“Well . . . ,” he said with hesitation. “Clearly it’s a well-loved and indispensable piece of the estate.”
He studied me. His face was so ruined I couldn’t tell if he was being menacing or teasing or both.
“Look, Miss Allstock, is it? I like staying here.” He pointed to the roof; I followed his gaze up to where I saw now, even in the dim light, he’d done some patching. “I’ve worked hard to improve it. Maybe we could work something out? Unless you plan on more of these nocturnal visits, we’d never even have to cross paths.” He leaned against the wall and put his hands in his pockets. “I spend the whole day out hounding. I don’t usually come back until the evenings. I could make a point of that.”
“Hounding?”
He sighed and rubbed at his ruined face. “Fossil hunting. That’s how I found this place. I was out hounding and it seemed . . . perfect.”
I watched him. “I’m not sure . . .”
“In the stream here, all sorts of fossils. Old bird bones, fish skeletons, things like that, frozen in time.”
I held up my hand, impatient. “I’m not worried about the bird bones. I just don’t know why I should let you stay.”
He gestured casually to his face. “Is it enough to say I need to be away from the city for a while? And that you should take pity on a poor war hero?” His voice cracked on the last words, and it made me realize he was younger than I’d thought he was. His size had misled me.
I studied him skeptically.
“Look.” He became suddenly serious, his voice dropping an octave. “In London, people stare. In the woods . . .” He nodded out toward the darkness. “The raccoons don’t care if I’m missing my face. Know what I mean? I need a break. Isn’t that why you come here? You need a break?”
I felt my face flush, and shook my head to contradict him.
“We all need a break,” he said, more to himself than to me.
I stood there uncertainly for a few moments longer. On one hand, I wanted to keep everything as I’d thought it had been: all mine. On the other, how could I refuse him?
“So you’ll let me stay?” he said, turning a confident smile on me or at least half a one. “We’ll share?”
I laid my candlesticks on the table and nodded. “For now I guess that’s all right,” I said. “But it’s my place, in the end. Don’t forget that.”
He nodded and then winced.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” he said impatiently. “Of course. Just one more thing . . . can you please not mention to anyone that I’m here? I don’t want people showing up with baskets of buns. I just want to be alone.”
I nodded. I was about to leave and was moving toward the door, but I back-stepped when I saw him clasping his hands together suddenly and sharply in pain. A shudder passed through him and then he straightened again and struck a careless pose with his hand at the window.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked. “Do you have any money? There’s a chemist in town. I could get you some . . .”
“Oh, I go back home for supplies. My family has a good doctor, plenty of money.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
He looked me up and down and smiled ruefully. “Thank you. I just need peace.”
And that was it. I haven’t seen him since.
I’ve decided to stay true to my word and not tell a soul about him, even though he could be a thief or a murderer or both.
I already know he’s a liar, because if he’s from a wealthy London family why are his clothes all frayed and old? And if he’s a wounded veteran, why is he hiding in a cottage in Forest Row instead of being treated in the city like the war hero he is?
My hand hurts because I wrote that all in a rush. It’s nearing midnight, and I can hear someone sniffling and crying quietly all the way down the hall but I don’t know who it is. I love my family, but sometimes I think they’re all so pathetic, awful as it is to admit. My eyelids are drooping.
Good night, Beth.
No books to send with this post.
Your friend, Lenore
APRIL 11, 1919
Beth,
Just a brief note, as the post is about to leave, and I feel like this morning you’re especially far away. I haven’t heard from you in weeks, and I think maybe you must be on a honeymoon. Could it be true that you are married by now, as you said you’d be? I’m happy for you, if so. It’s just that I woke with an emptiness in my chest, coming out of a dream of you, me, and Teddy. We were eleven and twelve—the age we were just before you left—and sitting on the lawn in front of the house, when a German zeppelin rose right behind us and over us and the house like the moon, flying over Forest Row. It was headed to London to drop bombs.
We couldn’t help thinking how beautiful it was, like it was sent from heaven. And then I realized that it wasn’t sent from heaven but from the war, and even though it was already past us I kept squeezing the grass underneath my legs, saying that I wouldn’t let the ground go. And then I woke up. I tried as hard as I could to fall back asleep and find you both again, but I couldn’t.
I’m a sleepwalker today. Do you think it was God talking to me? You’ve always been more of a believer than me, Beth! Maybe you can put in a good word for me.
In case you’re wondering, I’ve been back to the cottage many times but seen no sign of the giant (I never got his name) at all. He never even leaves his rucksack behind. I wonder if maybe he’s left altogether or if he’s just good at erasing himself.
I still imagine, whenever I’m there, that you are too. Talking to you in my head is like putting my brain through the laundry. You tell me I’ve impressed you with how strong I am to move on with life like I have. You point out what I could do better, like you used to.
Speaking of which, Douglas Fairbanks is my new soul mate. Do you think I have a chance? He’s so good looking I don’t think I’d mind what kind of personality he has.
