Hidden Hours

by Sara Foster

  ‘Perhaps I’ve made a mistake,’ she murmurs.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘People are going to wonder what I’m doing, like you did. I didn’t really know her, did I?’

  ‘Don’t give them any reason to doubt you. Just hold your head high, and act normal.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ she says quietly. Do I ever act normal? she asks herself. I don’t feel normal.

  They cross a quiet park with rusting play equipment at its centre, waiting forlornly for some children to bring it to life. When Eleanor sees the spire in the distance she tugs at the scarf around her neck, sure it is too tight, on the verge of choking her.

  Will checks his phone and quickens his pace. ‘Come on, we’d better not be late or our quiet entrance will go out the window. And afterwards, Eleanor, please think carefully about whether to go to the police. I know you’re scared but other people are getting drawn into this now. You have to do the right thing.’

  As she takes in his words, she is nine years old again, hurrying along a dusty track with her father, trying to keep up. ‘You cannot tell anyone,’ he reminds her fiercely, as he’s been doing for days now. ‘You have to do the right thing for all our sakes.’ She knows he has timed this conversation to take place while they are walking so he doesn’t have to look at her. ‘Don’t tell anyone, especially not your mother. Just try to forget that night, because this family has suffered enough. If you tell anyone, we will lose our whole future, do you understand?’

  She had run away from him then, stumbling over divots, hearing him call out her name over and over. She cannot think of this now, but she can still hear his voice – ‘Eleanor, Eleanor!’ – and she clamps her hands to her ears. ‘Go away, go away!’ she shouts, doubling over, as though she might protect herself from a blow, even though that blow delivered its force a decade ago, and she is still reeling from it.

  ‘Eleanor!’ and it is not her father’s voice but Will’s, and he has his arm around her as she folds over and into herself in this damp, grey park. ‘Just breathe. Are you going to be sick? What just happened?’

  ‘It’s . . . it’s . . .’ She heaves herself to stand up, hands on hips, gulping lungfuls of the cold fresh air. ‘I don’t think . . . I can’t . . .’ She gestures towards the distant church spire with her gloved hand.

  ‘Just take a moment. You’re bound to be nervous, I’m dreading it, too.’

  His understanding is a comfort. A tear trickles down her cheek and she quickly wipes it away. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, tries to regain strength in her legs.

  Will keeps his arm around her, and his cold hand reaches up to stroke the side of her face, making her skin tingle. ‘Are you all right now?’

  She looks at the spire in the distance and straightens. ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Then let’s hurry.’ Will holds out his hand.

  She takes it, and they both quicken their pace. Will doesn’t let go, and she is distracted by this new sensation of their bodies tentatively joined like this.

  Soon they come around the corner and into view of the church. A row of black cars line the road by the entrance. Will immediately drops her hand and she feels a small jolt of disappointment as they separate, wondering if he is embarrassed to be seen with her in front of his work colleagues. Then he gestures to the small church gate so she can go first, and his hand presses briefly against her back as he guides her forward.

  A few journalists lean against the stone wall, watching the mourners file in. Some stare, while others make notes or chat to one another. Presumably, Eleanor thinks, they are looking out for the main players in this drama – Arabella’s parents, and Nathan and Ernie Lane. Most of them don’t give Eleanor a second glance, but a woman turns her head away quickly and steps back.

  As Eleanor stares at that shiny brown hair, a large black car draws up in front of the church, and all the journalists pivot to see who is arriving. The woman’s profile comes into view again. It could be Aisha, but from this distance it’s hard to see her features clearly.

  ‘Looks like the family are here,’ Will murmurs. ‘We should go in.’

  Eleanor follows Will into the church. Inside he turns to her. ‘See you after, okay? I’d better go and sit with the rest of the team.’

  Before Eleanor can reply, he strides away without looking back. Discomforted, she takes a seat near the door, grimacing as the mournful organ music presses on her nerves. She wants to believe she is only here for the right reasons, to pay her respects to this woman whose death has wrapped itself insidiously around Eleanor’s life. She wants to hold her head high and show the world she is blameless. Why, then, does it feel like she might be playing a dangerous game, rubbernecking at the grief of people she barely knows? Why does it feel like she is only pretending?

