by Diane Janes
No one else was up. She noticed that the morning paper had already been pushed halfway through the letterbox. It gave her a sense of satisfaction to see it. The arrival of the newspaper, such a small thing, so easily arranged, nevertheless gave a sense of permanence. As if this had always been home and always would be. She pulled the paper towards her slowly, easing it out, not wanting the letterbox to snap too loudly, then carried it through to the kitchen, where she tossed it on to the table, put the smidgeon of glass into the bin and filled the kettle in readiness to make a cup of tea. It was very quiet, the silence only disturbed by the slap of her mules on the floor and the whisper of the kettle as the heat increased. She spread the paper flat on the table while she waited for the water to boil.
New lead in Leanne Finnegan case, the paper claimed. She picked it up again, in order to focus better on the text. ‘Cleveland Police have confirmed that following information from a new witness, who believes they may have seen the missing teenager on the day she disappeared, a man is helping them with their enquiries. A police spokesman last night refused to confirm whether this was the same man who had previously been held in connection with the case but later released without charge. Police have declined to comment on speculation that the Leanne Finnegan case is being linked with the disappearance last month of Leah Cattermole in Darlington.’
Wendy read swiftly all the way to the bottom of the piece, but it merely reiterated the few known facts about the disappearance of the two teenagers. The similarities were striking: both girls were in their late teens, similar in appearance, and even their names began with the same three letters, though that was perhaps just a weird coincidence. She had hardly been aware of the second case. They were all so busy at the moment, what with the move and everything. Besides which, Darlington, though it was only about fifteen miles away, never felt very local. It was somewhere they drove to once a year to have lunch in an Indian restaurant, followed by the matinee of the pantomime at the Civic Theatre. She wondered if the man being questioned was Peter. They might have been in daily contact with a killer, without being aware of it. As the kettle began to whistle, she pulled herself together, recalling that apart from some unsubstantiated gossip from a woman she’d only spoken to once in her life, there was no reason to believe that Peter had ever been involved in Leanne Finnegan’s disappearance at all. But if he had been … it meant that he might have abducted another girl while actually working here, in their home. Well, no, there was no reason to think anything of the kind. In fact, it was downright hysterical to even contemplate such a thing.
She was suddenly in need of fresh air. Having made her tea, she unlocked the door, walking round the side of the house and up the drive. It would be OK going into the front garden in her dressing gown. There was hardly anyone out and about to be passing the gate to see her. She stood on the front lawn, ignoring the way the dew was soaking into her slippers, admiring the transformation. The sun made the bricks glow a warm, welcoming orange. The front door opened and Bruce appeared. He had pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
‘I saw you out of the bedroom window. What on earth are you doing out here?’ He advanced across to the grass to join her.
‘I was just looking at the house – our house.’
‘Why? Is there something wrong?’
‘No, no. Just the opposite. Look at it, Bruce. The house is smiling.’
He laughed and draped an arm around her shoulders. ‘If you say so.’
‘I’d better come in and do some breakfast.’
‘There’s no rush. The kids are all still in bed.’
Wendy smiled up at him. ‘Just you and me and our happy house.’
Bruce laughed again. ‘Come on in, you barmpot,’ he said. ‘Your slippers are getting soaked.’
In summer, I used to see faces in the shadows made by sunlight on the leaves. In autumn, the dried-up leaves clung on too long, whispering their secrets as the wind tried to prize them away. In the winter, the bared branches showed through, ending in twigs that were thin and knobbly, like miniature finger bones. Eventually I stopped looking at the tree. I stopped going into that part of the garden altogether.
FIVE
August 1980
During the first few weeks in the new house, Tara made the most of her bedsit, inviting friends from sixth form college to lounge about on the beanbags in her room, or to sunbathe in the garden. Jamie and his friend Andrew Webster seemed to alternate between constructing enormous Lego spaceships on his bedroom floor and racing their bikes up and down the drive, while Katie and her friends gravitated onto the back lawn, which had sprouted a swing-ball set and some croquet hoops. Often Katie sat out in the garden alone, drawing the trees and flowers or reading a book. She had always been the quietest of the three children.
