The Bones of You

by Debbie Howells

  Shortly after she leaves, a knock at the door startles me.

  “Mrs. McKay?” It’s Sergeant Beauman, and I notice another uniformed figure sitting in the police car that’s parked outside. “Sorry to disturb you again, but would you mind if we had a look round your stable yard?”

  “Of course not. What, now?”

  She nods.

  “Okay. I’ll just get my boots.”

  I go to fetch them, wondering what they think they’re going to find, deeply unsettled just at the thought.

  As if that’s not enough, that evening, before Angus gets home, I hear another car pull up, then footsteps running up the path and a loud hammering at the back door. Through the kitchen window I see it’s Jo.

  I hurry to the door and open it, horrified. She looks distraught. Her eyes are puffy and red; her hair is all over the place; her body shaking with huge, racking sobs.

  “Jo . . . what is it? What’s happened?”

  I hold out my arms, and she falls into them, an awful animal sound coming from her as finally her grief vents itself.

  Much later, when at last she quietens, I get her onto a chair, still clinging to me, then seize both her arms.

  “I’m so sorry,” she sobs. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “It’s okay, Jo. Really it is.”

  But she raises her tearstained face. “It isn’t, Kate. It never will be.”

  “What is it? What’s happened? Have the police found Rosie’s murderer?”

  She shakes her head, then whispers, “Neal.”

  As she says his name, I’m struck by the chill of fear, because this family has suffered enough, too much. “Has something happened to him? Jo?”

  Her face is stricken, her words blurring into each other. “Had a row. Neal said . . . I’m a bad mother. . . .”

  I’m horrified. They’re both suffering, both hurting. How can he be so cruel?

  “Oh, Jo, that’s an awful thing to say. Of course you’re not. You loved her. She was your daughter.”

  But she wrenches herself back, away from me.

  “You don’t understand.” Her eyes are wild, darting all around, as though she’s looking for something. “I should have been able to protect her. . . .”

  DELPHINE

  Everyone has a destiny. Rosie told me that. A future that already exists—hidden from us but still there, in the future—and each thing that happens to us, each choice we make, each person in our life takes us closer to it.

  Rosie told me she knows what hers is. She’s known for a while.

  She told me she’s going to die.

  ROSIE

  There are pictures of other towns, other houses, other schools—so many now I don’t remember what order they came in or the names. The fact that I’m used to walking into strange classrooms, feeling twenty pairs of eyes on me, being the subject of teachers’ questions doesn’t make it easier, just predictable.

  This time, the house is in Bath, a city of honey-colored stone and mellow light. Of music, art, and beauty on every street corner. Of warmth and life. The house is old, with three floors, close to the river, so that you don’t hear traffic, just the water over the weir, endlessly flowing despite whatever happens around it, as it always has.

  I work hard in school and get good grades, and Mummy says how happy she is. She has a friend, Amy, who has red hair and wears crazy clothes and makes us laugh; who hugs me tight so I can feel how soft she is and breathe in the scent of flowers she wears. My father is busy with his new job, and for fleeting seconds, the shadows lift, the dark patches fade, and our house is full of light.

  It lasts a year, nearly. Long enough for one memorable Christmas, but not a second. A Christmas of garlands twisted up the stairs and a tall, sparkling tree under which presents are piled. Of people and laughter. It even snows. A Christmas that holds the promise of happiness.

  At the end of the school term, I’m allowed a party. I have a soft velvet dress with silver buttons, and Amy curls my hair. For one afternoon, all my friends come over. We play games, sing carols while Amy plays her guitar. Then we have tea, and it’s proper party food. Sausages on sticks, mini cheeseburgers, marshmallows dipped in chocolate, jelly and ice cream. “Because parties should be special,” Mummy says. It is the most perfect, beautiful afternoon, and at the end, as they all leave, she gives everyone a tiny present tied with ribbon.

  “Because you want people to like you, Rosanna, don’t you? To remember how lovely your party was, how pretty our house looked,” she says. “Now, when they look at your present, they will.”

