‘Don’t be silly. And don’t say things like that in front of Evie. You’ll scare her.’
‘She’s already scared,’ shoots back Amelia, crossing her arms defensively. ‘You might love it here, but nobody else does.’ She stalks off before I can reprimand her for backchat.
I’m woken in the night by footsteps outside our door. I sit up, blinking in the darkness as my eyes adjust. I’m expecting to see Evie creeping into our room, like last night. I wait, but nothing. I turn to Adrian, who is fast sleep, his mouth open, breathing deeply. Just as I begin to think I’m imagining it, I hear it again. A hushed, pleading voice now and creaking floorboards. I reach for my phone. It’s 3 a.m.
‘What’s going on?’ Adrian grunts, as I get out of bed.
‘I’m not sure but I think it’s Evie.’ I grab my dressing-gown and leave the room. Across the landing the girls’ bedroom door is wide open. They’re not in bed.
Then I hear a voice from the landing below. ‘Evie, wake up!’ It sounds like Amelia.
I head down the first flight of stairs. The girls are illuminated by the moonlight flooding in from the picture window and they look small in their pyjamas.
‘What’s going on?’ I hiss, when I reach them. ‘Why aren’t you both in bed?’
Amelia turns to me, her face stricken. ‘It’s Evie. She just started walking out of the room and down the stairs.’
Evie is standing outside one of the guest bedrooms, a strange look on her face. Her eyes are open, but they’re glassy, unseeing. I approach her carefully as though she’s a pony about to bolt. Gently I take her hand. ‘I think she’s sleepwalking,’ I whisper to Amelia. ‘I’m going to take her back to bed.’
Amelia looks as though she’s about to cry, but nods. Evie is trance-like and there’s something unsettling about seeing my usually animated little girl like this.
I lead Evie into our bed, hoping there will be no more sleepwalking if she’s with us. She slips beneath the duvet, turns over and closes her eyes with a sigh. Adrian is oblivious. He grunts something indecipherable, then carries on snoring gently.
I accompany Amelia to the girls’ room and tuck the duvet around her. ‘What happened, Moo?’
She shakes her head. She’s pale in the half-light, and clearly scared. ‘It was so weird. I woke up to see Evie opening the bedroom door. I thought she was just going into your room, you know, like she does. Then I heard creaking and knew she was going downstairs. So I followed her. But she just stood there, on the next landing, looking freaky, and then I remembered that stupid doll she found and …’ She lets out a sob.
‘Ssh. It’s okay, sweets. She was sleepwalking, that’s all.’
‘I tried to wake her up.’
‘You mustn’t wake her up if it happens again. Okay? Just lead her back to bed. Then come and tell me.’
Amelia sniffs. ‘She’s never done it before.’
‘I know.’ I lie down next to her, expecting her to turf me out of her bed, but instead she huddles against me. I hold her trembling body close and stay with her until she falls asleep.
4
Six days before
Mum has been jittery all morning, as though she has something on her mind. Three times I had to ask her if the carpet fitters had called, and when I tried to talk to her about the girls – usually a favourite topic – I could tell she wasn’t listening. At first I wondered if it was nerves because we’re opening this weekend. We’re both anxious, wondering about making small-talk with the guests and if they’ll be difficult or demanding. When I found her glasses in the fridge, though, I guessed it was something more – or the beginning of dementia.
Then I discover her hoovering the leaves on the front porch with the Dust Buster.
‘Mum? We have a leaf blower for that.’
She looks up at me and then at the Dust Buster, as though she’s seeing it for the first time. There’s a pile of orange and red leaves at her feet.
She runs a hand through her hair. ‘Ah … of course. Just trying to get everything sorted.’
‘Everything is sorted, Mum. You know that.’ In desperation, we’d hired a painter and decorator to help us finish because we were running out of time, which eased the pressure but cost money we could ill afford. At least we’re up to speed. Mum’s been living with us for three weeks now and it’s not been easy – especially as Adrian’s been retreating more and more to our bedroom. He’s started writing a novel, which he’s wanted to do since he was a teenager.
I help Mum over the threshold. ‘What’s going on?’ I ask.
She steps into the hallway and shuts the front door on the wind that has started to pick up, scattering autumn leaves across the driveway.
She swallows. She’s not usually afraid to speak her mind.