From the local news, Wendy learned that the man who had been detained in connection with the disappearance of Leanne Finnegan had been released without charge. The case slipped out of the news cycle and she did not think about it overmuch. There was no reason to believe that Peter had any connection with the girl’s disappearance, and even if he had, he was just a man whose life had briefly run alongside theirs. Now that the work on the house was finished, it was unlikely they would ever see him again. Besides which, Wendy was thoroughly enjoying herself: baking and flower arranging and keeping up the constant battle against the weeds which were keen to make a comeback in her freshly planted flowerbeds. The house absorbed her in the same way as a new baby. It had a personality and needs. Even after all these months, there was something slightly unreal about its acquisition. The money arriving when it had, the other buyers dropping out. The magic of it all made her heart leap when she turned in at the gate, knowing that she could call it home.
They had only been living there for about a fortnight when she decided to broach a question with Bruce. ‘I’ve realized that something is missing. It will probably be a bit expensive, but we must have a grandfather clock to stand in the hall, next to the sitting room door. I know it’s the right place for it, because I saw a lighter patch on the wallpaper in that exact spot when I first came to see the house.’
‘Just because there was a clock before, it doesn’t mean there has to be one there again.’ Bruce sounded irritable. He was often irritable lately. She put it down to his having such a lot on at work. ‘Honestly, Wendy, you sometimes talk as if this house doesn’t belong to us at all.’
‘Of course it belongs to us. I don’t know what you mean.’
‘The way you talk about there being a right place for things, as if it’s all been pre-ordained. There is no right place or wrong place for anything, only places where we decide to put things.’
‘But I just know that is the right place for it. Where there’s always been a clock before.’
‘Oh, so it’s down to women’s intuition then?’ He sounded sarcastic.
Wendy decided to let the matter drop for now. A grandfather clock was an expensive item. She really ought to have gauged his mood before bringing it up in the first place.
‘I see they’ve confirmed the identity of that girl.’ Bruce nodded towards the television, where the early evening news was on in the background and had reached the local section. ‘It is that kid from Darlington who went missing in June – Leah, I think her name was.’
‘Her poor family … what they must be going through.’ Wendy directed her full attention towards the detective, who was appealing for anyone who had seen a necklace the girl had been wearing on the day of her disappearance. He held up a similar one, which the camera zoomed in on.
‘It’s not all that distinctive,’ Wendy said. ‘Lots of girls have got those necklaces at the moment. They make them up themselves from little kits of coloured wooden beads, with their names picked out, like alphabet blocks. Or you can get them ready-made in the gift shops at Whitby and places like that.’
‘But there won’t be many necklaces with Leah on them,’ Bruce pointed out. ‘It’s not a common name, is it, Leah?
Not like Tracey, or Michelle, or Julie?’
‘I s’pose not.’ Her response was half-hearted. The bulletin had already moved on to a story about a robbery at a butcher’s shop in Middlesbrough. She stood up and crossed the room to stand beside the window.
‘Don’t you love the way the smell of roses comes in from the garden in the evenings?’
‘I can’t say I’ve ever noticed it.’
Wendy thought of telling him to come over and stand next to her, but she decided not to. He was already a bit umpty over the grandfather clock. He never seemed to understand how important it was to get the details right.
The only part of the house that definitely didn’t feel right was the study. Mr Broughton’s men had knocked through the cupboard in the hall to combine it with what had originally been the pantry off the kitchen passage, and with the shelves removed and the window unblocked there was plenty of space for a desk and some bookcases, but in spite of having this purpose-built area at his disposal, when Bruce brought work home he still spread his papers on the dining table and worked in there. And it wasn’t just Bruce. Tara steadfastly refused to consider doing her homework anywhere but in her own rooms. Wendy was forced to admit to herself that the study was not as pleasant as the rest of the house. She had chosen wallpaper printed with tendrils of green ivy, but she realized now that it wasn’t right for such a small space. It made her feel crowded. She invariably hurried over the hoovering and dusting, in order to be in and out of the room in the minimum amount of time.
