by Karen Clarke
‘I’m sorry for turning up like this, out of the blue.’
‘How did you know where to find me?’
I hesitated. ‘Mum.’
‘I should have known Gail wouldn’t keep it to herself.’
‘I’m glad she told me.’ I felt an urge to defend my mother, despite everything. ‘I wouldn’t have known where to go otherwise.’
As Morag’s face unclenched, I saw a flash of the fondness I knew she’d felt for me when I was a child, before she went away and fell out with my mother.
‘Was he violent?’
Her question caught me unawares. I blinked away a memory of Patrick’s fist, a blur as he punched the wall by my head. ‘He … he could be.’
‘So that’s a yes.’ Morag leant against the sink. Sensing the anger coiled inside her, I felt a pinch of guilt that I couldn’t be completely honest. ‘Just like your father,’ she said.
‘No.’ My protest was instinctive, even though the mention of him gave me a cold sense of dread. ‘Dad wasn’t violent, just … bad-tempered.’
Morag made an impatient noise. Unlike most people, she hadn’t been taken in by my father’s outward charm. By all accounts, she’d tried to put my mother off marrying him, but as Mum pointed out in a furious argument I’d overheard when I was seven, she wouldn’t have had me if she’d turned down my father’s proposal.
‘Is he likely to come looking for you, this man you’re hiding from?’
I shook my head. ‘He’s got a high-profile job over there. In New York.’ I realised she had little idea of what I’d been doing for the last twelve years. I doubted she’d been having cosy chats with Mum – not that I’d said much about my relationship with Patrick to her – and the last postcard I’d sent to Morag was before she moved to Wales; a generic snap of the Brooklyn Bridge with a few words about the heatwave on the back. ‘Any whiff of scandal could end his career.’
‘He’s not the President, is he?’
I allowed a smile. ‘Credit me with some taste.’
‘Not enough, apparently.’
I flushed. ‘I made a mistake,’ I began, but she held up a hand.
‘I’m not judging you, Grace. Believe me, we’ve all made those kinds of mistakes.’
‘Even you?’
For a moment, I thought she wasn’t going to answer, then: ‘Even me.’ She clearly wasn’t going to elaborate, her face becoming shuttered. ‘Does the baby have grandparents over there?’
I raised my mug, took another sip of coffee, wishing Lily would wake so I’d have an excuse to move from under Morag’s gimlet gaze. ‘His parents died a long time ago.’
‘And it’s definitely over?’
‘Yes.’ I forced myself to meet her eyes.
‘Sounds like he got off lightly.’
‘I just want a new start.’ I couldn’t mask the hint of desperation in my tone. ‘A quiet life for Lily and me.’
‘I get that.’ Morag’s eyes shifted as if seeing something unpleasant inside her head. ‘If it’s quiet you want, you’ve come to the right place.’
‘We won’t stay long,’ I promised. ‘As soon as I can find—’
‘Stay as long as you need.’ She was all action now, reaching for her jacket, pushing her feet into her boots, grabbing a small bunch of keys off the drainer by the sink. ‘I know a few people,’ she added. ‘I’ll bring back some things for the baby.’
‘Oh.’ I half-rose, panicked at the thought of her leaving, even though seconds ago I’d wanted to be alone. ‘That’s … thank you.’
She was gone in a blast of cold air as the door opened then closed behind her, offering a glimpse of dense green trees against a delicate blue sky.
For a moment, I felt abandoned. I stared at the unvarnished slab of door, noticing several large bolts fixed to the top and bottom. It was hard to imagine intruders bothering to look this far off the beaten track but my aunt knew all about danger. The bolts must be a reflex, warding off any number of imagined scenarios. She could have PTSD for all I knew, after giving up her career out of the blue. When it’s too late to matter, Mum had said, sounding hurt.
Coming back to myself, I shot upstairs to check on Lily. She looked as peaceful as she’d ever been in her flounced and fussy thousand-dollar crib in her expensively designed nursery, uncaring that her new bed normally held her great-aunt’s sensible underwear.
