by Laura Elliot
Her patience is rewarded when a car draws up outside Stonyedge. Nicholas has changed his Porsche for an ice-blue BMW. Adrenalin pumps through Elena as she watches him untie the rope from the gate. His jeans and bomber jacket suggest he has taken a day off work. She searches for signs that her attack on him has had an impact but he appears to have fully recovered, if his brisk walk is any indication. Yvonne opens the door before he reaches it. Unlike her son, she is dressed formally, in a red, pencil-slim skirt and matching jacket, a scarf draped over her shoulders. Nicholas hunkers down and holds out his arms to the children. Grace… How fast she runs, fleet on her feet, while Joel clings to Yvonne’s neck. Their shrieks reach Elena, as does Nicholas’s laughter. Once so familiar and dear to her, now it grates against her ears. She longs to drown it out and listen only to her children. She parts the branches for a better view. Nicholas takes Joel under his arm and holds Grace’s hand. Her daughter’s excited voice reaches Elena, who strains forward in an effort to hear what she is saying. Yvonne accompanies them to the car, nodding, talking, making hand gestures, as Nicholas straps them into the back seat.
Elena reads his impatience in the lift of his shoulders as his mother continues talking. Unlike Elena, Yvonne has never been forced to analyse his body language, listen for his change of tone, the lift of an eyelid that signals a mood swing. Is it possible that she has no idea that her son is capable of both instinctive and calculated violence? Could his childhood have been as exemplary as Yvonne insists? Surely, there must have been signs of his cruelty: flies with wings torn off, schoolboys who had been bullied and battered, tearful girls who were charmed, then belittled and sullied by his scorn, his indifference? All Elena knows about his past is what she has seen in that album of smiling family photographs. She clenches her fists, beats them silently against her knees as he eases his long body into the car and turns on the ignition. Yvonne waves him off. Have Grace and Joel waved back? It’s impossible to see through the tinted windows. She has pins and needles in her legs. They will give way if she tries to stand.
When the car has disappeared from sight and Yvonne has returned to the house, Elena rises, grimacing as she stamps her feet. She is about to emerge from the makeshift shelter when Yvonne reappears. Her bridge morning. Always on a Friday, Elena remembers as she hunkers down again. Yvonne reverses from the driveway and, in the hush that settles after her departure, Elena is taunted by the sight of that empty house.
She resists the pull until her head begins to throb and another form of reasoning takes over. This graveyard place will be devoid of life until the afternoon. All she needs is a few minutes to check out whether her children are receiving the love they deserve.
If Rosemary knew what she was doing on her day off… Elena refuses to think about her reaction. She crosses the road before she can change her mind. The privet hedge shelters her when she enters the driveway. She rings the doorbell, ready to run if she hears movement from within. The chimes have an echo, a harsh pitch that suggests too much empty space. Moving quickly, she enters the side passage, where she is hemmed between the gable wall of Stonyedge and the dividing wall that separates the two houses. A wooden gate at the end of the passageway blocks her entry.
The distance between the detached houses is slight, about the width of a wheelie bin, she reckons. The wall is low enough to climb and allows her the momentum to heave her body over the gate. A jump to the ground; she lands catlike, a cat burglar, and smiles grimly. She opens the door to a garden shed. Nicholas once mentioned that a spare key was always kept under a tin of paint. She examines the tins lined up along a high shelf, hoping that this is still true. All have been opened and used, dried stains on their outsides. She checks underneath three tins before she uncovers the key.
The house to the rear of Stonyedge has been built on a rise and the occupants have an unobstructed view into the Madison’s back garden. Exposed, Elena imagines eyes fixed on her as she unlocks the patio door. She has gone too far to stop now and steps quickly inside when the door slides open. The kitchen is spotless. She touches the sterilising unit containing Joel’s bottles. She opens the fridge where Yvonne has stored the children’s dinners in food storage containers, each one labelled with its contents and the child’s name. Yvonne, methodical and practical as always. What a disorganised muddle Elena must have seemed to her.
