Little Bones

by Sam Blake

  ‘Have you got everything packed? We can drop your bags at the hotel and then you’ll be free to wander about with Mary.’ Tony stuck his head back into the car, flipping open the brass catch on the top of the Gladstone, double-checking his notes were there. Then, reappearing, he said to Emily, ‘What are we doing about the Christmas presents for your lot?’

  ‘All done, wrapped and labelled in the boot. They can stay there, they’ll be safe enough. I want to get a fishing rod for Dad, but I’ll get that in Dublin, or on the way up.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘And thanks.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For driving. It’ll be much easier than the train.’

  Tony rolled his eyes. He wasn’t sure at what point he’d apparently volunteered to drive, somewhere between Emily getting out the map and him realising that getting the train at all was fraught with potential problems. If there were any delays he’d miss giving the opening speech, and one thing was for sure: if he was late, he’d never be asked back again. He’d weighed up his flying and Emily going by train but between traffic on the way into the airport, checkin and security checks and then waiting for his luggage (even if Emily brought most of it by car, Tony knew he’d still need a suit for the speech and one for dinner, to say nothing of his notes), the trip would, in fact, take almost the same time as the drive from London to Holyhead. Tony had Googled it: the 289 miles would take approximately five hours seven minutes (he’d wondered about the seven minutes). And he’d never seen Wales. And the route would take them around the edge of Snowdonia National Park, which had to be pretty spectacular. Even if it was raining. And if he was doing the driving, Tony had quickly realised he wouldn’t have to make conversation with Mary, would have complete control of the CD player. It wasn’t a hard decision.

  ‘Come on. We need to get going.’

  ‘Just making sure I’ve got my hairbrush.’ Emily’s head was back inside the front seat, her fuchsia lambswool sweater glowing against the dark navy interior of the car, her blouse a flash of white at its V-neck. Finally convinced she had everything, she threw her book back into her basket. ‘Are you positive Duncairn Court will be able to take Mary while we’re away over Christmas?’

  Tony rolled his eyes again. He hadn’t wanted to tell her the whole story, but if she asked him again . . . ‘Look, I pulled a few strings. One of their residents needed a hospital bed, so I phoned around. Nothing complicated, I just moved things along a bit faster than they normally happen. And I spoke with the superintendent myself. They have a bedsit apartment available and the Toynbee Hall Elderly Care people will keep an eye on her, check she’s eating.’

  Emily hovered by the open door of the car, ran her hand through her hair, still damp from the shower. ‘Do you think she’ll be OK?’

  Tony swung the back passenger door closed and slipped his arm around her as they headed back into the house. ‘We’ve done the best we can. If she’d never met you, she’d be a lot worse off. Think of it that way. And you’ve organised for her to be collected for the socials at the community centre so there will be loads of people checking up on her. You can phone every day if you want to.’

  ‘But what about cooking for herself?’

  ‘Actually, I’ve looked after that.’ He picked up the map book and ferry tickets from the kitchen counter and grabbed Mary’s bag, pulling his brown leather aviator jacket from the back of the kitchen chair. ‘The bedsit’s not furnished, so I’ve arranged for the furniture to be moved from Mary’s old place and I’ve ordered a freezer and microwave. Should be delivered today. One of the nurses at work knows a woman who’ll fill the freezer full of food for her, show her how everything works and do her cleaning. She’s a widow, from Saint Lucia originally. I met her yesterday, she’s very warm and she never stops talking, so she’ll be ideal.’

  Amazed, for once Emily didn’t know what to say. It was at times like these that she knew exactly why she had married him. She hugged him instead. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So when we get back she should be very well settled and you can visit her whenever you like.’

  ‘Good. That’s great. Thanks.’ He could see a tear welling up.

  ‘Go on, don’t be an eejit, as your dad would say. You better go get her. She’ll think we’ve gone without her . . .’

