Chapter Text
The evening was fittingly dark, and a gloom of mist had settled across the grounds. It was an evening that announced itself as pure winter, cold and deathlike, the sort that had you hoping for the existence of a warm hearth, a crackling fire, and an evening bathed in the glow of orange light. Alas, in Button House, no such sanctuary was to be found. Instead, Thomas had found himself alone in the darkened library, plagued by the ever-present shadow of the past.
He must have been around four and twenty, attending a dinner party with Francis. A well-known publisher happened to be at the table – a strange, faded sort of man but an unexpectedly invigorating conversationalist. He had talked of wanting work that was as fresh as citrus, lines as sublime as the Alps, and language with the seductive beauty of Venice, and Thomas had felt inspired – no, compelled – to speak to him afterwards, in the drawing room, to introduce himself, to begin at once to share his poetry with the man. The publisher had appeared gracious at Thomas’s approach, engaged, listening, nodding, as Thomas talked of the themes of his work, but, just as he was about to recite a line or two, Francis had approached and drew him away.
As they stood to the side under the pretence of examining a painting together, Francis had tried to explain himself, with the quiet but concise remark of, cousin, sometimes, you are like a snowfall on May Day. Thomas hadn’t understood at first, was about to start picking it apart at a poetic level, but Francis had continued. I do not say it to be cruel – some would quite marvel at snow in May, I’m sure – I simply mean – how shall I put this – ah – like this: you are not bad, perhaps on a different occasion or in a smaller dose, but in some moments, such as a the one I have just rescued you from, you are just – he'd gestured towards Thomas, you are just too much.
In one of the later edits of this memory that Thomas likes to reflect on, Francis’s words hit into him like a wave bouncing back from a sea wall. He rises above them, the wanderer above the sea fog, and he looks down at Francis – that – that thief of all things, that – being, without even a shimmer of the vision in his soul – that – scoundrel! – lacking all morals and any sense of compassion! Thomas looks down into Francis’s face, knowing what his cousin really is, and says, cousin, it may appear that way to you, but has it ever crossed your mind that it is in fact you, who are not enough to understand me? Have you ever considered that perhaps it is your own lack that you see in my excess? Sometimes, here, he speaks of Isabelle – how she understands him perfectly, how, she has never had such a complaint. Sometimes, he offers his cousin a damning criticism of his character (as commonplace as a button, as dry a page of numbers, as cruel as a Shakespearean villain, without the depth); other times, he produces a letter from his pocket, informing him – and the world – that the publisher has accepted his manuscript and is ready to share it with the world. The details change but the end is the same. Thomas walks away from his cousin, links arms with a waiting Isabelle, and off they glide, sometimes to Venice or London or Paris, sometimes to Button House, as it stands now.
In the unedited, unrefined moment, however, he had sighed and murmured something about the burden of having a poetic nature and Francis had dismissed him with a half-hearted frown. Not even worth a look of thorough disapproval, he’d berated himself, and for the rest of the afternoon, he had tried to remain quiet and out of the way. Regrettably, society would not permit him such reprieve and so, when he was drawn into conversation, he tried to replicate Francis’s tones, to borrow the phrases of those most popular in the room, to capture the cadence of his astute but convivial mother. And yet, in Thomas’s mouth, such words and sentences became as mangled as a subject in Byron’s hands.
Oh, it was always the same – would always be the same – the groans, the jeers, and the eyerolls; the mutterings, the whispers, and the frowns; all those barely disguised glints of amusement. At least these days, his fellow ghosts bothered to make their disapproval vocal; at least they put the energy and embellishment into their disgust. But that afternoon, it was quick movements of the eyes, a twitch of the lips, a dropping of a whisper. He was too much, but not enough. It didn’t matter if he was himself, if he was the poet, if he was Francis, if he was like every other person in the room, it was still too much and still not enough. He was a piano on the cusp of falling out of tune, a clock chiming a minute too early. He was the fool who missed the start of the race and could never catch up.
