He shrugs. ‘What’s keeping you here? You’ve both got lives outside of Buckthorpe. Sell up and move on.’
He gets to his feet and follows me as I show him out, maintaining his calm and friendly demeanour. But I barely say goodbye, too lost in my own thoughts. Is he right? Do the Murrays not want us here because of the trouble between our families?
Mum insisted that I find the deeds to the house and sell up when she died. Did she know that the village wouldn’t accept Rosie’s presence here? My scalp tingles as I replay our conversation with Ian in my mind. He’s right about one thing: isolation can have a strange effect on people. It’s easy to get lost in your own trauma, to allow the past to consume you. I can only imagine the rage simmering deep down inside the Murrays, stoked by years of obsession.
* * *
We would never have started going to the Murrays’ farm if Lady hadn’t spooked at the weird tree. On my way to the farm now, I recall my memories of that day – Rosie’s reckless gallop along the grass verge, the way I gripped the saddle until my knuckles went white, the feeling of pure helplessness as Lady took off up the road. The tree has since been cut down, and part of me wants to feel triumphant about the fact that I’ve outlived it. However much it frightened my pony, I’m the one still standing. And yet at the same time, it’s a small part of my childhood chipped away, never to be restored, leaving me with the same strange dreamlike sense I felt when I first came back.
My stomach flutters with nerves as I pull into the driveway. The path to the farmhouse is gated off from the courtyard and the shop, which means that when I get out of the car I have to pull the stiff metal lever to open the gate. It makes a loud, rusty creak that makes my heart beat faster.
Rosie has no idea that I’m here, and I’m not sure what she’d say about it if she knew. After Ian left, I went to find her up in Grandad’s old room, but she acted as though nothing had happened. Instead she started asking me about an outfit she’d brought with her, and whether it would be appropriate for the funeral.
The bizarre visit left me wondering whether Ian genuinely came to warn me that the Murrays weren’t happy about us living here, or if there’s more going on between him and my sister. Could it be possible that he knows something about what happened the night Samuel went missing? I thought about chasing him down to probe him with questions, but if he doesn’t know anything and I imply that I think Rosie has broken the law, he might decide to open the case, or at least take another glance at it. Which in turn made me consider my options if Rosie actually was involved in Samuel’s sudden disappearance. Do I want my own sister to be arrested? If she did commit a crime, would I want her to go to prison for it? I’ve had years to think about this, and yet my thoughts are still jumbled.
A dog barks somewhere on the farm, and the smell of the animal barns catches the back of my throat. Acrid cow dung, sodden straw, the ammonia of horse urine. The Murrays always had a few horses around. Sometimes Samuel would go on a hack with us or ride around the fields on young, barely broken-in animals. Their wild behaviour made me nervous, and I stopped going. But then Rosie and Samuel went on a ride together without me, and I remember my petty jealousy and the childish conversations I made up in my head. Obviously they spent the entire time talking about me. After that, I always went with them, no matter how scared I was.
It has been ten years since Rosie accused Samuel of sexual assault, and the pain is still there, fresh in my mind. How could the boy I cared about do that to my sister?
It has been ten years, too, since I was last at the farmhouse, and the first time without Samuel. All around me, his ghost walks, haunting my memories of the place. It pains me to admit how much I miss him. Rosie can never know that I still think about him every day.
A chicken comes scratching around by my feet as I knock on the door. When Rosie and I were working here for pocket money, we used to walk in, sit at the kitchen table to chat, or put the kettle on. I’d take Mrs Murray her cup of tea and sit down on the carpet to play with their cat. Now I have to wait for an answer. What if they slam the door in my face? My palms begin to sweat and I consider setting off in the opposite direction for home. But now is a time to be brave. I need to know what’s going on, and why Ian Dixon came round to the house to vaguely insist we get the hell out of Buckthorpe.
The door opens and I find myself surprised to see Samuel’s younger brother, Peter. For some reason I was expecting his mother, Lynn.
Peter smiles, and it lights up his expression. ‘Heather! How nice to see you. Come in.’ A warm welcome was the last thing I expected. Not based on Ian Dixon’s visit, anyway. I haven’t spoken to Peter since he was about thirteen years old, which would make him twenty-three now.
