by Nicci French
It wasn’t really worth going back home and so I walked through London Fields and into Broadway Market. I wandered round the stalls and thought about buying a lovely bronze pendant for myself, but knew I wouldn’t. I went into a café and ordered a flat white and an almond croissant, damp and warm, and sat at a small table near the window.
My mobile was turned off. No one knew I was here and it felt like an illicit pleasure. I took my time, sipping at the coffee, dabbing up the last flakes of croissant with my forefinger. That was something I was gradually learning to do: take time, give myself time, let the world settle around me and feel myself, if only for brief moments, at the centre of my own life.
It had been a year, and there were hours and even days when I let myself forget what had happened to us last summer, what Poppy and I had been through and what we had escaped. But there were things I must never forget. I had met Jason shortly after my previous boyfriend had left me for my friend. I had met Aidan shortly after Jason had left me. Both men had sensed my vulnerability and been like burglars coming across a window open, a door unlocked, a house wide open for violation.
When I’d said this to Gina, she had looked alarmed. ‘You don’t want to become all defended,’ she said.
But I didn’t want ever to be so defenceless again, either.
I thought about how I’d let Aidan into my home, into my bed, into my heart. And into Poppy’s life. Her safe place had been made into a place of danger and fear.
Poppy still had bad dreams; quite often she would pad into my room in the night and curl up beside me, pressing her hot body against mine. She was still clingy and didn’t want to let me out of her sight. But very slowly, the fear was leaving her, as mist dissolves leaving only floating shreds behind. She had a little brother now, called Arlo. She had a bicycle I’d given her at Christmas and which she rode to school every morning, with me running beside her, ready to catch her if she fell or stop her if she careered out of control. She had a small group of friends that she bossed around, dragged into her complicated imaginary games and showered with affection. She had learned to read. Often at night, after our story time, I would leave her bent over a book, her tongue on her upper lip, her mouth moving to the words. She wrote stories as well, her wonky script spilling down the page, but I could decipher it: stories about adventures, about dragons and unicorns and mysterious caves, mountains and green seas, and about a little girl called Poppy. She drew pictures in bold bright colours to go with her stories: houses, flowers, rainbows, suns, cats, and elephants – which she called by their proper name now.
Gradually, day by day and week by week, I was ceasing to be continually anxious about her, or be gripped by dread in the small hours when something woke me and I would lie in the darkness, hearing the house creak or the wind sigh outside, or Sunny at the end of my bed whimper in his sleep, dreaming of whatever old cats dream about.
And sometimes what we had lived through barely felt real, like a tale that a child tells, or a picture they draw: a picture in thick black crayon, and they can’t tell you what it means, only that it’s scary, only that they are scared, and you need to listen. Because a child sees and a child hears, and all the great and menacing world pours into them unmediated.
* * *
I walked back to the party and got there a bit early, but other parents were beginning to gather. Alicia’s mother took me into the living room, which was a scene of chaos: crisps and biscuits and chocolates trampled into the carpet, and sticky children squirming on the sofa or throwing cushions at each other, while out in the garden, other children were trampling the flower bed, high on sugar and excitement. Poppy was there; I could see her bright hair and hear her voice, which was louder and more carrying than anyone else’s.
‘It got a bit out of hand,’ Alicia’s mother said grimly. ‘I’d planned all these games, but the children got through them in no time and then – well. Mayhem. I need a drink.’
‘We can help you clear some of the mess at least,’ said the man beside me as a child hurtled by, knocking into him and then spinning off again like a rogue satellite.
I recognised the man. He was the father of a boy newly arrived in Poppy’s class. He’d become quite friendly with Laurie, and Gina had told me that his partner had died of a rare cancer when their son was only two.
‘I don’t think we’ve properly met,’ he said. ‘I’m Baxter, Leo’s dad.’
‘Tess,’ I said, and he smiled and said he knew that. Then, to hide his self-consciousness, he bent to pick up paper plates covered in the sludgy remains of cake and cracked plastic beakers.
‘Why did I think buying meringues was a good idea?’ said Alicia’s mother. ‘Look!’
