The Hidden Girl

by Louise Millar

  The taxi was five yards away. A radio blared from inside. Its headlights were pointing towards Carol and the driver.

  Knowing she only had seconds, Hannah continued on her knees along the edge of the side-lawn towards the dark shadows of the oak trees, then doubled back up behind the taxi. The front door of Tornley Hall was slamming, as Carol got rid of the driver.

  Now!

  Hannah dived down the side of the taxi and opened the back passenger door quietly, hoping the blaring radio would cover the noise.

  Gravel crunched as the driver walked past the sitting-room windows.

  Hannah eased herself in, hoping his headlights would also blind him to her movement, and pulled the door gently closed. She lay flat across the footwell.

  The driver opened his door, shut it, turned down the radio, shouted something rude about Carol into his taxi radio, then swung round and headed out of the driveway.

  He turned up the radio again and sang along tunelessly.

  Hannah lay still. The dark tops of the trees whipped past the window. She sensed the fork in the road by the three cottages, and then the right turn at the T-junction towards Thurrup.

  The driver accelerated.

  She wondered at what point to tell him she was here.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  The next day, it was as if the snow had never been. The rivers were full. The grass was a vivid green among the puddles of mud. It was a fertile land, unfrozen.

  Signposts pointed down thin lanes to places most people would never go. To houses, hidden up isolated lanes. To suburbs, with bolted doors and drawn curtains.

  Hannah leant her head against the train window to cool the thump of her headache.

  It was time to tell the truth.

  One hour to London.

  She rubbed the bruise on her cheek. In her hand sat Daniel’s phone and a scribbled number.

  A sign for Essex appeared ahead, and the future she’d dreamt of in Suffolk dropped behind, and then away.

  She rang the number, knowing there was no choice. Not because of what was about to happen later today, but because it was the right thing to do and, for a while, she’d lost sight of what that was.

  A voice answered six rings later. Hannah hoped she hadn’t pulled her from a meeting.

  ‘Barbara, it’s Hannah.’

  There was a tentative tone in her social worker’s voice. Her instincts were probably finely tuned. ‘Hi, Hannah, how is everything?’

  ‘Actually, that’s why I’m ringing you …’

  And then Hannah started. She told Barbara everything. She told her about Tornley Hall and the mess she’d got into, and about Will walking out. Her lie about him being in Thurrup, when he was actually in London. And how she had been so desperate to be matched that she’d ripped apart their carefully built lives in London, without making sure it was what Will wanted too. And now that she didn’t know where he was.

  Barbara listened, then related her own shock and sympathy for Hannah, at what had happened in Tornley.

  There was a pause, and then Hannah made herself say it, even though she didn’t want to hear the answer. ‘Barbara, are we going to lose her?’

  ‘Hannah,’ she replied, ‘listen. Go and find Will, and sort things out. I’ll ring her social workers and explain what a mess you’ve been thrown into, and why. And I’ll ask them to give you a couple of weeks to sort out what’s happening with the house. But try not to worry. Right now, I promise you, she’s not going anywhere. They’re very keen.’

  Hannah watched a dad further up the carriage, with a sleeping toddler asleep on his chest, face sweetly squashed to the side, as he read a book. ‘The thing is, I know it’s her, Barbara – I don’t know why. But I think it’s why it didn’t work out last summer. Because we were waiting for her, and we didn’t know it.’ Tears came into her eyes as she watched the scatter of houses start to gather together and build into towns. ‘God, I’ve messed up, haven’t I?’

  Barbara sighed. ‘Hannah, listen. I haven’t mentioned this before, but I’m an adoptive parent, too. Trust me, we all want to be perfect.’

  Hannah arrived at Paddington just before six. Her stomach rumbled painfully, and she realized she hadn’t eaten for twelve hours, apart from a cup of tea and a biscuit at the police station this morning. She entered the first place she saw, a bar serving food, and ordered at the counter.

  Even though the police had warned her it was going to happen, it was surreal to see Tornley House appear on the television screen at the end of the bar. A customer with a beer looked up at the TV.

