‘I asked Wilhelmena if she’d considered my offer to buy The Old Chapel, but she fobbed me off. Did you get any further with that?’ asked Dan.
‘No. I didn’t.’ Annabelle felt herself tense. She jabbed the wooden spoon into the pan, making thick, sticky lines on the bottom of the pot.
‘I don’t know why she’s being so difficult. It makes no sense to have a holiday house here if you live in Oxford. It’s nearly forty hours of travel to get here. She’s got to be thinking about selling.’ Dan pulled a couple of tomatoes and a cucumber from the drawer. Then he looked at the empty knife block on the kitchen bench for a few seconds, a blank expression on his face.
Annabelle tried to ignore him. She’d mollycoddled him for too long. What if the cancer took her? What would he do then when he needed to find a kitchen implement? Sylvia would move in. Annabelle felt a sharp pain snake across her chest. She dropped the wooden spoon against the pot and took hold of the bench, pretending to look out the window. She took some deep breaths and squeezed her eyes shut against the hot, hateful thought. Sylvia would move in and make him eat lentils and brassicas. And that would jolly well serve him right.
Dan pulled out the implements drawer and began digging through it with rough, noisy movements, picking up and discarding peelers, stirrers, salad servers, upsetting Annabelle’s system. Annabelle flung open the dishwasher and pulled out the top rack. Three chopping knives sat across the tray, gleaming.
He grunted, taking one and not looking up. ‘Maybe you could have another chat to Wilhelmena this week about it. She seems to like you.’
‘Dammit, Dan! No! I am not doing your bidding. I don’t even want that horrible little place!’ Without warning, tears began running down Annabelle’s face.
Dan stared at her, his lips parted. She wanted to curl up and hide in a dark place, but the fig paste would be ruined if she didn’t finish with it now. She swiped at the tears with the tea towel and turned her back to him.
‘All right, all right,’ said Dan. ‘No need to get so emotional about it.’
Annabelle could feel her face getting prickly and blotchy, but she stayed silent. She couldn’t speak in case the seething mass of bitterness inside her accidentally came out.
Dan put the chops on a plate and put it in the microwave. ‘How long do they need to defrost?’
‘Give them one minute but keep an eye on them,’ said Annabelle, squeezing her eyes shut again.
‘On the topic of radiation,’ said Dan, as he pressed the start button, ‘did the oncologist give you a treatment start date yet?’
Annabelle swallowed. She felt that awful dizzy feeling wavering just at the edge of her brain, as if she needed to hold on and plant her feet in case everything began to spin. It had been happening quite a bit lately. Probably a part of her anxiety symptoms, according to the therapist woman. Lena. She was a very herbal sort of person and quite boring and not very helpful either. But still, Annabelle knew she needed to try harder. It wasn’t Lena’s fault that she couldn’t seem to talk about things properly.
She was suddenly back in the therapy room, Lena leaning forward, her purple gypsy earrings jangling around her face.
‘Before we talk about the anxiety episodes or the cancer, Annabelle, it helps me to understand a little more about you if I know about events from the past that might have shaped you and your ways of coping.’
Annabelle had swallowed and shifted in the armchair. It was deep and squishy. Too deep. She felt like she was trapped in the silly, airless room. As if the chair was designed to trap her into relaxing. Into saying something she might regret. ‘All right.’
Lena smiled at her, crinkly lines forming beside her eyes. She spoke with a slow aura of calm that sounded just a teensy bit fake.
‘Do you ever recall being faced with a distressing event in your past – an event that may have made you question yourself or your future, perhaps?’
‘I…’ Annabelle felt her heart rate speeding up, as if she was heading up to the peak on a roller coaster, ready to fly back down the other side amid screams and wind and terror. She was holding her breath, and after a moment she let it out with a little cough.
‘No. No. I… don’t think so.’
‘Perhaps a situation where you felt a lack of control?’
