Love Notes from Vinegar House Read online

  Bryn jostled against Isabella as he tried to beat Angus to the hat. I was happy when I pulled out my note and read “player”. Then someone turned the light out, and that’s when I remembered that I was afraid of the dark.

  At home, I can always pull my curtains back and see the streetlight and the lights of houses around me. So it’s never really too dark. And there’s a darkness you face when you turn out the lights that will gradually allow the ghostly outlines of shapes to appear before you. Like when you’re outside in the dead of night with no moon to light the way. Then there’s a darkness that’s an absence of light. Am I making sense? It’s like being in the bottom of a well or a deep cave or a mine. I don’t know about the well or cave, but I did a mine tour once, and they turned out the lights – that’s the darkness I’m talking about here. But the darkness in the Blue Room was something different again. There was an oily movement to it as if something could form out of the nothingness. A heaviness to it that felt solid. This was the darkness I faced that night. So I closed my eyes to a more comforting dark.

  When I heard a giggle nearby, I dropped to the floor and headed towards the dressing table. At least, that’s where I thought I was going. A shoe made contact with my leg, and I froze until it moved off again. There was a moan behind me, like a tortured ghost, and I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise in fright. There was more laughter and someone, it sounded like Julia, said, “Shut up, Lee.”

  I began my scuttle again until I bumped into some furniture, which I soon discovered was not the dressing table but the large armchair up against the window wall. I pushed the chair away from the wall a little, then burrowed under it like a rabbit.

  There were rustlings and muffled footfalls as people moved around the room. Across from me there was a knock against wood followed by a curse, and I imagined someone had run into the wardrobe.

  I could hear heavy breathing, so I held my breath in case I was listening to myself. But the heavy breathing continued, and I curled my body into a tight ball. My logical self knew that it was just one of the players, but Bryn’s words echoed in my mind. “Did you say this room was haunted?”

  Was the breathing thing coming to get me?

  Was it a monster?

  A ghost?

  I opened my eyes to the oily darkness, and it pressed down on me. I was still holding my breath and felt like I might explode, but I’d forgotten how to breathe. I stretched out and tried to scrabble my way out from under the chair, shutting my eyes to see flashes of colour like neon worms, but a solid something blocked my way.

  Then there was a thud and the creak of bedsprings and a muffled, “Ooof”. I heard Angus say, “Dead on the bed.” And someone laughed. With the flick of the light switch I gasped and gulped the fusty air, realising that the solid barrier blocking me in was in fact a heavy tallboy.

  I heard someone say, “Who cracked the mirror?” As I peered out from under the chair I noticed the floor-length mirror had a crack in the bottom right-hand corner. Someone was going to be in big trouble from Grandma. I scrambled out from under the chair and as I grabbed at a drape to pull myself up I revealed the hiding space of two more players. It was Bryn and Rumer and they were locked in a kiss, or rather, Rumer seemed to be locked onto Bryn like a limpet on a jetty pylon, for Bryn’s arms stayed loosely at his sides. Bryn pushed Rumer off, his red face a picture of confusion, and Rumer stepped back and gave a little laugh. She had a triumphant smirk which I didn’t understand until I glanced at my sister and saw the tight disappointment on her face.

  “So, who’s dead?” asked Rumer.

  Chapter 5

  Things between Isabella and Rumer were never the same after that game. Bryn had been Isabella’s first real crush, and even though he tried being extra nice to Isabella whenever they met, and though she was polite to him, I could tell that she hated him even more than she hated Rumer. He stopped coming to Vinegar House, and Isabella never mentioned him at home. I tried to tell her, in my eight-year-old way, that it wasn’t Bryn’s fault and that Rumer had latched on to him, but she would just say, “He’s older. He should know better.”

  If Bryn had been Isabella’s first crush, then Luke Hart was mine.

  There, I’ve said it.

  Maybe you guessed already?