  29

  the accident

  March 2005

  After Solomon’s first appearance, he begins to visit regularly, always arriving in his chuggy old truck with Charlie on the flatbed. He often says he is on his way back from the shops, but then he doesn’t leave for hours. Instead he holds up the building progress, his chewing, saggy-lipped mouth in perpetual motion as he leans on his vehicle, leaving Charlie to sleep or watch longingly from the back of the ute. Sometimes he shouts advice to Eleanor’s parents, while they sweat up ladders, passing each other bricks or tiles or equipment.

  On other occasions he accosts them on tea breaks and regales them with stories of the past – what things were like when he and his wife worked the land out here. It turns out that the land Eleanor’s family is building on used to be Solomon’s, but he doesn’t have a pension, so the sale was to make ends meet. Some of his tales capture Eleanor’s interest, as she tries to imagine the horses and the crops in the fields, the smoke from the bushfires, the huge lightning storm that struck a tree, which then fell onto the barn and killed a family of goats. She tries to picture Solomon with a wife and child, but it’s hard to believe he could ever have been that young.

  It is almost Easter now, and the roof is taking shape. Eleanor’s mother wants to hire someone to finish it, but her father remains confident that they are capable of pulling up and affixing the large corrugated panels. Eleanor has grown used to watching the intensity of their labour, and she’s given up asking if they need help. Her parents are a well-oiled machine now; they complete the necessary tasks without much of a word between them. Meanwhile, Aiden uses any excuse he can think of to disappear.

  In the last week of term, a girl called Katie Slater finally notices Eleanor. Eleanor is invited for tea after school, and follows Katie around feeding and petting an assortment of animals. Katie’s mother is friendly until 8 pm, an hour after Eleanor was due to be collected. There is no mobile reception this far out, and the woman grumbles about courtesy as she packs the kids in the car and drives out to Eleanor’s place.

  Eleanor is nervous. A year ago she would have been frightened, but right now it wouldn’t surprise her if her parents are so busy they have just forgotten.

  As they slow down on the unmarked dirt lane, Eleanor sees the shell of the main house standing in darkness. She can’t see her parents’ car, but there is a light coming from underneath the door of the shed.

  ‘You’re living in there?’ Katie’s mother asks in astonishment as they come to a halt.

  Eleanor is embarrassed. ‘Yes, but it’s just temporary.’

  ‘It looks fun,’ Katie says.

  Eleanor turns to her. ‘It’s not.’

  She gets out the car, hoping Katie’s mother will come with her, but the others stay put. ‘We’ll just see you safely inside,’ Katie’s mother calls through the window.

  Eleanor pushes against the door of the shed, but it is locked. She hears footsteps coming closer on the other side, and then the rattle of the padlock being opened.

  Aiden stands there, his face pale. Behind Eleanor, Katie’s mother guns the engine and begins to reverse. Eleanor doubts she’ll get another invitation any time
soon. She looks past Aiden, trying to see their parents. ‘Where are Mum and Dad?’

  ‘There’s been an accident. Dad had to take Mum to the hospital.’

  As he says it, there comes the noise of a chair scraping behind him.

  ‘What?’ Eleanor’s insides lurch. ‘Is she okay?’ she asks, trying to peer into the room to see who just made that sound.

  ‘I don’t know. She fell off the roof. Hit her head and broke her arm. It looked bad.’

  Eleanor begins to cry, a snuffle at first, but it soon gives way to a sob. Aiden steps forward and puts his arms around her. Over his shoulder, she finally sees who is there.

  Solomon is sitting at the picnic table, watching them. His mouth in perpetual motion, chewing as usual.

  ‘Why is he here?’ she whispers.

  ‘He said he’d stay with us,’ Aiden hisses back. ‘I said there was no need, but I can’t get him to leave.’

  Reluctantly, she moves inside, staying close to her brother. Every inch of the room is swollen with the absence of their mother. It seems darker than usual, but perhaps it’s always been this way and her mother had added some of the light. It also looks like a storeroom tonight, not at all like a home.

