by Penny Kline
Erin stood up. ‘Andrea told me you had to treat an infection.’
After checking the monitors, the doctor picked up the notes at the end of the bed and studied them before speaking without looking up. ‘Yes.’
‘But the baby won’t be affected?’
‘All being well.’ She turned to Andrea to help her out.
‘I’ve explained to Erin about her sister, and how we hope the baby won’t need to be delivered for a few weeks yet.’
‘Good.’ The doctor looked relieved, as though she had been let off the hook and would not have to spend time with a troublesome relative. ‘Is there anything else you wanted to ask?’
Erin shook her head, then changed her mind. ‘After the baby’s delivered how long will it be before the life support is switched off?’
‘If her organs are to be donated we’ll need the consent of next of kin.’
Anger welled up and through gritted teeth – there was no way she was going to lose control – she explained that she was her sister and staying in Claudia’s house and the father of the baby had gone missing. ‘Does that make me the next of kin? Nobody seems to know. And why do you have to talk in that horrible deadpan . . .’ She broke off, not sorry, just running out of words.
Andrea put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Perhaps Claudia’s partner will come back in a week or two. If not, you’re her closest relative, right?’
‘Her only relative, apart from a distant cousin in Australia.’
Out in the street, a police siren grew closer, then faded. People’s lives were carrying on as normal; at work, shopping, or looking after their children.
‘In that case,’ Andrea said, ‘you’ll be the one we consult. And try not to worry about the baby. She’s a good size, isn’t she?’ She addressed this last to the doctor.
‘Yes. Are you sure your sister got her dates right?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘When she was brought in we were told it was twenty-three weeks’ gestation. We have her notes, of course.’ The doctor was back on safe ground. Facts not feelings. ‘But sometimes people make a mistake about the date of their last period. Obviously, the larger the foetus and the better developed . . .’
In the silence that followed, they thought she was absorbing the good news. Instead, she had started to shake. What an idiot. Why had she never thought of it before? Ollie could have panicked because he suspected he was not the baby’s father. Supposing Claudia had been pregnant when she asked him to move in with her. Pregnant when Erin arrived in Bristol? She had boasted about her lack of morning sickness, but it could have come and gone when she was living in the house by herself. Her lover could have done a bunk, or the baby was the result of a one-night stand and, not wanting to be a single parent, she had picked poor Ollie and pretended to be madly in love with him.
And then felt compelled to tell him the truth? Or he had guessed. Or someone else had told him. Who? But another possibility, a much worse one, made her catch her breath. Where had he been on the afternoon of the accident? Claudia had tried to phone him, and given a derisive snort when she was put through to voicemail. He had a meltdown but I’ll cook him something nice, or buy him a present. Soon talk him round. Talk him round? At the time, Erin had not inquired what the row was about, partly because she doubted Claudia would tell her, but mainly because Ollie having a “meltdown” had seemed so improbable. In her experience, he was such a calm, good-natured person, settling into Claudia’s house like a stray dog, glad of a home. No, that was wrong. He had been as besotted with Claudia as she was with him.
Tomorrow, she would make some cautious inquiries, starting with Jennie, although she doubted Claudia would have confided in her. Then there was Ava, at the café, although, if she and Claudia had been close, Ava was unlikely to tell tales.
Even though Claudia was dead?
Chapter 4
While she was searching online for a picture of a mynah bird, her phone rang. Jon, whose daughter she was teaching how to draw, and who was heading the research project Ollie was working on. Had he been in touch? Did Jon know where he was living? But when he asked if there was any news her hopes were dashed.
‘He hasn’t been into the university?’
‘No.’ Jon’s sharp intake of breath had made her throat constrict. What was he afraid of? What did he think Ollie was going to do?
‘The baby,’ he said. ‘What have the doctors told you?’
‘I think they’re quite optimistic.’ Were they? Online she had found a list of complications that could affect a brain dead mother. Acute respiratory distress, diabetes, and something called intravascular coagulation.
‘Look, I’m sorry, Erin . . .’ There was a pause and she wondered if someone had come into the room and Jon was checking to make sure no one had heard from Ollie. But when he came back on the line it was to ask if she knew how large the baby was.
‘About nine hundred grams.’ She had decided not to tell anyone it was a girl. It had come as a surprise, a shock, but she was glad. Baby girls were supposed to be stronger than baby boys. Something else she had checked online.
‘They can tell, can they?’
‘Sorry?’ But he meant the weight, not the sex. ‘It needs to reach thirty weeks. It’s nearly twenty-four.’
‘The accident . . . has anyone . . . have the police . . . ?’
‘Have they what?’ Did he know something? If he did, he should come straight out with it. But that was not his style.
Now he was telling her it would be best to leave Maeve’s art lessons for the time being.
‘No!’ Her response was stronger than she had intended, but she had been looking forward to seeing her. Maeve was Jon’s ten-year-old daughter and she came round twice a week, after school, and on Saturday afternoon. ‘I’d like to see her. She always cheers me up.’
‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’
‘Absolutely. Oh, don’t worry, I won’t talk about what’s happened.’