Resisting the urge to pluck Lily out and strap her to my chest once more, I straightened the bedcovers then crossed to the window, catching my breath at the view of surrounding woodland and cloud-topped mountains, though the tip of Snowdon was invisible.
Below the window was a garden with neatly tended shrubs and bushes, a sizeable allotment, and a seating area beneath a pergola twined with greenery. It looked nicer outdoors than in and it wasn’t difficult to guess where Morag spent most of her time, or where her ‘produce’ came from.
I felt a small shiver looking back at the trees. I found forests frightening, imagining witches and monsters lurking within, probably fired by my grandfather’s tales of a five-thousand-year-old yew tree that grew in Conwy, its cleft trunk rumoured to be a portal to the world of the dead. According to mythology, the tree was associated with a spirit who foretold the names of parishioners destined to die at Halloween. I never liked that particular time of year, even now.
As I was about to turn away, something caught my eye: a wisp of smoke, curling above the trees into the sky. Campers, maybe. I watched for a moment but it had dispersed, if it was ever there. Perhaps I’d imagined it, spooked by the memory of the yew tree.
I reached for my bag on the floor by the bed and pulled out the cheap phone I’d bought with the rest of my disguise, leaving my old one behind. There wasn’t much battery left. I found the charger and located a socket behind the heap of magazines, realising Morag had removed my breakfast things while I was in the shower. The magazines were old, all to do with gardening. I wondered whether she’d taught herself, had needed a new skill after she gave up her career. I couldn’t recall her previously having much interest in anything horticultural, but remembered my grandfather growing prize-winning marrows and gigantic onions he was unashamedly proud of. I also remembered Mum being envious of Morag’s close bond with their father.
As I plugged in my phone and switched it on, I wondered whether I was being pulled back to my childhood because I was in Wales, or because it was preferable to thinking about the recent past.
When my screen lit up, I wasn’t surprised to discover there was no signal or Wi-Fi prompt. If Morag was living an almost reclusive life in Fenbrith, it made sense that she’d chosen to be uncontactable and virtually untraceable.
It was probably better I didn’t look online, but a gnawing sensation nibbled at my edges. I wanted to know what Patrick had told people; how he would frame Lily’s disappearance. Because of his campaign to be Manhattan’s District Attorney, his private life was up for grabs, but maybe it was too soon for him to have made a statement. In a day or so, I would venture into the village and find a café; use the Wi-Fi there to look him up. I’d only be able to properly relax once I knew for sure he’d gone public with whatever story he’d concocted – one I prayed would put paid to him trying to find us.
Lily began to snuffle, tiny fist rubbing at her eyes. I scooped her from her makeshift crib, nestling her against my shoulder, the sweet scent of her filling my nostrils. ‘You’re such a good little peanut,’ I murmured, rocking her gently. I’d worried the long flight would unsettle her completely, remembering her purple face as she’d howled during take-off and landing. I was terrified the pressure had damaged her delicate eardrums, but she appeared calm now, her wide-eyed gaze flickering around before resting on my face. Still, I would need to register her with a doctor.
With Lily in my arms, I moved downstairs, slamming a door in my mind on the memory of another staircase, much longer, with a woman’s body lying at the bottom like a broken mannequin.
I stood for a moment in the kitchen, fe
eling lost, thinking with a pang of the job I’d loved and the people I’d left behind. Hard to imagine, now, the determination I’d had to own my own restaurant one day. How everything I’d been building towards since my first year in Manhattan had somehow led me back here – to the country where my mother and aunt were born.
As a distraction, I walked slowly around the room with Lily, taking it in. There wasn’t much typical country-cottage charm, but it was comfortable in a rustic way. Perfect for one person.
My brain seemed to jolt when I noticed a man’s thick coat hanging from the back of a wooden rocking chair. I hadn’t considered that Morag might be in a relationship. It seemed so unlikely, given her previous lifestyle and the way she’d always dismissed marriage as an institution she had no wish to enter.
There was a copy of the Times on a wooden cask serving as a side table, indicating her desire to keep in touch with the outside world. It was open on the crossword page, most of it filled in.
