The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox by Maggie O'Farrell

of a headache casts a shadow over the whole outing, a tincture must be made and allowed to draw, then consumed, and the effect waited upon. Ishbel is 'resting', their grandmother has told them, and they must be 'quiet as mice'. Esme and Kitty have walked up and down the paths in the garden until they were so cold they could no longer feel their feet, they have tidied their room, they have brushed each other's hair, a hundred strokes each, as directed by their grandmother, they have done everything they could think of. Esme has suggested a clandestine visit to the upper floors – she has spied a staircase going up and she has heard the maid talking about an attic – but Kitty, after some thought, said no. So now Esme sits slumped at the piano, sounding
out some minor scales with one hand. Kitty, in an armchair beside her, begs her to stop. 'Play something nice, Es. Play the one that goes daa-dum.'
    Esme smiles, straightens her back, raises her hands and brings them down in the first, emphatic chord of Chopin's Scherzo in B flat minor. 'I don't think we're ever going,' she says, during a rest, timing it with a nod.
    'Don't say that,' Kitty moans. 'We will. I heard Grandma say she couldn't bear the shame of people seeing us dressed like beggars.'
    Esme snorts. 'The shame, indeed,' she mutters, as she brings her fingers down into the crashing chords. 'I'm not sure I'm going to like Edinburgh if it's considered shameful not to own a coat. Maybe we should run away to the Continent. Paris, perhaps, or—'
    'We might never leave this house,' Kitty says, 'let alone get to—'
    The door flies open. Their grandmother stands on the threshold, resplendent in a fur-trimmed coat, a capacious bag gripped in one hand. 'What,' she demands, 'is that dreadful racket?'
    'It's Chopin, Grandma,' Esme says.
    'It sounds like the Devil himself coming down the chimney. I won't have such a noise in my house, do you hear me? And your poor mother is trying to rest. Now, get yourselves ready, girls. We are leaving in five minutes.'
    Their grandmother walks at a fair clip. Kitty and Esme have to break into a trot to keep up. All the way she mutters
under her breath, about the various neighbours they pass, that the sky looks like rain, the pity that Ishbel couldn't come with them, the tragedy of losing a son, the paucity of the clothing Ishbel has provided for them.
    At the tram stop, she turns to look them over. She gives a gasp and clutches her throat, as if Esme has come out naked. 'Where is your hat, child?'
    Esme's hands fly to her head, feel the spring of her hair. 'I ... I don't...' She glances at Kitty for help and notices with amazement that her sister is wearing a grey beret. Where did she get it from and how did she know to wear it?
    Their grandmother lets out an immense sigh. She turns her eyes up to the sky and mutters to someone or something about trials and crosses to bear.
    They are taken to Jenners of Princes Street. A man in a top hat holds the door for them and enquires, 'Which department, madam?' Mannequins waltz and twirl in the aisles and a shopgirl accompanies them across the floor. Esme tips her face back and sees balcony upon balcony, stacked on top of each other like the quoits on the ship. In the lift, Kitty feels for Esme's hand and squeezes it as the doors open.
    The paraphernalia is astounding. They are girls who have spent their lives in nothing more than a cotton dress, and here are liberty bodices, vests, stockings, socks, skirts, underskirts, kilts, Fair Isle sweaters, blouses, hats, scarves, coats, gaberdines, all, seemingly, intended to be worn at once. Esme picks up woollen combinations and asks where they
go in the baffling order of things. The shopgirl looks at their grandmother who shakes her head.
    'They are from the colonies,' she says.
     
    'Sign here.' The man behind the reinforced-glass screen of the hostel counter pushes a registration book towards her and gestures at a pen.
    Iris picks it up but hesitates,