comforting as a damp cloth to a fevered brow. I took a steadying breath.
I would have to discuss the soldiers with Madeleine, whether she wanted to or not. As I turned away from her door I caught sight of Lucien’s portrait and for some reason I stopped. It drew me like a moth to a flame – I longed to study it one more time. My feet seemed to possess a life of their own as I took step after step until Lucien loomed above me. I drew close to the canvas. I could see the cracking in the oil paint on his rosy cheeks, the white fleck in his blue eyes, the curl of the spaniel’s fur, the metallic sheen of the hoop and the silver buckle on the side of his shoe. My eyes searched every inch of the painting until I found what I was looking for, tucked into the bottom corner, almost concealed by the overlying shadow of paint: the army of lead soldiers.
I recoiled, bumping against the handrail. I couldn’t explain my strange reaction to the sight of the toy figures. It was only natural that a little boy would want to be painted with his prized posessions, but what was Madeleine doing with them? Before I could begin to draw any conclusions, a girl’s whisper stilled me. My head snapped towards the landing that stretched above me. I noticed the first door was ajar.
Gripping the banister, my gaze unwavering, I took a step up. The polished tread betrayed me with a creak but the whispers, little more than persistent breezes, continued. My chest grew tight as I mounted another step and then another, until at last I reached the landing. I stood before the first door and listened to the whispers, so soft I couldn’t catch the words – but I knew the voice.
I pushed the door wide.
‘What are you doing in here, Annie? Who are you talking to?’
‘I … no one, miss.’
‘I clearly heard you, Annie.’
‘Just myself then, miss,’ she replied, her expression shuttered.
Unable to contradict her, I turned my attention instead to my unfamiliar surroundings. I was in an eaves room of reasonable size, though it felt smaller due to the intruding angle of the ceiling, from which a single dormer window projected. Judging from its furnishings it had once been the school room – two hinged desks with attached plank seats stood side by side facing the teacher’s table, the wall behind which was adorned with a large, coloured map of the world. Above the small fireplace hung a framed, embroidered sampler stitched with a religious quote from the parable of the talents – it induced the reader not to squander their God-given gifts.
I surveyed my surroundings avidly, as if I had stumbled upon a secret treasure trove. I disturbed a lamina of dust as I ran my fingers over the cloth-covered story books lined up on the shelf and I couldn’t resist peeking beneath the desk lids, curious to discover any hidden artefacts.
‘The school room …’ I murmured to myself.
‘The nursery is next door, miss,’ Annie said, her tone beguiling. ‘Would you like to see it?’
‘Yes,’ I murmured. ‘Yes, I would.’
She led me back to the landing. I fancied she threw me a sly glance as she pushed open the second door and stepped aside. I detected a faint yet discernible odour, an unpleasant fusion of mothballs and damp, but it was otherwise a plain, inoffensive room, similar in size to the school room, with the same sloping roofs. Dust motes floated in the shaft of sunlight streaming through the dormer window, but the sun’s rays brought no warmth. Pushed up against the wall behind the door was a full-sized metal bedstead, a green ribbed coverlet tucked in around the hump of a pillow and fastened tight under the mattress. At the foot of the bed the chimney breast jutted out into the room, with a simple fireplace as before, though above this one hung a faded sampler declaring ‘We Are All God’s Children’. On the opposite wall was a child’s iron bedframe made up as the adult one, and next to that was an empty wooden cradle.
It may have been my imagination, but I couldn’t help feeling an oppressive aura about the room that went beyond the fustiness of the air and the pervading chill that sent goose-pimples down my arms. It felt somehow inhospitable, and I understood now Madeleine’s reluctance to use the room for her own baby. Indeed, I felt greatly relieved her child would be housed elsewhere.
The light streaming through the window vanished as scudding clouds covered the sun, casting a grey pallor over the room. There was a soft clatter. A small marble rolled across the floorboards towards us, skipping over the edges of each adjoining board. Its blue centre, the shape of a cat’s eye, spun hypnotically within the green glass ball. I was transfixed by its progress until it finally came to a stop by the tip of Annie’s shoe.
‘I must have knocked it down,’ she said. ‘Have you seen enough, miss?’
I nodded and allowed her to usher me from the room. She pulled the door shut behind her. I hesitated at the top of the stairs. I was filled with an irrational yet overwhelming sense of fear.
‘They’re so terribly steep,’ I muttered.
‘It’s a long way down, isn’t it, miss?’ Annie was so close behind me I could feel her breath on my cheek. Discomfort shunted me forward.
My fingers tightly gripped the cold curve of the banister. Steadily I made my way, the air growing warmer with each descending step. I experienced a peculiar sense of relief when I set both feet on the carpet at the bottom.
Later, when I had finally managed to dispense with my lingering unease, I thought back on the marble. Curiously, it had not appeared to be rolling away from Annie.
I could have sworn it was rolling straight for her.
I made no mention to Madeleine of my exploration of the nursery floor, nor did I broach the accidental discovery of the toy soldiers in her drawer. This last bit of intelligence festered within me for the rest of the day and long into the evening. I found my nerves brittle, my manner off-hand, and my thoughts conflicted. By dinner time, a tight knot had developed in my stomach and I barely touched a thing. Instead, I snatched glances at Madeleine, wondering what secrets lay concealed behind her innocent expression.
I was relieved when she finally declared she was ready for bed. She looked to me, as ever, to escort her through the treacherous darkness to the safety of her room. She had of course noticed that I was not myself, but I allayed her concerns by attributing my low-spirits to a nagging headache.
I could not sleep. I was deeply troubled by the tangle of soldiers and what could be inferred from their mysterious presence in Madeleine’s drawer. The peculiar atmosphere of the landing rooms also played on my mind, and though the house was at peace under the cover of night, I found myself straining to catch every whisper of draught, every tell-tale creak. Each time I closed my eyes I saw images of Annie Burrows and spinning marbles, Lydia and Lucien, Madeleine and her miniature lead army, all set against a terrifying backdrop of searing flames and choking smoke. Sleep was an impossibility. I longed with every particle of my being for Gerald’s steadying presence.
I must have eventually succumbed to exhaustion for I woke in a befuddled daze, daylight straining at the curtains. The fire’s gentle