  These thoughts surprise her. When had the shed ever provided some semblance of a home?

  ‘Hello Eleanor,’ Solomon says without getting up. ‘I said I’d stay with you while your parents are at the hospital. I’m sorry about your mother – it looked like a nasty fall.’

  His words terrify Eleanor. She is trying not to picture the scene, but it keeps playing for her anyway – her mum losing her balance, a horrible thud as she hits the ground.

  ‘You kids need to get into bed,’ Solomon says, ‘if yer got school tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m gonna stay up and wait for Mum and Dad,’ Aiden says immediately.

  ‘Me too,’ Eleanor agrees. She goes across to one of the containers of water and uses the little tap to pour herself a drink. She wants to go outside to the toilet, but it is too scary in the dark without her parents nearby. She doesn’t want to sit at the table either, so she goes to her bed and perches awkwardly on it.

  ‘Where’s Charlie?’ she asks.

  ‘Left him at home,’ Solomon replies. ‘Past his bedtime too,’ he adds, without a smile. He takes out a small silver box and begins to roll a cigarette. Eleanor takes furtive glances at the way his fingers shake as they press down the tobacco; sees that it takes him a couple of goes to pull the cigarette paper from its box. He doesn’t look directly at her as he works, but she feels as though he is always aware of exactly where she is.

  After a while, however hard she tries, she cannot help her thoughts from drifting, cannot stop her eyes from closing. She desperately wants her parents to be back. Her whole body is silently screaming for her mother to tuck her in.

  The next thing she knows she is waking up again, her bladder bursting. She heaves herself up to see that Solomon is still sitting at the table, reading one of her mother’s books. Above her, she hears her brother’s snores.

  She grabs her torch. ‘I’m going to the bathroom,’ she tells Solomon, and he just looks up and nods, doesn’t say a word.

  She’s so uncomfortable as she staggers outside that she can’t get the door open properly and she’s begun to relieve herself before she makes the toilet. She sits down as fast as she can and finishes, but her knickers and jeans now have a large wet patch on them. She starts to cry, but then a rush of fear makes her stop. She can hear rustling outside. It’s kangaroos, she tells herself, but she is panicked now. She has to get back to the others. She pulls her clothes up, the cold wet patch sticking to her skin, and hurries back to the shed. It’s so dark outside that a dozen eyes could be tracking her movements, and she wouldn’t know.

  Solomon sits exactly where she left him. There is no way she can change her clothes while he is here, and she doesn’t dare go back to the portable toilet. She lies on the bed, trying not to press against the wet patch. She turns her face so that Solomon can’t see her and lets the tears fall down her cheeks. When she is finished she expects to be tired, but instead finds herself wide awake with fury. How could her parents have done this to her, to all of them? How could they have turned their lives into such a nightmare?

  Solomon hasn’t moved an inch. Every now and again there’s the noise of the occasional drumming of his fingers against the table in the darkness. If she listens carefully, she’s sure she can hear the soft sticky sound of his chewing in the dark.

  30

  revelation

  Aisha McNally scoots out of view until she’s sure Eleanor has gone inside. She doesn’t want a run-in right now. She waits among the scrum of journalists, listening to the gossip. She’s smiling to herself, thinking of all the juicy details they don’t know. Wondering if there will be fireworks today.

  Inside the church, the dirge of organ music is much louder. Eleanor looks over the rows of heads and sees Susan at the front, talking earnestly to an older man, her hands clasped around his. Ian stands just behind her. Ninety-nine per cent of the time Susan has her game face on, but now Eleanor has seen the other one per cent, she knows that there is chaos, confusion and fear in Susan too. She thinks she can spot it now, in the way Susan’s back arches and her shoulders stiffen every time Ian puts a guiding hand against her waist.

  People from Parker & Lane have been arriving in dribs and drabs. When they see Eleanor, some stare curiously, while others look quickly away. At the front, facing them all on a giant easel, is a photo of Arabella – a professional bridal shot, closeup, her hair in perfect waves around her tanned face, her beatific smile setting off her gleaming white teeth. There is no denying how beautiful she was, thinks Eleanor. No wonder Ian had succumbed to her charms when he was married to such an ice maiden. The photo is a direct contrast to Susan’s pale, pinched visage bobbing in front of it, her black hair pulled severely from her forehead into its usual tight bun.