The school holidays were almost over when Bruce’s parents came to stay. His father admired the house to an extraordinary degree and insisted on taking lots of snapshots, including one of Bruce, Wendy and the children posed outside the open front door. ‘We’ll show them to your auntie Greta,’ he said. ‘She’ll be thrilled to see how you’re going up in the world.’
‘We’re not going up in the world,’ said Bruce. ‘I’ve already told you that we only bought it because Wendy came into some money.’
Bruce’s mother, though politely complimentary, managed to inject a less positive note, saying that she hoped the burden of taking on such a big old place didn’t turn out to be too stressful, later taking Wendy to one side and asking whether she thought Bruce was quite well.
‘Of course he is. They’ve got a lot on at work, that’s all.’
Bruce’s mother always fussed over him, Wendy thought irritably.
‘I don’t think your mother liked the house,’ Wendy said.
Bruce’s parents had been waved away that afternoon, and they were relaxing on the sofa in the sitting room. The younger children had been put to bed, though Tara remained in the sitting room, half-watching a television documentary about a North African nomadic tribe.
‘She said she liked it.’
‘I know she wasn’t being genuine.’
‘Each to their own.’ Bruce stretched his legs out in front of him, flexing his feet. ‘You can’t expect everyone to like your house.’
‘Did she say why she didn’t like it?’ asked Tara.
‘Not as such. It was just carping, I suppose. “You must have to walk miles every day in this kitchen” … “I’m surprised you find time to manage this enormous garden” …’
Tara laughed. ‘You’ve got Gran’s voice off to a tee.’
‘I’m sure she was only making conversation,’ Bruce said.
‘I saw this wonderful white dress today, on my way home from college,’ Tara said.
‘By itself?’ asked Bruce. ‘Or was it out with its owner?’
‘It was in a shop. It was only eleven ninety-nine.’ Tara gazed wistfully at a couple of turbaned men who were herding goats.
‘You’ve had your pocket money for the month,’ said Bruce.
‘Couldn’t I take it out of my building society account?’
‘No, that’s for special items only.’
‘This is a special item,’ Tara wheedled, focussing her attention on Bruce. ‘It’s an absolutely gorgeous dress and I’ve been invited to that eighteenth at the Cons Club next month …’
‘How much was it again?’ asked Bruce.
‘Eleven ninety-nine. That’s a really good price for a dress, these days. It’s not like when Mam was young and you could get them for one and ninepence or something.’
‘I’m forty, not four hundred!’ Wendy exclaimed in mock outrage.
‘All right then.’ Bruce pretended to capitulate reluctantly.
‘Thank you, Dad.’ Tara grinned. She knew that her mother would not have given in, if necessary marching her upstairs to examine the contents of an amply-filled wardrobe and pointing out all the perfectly suitable dresses she already owned.
‘Now that your mission for the evening is successfully accomplished, I suppose you’ll be off upstairs to listen to The Flying Reptiles,’ Bruce said.
‘You know they’re called The Flying Lizards,’ Tara said, rising to go, as he had anticipated. ‘And they are so last summer. Actually, I’m going to play Blondie.’
‘Oh well, they’re all right,’ Bruce said.
‘All the dads like Blondie.’ She tipped him a cheeky wink as she skipped out of the door.
‘You know,’ Wendy said, after Tara had gone, ‘I’ve been wondering who lived here before we did.’
‘Some old lady, wasn’t it?’
‘Mrs Duncan,’ Wendy said. ‘I meant before that. She can’t have lived here since the house was built. It’s well over a hundred years old.’
