CHAPTER THREE – THE DETERIORATION OF THE OVERLAND

Edith refused point blank to help with the search.

'She's not missing,' she said stubbornly, 'she's in Wonderland.'

'Don't talk about that, Edith,' said Mother sharply, glancing at Grandmother worriedly.

'I saw her fall –'

'Edith!'

The police had been informed, which Edith thought was very silly when they could be spending their time looking for someone who actually needed to be looked for. Edith knew where Aunt Alice went when she was upset, and somehow inside her she knew that this time she wasn't coming back. And while a part of her missed her aunt terribly, she knew that she was much happier in the other world; had seen it etched on her face every time she had returned.

Now that Aunt Alice was gone Father seemed to be going away on more and more business trips; Edith told herself he was so upset about her disappearance that he was distracting himself with work.

'Where's Father?' she asked when she came down from her lesson one day.

'Away on business,' answered Mother, her mouth pulled tight like the threads of the embroidery she was sewing.

'He's always away on business,' Edith complained loudly.

'Lower your voice,' said Mother.

Edith heard her crying at night sometimes, when Father was away. She would argue with herself as to whether to comfort her or not. One night the comforting side won, and she slipped out of bed and lit a candle, padding down the corridor on cold feet; trying not to be afraid of the shadows flickering against the walls. When she reached her mother's bedroom door she found it ajar, and was about to push it all the way open when she heard frenzied whispering on the other side. For a moment she was frightened by it, until she realised that Mother was praying.

'… Please, Lord … bring her back … protect her and shelter her, wherever she may be … please … I'll do anything; I'll give you anything …'

But either God didn't hear her, or God didn't care, because the police never found anything; neither a whisper nor a clue to Aunt Alice's whereabouts.

Almost a year after her disappearance, a constable visited the house. Edith peeped into the drawing room to see him sitting on the couch, on knee jumping up and down and one hand fiddling with his large moustache nervously.

'I'm afraid we've been unable to find a single thing, Ma'am,' he was saying to a pale, tired-looking Grandmother, 'she just seems to have … vanished.'

Grandmother didn't look up, gazing into her teacup as if she was looking for some secret meaning to it.

'And, er …' he continued, 'we're afraid we just can't keep looking. We've not a single lead ...'

Her head snapped up, bloodless and stricken.

'You're giving up?'

'Oh, we'll keep an eye out for her,' he said hastily, 'but … er … we don't have the resources, or the time, to look for someone who doesn't want to be found. Or can't be?'

'Can't be?' echoed Grandmother hollowly.

'Perhaps not,' he said gently.

As another year fell away underneath them, Grandmother grew thinner and thinner, and Mother's crying became a nightly occurrence.

Edith lay in bed listening to the sobbing down the hall, a hot, burning fury coursing through her violently; fury at her father. Fury at her father for not being there when she needed him; fury at him for not being there at all; fury at him for leaving her to support the combined weight of Mother and Grandmother all on her own; fury at him for neglecting his wife. Edith, too, knelt beside her bed bargaining with anyone in the sky who would listen – if I don't eat for one day, Mother will stop crying; if I can run to the end of the drive in eight seconds, Grandmother will smile.

Her bargains never worked.

'Why won't Mother stop crying?' she asked her Grandmother.

Grandmother sighed, looking up from the book she was pretending to read and studying her granddaughter with pitying eyes.

'She's up all hours crying at night. She's always sad,' said Edith, squirming slightly under the gaze.

There was a pause, as Grandmother swallowed carefully, then said, 'Your mother wasn't always like that.'

'I know,' said Edith, 'usually she goes to bed early and makes sure I do too.'

'No, I mean ...' she blinked, swallowing delicately, 'she wasn't always ... she used to be a very different person, your mother.'

'A different person? I don't remember it.'

'It was a long time ago now.'

'When did she change?' asked Edith, confused. 'When Aunt Alice left?'

Grandmother seemed to stifle a shudder, looking away momentarily.

'Long before that, even,' she smiled tightly, looking back at her with wet eyes, 'she was ... wonderful, your mother. So full of life. So fun. So kind.'

'So ...' Edith puzzled over this, 'what went wrong? When did she change?'