Upstairs, her footsteps sink silently into soft carpets as she moves from room to room. Grace’s bed has a duvet with a picture of Peppa Pig. Her clothes are folded in drawers, rows of underwear, jumpers as neat as a display in a department store, tights, leggings, dresses. Elena cannot see anything her daughter had worn before they were separated on that fateful morning. The pictures on the walls are also unfamiliar. She searches for a photograph of herself, unable to believe Yvonne or Henry have made no effort to provide one. The photograph on the bedside table is of Grace and Joel at a picnic with their father and grandparents. She resists the temptation to raise the frame above her head and smash it off the wall. Fury will not serve her purpose. She needs to remain in control but her hands tremble when she replaces the frame in its original position. She lifts a jumper from a drawer and holds it to her face. She longs to breathe in the scent of her daughter but all she can smell is fabric freshener. She could be standing in the room of a child stranger. The jumper looks lumpy when she attempts to fold it back into the drawer with the same precision as she found it. She shakes it out, tries again. She must focus – focus. This time, her attempt is passable and she slides the drawer closed.
She glimpses her reflection in a pink-framed mirror. The natural colour is returning to her hair. She has had it cut short to hasten the process and the cropped style highlights her haggard features. Her eyes seem enlarged, their colour dulled from medication. She is afraid to stop taking the correct dose of prescribed tablets in case it jeopardises her hard-gained bail, yet here she is, risking everything for what? She must leave now, this minute, slip away as quietly as she entered. Head down, she moves across the landing – and stops at the open door to Joel’s room.
Thomas the Tank Engine is obviously his passion – or Yvonne has decided that for him. Duvet, curtains, wallpaper, all the same. His drawers are as organised as Grace’s and the photograph beside his bed shows the same configuration, only this time the five of them are sitting on a bench in a playground. Nicholas is preparing his ground for a custodial hearing, each photograph projecting the smiling features of a caring father and adoring, trustworthy grandparents. Elena remembers the nights she waited in vain for him to come home from work to say goodnight to his children. Whenever he did manage to see them before they fell asleep, his interaction with them was brief, the earlier enthusiasm he had shown when they were newly-born fading as they grew more demanding.
‘They’re not interesting at these ages,’ he told her once. ‘It’ll be different when they’re older.’
The front door slams. Rigid, her hands gripping the edge of Joel’s cot, she hears footsteps mounting the stairs. The bedroom door is still ajar but the footsteps stop before they reach her. Another door is opened, closed. She sags with relief and moves to the window to check the driveway. As she suspected from the heavy tread, it’s Henry who has arrived home.
Relieved that he hadn’t entered the kitchen and noticed the unlocked door, she leaves Joel’s room. Rosemary’s warnings ring loudly in her ears as she descends the stairs. The step that creaks sounds like a scream. Afraid to stop, she runs through the kitchen and locks the patio door from the outside. In the shed, she crouches down and tries to remember which paint tin was used to hide the key. Had she found it under the green or the yellow? Unable to decide, she shoves it beneath a tin in the middle of the row.
‘Stay where you are, punk.’ Henry is standing behind her, no longer soft-voiced or affable. ‘If you move I’ll crack your head in two with this axe.’
Elena stands and pulls both ends of the hood tightly over her forehead and cheeks. He is correct about the axe. It swings loosel
y from one hand, deceptively so. She recognises the charged-up energy Nicholas always projected before he struck her. But Henry is not violent like his son… or is he? What does she know about anyone anymore? Elena thinks over her options. She can charge into him and try to knock him over, but he will catch up with her before she has climbed the gate.
‘Don’t even think about it.’ Henry, reading her mind, blocks the shed doorway. Does he have that same canny awareness as Nicholas? The ability to know how she will react to a given situation? Maybe he is more like his son than she thinks. ‘There’s a squad car on the way,’ he continues. ‘You can explain to the guards why you broke into my house.’
‘Put the axe down, Henry.’ She pulls back the hood and lifts her chin defiantly. The last time she saw him he was stony-faced, avoiding her eyes across the courtroom while the judge decided whether or not bail should be granted.