‘I… well, no. Not that I can think of.’ Annabelle felt herself rubbing at the cross on her necklace and forced her hand down onto the chair. She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them and smiled. ‘My mother died of cancer when I was a young teenager, but I had my dad and my sister. I was all right.’ She gave Lena a smile that said: sorry, I know I should be more interesting, but I’m really just so normal and boring. She wasn’t about to disclose her most awful secrets to this dippy woman after knowing her for five minutes.
Annabelle realised she had been staring at the kitchen floor, cringing at the memory of her therapist. She looked up. Dan was watching her, waiting for an answer. ‘They wanted to do the surgery next week, then chemotherapy after that,’ she said.
‘Do you need me to drop you at the hospital or something?’
She shook her head. ‘Obviously I can’t have surgery yet. I’ve told them I’ll book it in a month or two. After the fete. And I’ve got three big weddings coming up after that too – I need to source all sorts of things for those.’
‘What?’ Dan stopped chopping and scrunched up his face as if she’d just spoken to him in a foreign language .
Annabelle sighed. The dizzy feeling had slipped away and she just felt tired again. She turned off the pan and lifted it up and began pouring the remaining fig paste into the second dish.
‘What do you mean, what?’ she said.
‘Are you seriously telling me you’re delaying treatment for a big cancerous lump because of a fete? What’s the matter with you?’ Dan picked up his beer and drained it. He put the bottle down on the bench and got another one out of the fridge.
Annabelle noticed a wet ring where the bottle had been.
‘The ring,’ she said, pointing at it.
‘What?’
‘Wipe up the ring. And put the beer bottle in the recycling. Please.’
Dan looked at her for a long moment, as if he was trying to decipher a puzzle. Then he made a huffing sound, picked up the bottle and put it in the bin under the sink and gave a swipe with the dishcloth over the ring.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘A month could make a difference. It might spread.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘You’re being ridiculous. Just go and get it sorted out.’
‘Don’t be so bossy,’ snapped Annabelle.
The microwave pinged, and Dan leaned over and pulled out the chops.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘who’s going to do everything that has to be done for the fete if I start treatment? They said I’d need several weeks of recovery time, and that’s just the surgery bit.’
It was a swipe at Dan, and she knew it was rude, but she was at the end of her tether. Seriously, what did he expect her to do? He wasn’t the one hosting the entire north-west coast at this damned garden fete. He was barely lifting a finger to help, and she could feel the rage building inside her whenever he came home late from work, or popped out in the evening just as she needed him to do something. She was falling into bed just before midnight and was up again at dawn trying to fit everything in.
‘Jesus, Belle. Get the garden club biddies to set up the stalls for the fete. They live for that stuff. What else is there? I can do anything you need me to. I keep saying, just give me a job.’
‘That’s not true! All you’ve contributed so far is a promise to mow the lawn the day before the fete and a half-hearted effort to hang my lobelia baskets after I asked you a hundred times!’
Dan stared at her for a moment, then turned and walked out the door and into the garden. He let the screen door bang behind him, making Annabelle jump.
She placed the second dish of fig paste carefully across the first and carried them both out
to the back fridge. She wondered if Dan was picking some rocket or whether he’d gone off in a huff somewhere instead. She was wiping her hands on her apron when she heard a knock, and looked up to see Willa standing at the screen door with Leandra Pickle.
‘Hello!’ she said. ‘Come in. Please, ladies! Don’t stand on ceremony. Come on in.’
‘Sorry,’ said Willa. ‘I don’t mean to intrude. I know it’s late.’
‘Fiddlesticks,’ said Annabelle.
Willa and Leandra pulled off their gardening shoes and came into the kitchen.
‘Annabelle, you look absolutely exhausted,’ said Leandra, who was in grubby gardening clothes, her wild grey hair pushed up under a faded cloth hat, and not looking all that glamorous herself.
‘Do I?’ said Annabelle. She wondered if the tears earlier had smudged her mascara. She always wore make-up, even at home. There was no need to let standards slip just because you might not expect to see anyone during the day. She’d always liked the French attitude that her mother had explained to her as a girl – one’s appearance was a favour to other people. They were the ones who had to look at you, so you should make an effort as a sign of courtesy. You could never be sure who might drop in.