  ‘Have you turned off all the lights? And the immersion?’ Emily spoke to Tony’s back as he disappeared out of the kitchen back towards the open front door, Mary’s bag in his hand, his jacket slung over his arm.

  ‘All done. We need to get moving . . .’ His voice trailed behind him as he trotted down the steps to the car, the last words lost in the sounds of traffic pulling up at the lights on the other side of the slip of green beyond the front door.

  ‘Now, Mary, have you got everything?’

  ‘I think so, dear. Where are we going?’

  Sitting in her new maroon wool coat, her legs crossed at the ankles, feet smart in navy leather brogues, Mary smiled approvingly at Emily. ‘That colour pink suits you, dear, gives you a bit of a glow.’ Emily couldn’t resist a smile.

  ‘To Dublin, Mary. On the ferry. Do you remember we talked about it?’

  Mary nodded, but Emily could see from her eyes that she didn’t know what she meant. ‘We have to go in the car first. Tony’s waiting.’

  Emily put out her arm like an usher at a wedding and Mary grasped it, manoeuvring herself out of the chair. ‘Will it rain, dear? I don’t want to get wet.’

  ‘It’ll be grand, Mary. Don’t you worry about anything, I’ll look after you.’

  Her arm looped through Emily’s, Mary patted her hand. ‘I know, dear, I know you will.’

  ‘Is she asleep?’

  Flipping back the corner of his paper, Tony looked over at Mary dozing beside him. They’d only been on board the ferry for about forty minutes but the gentle roll of the boat and the long journey were obviously having their effect. Her chin almost rested on her chest and she was snoring quietly, her eyes closed, bottom lip slack.

  Looking up from her book, Emily brought her finger to her lips.

  ‘She’s just gone off.’ Emily leaned back, looking around her. ‘Will you be OK if I go for a walk? I’ll get rid of these on the way.’

  Tony nodded, folding his paper, helping her to pile up the paper plates and styrofoam coffee cups, the remnants of a not particularly auspicious meal, onto the tray.

  Emily stood up. ‘Won’t be long.’

  Settling back in his chair, his arms folded across his stomach, Tony watched her go, her pink sweater bobbing as she weaved between the other passengers towards the coffee dock. It was tricky to walk with the swaying of the deck. He watched as she swerved around a mother and child who were coming towards him, and disappeared around the corner towards the on-board shops.

  Laughing, the mother and child fell into a free table at the end of the row of window seats, their backs to Tony, shimmying over so the mother could point at the waves, at the ship’s wake curving away beyond the outer rail of the deck. The little girl wasn’t much more than four, had glossy mahogany hair brushed into intricate French plaits, each one tied with a bright band. She’d been hiding her face in her hands on the way down the corridor, guided by her mother, enjoying the sensation of the movement of the boat, and as Tony watched her, she put out her arms, mimicking a bird, maybe a seagull. He couldn’t resist a smile. She was evidently thrilled with the trip, every angle something new and exciting.

  Several people turned to look at the pair as they passed. They glowed like a beacon, their bond, their completeness, wonderful, refreshing. The mother smiled, pointed out of the window again. The child’s laughter was high-pitched, contagious, tingled with excitement like the first page of a new book. She clapped her hands in delight at the bird and threw her arms around her mother’s neck, hugging her hard, her face buried in her hair. Tony felt a tug deep inside. That should be Emily, sharing the joy of new experiences, feeling the warmth of a child that needed her love
in her arms. They separated and the mother began to kiss the little girl, silly, playful sloppy kisses all over her face. The child put her arms around her mother again, her chin on her shoulder, her deep brown eyes meeting Tony’s in a moment of absolute clarity.

  She had Down’s syndrome. Her flattened face, the shape of her eyes, the ruddy glow of her cheeks were unmistakable.

  Tony felt the impact like a freight train.

  She had a serious disability.