  The idea of it had hit me a couple of summers after that first game of Murder in the Dark. I remember it like one of those home-shot movies from the olden days – you know the ones – where the handheld camera is just a little wonky and the sound just a little fuzzy. I was strolling along the wet sand of Ocean Side at the end of a sizzling summer day. The breeze was blowing the fringe back off my face, and I swear I heard some of that smoochy music that they play in romantic movies, which could have been in my head, or could have been from the caravan park hidden behind the sand dunes. I vowed my eternal love to Luke Hart then and there. I was going to marry him. That was my silent promise to the sun and the sea spray and the tiny sand critters that made the beach come alive at that time of day. In my defence, I was barely a teenager at the time, and I didn’t know a lot about life. Now I don’t think I’m even going to get married – ever. Well, certainly not before I’m thirty.

  I didn’t need to dream about my true love, with his tanned skin, strong broad shoulders and sun-bleached hair that was lighter on the ends. I didn’t need to imagine the wistful sound of his laughter, for it carried on the air towards me, a mere three rock pools away.

  As he held onto the hand of my cousin, Rumer.

  Which was perfectly understandable.

  I know I’ve already told you about Rumer, but they were just the bad bits.

  When the Kramer family is together they are one big lump. They have the same look about them: square bodies, straight, definite noses, and smiles that turn their lips up at the corners. There is nothing out of control. Even their hair is tidy. And then there is Rumer. Rumer is the beautiful angel that tops our family tree. She is all golden beauty and dimples. That is the good thing about Rumer. She is beautiful.

  Back to the bad things. She has a temper. Her father, Uncle Lawrence, is nice enough, but he’s kind of vague. When the rest of us are getting into trouble, he just looks awkward and asks her to behave. Rumer’s always gotten away with things and she always takes what she wants. And that’s where Luke Hart came in.

  Luke Hart was mine. He had lived across the road from our house for as long as I could remember. He was older than me, just by two years, and I only ever remember him being nice to me.

  Let me tell you about Luke Hart.

  Luke Hart had buckteeth when he was younger. I admired him so much that I took to resting my own two top front teeth on my bottom lip, which made talking quite tricky and eating even harder. I have a very nice Year One school photo of me, sitting in the front row, third from the left, with my two teeth jutting out over my bottom lip. Mum said it made me look like a rabbit and didn’t want to pay for the photo, but I cried until she let me buy a copy. I stopped the bucktoothed look on my seventh birthday when Uncle Lawrence clapped me so hard on the back that my teeth cut through my bottom lip.

  I may have given up on having buckteeth, but I didn’t give up on Luke Hart. He was my hero. If Luke was forced to play Monopoly with me, I let him choose the racing car token, even though that was my favourite piece. If there was a last slice of cake on the plate, it was his. If Luke needed something, I would get it for him. That didn’t include Rumer though. He managed to get her all by himself.

  Strike that.

  She managed to get him.

  I’ll tell you how that happened, but first I need to tell you about Rumer’s special circumstances.

  The first time I’d heard the words “special circumstances” I’d already played at least ten games of Murder in the Dark, though it still wasn’t my favourite game. I was just finishing up my second helping of Christmas pudding when the adults’ voices dropped and I saw Uncle Lawrence bow his head as my grandmother talked about Rumer’s special circumstances. T
hen her eyes narrowed and she asked if I hadn’t had quite enough food for one day, so I slid from my chair and left the room.

  While I’m quite good at eavesdropping, the closed doors at Grandma Vinegar’s house are solid and word-tight. Five minutes after I had left the room, Isabella found me crouched down at the dining room door trying to listen to the adults’ conversation. I hushed her as I pressed my ear closer.

  There was a rush of steps behind me and then my brother Oscar asked, “What are you doing?” He probably thought I was part of his Spies game.

  “Go away,” said Isabella, kindly.

  “What’s she doing?” he repeated.

  “None of your business,” I said, crossly.

  “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to tell Mum,” he said. As little brothers go, Oscar was typical. Isabella promises that he’ll turn into a person one day, but I severely doubt it.