‘You’re running yourself ragged over this fete, old girl. You mustn’t!’ exclaimed Leandra, and Annabelle wondered why she felt qualified to make such pronouncements if she wasn’t offering to help. There was a patronising edge to the comment. Also, the term ‘old girl’ was offensive.
Annabelle smiled thinly, then turned her eyes to Willa and her smile became genuine. She had developed a weakness for Willa. Such a reserved slip of a girl, but there was something achingly endearing about her. It felt like a privilege whenever she opened up.
‘Leandra has been helping me after I agreed to let The Old Chapel garden be part of the fete,’ said Willa. ‘That’s all right, isn’t it? If people also wander over there?’
‘Of course!’ said Annabelle.
‘That’s good. I should have checked earlier. It’s just that Sylvia asked me and…’ She had a distracted, distant look in her eyes, as if it had just occurred to her that she might be offending Annabelle in some way.
‘Annabelle doesn’t mind,’ said Leandra. She walked across to the sink and began washing her hands. ‘It’s a community fete – more offerings mean more money for the charity, and Lillian’s garden has some fabulous old specimens. Better than yours even, Annabelle. Have you seen that gorgeous old macrophylla? I think it’s a Prince Henry. Fabulous variegated petals. We should get people to put another gold coin in the pot to get into The Old Chapel garden.’ Leandra had squirted soap on her hands and was lathering them vigorously. Then she began using the dishcloth to clean around her fingernails. She seemed oblivious to Annabelle and Willa’s stares.
They listened to the soupy sound of Leandra giving one last lather to her hands, then Willa said, ‘I just popped over because I wanted to ask you if you’d like to meet my husband and son. Perhaps for coffee at the surf club tomorrow? Around eleven?’
‘He’s a total dish, that hubby of hers!’ said Leandra.
Annabelle glanced across at her.
Leandra was grinning. ‘And the son, absolutely gorgeous. Must be all that rowing. He’s all muscles!’
Compared to Willa’s gentle voice, Leandra’s was sharp and loud and Annabelle pushed her fingernails hard against her palm. ‘That sounds lovely, Willa,’ she said, just as a motorbike approached with an explosive roar. It pulled into the driveway at the front of the kitchen. Banjo began barking in the garden, and they all looked out the window as Dan got off the bike, kicked the stand into position and slung his helmet onto the seat. They stared as he walked towards the kitchen door. He obviously wasn’t expecting company, so when Leandra spoke, he looked momentarily startled.
‘Dan Broadhurst! I thought you got rid of that midlife crisis of yours years ago! And you’re still in your work suit. Hardly the right gear for bike-riding, is it? Still, we should be thanking the Lord that at your age we don’t have to see you in leathers!’
‘Leandra. Hello,’ said Dan.
Why can’t you just try a little bit harder? thought Annabelle, flinching at the sneer in his voice.
He turned to Willa. ‘Hello again.’
‘Dan was just getting rocket for dinner from the garden,’ said Annabelle, although she realised he must have been up to the top shed to get the motorbike instead. There was an awkward moment of silence as everyone looked at his empty hands.
‘I’m just off to get it now, actually,’ said Dan, but he made no immediate attempt to move, and Annabelle began thumbing her necklace, wondering what to do next. Usually she’d invite the visitors to stay for a drink, but Leandra was likely to say yes, and Dan might say something rude.
‘Actually, there was one other thing before I go,’ said Willa.
Dan began digging around in the drawers, pulling out various plastic containers and assessing them, Annabelle presumed, for their suitability to hold the rocket.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘I found some of Lillian’s diaries. Decades worth of them. Tucked away in a seat. I’m not sure what I should do with them. If I should read them. What do you think?’
Annabelle paused as everything began slowing and receding around her. Banjo’s barking, the sounds in the kitchen, the warbling songs of birds in the twilight outside. She took a few slow, shallow breaths and forced herself to look normal.
‘Diaries,’ she said.
‘Yes, I counted thirty-five. But there are about a dozen missing from the date range. They start in 1973.’