  Then, when everyone’s gone, Amy comes into my room and gives me a present, too. A tiny silver horse.

  She places a finger to her lips, and her eyes sparkle with secrets. “I had a charm bracelet when I was your age,” she tells me. “This was the very first one my mother gave me. And now I want it to be yours.”

  I hold it tight, feel the tiny hooves digging into my palm, the most precious thing anyone’s ever given me. A piece of Amy.

  “You better hide it. It’s our secret.” Then she winks.

  A few days before Christmas, my parents throw their own party. From my room, the little horse on a ribbon round my neck, I listen to the music, the hum of voices, with Della. Then we spy from the top of the stairs, marveling at red-carpet dresses, diamonds, and dinner jackets. Only, of course, now I see there’s more. That behind the glamour and the opulence, the lacquered hair and the fabulous clothes, there’s the preening, the alcohol-induced flirting, the dabbling on the edges of promiscuity.

  And in their midst, reflected in the friends clustered round her, Mummy shines, a beautiful jewel, attentive to each person in turn, making sure they’ll remember that this is the best Christmas party ever. Remember her.

  But even through the cluster of friends who love her, Mummy sees her. Amy sees, too. Another moth to my father’s flame, with her spun-gold hair and berry lips. Who doesn’t dabble but dives right in.

  I remember watching from my window, seeing her leave before everyone else, not aware of my father slipping out the back door, still buttoning his coat as he jogs up the street, catching up to her.

  “We can’t,” she tells him, her whisper-breath small frosted clouds, when he pushes her under the shadow of a tree. “Your wife is lovely. You have a family, Neal. . . .”

  “It’s just a kiss,” he tells her, his face an inch from hers so she can see how bright it is. “One kiss.”

  Even out here, in the cold, she wants him. I can tell from how she looks at him sideways from under lowered lashes, from how the scarlet lips are parted, how an visible hand pulls her to him. And this time, it is just a kiss. But there’ll be a next time, they both know that, planned in secret, in low voices, in lies.

  When he comes back, the party in full swing, do I imagine the hum of voices stills for about 0.0005 seconds, then restarts, brighter, decibels louder than before? Heads turning, then turning back? Pretending nothing is different? Do they even care?

  But it is different. The sparkle is tarnished; the tree dying; the promise of happiness broken. Mummy isn’t shining now. She’s powder white.

  First the shadows, then the packing boxes are back. Amy comes round, begging Mummy to let him go without her. To stay here.

  “You can’t go on like this.” Amy’s eyes are serious. “Please, Jo. I’ll help you—you know I will. You and the girls can live with me. We’ll get you a good lawyer.... It’ll be a fresh start. You’ll be fine, honey, I promise.”

  For a moment, for the only time, Mummy hesitates. Thinks about it for a nanosecond, imagines life without my father, having her own house, and a future that only she can see and I can only guess at. But I can see the words forming behind her eyes.

  “You don’t know him the way I do. He can’t help the way he is. He needs me. I know you only see the worst of him, but really, he is an amazing man.”

  Not seeing the tears in Amy’s beautiful green eyes as she walks away.

 
; That’s when I learn how fragile hearts are. That they can break only so many times. The living, breathing cells that hold them together turn to cold, dead scar tissue, which can’t feel. Which isn’t able to love.

  We don’t see Amy before the lorries come and we leave, again, for another town, another house, another school.

  And when I unpack, the silver horse has gone.

  10

  Something’s niggling in a corner of my mind. I don’t remember what it is until the next time I’m sitting in Jo’s kitchen, looking out at her garden.

  “You know, that little apple tree, Jo . . . I’ve been thinking about it. That’s probably not the best place for it. I think I’d move it before it gets too established.”

  She looks surprised. “Why? I like it there.”

  “Well, from a gardener’s point of view, as it grows bigger, all the plants underneath will be in shade. And you won’t be able to reach the apples without treading on the underplanting.”

  “To be honest, I’m not that bothered about the apples,” Jo says. “I’m happy with it where it is. If the plants need replacing, I’ll get someone to come and do it. You’re probably right, but just now, I have so much to think about.”