APRIL 22, 1919
Dear Beth,
Over a month and no letter from you, and I’m wondering if something is wrong? We officially put away the mourning today—the black cloth around the bureau in the hall, the mourning brooch mounted in front of Teddy’s photo, and everyone’s gotten out of their black clothes. I’m relieved. And busy. The whole town is busy.
London is gearing up for the Fair of Lights, and Mother’s invited a lecturer to the town hall to speak to everyone about the innovations of industry and the productivity of mechanized labor. The lecturer is a friend of Father’s and has been advising him on reconfiguring the factory to run more efficiently. Some of the workers are upset about it; many of them will be working longer hours and some talk about the increased soot in the air. It’s all boring except to Father, whose eyes brighten with enthusiasm whenever the word efficiency comes into play.
I’m the organizer—getting the hall ready, getting the train schedules lined up for visitors. It’s draining at times. Someone rubbed Father’s shoes in manure last week when he’d taken them off outside the factory door to change into work boots. It’s related to either labor or contamination of the river or both. He just wiped them off with his handkerchief and went on as if nothing had happened. He’s an honest man, at the bottom of everything.
I hadn’t had a moment to get down to the cottage until yesterday, and I guess that, with so much time passing between my visits, the little improvements the giant has made have added up (he’s not gone after all). He’s continued rebuilding the roof, though it’s hard to imagine it ever being finished.
I made two trips to the house to bring some things back—a small Union Jack that I poached from Teddy’s grave (sacrilege!) and next to it, a small stack of magazines and pillows. This morning when I returned with candlesticks (Mother has six sets), he’d added some things too: a jar of wild roses, several small rocks, a snail shell, and another shell that I didn’t recognize.
Clearly the giant has no interest in being friends, and neither do I. But it’s nice to be alone and yet h
ave this feeling of having company at the same time.
P.S. I was just writing that last part when I heard a noise and got up to see what it was. Forget what I just wrote. I think I was wrong.
APRIL 23, 1919
Dear Beth,
I’m lying in bed, propped on my pillows. Downstairs the house is coming alive—pots and pans being banged around in the kitchen. A crack of bright light is falling on me through the curtain.
Last night I was writing to you (letter enclosed with this one) after the rest of the family had gone to sleep. I could hear Ruth and Vera in their room talking and then settling down, and Gordon rattling around with some school project he’s building downstairs. I was sitting in the window writing the last words when an orange flicker caught the corner of my eye, and I looked out onto the lawn to see an invisible hand waving a cigarette. It was a cloudy, dark night, but as the cigarette moved the hand holding it and the rest of its owner came into view: the giant. I pulled on my robe and tiptoed downstairs and out onto the lawn. He was waiting by the bottom stair, his misshapen form looming at me from the shadows.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, alarmed. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” he said, wincing. “I was just wondering if you’d like to come over for dinner.”
I looked up at the moon. “It’s almost ten o’clock.”
“Yes.”
“I already ate.”
He just stood silently, waiting.
“I thought you wanted to get away from people.”
He shrugged. “I thought I didn’t smoke either.” He began to tremble, let out a hiss, and sank down onto the grass. “To be honest, I just need to take my mind off how much everything hurts.”
I let out a slow breath and looked at the overcast sky, wide awake now.
“All right. I just have to sign off on a letter. What’ll I bring?”
Down at the cottage, he had a bottle of wine waiting but no glasses. I’d raided the kitchen for rolls and cold chicken and half a wheel of cheese, but I hadn’t thought of that.
“We’ll have to drink from the bottle,” he said. And we did.
I was suddenly starving, and we talked between mouthfuls. He asked me about my parents, the factory, my job. He told me he grew up in Knightsbridge and—his eyes shifting away from mine—that his parents, famous naturalists who work at the British Museum, are out of the country on some kind of important expedition. I don’t mind that I don’t believe him. Mostly, the pain he was in was distracting to both of us. When he wasn’t eating, he kept his arms wrapped around his chest like he was trying to hold himself together.
“Where did you fight?” I asked.
“Sensitive subject,” he said, “don’t you think? Given that I left my ear there?”
“What’s your name?” I changed tack, embarrassed.
He smiled at that. “James.”
He stood to light the fire but couldn’t strike a match with his thick, scarred fingers. He made a fist and pounded it on the mantel in annoyance. I sat looking on uncertainly until he shot a glare at me. “Wouldn’t want to help a bloke?”
As I lit the kindling he stomped around the cottage whistling “God Save the King” impatiently while I got everything going. Even his whistling has sarcasm in it.
His lips are so damaged that he can’t drink anything without some of it dribbling out the side of his mouth. I think he was feeling self-conscious, because he kept letting out loud, angry sighs.
“Can I help?” I asked.
“Just pretend you don’t notice,” he retorted.
“Well, make up your mind,” I said. “Do you want me to offer to help or do you want me to pretend I don’t notice?”
He smiled again, and this time it gave me this sudden glimpse of what his face used to look like. At the same time, it was as if there was a little bit of air let out between us with all the bluntness, and things became more comfortable.
