It is such a unique, yet ugly figurine that as I hold it in my hands and look it over, I actually try to feel where my fingers would have been all those years ago. Even though my hands were slightly smaller then, I can still feel where I pressed my fingers into the crooks so many times. Caitlin would take it and show it off to me, and I would say to her, ‘You need to hide that, someone could see it.’
‘No one will see it,’ she would say. ‘People only see what they want to see around here.’ She spoke with real sincerity, and I remember the look she gave me, as though she knew what she was talking about.
But that was what Caitlin was like when she was younger. She was a daredevil, a thrill seeker. When we moved to Saxby, my parents had imagined a quiet and serene life, a far cry from where I had been raised in Hackney. But when I met Caitlin, I just knew things would become interesting. I felt it in my gut, the first time her hand touched mine in the wildflower meadow.
I can see that Immy has moved on to another game now and hasn’t asked for the key back. I feel compelled to hold on to it, even though it means nothing to me now. Holding the keyring only brings memories of such an intense combination of bittersweet that I can’t decide if I wish to entertain the memories or throw it away and try to forget all about it.
But of course I know that will make no difference, with or without the key, I am already too intrinsically connected with what was behind those locked doors at Saxby.
As I drive through town towards Miller and Anderton, I begin to mull over Caitlin’s three-day silence again. Was her behaviour because she suspected my intentions back when we were in Tsilivi? It was certainly reminiscent of the days at Saxby where when she was annoyed with me, she would say little or nothing to me for hours, and yet I still hung around next to her like a silent playmate. I would follow her around the estate, but she would favour my little brother, Hunter, over me, telling him how funny he was and giving him the key fob to the front electric gate so he could run off and open and shut it a few times – until my dad discovered him and he was marched back to return it. Caitlin’s face would be a look of confusion, pretending to Dad that she had no idea how the fob had got into Hunter’s hands.
I had texted Caitlin before I left to say I would be there around three, but it’s now past that. Oscar had been held up in traffic, which had a knock-on effect on my departure. I know Caitlin won’t leave her office until at least seven anyway, but still, the lateness is a thought that nags at the back of my head. I can imagine the look on Caitlin’s face. She has always been an exceptionally good timekeeper.
As I hit the traffic in central London, I regret my timing as cars honk their frustrations around me, and I feel the beginnings of the need to wee and my stomach protesting about the lack of food since lunch.
I can feel the skull keyring in the pocket of my jean shorts. Seeing it again after so many years has brought more memories to the surface. The years I spent at Saxby are so heavily engrained in my psyche that I could close my eyes right now and transport myself back there. I only have to smell fresh lavender and immediately I’ll be sitting in the wildflower meadow; if I drink elderflower cordial, I’m back in the kitchen of the cottage with Mum playfully swiping for me as I go over my daily ration. But I’m not at Saxby, I am driving my silver Peugeot 3008, which I had proudly bought this year with profits from Space Consultancy, through London on my way to see Caitlin.
I pull the car down a side street, a few yards from Miller and Anderton, and try to steady my breath as I see the time is now almost 4 p.m. When Oscar finally arrived, I had just jumped into the car and drove, and I never use my phone in the car, so I quickly text Caitlin now, an apology for the traffic and tell her I’m on my way up.
Miller and Anderton have the whole top floor of a huge, modern glass-and-mirrors building in Farringdon. I am still baffled as to why Caitlin felt the need to invest so much time and energy into a business when she could retire on the profits from Saxby, which still sits there, empty of visitors. Poor Josephine passed last year and so everything that Caitlin knew had been coming to her was now hers. And yet since then, she has showed little interest and hasn’t talked about what she could do with it, not even once. Caitlin had visited her grandma there regularly until she died, and I even believe she was there with her when Josephine took her final breath. I have brought up Saxby a few times with Caitlin over the last few months, even suggesting we hold the wedding there, but she dismissed it immediately and I could tell she didn’t want to discuss it. I never pushed for an explanation. I presumed since Josephine’s passing, the house had little else to offer her.
There is a caretaker couple who look after it now, much like my parents did when they worked there. They have a young child who has the run of the grounds all year round, and I often try to think how that child feels with all that space and freedom. Do they feel as lucky as