  It’s against my gardening ethics, but I shrug. It’s her garden.

  But in this post-normal world, something else doesn’t add up. After her heartbreaking declaration of guilt the other night, when she spent the evening sobbing her heart out, telling me how if she’d been a better mother, known where her own daughter was, Rosie might still be alive, Jo’s acting as though it never happened.

  “Jo . . . since the other night, I’ve been really worried about you. Are things okay with you and Neal?”

  I see from the way her shoulders tense, from the breath she takes in and holds, I’ve struck a nerve.

  “Oh . . . yes.” When she turns round, her face is calm. “We talked. He was angry. We all say things in anger, don’t we? We were both upset. I’m so wrapped up in myself, I forget sometimes that he misses Rosanna just as much as I do. How can I do that?” For a moment, she looks stricken. “I understand why he said it. He feels as guilty as I do. We should have been able to stop it from happening. He didn’t mean to upset me. He’s a remarkable man, Kate.”

  It’s what she always says about him. And yes, he is, and he does many good things. And they’re going through about the worst that can happen to any parent. But I can’t help thinking, What kind of man lets his wife walk out, distressed and tearful, the wife whose heart is broken and who’s just lost their child?

  And just this once, I push her on the subject.

  “I’m glad, Jo, because you were so upset. I know all this is a nightmare, but even so—”

  She doesn’t let me finish. “You know? You can’t know,” she flashes. “Grace’s at school, and she’ll come back. She’ll always come back. Rosanna’s gone. Gone . . . Do you really know how that feels?”

  She stands there, her body trembling, her cheeks flushed pink, little knowing how agonizingly, painfully aware I am of this every time I see her.

  Then the words rip out of her, a long, unbroken string of them.

  “It’s hell, Kate. You have no idea.... One minute I think I’m coping, and then the next it’s like I’m falling into the deepest, darkest pit, and there’s no way out. It’s like part of me’s been cut off. . . . It hurts. So much. She’s my daughter. . . .”

  I go toward her to offer comforting arms, a shoulder, but she pulls herself upright, and when she speaks again, it’s the flat, cold voice of a total stranger.

  “I know you mean well. But I know why you’re here. You think by taking on my pain, you’re safeguarding your own family.”

  I feel my cheeks cool as the blood drains from my face. Even though I know that this is her grief talking, that it’s targeted at me only because I’m here . . . Is she right? Is what I perceive as supporting, bolstering, caring for her ultimately just selfish?

  “I’ll go,” I mumble, leaving the tea, picking up my bag. I know she’s hurting, but I’m out of my depth. I can’t reach her.

  At the front door, I pause to look at her. “I’m so sorry if I’ve upset you, Jo. I only ever wanted to be a friend.”

  As I speak, her face seems to change, taking on a desperate, tormented look, as she clutches at her hands.

  “I’m sorry . . . ,” she whispers. “I just wish they’d find the person who did this. Please, Kate. I should never have said that to you. You’ve been . . . such a good friend.... Oh God, what have I done?”

  I’ve never witnessed such an extreme swing of emotion. There are tears in her eyes as she begs, “Please, don’t go. I need you.”

  Her onslaught leaves me battered, but I see it for what it is. She’s lashing out at me because the strain is taking its toll, because her agony’s unbearable, because I’m here. What’s happened to Rosie could have happened to any teenager. Even Grace.

  Still could happen. The murderer’s still out there.

  “You’ve got too sucked in, Kate. Give her some space,” says Angus that evening, when I tell him.

  “How can you say that?” Still raw after Jo’s outburst, I can’t bear another stab at me. How can he, when he knows how hard I’ve taken this? And isn’t it a measure of our friendship that Jo can say what she likes, be so honest? The truth can hurt; we all know that. And Jo’s hurting more than anyone can imagine.

  “Hey. Don’t be mad. You’ve been a really good friend to her, Kate, but you can’t change anything. It sounds like she’s all over the place—not surprisingly, after what she’s been through. And what she said is true. None of us can really understand how she feels—thank God.”