  She took her drink over and sat on the next seat. A reporter stood at the end of the driveway. He was speaking to an anchorwoman back in the studio, on the six o’clock news. The house looked shabby and rundown, the driveway unwelcoming.

  ‘Yes, Alice, it’s a strange one, this one. We understand that police raided a number of properties in this quiet corner of Suffolk last night, after a tip-off that a woman has been living in domestic servitude in this hamlet. Even more extraordinary, allegations are also emerging that the woman’s mother and grandmother may have been kept here too, by three local families, and that this crime may reach back many, many decades. Police are questioning eight people, and are investigating reports that a recently deceased brother and sister, Peter and Olive Horseborrow – the former owners of this house behind me, which was built by their father, the Suffolk ship-builder John Horseborrow – were also involved.’

  Hannah sipped her wine, as the anchorwoman asked the reporter for more details. The man at the bar shook his head at her.

  ‘Strange world,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ she replied.

  The reporter was speaking again.

  ‘Well, it’s early days, Alice, but we understand the woman the police discovered was found hiding in a toilet. This is the extraordinary thing. We understand this woman may be as old as forty, yet she has never left Tornley. Let me be clear, however. There is no suggestion that she was physically held here. This appears to be a case of vulnerable women being coerced into doing free labour, under psychological duress. I should be clear, too, that this story is just breaking. We understand that a second local woman was abducted and escaped last night, and that tomorrow police divers are starting a search around Graysea Bay. I’ll keep you updated as we receive more news.’

  Hannah finished her food, and made her way to the Tube. She got off at Shepherd’s Bush, and put her head down as she made her way through the early crowds arriving for a gig at the Empire.

  Although it was dark, the air was balmy with the promise of spring. She walked the route home, which she’d walked hundreds of times, towards Will, not knowing what she would find this time.

  The receptionist of Smart Yak, Aleisha, was packing up for the evening when Hannah arrived. They had met a few times, but Aleisha shifted uncomfortably today, as if she didn’t know what to say.

  Hannah walked up the stairs, then checked behind her. As she suspected, Aleisha was phoning ahead.

  At Will’s door she didn’t hesitate. She turned the handle and walked in.

  Will was at the desk, replacing the receiver.

  On the sofa was a woman she didn’t recognize. She had a fake bohemian look that Hannah hated. Long bleached hair. A maxidress with a whimsical cardigan. Boots. She was lying on Hannah’s parents’ couch, checking her mobile.

  She and Will looked good together. Arty, cool. Laid-back.

  Hannah’s heart broke in two.

  ‘Hi,’ Will said. She saw it now, in his eyes. The hard shell of deep brown that melted like chocolate when he was hurt. He could never hide it from her.

  ‘Hi.’

  The woman raised her eyebrows at Will and stood up, with a languorous uncurling of her limbs. She was taller than Hannah and wore an expression of disdain. Hannah knew what she wanted.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ the blonde woman winked at Will, walking out.

  To it .

  Hannah stayed stand
ing. ‘Have you seen the news?’

  Anger simmered in his voice. ‘No.’

  She looked at the familiar shape of the chest she could always fall into, the arms that always came round her, and the hair that brushed her cheek, and realized she didn’t know if they were hers any longer.

  ‘Well, you need to watch it. It’s about Tornley.’

  A ripple of curiosity. ‘OK.’

  She fought back tears. ‘Will, I’m sorry I made you move there, without asking if it’s what you wanted, but I did it because I wanted to have a baby for you. Because I couldn’t give you one. And I wanted to make it right.’

  He picked up a pen and drummed it on the desk. ‘When did I ever say that’s what I wanted, Han? I didn’t ask you to do that. I just wanted things to be like they were.’

  ‘Yes, and I understand that, but I was panicking – we could have discussed it. But you won’t discuss things. You just sulk and walk off. You can’t bear me needing something from you, but I’m not your mum, Will. You left me out there on my own because of that,’ she said. ‘You didn’t believe me, because you were angry. And when you see the news, you need to think about why.’

  Silence filled the room.

  Will turned the pen upright and clicked it on and off, on the desk. She knew he wanted to ask what had happened, but couldn’t.

