said Eloise. There’s powerful magic here. Black magic. Hastings is built on ley lines.
Genie knew about those. Paul had explained them to her. She told Eloise about his theory, that tube lines corresponded with other kinds of lines: blood lines, ley lines. All kinds of power lines. And Eloise asked, How come you two are different colours?
Different dads.
They clambered onto the ruins and stood looking down at the town, which lay caught in a cracked shell of cloud below. The fishing boats on the beach looked like tiny Chinese slippers and all the town’s movement was stilled at their great height. Even the waves out at sea seemed to break in slow motion.
Why do people say they’re scared of heights when what they really mean is that they’re scared of falling? Genie asked.
They were balanced on the broken wedge of wall, clutching each other, poised just so – so that if one of them moved, she would fall, and if she fell, the other would fall with her.
They’re not afraid of falling, said Eloise. They’re afraid of landing. If you carried on falling, it would be OK.
Then, almost to herself, Eloise said, The colour of honey.
By summer they were inseparable. And when Genie was in the infirmary with glandular fever Eloise was in the bed right beside her, recovering from a spell of fainting fits. Sometimes Eloise would undress in front of Genie, daring her to stare. Eloise was so pale she looked as though she had milk for blood. But it was her bra that made Genie sad. Genie did not possess one herself yet but the bras she had seen in the laundry pile were teen bras, pretty things. This was an old woman’s bra, stiff with rough lace and heavy-looking, the colour of an Elastoplast bandage. Eloise looked so frail, it seemed to Genie that the bra was holding her up.
In the long, liquid evenings they would hang out of the infirmary window, looking down on the other girls in the gardens, feeling the warm air on their faces. It was hard to sleep at night, in the high soft beds. They decided that they would spend as much of the holidays as they could together.
You could come to my house, said Eloise. You could meet Bel Gazou.
Could I? asked Genie, delighted.
Yes, said Eloise. And you could bring Paul.
During the holidays Genie received a card, a scratchy drawing of a woman with long red hair scraped back from a bony face. She was sitting with one knee drawn up to her chin, staring sullenly with bulging eyes. She looked half-starved .
That’s from Eloise, isn’t it? Paul said. She thinks it looks like her. That’s why she sent it.
Her mum’s going away. She’s asked me to come and stay.
Watch it. She’s trouble.
But he did not say anything to Mam.
Genie could not believe Eloise lived in such luxury – in a whole house, one of those huge white ones with pillars, like a wedding cake. Eloise showed her around in a desultory fashion, kicking at the antique furniture, inviting Genie to trail a hand through the rack of evening dresses in Mrs Hayne’s walk-in wardrobe – beaded, sequinned, or of slippery satin – Eloise sneering at it all. Genie kept quiet, trying to remember everything so she could tell Paul afterwards. Bel Gazou could not be coaxed out of the wardrobe, where she lay cowering for most of Genie’s visit – in the fur section, to Genie’s quiet horror and Eloise’s amusement.
Genie was shown the collection of drinks in Mrs Hayne’s cocktail cabinet – the spirits which were clear as water until Eloise swilled the bottle and you saw the thick oiliness of the liquid; the shapely bottles of sticky liqueurs which, held to the light, entranced Genie with their jewelled colours. They picked off the sugary crusts that had formed on the open mouth of the bottles and sucked on them.
Taste this one, Eloise commanded, sticking out her finger. On its tip was something crystallised.
Looks like bogies.
Taste it.
With the tip of her tongue she dabbed the tip of Eloise’s finger. It was
Genie knew about those. Paul had explained them to her. She told Eloise about his theory, that tube lines corresponded with other kinds of lines: blood lines, ley lines. All kinds of power lines. And Eloise asked, How come you two are different colours?
Different dads.
They clambered onto the ruins and stood looking down at the town, which lay caught in a cracked shell of cloud below. The fishing boats on the beach looked like tiny Chinese slippers and all the town’s movement was stilled at their great height. Even the waves out at sea seemed to break in slow motion.
Why do people say they’re scared of heights when what they really mean is that they’re scared of falling? Genie asked.
They were balanced on the broken wedge of wall, clutching each other, poised just so – so that if one of them moved, she would fall, and if she fell, the other would fall with her.
They’re not afraid of falling, said Eloise. They’re afraid of landing. If you carried on falling, it would be OK.
Then, almost to herself, Eloise said, The colour of honey.
By summer they were inseparable. And when Genie was in the infirmary with glandular fever Eloise was in the bed right beside her, recovering from a spell of fainting fits. Sometimes Eloise would undress in front of Genie, daring her to stare. Eloise was so pale she looked as though she had milk for blood. But it was her bra that made Genie sad. Genie did not possess one herself yet but the bras she had seen in the laundry pile were teen bras, pretty things. This was an old woman’s bra, stiff with rough lace and heavy-looking, the colour of an Elastoplast bandage. Eloise looked so frail, it seemed to Genie that the bra was holding her up.
In the long, liquid evenings they would hang out of the infirmary window, looking down on the other girls in the gardens, feeling the warm air on their faces. It was hard to sleep at night, in the high soft beds. They decided that they would spend as much of the holidays as they could together.
You could come to my house, said Eloise. You could meet Bel Gazou.
Could I? asked Genie, delighted.
Yes, said Eloise. And you could bring Paul.
During the holidays Genie received a card, a scratchy drawing of a woman with long red hair scraped back from a bony face. She was sitting with one knee drawn up to her chin, staring sullenly with bulging eyes. She looked half-starved .
That’s from Eloise, isn’t it? Paul said. She thinks it looks like her. That’s why she sent it.
Her mum’s going away. She’s asked me to come and stay.
Watch it. She’s trouble.
But he did not say anything to Mam.
Genie could not believe Eloise lived in such luxury – in a whole house, one of those huge white ones with pillars, like a wedding cake. Eloise showed her around in a desultory fashion, kicking at the antique furniture, inviting Genie to trail a hand through the rack of evening dresses in Mrs Hayne’s walk-in wardrobe – beaded, sequinned, or of slippery satin – Eloise sneering at it all. Genie kept quiet, trying to remember everything so she could tell Paul afterwards. Bel Gazou could not be coaxed out of the wardrobe, where she lay cowering for most of Genie’s visit – in the fur section, to Genie’s quiet horror and Eloise’s amusement.
Genie was shown the collection of drinks in Mrs Hayne’s cocktail cabinet – the spirits which were clear as water until Eloise swilled the bottle and you saw the thick oiliness of the liquid; the shapely bottles of sticky liqueurs which, held to the light, entranced Genie with their jewelled colours. They picked off the sugary crusts that had formed on the open mouth of the bottles and sucked on them.
Taste this one, Eloise commanded, sticking out her finger. On its tip was something crystallised.
Looks like bogies.
Taste it.
With the tip of her tongue she dabbed the tip of Eloise’s finger. It was
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