‘Diaries,’ said Annabelle again, her voice sounding small.
‘How intriguing!’ said Leandra. ‘She played her cards close to her chest did our Lillian. I’d love to know what she really got up to inside that little place.’
Dan put a container down slowly on the bench. ‘Leandra, this is a private discussion. It’s probably best you leave us to it.’
Leandra’s face dropped, and Annabelle flinched at his bluntness. This was Dan in work mode, the man who could negotiate settlement deals and win over a courtroom full of lawyers and a judge without quaking the way Annabelle would have done with all that pressure. She found it breathtaking just how quick-witted and cruel he could be sometimes.
Leandra looked at each of them defiantly, and Willa dropped her gaze to the floor.
‘Well, if you think so,’ she said. ‘Willa, I’ll be back in the morning to finish with the mulching. And I’ll bring some thin stakes to hold up those wonky zinnias.’
‘Thank you,’ said Willa.
They waited as Leandra stopped at the doorway to put on her shoes then marched down the garden path. Banjo began to bark again. A blowfly started swooping around the kitchen, bashing itself against the window, making Annabelle conscious of the silence.
‘Which ones are missing?’ asked Dan.
‘I can’t remember,’ said Willa.
Dan stood still and silent for a moment, staring past Annabelle’s shoulder at the wall that held the painting of Merrivale. It had been commissioned by his Uncle Andrew in the 1960s. In the foreground of the garden a woman and dog were depicted. Andrew had loved his dogs apparently, much more than his women, Annabelle suspected.
‘If they’re part of Lillian’s estate, they belong to you, Wilhelmena,’ said Dan. He dropped his head while Annabelle thumbed the cross around her neck and felt her stomach clenching. Then he looked up. ‘But there’s something tawdry about dipping into other people’s private lives, don’t you think? Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.’ He was staring at Willa now, and she at him.
Annabelle hated this. The still, loaded silence. The judgement as two people she cared about sized one another up. The psychologist had been teaching her mindfulness. To live in the moment, noticing what was happening to her. She registered the pull of her breath as her heart sped up.
Eventually Dan looked down at the container on the ben
ch. Then, without picking it up, he walked out of the kitchen, letting the door slam, breaking the dreadful stillness. The motorbike roared into life and both women turned their heads as the noise filled the air then drifted into the distance.
Good grief, thought Annabelle. This is it. She tried to pull together the fraying threads of her mind. ‘I’m sorry, Willa. He was very close to Lillian. Like a brother, really.’ Excuses. Obvious excuses. She pushed on. ‘They grew up together. Well, not together exactly, but he would come for summer holidays here, to stay with his aunt and uncle, and Lillian was just across the road there, so they were friends since childhood, you see.’
‘It must be hard for him then, with her gone,’ said Willa.
‘He’s all right. He’s fine. But I understand why he doesn’t want you going through her private life. It would feel like an intrusion into his own family.’
‘Of course. And I don’t think I’d feel right reading the more current ones anyway. But if Lillian was my birth mother, I just thought perhaps… well, that I could read the diaries from around the time I was born. To help me understand.’
‘Nineteen seventy-seven?’
‘Yes.’
‘He really wouldn’t want you probing through that one. It was the year his Uncle Andrew was killed,’ said Annabelle. ‘It was… awful. They couldn’t find him for days. He… fell from the cliffs looking for Charlie. His dog. And Dan was left to look after his aunt, and Merrivale. It was a very difficult time.’
‘You were around when it happened?’ asked Willa.
‘I… No. Well, yes, I lived around here, but I was only sixteen. I didn’t really… well, I didn’t really know Andrew.’ Annabelle twisted her hands together. ‘That was a shocking year, and dear Lillian would have suffered terribly.’
‘Why? Was she close to Andrew too?’
Annabelle could feel her heart shuddering and shaking intermittently inside her ribcage. It was the strangest sensation. She lifted her hand and noticed that it was shaking too. ‘Please, Willa. Don’t go digging up her secrets now.’
‘Secrets?’
The Daughter's Promise (ARC) Page 18