Isabelle was an exception. With her, he could relax into something entirely original, he could be the rough draft and still, she listened; they could talk in unfinished sentences or long, winding lines; they could communicate without needing to rhyme and yet when they did speak, whether they agreed or disagreed, there was still a rhythm, a flow to the words. Oh, how he misses their meetings, those walks round the grounds, those shared smiles across a room, their meandering letters – how that false letter burns against his heart now, whenever he feels the crinkle of paper.
Has he ever experienced such ease, such comfort in all the years since he last spoke to Isabelle in life? Has there ever been such – connection – such calm? There have been moments, certainly, a comforting hand on his shoulder and a listening ear, a sunrise that looked the same but more beautiful than all those before it, a genius of music speaking to him and to him alone, a word of encouragement, a subtle reminder in the kitchen, a dance to forget the pain. But for the most part? No, this life, this death, oh, how it aches, how it hurts, to try and to reach and play his part – and still, still to be spurned, to always be shunned and mocked and cheated.
He is glad then, that he’d retreated to his sighing place once Betty had gone. There is an Urgent Group Meeting later, once Mike, Alison and Mia have gone to bed, and an evil mist seems to be seeping through the house. It’s colder, he’s sure of it, a pain already present before the injury has been inflicted – and if only he had been able to keep those foolish words from tearing into the room that evening, if only he wasn’t too much and not enough, if only he had kept quiet so that things may have held together a while longer.
If only, if only, if only – and yet – if Thomas was to truly plunge into the deep lake of his mind, visit those wreckages and unturned stones at the bottom, would he be able to say truthfully that things had been easier for him, since the day of the car, when she stepped out in front of the house, modern and brilliant and full of change and beauty and excitement – had things been easier for him since this began? Had he ever felt comfortable, at ease, ever sure of himself in his own deathly form?
No. No, the word cuts, a pain in his side, but it is true. He has not been comfortable.
If anything, he now feels more than ever as if he is wearing a skin that does not fit him, forever stumbling and tripping over all the things he is meant to be – could be, if only he knew the secret of how. He cannot write anymore, cannot compose – cannot be anything but an amateur, a parody of the greats, a performer dazed with opium, a clumsy guest, knocking a precious heirloom to the floor. Oh, how he’s tried to stop the words and the worshipping, but he is a deep river, liable to burst its banks, and Alison is always caught in that vile floodtide.
And if Thomas is uncomfortable, then she must be doubly so, manacled to this house and forced to endure him, the snow shower, the cold water, every single day, and it should not have taken him until this evening, when he saw her tired eyes and weary turning away, to realise it. Or rather, perhaps it should not have taken this long to accept it, because such truth has always existed on his periphery – those sharper, less patient, less forgiving tones, those moments of pain he’d always ignored, that learning later what it means to exist as a con on the list.
Alas, snow cannot be sun, Winter cannot be Spring and Thomas Thorne cannot alter his self – cannot unpick it like a stitch gone array, cannot tear it away or strike through it, cannot begin again on a blank sheet. But Alison? Alison, Mia – and Mike too – they can change things. They can leave, if they want to, and if Thomas cares for them, which he does, then he must let them go. He’s too much, not enough – but he can let them go and perhaps – perhaps that will be just right.
He will say so, later, in the Urgent Group Meeting. He will put his hands up, make the sacrifice, say the unpopular thing. No matter if the others despise him for it – this is for Alison, for Mike and for Mia, for Mia who listens to his poetry, and smiles without unkindness, for Mia and for Alison who deserve blue skies, wildflowers, picnics, and sunshine, not poorly timed snow, not a voice in the ear, not clumsy words, not endless demands.
Perhaps absence will make the heart grow stronger. Perhaps change will be as good as a haircut. Perhaps Alison will still visit and he’ll have more time to prepare what he wants to say. Perhaps a new ghost will join their group, fall wildly in love with him, or perhaps they might want to talk about poetry. Maybe, he’ll refocus on his work.
