Page 6 of The Midnight Carousel

Seven chimes reverberate through the walls and all the way up to the tiny attic room with its sloping ceiling and postcard-sized window, where Maisie is making her bed, smoothing the blankets and plumping her pillow. This is the signal to find her way downstairs.

Jesserton is a maze of dark corridors lined with portraits of stern-faced dead people.

The ancestors. They observe Maisie descend the staircase and take two wrong turns before locating the central corridor.

Passing two maids and a footman who all fail to return her greeting, she finds her aunt in the large linen room on the ground floor, where the air is filled with the perfumed scent of bedding stacked floor to ceiling on oak shelves.

There is so much washing in this house. Washing clothes.

Washing skin. Maisie suspects that Tommy wouldn’t recognize her scrubbed clean, and with straight hair as soft as cotton-grass.

Then there are the almost new hand-me-downs from Miss Catherine, the daughter of Sir Malcolm, Jesserton’s owner, the thick cotton hanging snugger than it did in her first few days thanks to the regular mealtimes.

Aunty Mabel looks up at Maisie and smiles. Maisie’s heart leaps. Being in her aunt’s presence is like bathing in warm sunshine after years of winter.

‘Let’s get your hair tidied first,’ Aunty Mabel says. ‘Then we can make a start on the darning before morning inspection.’

Maisie has learnt that this is when nine chimes ring through the house.

In her four months here, Maisie has become familiar with the new routine.

Ten chimes– the coal man arrives. One chime– soup and buttered buns.

Four chimes– afternoon tea for the grown-ups, a glass of milk and three biscuits for Maisie.

Six chimes– supper alone in her loft room.

Eight chimes– Maisie prays to the Lord of the Water before Aunty Mabel arrives to tuck her in for the night.

For all the pretence that Sir Malcolm Randolph is the master of Jesserton, Maisie believes that the mahogany-and-brass grandfather clock in the entrance hallway holds the real power.

Maisie kneels in front of the stool on which Aunty Mabel is perched.

Closing her eyes, she imagines that it’s her mother now combing through her hair.

Though she’s very fond of the woman who rescued her from the Sixpences, an aunt isn’t the same.

There’s been no sign of either parent since her arrival at Jesserton, however, and no explanation from Aunty Mabel, despite Maisie’s questions.

All she’s learnt is that her mother’s name is Eliza, along with a handful of anecdotes about the five Marlowe siblings growing up in a small flat above their parents’ haberdashery shop in Chelmsford.

Maisie keeps quiet because her aunt has a tendency to share stories when they sit like this. Sure enough, she soon begins to talk.

‘It’s funny, your hair is the exact same texture as your mother’s at that age,’ Aunty Mabel observes, plaiting. ‘Although much darker. As is mine, you might be surprised to hear. Eliza always was the blondest of us all.’

Maisie’s eyes snap open, her pulse races. Any details she uncovers are precious, and quickly stored in her heart.

‘Is she as pretty as you, Aunty Mabel?’ she asks, hoping to build a clearer picture of her mother.

She feels her aunt’s fingers freeze.

‘Looks aren’t everything, Maisie. A person’s character counts for more,’ is the brisk reply.

‘Then is she a nice person?’ Maisie persists.

Aunty Mabel clears her throat.

‘What sort of question is that?’ she responds as she ties a ribbon to secure the plait. ‘There, all done.’ She kisses the top of Maisie’s head, as though this signals the end of the subject. ‘Now let’s get started on our work.’

Maisie is left wanting more, as usual. But she knows from experience that she will have to wait until Aunty Mabel is in the mood to talk about her mother again.

She follows her aunt to the shelves, where they run their fingers over sheets, looking for nicks and tears and either refolding the piece of fabric or setting it aside in a pile.

Outside, the rhythmic thud, thud, thud of the gardeners constructing a protective fence around the vegetable patch provides a soothing backdrop.

Her mind drifts to Tommy. She can’t remember a time before him.

A time when they weren’t exploring Canvey together, or huddling together at night, or helping each other scrub barnacles off the boat, or untangling fishing nets, or foraging for food.

Sometimes she catches herself talking to him out loud as if he’s here.

‘Look, Tommy, I’ve got a real bed’ or ‘I found this kingfisher feather in the garden.’ But he isn’t here.

He’s by himself now, and the thought makes her heart hurt.