‘Good grief!’ He steps backwards, his craggy face wrinkling with shock. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I had to come.’ The explanation is simple but useless. ‘I’ve tried so often to see my children. Nicholas keeps delaying my appeal for visiting rights and no one answers my letters or takes my calls―’
‘That’s because we’re under no obligation to do so.’ His tone is harsh but the pumped-up aggression has left him. Keeping his eyes on her, he reaches behind him and props the axe against the wall. ‘You lost your right to the care of those children when you attacked their father.’
‘He was violent towards me. You must believe me. How long are you and Yvonne going to close your eyes to his behaviour?’
‘My son is not a violent man. He loved you―’
‘He pretended to love me, just as he pretended to love Amelia. He destroyed us both.’
‘You’re lying.’ He sounds sad but certain. ‘I was so pleased when Nicholas met you. A new beginning for him, I thought. But you could never cope with playing second fiddle to his feelings for Amelia.’
‘Is that what he’s told you?’
‘It’s what I saw with my own eyes. You imitated her. The hairstyle, the make-up, the same clothes. You lost yourself, Elena. And then you turned on Nicholas―’
‘You’re right.’ She nods, dully. ‘He mesmerised me and I allowed it to happen. When he beat me, he made sure the marks didn’t show. He’d had time to practise on Amelia. That’s why she went into the water. Death was preferable to being married to your son.’
She thinks he will bring her to the ground. The tension in his body – she knows the signs. The closing down of emotion until all that remains is the blood urge. She shrinks back, as if she can already feel the impact of his fists.
‘I won’t allow you to make those wild accusations about my son.’ His shoulders slump, his hands uncurl. ‘You’ve broken your barring order. I’ll make sure you take full responsibility for breaking into my house.’
‘I won’t be silenced, Henry—’
‘We both know what will happen when the police arrive.’ He cuts her short and checks his watch. ‘They should be here in two minutes or less. Whatever chance you had of getting your children back again has been wiped out by your recklessness. Nicholas could have died by your hand―’
‘Amelia told you, didn’t she? That’s why Yvonne called her a diva. She said there was always some drama going on around her. But, being beaten up is not a drama―’
‘Stop.’ He licks his lips, as if aware that spittle has dried on the corner of his mouth. ‘You retracted the statement you made to the police. My son has a clean slate but you, on the other hand, are mentally deranged. What credibility does that give you?’
‘Did Amelia confide in―’
‘No, she did not,’ he shouted. ‘I refuse to listen to any more of your babbling nonsense.’ He steps to one side and stares above her head. ‘If you have another truth, then go and find it.’
The doorway is clear, a channel to freedom. Is he toying with her? Will he pin her to the wall as she runs past, drag her down from the gate when she tries to climb it? Henry is not like his son… not like his son… Elena lowers her head and sprints past him. He makes no effort to detain her as she clambers over the gate. She is free and running towards the shrubbery on the green.
A squad car is coming. Blue lights flash and the silver-haired woman, returning with her dogs, stops and then hurries onwards, afraid, no doubt, that burglars have been at work while she was out walking. Elena watches through the leaves as the squad car pulls up outside Stonyedge. Two policemen in hi-vis jackets walk up the driveway to where Henry is waiting for them. At the end of the road, there is a shortcut into a shopping centre. He points towards it and when the squad car disappears in that direction, Elena moves from her hiding place and walks away.
Is Henry watching her? If you have another truth, then go and find it. Did he really utter those words? Is it possible that he believes her? Does he know the truth about Amelia’s marriage? Unlike Elena, she had not been too proud to confide in a friend. A few sentences from a torn letter. Elena tries to remember the order in which she read them. It’s time you stopped pretending you can force him to leave… His violence is inexcusable… please…please listen…
Thirty-Five
Henry is a tormented man. I met him only once, and that was shortly after my conversation with Amelia. I’d returned to Kilfarran for Mark’s thirtieth birthday, which he was celebrating at his parent’s home with his partner, Graham, who would soon become his husband. Amelia and Nicholas had also been invited on that Saturday night but Nicholas had phoned late that afternoon to explain why they would be unable to attend. Amelia, it seemed, had a migraine.
