The Chrysalid Conspiracy Read online

  It had been her mother who’d won the day really. The astute woman had realised she wasn’t going to win and changed tack in that endemic parental way by pretending it was her idea, pointing out that as she couldn’t manage the stairs in her wheelchair, no one would be able to interfere with Amelia’s ‘lifestyle,’ as she’d called it. Amelia had taken up the offer and moved upstairs very quickly and quietly, determined to show that she was a responsible, reliable and very tidy person in a very unreasonable and untidy world.

  Her eyes took in the chaos of her room, her original intentions laughing at her. The mud-spattered tracksuit and trainers, which were much used, lay behind the bedroom door looking as if they’d crawled there to die.

  Her battered old chest of drawers was open to various levels with clothes spilling out like a multi-coloured frozen waterfall onto the floor. Other clothes and bits of ‘lifestyle’ littered the room in what, she had decided, was her ‘Exotic Medieval’ mode. Her computer table would be a future archaeologist’s dream and the room stared back at her with contempt.

  “Well, I tried,” she said to the room, realising she was only into the first few minutes of a bad day.

  Scooping up an armful of washing from the floor she headed downstairs, showered and dressed in her tracksuit (the only thing she could find to wear), and then put the kettle on.

  She’d spent much longer in the shower than planned. The bathroom was the only ‘civilised’ room in the house in her opinion. It was large, fully tiled and warm; with the added luxury of a wide walk-in shower with a drop-down seat and constant really hot water, plus an inexhaustible supply of large fluffy bath towels. She’d long got used to the low-level disabled toilet with its safety bar.

  “Tea in five minutes Mum,” she called as she entered the bedroom.

  “And good morning to you, too,” her mother replied with a smile.

  “The good is optional this morning, Mum. Listen to that weather,” she said. They could hear the river even from this end of the large, solidly-built house. “At least the storm’s eased up.”

  Lucy gave a deep yawn. “You really don’t have to knock, you know,” she said. “I keep telling you.”

  “Oh yes I do, mother. As I’ve explained many times, I need to respect your privacy and your dignity. I knock on your door for my benefit as much as for yours,” she finished as she left the room, pleased with that last sentence,

  Lucy adjusted her electric bed in order to sit up. Easing her head back she sighed, knowing that it wouldn’t be long before she had to win this regular little skirmish. How can I tell her? She thought. Will there ever be a right time?

  As her daughter handed her a cup of hot sweet tea, Lucy looked into those big brown eyes. Not yet, she thought to herself. She’s won’t be ready for a few more years yet, thank the stars. Pulling herself together, she took a diversion from her thoughts.

  “At least Molly won’t have to do the outside display today. The hanging baskets would end up in the river.”

  “I like Molly,” Amelia responded.

  “She’s not too bright,” replied her mother, “but what a cheerful, bubbly personality she has.”

  Molly was the daily help. She came in after dropping her twin boys off at primary school and left in time to pick them up, in between time she ran the shop while Amelia was at school and Lucy worked in her lab. As those who knew her were well aware, Molly wasn’t the brightest flower in the shop, but the customers loved her cheerful but not overbearing approach. She had also developed a creative talent for making up bouquets and special orders.

  “Molly’s wreaths are to die for”. Lucy had once said; but only the once.

  “Come on Mum, let’s get you sorted,” Amelia said, taking Lucy’s empty cup and lifting her mother’s bedclothes exposing what had once been slim and attractive legs, now thin and weak from lack of use.

  Amelia admired the way her mother had long ago adjusted to her disability and made the best of it with cheerful humour. Oiling her hands she went through the routine of physiotherapy, massaging her mother’s legs, stretching the tendons and working the muscles.

  Although they both knew she knew she wasn’t very good at it, it was enough to get through the day until Mrs Orugo came in the evenings. She was a professional, and Lucy hated the tough, thorough workout she always gave her.