She left the room. Baxter and I looked at each other, suddenly awkward.
‘Leo says that Poppy’s wicked. In a good way, that is.’
‘Sometimes she’s wicked not in a good way,’ I said. ‘Is Leo settling in OK?’
‘Yeah. It’s been hard for him, but it’s getting better.’ He seemed about to say something, then changed his mind.
‘Good. That’s good.’
‘Maybe you and Poppy would like to come over after school one day,’ he said. ‘To play with Leo.’
‘I’m sure Poppy would love that.’
He coughed, rubbed his cheek.
‘I’m not very good at this. That is, I’m out of practice. But what I’m really trying to say is maybe you’d like to come over. Or meet up. With me, I mean.’
I looked at him. He was a bit taller than me, with hazel eyes, and he had a kind face. His partner had died; he was a single father of an anxious boy with jug ears; he cleared up mess in other people’s houses. He was my kind of man. Something stirred inside me.
What should I say? I’d spent a lifetime feeling apologetic, sparing people, putting myself in other people’s shoes, considering their feelings, letting them down gently or not letting them down at all. How should I put this?
‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘No.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
We wrote The Unheard in 2020, through lockdowns and months of social isolation. But we never felt distant from our agents and our publishers, who encouraged, helped and kept us going during times of such dislocating strangeness, when they had their own problems to deal with. We are hugely grateful to them and won’t forget how generous they were with their time, their energy and their hope, watching over us.
In particular we would like to thank our terrific, kind and gallant agent, Sarah Ballard, always our first and trusted reader, and her assistant, the fabulous Eli Keren. We are also indebted to our wonderful agents at ILA, Nicki Kennedy and Sam Edenborough, for their constancy and guidance.
Suzanne Baboneau, our editor, has lifted us up with her enthusiasm, imagination and energy, and we have been supported throughout by the whole Simon & Schuster family. We’d like to mention in particular Ian Chapman, Jessica Barratt, Hayley McMullan and Alice Rodgers.
To our agent in the US, Joy Harris, who we have known and valued for so many years now, thank you for all you do for us. And we are hugely grateful to our fabulous US editor Emily Krump for her flair and her belief in us. We feel very lucky to have been supported by everyone at HarperCollins: especially the tireless, patient Julia Elliott and Christina Joell.
We feel very lucky that Ambo Anthos has been our publishing home in the Netherlands ever since we became Nicci French. Our heartfelt thanks to our editor there, Tanja Hendriks, and to all the committed and imaginative team, above all Jennifer Boomkamp, Kanta van Zonneveld, Bertine Schipper, Maartje de Jong and Marije Lenstra. And to Willemien Cazzato-Wagner: we are bowled over by those tulips!
We know there are people we will have failed to mention. People say that writing is a lonely business, and sometimes it is, and yet it is also a joyfully collaborative process; so many people work together to bring a book into the world and we know how very fortunate we are to be surrounded and protected by so many talented, dedicated, kind people. Tha
nk you all.
More from the Author
House of Correction
The Lying Room
The Lying Room Free Sampler
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Nicci French is the pseudonym for the writing partnership of journalists Nicci Gerrard and Sean French. The couple are married and live in London and Suffolk. They have written 23 books together.
www.SimonandSchuster.co.uk/Authors/Nicci-French
Also by Nicci French
Frieda Klein Novels
Blue Monday
Tuesday’s Gone
Waiting for Wednesday
Thursday’s Child
Friday on My Mind
Saturday Requiem
Sunday Morning Coming Down
Day of the Dead
Other Novels
The Memory Game
The Safe House
Killing Me Softly
Beneath the Skin
The Red Room
Land of the Living
Secret Smile
Catch Me When I Fall
Losing You
Until It’s Over
What to Do When Someone Dies
Complicit
The Lying Room
House of Correction
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First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2021
Copyright © Nicci French, 2021. All rights reserved.
The right of Nicci French to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Hardback ISBN: 978-1-4711-7931-0
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-7932-7
eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-7933-4
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