'When you –' The older woman bit back the words hastily, for how can one explain to a child that they have never truly known their own mother; and that their own birth was where everything had seemed to go downhill?

Edith frowned at Grandmother, at the words still hanging unsaid in the air.

Another year; and the crying began to fade. Father was still away on business most of the time, but Mother stopped crying. Edith prayed it wouldn't start again.

One day whilst sketching a wobbly-looking robin, Edith found herself in need of an eraser. She ran upstairs to her father's study, ignoring Mother's reprimand about being quiet on the stairs. Searching through the mass of papers on his desk, she found no eraser, and started to yank the drawers open and rummage through them instead.

Buried at the bottom of the very bottom drawer, hidden underneath a large and boring pile of files, was a large, black velvet box. As attracted by its smoothness as any ten year old would be, she pulled it out from its hiding place and was about to open it when a little voice in her head told her not to.

It's a bad egg, hissed the voice, don't touch it.

Her little hand trailed over its surface, picking at the latch.

Don't touch it. It's bad, and it's hidden, and it's in a box, and grown ups put things in boxes when you're not supposed to touch them.

Edith thought suddenly of her Christmas presents, all wrapped up in boxes with bows and coloured paper. It was a present, she realised.

Not yours. Father got it for somebody, somebody who is not you, and you are not to touch it.

'He won't know,' she whispered to herself, and opened the velvet box. Neither Jack nor demon leapt out at her, but inside the box was a velvet cream cushion, and on the cushion lay a necklace.

It was sparkling at her, comprised of tiny diamonds that winked and twinkled like miniature stars that had been plucked carefully out of the sky and threaded onto the delicate string for sole purpose of finery. Set into the pendant was a large pearl, glowing like the moon.

Edith was captivated by it for some moments; Edith, who never wore jewellery and despised finery. Finally she managed to wrench her eyes from it, and slammed the box shut, jamming it back into the drawer. She ran back downstairs again, forgetting her search for the eraser in her excitement.

Her parents' wedding anniversary was this week.

There was a necklace waiting in Father's study.

The next three days passed far too slowly for Edith's liking and come Saturday she was positively jumpy.

'What has gotten into you, Edie?' said Mother irritably as she watched her help set the table for dinner, dropping the cutlery everywhere and breaking a glass.

'Nothing,' said Edith with a little smile.

When Father arrived home from work, he went straight upstairs to change. When he came down again he had his hands hidden behind his back, smirking at Mother who looked up in bewilderment.

'You didn't think I'd forget our anniversary, did you?'

And with a flurry of pollen and petal he produced from behind his back a bunch of wildflowers. Although pretty enough, they looked ever so slightly withered and battered, and suspiciously like those that Edith had seen growing by the roadside on Reverend Lane.

Mother squealed with rare delight, and Edith smiled despite herself as Mother buried her face in the flowers, beaming at Father in adoration.

Still as she lay in bed that night she couldn't help but feel terribly uneasy about the emptiness behind her father's eyes, and the necklace hidden in his drawer.

Soon Father was away on business again, and then again and again, until he was barely home at all. Edith and and her mother would see him maybe once a month, and he said he had been promoted.

'What does that mean?' asked Edith at dinner one night.

'It means his job is the same, but now he's more important. Eat your sprouts.'

'But why does he have to travel away all the time?'

'He's a very important man.'

'But surely if he's so important, he can get other men to travel for him?'

'Don't talk with your mouth full, it looks ridiculous.'

By the time Edith was twelve her father seemed a stranger to her; she rarely saw him and spoke to him even less, and their conversations were awkward and short.

'How are your lessons, Edith?'

'Very good, Father.'

What happened to the necklace in your drawer, Father?

'What are you reading, Edith?'

'How Doth the Little Crocodile, Father.'

Who did you give the necklace to, Father?

She and Mother stayed at Grandmother's house in London more frequently; their own huge house seemed so empty with just the two of them.

One day the two women and the young girl went into the city. The cobbled streets were packed with carriages, and when they reached the market Edith was astounded. She had never seen so much life, or so many people crammed into one space shouting and laughing and haggling with each other over fruit and animals and trinkets.

'Mother! Look at this!'

'Lower your voice, Edith. People will stare.'

'Nobody's staring,' said Edith loudly, 'no one can even hear me!'