I shuffle awkwardly into the house behind him, trying to get my bearings. It could be because of his muscular bulk from the farm work, but he definitely looks older than twenty-three.
‘I was expecting your mum to answer,’ I admit.
‘She’s in,’ Peter says. ‘She’s just on the phone. We’re having a break and a cup of tea. Can I pour you one?’
‘Um, sure. If it isn’t any trouble.’
He glances back at me with a crooked grin. ‘Course not.’ There’s a pot already on the table, covered in a rainbow-coloured cosy. Peter grabs a teacup from a cupboard and begins to pour. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your mum. Is she doing any better?’
‘Actually, she passed away yesterday.’
He splashes hot water on his hand and swears under his breath. ‘Sorry. I mean, I’m so sorry for your loss, and for swearing.’ His cheeks turn a pleasant, embarrassed red. ‘Sorry.’
‘No apology needed. We – I mean Rosie and me – are okay. We’re devastated, obviously, but she was ill for a long time and she’d been in agony …’ I find myself trailing off as my throat thickens with emotion. I take a moment before continuing. ‘She’s at peace now.’
Before I can steel myself, I feel a tear escaping. I brush it away with my fingertips as Peter reaches out to do the same thing. His hand drops when he realises what he was about to do, and his eyes widen with horror. I’m about to say that it’s okay, it was a sweet gesture. But we haven’t been friends since he was a young kid, and I know he had a crush on me back then. Has he just revealed his feelings to me by attempting such an intimate gesture? I open and close my mouth, settling on what I hope is a friendly smile. And it’s at that moment that Lynn Murray walks into the kitchen.
She stops a few feet in, and her eyebrows lift in surprise. There’s an awkward silence as our eyes lock.
Ten years has aged her. While I’ve seen Peter from a distance on a tractor, or walking around the village, somehow I haven’t seen Lynn at all. The last time was not long after Samuel disappeared. Then, her eyes were red with tears, her skin flaky and pale, her figure wasting away. Now she’s put some of the weight back on, but her face and bust have a deflated appearance, as though her weight has bounced up and down over the years. She was always a well-put-together woman; short and sturdy, with strong hands. Some of that power has withered away.
‘Heather.’ Her voice is breathy but has that high-pitched tone I remember. ‘It’s been a long time.’
I feel awkward, hovering by the kitchen table, my cup of tea cooling between me and her younger son, Lynn’s hard eyes fixed on me. Did she notice Peter reaching out to touch me? That must have been terrifying for her to watch, given what happened between my sister and his older brother.
‘I wanted to call in to let you know that Mum passed away yesterday,’ I say, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. ‘I hope you don’t think it was inappropriate for me to come.’
‘Of course not.’ Lynn finally moves, busying herself at the kitchen counter by rinsing Peter’s teacup. I’m not sure he’d actually finished drinking the tea inside. ‘When is the funeral? I’d like to pay my respects if that’s all right.’
‘We haven’t actually arranged it yet,’ I say. ‘I’m in the process …’
�
��That’s right, it was only yesterday. You won’t have had time yet.’ Lynn shakes her head as though to berate herself. ‘How are you holding up?’
‘Oh, we’re okay. It’s hard, but … she was in a lot of pain at the end and I think it was … kinder that she slipped away.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Lynn stares down at her wet hands in the sink. ‘That must have been hard to watch.’
‘It was,’ I admit. I pause for a moment, wondering whether to continue. The silence drags out, and I take a deep breath, deciding to say it even if it is a bad idea. ‘Actually, there was another reason why I came here today.’ But as I’m about to tell Lynn about Ian’s visit, the front door is yanked open and I hear the sound of boots being brushed off and then removed. We all wait until Colin Murray enters the kitchen. When his eyes rest on me, his expression changes. His jaw clenches and his eyes narrow with suspicion.
‘Heather,’ he says simply.
Lynn clears her throat. ‘Iris passed away yesterday. Heather came to let us know.’
Colin strides over to the sink and starts running the taps. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he says as he squirts soap onto his hands.