  Hannah smelt the woman’s perfume in the room. A cloying, sexy scent.

  She nodded towards the door. ‘She likes you.’

  His voice was dry. ‘Don’t they always.’

  Hannah took out a folded sheet from her bag. ‘Barbara says I can start again, and apply to adopt her by myself. So you need to decide what you want to do.’

  She placed the photocopied picture of the little girl on his desk.

  ‘But if you want to do it with me, you and I have to be solid. No cracks. It’s not fair on her. What this little girl has been through is worse than you, Will, and she’d need us both to be strong. If you want to do this with me, then you need to really grow up.’

  She opened the door and, although it made her heart break, she walked out.

  The blonde woman sat in her studio at the end of the corridor, watching her, unsmiling.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Hannah arrived back at the clinic in Ipswich the next morning and was directed to Dr Barton’s office. She put down the bag of items that she’d brought, as clues to help the team now in charge of Elvie’s welfare piece her life together.

  ‘Hi. How is she?’ she asked, when Elvie’s psychologist bounded in with a cheery hello and shut the door. He was in his late fifties with thick grey hair and a beard. He wore a sleeveless cardigan over a shirt and tie, and held a sheaf of notes. The spark in his eyes told Hannah this was a thrilling moment in his career.

  ‘Well, she keeps surprising us!’ he laughed, taking a seat opposite Hannah.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ He opened his folder. ‘Now, first of all, thank you for your offer to help. Normally I’d be speaking to family, but clearly these are special circumstances. Now, can you tell me again: when we spoke on Tuesday, you said Elvie had learning difficulties? Someone had suggested a loss of oxygen at birth?’

  ‘That’s right – Tiggy.’ Hannah recalled her first meeting with the Mortrens. She’d thought a lot about this. Whose decision had it been to pretend that Elvie was their daughter? How much time had the Mortrens and the others spent trying to decide how to explain Elvie’s identity to the first newcomers to Tornley in eighty years? ‘But Tiggy’s one of the ones who’ve been arrested. So I wouldn’t trust that.’

  ‘OK.’ He sat back. ‘Well, we’ve done some tests, and Elvie is illiterate. And I suspect, if the domestic-servitude theory is correct, that would have been done on purpose. No knowledge, no escape. Hmm?’ Dr Barton placed his folder on the desk. ‘But, so far, no evidence of any birth-related learning difficulties, or a clinical disorder.’

  Hannah watched, surprised. ‘Really?’

  ‘No. In fact, we’ve already seen a slight improvement in her language use, as the staff talk to her. I wanted to ask you – you thought she’d spent time with her mother and grandmother, as a child?’

  ‘Yes, I found photos of her grandmother Mabel up till the 1980s, and then apparently the police found more photo albums in the toilet …’

  ‘Where Elvie was hiding?’

  ‘Yes. One album had photos of her mother, C.V. They think C.V. might have died – or disappeared – around 2000. Here.’

  She pulled out a photo of C.V. that she’d been allowed to bring. As in Olive’s oil painting, C.V. was different from Mabel and Elvie – much slighter of frame, with lighter, curly hair. Only the long jaw and the flat expression in her eyes were familiar.

  Dr Barton scribbled on his notes. ‘Right. Well, yes, that might explain it. If Mabel and C.V. were around during the crucial developmental phases, Elvie would have developed normally, as far as attachments and language skills and socialization are concerned. Elvie mentioned a bedroom to one of the staff – is it possible she could have shared it with her grandmother and mother? Maybe one with flowers on the wall?’

  A memory returned of the night Hannah put Elvie to bed in Tornley Hall. No flowers … Elvie had said in her strange, low voice. She hadn’t been talking about Tiggy’s smallholding. It was a reference to the flowers that Hannah had painted away, on the wall of the only home Elvie had ever known.

  ‘Yes! Wow, that makes sense. I mean, it’s pretty clever what she did – making that secret room after the Horseborrows died, in a place where nobody would notice. Even our surveyor missed it. But why does she appear so … well, slow?’

