The Hidden Keeper

Preface

Humans, they are so fragile, aren’t they?

Well, when I say Humans I mean you lot really. Not me! Well, not anymore. My existence is surprising, unthinkable even, and I’m not even used to it yet, but I know I will adapt. You see, I have no other choice really.

Earth, the blue planet, it’s not safe. It hasn’t been for a long time. So, how do you think it will end? You must have a belief or perception of how it all will end? Yes? Possibly, a mega asteroid, tsunami, or a volcano will end you all. Perhaps, as scientists have argued, the depletion of the ozone layer or global warning will bring your lives to an end. Worse still, perhaps your beautiful blue planet will die at your very own hands, because you think it’s yours to do with what you want. Well, it isn’t yours!

Humans, they are so fragile. So stupid!

All this time you’ve spent worrying about what you think you know - what they choose to tell you - has distracted you from the very thing you should fear most.

The unknown!

Leaving London

Arundel nestles into the countryside of West Sussex near the South coast of England. It is by far, one of the most beautiful places to live in Britain. A town steeped in history! It is Arundel Castle which stands guard over the town, with imposing walls that had once been a silent witness to the nobility or gentry of the past. But this town was more than some bystander to many a pampered chronological event or just where my Mother lived. It seemed in many ways, to have an emollient way of brushing over me. I almost believed that it was capable of being mutable somehow, of growing a soul or a heart while my back was turned. It was strange! It had a depth that no other person could read except me, I think. All I knew was that I felt incredibly nostalgic about it whenever I had to leave, and travel back to Dad’s in London. But then, coming home to Dad wouldn’t be an issue for me anymore!

My Father had died suddenly of a heart attack six months ago. He was only forty-three, and it had been a devastating loss to my Brother Archie and me. Grief had come with such a myriad of emotions that I really wasn’t equipped to deal with it, and so I often hid behind my bastion of sorrow, which I frequently cradled too closely and privately to my heart.

The noise of my Mother’s car roaring into the drive broke my concentration. I waited for the front door to open and then slam.

‘Mum, I won’t be long – just taking one last look!’

I memorised the view from my bedroom window, knowing full well it would be the last chance I would have to breathe it in. To me….this wasn’t a home anymore, but an empty shell haunted by the ghost of my Father’s existence, and the promise of a future that I would never share with him.

‘Honey,’ Mum shouted up the stairs, ‘I’m just picking up the last of the paper work we need.’

‘Okay, Mum.’

I’m not ashamed to admit that I have at times, often felt over shadowed by my beautiful Mother. I was adopted, so there was little physical resemblance between us, although the colour of our hair was the same. She held herself in such a sophisticated way and was very alluring and captivating to the opposite sex, but my Father said she rarely saw it. At parties she worked the room so well, that she left most of Dad’s acquaintances’ in awe of her. But being a lawyer, she was an expert in dealing out flattery and polishing men’s egos.

However my awkward, skinny, geeky frame seemed to lumber through life. And to top it all off, my Mum had the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. Unusually, her mouth was quite wide in proportion to the rest of her face. And when she laughed, all you could see was this big mouth full of perfect, white teeth.

I heard her footsteps coming up the stairs, and wheeled round when she entered my room.

I waited as she gingerly crept around the door of my now empty room. ‘Are you okay, honey?’

‘I’m fine, Mum.’ I felt the familiar burning in my throat and the sting of tears. ‘I am fine, really.’

I was trying to convince myself as much as her.

She walked towards me with her hands outstretched. ‘Oh honey, it’s okay to be upset. This was your home.’

It was commendable and thoughtful the way she wanted – like most parents – to make things better. Yet here, standing in my soon to be old bedroom, I wished I was five year old again. Then, it wouldn’t be so hard to appease me, with talk of heaven, and meeting my Father again someday. As a child it’s easy to believe in another existence. In fact, most children feel an affinity with heaven, but not me, not anymore. I felt that I had been hauled violently into a world where I now questioned my Mother’s mortality.

I was eighteen now, and I realised that my Mother was faced with the task of making things feel better for my Brother and I, and yet I recognised fully that she might not be able to. The fact was, Mum was incontestably, and undeniably as fallible as any other human being.