Thomas glanced out to the night sky where the moon and Mary’s star were, to where they would always be. Something spoke to him then, in that moonlight, in the twinkle of those stars spoke to him then, and he understood. It didn’t where the Coopers went, because wherever they were, they would always be under the same sky, still able to look up and see just what he does – what they all do her, at Button House.
He sighed, a twinge of pain in his abdomen. He ought to stand, to find the others, but Thomas had never particularly enjoyed finishing a poem, had never been confident about putting the pen down. He would stay there then, in the library, for just a little while longer, and then, he would face the truth of it, when it was time.
Kitty has always been good at finding the sparkly parts. That’s what Mamma had told her, except she hadn’t said sparkly, because that wasn’t the sort of word Mamma would have used. Instead, she’d explained that Kitty could always find a precious stone amongst the dirt, could always spot the final flower of the summer, could always pick out the prettiest tune from a dreary concert.
And she really was very good at it. She was always the first to spot a rainbow, she never missed a kingfisher, she could usually find something nice to say about a play that was boring, or a dress that wasn’t the prettiest. She’d seen more shooting stars than Robin, she knew dandelions could make her as happy as roses, she’d known from the very beginning that Alison would be lovely, even when no one else had believed her. And it was perhaps because she was usually so very good at it, that it felt all the more horrible when she looked around and couldn’t even see a glimmer of something shiny.
Everything had been dulled since that morning in the kitchen, when she’d thought she’d seen something flash – like catching the flutter of a butterfly’s wing out of the corner of your eye, only to turn, to look properly, and find it was nothing, but a leaf blown by the breeze.
Maybe they’ll decide to stay she’d said, as if it could work as a magic spell.
She had tried so hard to see the shine and sparkle: Mike asking Alison if she was really sure and Alison looking back at them and deciding no, she really couldn’t leave them – Alison going out for the day and time apart helping her to realise that Button House was the only home – Kitty waking up a year ago when they were only worried about what they could get Alison for Christmas, and realising that the baby had all been one big long nightmare.
They won’t, Kitty.
The Captain’s words had turned everything to a dreary darkness, one that felt like walking through smoke, or rather, one that was like how Kitty imagined walking through jelly would be like, except, it was like jelly if Cook had forgotten to mix in the violet juice or the saffron, had left out the sugar and the spices, and set it instead, as if first was, when she’d finished boiling the calf’s feet – all murky and horrid.
The Christmas decorations no longer glittered, the promise of presents was cold and empty, and all she could hear was the sadness in the songs she’d once thought were happy. Alison kept trying to talk to her, the others kept trying to cheer her up. Her favourite films kept playing on the television, her musical Father Christmas – the one that had gone missing last year – had been found and was in the common room.
And still, nothing was sparkly. It was like that year, a long, long time ago now, before Thomas, when she hadn’t been dead that long, when it was bitter and frozen all year, and three people from Higham House had died but didn’t become ghosts, and all that anyone seemed to talk about was bad harvests, famine, and sickness. But this was worse, far worse because now Kitty couldn’t even see the slithers of blue sky, didn’t have Mary or Annie to talk to, couldn’t go butterfly watching because it really was winter, and they were all dead. This was worse because she had lost her talent and she missed it dreadfully.
How horrible it must be for those people who always saw the world like this – to never have known how lovely things could be. How awful never to have spotted a kestrel in the sky, or to never have seen how interesting the inside of a human leg was. And what if it stayed dull and sad forever? What if she never again learnt her magic? What if for hundreds and hundreds of years she felt like this?
It’s not fair!
Those are the words that have been stuck in her head like a song, but not like a song at all, because songs you could sing and dance and cry to. Actually, the words feel more like a stomach-ache, one that didn’t go away until you were sick.
It’s not fair!
She wants to shout it, but she can’t because she isn’t even certain she’s right, because what’s fair and what isn’t fair has always seemed a funny thing to her, has always been a little tricky to work out, to pin down. Was it fair, for example, that Eleanor got to choose for both of them which pieces of jewellery they kept of Mamma’s, because after all, Kitty, she was the eldest? Was it fair that Kitty got in trouble for muddying the hem of her dress when she had only got caught in the rain because Eleanor forgot they were playing hide and seek and had shut the door?
