The Ocean at the End of the Lane: A Novel

garden with a plate of sandwiches.
    “I’ve spoken to your mother,” she said, a sweet smile beneath the pale lipstick, “and while I’m here, you children need to limit your travels. You can be anywhere in the house or in the garden, or I will walk with you to your friends’, but you may not leave the property and simply go wandering.”
    “Of course,” said my sister.
    I did not say anything.
    My sister ate a peanut butter sandwich.
    I was starving. I wondered whether the sandwiches were dangerous or not. I did not know. I was scared that I would eat one and it would turn into worms in my stomach, and that they would wriggle through me, colonizing my body, until they pushed out of my skin.
    I went back into the house. I pushed the kitchen door open. Ursula Monkton was not there. I stuffed my pockets with fruit, with apples and oranges and hard brown pears. I took three bananas and stuffed them down my jumper, and fled to my laboratory.
    My laboratory—that was what I called it—was a green-painted shed as far away from the house as you could get, built up against the side of the house’s huge old garage. A fig tree grew beside the shed, although we had never tasted ripe fruit from the tree, only seen the huge leaves and the green fruits. I called the shed my laboratory because I kept my chemistry set in there: the chemistry set, a perennial birthday present, had been banished from the house by my father, after I had made something in a test tube. I had randomly mixed things together, and then heated them, until they had erupted and turned black, with an ammoniac stench that refused to fade. My father had said that he did not mind my doing experiments (although neither of us knew what I could possibly have been experimenting on, but that did not matter; my mother had been given chemistry sets for her birthday, and see how well that had turned out?) but he did not want them within smelling range of the house.
    I ate a banana and a pear, then hid the rest of the fruit beneath the wooden table.
    Adults follow paths. Children explore. Adults are content to walk the same way, hundreds of times, or thousands; perhaps it never occurs to adults to step off the paths, to creep beneath rhododendrons, to find the spaces between fences. I was a child, which meant that I knew a dozen different ways of getting out of our property and into the lane, ways that would not involve walking down our drive. I decided that I would creep out of the laboratory shed, along the wall to the edge of the lawn and then into the azaleas and bay laurels that bordered the garden there. From the laurels, I would slip down the hill and over the rusting metal fence that ran along the side of the lane.
    Nobody was looking. I ran and I crept and got through the laurels, and I went down the hill, pushing through the brambles and the nettle patches that had sprung up since the last time I went that way.
    Ursula Monkton was waiting for me at the bottom of the hill, just in front of the rusting metal fence. There was no way she could have got there without my seeing her, but she was there. She folded her arms and looked at me, and her gray and pink dress flapped in a gust of wind.
    “I believe I said that you were not to leave the property.”
    “I’m not,” I told her, with a cockiness I knew I did not feel, not even a little. “I’m still on the property. I’m just exploring.”
    “You’re sneaking around,” she said.
    I said nothing.
    “I think you should be in your bedroom, where I can keep an eye on you. It’s time for your nap.”
    I was too old for naps, but I knew that I was too young to argue, or to win the argument if I did.
    “Okay,” I said.
    “Don’t say ‘okay,’ ” she said. “Say ‘Yes, Miss Monkton.’ Or ‘Ma’am.’ Say ‘Yes, ma’am.’ ” She looked down at me with her blue-gray eyes, which put me in mind of holes rotted in canvas, and which did not look pretty at that moment.
    I said, “Yes, ma’am,” and hated myself for saying it.
    We walked together up the hill.
    “Your parents can no longer afford this place,” said Ursula Monkton. “And they can’t afford to keep it up. Soon enough they’ll see that the way to solve their financial problems is to sell this house and its gardens to property developers. Then all of this ”—and this was the tangle of brambles, the unkempt world behind the lawn—“will become a dozen identical houses and gardens. And if you are lucky, you’ll get to