In the Spider's House

by Sarah Diamond

  ‘That was how it was working for them, anyway. I did my day’s work and went back to my cottage, talked to the housekeeper, saw the Fishers coming and going. Respected their confidence whenever I saw my mates and my family, just said they were a nice couple, decent employers, it was a good job. There wasn’t any harm in lying, I thought. It was a good job, and I didn’t see why I shouldn’t go on working there indefinitely—the pay was above average, the cottage was nice, the Fishers were never any trouble. But then…one day…’

  The steady, effortless flow of his words dried up unexpectedly and I felt him become anxious again, tongue-tied. ‘Go on,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘It’s so difficult to talk about. You’ll judge me for it, I’m quite sure. You’ll think I should have had more courage, done things differently…’ A new and querulous note had entered that elderly voice, at once supplicatory and self-justifying. ‘But you see, I didn’t know any better, then. I wasn’t to know what would happen afterwards…’

  ‘I won’t judge you. Honestly.’ My own voice was almost inaudible, as I tried to sound as gentle as I could. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was summertime. I was working in the back garden. It was very hot, and I’d been working for hours. I suddenly felt quite faint. I needed some water. Cold water.’ He spoke as if under hypnosis, simple, declarative sentences like a witness on a stand. ‘I went into the house to get some. I thought it was empty. I knew it was Mrs Brown’s afternoon off. I couldn’t see the driveway from the back garden, so I hadn’t seen them both driving back separately. The Fishers. I’d just let myself in and shut the door behind me to stop it creaking in the breeze. Then I heard their voices. From the living room. I can remember it all so clearly. As if it happened yesterday.

  ‘“Why don’t you ever listen to a word I say?” she was shouting. “I would stop all this, you know I would. If only I had a child of my own to look after. I’d be happy then—you don’t understand.”

  ‘I could tell she was drunk again, and I wished I hadn’t shut that damned door. I could have just crept out again. But if I opened it now, they might hear, and think I’d been eavesdropping. I just stayed where I was, too scared to move, praying I’d have a chance to get out somehow before one of them came in.

  ‘“You know you can’t have children of your own,” he said. I’ve told you he was a cold man; his voice was just like ice. “You shouldn’t have had some back-street abortion that ruined you for life—what were you at the time, fourteen, fifteen? Christ, you’re an embarrassment. I wish I’d never married you.”

  ‘“You don’t understand me!” she screamed. I could hear something else smashing in there—it’s a wonder that couple had any ornaments left. Then she started crying. Loud, noisy drunk’s tears. You didn’t need to see her husband’s face to see how disgusted he was; it was all in his voice when he spoke. “Oh, for God’s sake,” he said. “You’re like a child yourself.”

  ‘“I want to adopt,” she was sobbing. “It would all be different, then. I want a little girl of my own—nobody needs to know she’s not ours, nobody in the town. Nobody needs to know I can’t have children. A pretty little girl with natural blonde hair like my mother’s. I’d give her everything I never had. She wouldn’t have to go to boarding school like I did. She’d go to school in the town, and she’d never tell anyone she wasn’t ours. I’d be so happy, Dennis, I’d never drink again, I’d never have lovers. I wouldn’t need any of that, not if I had a little girl to look after—”

  ‘“A child’s not a doll, Rita,” he said. “How are you supposed to know what it’s going to look like? People adopt babies, not children.”

  ‘“There must be older ones who need adopting. Must be.” She’d stopped crying and sounded hopeful all of a sudden, like she’d just seen it was possible. “We could get in touch with the council on Monday, we could start finding out—”

  ‘“And what about your history? Do you really believe they’re going to let you adopt?” He sounded so scornful, not trying to hurt her feelings, he just didn’t care. “You spent a year in a mental hospital when you were barely seventeen. They look into your background, these people. They’ll rule you out immediately. Can’t you even understand that much?”