  Eleanor is still transfixed by that photo when the music changes slightly, and Nathan comes in, with a woman who must be his mother holding his arm, while his father marches behind them, grim-faced. Before they reach the front Ernie Lane has paused to shake the hands of a few people, nodding at their condolences. He is a small man, much smaller than his son, not even as tall as his wife, and yet with his presence the tension in the church increases noticeably. They are followed soon after by Dickon Blythe and his wife. June has a tissue pressed to her nose, her arm linked with her husband’s. He is patting her hand as they walk, and it is this gesture that causes Eleanor’s eyes to cloud with tears as she watches them take their place. They don’t even glance at Nathan and Ernie on the other side. Two young women follow them along the aisle, their heads leaning on each other, bent over like old women despite their smart suits and stilettos. They look similar to Arabella; Eleanor suspects they are her sisters.

  Nathan remains hunched over throughout the service, and doesn’t move even when everyone else stands up. Arabella’s sisters speak first, telling stories of their childhood that Eleanor cannot reconcile with the Arabella she met. Arabella’s mother is next, her soft, broken voice outlining all the things that made them so proud of their youngest daughter – her thoughtful gifts, her caring phone calls, her many achievements at school and work, her skill as a ski instructor while on gap year, and her love for her two nephews. Not one of them mentions Nathan.

  And then it’s Susan’s turn.

  Susan walks slowly to the lectern, perfectly composed, and takes a moment to put on a pair of black-framed glasses while she glances at her notes. Then she looks up.

  ‘My husband Ian and I have known Arabella for many years,’ she begins, her tone crisp and businesslike, as though she might be presenting slides in a meeting. ‘We were there to witness her engagement, her marriage, and many happy times.’ She looks down at her notes, then glances briefly at Nathan, and Eleanor wonders if this is why he’d pressed Susan to speak, because she might at least acknowledge his role in
his wife’s life.

  Then she realises that Susan hasn’t said anything more, and turns her attention back to her aunt. It’s hard to see from this distance, but it looks as though she may be composing herself. How much of this speech is real, Eleanor wonders, and how much is a show?

  ‘Arabella was an astute businesswoman, and masterminded many successful campaigns for Parker & Lane. In all these different facets of life, she will be greatly missed.’

  Susan’s eyes stray from the paper at this point, and she turns slightly so she is looking at the left aisle of people. She might be addressing Dickon and his wife. She could as easily be staring at Ian.

  ‘Arabella also had a very special ability to become a close part of people’s lives. She was loved and adored by many, and although she is not with us any more, the legacy she leaves will be deeply felt and long-lasting. I know I for one will always remember the impact she had on the lives of me and my family.’

  Her voice remains steady. As she gathers her notes there are no outward signs of distress. If it is a performance – and surely it must be – it is masterful.

  Does anyone else have an inkling of this? Eleanor looks around her, and it’s at this moment she spots detectives Kirby and Prashad in one of the back rows of the adjacent aisle. Priya Prashad leans across and says something to her colleague, and Steve Kirby nods. Then, as though she senses she’s being watched, Prashad turns and stares straight at Eleanor.

  Eleanor flinches and looks down. Why did she not just nod and hold her gaze? Why is she reacting like this – like a guilty person? She’s giving Priya Prashad every reason to suspect her of something.

  The vicar is speaking now; calm, gentle words designed to assuage distress. Yet after hearing all the other speeches, his sentiment is obviously hollow – it’s clear he didn’t really know Arabella, that he is merely offering platitudes. Eleanor finds it depressing, that this is the final word on such a vibrant life – a stranger intoning your virtues to the silent faces of everyone who knew you. She tries to listen and be drawn into his words of consolation, but all she feels is the numbness that’s been there in the marrow of her bones for so long, the coldness that crept in uninvited. She can’t help but think about the other funeral eleven years ago, the one she didn’t go to.