‘If you really want to know, you could have a look at the deeds of the house. There must be earlier documents than the ones we signed. Do you mind if I turn over? That play is starting on the other side.’
‘The deeds are with the bank.’
Bruce’s attention was on changing the television channel. ‘Ring them up and ask them if you must. But they’re sure to charge you for any information.’
‘OK, I will.’
The last few days of the school holidays were marked by a spell of glorious weather. On the final Monday, Tara went to spend the day with friends on the beach at Redcar, Jamie had been invited to play at Andrew Webster’s house, and Bruce was at work, which left Wendy and Katie to enjoy a lazy day in the back garden. Wendy had set up a pair of sun loungers with a picnic table between them where they had eaten cheese and tomato sandwiches at lunch time, before settling down to read their respective books. Katie had her well-loved copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, while Wendy was tackling a novel which had not lived up to the interesting blurb on the back cover. She had just allowed the novel to slide down into her lap and was relishing the luxury of doing absolutely nothing, when she heard a voice coming from the direction of the house.
‘Hello-o-o … hello-o-o …’ It was a woman’s voice, rather posh, calling out as though trying to make herself heard down an uncertain telephone line.
The novel fell onto the grass as Wendy scrambled to her feet. ‘Who on earth can this be?’ she asked of no one in particular, as she headed towards a point where she could see down the drive. As soon as she reached it she saw that there was a woman standing level with the back of the house. A stranger who was considerably older than herself, short and rather plump, wearing a summer dress which exposed pale, freckled arms. She was carrying a large handbag, from which dangled a set of car keys on a fob shaped like a monkey. She spotted Wendy immediately.
‘I’m so sorry. I knocked at the front door but there was no answer, so I came down the side of the house. I do hope you don’t mind.’ It was definitely a well-spoken voice. Someone who’d once been to a private school, Wendy thought.
‘I was sitting in the garden,’ Wendy explained. ‘You can’t hear the front door from there, I’m afraid. We’ll have to rig up a much louder bell for when we’re outside.’
The visitor paused, then said, as if slightly embarrassed, ‘You will probably think this is the most dreadful cheek, but … well … I knocked at the door to ask if I might see around the house. You see
, my aunt, Elaine Duncan, used to live here when I was a girl. I used to spend quite a lot of my summer holidays here.’ She hesitated again, then hurried on. ‘I knew that Aunt Elaine had died and the house had been sold, and when I drove past today and saw how it had been done up, I couldn’t resist coming up the drive, even if I was given my marching orders when someone answered the front door.’
‘Of course you can see around the house. I’d love to show you what we’ve done.’ Wendy all but grabbed her visitor by the hand, for here, surely, was an opportunity to discover something of the house’s past. ‘Why don’t you come into the back garden first and we can have a cool drink? It’s such a hot day, isn’t it?’ She led the way as she spoke, noting how her visitor’s eyes ran curiously around the courtyard. ‘We had to reroof all the outbuildings. The roofs had mostly fallen in when we bought it. I’m Wendy, by the way. Wendy Thornton.’
‘Joan.’ The woman extended a surprisingly dainty hand. ‘Joan Webb. This is most awfully generous of you. You’re sure you don’t mind?’
‘Not a bit. Actually, I’m thrilled to meet someone who knows a bit about the house’s history. This is my daughter, Katie. Katie, this is Mrs Webb.’ (She had taken in the wedding band and a large, old-fashioned engagement ring.) ‘Pop into the kitchen and fetch a clean glass, would you?’ She gestured to one of the sun loungers and Joan Webb willingly sank into it. Wendy noticed that her feet were swelling in the heat, making her cream sandals bulge.
‘Is she your only one?’ Mrs Webb asked, as Katie obediently skipped off towards the house.
‘No. I have a seventeen-year-old daughter called Tara and a six-year-old boy called Jamie.’
‘How lovely. It’s nice to think there are children in the house again.’