Mum pointed out the window. ‘You took your first step out there. I remember your Dad phoning me at work to tell me. Boy was he excited! It was a moment I could only watch on the video camera. Damn video camera!’ She laughed, as she wiped away her tears. ‘He took it everywhere with him,’ she paused for a moment, allowing herself time to mull over her words, ‘good job really, I wouldn’t have seen very many of your milestones, or your Brother’s. So much time wasted! Your Dad: at least he could see very clearly what was important. He knew what his priorities were, but I just seemed to lack patience. I let my vision get extremely skewed and distorted over the years, and yet he was very patient with me!’

She was right!

My thoughts immediately drifted towards my Father, and I squeezed my eyes shut trying to picture his face. His smile was warm and welcoming, though somewhat hidden behind a goatee beard, which had become greyer by the year, although he didn’t seem to mind. Though charismatic, he was eccentric, honest – brutally so, and capricious by nature. And yet, he was more than any of those things. His death had left a huge void in all our lives.

Looking outside again I smiled. The back garden had seen many a playful time, and Dad was usually at the centre of it. He wasn’t a strict Father, or a stickler for rules. Our lifestyles were seldom dictated by time, and that wasn’t such a bad thing.

My silent tears were soon joined by sobs which, much to my annoyance, I couldn’t contain anymore. ‘I miss him so much! I miss his energy, the way he lit up a room, his excitement when he painted something new. God, I’ll even miss his footsteps pacing along the hall at night because his insomnia had come back with a vengeance.’

Mum pulled me tighter to her body, and stroked my hair. ‘This was a happy home, with many happy memories – even for me!’ She laughed over her own tears, because she fought her own demons about Dad’s death.

They were not together when he died, but they still loved each other. So, it was no surprise that she was grieving like the rest of us. They may not have been living together in recent years, but they were, I believe, pretty unique in their need to co-parent without any animosity.

As individuals they were polar opposites. Mum was a partner in her own firm, while Dad was creative, an artist and a sculptor. As time drifted apart, a formal relationship became less appealing to them, but time only altered their geography and their career paths, it had, in no way, changed their hearts. They remained single, and unable to move on and away from where their hearts truly lay – with each other!

‘We all have our happy memories of this house,’ Mum sighed, before wrapping me in her arms.

She kissed my forehead as I desperately fought my inherent need to hold back my emotions. It was a fight that rarely fell in my favour these days. I longed for the days when I would be able to talk about Dad without the rise of such raw emotion.

‘I’m so scared that I will forget what he looks like Mum.’

My shoulders shook as my broken body laboured with great difficulty to breathe, and trembled with the promise of more tears, and yet none flowed. Then, I opened my mouth to scream, squeal, or sob because my heart ached so badly, but I stayed silent because my vocal chords would not comply. My mind was willing and desperate for my next breath, but my body limped like a car stalling in the dead of winter.

‘Oh my beautiful girl,’ she maneuvered me around till I could see her beautiful green eyes, which were even more stunning due to the dark grey cocooning her iris. She took her hands and placed them against my face, her cold hands instantly cooling my warm flushed cheeks.

Brushing my hair from my face, she said, ‘you only have to look at your Brother to see your Dad.’

It was a moment of clarity that almost made me smile. There was no doubt that Archie was the mirror image of Dad in many ways. Unlike me, Archie was not adopted; he came along three years after me and was a much wanted sibling and a genuine surprise for my parents.

Archie had the same friendly smile and wore his dirty, blonde hair layered, long and messy as Dad. It was an appearance that I had wrestled with silently over the last six months, because very soon after Dad died it was hard to see him in Archie’s likeness, but after a while I found some strange comfort in it.

The facial likeness was where the similarity ended; they were converse in their nature completely. Archie, was callow, immature, poised, raucous, and somewhat naïve, all to be expected when your fifteen I suppose. There was no doubt or reservation to challenge his conviction that he inherently believed that he was ready for anything the world wanted to throw at him. And well, perhaps I envied that!

I looked up towards the blue winter sky, as nice as it looked out there, I knew it was bitterly cold, but it didn’t stop the birds from flying or people going about their business.