The dresser against the wall was cluttered with mismatched china on its shelves, as well as bits of string, some scissors and bric-a-brac, an old-fashioned phone with press-buttons, like something from a museum, and a black and white photo of a smartly dressed couple standing in front of Big Ben. I’d seen the picture before, of my grandparents on a day trip to London.
Hanging beside the dresser was a framed souvenir map that must have belonged to my grandfather, who’d been in the Navy during the Second World War.
I wondered how Morag had ended up with her parents’ things. She’d been in Afghanistan when my grandmother died, six months after my grandfather, and Mum had packed up their house, furious that her sister had ‘got out of it’. My mother must have relented and saved some pieces for her.
There was a painting on the wall in the gap between the window and door. As I moved in for a closer look, trying to make out whether the horse in the scene was galloping away or towards the artist, I noticed a piece of paper wedged tightly between the canvas and wooden frame.
Adjusting Lily, her head resting on my shoulder as she sucked her fingers, I carefully pulled the paper out and unfolded it, one-handed. It was part of a letter, the paper yellowed and worn, creases distorting the writing, which was densely packed in faded black ink. I could just make out … be together … love … understand … not my fault and the letter B with one kiss beside it, running off the edge of the page.
Lily shifted and yawned.
‘Shush,’ I soothed, bouncing her as I guiltily refolded the paper and stuffed it back where I’d found it. It must be a letter to one of my grandparents, though B didn’t fit either name. Maybe it was a love note to Morag.
Either way, it was none of my business.
Chapter 7
‘Where did you get all this stuff?’ I looked in astonishment at the array of baby paraphernalia filling the floor space in the living room. Apart from a padded baby bouncer, a white wicker Moses basket and a Mamas and Papas pushchair, there was a quilted changing mat, and a canvas bag filled with baby clothes. I dug a hand in and pulled out a tiny denim dress as Morag brought in a highchair and baby monitor. ‘It all looks new.’
‘Belonged to Annie,’ Morag said. ‘She runs the Carpenter’s Arms with her husband Bryn. Their little girl is nearly four now.’
‘But what if they have another baby?’
‘No chance of that.’ Morag’s lips tightened and she didn’t explain.
‘There’s so much.’ I lowered Lily into the baby bouncer. ‘It’s too generous,’ I said, strapping her in, touched that my aunt had gone to so much trouble. ‘I should call and thank Annie.’
A flush stained Morag’s cheeks. She seemed pleased by my response. ‘No need.’
‘I must give them some money.’
Her headshake was fierce. ‘It’s taken care of. I kept them supplied with food for free when they opened the restaurant, so they owed me a favour.’
My ears pricked up. ‘Restaurant?’
‘At the Carpenter’s Arms. Nothing fancy, just good, home-cooked food with locally sourced ingredients. It’s been very popular.’ She glanced at Lily who’d instantly fallen asleep in the bouncer, lashes fanning her cheeks. ‘Come and look around outside,’ she said. ‘The little one will be fine for a moment or two.’ Morag had got the fire going earlier and reached over to put a guard around it before nodding to a pair of wellies tucked into an alcove by the door. ‘They should fit you.’
I reluctantly pushed my feet into the boots, which were too big, before following my aunt through the front door with a backward glance at Lily.
Morag led the way round the back of the cottage to the garden I’d looked down at earlier. Despite a gentle breeze stirring the leaves in the surrounding trees, the air was soft with the promise of milder weather, scented with herbs from the pots that lined the path to the allotment. The smell of rosemary brought a memory of my last Sunday dinner as part of a family: roast lamb with all the trimmings cooked by Mum. My parents and grandparents and me, crowded around the dining table, the air filled with chat and laughter, a Fleetwood Mac CD playing in the background.
No one knew that, hours later, after everyone had gone home, Dad would find fault with everything my mother had done, lifting his fist as she cowered by the fridge, before he gripped his left arm and dropped to the floor, face twisted with agony as he suffered a heart attack. I was fifteen. He was forty-nine.
I stopped walking and wrapped my arms around my waist, cold again. I should have worn a coat. ‘Why didn’t you come when Dad died?’ I hadn’t known I would say it until the words flew out. ‘We needed you.’
