English Girl in New York by Scarlet Wilson Page A

here.’
    Clutter. Everywhere.
    The floor was clear, but that was pretty much it.
    There was no getting away from it—Mrs Van Dyke was clearly a hoarder.
    She gave a smile and stepped further, keeping her elbows tight in against her sides for fear of tipping something off one of the tables or shelves next to her.
    On second thoughts, Mrs Van Dyke wasn’t your typical hoarder. Not the kind you saw on TV with twelve skips outside their house so it could be emptied by environmental health.
    There were no piles of papers, magazines or mail. In fact, the only newspaper she could see was clearly deposited in the trash. And all the surfaces in the apartment sparkled. There was no dust anywhere. Just...clutter. Things. Ornaments. Pictures. Photo frames. Wooden carvings. Tiny dolls. Ceramics. The place was full of them.
    No wonder Dan had thought she might have something they could use.
    â€˜They’re mementos. They’re not junk. Everything holds a memory that’s special to me, or my family.’
    Carrie jumped. Mrs Van Dyke seemed to move up silently behind her. Had she been so obvious with her staring?
    â€˜Of course not,’ she said quickly.
    Mrs Van Dyke picked up the nearest ornament. ‘My husband used to carve things. This one he gave me on our first anniversary. A perfect rose.’
    Carrie bent down and looked closely. It really was a thing of beauty. She couldn’t even see the marks where the wood had been whittled away—it was perfectly smooth.
    â€˜It’s beautiful.’
    Mrs Van Dyke nodded. ‘Yes, it is.’ She walked slowly through the apartment, pointing as she went. ‘This was the globe he bought me at Coney Island. This was a china plate of my grandmother’s—all the way from Holland. This—’ she held up another carving, this time of a pair of hands interlinked, one an adult’s and one a child’s ‘—is what he carved for me after our son Peter died when he was seven.’
    Carrie’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’
    Mrs Van Dyke ran her finger gently over the carving as she sat it back down. ‘It shows that we’d always be linked together, forever.’
    She reached a door and gestured to Carrie. ‘This is my box room. This is where I keep most of my things.’
    Carrie was still taken aback by her comment about her son, so she pushed the door open without really thinking. She let out a gasp of laughter. ‘You’re not joking—it is a box room.’ And it was. Filled with boxes from floor to ceiling. But there was no randomness about the room. Every box was clearly labelled and facing the door, and there was a thin path between the boxes. Room enough for someone of slim build to slip through.
    â€˜The boxes you’re looking for are near the back.’ She touched Carrie’s shoulder. ‘Your baby—is it a boy or a girl?’
    Just the way she said it— your baby —temporarily threw her for a second. It took her a moment to collect her thoughts. ‘It’s a boy. It’s definitely a boy.’
    Mrs Van Dyke nodded. ‘Straight to the back, on the left-hand side somewhere, near the bottom, you’ll find a box with David’s name on it. And behind it, you might find something else that’s useful.’
    Carrie breathed in and squeezed through the gap. The labelling was meticulous, every item neatly catalogued. Did this really make Mrs Van Dyke a hoarder? Weren’t those people usually quite disorganised and chaotic? Because Mrs Van Dyke was none of those things.
    The box with David’s baby things was almost at the bottom of a pile. Carrie knelt down and started to gingerly edge it out, keeping her eyes on the teetering boxes near the top. The whole room had the potential to collapse like dominoes—probably at the expense of Mrs Van Dyke, who was standing in the doorway.
    She pushed her shoulder against the pile,