by Bourne, Sam
‘It’s true. I’m not a journalist. I don’t work for anyone else. I work for Natasha. She’s in trouble and she asked me to do what I can.’
‘And who are you exactly?’
‘My name is Maggie Costello. I work in Washington.’ From the look on the woman’s face, she could see that that was insufficient. With a hint of surrender in her voice, she said, ‘I’m . . . I’m kind of a troubleshooter.’
‘A troubleshooter? Is that a job?’
‘It is for people who need me. And, right now, Natasha needs me. She asked me to help. And I’m trying, I really am. I’ve come all this way, because I think you might be able to help me help her.’
They held each other’s gaze for what, to Maggie, felt like ten or twenty long seconds, Maggie looking down, this woman – V Winthrop or whoever she was – craning to look upward, still holding her seat belt. Her eyes revealed nothing, except the intense act of assessment. She was judging Maggie, deciding whether she merited trust.
Eventually, she released the seat belt and exhaled. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘We shall have tea and then I shall make a decision.’
The house was modest and defiantly timeless. Maggie could see nothing in it that might not have been there in 1985. There was a TV set, but it faced no chairs and was set at an angle that suggested it was looked at only rarely. The furniture was worn, the arms of the main sofa threadbare, the stuffing visible. On the walls were faded prints – country scenes, a racehorse – and antique maps. There were books everywhere and no computer.
Maggie had her head cocked to one side, reading the spines – the Federalist Papers, a biography of William Penn, a Walt Whitman anthology, the Brontë sisters – when her host returned to the room, carrying a tray with, as promised, tea. She took the armchair, and gestured towards the sofa for Maggie. Behind her was a window, looking out onto a paddock, fringed by red maple trees on both sides, arranged like sentries.
She didn’t pour the tea straight away. She let it brew a while, as Maggie’s nan had done. ‘So you’re here to get Natasha out of trouble, is that right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you thought it would help her to come here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does she know you came here?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because . . .’ Maggie hesitated, before deciding to tell the truth. ‘Because I wasn’t sure she would allow me to come here. Because I suspect she isn’t telling me everything. And yet if I’m to help her, I need to know everything.’
‘So if she didn’t tell you, how did you know to come here?’
Again Maggie hesitated, and again she opted for honesty. She had nothing else.
She explained about her search of the office, the phone records, the recurring number traced to this address. That last detail prompted a raised eyebrow. ‘This is an unlisted number.’
‘I know,’ Maggie said, glancing downward in an involuntary show of contrition. ‘I have a sister who is very skilled. With technology.’
‘I see.’
‘She connected the number to this house and this house is registered in the name of V Winthrop.’
‘Yes.’
‘And yet, Natasha told me that her Aunt Peggy died long ago and that, after that, she had no family.’
The woman said nothing. She neither nodded nor shook her head, nor closed her face in a deliberate and forced show of inscrutability. (A move Maggie had seen plenty of politicians make when confronted with awkward facts, an almost animal reflex of self-protection, like those underwater creatures who turned themselves into a rock, camouflaged and unmoving, when a predator approached.) On the contrary, she held her gaze, looking intently at Maggie as if listening closely, waiting for her to say more. Almost anybody else would have spoken, to fill the void. But Maggie was practised at this. In a staring contest, she had learned not to blink.
Finally, the woman spoke. ‘To be clear,’ she said. ‘Natasha gave you access to her office?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that included her computer passwords?’
‘Yes.’
‘And her telephone records, her bills and so on – they were all there, on that computer?’
‘Yes.’
Now the older woman sat back, almost visibly digesting this information, a vein by her temple twitching slightly, as if to denote active processing, the way the lights on a computer used to flicker when the machine performed a particularly challenging task. She then smoothed her skirt, her palms moving from her thighs to her knees, and cleared her throat.
‘Natasha is a very careful young woman. She tends not to make mistakes. But nonetheless she gave you access to her computer, and allowed you free rein to find a path here.’ She cleared her throat a second time. ‘To find me.’
Maggie said nothing, not wanting to emit so much as a noise that might make this woman change her mind.
Finally, she stood and offered Maggie her hand. ‘My name is Virginia Winthrop. I’m Natasha’s great-aunt. Everyone calls me Peggy.’
Chapter 33
Penobscot, Maine
After that handshake, the temperature instantly increased by two or three degrees. As Ms V Winthrop transformed into Peggy, her shoulders dropped and she talked at twice the previous speed. She was solicitous now, insisting that Maggie eat something after ‘such a frightfully long journey’ and positively fussing around her, as if hosting not a stranger but her own great-niece on a rare and precious visit.
It was the accent that struck Maggie most, an even more pronounced variant of the Brahmin inflection that so distinguished Natasha. While Natasha had made the odd concession to modernity, the occasional vowel flattened out by exposure to television, Peggy spoke in a voice that was surely unchanged since the 1930s, a voice redolent of ladies’ colleges and country houses, of lacrosse tournaments and New England estates as old as the republic.