We got a little drunk. I didn’t ask him any more about the war, and he didn’t ask me about my strange breakdown the first and last time we’d been in the cottage together. I told him how Mother is trying to marry me off. He told me more about fossil collecting, which bored me to tears.
And we talked about you. He initiated it.
“Now, Allstock,” he said, after we’d finished our last bites.
“Lenore,” I said.
“Allstock.” He leaned back against the wall looking at me seriously and intensely. “I’ve got a personal question for you, since we’re asking those kinds of questions. Who’s your invisible friend? The place settings? The putting flowers out for someone who never shows up? Who died?”
I stared down at my plate in the flickering of the fire, embarrassed again, but not as much as before.
“I have a friend in America,” I said finally. “I just imagine she’s here.”
Because he seemed to be waiting for more, and no one ever asks me about you, I told him how we grew up together, how when war was brewing your parents took you to America to get you out of harm’s way. How I’m planning to follow you there so we can be lifelong neighbors.
He smiled. “And how long has she been gone?” he asked.
“Since just before the Lusitania,” I said.
“So since we were kids.”
I nodded.
“So she is your imaginary friend.”
I looked at him, annoyed.
“Well, Allstock . . .”
“Lenore.”
“I’m sure you’ve changed so much—with everything that’s happened, and just . . . getting older,” he said. “And her too. It’s inevitable that you’d both be completely different now. It’s likely that if you met again, you wouldn’t like each other. So what’s the point of having imaginary tea together?”
“I haven’t changed,” I said.
His eyes flickered with doubt. “They’ve been in mourning at your house,” he said. “Who died? Your father?”
“My brother. And please shut up with that look.” I pushed myself back, away from him.
“I can’t stand sad looks either, believe me.” He cupped his hands on either side of his lips and lifted them in a pretend smile. “That better? Sorry, but my lips got bombed into a permanent frown.”
I smiled, despite myself. There was something about the way he treated the most horrific things that made me feel like I could breathe.
“What was your brother like?” he asked lightly. As if he were asking Do you have plans Saturday? or How is the pie?
I surprised myself by answering honestly. “He was closest to me in age, out of all of us,” I said. “People always called us ‘the twins.’ He always stood up for me. And teased me. But on the important things, he always stood up for me.”
“You’ve lost your almost-twin,” he said, thrusting the almost-empty wine bottle into my hands. “Well, you deserve the last drink then.”
I thought how we were treading in a dangerous place. To not enrage me about Teddy, one has to walk a thin line of comprehension without pity. I wanted to pull away from the subject, and uncharitably, it seemed like a good moment to catch James off guard. “When do your parents get back from their expedition?” I asked.
He did look momentarily caught.
“They’re on their way back now,” he asserted after a moment, gazing everywhere but at my face (though to be fair, that’s generally the way he talks).
I wonder if he thinks he has to pretend to come from money because he assumes I do. And I want so much to know his real story. But I didn’t push it. It’s not that I feel sorry for him—though it’s sad to see how he thinks about his face all the time. It’s clear in the way he rubs at it, runs his hands over his ear and his half-ear as if he can’t believe their shape, and touches his lips self-consciously.
“You’re no good at pretending you don’t notice,” he finally said as I watched him. “Did anyone ever tell you that?”
I shook my head.
“Maybe you shou
ld wear a fake mustache to distract people,” I offered.
He let out a loud booming laugh, which startled me enough to make me laugh too. I think it was the first time I’ve laughed in months.
“Well, it’s been nice,” he said, tapping his lips. “And I think I haven’t thought about how bad my body feels for about an hour. Maybe it’s the wine.”
I stood to go, knowing it was my cue.
We said good-bye at the door.
I haven’t seen him since. At least I didn’t flinch again when we shook hands good-bye.
All right, Beth, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking this is just like one of our books, like Beauty and the Beast. But I’m too superficial and selfish to be Beauty, and he’s not going to turn back into a handsome prince like the Beast. Anyway, when I meet my soul mate he won’t be sarcastic and he’ll always call me by my first name.
But to put your mind even further to rest, James told me something else: he’s engaged to a girl in London who is very beautiful. I didn’t believe it until he showed me her photo, which he keeps in his rucksack with whatever other few things he’s unable to live without.
It makes me relieved for him, and a little for myself. That there doesn’t have to be that question lingering over us. And we can really be actual friends.
MAY 1, 1919
Dear Beth,
I hope there’s nothing wrong and that you’re just too deliriously happy and preoccupied to write. I’m going to keep writing to you, because I assume you want to hear about my exciting life here where every day is just about the same.
The only interesting thing, as usual, is the cottage and James the Giant.
For a month or so after I last wrote, given that we run on different times and in different worlds, I didn’t see him at all. But those weeks we did communicate through things we left for each other: jars of honey, bird bones, little rocks he’s broken in half—quartz and pyrite. I left him a note telling him I hoped he was feeling better, and he left me a note saying he hoped I was going on lots of dates like Mother wants me to.
Finally, last Saturday my parents were away for a conference on machinery. So bright and early, I got up and strolled down across the pasture to the woods to check in on him.