They say life happens when you make plans, and it’s true, but life also happens when you’re grieving too. Losing someone you love is like riding the scariest rollercoaster blindfolded. All you can do is sit back and let the ride take you through its ups and downs; twists and turns. You pray that it’s a ride that won’t last long, but you can’t fight time because it holds its omnipresent force over your every move. You see grief and time rarely travel alone! In the end, you can only hope that you come close to resembling the person you were before.

‘Where do you think he is? Where do you think Dad is right not?’ I whispered.

‘Well, if we know your Father like we do, it is pretty certain that he won’t be taking a rest somewhere, that’s for sure!’ She laughed. ‘You know what Juliette…. I think he’s everywhere. He’s in everything that you say and do. He’s in the strokes of your paint brush when you paint your pictures that he was so proud of. He’s in the cobalt blue, reminding you to be strong and never forget that strength. He’s in the crimson red strokes, reminding you to channel that temper of yours into your work instead.’

I smiled, hanging on to each and every beautiful word my Mother uttered. She wasn’t artistic at all, she was much more derivative than Dad, but sometimes when she spoke, her words bounced around until they settled on something wonderful. Those were the times I could blatantly see my Dad’s influence on her.

Mum lifted her fingers in the air, as if she was painting the most breath-taking picture. ‘He’s in every pat of yellow you press on your canvas, reminding you that he loved those pictures you drew as a child. You know the ones that had pride of place on the fridge and kitchen cupboards? They had the biggest yellow Sun he had ever seen, with rays of Sunbeams that reached the ground.’ Mum’s smile was the widest I had seen it for months as she continued, ‘every touch of green, purple and brown should remind you of the days he spent walking in the fields and forests with you. You used to pick up the autumn leaves that the trees had discarded. They were of no use to them anymore, but to you and your Father, they were art waiting to happen! Every dab, tap, stroke and touch you make has your Dad wrapped and coiled within it and around it, but more than that…’ Mum looked towards the window and breathed heavily on the glass to mist it up, before taking her finger and drawing a heart shape, ‘he’ll always be in here – in your heart Juliette, and in mine and Archie’s and, everyone who loved him dearly.’

I stood for a moment taking in her words, and feeling completely in awe of the moments that she surprised me like this. That was until the slam of the front door jarred me out from spell of Mum’s words.

‘Mum!’ Came a voice from downstairs, ‘I’m back, you up there?’

Archie had returned from saying goodbye to his close friends.

‘Honey, I’ll be down in a minute!’ She answered. ‘I need you to carry some things to the car.’

‘Okay,’ he answered.

Mum moved away from me, and inspected my face. ‘Are you okay, honey?’

I nodded.

‘Come down when you’re ready, okay?’

‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ I reassured her, wiping away my tears with the cuff of my jumper and sniffing loudly.

I turned back to the window, and smiled at the love-heart Mum had drawn, before lifting the last bag from my room. I slowly walked around the room, dragging my finger lightly along all four walls.

Goodness! These walls had been every colour imaginable. My Dad, wrongly or rightly, gave me freedom to express myself artistically in any way I wanted. He had even tolerated it, when in a fit of teenage hysterics at fifteen; I decided the walls should be black.

I hated it of course, but I wasn’t going to tell Dad that! I thought it represented me and how I felt at that time. Outwardly, I portrayed myself as a well-grounded, well-informed, composed individual. And of course, my parents knew nothing! But yet, the truth was, that as a teenager, my outwardly behaviour was merely a ruse to hide the obvious - I wasn’t sure about anything at all! There I was imprisoned in the tomb of teenage angst, the abyss between childhood and adulthood, with only bravado as a mask. It seemed a perilous, lonely place back then, with very little Sunlight and continual in depth soul searching. I really hated that black paint, but I tolerated it for weeks. I must have been mad!

I’m complex still, I think. And the uncertainty of my mildly hormonal years only accelerates those feelings of complexity. I don’t always understand myself, but there are things I do know. I know I don’t need to fill the silent gaps with garrulous words. I read - a lot! I have an eclectic taste in music, from which I choose what suits my mood on any particular day.