  ‘“They won’t,” she said. “Your factory, this house… we’d be ideal, Dennis, of course they’d let us. They’ll never look that far back, not in a million years—”

  ‘I don’t know why I moved then. I’d been standing in the same position all the time I’d been listening. Frozen to the spot, you could say. But I did move then, very clumsily, and it was a bad mistake—I was standing by the dresser in their kitchen and bumped against it hard, and everything rattled. It seemed like the loudest noise I’d ever heard in my life, and their voices just cut off. “Who’s there?” I heard her shouting, and he came hurrying out before I could take two steps towards the door. He just stood and looked at me. I had no idea what to say. And from the living room, Mrs Fisher sounded close to hysterical. “Who is it?” she kept shouting, “Dennis, who’s there?” I just turned and ran out, in a real blind panic, you can imagine. Went straight back to my little cottage and sat waiting for one or both of them to knock on the door and give me my marching orders.

  ‘The knock came about ten minutes later. I went to get it, not scared any more, just resigned. It was Mr Fisher. He always looked serious, but he looked more serious than ever, on the doorstep. Older too. He asked if he could come in.

  ‘Of course, it wasn’t really a question. We sat down together, didn’t say anything for a while. “I have no idea what you were doing in the kitchen,” he said at last, “whether you were deliberately eavesdropping, or simply found yourself trapped in a difficult situation. In all honesty, it doesn’t matter much one way or the other. My wife’s insisting that I let you go, and—in the light of the conversation you’ve just overheard—that’s probably best for all concerned. I’m sure you can understand that yourself.”

  ‘I just nodded. I was thinking I’d have to move back in with Mum and Dad, wishing I’d managed to save more money while I’d been working there. I was just sitting there staring at the floor when I heard him writing something, and looked up. He’d got a chequebook out, and was filling one in. “I’m well aware that it’s no fault of your own,” he said. “You can count on us for an excellent reference. And just to show that there are no hard feelings, this is yours as well.”

  ‘He handed me the cheque. I almost fainted. He was giving me close to a full year’s wages, as casually as he’d have handed over a pound note. “What you tell people is your business, obviously,” he said. “But I’d very much appreciate it if you kept certain details to yourself. I can see that you take my meaning.”

  ‘I never went back to Mum and Dad’s house, anyway. I had enough money to rent a flat in Manchester, and I got another job not a month later—he’d been as good as his word, Mr Fisher, he’d given me a glowing reference. I felt very grateful to him. Plenty of men in his position would have thrown me out on my ear without a second thought, after seeing me in that kitchen, but he’d gone out of his way to help me. So I never breathed a word to anyone about the Fishers, and what I knew about them. It seemed the least I could do in return. For years, I almost forgot they existed—since I’d left Teasford, I’d got married and started a family, and I had no idea what they might be up to.

  ‘Then, one morning in 1969, I picked up the daily paper and read about their adoptive daughter being arrested for murder at the age of ten.’

  It was as if he’d been speaking in a trance and was now coming quickly out of it—as he spoke again, the tremble in his voice was both minute and unmissable. ‘I didn’t sleep properly for weeks. I kept thinking back to what I’d heard that afternoon, what I’d known for years before that—they weren’t fit to look after a stray cat, never mind a child. But they’d got hold of one, somehow or other. And God alone knows how badly they unbalanced her, between them. I kept remembering the way Mrs Fisher
had talked about the daughter she wanted. Like a doll, like a toy. And her husband hadn’t cared one way or the other.

