Whiteout - Ken Follett [48]
She shrugged.
In his fantasy, she would now sit on the bed beside him. In one version, she pushed him backwards, pretending to fight with him, and having started out wrestling they ended up kissing. In another scenario, she would take his hand and tell him how much his friendship meant to her, and then she would kiss him. But now, in real life, she was neither playful nor sentimental. She turned away and looked around the bare hayloft with an expression of distaste, and he knew that kissing was not on her mind. She sang quietly: “I’m dreaming of a shite Christmas.”
“The bathroom’s underneath here, at the back of the stage. There’s no bath, but the shower works all right.”
“How luxurious.” She got up from the bed and went down the ladder, still singing her obscene adaptation of Bing Crosby’s Christmas classic.
Well, he thought, we’ve only been here a couple of hours, and I’ve got five whole days to win her around.
He followed her down. There was one more thing that might get her excited. “I’ve got something else to show you.” He led the way outside.
They stepped into a big square yard with one building on each of its four sides: the main house, the guest cottage, the barn they had just left, and the three-car garage. Craig led Sophie around the house to the front door, avoiding the kitchen, where they might be given chores. When they stepped inside, he saw that there were snowflakes caught in her gleaming dark hair. He stopped and stared, transfixed.
She said, “What?”
“Snow in your hair,” he said. “It looks beautiful.”
She shook her head impatiently, and the flakes disappeared. “You’re bizarre,” she said.
Okay, he thought, so you don’t like compliments.
He led her up the stairs. In the old part of the house were three small bedrooms and an old-fashioned bathroom. Grandpa’s suite was in the new extension. Craig tapped on the door, in case Grandpa was inside. There was no reply, and he went in.
He walked quickly through the bedroom, past the big double bed, into the dressing room beyond. He opened a closet door and pushed aside a row of suits, pinstripes and tweeds and checks, mostly gray and blue. He got down on his knees, reached into the closet, and shoved at the back wall. A panel two feet square swung open on a hinge. Craig crawled through it.
Sophie followed.
Craig reached back through the gap, pulled the closet door shut, then closed the panel. Fumbling in the dark, he found a switch and turned on the light, a single unshaded bulb hanging from a roof beam.
They were in an attic. There was a big old sofa with stuffing bursting out of holes in the upholstery. Beside it a stack of moldering photograph albums stood on the floorboards. There were several cardboard boxes and tea chests, which Craig had found, on earlier visits, to contain his mother’s school reports, novels by Enid Blyton inscribed in a childish hand “This book belongs to Miranda Oxenford age 91⁄2,” and a collection of ugly ashtrays, bowls, and vases that must have been either unwanted gifts or ill-judged purchases. Sophie ran her fingers over the strings of a dusty guitar: it was out of tune.
“You can smoke up here,” Craig said. Empty cigarette packets of forgotten brands—Woodbines, Players, Senior Service—made him think this might have been where his mother began her addiction. There were also wrappers from chocolate bars: perhaps plump Aunt Miranda was responsible for those. And he presumed Uncle Kit had amassed the collection of magazines with titles such as Men Only, Panty Play, and Barely Legal.
Craig hoped Sophie would not notice the magazines, but they caught her eye immediately. She picked one up. “Wow, get this, porn!” she said, suddenly more animated than she had been all morning. She sat on the sofa and began to leaf through it.
Craig looked away. He had been through all the magazines, though he was ready to deny it. Porn was a boy thing, and strictly private. But Sophie was reading Hustler right in front of him, scrutinizing the pages as if she had to take an exam on it.
To distract her, he said, “This whole part of the house