‘I was out back,’ I say.
‘What were you doing there?’
‘Not much.’
She unwhirls her scarf and takes off her coat, hangs both on the hook by the clock and then starts to head for the kitchen. It’s when she’s passing the living room that she notices the mess that’s been left. ‘What happened in there?’ she asks.
‘The police searched the house.’
Theresa stops, turns, and takes me in – and then, from nowhere, there are tears pouring down my face. I don’t cry too often, something that goes back to when I had to be the strong one around Dad. This is the first time in years.
It’s an ugly cry. A chest-heaving, throat-burning, energy-sapping explosion of the person I pretend I’m not.
Theresa sits with me on the stairs and does nothing other than lay a hand on my knee and let me rest my head on her shoulder.
It’s hard to know if I’m crying for Richard, Alice, myself, or a little bit of everyone… except that I do know. I’m crying for myself. That makes me feel selfish, which only has me crying even more.
Time passes. We don’t talk because we don’t need to. That’s what a real friend is, I think.
There’s a pile of balled tissues at the bottom of the stairs and, when it’s finally over, Theresa helps me put them into the bin. We head through to the kitchen and she fills the kettle and then sits with me at the table. There’s not such a mess in here. Unless the police chose to confiscate a packet of half-eaten chocolate digestives, I don’t think there’s much in here to interest them.
‘Are you okay?’
Theresa speaks so earnestly that I shift from tears to laughter in an instant. It’s too much for her and, before we know it, we’re both cackling as if we’re at the end of a drunken hen night.
By the time I’ve finally got it out of my system, the kettle has clicked off and Theresa makes us both a tea. Back at the table we sit quietly for a moment. Tears still feel close.
‘They say Alice is still in intensive care,’ Theresa says.
‘Does that mean she’s going to be all right?’
‘I don’t know. Hopefully.’
I half expect her to ask about Richard but she knows me too well. I can barely think about him at the moment, let alone talk. I don’t know if I’m worried or angry. If I want him to come home, or I don’t.
We make small talk about a bake sale next month, for which I’ve committed to make some cookies and cake bars. Another thing in the calendar after the Winter Ball. There’s always something else.
I know Theresa’s trying to get me to look forward not back – and I go with it. I’m not sure what else to do. I’ve still got work to do, though I have no idea how I can write about such triteness given what’s happened. How can life continue as normal when there is no normal?
Theresa takes our empty mugs to the sink and rinses them out.
‘You’ve got school in the morning,’ she says.
‘Huh?’
When I turn, she nods towards the calendar on the wall. I can’t read the words from the distance but, as soon as I’ve realised what she’s said, I know she’s right. I’m supposed to be running another cookery class at the primary school in the morning.
‘I’ll have to cancel,’ I say.
‘Why?’
‘Why do you think?’
‘Might give you something to concentrate on. It’s a bit late to cancel now anyway…’
I don’t reply, although I can’t see how I can coach a group of children through making a pineapple upside-down cake, or whatever else I might do. It’s something for the morning.
Theresa returns to the table. ‘What would you like to do?’ she asks. ‘Do you want to go out somewhere? We can drive to a pub in the country where nobody will know us. Get something to eat, if you want.’
The thought of food makes my stomach lurch.
‘I should stay here,’ I reply. ‘Just in case…’
‘Do you want to watch something on TV? Or you can teach me how to make that walnut loaf you were telling me about…?’
I feel stuck in my seat, not wanting to do anything and yet not wanting to sit still either. Everything is a contradiction.
‘Can I ask you something?’ I say.
‘Of course.’
‘About India…’
There’s a pause. This is territory into which I’ve never ventured with Theresa. She has lived in Leavensfield for longer than me and she knew Richard’s first wife long before I came along. It feels dangerous.
Theresa shifts awkwardly on her seat. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘I’m not sure. I just don’t know much about her…’
A sigh: ‘Why now?’
I can’t reply, partly because I’m not sure of the answer.
Theresa doesn’t push it and, after a few seconds, answers as if this is completely normal. ‘I liked her,’ she says. ‘We weren’t really friends, but you know what it’s like around here. We’d end up in the same places and doing the same things. She was always sociable.’ Another pause. ‘I think you’d have liked her.’
I’m not sure how to take that. It’s not an insult but I don’t feel particularly overjoyed that Richard might have swapped one India for another.
‘You’re not that similar,’ she adds quickly, reading my thoughts. ‘India was friends with Harriet and that lot. She wasn’t all-in, like some of them around here – but they’d organise things together. I think India might have been there when Xavier was born – if not at the time, then shortly afterwards.’
‘Do you think that’s why Harriet hates me?’
I’ve often wondered if this is the reason why I’ve never quite felt a part of the village. Harriet and Sarah were too close to India to ever accept someone taking her place. India was one of them: a housewife who was into yoga and herbal tea. I know all that because, among other things, I cleared out her yoga mat and years-old tins of tea after moving in. Richard had never got rid of her things in the years since she’d died.