The following day I called to Woodbine in the afternoon. When no one answered the doorbell, it was obvious from the cars in the driveway, three, to be exact, that they were at home. I heard voices and followed the sound round the side of the house to the back garden, where a barbecue was underway. His parents were present and Nicholas, masking his displeasure, made me welcome. Amelia flung her arms around me and held me too tight. ‘Stay,’ she whispered. ‘Please stay.’
The sun shone for the afternoon and Nicholas, in a butcher’s apron and chef’s hat, made a great show of cooking steaks, burgers, sausages, kebabs. His charm was effortless, an embracing web of strands that Amelia seemed unable to break. I’d no appetite but he piled my plate, even though all I managed to eat was a kebab. He remarked on the weight I had lost and claimed I was just a few pounds off being scraggy. He was right about my weight. Climbing a headland and bending into the wind blowing off the Atlantic burned energy. I saw the look Amelia gave him. The anger that flared in her eyes but died away just as quickly.
Yvonne’s manner towards her that Sunday afternoon was chillingly polite. They had argued over Nicholas. Amelia didn’t go into the details but it was obvious that bitter words had been exchanged between them.
Later, when I was sitting alone in a bower on a bench for two, Henry joined me. I still don’t know what possessed me to tell him about Nicholas. It needed to be said but there was no easy way to explain what was going on between him and Amelia. What did I hope would happen? That a father would turn against his beloved only son? Henry’s face became ever more austere as he listened to my stammered suggestions that he speak to Nicholas about his violence. He accused me of being jealous.
‘I know you have feelings for my daughter-in-law,’ he said. ‘But that’s no reason to tell such slanderous and hateful lies about my son.’ He said much more than that, and I to him, our voices pitched low, as if our argument would strike a tinderbox if overheard. That is why I think he believed me. We parted on bad terms. A weak man like my father, living with his own illusions. Most of us do, one way or another. We mould the world to our own reality and then wonder why it leaves us on the outside looking on in bewilderment.
Thirty-Six
Elena wheels the mountain bike that once belonged to Rosemary’s husband from the garage. Unused since his death four years previously, it
needs dusting off but it’s still in working order. The journey to Woodbine takes over an hour. She is flushed and sweating by the time she reaches Kilfarran Lane. A canopy of bare branches twine overhead and the sun spangles the country road. The jittery feeling in her stomach is almost unbearable as she nears the old house. As usual, a bunch of fresh flowers lies on the grassy embankment. Nicholas mustn’t have had a chance to dump them in the bin yet; and even when he does so, Billy will just ensure that new fresh flowers will be on the same spot tomorrow.
‘He’s remembering his friend,’ she said to Nicholas once. ‘Why should you object to that?’
‘For reasons I’m not prepared to discuss with you,’ he’d replied in the flat, expressionless voice he used when she irritated him. ‘Don’t ask me again.’ His warning was implicit. As well as silencing her, it prevented her accepting Billy’s invitation to have tea at his house. This fear had caused her to walk straight past him whenever they saw each other on the road or in the village. She had always kept her head down on these occasions, fearful that, if she talked to him, Nicholas would discover she’d disobeyed him. Even when he was abroad on business, his eerie ability to know when she was lying or hiding something from him had had a paralysing effect on her.
Christmas had passed without Elena’s custodial case being heard, cancelled again on a technicality his barrister unearthed. The new year slid into spring and Grace’s second birthday in March came and went without Elena being able to see her daughter. She had resisted the urge to lurk outside Stonyedge on the day, knowing she would be unable to restrain herself if she saw balloons attached to the gate. Joel’s first birthday came shortly afterwards. As it had been with Grace, the card and present Elena sent were returned to Rosemary’s address, unopened. Once again, she had resisted the temptation to see them. Henry would have been watching out for her. No more second chances with him. She still finds it hard to believe he did not report her break-in to the police. He can’t have told Nicholas or Yvonne; if he had done so, Elena would be incarcerated by now and not free to break her bail conditions once again.