But it's not fair and she’s almost sure of herself this time – none of this is fair at all.
It’s not fair that Alison said they were staying and now they are not.
It’s not fair that the others acted like all of them had agreed that Alison should go, that she needed to do what was right for Mike and Mia. It wasn’t fair because Kitty hadn’t agreed on that and so they’d decided it without her and then made it seem like she was part of the choice.
It’s not fair, because sisters aren’t meant to leave each other and families can all live together if they want, because families had been doing that for hundreds and hundreds of years, so what made it so different today?
It’s not fair, because Alison hasn’t been here very long at all, not when you put it in ghost time, and she shouldn’t be leaving her so soon.
It’s not fair, because Alison gets to leave, and Mike gets to leave, and Mia gets to leave, and Kitty doesn’t. Kitty never, ever, ever gets to leave and it’s not fair, because even though she’s so happy she died and got to meet everyone and listen to all the new songs and have sleepovers and act in a pantomime, she still wishes she’d died maybe a few years later, just so she could have seen more places, just so you could have died in a prettier, more colourful dress, just so it didn’t quietly hurt when she saw all the places she’d never visit.
It's not fair, because the hotel guests might be horrible, and they might never get to watch films again or have dance club.
It’s not fair because if it’s a hotel, it might not feel like a home anymore.
It’s not fair, because Kitty doesn’t want them to leave, because they’ll probably never, ever come back.
It’s just not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.
Kitty was still crying when she heard the knock on her bedroom door. She hurried to hide herself behind the curtains and bit her lip to stop any trembling, to stop any sobs from escaping. She kept very still, like she used to, when she and Eleanor played hide and seek; if she could stay quiet and statue enough, Eleanor wouldn’t find her. If she stayed still now –
‘Kitty?’ Alison pushed the door open and came in. ‘Kitty, I know you’re in here. Come on, I just want to talk to you, please?’
Kitty stayed still, but she couldn’t help it. ‘Only if you have come to tell me that you’re staying.’
‘Kitty – you know why we can’t. But – look, I do really, really want to talk to you about it.’
Kitty said nothing, just watched through the gap of the curtains as Alison moved over to the bed.
‘I know you’re upset and I know I can’t make it better, so I’m just going to sit here and talk, okay? Alright. Okay. So, the golf people – the French ones, remember – they got in touch. They’re still interested in the property, so – so we’ve said yes, but. We’ve said yes, with a few conditions, since it’s – er – it’s my family’s home. And they’ve accepted. Sabine said she was delighted, actually, to – er have us involved, not sure about Garrion – his tone was a bit, funny, but – okay – what I’m trying to say is that we’re – I’m going to be involved in some of the decision making and I know it’s not exactly what you want to hear, but what it means is, I’m not abandoning you. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.’
There was a breaking sound in Alison’s voice and Kitty noticed she was wearing her burgundy jumper, the one with the flowers and sparkly wool and the sequins. The jumper that Kitty had helped her choose when Mike’s parents had given her a gift voucher for her birthday.
‘And so, I’ve been thinking,’ Alison continued after a moment, ‘of all the things I need to make sure happen – or don’t happen – and I sent a few ideas over and they’ve sent some back and I – I think you’re going to enjoy having the hotel here. I really, really do – because it sounds so fun, Kitty, like actually so cool. There’s going to be discos every other week, there’s going to be music on in the reception, they’re going to host parties, and they want to have a sauna and a mini cinema, so you’ll be able to watch stuff any time on a real-life big screen. And they’ll be performances, you know, bands, and they’ll be new people to see every day and they’ll be a little restaurant that will be a café during the day, and I’ve said they can’t touch Mary’s memorial or Fanny’s pet cemetery and they need to leave that clock as it is and make sure there’s a chess board somewhere and I’m going to tell them, they have to keep your snow globe and your Santa and get them out every year, and for the cinema, they have to make sure everyone knows if the film is a horror, so you won’t have to watch it if you don’t want to and – if you want anything else, you just have to say, Kitty, okay? Within reason – but –’
‘I want you to stay,’ Kitty said from behind the curtain.
