The Ocean at the End of the Lane: A Novel

acquired on my birthday, and I ate them, and as I ate them I thought of how I had let go of Lettie Hempstock’s hand to grab the ball of rotting cloth, and I remembered the stabbing pain in my foot that had followed.
    I brought her here, I thought, and I knew that it was true.
    Ursula Monkton wasn’t real. She was a cardboard mask for the thing that had traveled inside me as a worm, that had flapped and gusted in the open country under that orange sky.
    I went back to reading Pansy Saves the School . The secret plans to the airbase next door to the school were being smuggled out to the enemy by spies who were teachers working on the school vegetable allotment: the plans were concealed inside hollowed-out vegetable marrows.
    “Great heavens!” said Inspector Davidson of Scotland Yard’s renowned Smugglers and Secret Spies Division (the SSSD). “That is literally the last place we would have looked!”
    “We owe you an apology, Pansy,” said the stern headmistress, with an uncharacteristically warm smile, and a twinkle in her eyes that made Pansy think perhaps she had misjudged the woman all this term. “You have saved the reputation of the school! Now, before you get too full of yourself—aren’t there some French verbs you ought to be conjugating for Madame?”
    I could be happy with Pansy, in some part of my head, even while the rest of my head was filled with fear. I waited for my parents to come home. I would tell them what was happening. I would tell them. They would believe me.
    At that time my father worked in an office an hour’s drive away. I was not certain what he did. He had a very nice, pretty secretary, with a toy poodle, and whenever she knew we children would be coming in to see our father she would bring the poodle in from home, and we would play with it. Sometimes we would pass buildings and my father would say, “That’s one of ours.” But I did not care about buildings, so never asked how it was one of ours, or even who we were.
    I lay on my bed, reading book after book, until Ursula Monkton appeared in the doorway of the room and said, “You can come down now.”
    My sister was watching television downstairs, in the television room. She was watching a program called How, a pop-science-and-how-things-work show, which opened with the hosts in Native American headdresses saying, “How?” and doing embarrassing war whoops.
    I wanted to turn over to the BBC, but my sister looked at me triumphantly and said, “Ursula says it can stay on whatever I want to watch and you aren’t allowed to change it.”
    I sat with her for a minute, as an old man with a moustache showed all the children of England how to tie fishing flies.
    I said, “She’s not nice.”
    “I like her. She’s pretty.”
    My mother arrived home five minutes later, called hello from the corridor, then went into the kitchen to see Ursula Monkton. She reappeared. “Dinner will be ready as soon as Daddy gets home. Wash your hands.”
    My sister went upstairs and washed her hands.
    I said to my mother, “I don’t like her. Will you make her go away?”
    My mother sighed. “It is not going to be Gertruda all over again, dear. Ursula’s a very nice girl, from a very good family. And she positively adores the two of you.”
    My father came home, and dinner was served. A thick vegetable soup, then roast chicken and new potatoes with frozen peas. I loved all of the things on the table. I did not eat any of it.
    “I’m not hungry,” I explained.
    “I’m not one for telling tales out of school,” said Ursula Monkton, “but someone had chocolate on his hands and face when he came down from his bedroom.”
    “I wish you wouldn’t eat that rubbish,” grumbled my father.
    “It’s just processed sugar. And it ruins your appetite and your teeth,” said my mother.
    I was scared they would force me to eat, but they didn’t. I sat there hungrily, while Ursula Monkton laughed at all my father’s jokes. It seemed to me that he was making special jokes, just for her.
    After dinner we all watched Mission: Impossible . I usually liked Mission: Impossible, but this time it made me feel uneasy, as people kept pulling their faces off to reveal new faces beneath. They were wearing rubber masks, and it was always our heroes underneath, but I wondered what would happen if Ursula Monkton pulled off her face, what would be underneath that?
    We went to bed. It was my sister’s night, and the bedroom door was closed. I missed the