‘I don’t think Harriet hates you,’ Theresa says.
‘She does.’
‘That’s how she is. Everyone’s an asset to her – but it depends on how useful they are in any given moment. When you get your cookbook deal, she’ll want to be your best friend. When they invite you onto This Morning to do a cooking segment, she’ll want to come with you. You’ll see.’
There’s something about Theresa’s relentless optimism that leaves me both grateful to have her and yet dismayed that I don’t feel like that about myself. Any sort of book deal feels a long way off. Any more than that feels less likely than a lottery win – and I don’t even play the lottery.
‘Harriet and India were close towards the end,’ Theresa adds.
‘Why?’
‘I’m not completely sure…’
She glances away and I don’t have to call her on the evasion for her to elaborate.
‘India and Richard were arguing a lot that year. I think India had been leaning on Harriet for support.’ She holds her hands up. ‘I don’t know for certain.’
Theresa has no reason to lie about this. If she was simply gossiping, she’d have told me at some point in the past. She’s only saying it now because I asked. This is the first time I’ve heard of any sort of conflict between India and Richard. I wasn’t around then – and I suppose there would be no reason for anyone to tell me. Certainly no reason for Richard to do so.
‘Why were they arguing?’
Theresa squirms again. ‘It was all gossip. I don’t know.’
‘What did you hear?’
‘That Richard wanted kids – but that India didn’t. I saw them having an argument in the village.’
‘When?’
‘About a week before…’
I almost ask ‘before what’ – but the way Theresa can no longer look at me makes it clear to what she’s referring. I don’t know what to say. Richard is not the type of man who goes for public anything. Displa
ys of affection are a definite no – and I can’t picture him raising his voice to argue in front of anyone, let alone in public. I nearly ask if Theresa is sure it was them – but of course she is.
‘Where were they?’ I ask.
‘Back of the pub, near Bob’s.’
That’s the bit-of-everything shop which is a mainstay of any village. About as public as it gets in Leavensfield.
‘What did you overhear?’
‘Not just me. I was outside the pub on the tables they put out when it’s sunny. A bunch of us heard it. He said something like, “I don’t understand why you have to be like this” and then she shouted back, “It’s my body – and we never talked about having kids.” They went quiet after that, but I guess it was too late. The village spent the week gossiping about it. You know what people are like. Then they went to Scotland…’
Theresa leaves it at that. She doesn’t need to explain what the village were talking about in the days and weeks after India fell.
My immediate reaction is to wonder how I never heard any of this. The answer seems simple in as much that it was almost two years later that I showed up. I never asked because I had no reason to – and nobody ever told me because why would they.
‘It’s nothing,’ Theresa says. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. Richard’s a good guy. I’ve known him for years.’
‘I know him, too. But I never thought he’d disappear – and I never thought a girl would end up in a stream after getting into his car.’
She reaches across and rests a hand on mine. ‘It will all be okay.’
I take a breath and can’t reply because, deep down, I know that it won’t.
*
TWELVE YEARS OLD
Byker Grove is on the TV when the doorbell sounds. I wouldn’t usually move but Dad calls ‘Can you get that?’ from the kitchen – and so I do as I’m asked. There was one time about a month ago when one of Dad’s friends came knocking. He answered it and they got talking on the doorstep, in the way that always seems to happen when one of Dad’s mates is at the door. The main problem was that Dad had been cooking beans for my tea at the time. I was watching TV then as well – which is when the smoke alarms went crazy. There’s still a scorch mark on the bottom of the pan.
I head along the hall and unlock the door before pulling it open. I’m expecting another of Dad’s friends – but, instead, it’s a police officer in uniform. He’s tall and his uniform is smart. He crouches slightly, angling himself down to my level.
‘Is your dad in?’ he asks.
‘Are you a policeman?’
I don’t know why I ask it, other than that I’ve never been this close to an officer before.
‘I am,’ he says. ‘Is your dad around?’
‘I…’
The shout of ‘Who is it?’ booms through from the kitchen and the man straightens.
‘Is that your dad?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Can I come in?’
I hold open the door, feeling unable to say no. The officer passes me but waits for me to close the door before I lead him through to the kitchen.
When we get there, Dad is spinning a frozen pizza on his finger. He spots me first and launches into a ‘ta-da!’ before he sees the officer. ‘Oh, um…’
He puts the pizza onto a baking tray and then quickly turns back to the policeman.
‘Sorry about that,’ he says. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Are you John Evesham?’
‘That’s me.’
‘Can I have a word?’ He nods towards me and I know what’s coming a moment before it does.
‘Will you go upstairs,’ Dad says.
‘But—’
‘No buts. Upstairs.’
I look towards the policeman, wondering if he might somehow give me a reprieve. I let him in, after all.
No such luck.
I stomp upstairs, making it clear that I am not happy about this development. Each step involves a new thump until I’m at the top, where I jump up and down for good measure. I then sit on the top step, clenching my teeth and squeezing my face from the inside, trying to make my ears work better. Unfortunately, Dad has closed the kitchen door, meaning the only thing I can hear is muffled voices. It’s like wearing headphones when someone’s trying to tell me something.