  “I’ll give you a dollar if you go away,” I said. “I’ll give it to you when we get home.”

  “Okay,” he said. I heard the squeak of his shoes moving away towards the kitchen.

  “Come on, Freya,” said Isabella. “We’re playing Cluedo in the Blue Room.”

  “Sshhh.”

  I listened to the voices rumbling behind the door, then I heard Isabella say, “Oh,” and a scratchy voice behind me say, “May I ask what you are doing?”

  There were many doors in Vinegar House, at least two to a room downstairs, and Grandma had a way of sneaking about the place like a cat burglar on the prowl. One moment she’d be reading quietly in the drawing room, and the next she’d be dispositing your mobile phone, which you’d totally forgotten was in your pocket, onto the silver tray in the entry hall. Aunty Wendy, cousin Julia’s mum, told me that it was a well-known fact that Grandma Vinegar had the third eye; she “saw” things that hadn’t happened yet and knew things that she couldn’t possibly know. I don’t know if Aunty Wendy was joking, but it seemed possible to me.

  “Freya?” said Grandma.

  I mumbled something about losing a necklace, then Isabella and I scurried off to the Blue Room out of grandma’s sight.

  “She’s a witch,” I said hotly, my heart still beating double time at being caught eavesdropping. “What are special circumstances?” I asked Isabella before we entered the bedroom.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Grandma was talking about Rumer’s special circumstances. What special circumstances?” I demanded.

  Isabella just shook her head as she pushed me into the bedroom. “Come on,” she said, but I was sure she knew exactly what I was talking about.

  Chapter 6

  This is how Rumer ruined Luke Hart for me.

  Somehow she had crashed my family’s annual beach holiday with the Hart family at Ocean Side. There was hardly enough room in the holiday shack for our family, but Rumer managed to get prime position in the kids’ room, just under the one tiny window that could catch a passing breeze on the stillest night. We usually put Oscar under the window because Deefa slept on Oscar’s bed, and the dog usually drank a bathtub of salt water during the day. Salt water had an awful effect on Deefa’s innards. I can’t even begin to describe the smell.

  It wasn’t what I would call a “happy families” holiday. Isabella ignored Rumer most of the time – my sister could hold a grudge – although she would be polite if Rumer asked her a question. On the second day of politeness, I asked my sister how she could bear to even be in the same room as Rumer, but Isabella muttered something about Rumer’s special circumstances and wouldn’t explain even when I niggled her for a whole hour about it. Still, the phrase stuck in my mind …

  Being the middle child in our family is like being a second-rate person. Oscar and Dad sometimes go off and do boys’ things on weekends, and Oscar also has everyone’s attention for he is the baby of the family. As the oldest child, Isabella knows things about our family that Oscar and I don’t. I often find Isabella and Mum huddled in secret corners talking in whispers and then stopping when I appear. Just once, I would like there to be something special about being the kid stuck in the middle.

  Isabella would never tell me about Rumer’s secret. So one day, the second day of that fateful beach holiday at Ocean Side, I just up and asked my cousin. I waited until the others were walking down to the beach, their laughter wafting through the small open window, then I rummaged around under my camp bed while Rumer ignored me.

  “Rumer,” I finally asked her, pulling out some sandals, “what are your special circumstances?”

  Rumer had never made a point of being my friend, so I was used to her ignoring me unless she wanted something. When I asked her again, she lowered the magazine she was reading and looked at me as if I were a mosquito she might squash.

  “What are you talking about, you crazy child?” she asked.

  Then she yawned.

  She did it in such an insulting way, that I began to feel my familiar anger with her fizz like lemonade bubbles in my blood.

  So I took a guess and asked about her mother – a thing my own mother had forbidden me to ask my cousin – and Rumer sucked the air between her teeth as if I’d stung her. Then she looked at me, her head tilted a little, and her eyes grew misty as she settled the magazine to one side and patted the camp bed in invitation. This surprised me so much that I perched on the edge of the bed without thinking.