  ‘I didn’t think Rebecca would have been a killer at the age of ten, if she hadn’t gone to them. And I’d never said a word to anyone. I’d just let myself be bought off, told myself it didn’t matter. It was a little girl’s life at stake; I could have got in touch with the social services the day I left, could have given them a dozen reasons why the Fishers weren’t fit parents—’

  I felt the crushing weight of this old man’s guilt, something that had been suppressed for decades finally giving way. His voice was cold and taut with self-loathing. ‘Of course, I never told my wife and children anything about it—they’d have seen me in a whole different light if they knew. Everyone thought I was such a good man. But when I heard about your research, I knew I’d have to tell someone the full story at last. I’ve been wanting to phone you for weeks, but I just kept losing my bottle. Thinking you’d need me to give my name, that you’d have to let my family know… I don’t know what I thought, to be honest. I was just afraid.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry,’ I said quietly. ‘And you don’t have to blame yourself. You weren’t to know what would happen if you kept quiet. Anyone would have done the same thing.’

  The voice down the line had become shy, evasive. ‘Well, that’s as maybe.’

  I suddenly realised that I’d heard those words in the same voice before: Melanie’s hallway in Teasford, the old man coming into the kitchen beside his son and grandchildren. ‘Maybe the Catholics have it right, with their confession,’ he said. ‘I feel better, in an odd sort of way. Now I’ve told someone.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  PICTURES BECOMING CLEARER in my mind.

  A young social worker at the beginning of his career, the first ever case he’d handled on his own. A twenty-five-year-old fellow named Bob Mills, who had no idea that future years would see his ascent to the pinnacle of the public sector, to the more austere and authoritative Robert. A sad case to begin your real working life with, if a relatively straightforward one. A withdrawn and unhappy little girl who’d lost both parents some months ago; an angelic-looking child named Rebecca Jane Sanderson, who was currently living in the authority’s care, and was urgently in need of adoption.

  A psychologist’s starkly imperative report landing on his desk at exactly the wrong moment—when he’d heard that a certain couple were interested in giving her a home, a certain couple who’d first got in touch with them almost two years ago. Who’d charmingly, regretfully turned down all previous candidates for adoption: they were slightly too young, too old, too loud, too shy, too aggressive. A very particular couple, but otherwise ideal in every way—devoted to one another, well-known around the area, with enough money to give a child anything and everything they might need in life. You didn’t look into their backgrounds too closely, when you were an overworked young man struggling to stay afloat in a sea of red tape and office politics, afraid despite yourself that you were getting out of your depth. You only had to meet the Fishers to know there was nothing wrong with them…

  The psychologist’s report becoming buried in newer, more urgent paperwork as the wheels of adoption started rolling in earnest. The Fishers adored Rebecca. She was exactly what they’d been looking for all along. They’d give her a wonderful home. So there was no need to follow up a certain Dr Edward Leighton’s suggestions and warnings and fears—if she’d remained in care, of course, there would have been, but as it was, such measures were obviously unnecessary. Her behaviour was bound to normalise, when the procedures had been completed and the forms filled in and the single, pathetic suitcase packed. As Rebecca Fisher, the child would be fine.

  Case concluded. Hands washed. On to the next.

  Only, of course, it hadn’t ended there. Following the events of 1969, things would have been dragged up again, if only behind closed doors—the corners that had been cut, the background checks that had been dispensed with entirely, the report that had been ignored. Perhaps the threat of a scandal, quickly hushed up by the authority en masse. And I suddenly knew why I’d been put through to Robert Mills so quickly—Rebecca must haunt his dreams as she did those of Melanie’s father-in-law, if for slightly more prosaic reasons. A skeleton in the closet of his glittering career; the bungled first case that had ended in horror.

  Off the phone, I moved round the house aimlessly. Revelation had come like a bolt from the blue, leaving me dizzy. The truth about Rita and Dennis Fisher kept approaching me all over again from different angles—sometimes a full-frontal assault, sometimes an ambush from the shadows. And sometimes it crept up soundlessly behind me, tapped me gently on the shoulder: the whole picture’s changed now, it whispered, everything’s become unrecognisable. None of my previous ideas remained intact, and some crumbled into dust as others changed without altering at all. It was like looking into a cloudbank and finding faces; they’d been there all along, only now I could see them.