‘I’ll see you later then.’
‘Yes.’ Why did he sound so uneasy? And not just uneasy, annoyed, as though he thought Ollie’s disappearance was her fault.
The first time they met she had thought his eyes had a haunted look, and she had warmed to him, partly because he was he exact opposite of Declan. Quiet, thoughtful, an introvert, the archetypal academic, his narrow face and deep set eyes had reminded her of her father, although her father had been shorter and his hair had started to recede when he was still in his twenties. Jon’s hair was thick and dark, and she had found him attractive. Until Ollie mentioned his wife. Never again would she allow herself to fall for a man with a partner.
Just now, Jon might be at home, with Maeve’s mother standing by his side, mouthing her misgivings about her daughter spending time with someone who was likely to be in a traumatised state.
Not long after she came to live in Claudia’s house, Ollie had brought Jon back with him and the four of them had shared a couple of bottles of wine. The project they were working on was about the neurobiology of how we perceive the outside world, and Claudia had asked a string of questions, designed to give the impression she was well up on such matters. She had drunk too much, clutching Ollie’s hand and starting on a childhood myth about how hopeless she was at art and how unfair it was that Erin had inherited their grandfather’s talent. Not true – their mother had taught her to draw, a long difficult process – but faced with Claudia’s highly embellished story Erin had kept quiet.
Later, Jon had phoned to ask if she took private pupils. For his young daughter, he said, who had a few problems with physical co-ordination, but loved painting and drawing. At first, Erin had been reluctant – working on the illustrations was effort enough – but as soon as she met Maeve she knew she had made the right decision.
Seeing her today would be a welcome diversion and, when Jon returned to collect her, she would take her downstairs and sit her in front of Claudia’s wide-screen TV, handing her the remote control so she coul
d flick through the channels until she found something she liked. Maeve was no fool – she would know they wanted her out of the way – but being Maeve she would give one of her worldly-wise smiles and raise no objection.
The weather had changed. It was warmer, damper, and the loft felt airless. After pushing open the dormer window as far as it would go, she took her sketches of guinea pigs out of a drawer in the plan chest and spread them out, standing back to study them as objectively as she could. The deadline for the illustrations was seven weeks off and by then . . . But it was better not to think that far ahead, better to take one day at a time, something she had attempted to do after she told Declan she never wanted to see him again.
Someone was banging on the front door. A package that was too large to fit through the letterbox? Something Ollie had ordered. Or Claudia. If it was one of Claudia’s impulse buys, she would have to send it back. A food mixer? Lights for the garden? A cashmere jumper for Ollie?
When she opened the door, a dark-haired girl was standing on the path, twisting her hands.
‘Oh’ She looked all about her, as though she was afraid she was being followed. ‘Please, is Clowda in?’
‘No. No, she’s not.’
‘When will she be back?’
Who was she and how much should she tell her? ‘She had an accident. She’s in hospital.’
‘Clowda is hurt?’
‘Yes.’ Was she someone from the market where Claudia had sold her jewellery? ‘I’m her sister. Perhaps I can help.’
‘Her sister?’ The way the girl was staring at her was slightly intimidating. As though she thought she was lying, as though Claudia was at home but had given instructions to say she was out. ‘What kind of an accident?’
‘A bad one.’
‘Oh.’ The girl’s expression softened a little. ‘I will come when she is better.’
‘What was it you wanted?’ She was older than Erin had thought at first, possibly in her late twenties. Thick, black hair, tied back and held in place by a brightly coloured scarf. Large dark eyes. Several moles on her face. Possibly Eastern European.
‘Perhaps next week.’
‘No.’ Erin made a decision. ‘Look, my sister is very seriously injured. If you could explain why you need to see her?’
‘Tell her I am sorry. I don’t know . . . Lara – tell her it is Lara.’
‘Your name’s Lara?’
‘Goodbye.’ And she hurried away, hugging herself as though it was a freezing cold day, instead of a muggy one with the threat of rain.
Erin closed the front door. With any luck, the girl, whoever she was, would find out what had happened and stay away. Would she find out? How many people knew? Only people who read the local paper or watched the local news bulletin. Had the accident been reported on the television news? It must have been, but surely there would be no bulletins from the hospital. Claudia’s condition would be confidential.
Back in the loft, Erin sat on her bed with the duvet pulled up to her chin. Her head ached and she remembered reading how the bereaved feel worse if their relationship with the person who has died was stormy, unhappy. Not that it was death that had separated her from Declan, but was it true of her relationship with Claudia? She was full of regrets. She should have given her better birthday presents, taken more interest in her life, visited her stall in the market, asked about her friends.
During the past few years, the two of them had met up only rarely so it must have come as a massive surprise when Erin asked if she could stay in her house for a few months while she decided what to do next. As long as you like – Claudia had actually sounded as though she meant it – although, arriving in Bristol almost five months ago, Erin had been mildly put out to find her bursting with excitement. She had met “the love of her life”, she said, and as soon as some silly minor arrangements had been made he would be moving in. No, don’t worry, there’s plenty of room for all three of us.