A few minutes pass and then there’s the sound of the kitchen door opening. I watched the Olympics a few years ago but I swear nobody can move as fast as me in instances like this. Before anyone could possibly know it, I’m up and off the top step, across the landing, and through my bedroom door. I hurl myself onto my bed and then lie there waiting with a magazine.
It takes another minute or so until Dad knocks on my door. I call him in and then flip a page of the magazine to let him know that I’ve definitely been reading it while he’s been downstairs.
In an instant, none of that matters. There’s something in his face that I can’t make out. Not unhappiness… I think it might be worry.
‘I’m going to take you next door,’ he says. ‘Polly’s going to look after you for a few hours.’
‘Why?’
He shakes his head and holds out his hand. ‘Not now, Mads. Let’s go.’
I don’t move. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’ve got to go to the police station.’
‘Why?’
‘Let’s not talk about that now. Polly’s waiting for you. I’ll be back later.’
There’s a pain in my chest, something I’ve never felt before. When I reach out, Dad takes my hand and we head for the stairs.
‘Are you going to be okay?’ I ask.
‘Course I am,’ Dad replies. ‘But it’s time to go.’
Twelve
TUESDAY
I stay up for large parts of the night rearranging the house and tidying up after the police. I think about cross-checking everything on the list given to me by the final officer who left, in case there might be something else that’s missing. I don’t in the end, mainly because I realise that I don’t care. Almost everything in the house belongs to Richard anyway.
When I sleep, it’s in short bursts and wherever the urge takes me. I have two naps on the sofa, another in the armchair, three in my bed and one at the kitchen table. I’m like a narcoleptic cat.
In between leaving the house on Sunday morning and being seen with Alice, there are around eight or nine hours in which I have no idea what my husband was up to. We’ve never been the sort of couple who has to do everything together, or who keeps tabs on one another. He does his thing and I do mine – and then, sometimes, we do things together. It works for us.
Except for now.
I’m now left wondering if, on all those other times he told me he was visiting work colleagues, whether that’s what he was actually doing. I’ve seen those stories about men who have second wives and families. Secret kids halfway across the country. That sort of thing. I always wonder how they get away with it – but now I’m left seeing myself as one of those ‘I never knew’-women. I’ll be on the front of those magazines that end up near the till at supermarkets. A person to be mocked.
I only realise I’ve not drawn any of the curtains when the sun begins to creep through the living-room window. There’s a bluey hue over the crest of the hill atop Leavensfield and the sky has turned a dim purple. After the rain of the past few days, it looks as if today will be a crisp winter postcard of a day.
As I head into the kitchen to set the kettle boiling, I spot the calendar and remember that I didn’t cancel my morning class at the school. According to the town’s Facebook page, it was closed yesterday because of everything with Alice. Nobody has messaged or called to say that any classes are cancelled today.
I stare towards the box of new bakeware at the back of the kitchen. Probably unsurprisingly, the police didn’t bother with searching through that. I’m not in the mood to be working and yet Theresa’s advice – Might give you something to concentrate on – rattles around my mind.
She’s probably right. It’s got to be better than moping around the house enduring wild mood swings. One moment I’m desperate for Richard to return, the next, I think I’d be better off if he never does. There’s a constant battle and I have no idea what I actually want.
Then I think of my dad and what happened to him – and there’s a renewed determination that I can’t let circumstantial evidence win out. Richard was giving Alice a lift home like the kind person I know him to be – and something else happened that had nothing to do with him.
For now, life has to go on.
It seems trivial now, but when I moved into this house, one of the things that excited me was the near empty cupboard at the back of the kitchen. I realise that makes me sound like quite the pampered elite but I don’t care. People are allowed to get excited over cars and footballs, so an empty cupboard that I’ve turned into a baking pantry is fine, too.
The police had a bit of a look yesterday but it was more moving things around than creating any real damage. I fill a couple of bags for life with flour, sugar, oil, cocoa powder, bicarbonate, cooking chocolate, icing sugar – and a giant transparent tub of sugar strands. The school already has a cupboard full of cooking equipment, so the only other thing I need are a few muffin pans.
By the time I’ve packed everything, I realise that I’m looking forward to something for what feels like the first time in weeks. It’s only days, of course, but yesterday felt like it would never end.
I head upstairs and take a shower before tidying myself up enough to make it look as if I’ve had a half-decent night’s sleep. When all that’s done, I carry my bags out to the car and pack them into the back.
The sun is completely up now and the sky is a searing blue. The hill over Leavensfield is as green as I’ve seen it, except for a dusky white peppering of frost across the bottom.
I’m going to be early but I’d rather be at the school with people around me than I would alone in this house.
It’s a short drive down the hill into the village centre and there’s no police car outside Gemma’s house this time. There’s also no obvious sign that anything is amiss with the village.
What My Husband Did: A gripping psychological thriller with an amazing twist Page 9