I’ve seen this scene before: Mr Murray washing his hands, Mrs Murray moving to make way for him, a tea towel over her shoulder, Peter sitting quietly at the table. But everyone has changed. Colin’s hairline has moved back from his forehead and his hair is grey. Lynn is a worn-out version of the woman she used to be. Even Peter has dark circles of tiredness around his brown eyes. And the strangest part of all is that Samuel isn’t here.
‘I should get going,’ I say. ‘Thank you for the tea.’
Peter frowns down at the untouched teacup.
‘You came here for more than that, didn’t you?’ Lynn folds her arms and moves across to the opposite side of the room, giving her husband space to dry his hands. ‘You were about to say something else.’
Nerves clog my throat. Now that Colin is here too, I just want to leave. I pictured speaking just to Lynn, us shedding a few tears together and making amends for the past. But now all the Murrays are here staring at me. Waiting.
‘It’s not that important. It’s just … well, Ian Dixon called in at the cottage this morning and suggested that maybe you weren’t happy about Rosie being here. I wanted to come and let you know that we don’t want any trouble. We just want to give our mum the best send-off that we can.’ I rub my sweaty palms against my jeans.
‘What did Ian say, exactly?’ Lynn frowns as though this is new information. ‘We have no problem with Rosie being here.’
Peter glances from his mother to his father, and I wonder whether Lynn is telling the truth.
‘It’s just that Ian suggested we should sell the cottage and move on,’ I say. ‘And I think that’s a little unfair.’
Lynn inhales at the last word, the air whistling through her teeth. ‘Yes, I know a lot about things that are unfair … My boy being missing is one of them.’ Her entire body stiffens, and I imagine a pulse of anger running through her. The sight makes the blood drain from my face. Even the large farmhouse kitchen is too small for Lynn Murray and her pain.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend. I know you’ve been through hell—’
‘There’s nothing keeping you here, though, is there?’ Colin interrupts. ‘I’m not saying you should go. The past is the past. It can’t be changed, and any kind of feud is ridiculous. But at the same time, why would you want to stay here?’ He places a hand on Lynn’s shoulder, and she relaxes slightly.
‘We haven’t decided what we’re doing yet,’ I say. ‘But I wanted to come and make sure there isn’t any issue with it if we stay. We’ll be here for a while sorting through Mum’s things anyway. We certainly don’t want to upset you.’ I know that I’m rambling now and finally have the good sense to be quiet.
‘You’re always welcome here, Heather,’ Peter says quietly.
Lynn sighs. ‘You’re not unwelcome, but the history between our families is intense, as you know. What Rosie did … well, it led to us never seeing our son again.’ Her voice cracks as her emotions begin to pour out. ‘And now he’s lost out there somewhere.’
‘You think he’s still alive?’ The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them.
‘I know he is,’ she says fiercely.
Colin places an arm over her shoulders. There are tears in his eyes, which makes me even more uncomfortable. Before Samuel disappeared, Colin always came across as the archetypal alpha male, tough and terse. ‘We all know he’s alive. We’ve known all along.’
‘But how do you—’ I begin.
‘Hope,’ Lynn says, her eyes bright with tears. ‘Hope.’
Nine
Rosie
Then
At first, I hated going to the farm. From the early mornings tacking up ponies with bleary eyes, to the days of physical work. I’d get home with aching muscles and dung on my boots and all the while I was watching my sister become best friends with the boy I wanted to notice me. The place gave me anxiety. I wouldn’t sleep properly the night before, but at the same time there was a sense of inevitability to it that I grew to accept.
After a few weeks, though, I began to enjoy it. Samuel’s mum made homemade cakes, or fruit crumbles with proper custard, and gave us generous portions at lunchtime. I got to run around the fields inventing games for us to play, climbing over fences and rolling down hills.
Yes, it was strange watching Heather make a friend. She was the bookish one who rarely came out of her shell, even at home. I hadn’t seen her hanging around with many people at school, either. Once I learned to accept that she and Samuel were close and there was nothing I could do about it, the three of us became something special. I’m not sure I realised how close they were back then. I can see now, with the benefit of hindsight, with knowing what happened after our idyllic jaunts at the farm abruptly stopped.