  After unplugging the battery charger Amelia placed her mother’s wheelchair next to the bed helping to swing her legs over, while Lucy used her considerable upper body strength to lift herself into it. Amelia knelt on the floor, muttering to herself. “Why do they do this?” as she felt for and found the twin levers to put the chair on auto. “Who are these people? Why put the controls so out of reach?” Her mother smiled and ignoring the complaints, thanked her and trundled off to the bathroom.

  “Can you…?” began Amelia.

  “Yes.”

  “You only have to…”

  “I know, I know, thank you,” Lucy called back. I’ll have to find the courage to tell her one day I suppose. the thought cast a shadow in her mind.

  A few minutes later they were sitting either side of a small antique table Amelia had placed in the centre of the room. This was one of her favourite times, breakfast with her mum; time spent together before the outside world was ready to intrude with its own reality.

  Starting with freshly squeezed orange juice, scrambled eggs and bacon, followed by toast and marmalade it was a simple but adequate breakfast. And as Lucy had said, after Amelia’s first disastrous attempt to cook, ‘It’s the company that counts.’

  “Will you be all right for tomorrow, love?” asked Lucy, “Nigel is going to be early. He has another job on afterwards.”

  “Okay Mum, I’ll be waiting to help him unload, don’t worry. I expect the delivery won’t be that big.”

  “No, I cut back on the order in anticipation of this awful weather.” Lucy responded. “There won’t be much passing trade, but there are quite a few orders to be made up for a wedding. We’ll need to get an early start. Will you be able to manage?”

  “Mum,” her daughter answered, “If I can manage that school I’m at, I’m ready for anything.”

  “Things not going so good then, I gather.”

  “Oh, it’s okay, really,” replied Amelia with a sigh. “It’s not just that I’m way ahead of everyone else, including some of the teachers, and not because the other kids are all a bit dim or anything, it’s just that there’s something missing. There’s no sense of adventure, no initiative, they just follow the rules like sheep. All they’re interested in is fashion and football.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing for a school that size?”

  “It’s just that…oh, I don’t know. It’s as if the world they live in doesn’t matter. There’s no humour and the administration seems to be more interested in crowd control than education. It’s too stifling.” She gave her mother a helpless shrug and smiled.

  “You’re not putting it very well, but I know what you mean. I’ve spent a lot of time in schools and colleges and, I agree, you have to laugh sometimes, if only to stop yourself going insane.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly how it feels,” said Amelia. “They do laugh and joke, but it all seems so childish and somehow the spark is missing. I don’t really know what it is. Perhaps it’s me,”

  Amelia’s mother laughed. You’re damn right young lady, and that’s the way it’s meant to be. The thought crowded into her mind, but she said, “That reminds me of our favourite university saying.”

  “What’s that then?” Amelia asked.

  “See the happy moron, she doesn’t give a damn. I wish I were a moron. Oh god, perhaps I am.” And they both laughed.

  “I’m surrounded by idiots!” Amelia cried.

  “Don’t knock idiots, young lady. We need them,” said Lucy.

  “We do? Why?”

  “It’s obvious. Without idiots, we’d have no satisfactory way to measure our own intelligence.”

  Amelia raced from
the room howling through her laughter. “I gottagoloo…”

  By the time she returned, her mother had cleared the breakfast things so she put the table back against the wall and they both proceeded to get Lucy showered and dressed for the day.

  Beige slacks, soft black shoes, a white blouse and a soft brown cardigan. Lucy insisted that, even though she couldn’t walk, that was no excuse for not trying to look nice. And she did. Her plentiful soft brown hair framed a pretty face. Her large brown eyes were warm and friendly. A touch of make-up to hide the depths of pain and depression she’d been through in her life, and when people spoke to her, she made them feel they were the most important person in her world.

  As Amelia turned to leave the room, her mother called her back. “By the way, we have a problem next Saturday. Molly can’t come in.”

  “What? But Mum, it’s my birthday.” Amelia’s mood began to darken.