For once she was right; the whole marketplace was such a conglomeration of noise and chatter that she had to raise her voice just to be heard. Still Mother and Grandmother were disapproving.

'It's not proper for a young lady.'

'I'm not a "young lady"', frowned Edith, 'I'm only a girl.'

The other two merely rolled their eyes, and Edith felt a pang of longing for her Aunt Alice.

As the women immersed themselves in inspecting fruit, the sight of a familiar-looking dark suit caught her eye and Edith slipped into the crowd after it, chasing it like a butterfly.

'Father!' she called. 'Father!'

He didn't hear her; he was busy talking to the person beside him as they both studied a small, intricate rose made out of crystal. The person was a woman, a young and exceedingly handsome one at that, with luxurious dark hair rolled into elegant curls clustered on the back of her head down to her long, white neck. Father was standing uncomfortably close to the woman, dipping his head to talk lowly to her. Edith's eyes widened in alarm as he planted a tiny kiss on her forehead; and she stumbled back, almost tripping over a man carrying a chicken.

'Miss!'

Edith ignored him, starting towards her father in hurt confusion. Surely he wouldn't. He would never –

'Edith!' Grandmother caught her elbow, attempting to steer her away.

'Grandmother, look! It's Father! Who's that lady?'

Grandmother didn't need to look.

'Edith, come away now.'

'But he's meant to be away on business!'

'Edith, please …' said Grandmother, her voice tired and weak. 'It won't do any good.'

Edith stared at her meek acceptance, aghast.

'This has happened before,' she realised, sickened, 'this has happened before.'

She looked over at Mother, who was staring at a bunch of apples as though her life depended on it, blinking more than usual, her mouth a thin line.

'He's meant to be in Bath,' said Edith, struggling futilely as Grandmother dragged her away.

'Edith.'

'But that was Father!' Edith turned back just as her father looked up, and their gaze collided; two identical sets of dark eyes across the marketplace. While hers was full of uncertainty and hurt, and his was empty of shame, both of them knew, and both knew that the other knew.

The next time she saw Father she couldn't look him in the eye, afraid of what she might see there, or what she might see not there. She could never confront him about the woman she had seen in the marketplace, and she could never bring herself to talk to Mother about it.

And yet she was angry at both of them. Her father for doing it, and her mother for ignoring it – for letting pass unchecked. She wasn't sure which was worse.

'Where's Father?' she asked as she came down from her lesson.

'Away on business,' said Mother on cue, sewing away at her embroidery, her face stretched thin and pained.

Edith watched her resentfully, then said in a harsh moment of impulsiveness, 'Don't you ever wonder what he does?'

She saw Mother's needle slip, saw her finger bleed a droplet of dark red blood. Mother didn't even gasp.

Edith was thirteen when everything fell apart. Sometimes she felt like it had all started unravelling the moment Aunt Alice had burst out of her life, or the moment she had opened the box that wasn't hers to open; but really it started here, when Grandmother finally faded away.

The sleep came for her in the night, and she simply wouldn't wake up. Death was a new experience for Edith, and she was terrified of being consumed by it; by the funeral and itchy black bombazine and crape dresses and the grief that ate away at everything and everyone. All through the funeral Mother didn't cry; simply standing beside Father with her cold hand on Edith's shoulder, white and frail enough to be blown away by the wind. As Father moved forward to place a white rose on the coffin, Edith twisted around to look at her mother.

'Let's run away,' she whispered, 'we'll run away together and we'll be happy.'

Mother gave a tiny, impenetrable shake of the head, her mouth drawn tight.

'Why not?'

She hadn't been expecting an answer, and was surprised when Mother said in a cracked voice; 'Sometimes you can't just run away.'

'He doesn't care,' whispered Edith fiercely.

Mother was silent for so long that Edith thought that was the end of it, until finally she spoke.

'He doesn't,' she said, pulling her mouth even tighter, 'but I do.'

Father left on business again that afternoon.

'I'm terribly sorry, Margaret,' he said, 'but Mr Havershim simply won't let me …'

'Go, go,' said Mother wearily, and leaned in for a kiss. Father turned his cheek to her, and still had the nerve to smile at her as he waved goodbye.