  Unstable, lonely, terrifyingly self-obsessed Rita—the last woman in the world who should have been given custody of such a troubled little girl, who’d been drawn to her by everything that existed on the surface and didn’t matter. A pretty little girl with natural blonde hair like my mother’s. Trying to reinvent herself and her own past, seeing Rebecca as a kind of human Prozac. As Dennis must have seen her as a means to an end himself—something to pacify a troublesome and potentially embarrassing wife, to stop her getting drunk, making scenes, taking lovers. He’d given Rita a child as he’d once given a young gardener a full year’s wages in one hastily scrawled cheque. This should keep you quiet. You’ve got what you want, now…

  Of course, they must have realised their mistake soon after they’d taken Rebecca in. She wasn’t the answer to anything, and never would be. But by then it would have been too late to turn back. A terrible mistake, caused by her instability and his indifference, had become a permanent fixture in their lives. An unwanted child in that lonely house, a child who really shouldn’t have been there at all.

  It was my own childhood, grotesquely distorted and defaced—my kindly, preoccupied mother and well-meaning stepfather faced that troubled and troubling couple in a mirror, as I faced Rebecca herself. And empathy combined with pity as I looked, simultaneously savage and as helpless as a child. It had been worse for her. It had been so much worse.

  I longed to share these new thoughts and feelings with someone, but there was nobody to tell—Liz had left for work, and, when Carl returned, he certainly wouldn’t want to hear anything more about my research. I had no idea how I’d manage to avoid the subject that night, but knew that I would. And, as the quiet hours inched past, I struggled to focus my inner turmoil on something concrete. Tomorrow I’d be travelling into London, preparing to talk to a man who’d known Rebecca better than anyone.

  The following morning, the alarm tore me from a dark and chaotic tangle of dreams and I was more than relieved to come back to reality.

  ‘Morning, Annie,’ Carl was saying beside me, reaching out to silence the insistent, charmless noise. ‘Well, better go and have a shower, I suppose.’

  Getting out of bed, he drew the curtains en route to the bathroom. I lay still for long seconds, half-remembered images rapidly fading in the sunlight: Rita Fisher drunk and half-naked in a derelict house, Eleanor Corbett smirking and eavesdropping in the Fishers’ kitchen. My thoughts turned restlessly in the direction of London, and things I couldn’t possibly share with Carl. When he came back in, he seemed to take longer than usual to prepare for work; I watched him dressing from the bed, trying to hide my own tense, apprehensive impatience.

  ‘See you later,’ he said at last, kissing me, ‘have a nice day.’

  I lay and listened to the inevitable succession of small noises: his footsteps on the stairs, the front door creaking open and closing again, a minute or so of silence before the sound of his engine starting outside. As I heard him driving off, I went to the window and lo
oked out. I saw an idyllic pastoral painting with a single animated detail; the black car shrinking in the distance, crawling up the hill, vanishing over the top of it to leave perfect stillness in its wake. The second of its disappearance changed everything in the atmosphere around me—disturbing new freedom crashed down. I was entirely alone in the world, could go anywhere, do anything.

  I showered and dressed quickly, and less than half an hour later I was locking up, driving towards Bournemouth station. Parking in the shadows of a nearby multi-storey, I hurried towards the ticket office. I was twenty minutes early for my train, and killed the time in the sad, quiet little station café; a coffee, a cigarette, a dizzy realisation that nobody knew where I was.

  At last I was stepping onto the teeming platform at London Waterloo, hurrying towards the Underground, checking my watch. I was due at the Ashwell Unit in an hour’s time and, half an hour later, I found myself getting off the tube at Balham.

  I had to ask directions several times from passers-by before I found the Unit. It was an imposing red-brick Victorian building, set well back from a busy road. Apart from the number of cars in the drive, it looked like a private house until I got a little closer and saw the details that made it institutional, saw that the neatness lacked decoration or personality. A small sign directed me to the side of the house, where glass double doors slid open to let me in.