  Dr Barton tapped his pen. ‘Well, environment is our best bet right now. Twenty-five years with very little stimulus and no education; nobody to speak to but Mabel and C.V. – and who knows what emotional state they were in? Depression, self-harm, suicidal thoughts perhaps. No children to play with. Then another fifteen years alone, surrounded by people who emotionally and physically abused her. Two-and-a-half years of that, possibly sleeping in the garage, and on the sitting-room floor, you thought?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hannah replied. ‘It was like Elvie couldn’t understand why we were there. She said it was her house. I think that’s why Dax and the others got spooked and decided to get rid of her. It was too risky that we’d find out. They told her to stay away from me, and not to speak, but she kept coming into the house.’

  She looked at the closed folder of notes about Elvie.

  ‘I have to ask: were there any signs of …’

  He shook his head. ‘Bruises, historical small bone fractures in her hands. No signs of sexual abuse.’

  Hannah blew her cheeks out, relieved. ‘It’s bothering me that somebody must have got her mother, C.V., pregnant, though. Maybe Peter? Or one of the others?’

  ‘Well, it’s a grim thought, but if it was Peter, that would at least put Elvie in a position to contest the proceeds of Tornley Hall. Talking of which …’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Hannah opened her bag and took out the letters. ‘This is what I wanted to show you. I think Peter Horseborrow wrote these to the American GI who got Mabel pregnant with C.V. But he didn’t send them. And they’re written in gobbledygook. Do you have any idea what he might have been doing?’

  Dr Barton took the faded reams of nursery rhymes, clearly fascinated. ‘Goodness! Well, he was clearly trying to control the situation, wasn’t he? Increasing his efforts to coerce poor Mabel, perhaps.’ The psychologist broke into the impression of a posh Peter talking to the pregnant teenager. “He doesn’t answer the letters, dear, he doesn’t want you and the baby. Your family doesn’t want you, either. No, you’re better off with us.”’

  Hannah regarded the neat, copperplate writing of the arrogant, idle Peter Horseborrow and imagined him plotting to keep Mabel at Tornley Hall. How clever he must have thought himself, to find this vulnerable, working-class teenager. How perfect a plan to use her as free domestic help, to replace the
servants that he and his lazy sister Olive could no longer afford, now that their father’s hard-earned estate had been lost.

  The thought of Mabel’s family reminded her of the plumber, Mark Vyne. Mabel’s nephew.

  ‘Oh, and you met Mark Vyne?’

  Dr Barton dragged his eyes from the letters. ‘Yes, I did. DNA results are due back next week.’

  ‘And he told you that Peter Horseborrow called him to Tornley Hall about ten years ago, on a pretext? I just wondered: why do you think Peter did that? Do you think he felt guilty?’

  ‘What – did he have a moment of conscience towards the end of his life?’ Dr Barton sat back and folded his arms. ‘Who knows. Perhaps Peter thought he’d been very clever. Perhaps he wanted to gloat. He’d not only managed to find one young woman to do his dirty work, but two more – born in Tornley – to carry on after Mabel. As you said, they almost bred the girls like farm animals.’

  Hannah nodded. ‘I keep wondering how Peter met Mabel. Mark said his Uncle Stan thought she’d hitched a lift to Sudbury to find the GI on the day she went missing. Peter and Olive definitely had a car. I saw one in the photos. I keep imagining them pulling over on the road and finding her in tears, because the GI had told her to get lost, or had gone back to the States. And Mabel being too scared to go home, because her mother was so angry at her for getting pregnant.’

  ‘What – and they offer to take her home and look after her? Offer her free board and food, in return for a little domestic work till the baby is born?’ Dr Barton interlinked his fingers and pushed them behind his head. ‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? At what point does a bit of free help around the house become seventy years of group abuse by a whole farming community. And at what point does it become serious enough that they decide to let Mabel and C.V. die – or even bring about their demise – instead of calling a doctor and risk some busybody asking questions about who the women were, and what they were doing there.’

  Hannah recalled, with a shudder of terror, her night in Samuel’s shack. ‘Samuel used the phrase “put down”. I believe they were going to get rid of me, and Elvie.’