  “I know, and you haven’t let me forget it. Don’t worry, we’ll think of something.” And as her mother turned towards her dressing table Amelia went back upstairs trying to hold her anger in check.

  “Damn,” she uttered. “Why does everything I want have to go wrong? For goodness sake, I don’t ask for much.”

  Dressed in her school uniform, which was about as comfortable as it was inspiring, she found her school bag and checked the contents; looked at her timetable, which made depressing reading, then went back downstairs.

  In the bathroom, she gave her teeth an over-energetic scrub and tore at her long, almost blonde hair. Then, remembering her ruined birthday, she slammed her hairbrush into the sink in temper.

  As she picked the broken handle out she was hit by stomach cramps.

  Another of nature’s delights, she thought as she looked at herself in the mirror searching for someone to blame for her troubles. More disappointment followed when she realised that there wasn’t anybody, only her own reflection. Who do you think you are, Amelia Jayne Jaxson? She thought as she stared at herself in the mirror. Stop all this self-pity rubbish and get a grip. Mother comes first, not you.

  She didn’t feel the part, but it made her think. She was so very proud of her mum. The shop she had started had become a great success. It must have been a daunting prospect, losing her husband so tragically and having to adjust to life in a wheelchair with a toddler to look after as well. It showed what sort of person she was.

  It reminded of her own problems and decided that, if her mother could face her disability with such determination and humour, without ever complaining (not that Amelia had ever heard her), then her own fears and doubts about life and growing up should be treated in the same fashion.

  Feeling a little better about herself, she went into the kitchen and scooped an apple and a bag of crisps into her bag. Noticing the washing-up and the pile of clothes and towels by the washing machine her shoulders slumped. The mood she’d been fighting crept back into her mind, reminding her it was still Friday.

  Trying to shake off her returning despondency, she went through to the shop where her mother was sorting the till float for the day.

  “Sorry, Mum,” she said, even though she didn’t feel it.

  “That’s all right, my love. Forget it,” Lucy replied, and to change the subject added

  “Molly gets so flustered if she runs low on change, not that she’ll need much today.” Amelia, standing by the shop door to keep an eye out for the school bus, relaxed slightly. The mention of Molly brought her back to her own disappointment.

  Molly couldn’t work on the weekends, not that she would. She loved spending time with her six-year-old twins, and why not? Amelia ran the shop with her mother on Saturdays and, as that day was her birthday would it have to be cancelled? Not that there were any great plans. It wasn’t, after all a national holiday, but the fact that it was Halloween didn’t help. She’d accepted her mother’s offer of a day to herself. Get up when she felt like it, do what she wanted, go shopping or slob around the house. Anything she liked, for a whole day.

  She’d had to admit to a feeling of guilt as their lifestyle didn’t lend itself to these luxuries of behaviour. But her mother had insisted, with the added reasoning that, for her, it was a cheap way out. It was when she had been told that Mrs Orugo, the physiotherapist, was coming in to get her mother up that she had felt a genuine stab of jealousy.

  Her devious mother had also added that being fifteen gave her licence to leave her room in a mess legally. She’d given her mum a hug and wondered how she’d known about her room, and was that some kind of threat?

  As the coach came into sight she unlocked the shop door and with a quick wave to her mother she stepped out into the rain. The wind tore at her and she felt for a moment as if she were in some Gothic story, struggling across desolate moorland, calling the name of her lost love. Fat chance! She thought, as a passing lorry soaked her shoes.

  “Is this the happy ending?” she grumbled to herself, as she looked down at her wet feet. “What else can go wrong today?”

  ***

  Stepping onto the bus she found a seat and tried to ignore the smell of wet clothes and stale tobacco breath, and the swearing from the back seats. Nobody spoke to her and she just sat there feeling lonely and miserable as she watched the shop disappear.