Presently, the clock chimes eight times and the pile is waist high. Aunty Mabel removes a needle and bobbin of cotton from a wicker basket and shows Maisie the technique of threading.

‘If we finish this task by lunchtime, I’ve got a special treat for you this afternoon,’ she says, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

‘The cook saw her sister in Clacton yesterday, and it’s the last day the funfair is there before it heads to Margate,’ Aunty Mabel continues.

‘Sir Malcolm has given us special permission to go. Isn’t that kind? ’

Maisie nods, though, never having heard of a funfair, she has no idea whether this is a kind gesture by Sir Malcolm or not.

Jesserton’s owner is a distant figure who spends most of his days alone in the study.

Nevertheless, he always takes the time to ask Maisie how she’s getting on in her new home, listening to her answers with a caring expression, on the rare occasions they come face to face.

Seeming to pick up on Maisie’s uncertainty, Aunty Mabel gives a gentle smile. ‘Your mum always loved the funfair as a child. We both did.’

‘Then couldn’t she come with us today?’ Maisie counters, pouncing on the opportunity to reopen her favourite topic.

Her heart beats extra fast as Aunty Mabel’s smile falls away. ‘Well… it’s not… it’s just…’

Staring at her hands, Aunty Mabel lapses into silence. Maisie hesitates for an extended moment; her aunt’s reaction is beginning to magnify the niggling sense that she might not like the answer to her most burning question.

‘Where’s my mum now?’ Maisie pushes out the words she’s repeated many times over since coming here. ‘And what do you know about my dad?’

Aunty Mabel looks up slowly. ‘It’s a long story,’ she responds after a pause. ‘I know you keep asking because you want to learn everything, and I will explain– but when you’re a bit older, so you can understand.’

This is the same answer as every time before. Later. Another day. Not now. Maisie’s face flushes red. Clearly noticing, Aunty Mabel lays down the darning to wrap her arms around her niece.

‘I’m sorry your mum isn’t around. She would be here if she could.

And I’m sorry it took me so long to collect you.

It’s not that I didn’t want you, because I did.

’ Aunty Mabel strokes Maisie’s arm. ‘But my husband, Bertie, thought different. He cares too much what other people think when he oughtn’t.

We’re apart now, and I’ve built myself a new life. A bright future for us both.’

Maisie hugs her aunt. It goes without saying that she’s grateful for this bright future. At the same time, the lack of information troubles her like a splinter under the skin.

The odour of burnt sugar. Loud, cheerful music. Yellows and pinks and scarlets and greens. Maisie feels like she’s lying amongst spinning wildflowers, their perfumed petals closing in.

‘Do you like the funfair?’ Aunty Mabel is smiling, watching Maisie’s eyes grow rounder. Maisie nods, overcome. ‘Well, we decided you should receive a monthly allowance. You might as well spend it here.’

Aunty Mabel presses eight copper pennies into Maisie’s palm. This is more money than she’s ever seen, a greater sum than Mrs Sixpence receives in a month for each of her charges. Before Maisie can recover her wits to thank Aunty Mabel, Sir Malcolm speaks.

‘I suggest we adults tour the promenade and leave the children to explore the stalls. We can rendezvous back here in one hour and enjoy the rides together.’

When Aunty Mabel had suggested an outing, Maisie assumed she meant just the two of them. But here they are, accompanied by Sir Malcolm and Miss Catherine.

‘As you wish, Sir Malcolm,’ Aunty Mabel answers, smoothing her pretty, blue dress. She’s smiling, but Maisie can’t help but notice that there’s a slightly strained look to her face, as though she’s in physical discomfort.

Maisie wants to tell her aunt to stay here, but she is already disappearing with Sir Malcolm, arms linked.

Suddenly finding herself alone with Miss Catherine, Maisie is struck by a bout of coyness.

While her own time is taken up by household tasks, the older girl spends every day with a governess or reading alone in the library, her dark blonde hair draped over a book.

The two have enjoyed limited interaction thus far– a quick greeting if they happen to pass on the stairs or smiling at one another in church from opposite ends of the pew.

‘I thought we might try hoopla first, then you can choose your favourite,’ Miss Catherine proposes, breaking the silence.

The older girl must know that Maisie would not have had the chance to form a favourite but is too kind to say. Grateful, Maisie smiles. ‘Good idea.’