Some people make assumptions about kids who are adopted. They think that adoptees’ completeness can only be gained through meeting their birth parents. But my complexity doesn’t inflict me, or give rise to some shallow need to track down a blood relative to prove some point to my adopted family. No, my age is firmly to blame for my emotional state and seeking out some blood tie whilst I feel the way I do will only add confusion to my state of mind.

I walked towards the bedroom door, my heart beating harder and faster, and my legs growing heavier with every single step I took. I turned taking one last look around, trying to fight the belief that I was, in some way, leaving Dad behind.

I stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind me, and then went on to systematically close every door that faced onto the landing. As every door shut, I was literally closing my life here away. I knew that it would be new life; a new family that would open them back up and breathe laughter, happiness and stories back into them once again.

I stood at the top of the stairs, and took a deep breath as I edged down them. These were the stairs I ran up and down as a child; where Archie and I hid and watched as our parents entertained downstairs. The middle stair is where Archie’s fell and needed stitches in his chin. These were the stairs we ran up on Christmas Eve and were too scared to come down, until Dad told us Father Christmas had been and gone. And as I reached the bottom stair and ran my hand up the banister lightly, I realised that I had aged coming up and down these stairs; every morning I came down them I was a day older. But now there would be no growing up on these stairs – in this house, and the mahogany of the railings seemed to pay silent homage to that.

‘Juliette,’ Archie said with a tense half smile stretched over his face, ‘you can sit up front with Mum. Do you have everything?’

‘Yes,’ I nodded.

Archie’s I-pod earphones seemed surgically attached to his ears most days, but today - more so than usual. I knew he was trying to block the emotions of the day out, block today out altogether.

I walked out of the house and quickly wrapped my coat around my body. I didn’t look back, and I didn’t want to be the one to shut the front door either, and so I quietly slipped into the passenger’s seat and waited on Mum and Archie.

I rested my head against the window, the cold glass soothing my still burning cheek. I tried to push the next hours to the back of my mind. I wasn’t relishing being stuck in this four wheeled prison at all.

Archie climbed into the back seat, giving my shoulder a squeeze through the head rest, quickly followed by Mum. She started the car immediately, and in silence. We were all aware of the significance of this journey and it weighed heavy on our shoulders.

The car vibrated under my cheek, and I steeled myself to not look back – to never look back. So, as I opened my eyes the tears fell silently, burning like acid on the armour of my heart, because today would be the last journey that I would ever take from my Dad’s home in London, to my Mother’s house in Arundel.

****

I must have fallen asleep, because I awoke suddenly to the car breaking abruptly. As normal, Mum decorated her speech with countless words of profanities; the usual ones that made my eyes roll and my cheeks flush the colour of crimson red. She had obviously taken umbrage with another individual’s driving skills, but she was prone to the occasional bouts of road rage; Archie and I were accustomed to that.

Mum looked tired and weary, and she held onto the steering wheel with such fierceness that her knuckles had turned white. I sighed with relief when I realised we weren’t far from Arundel, traveling steadily along the A27.

Mum viewed our permanent move to Arundel as a way for us to edge back to reality, and to move forward with our lives. I didn’t object to living in Arundel in any way at all - like Cinderella’s foot to the glass slipper - it fitted me somehow.

The town nestles into the countryside so well, that its invincibility had meant that very little actually happened there, apart from the influx of tourists who wish to visit the castle every year. But tomorrow would be the second Saturday of December and that meant the town would come alive as we celebrated ‘Arundel by candlelight’. I looked forward to it every year, and even this year, without Dad, I still looked forward to it; perhaps with a little trepidation.

The choral society would sing in the chapel. Santa Claus would arrive off a boat moored to the jetty. Adding to the excitement would be the street entertainers; delights of the hog roast and mince pies and mulled wine. It would be a much needed distraction as my friends and I were going into town to pick an outfit for the school Christmas party that night.

I yawned loudly, breaking my train of thought and disturbing Mum’s concentration. She yawned too, closely followed by Archie and we laughed out loud at the apparent universal inability to stifle a yawn when in the company of someone else who does one too.

‘Nearly there.’ Mum sighed, as we turned the corner into our street.