  With alarming clarity Tony was back in school, in junior-high biology, prepping for the SAT, their geeky weirdo teacher explaining the syndrome. ‘Not expected to live beyond twenty-one years . . . often born with serious heart defects . . . an extra chromosome 21.’ The prognosis had improved dramatically over the years – kids with Down’s nowadays outlived their parents – but it didn’t alter his shock, didn’t alter the stab of pain Tony felt for her, for her mother. The little girl giggled again and her mother turned to kiss her. Even from her profile Tony could see she was smiling, was totally infatuated. And the little girl was beautiful, a little bundle of energy, a bundle of joy . . .

  Taking a deep breath, Tony linked his hands behind his head, pretending to stretch, could feel his shame festering like heartburn. Who was he to play judge and jury? Who was he to play God with Emily’s life? To allow his fears to interfere with what she wanted beyond all else? Watching them, Tony realised that all the reasons he’d come up with that were stopping them from embarking on the adoption process were hot air, a confusion of excuses. It was having to share Emily that he was frightened of, worried that a child, particularly one that could have problems, would take her love away from him. He could see now that the real thing holding him back was his fear of the unknown, of what might happen if they brought a child into their family, what might happen if that child had issues – but how did anyone know how their kids were going to turn out, even if they were their own flesh and blood? Living with Emily, he’d learned that the world wasn’t all black and white – it never ceased to surprise him when she explained the flip side of a situation or an issue that he just hadn’t seen – when she pointed out all the shades of grey. Perhaps it was her Irish upbringing. But this was another one of those times when he had to open up to seeing all sides of the argument. Until now it had been completely black and white to him – over the years he’d come across so many cases where hidden psychological issues had only come to light as a child had got older, had seen the heartbreak, the stress, destroy marriages. But Emily was right, it didn’t happen in every case, there had to be hundreds of children who, with a bit of help, grew up to be normal, well-adjusted adults.

  Bringing a child that wasn’t theirs into their home might not be easy, but they’d never know if it would work unless they tried. A mother’s love was different from the love they had for each other; surely their lives would only be enriched taking the next step? And if they didn’t try, would Emily’s sadness and resentment eat away at their relationship, would it always be the elephant in the room? Looking at this mother, Tony was suddenly sure that Emily had more than enough love for them all, that they had to take the risk.

  ‘OK, darling?’ Tony jumped at Emily’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Did you survive without me?’

  30

  ‘I don’t honestly know what I can tell you that’s going to be of any assistance.’ Sitting in Oleander House’s elegant drawing room, flames licking hungrily at the logs in the fireplace, Trish O’Sullivan was working hard to be polite, her voice like cut glass, every syllable pronounced perfectly, like they were stupid.

  ‘We’re just covering all the bases, Ms O’Sullivan, wanted to check a few things out with you.’

  O’Rourke could do painfully polite when it suited him. Sitting beside him on the sofa, Cathy rubbed her nose, hiding a smile behind her hand. They were well matched.

  Trish’s look had said it all when she’d opened the door to them. O’Rourke had decided to surprise her, given her enough time to get up and about (‘Don’t think I’m ready for her in a bathrobe’), but had stood firm as she’d prevaricated about appointments and arranging Lavinia’s affairs and being exhausted after the funeral. O’Rourke had made it clear that he was going to question her, and he was going to question her now, regardless of her commitments, and if she preferred to do it at the station that was fine by him.

  ‘I still don’t understand what this is all about.’

  Showing them in, Trish had collapsed into a huge armchair, legs crossed, one finger making circles on the heavy brocade of the arm while she waited for them to sit, like this was all a waste of time. She was wearing black again, a long knitted thing with frilly bits at the collar over trousers and wedge-heeled boots. It might have been intended to be feminine with its clever stitching and soft yarn, but Cathy thought she looked more like a member of the Stasi.

  Seated on one end of the huge velvet sofa facing the fire, O’Rourke leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

  ‘As I explained, and as I’m sure Zoë has told you, we made a discovery at her house. The bones of a baby. Obviously we are very concerned. We are keen to establish the identity of the child and the cause of death in order to establish whether a crime has been committed.’

