The Lost Ones. Anita Frank
I had not been home a week when Annie Burrows dragged me from the lake. I’d managed to escape my mother’s watchful eye and I knew exactly what I wanted to do with the precious moments her distraction had afforded me. I walked out, setting a steady but unhurried pace, straight to the lake, striding with intent down the wooden jetty, my footsteps echoing on the boards, the water gently lapping below. I paused for a moment when I reached the end, briefly allowing myself the succour of my most cherished memory, before I stepped out into thin air. The freezing cold of the dark waters as they closed over my head was shocking. Yet as I sank lower, threads of pondweed tickling my legs as my skirts billowed about my waist, I made a conscious decision not to struggle, not to kick towards the silvery light diffused across the surface now far above my head. In that moment, I experienced peace the like of which I hadn’t felt for weeks. I relaxed into the lake’s watery embrace, which was no longer frigid and frightening, but warm and consoling. I was not afraid. I think I was relieved.
Swallowed by my watery tomb, I did not hear the splash of Annie Burrows leaping into the lake beside me. It wasn’t until I felt urgent fingers clutch at my waterlogged clothing that I realised I was no longer alone. As I was hauled round her face appeared before me, glowing like a moon in the midnight sky. I fought against her, trying to prise myself loose from her iron grip, lashing out with my feet, bubbles rippling from my mouth, but she was surprisingly strong and stubborn. She wrapped her arm around my chest, ignoring my clawing fingers, and powered herself upwards with such force we both exploded through the glassy surface, instinctively gasping for air. I cried in fury as she dragged me towards the edge, our boots slipping in the silty bottom. She grunted with effort as she wrenched me up onto the bank. I sobbed with frustration as we lay on our backs, exhausted and soaked to the skin, our hair streaked across our faces, breathless, staring at the leaden sky above us.
She spat out sour water and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, her chest still heaving. People came running towards us, shouting in alarm: my mother, my father, Mrs Scrivens, Brown, a gardener. Mother was wailing. We were both hoisted to our feet. Someone began pulling at my wet things; a jacket was draped around my shoulders. Amidst the flurry and fuss, Annie stumbled towards me, thrusting her dripping face into mine the second before she was tugged away.
The young maid’s words became lost in the jumble of voices as we were bundled towards the house. Later, when I was finally left alone and had time to ponder the evening’s events, I separated them from the cacophony. They sent a shiver down my spine.
‘He says it’s not your time.’
I couldn’t fail to notice that even the gardens were suffering from the detrimental effects of the war. The box hedges would have been scissor-cut to precision just a few years ago, but now, neglected, unkempt shoots were spurting out in all directions, and dandelions were thrusting up through the gravel pathways.
A stone in my shoe caused me to pause by the fountain. Though once it had shot plumes of water high into the air in a magnificent display, it now sat dormant, with only a murky pool in its wide basin. I steadied myself against its crumbling edge while I unbuttoned my shoe and shook loose the chipping.
I looked up at my home and felt, as always, a familiar tinge of sadness. Once it had been a perfect example of Palladian architecture, the main house being three storeys high, with two-storey additions stretching out on either side in perfect symmetry, all elegantly dressed in golden Bath stone. But now it stood uneven, oddly unbalanced, with no vestiges remaining of the destroyed east wing. The charred shell left from the inferno had been like a leper’s appendage, blackened and dead, its windows empty sockets, its walls stripped of grandeur like flayed bone. I could still recall the acrid taint of smoke lingering in the air the morning after, as firemen continued to damp down persistent embers, their hoses running like veins across the lawn, drawing from the lake. My father and I had visited the bereft Burrows family, to express our sympathies and gratitude, and on our return we had stopped to observe the firemen’s efforts, soberly aware that within those blistered walls, amongst the rubble and detritus, were Jim Burrows’ remains.
The ruins were soon demolished for no one wanted an enduring reminder of the tragedy, but the red bricks used to seal the gaping wound stood stark against the buttery stone of the remaining house, like a scar that fails to fade.
I slipped my shoe back on and continued to the house, wishing I had not allowed my mind to stray onto such unhappy recollections. I did not like to dwell on the night of the fire; doing so evoked upsetting memories and raised disturbing questions that I had spent the last ten years doing my best to ignore.
I entered by the door that led into the rear hallway and began stripping the gloves from my hands. I could hear muffled voices as I approached the drawing room and realised Mother must be entertaining. I had no wish to be embroiled in one of her tedious meetings, so I kept my head down and picked up my pace as I passed the open doorway, but all to no avail.
‘Oh, there she is. Stella!’
I made no attempt to stifle my exasperated sigh. I spun on my heel and headed towards the door. I stopped in the opening.
A tall man in uniform stood with his back to me, his brown hair neatly clipped to his nape, while Mother stood facing me.
‘Look who has come to see us!’
For a split foolish second, I felt a burst of unimagined joy: Gerald – it had all been a terrible mistake! A rapturous smile pulled my lips and my heart leapt, but as the officer turned to face me, the smile dissipated, and my effervescent joy stilled, as reality reasserted itself.
‘Hector. How lovely to see you.’
My brother-in-law, Hector Brightwell, smiled broadly and manoeuvred himself from behind the sofa to greet me. He held the tops of my arms as he kissed my cheeks. ‘Hello, Stella.’
‘I was beginning to worry that you wouldn’t be back in time to say hello,’ Mother said.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were expected.’ My absurd disappointment began to fade.
‘Oh, I called by on the off-chance. Work brought me this way and I thought I should pop in and see you all.’
Hector had by some good fortune – I suspect linked to his family’s considerable fortune and influence – secured a safe uniformed position in Whitehall for the duration. I tried not to resent him for this, something I found especially difficult after Gerald was killed. I did not dislike him – he was intelligent and affable, though a little stiff at times – and I could not fault his devotion to my sister.
‘Well, it’s very nice to see you, Hector. How is Madeleine?’
My sister had telephoned a few weeks previously to give us the most welcome news: she was expecting a baby. It had been the first time since Gerald’s death that I felt actual happiness. Madeleine was cautiously buoyant, tempering her excitement with the acknowledgement it was still early days, but ever the pragmatist, at three months along she knew she would soon be showing so felt we ought to know.
‘She is well, thank you, very well.’ Hector retook his seat whilst I settled myself down and Mother poured out some more tea. ‘She may have told you, she’s gone to stay with my mother at our country estate, Greyswick.’
‘Oh yes, she mentioned that in her last letter. The Zeppelin attacks on London must be terrifying.’
‘I know they can be a bit hit and miss, but quite frankly I would rather Madeleine wasn’t anywhere near them, especially given the circumstances. And in all honesty, I’m unable to spend much time with her, what with things the way they are.’
‘Of course. Well, I’m glad to know that she will be safe. It is all such a worry.’ My mother paused. ‘And she is well, Hector?’
‘Quite, quite well,’ he assured her with a gentle smile. ‘She’s doing wonderfully.’
He