Maggie peppered her with questions, learning that as a child Peggy had been ‘thin as a peg – hence the name’, and that she had moved to Maine over a decade ago, ‘once Natasha was out of college and making her way’. Peggy had spent her childhood vacations at Pilgrim’s Cove. When Maggie raised a quizzical eyebrow, she explained that it had been vacations only because the rest of the time she had been at boarding school. Maggie dipped her head to signal, Of course. Just like Natasha. The school had been on what Peggy called ‘the mainland’, meaning the bit of Massachusetts that wasn’t Cape Cod.
She had been raised as one of two siblings, her older brother Reed inheriting Pilgrim’s Cove when he turned twenty-one. ‘He was the eldest and he was a boy, so that’s just the way it was. I didn’t question it for a moment.’ Reed had had only one child, also Reed but known by his middle name of Aldrich, and so Aldrich had inherited the house when his father had died. ‘He barely had time to enjoy it, poor soul. He was posted to Germany when the children were tiny and then . . .’
‘The accident?’
‘Quite.’
‘And what about Natasha? When she came back from Germany – after the accident, I mean – she’d have had the house to herself. That must have been strange.’
‘Which is why I was there with her. I’d always had a small workman’s cottage on the estate. But of course, once Natasha was there I moved back into the main house.’
‘So you raised her?’
‘Well, she was at school most of the time, of course. And then off to college.’
‘Sure, but when she was there, it was just the two of you.’
Peggy gave a small nod, which Maggie took to be a gesture of old-fashioned modesty. ‘We got on rather well. I don’t mind telling you I enjoyed those years very much. As you have probably guessed, I never had children of my own.’
Maggie smiled back and felt a wave of shame at her next question. She was aware tha
t it would hurt and yet there was no way around it. At least no way that Maggie could see.
‘Your relationship was very private, I think.’
Peggy got up, nominally to refresh the teapot. She called out from the small kitchen at the end of the corridor. ‘You’ll stay for supper, I hope?’
Maggie sighed. How nice it would be just to relax for once, to sit and talk to someone without plotting the conversation as a game of chess, to enjoy being cooked for by a sweet old lady who, though she might as well be a different species from Maggie’s nan, was at least cosy and welcoming. How lovely it would be to settle into this sofa and let herself relax, maybe even doze off after that flight and the long drive.
But that was not how it worked, not for her. She had to stay focused, plotting her next move, her antennae at attention, alert to even the subtlest morsel of information. At this moment, that meant making another attempt to breach a defence Peggy had shored up securely. Maggie had made an initial approach a few moments ago, which the older woman had repelled early, so now she would have to approach from a different angle.
Maggie followed her host into the kitchen, offering to help as she watched her remove various items from the fridge and a larder. Keeping her voice as relaxed as she could, she said, ‘I’m guessing you haven’t seen Natasha’s place in Washington.’
Peggy ignored the question, stooping to retrieve an enamel baking tray from a low cupboard. Maggie would have to try again.
‘She’s kept you out of view. And don’t get me wrong,’ Maggie said hurriedly, as if to snuff out an objection Peggy had lodged, though Peggy had still said nothing. ‘Smart move for anyone who might run for president, keep everyone you love out of harm’s way.’ No reaction. ‘But the thing is, she hasn’t just started saying it. She’s been saying it for several years, long before this presidential talk got cranked up. It’s there in those magazine pieces and profiles.’
She watched Peggy’s face, hoping for a sign of curiosity or even confusion. Maggie longed for the woman to say the words, to ask the obvious question. To just make it a little bit easier for her. But Peggy was now immersed in pots and pans and chopping boards and her message was clear: If you have something to say, you’re going to have to jolly well say it.
‘You see,’ Maggie began. ‘Natasha tells people, and has done for some time, that she has no surviving family.’
No reaction.
‘She includes you in that.’
Not so much as a look.
‘She told me that her Aunt Peggy is dead.’ A pause. ‘That you are dead.’
Maggie held her breath, as Peggy slid a dish into the oven and then stood back to full height, one knee clicking loudly to mark the occasion. She looked over at Maggie and said, ‘While that’s cooking, why don’t you come into the drawing room. There’s something you should see.’
Maggie followed but warily. A chill came over her which she associated with fear, before she told herself that the very idea was absurd. This woman, who said she was Peggy – but, come to think about it, had offered no proof – this woman was, given the chronology she had set out, not far short of ninety; she posed no physical threat. And yet, here Maggie was, in this desolate spot on the Atlantic coast in mid-November, far away from anyone, with a woman who, if she was telling the truth, had seemingly colluded in the lie of her own death.
Peggy was reaching for a book, stretching on tiptoes. A dancer, Maggie guessed, back in the day. She pictured her some eighty years earlier, long sessions at the barre at boarding school. On the mainland.
Peggy grasped hold of a battered volume that, on squinting, revealed itself to be Moby Dick. Maggie imagined an evening ahead of literary readings, from which Maggie would be expected to divine some coded lesson. The thought made her impatient, irritable. She was about to say something, to declare that she’d had enough tiptoeing and that, if she were to help Natasha, she’d need some concrete answers, when she saw Peggy stretch once more. She was sending her hand back into the space which had, until now, contained the story of the great whale.