What minor arrangements? Erin had thought, but when she met Ollie she discovered he was less impetuous than her sister. The room he was renting had to be re-let and he had paid a month’s rent in advance. As if it mattered, Claudia had protested, but Ollie had dug in his heels. Perhaps he was being tactful – he knew Erin had only just arrived, and was not in a good state – but if that was the reason for his hesitation he was wrong. When he finally moved in, she had been heartily relieved she could now spend more time on her own.
Throwing her duvet aside, she decided to do something she should have done before, go downstairs to Claudia’s kitchen and clear away the remains of Ollie’s breakfast, left there the day he went missing. It felt like ages ago, but was only a few days.
The kitchen, with its moss green units and built-in cooker with a separate hob, had been one of the reasons Claudia bought the house. When she told her, Erin had laughed – Claudia had never taken any interest in cooking – but everything would be different now Ollie had moved in, she had insisted, buying herbs and spices, and even a string of onions, together with an impressively thick chopping board and six expensive kitchen knives and, for a finishing touch, a blue metal jug, filled with artificial sunflowers.
Collecting the bowl of dried up cereal, and mug of cold coffee, she added them to the rest of the stuff in the sink and filled it with hot, soapy water. Hot water was always a comfort and, like Ollie, she preferred her surroundings to be clean and tidy, something Claudia had teased him about. I don’t know how I managed without you, Ol. Proper little housewife. No, don’t look like that. It’s brilliant. The place has never looked so smart.
Erin had never seen Claudia cook anything more than an omelette or cheese on toast, but when Ollie arrived he had taken advantage of the set-up and produced several ambitious meals to which she had been invited. Shoulder of lamb with green and red peppers. Trout with cheese sauce. How could they afford such banquets? Ollie was a research student and Claudia sold handmade jewellery in the market. It was possible she had a little of her inheritance left, but not enough to splash out on the kind of clothes she wore and food she ate, let alone the plentiful supply of wine.
Opening the fridge, Erin was relieved to find it virtually empty. As she carried a rotten cucumber, slimy as a slug, to the bin, together with the remains of a tub of evil-smelling liver pâté to the bin, she felt some satisfaction that she was doing something sensible, facing facts. But a moment later the emptiness of the place bore down on her and she crossed to the window and stared out at the damp, gloomy garden.
A paved area led to a strip of muddy grass, surrounded on three sides by flowerbeds, with a few straggly shrubs. During the summer months, Claudia had crammed in whatever was easily available at the local garden centre, mostly Petunias and Nicotiana. Now, it looked bleak, deserted, a garden in mourning.
According to Claudia, when she bought the house it was in quite a run-down road, but it had come up in the world. The walls at the front needed re-pointing and the cast iron gate could have done with a coat of paint. And the burglar alarm was defunct. In contrast, the adjoining house was in a good state of repair, and Erin wondered what they thought of Claudia’s. A week before the accident they had left her a note, saying they would be away for three months, in Brazil, and would be grateful if she could keep an eye on their house. They must have given her a key, but Erin had no idea where it was and had no intention of venturing next door unless she heard an intruder.
The landline started ringing, reminding her how she had still failed to find Claudia’s mobile. Racing to Claudia’s living room, she snatched it up, hoping it would be one of her friends. ‘Yes?’
Silence.
‘Who is that?’
More silence. One of those maddening cold calls. They put through six and talked to the first person who replied. But just as she was about to ring off, a male voice asked if she was Claudia.
‘Who are you?’
‘You know who I am.’
‘You’re a friend of Claudia’s?’ But a friend would know what had hap
pened. ‘She’s been in an accident. I’m afraid—’
‘What kind of an accident?’ He repeated the word in a voice that made her angry. Like Lara, he thought she was fobbing him off.
‘Look, tell me who you are and—’
‘Tell her to telephone – today. If I don’t hear from her—’
‘I’ve told you. An accident. She’s in hospital.’
But the line had gone dead.
Chapter 5
Jon dropped off Maeve just after four, apologised for being in a hurry, and said if it was all right he would be back in an hour and a half.
‘Longer, if you like,’ Erin called after him, watching as he loped down the road, like a big cat, and hauled his long legs into his car. Surely it would have been better to buy something roomier, but Bristol traffic being what it was, it was probably best to have a smallish one.
Ollie disliked cars, thought they polluted the atmosphere. It was something else Claudia had teased him about. They have TV programmes about people like you, Ol. Hey, what’s the scariest thing in the house? The toilet cleaner that only gets rid of ninety-nine-point-nine percent of germs. Why had he put up with the jokes that were not really jokes? It must have been the attraction of opposites.
Maeve was bursting with things she wanted to ask, so much so that she felt obliged to take her hands from the pockets of her jeans and put them over her mouth.
‘It’s all right.’ Erin followed her back up the two flights of stairs and settled her at a table with a large sheet of paper and a box of oil pastels. ‘I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.’
Another child might have gulped. Maeve was not like that. ‘Is the baby alive?’