‘I know,’ Alison’s voice broke a little again. ‘I know. But we can’t. It’s not good – not good for any of us, because we can’t take care of the house and you guys and Mia all at the same time.’
‘But why can’t M-’
Something very horrible had almost escaped from her, but she caught it, just in time. She didn’t mean it. She didn’t mean it. She didn’t mean it. She liked Bumpy. She liked talking to her and singing to her. It didn’t always feel fair, but she liked that Bumpy made Alison smile, made everyone smile. She didn’t mean it. She didn’t mean it. She didn’t mean it. She looked out from behind the curtains and Alison was still on the bed, rubbing her forehead.
In the light of the winter afternoon sun, the sequins and sparkly bits of Alison’s jumper looked shinier, brighter. Kitty had picked that jumper out of five others and Alison had listened to her. When they left, Alison would take it with her and whenever she wore it, she would think of Kitty. It was the teeniest, tiniest of gems amongst lots and lots of horrible boulders.
She stepped out from behind the curtains and went over to the bed.
Alison looked up, her eyes watery, and Kitty found hers were too.
‘I wish I could hug you,’ she said, and Alison smiled.
‘You wouldn’t like it.’
‘I know.’
She does know. She knows that if Alison didn’t leave now, then she would do in twenty, thirty, or fifty-years’ time, and maybe Kitty would have had longer with her, but she was always going to leave her behind one day. Everyone always did, just like Robin said.
And Kitty knows too, saw it when she caught Eleanor crying in the garden besides Florence one day, not long after she’d gone to sleep, that sometimes, people leave and you’re left with a big, grey cloud in your heart, one that might never go away, because only the gone person could help with that.
Kitty doesn’t want a grey cloud over her head forever. How sad, to never ever see any other weather again.
‘I’ve always wanted to go to the cinema,’ she said, ‘and I think they should have balloons, when the hotel opens.’
Alison smiled, a real one that only Mia had been getting recently. ‘That’s a good idea. Any idea on what colour they should be?’
‘Pink! No, wait – do the golf people have a logo? It could match that – or, it could be a rainbow! Or gold – rose gold!’
‘I’ll suggest it to them.’
‘And fireworks, for the opening night – but only really quiet ones.’
‘Alright, fireworks are going on the list and – what I needed to say is – is that we will visit. We’ll come and see you guys.’
‘It won’t be the same.’
‘No, but, that might make it fun. You’ll have stuff to tell me and show me – and, I know it won’t be the same, but, we’ll get lifetime membership for the golf course and we’ll be able to stay, whenever we like. Fanny said it was only right, so the house stays somewhat in the family, but that means we can come any time.’
‘Do you promise?’
‘Pinky promise.’
Kitty held out her finger, felt the brief sick feeling, but it was okay.
‘And you’ll come on my birthday?’
‘With gifts.’
‘And have a sleepover?’
‘Yep. We can make up dance routines. I’ll bring a facemask.’
‘How long until then?’
‘I mean, they’ll have to build the hotel first, so we might have to do the proper sleepover next year, but we’ll organise something for this June too.’
Kitty nodded and looked out the window. The sky was grey because it was winter and there wasn’t even the smallest bit of blue, but in her mind, if she tried her absolute hardest, she could picture a rainbow, shiny balloons, and disco lights. She could hear Reach for The Stars playing, could see herself dancing.
Everything was going to change and it stung her eyes to think about it, but she gave Alison a shaky smile.
Everything was going to change, and right now, it still felt very grey and very cold, but rainbows, bluebells, baby swans, and the sound of the ice cream van couldn’t be too far away.
It wasn’t fair, but maybe one day, it would feel different.
Kitty took hold of that sparkling, precious stone and held it tight.
‘On my birthday,’ she said, ‘the cinema has to play The Wizard of Oz.’
And when you reach the end, you can pause, catch your breath, and then you take another path and so it goes on and on and on.