  I sigh. “I just feel so sorry for her.”

  I know he’s right, but it’s not that simple. Has Jo’s grief become my grief? Have I somewhere along the way made myself responsible for her?

  “Come here.”

  I let him pull me close, my head against his shoulder. Maybe I have got too sucked in. Too involved. Maybe, for my sanity, I should step back.

  A week later, a week during which I avoid any contact with the Andersons, I visit the wholesale nursery where I buy my plants. They’re holding one of their rare open days, displaying fabulous autumnal plants in rich earthy shades, with pots of bulbs and winter flowering shrubs stacked up behind, waiting to follow.

  It’s what I need, like visiting an exhibition or going to a musical, only instead of flooding your senses with art or music, it’s about plants, their scents, colors, textures. Yes, I buy, but I enrich my soul and fire my imagination, taking away far more inside my head: images of sumptuousness, planting combinations, the endless possibilities of what time and the seasons can create.

  “Morning, Dan.” I wave at the familiar figure coming toward me. I’ve known Dan for about ten years, soaking up the snippets of knowledge he imparts when the mood takes him. “You’ve outdone yourselves again! I love all of it!”

  “Cheers, Kate.” He looks pleased. He and his team work tirelessly to put this on, but it’s good for business, and over the years, word has spread, drawing designers from miles around. “I’ve got some new bulbs you might like. You got time to take a look?”

  “Definitely.” Excitement flickers inside me. In past seasons, Dan’s new varieties have set trends. He keeps a close eye on changing fashions. They also sell out extremely quickly.

  “They’re in here.”

  I follow him into a poly tunnel marked STAFF ONLY, honored to be one of his chosen few allowed behind the scenes on hallowed soil. Just then, his mobile rings.

  “Sorry, Kate. Won’t be a minute.”

  Breathing in the familiar earthy smell, I wander over and examine the large board where a picture of each flower is displayed. There are tulips, narcissi, amaryllis, hyacinths—in shades I’ve never seen before. My thrilled gardener’s heart skips a beat.

  “Sorry, love.” Dan joins me. “I’m needed elsewhere. Take your time and have a look. If you want to o
rder anything, talk to Alex over there.”

  He’s looking at the young man at the far end of the tunnel, his back to us, methodically pricking out seedlings.

  Then he turns to me and nods his head toward the door, gesturing me outside. Mystified, I follow him.

  “Just so you know, he worked at that house where the young girl went missing. I’m only mentioning it because I know they’re just up the road from you. Don’t say anything, though. Hit him rather hard, I think.” He says it quietly, clearly not wanting to be overheard.

  Dan knows where I live. In the past, he’s delivered to me. With every word, my curiosity builds, because I know, with certainty, I’ve found Jo’s mysterious gardener, and no way can I leave without talking to him.

  But I’ve work to do first. I’m taking my time, studying the plants, mentally constructing what I want to create and noting down quantities. It’s not long before I hear footsteps coming toward me.

  “Do you need any help?”

  Looking up, I get my first close look at Alex. He’s taller than me and, I’d guess, in his early twenties, dark haired, with a gardener’s tan from days spent working outside. Striking looking, but with wary eyes and an aloofness in his manner, which means I don’t warm to him.

  “I think I’m done,” I tell him. “Here.”

  I pass him my list, and he reads through it, then nods slowly. “They’re good together,” he says. “I sketched something earlier based on the same varieties. If you hang on, I’ll try and find it.”

  I watch him rummage on the tabletop, from which he produces an A4 sheet, and I’m surprised to see that as well as designing gardens, he can draw, far better than I can. He’s sketched a winter flower bed to die for, in a drawing that would look great in a frame, hung on a wall.

  “White narcissi, with gaultheria in the foreground,” he points out. “Then by the time the narcissi go over, you’ve got burnt-orange tulips and green viburnum taking center stage. I’ve put in other colors, too, just here and there. A bit of hot pink and that black one. Thought it looked better kept simple.”