About a year after we started working at the farm, there was one day when Samuel was keen to take one of his father’s new horses out for a ride. As well as working the farm, Mr Murray would on occasion buy colts to break in and sell on. While Samuel had always been a bit of a wimpy goth kid at school, on the farm he was actually pretty fearless and would get on horses even I would find intimidating.
There was a young stallion in particular that Samuel wanted to ride. The horse frightened Heather, especially after it had grabbed her ponytail with its teeth when she was walking past his stable. But Samuel didn’t want to ride alone, and asked me to go with him. Heather’s expression when I agreed could have curdled milk, as Grandad would have said, but I was bored and fed up of her and Samuel being in their own little club. She wasn’t keen on our rides around the farmland anyway. Samuel and I loved racing each other, while Heather would trot Lady in the other direction to stop her getting the urge to join in. So she stayed in the courtyard sweeping up dropped hay and horse feed.
‘She’ll get over it,’ I said to Samuel as we walked the horses out of the courtyard and into the field. The stallion was a fifteen-hand black beast with a thick mane that draped over its neck all the way down to its shoulder. Rather than walk, it pranced.
Samuel cast a glance behind him as he closed the gate, and then climbed into the saddle, gathering up his reins quickly to keep the stallion in check. ‘I feel bad. I don’t like making your sister unhappy.’
‘She’ll get over it,’ I repeated more firmly, annoyed by how the attention always seemed to fall on Heather no matter what. ‘It’s a half-hour of her life.’
‘I know, but …’
‘But what?’ I asked, twisting in the saddle to give him a fierce glare. We were still walking the horses because the ground was muddy after overnight rain. We were having a wet August and neither of us wanted our mounts to lose a shoe.
‘She’s hard on herself. She thinks of this as a failure. Don’t you agree?’ He lifted his dark eyebrows, making his eyes even brighter.
Shame rippled through my body like an annoying
muscle spasm, lasting barely a second but making everything hurt. I knew he was right: in some ways Heather was much more vulnerable than I was at that age, even though in other ways she was stronger. But rather than admit to any of that, I pressed my heels into Midnight’s flanks and pushed her into a canter. Always quick to go, she burst forth, and the stallion followed suit.
The ground hardened up the further away from the farm we went, and the two horses found their stride. Samuel leaned over the stallion’s neck and loosened his reins, letting the horse have his head. Midnight was no match for the tall stallion, and though he tried, he couldn’t keep up. Soon he was panting, and I slowed him down to a walk. We still had the hack home and I didn’t want to tire him out.
Samuel eventually managed to rein in the stallion, and trotted back to where I was waiting with Midnight. There was steam rising from the black stallion’s coat, which was gleaming in the midday sun. The horse’s neck was arched, and he lifted his knees high. Samuel sat with a straight back, his cheeks flushed pink. I felt a squirming in my stomach and a vague sense that I was doing something wrong. I didn’t want to look at him, but I couldn’t stop myself.
‘Well, I think it’s safe to say I won that race.’
‘You’ve got the faster animal,’ I replied. ‘It doesn’t mean you’re the best rider.’
He just laughed and patted the horse’s shoulder. ‘You should try him out some time. I know you could manage him. You’re the best rider I know.’
The compliment made me grin with pride. Being a good rider was one of the things I liked the most about myself. It was part of my identity.
‘What about Heather?’ I asked.
‘She’s good too,’ he said, but I could tell he was just being nice and didn’t mean it. ‘She’s too cautious, though. I think I prefer girls willing to take a risk.’
My grin spread even wider, hurting my cheeks. I’d never felt so noticed as at that moment, and I wanted to be noticed even more. I brought Midnight closer to the stallion, until my knee almost touched Samuel’s lower leg, then took one hand away from my reins and gently caressed the horse’s dark, damp coat. The air smelled of sweat and sweet dewy grass. I was little more than fourteen years old, but even then I knew what I was feeling, and I knew what I wanted.
The Liar's Sister (ARC) Page 7