  ‘But unless you have proof that death occurred after a live birth, and that death was instigated by the mother, surely there can be no prosecution for infanticide?’ Trish stood up abruptly, went to the fireplace to pick up a small ivory box, took out a cigarette. Her back to them, Trish held it in her teeth, picked up a barrel lighter, lit up, took a drag, letting the smoke curl from her thin lips before she turned back to them, arching her eyebrows.

  Infanticide? Cathy exchanged a look with O’Rourke. Trish O’Sullivan seemed to have got from A to C without passing B. And she certainly knew her law.

  ‘Indeed. But not every child mortality is infanticide. We have to consider the possibility that the child may have been murdered by someone else,’ O’Rourke said.

  Trish let out a scathing grunt. ‘Or it died of natural causes.’

  There was that phrase again. Cathy shifted on the sofa, trying not to breathe too deeply. The cigarette smoke was burning the back of her throat, sending her constant feeling of unwellness a step closer to pukesville.

  ‘I still don’t see how I can help. I’ve never been to Zoë’s house.’

  ‘But you did know Lavinia Grant?’

  Trish nodded, leant back on the fireplace like a cowboy leaning on a saloon bar. Looked at him like it was an utterly ridiculous question.

  ‘Obviously.’

  O’Rourke paused a beat, hiding his irritation.

  ‘How long did you know her?’ He made it sound offhand like it wasn’t that important.

  Trish rolled her eyes. ‘Years. We were at school together.’

  ‘So you’ve known her all her life.’

  ‘Yes, certainly sounds like it, doesn’t it?’ Abrupt. What was the problem here? Was she getting sensitive because she was worried they might stray into exactly how close her relationship with Lavinia had been?

  ‘You maintained your friendship when she got married?’

  ‘I was in London, at a secretarial college.’ Trish took a drag on her cigarette, blew the smoke out slowly.

  ‘Did you attend her wedding?’

  ‘Obviously. Is this going to take much longer? I do have things to do.’

  Cathy glanced at Trish. It could be a whole lot quicker if she gave them something to work with.

  O’Rourke nodded, acknowledging her hectic schedule, then leaned over the arm of his chair pulling his briefcase towards him. ‘I’d like you to look at some photographs, tell us what you know about them.’

  ‘Photographs?’

  O’Rourke clicked back the catches, the sound surprisingly loud. Trish was watching him, the toe of one foot jiggling in time to some tune going around in her head. He produced a sheaf of photocopies, each one contained within a plastic cover. Half-standing, O’Rourke lean
ed forward to hand the first one to her.

  ‘Can you tell us who is in the picture?’

  ‘Lavinia, obviously.’

  ‘And the man with her?’

  ‘Her husband.’

  Helpful. Cathy could tell he was starting to lose his patience.

  ‘That would be a Charles Henry Valentine?’ O’Rourke prompted.

  ‘If you already know why are you asking me?’

  O’Rourke ignored her. ‘Tell me a bit about him.’ He was looking for her to loosen up, to let something slip about the dress.

  ‘I didn’t know him well – he died quite soon after they were married, a car accident in France.’

  O’Rourke nodded slowly. ‘What was he doing in France?’

  Trish shrugged. ‘He came from somewhere near Paris. It wasn’t long after the war, France was in a mess, he went back to see if he could salvage anything of his family estates.’

  ‘What year would that have been?’

  ‘Nineteen forty-nine, nineteen fifty, I don’t know, around then.’

  ‘Five years seems a long time to wait before going back.’

  ‘Lavinia said he was something in intelligence, that he had to escape. I think it took him a few years to come to terms with everything.’

  O’Rourke nodded again. Cathy could almost read his mind. Eleanor was supposed to have gone to France. O’Rourke moved on, but she could feel him parking the questions in his mind for exploration later.

  ‘And the dress Lavinia’s wearing, what can you tell us about that?’