Our house is a relatively new three storey townhouse within the Ninvah Shipyard, which was a development of houses and flats next to the River Arun. It sat right on the river, and had great views of the castle from our court yard garden.

Although it was now dark, I noticed immediately that there was a strange car parked in our drive, and strained my eyes trying to get a better look. It was a small car, perhaps a Vauxhall Corsa? I couldn’t be certain at this distance! But as Mum swung the car into the drive, I realised that not only was it a Corsa, but that it was also a brand new number plate.

‘Who’s car?’ I asked, fumbling for the door handle.

‘It’s yours!’ Mum stated simply, while trying to contain her excitement.

I threw the car door open. ‘Mine?’

‘Yes honey. It’s yours.’

‘But….I, I don’t understand Mum. Why?’ I stuttered.

‘You’ve passed your test, and, well I thought we could all do with a little cheering up.’

I nodded. ‘But…..it’s…. a brand new car Mum.’

‘I know, isn’t it nice?’ She asked, ignoring my plea and pulling me into her grip, before walking me towards the car. ‘I would have picked the canary yellow, but I figured you would object to the colour, so I went for the black instead.’

‘Thank god!’ I said out loud without thinking. ‘I mean it matches my mood perfectly. It’s….great…...inconspicuous.’

‘You can use it for school or to go shopping with your friends.’

She was right it would be very beneficial for my schooling. I had only been attending the school for the last few months, but it meant that I wouldn’t need to take the nine mile bus ride to Chichester High School for girls anymore.

‘It’s…..it’s…..great Mum. Perfect!’ I smiled running my hands along the paintwork.

Archie gave me a friendly pat on the back, before adding, ‘and you can chauffeur me around too Sis.’

‘Oh even better,’ I sighed sarcastically.

‘It’s your own wheels Sis. Can’t be bad?’

‘No….it’s very generous of you, Mum.’

‘Treat it as an early Christmas present,’ she laughed, while putting the key in the front door.

‘Well, if that’s your Christmas present,’ Archie muttered, ‘I can’t wait to see mine.’ He laughed as he winked at me, whilst taking our bags into the house.

I stood for a while, soaking in the quietness of the night, and the scenery of this beautiful town, before turning to lock the car up. It occurred to me that I might be developing car sickness, as the closer we had got to Arundel the sicker I felt. I told myself it was probably one of those twenty four hour bugs.

‘Cold tonight!’ A strange voice came from the darkness.

I spun round in surprise, clutching my heart with my hand. ‘Oh, goodness!’

There under the light of the street lamp, stood a young man. His hair looked brown, almost auburn in the un-natural light. His lips were full, his nose flat and he had cheekbones that any woman would kill for. He stood metres from me, wearing a thick winter jacket, with his hands firmly stuffed into his pockets.

He stood on the spot, passing his weight from one leg to another. ‘Oh I am sorry. Did I startle you?’

He was unusually polite and considerate.

‘Yes, you did actually.’ I laughed, ‘I never saw you at all.’

‘I am sorry about that. It was not my intention at all.’

‘It’s fine, honestly,’ I insisted. ‘It’s really cold, but at least you are dressed for it.’

‘I think it will get worse before it gets better. Well that is what they are saying.’ He smiled apparently making small talk.

‘That’s what they always say, don’t they?’

I felt my stomach gurgle and twist. It was the way it behaved shortly before I took a stomach bug. Suddenly a sharp pain shot through the core of my body, and it sent me staggering slightly. Unexpectedly, two arms shot out from nowhere.

I looked up, and into the stranger’s brown, heavy set eyes.

‘Are you okay?’ He asked.

‘Um fine, I think I might be coming down with something.’ I straightened up, ‘thanks I’m fine. It has been a difficult day today, that’s all.’

I stared rudely at him for what seemed like ages.

He let go of my arm, and stepped back onto the pavement. ‘Best to go inside if you are feeling poorly. I think you need a good night’s sleep.’

‘Yes,’ I nodded, ‘you’re probably right.’

‘Well, good night then,’ he uttered, and for a moment looked like he was ready to tip an invisible hat, he was so courteous.

I stood watching him walk away. ‘Hey,’ I shouted after him, ‘do you come