Your aunt cares more about strangers in other countries than she does about her own family, Mum had said when I asked if Morag was coming to the funeral. She’ll be glad he’s dead. I shivered at the memory of her words, remembering that my mother had been glad too, despite her tears.
‘I couldn’t have got back in time.’ Morag turned to look at me, her eyes narrowed. ‘And Gail never needed me.’
You’re sisters, I nearly said. Family. But I’d left too in the end, desperate to escape. Maybe Morag and I had more in common than I thought.
‘Anyway, she had a new lease of life once he’d gone.’ Morag’s unnerving stare didn’t waver. ‘Best thing that could have happened to her, him dying.’
My throat felt constricted. I hadn’t talked about my father for years. I tried to suppress an image of him, dying in the kitchen in my childhood home. ‘He was still my dad.’
‘I know.’ Morag’s gaze thawed. ‘He loved you in his own way, but you and your mum were always on eggshells around him and that’s no way to live.’
She was right, and she didn’t know the rest; how he’d read me a bedtime story sometimes, doing silly voices to make me laugh while Mum cried downstairs. He’d pulled her hair once, demanding to know why she’d had it cut. All I wanted was to go and cuddle her, but I’d smiled for Dad and hugged him instead, knowing if I didn’t, he would go and shout at Mum and make her cry even harder. It was ironic, really, that I hadn’t chosen a better father for Lily after vowing I wouldn’t end up with a man like my father, whose idea of love was controlling my mother’s moods and actions.
I tried to summon a reply to Morag’s blunt assessment, but she’d turned away and was surveying the surrounding land.
‘I wanted you to see that you’re safe here,’ she said, and it took me a second to grasp that the topic of my parents was over. ‘Woodland all round, the nearest road half a mile away, mountains that way.’ She pointed to the tip of Snowdon, visible now beneath a drift of cloud. ‘The security light comes on at night if anyone ventures too close to the cottage.’
It was the most she’d said in one stretch since I’d arrived. She must only chat with people when she chose to these days; had been a woman of few words even before she and my mother fell out.
I remembered the man’s coat on the back of the chair. ‘Do you have a … a partner?’ I said, stuttering a little. ‘A boyfriend?’
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She huffed out a sound that might have been a laugh. ‘No, I don’t have a partner, or a “boyfriend”.’ She arched her eyebrows, giving the word quote marks. ‘I’m very happily single,’ she said, but something in her expression had shifted and her eyes were guarded once more. She was either lying, or had been through something she didn’t to talk about. ‘Look!’
Her gaze moved past me and fixed on a clump of bushes beyond the allotment, close to where the trees began. She stepped back and gripped my arm. ‘Can you see?’
I squinted my eyes and beyond a cluster of daffodils caught a flash of reddish fur slinking low to the ground, a flash of white at the tip of a bushy tail. A fox.
‘She comes regularly.’ Morag spoke in an excited whisper, eyes brighter now. ‘She’s quite tame but will be nervous to see someone new.’
‘She?’ I couldn’t help smiling, even as the fox’s gaze met mine, sharp and knowing. It was as if it could see inside my head and read my thoughts. ‘How do you know?’
‘She had cubs a few weeks ago, through there in the woods.’ Morag pointed. ‘I was gathering mushrooms and came across them. She’s usually friendly but I thought she was going to attack me.’
‘Protecting her young.’ The vixen turned and slipped silently back the way she’d come. ‘That’s what mothers do.’
Morag swivelled her eyes to me. I forced a smile as I swung round to look at the building behind us. Its grey stone walls and pitched slate roof looked somehow forbidding from this angle. ‘The smoke.’ I pointed to the chimney. ‘Someone could see. They’d know you’re here.’ Know I was here.
Morag folded her arms. ‘I thought you said it was over?’ She wasn’t fooled. ‘I don’t want any trouble at my door.’
‘It is over, but …’ I couldn’t articulate the feeling I had, that Patrick might have changed his mind. ‘It is,’ I said with more conviction. ‘Take no notice.’