  This place was so precious to her. This was her home, her life, and she loved it so much she was quite prepared to put her own hopes and dreams on hold. A straight choice between obligations and ambitions she considered a ‘no contest’.

  At least her resolve released her from the problem of what to be when she grew up, her future was set in stone and it was what she wanted, she mused. College, university and academic success, along with romance, marriage and kids she considered to be no more than social engineering to maintain the status quo; finishing up with the long struggle against debt and doubt wasn’t her idea of a life, working hard for somebody else’s benefit.

  Amelia was well aware that she was light years ahead of the rest of the pupils in her school. She’d smiled at the remarks the sociology teacher Mr Osmond had made to her in her first year at high school. “Don’t get upset Miss Jaxson, he’d said, we’re all basically the same; it’s just that some have differing social values”. But privately Amelia still preferred to call them ‘geeks and plebeians’. The very idea of a life spent jumping through carefully constructed hoops in the struggle to purchase more labour saving devices than there are labours was almost abhorrent to her. And being pleased with the bonus of two for one dog chews as reward for your efforts all seemed so pointless.

  That first year at High School had been a nightmare for her. Launched from primary in a blaze of glory for her achievements both in the classroom and the sports field, great things had been predicted, but she’d soon learned the sad truth. Proud of her abilities she’d forged ahead with her class work, unaware she was making the rest feel inadequate, and not a little jealous. She won everything on the sports field and the others gave up trying.

  The net result was that she soon found herself ostracised from normal social interaction, and that’s when the bullying had started. Her mother’s complaints to the School Board had resulted in a cursory investigation and it was decided there was no evidence to support her claims. Open season on Amelia Jaxson was inevitable.

  Mother and daughter grew closer during those years. She owed her very existence to her mother. Everything she was and everything she would be belonged to her and it went far deeper and was much more precious than the much sought after student loan. If Molly was off and she didn’t get a birthday then she would have to lump it. After all, it was just another day really. Whatever happened, her mother came first and she vowed that, come what may, she would never, ever, let her down.

  Amelia Jayne Jaxson was fortunately unaware that, before she was much older, her vow would be tested beyond the limits of even her own vivid imagination.

  Chapter Two

  The bus journey usually took about fifteen minutes but, with the wind and the rain
conspiring to let them know that winter was on its way, it was going to take a lot longer this morning. After a few heart-stopping miles, with the normally non-committal driver struggling and swearing non-stop, they reached the fork where the bus swung left, up the hill towards its destination. Amelia heard several gasps from the other children. Someone said, “Oh no!” and a few “Wows!” and expletives came from the back seats.

  Where the road forked left up the hill towards Warem Down stood the Moonraker pub. It was an impressive old building rumoured to be haunted and once a smuggler’s den, complete with the pond which supported its name. Large and misshapen where many and varied additions and alterations had been carried out over the centuries. Everyone was looking at the huge old oak tree that had stood next to it. Now a victim of the storm it lay like some mortally wounded creature, its branches writhing and lashing out its death throes in futile defiance at the storm. The thought came to her that, one day, her life would be over too, and Amelia Jayne Jaxson had her first glimpse of her own mortality.

  The tree disappeared from sight and she sat down, feeling a strange uneasiness. The old oak tree was said to be over five hundred years old and she thought about its life and all the things it had seen. Generations of children playing in and around it, war, peace, young lovers, old lovers; gone, forever. It reminded her of her mother’s words of not so long ago. ‘Everything changes, Amelia. Nothing stays the same. Get used to it, you can never go back’. Had there been a touch of bitterness in her words? She didn’t know, but sadness wormed its way into her thoughts, extending her mood.

  Her mind wandered into the twists and turns of time. Yesterday that tree was where it had always been, and tomorrow it will never be there again. She would always think of this as a personal ‘before’ and ‘after’ with that bit in the middle as the marker for change.

  I hope the change from child to adult is not so traumatic, she thought, and was still wondering about growing up being for better or for worse when the bus stopped.