Her face was taut with concentration as her fingers probed for a second or two, her eyes opening wide on discovering her quarry. She took a deep breath and pulled out a book that was smaller than the Melville, though larger than a regular paperback. It had a stiff cardboard cover, bearing a blue marble pattern. It was a notebook.
‘Here,’ Peggy said, handing it to Maggie. ‘You can be the second person to read it.’
‘Did you write this?’ Maggie said in a whisper.
‘No. Not me. I read it. But I didn’t write it.’
‘Did Natasha write this?’
Peggy smiled, as if amused by the improbability of such a suggestion. ‘No, not Natasha. Someone else entirely.’
Chapter 34
My name is Mindy and I am nine years old. I live in Little Rock, Arkansas. Actually I don’t live in Little Rock—more on the edge of Little Rock just before it stops being a city and becomes fields and farms. If Little Rock was an actual rock our house wouldn’t be in the middle of the rock it would be kind of part of the moss on the outside.
I’ve lived here since I can remember though I have maybe one or two memories from before. I live here with my mom and my dad and my brother Paul though I call him Paulie. Paulie is older than me.
When I say that their my mom and my dad and my brother maybe I should explain something about that. They weren’t always my mom and my dad and my brother. When I was born I had a different mom and she tried to look after me but she couldn’t so she gave me to this family even though they didn’t know me and I didn’t know them. They were called my foster family and I was not going to stay with them forever maybe just for a year or two but now they are my family and a letter came in the mail saying that I am now theyre daughter and my name is the same as theyres.
I love my dad because he’s a plummer and he fixes stuff and sometimes he lets me join in when he and Paulie play with the ball out in the yard. And once there was this basketball hoop and he put me on his shoulders so he and I were really tall and we could dunk the ball real easy and Paulie got mad. I love my mom because she brushes my hair and when I was little, she read stories to me before sleep. She also makes amazing pie only sometimes because we don’t have much money but my favourite is apple but sometimes also peekan. I love Paulie as well because sometimes I can’t fall asleep and I like knowing that if a monster came they would be scared of him because he’s older than me and bigger.
That is enough for today. I will write in this book every day I promise.
Maggie closed the book and looked again at the cover. Pencilled on the front were the words, The Diary of Mindy Hagen, along with a few childish doodles that had faded. She flicked back inside and smiled as she saw that young Mindy’s resolve had not lasted long: her next journal entry came much later. The ink was black now rather than blue and the letters were less round.
I am sorry diary that I did not come back when I said I would. I have been busy at school and also playing soccer for the team (yesterday we won three to nothing and I scored!!). But there is something on my mind and I’m not sure who I can talk to about it. Definitely not my Mom or Dad and definitely not anyone at school even though I think Lisa might understand but I don’t want to.
I don’t even want to write this down and I’m scared if someone finds this but I don’t know what else to do. After I have written this page I am going to hide this book where no one can find it.
So P and I share a room and his bed is in one corner and mine is in the other and normally he goes to sleep first and I’m the one who is still awake. So a few weeks ago I was getting into bed and I noticed he was looking at me funny. I got into bed and didnt think about it but I must have fallen asleep because I woke up in the night. Maybe it was an hour later maybe it was much less, I couldnt really tell. But I woke up because I heard a noise. Kind of like a shuffling sou
nd or like rustling.
I immediately looked over to his bed because thats what I do when I’m scared and normally he’s there and I feel OK. But the bed was empty and he wasnt in it. And then I looked up and I realized he was standing right there right next to my bed and and. I dont want to say but I was scared and he told me not to say a word about what he was doing and about what I had seen and that if I said anything to Mom or Dad then he would kill me. And I was scared and my heart was beating so fast I didnt say anything and then he put his hand over my mouth and all I could think about was where his hand had been and I didnt want it near my mouth and he leaned in so that his face was real close and he said Dont scream. Swear you wont say anything. Swear. Swear. And my heart was thumping so loud and I didnt like his hand on my mouth and I couldnt speak with his hand there I was gagging but he made me say it and so I said I swear.
He went back to his bed and I could hear the rustling noise again and I think I know what he was doing but I didnt want to imagine it and I was scared and I had bad dreams and in the morning I went to school. The teacher asked me to read the story to the rest of the class because she said Im a good reader and for a while I didnt have to think about what happened because I could think about the story and later when we did math I could think about that because I could do all the sums even without really trying. We played soccer and when we got changed I thought about what had happened and I didnt like taking my clothes off because I was imagining him looking at me.
Mom and Dad think I’m doing my homework but I did that real quick so I am doing this instead but I need to stop before he gets back. He’s at football practice but when he gets home I need to make sure this is hidden away somewhere he would never find it. I dont want to fall asleep tonight maybe if I can keep myself awake I can make sure he doesnt do it again I’ll just be looking and listening all night like a bat or a hawk whose always watching and never blinks.
