tion>
A Vintage Affair
ISABEL WOLFF
In memory of my father
What a strange power there is in clothing
Isaac Bashevis Singer
Contents
Epigraph Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Epilogue Bibliography Acknowledgements About the Author By the same Author Praise For Isabel Wolff: Copyright About the Publisher
Blackheath, 1983
‘… seven-teen, eight-een, nine-teen … twenty! Com-ing!’ I yell. ‘Ready or not …’ I uncover my eyes and begin the search. I start downstairs, half expecting to find Emma huddled behind the sofa in the sitting room or wrapped, like a sweet, in the crimson curtains, or crouched under the baby grand. I already think of her as my best friend although we’ve only known each other six weeks. ‘You have a new classmate,’ Miss Grey had announced on the first day of term. She’d smiled at the girl in the too-stiff blazer standing next to her. ‘Her name is Emma Kitts and her family have recently moved to London from South Africa.’ Then Miss Grey had led the newcomer to the desk next to mine. The girl was short for nine, and slightly plump with large green eyes, a scattering of freckles, and an uneven fringe above shiny brown plaits. ‘Will you look after Emma, Phoebe?’ Miss Grey had asked. I’d nodded. Emma had flashed me a grateful smile …
Now I cross the hall into the dining room and peer under the scratched mahogany table but Emma’s not there; nor is she in the kitchen with its old-fashioned dresser with its shelves of mismatched blue-and-white plates. I would have asked her mother which way she’d gone but Mrs Kitts has just ‘popped to play tennis’ leaving Emma and me on our own.
I walk into the big, cool larder and slide open a low cupboard that looks promisingly large but contains only some old Thermos flasks; then I go down the step into the utility room where the washing machine spasms in its final spin. I even lift the lid of the freezer in case Emma is lying amongst the frozen peas and ice cream. Now I return to the hall, which is oak-panelled and warm, smelling of dust and beeswax. To one side is a huge, ornately carved chair – a throne from Swaziland Emma had said – the wood so dark that it’s black. I sit on it for a moment, wondering where precisely Swaziland is, and whether it has anything to do with Switzerland. Then my eyes stray to the hats on the wall opposite; a dozen or so, each hanging from a curving brass peg. There’s an African head-dress in a pink and blue fabric and a Cossack hat that could be made of real fur; there’s a Panama, a trilby, a turban, a top hat, a riding hat, a cap, a fez, two battered boaters and an emerald green tweed hat with a pheasant feather stuck through it.
I climb the staircase with its wide, shallow treads. At the top is a square landing with four doors leading off it. Emma’s bedroom is the first on the left. I turn the handle then hover in the doorway to see if I can hear stifled giggles or tell-tale breathing: I hear nothing, but then Emma’s good at holding her breath – she can swim a width and a half underwater. I flip back her shiny blue eiderdown, but she’s not in the bed – or under it; all I can see there is her secret box in which I know she keeps her lucky Krugerrand and her diary. I open the big white-painted corner cupboard with its safari stencils, but she’s not in there either. Perhaps she’s in the room next door. As I enter it I realise, with an uncomfortable feeling, that this is her parents’ room. I look for Emma under the wrought-iron bed and behind the dressing table, the mirror of which is cracked in one corner; then I open the wardrobe and catch a scent of orange peel and cloves which makes me think of Christmas. As I stare at Mrs Kitts’ brightly printed summer dresses, imagining them under the African sun, I suddenly realise that I am not so much seeking as snooping. I retreat, feeling a vague sense of shame. And now I want to stop playing hide and seek. I want to play rummy, or just watch TV.
‘Bet you can’t find me, Phoebe! You’ll never, ever find me!’
Sighing, I cross the landing into the bathroom where I check behind the thick white plastic shower curtain and lift the lid of the laundry basket, which contains nothing but a faded-looking purple towel. Now I go to the window, and lift the semi-closed slats of the Venetian blind. As I peer down into the sun-filled garden a tiny jolt runs the length of my spine. There’s Emma – behind the huge plane tree at the end of the lawn. She thinks I can’t see her, but I can because she’s crouching down and one of her feet is sticking out. I dash down the stairs, through the kitchen and into the utility room, then I fling open the back door.
‘Found you!’ I shout as I run towards the tree. ‘Found you,’ I repeat happily, surprised by my euphoria. ‘Okay,’ I pant, ‘my turn to hide. Emma?’ I peer at her. She’s not crouching down, but lying down, on her left side, perfectly still, eyes closed. ‘Get up will you, Em?’ She doesn’t reply. And now I notice that one leg is folded beneath her at an awkward angle. With a sudden ‘thud’ in my ribcage I understand. Emma wasn’t hiding behind the tree, but in it. I glance up through its branches, glimpsing shreds of blue through the green. She was hiding in the tree, but then she fell.
‘Em …’ I murmur, stooping to touch her shoulder. I gently shake her but she doesn’t respond, and now I notice that her mouth is slightly agape, a thread of saliva glistening on her lower lip. ‘Emma!’ I shout. ‘Wake up!’ But she doesn’t. I put my hand to her ribs but can’t feel them rise and fall. ‘Say something,’ I murmur, my heart pounding now. ‘Please, Emma!’ I try to lift her up, but I can’t. I clap my hands by her ears. ‘Emma!’ My throat is aching and tears prick my eyes. I glance back at the house, desperate for Emma’s mother to come running over the grass, ready to make everything all right; but