  “The truth is,” said Rumer finally, “my mother is in heaven.”

  It was my turn to gasp.

  “Oh, Rumer,” I said. “How awful.”

  I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone before. I sometimes imagine the loss of my own parents – in a plane crash or an earthquake, I never spend a lot of time thinking how this happens – and I immediately feel such an ache in my heart that I have to remind myself that my parents are, in fact, alive. Even the Colonel looks good after his temporary demise. (Demise is a word I like to use instead of the word death. I don’t like the phrase passed away – which is what journalists sometimes say on the news – because it sounds like someone has just gone past you, but they might be back at any moment. Anyway, that’s what I think.)

  “I don’t remember her,” I said, thinking back to the many Kramer family gatherings and special occasions.

  Well, of course, there was our family – Dad, Mum, Isabella, Oscar and me.

  And I’ve told you about Uncle Stephen, the doctor. He’s married to Aunty Jenny and they have the twins, Lee and Angus.

  Aunty Wendy is married to Uncle John and they have four kids – Julia and her three brothers.

  Rumer and Uncle Lawrence were the relatives who always turned up late. Rumer dressed like she was going to a wedding while the rest of us were dressed like it was the first day of school holidays. Rumer and Uncle Lawrence. But never an Aunty so-and-so. It had never occurred to me that someone was missing. Not that I could remember anyway.

  “I was very young,” said Rumer. “Very.”

  “Was she beautiful? Your mother?” I asked. It made sense to me – why Rumer looked so different from the rest of us. She must have had a beautiful blond mother, a mysterious person who I would never meet.

  “Of course.”

  “You must take after her,” I said.

  “I do,” said Rumer, tossing her hair.

  “You must miss her,” I said.

  Rumer shrugged. “I don’t really remember her too much.”

  I wanted to ask Rumer about her mother’s demise, but I wasn’t sure how I could ask that, and she didn’t offer any explanation. Instead, I said, “I’m glad you’ve come to Ocean Side with us.” It was a lie, but the only nice thing I could think to say.

  “I didn’t realise we’d be staying in a shack,” she said, with another flick of her hair.

  I looked around the room. It’s true, it wasn’t a glamorous place, but I loved the beach house, with its sloping walls and its sandy floors. Okay, so the shelves were a little wonky and there was a gap at the bottom of the wind
owpane where the wind blew the sand through, but it was our shack. A fun place to be. A no-schoolwork zone, where you could eat takeaway food more than once a week. Even the Colonel stopped striding about when he was here.

  “Dad and I were supposed to fly to the islands for the holidays, but he was busy.” Rumer picked up the magazine and started flicking through it again.

  I wondered which islands she meant, but she seemed to think I should know what she was talking about, so I didn’t ask.

  “You should come down to the beach,” I said. “The sand’s really soft. And the tide goes out so far sometimes you could walk to Barwon Village if you wanted.”

  Rumer yawned. “I saw it yesterday.”

  “And sometimes the waves leave behind coloured glass that’s been rolled around and around so that it’s all creamy looking and smooth around the edges. I could show you my collection, if you like.”

  Rumer made a noise in the back of her throat that could have been a “yes” or just a clearing of phlegm.

  “And the Harts will be here soon with their caravan.”

  “That’s nice.” More page flicking.

  “You know the Harts?” I prompted.

  Rumer yawned again.

  “Megan and Luke and little Ebony.”

  Rumer stopped yawning and sat up a little.

  “The Harts?” she repeated.

  “You know. Our neighbours from across the road at home.”

  I watched Rumer’s nostrils flare a little, and then a small smile flit about her lips – a butterfly that was here, then gone.

  “That boy,” she said. “The one with the light-coloured hair.”

  I nodded.

  “The one that helped you hit the piñata at your last birthday?”

  I nodded again.

  The pages flicked faster, and again the smile hovered.

  “When did you say they were coming?” she asked, finally.

  “Today,” I said. “With their caravan. They stay surfside of the beach. Luke and his sister Megan are mad about surfing.”