'I love you,' Edith heard Mother say softly.

'Me too,' Father replied, shutting the door behind him.

That night Mother snapped.

Edith heard her crying down the hall, unearthly and pitiful. She crept out of bed and down to her bedroom, cracking the door open.

'Mother?'

She was sitting amidst a white mess of tangled blankets on her bed, her blonde hair loose and eyes wild. She stared at Edith, her face emotionless and pale. For a moment they simply stared at one another.

'Mother?' said Edith again, uncertain. 'Your hands are shaking.'

She had never seen hands tremble like that, erratic and jumpy. Mother didn't reply, staring at her. Then she leaned forward, still looking at Edith with an intent gaze that sent chills down Edith's spine.

'Alice?' Mother whispered.

Edith shook her head.

'No, Mother …'

But already Mother was crawling off the bed, nearing her with thin arms outstretched.

'Alice … please, come back …'

'No, Mother, it's me,' said Edith unsteadily, backing away, 'it's Edith!'

Suddenly Mother lunged forward, and Edith squeaked as she grabbed her face in her hands, tugging her towards herself roughly.

'Mother!' Edith gasped, twisting, 'it hurts –'

Mother's face crumpled and she began to cry again.

'Alice, Alice, I'm sorry,' she wept, crushing Edith to her chest and holding her far too tightly.

'Mother, let go!'

'Alice, I'm sorry,' she choked, sobbing into Edith's tangle of hair, 'I'm sorry!'

Edith was frightened, more frightened than she could ever remember being. She pushed and kicked and managed to free herself, running out of the room; banging the door on its hinges.

'Alice!' screamed Mother.

Edith flew down the hallway, hearing her mother's feet slapping the floorboards behind her. She reached her room and slammed the door, locking it and dashing across the room to her bed, leaping underneath the covers.

She heard padding footsteps halt outside her door.

And utter silence.

Then came the knocking.

It was soft and steady, beating against her door coaxingly. Edith didn't answer, burying her entire body underneath her covers, shaking all over and clasping her knees to her chest.

The knocking kept on for almost an hour, until it got louder and louder, giving way to violent crashing and thumping and rattling of the door handle. Slowly that stopped too, until there was just a deadly silence broken only by a scuffling scraping on the door which continued all night as Edith lay paralysed under the blankets, unable to move from terror; she'd never wanted morning to come so badly.

She hoped Mother wouldn't remember that she had her own key to the room.

After Mother snapped Edith was sent away, to stay with family friends in the country. Father was too busy with business to look after her, and Mother was pronounced to be in no fit state to do so either; and the country air would apparently do the girl some good. Edith felt terrible deserting her mother, and simultaneously relieved.

'Oh, my dear,' Mother said to her the day she packed her things, more stable after her episode, 'do you think I'm going mad?'

Edith paused in folding her nightgown.

'All the best people are,' she said.

Mother started to cry again.

'Goodbye, Alice,' she sighed as she waved her off in the drive. 'Goodbye, Alice.'

'Awful business,' tutted Mr Havershim when he met her at the station, 'simply awful. I did let Lowell have more days off, you know, I knew things had gotten so dreadful after your aunt disappeared all those years ago … At least he's taking care of you.'

Edith didn't answer, staring out the window as they took a carriage to his home.

When they arrived there, an expansive and rather stylish residence, Edith found herself engulfed in the expansive and stylish arms of Mrs Havershim, who called her a 'poor wee bairn' and force-fed her cocoa.

That night Edith lay awake again, sunken deep in the too-soft mattress and goose-feather pillows of her wide bed. Her mother's shrunken face was vivid in her mind, a brittle hand waving farewell as she drove away.

'Goodbye, Alice … Goodbye, Alice …'

'Alice …'

'Alice …'

Suddenly Edith sat up in bed, a crazy, mad, wonderful idea emerging in her mind.

'Alice,' she whispered.

A/N:

I know it's out of character,

There's naught that I could do,

I puzzled long and tried so hard,

To make poor Margaret true,

Yes, making canon go insane:

A dismal thing to do.

I had to do it; for the plot,

I hope you'll understand,

A solid reason for the niece,

To enter Wonderland,

Of which I am, I'm sure you know,

Not author; just a fan.