Hidden Hours

by Sara Foster

  Just as her heart clenches with memories, the organ strikes up so suddenly that she jumps. People keep their heads bowed as the families slowly file out first. She hears sobs but doesn’t want to look up. After the family has left, everyone begins to follow.

  Out of nowhere, her uncle appears by her side. ‘Thank god that’s over,’ Ian says sotto voce. ‘Let’s get out of here – I’ll give you a lift home if you like. Susan is heading straight back to work.’

  Eleanor nods as she steps out of the pew. They wait for the crowd to move, but Ian is glancing ahead of them and murmurs, ‘Oh no, no, no.’

  ‘What?’ She looks up at him.

  ‘There’s a bloody receiving line,’ he mutters, eyes hunting around desperately for some other exit from the church. Eleanor follows his gaze. The only other door within sight presumably leads to the vestry. There is only one way out.

  They edge forward with the rest. Eleanor can feel the stress emanating from her uncle. When they get outside, they see Nathan is the last of the line. Eleanor shakes hands with Ernie and Dickon and their wives, and they all thank her for coming, their eyes glazed or searching over her shoulder, obviously with no idea who she is. Ahead of her, she sees Ian reach Nathan and hold out a hand, and after the longest pause, Nathan takes it.

  She watches them shake. And shake. Nathan doesn’t let go. His grip gets tighter. As Eleanor moves closer, Nathan pulls Ian to him, as though they are about to hug, and says in a loud hiss, ‘My private detective has uncovered some very interesting stuff over the last few days. So, let me tell you, Ian, you might have been the last, but you certainly weren’t the first.’

  Ian recoils, pulling his hand out of Nathan’s grasp. He staggers back and Nathan goes with him, pushing him to the ground. As Ian lands, his glasses fall off, and he sits on the wet grass looking dazed. Nathan’s demons have taken hold of him now he’s broken the line, and he squares up to the whole churchyard, chest out, arms half-raised as though ready to swing a punch. ‘Who else was screwing my wife, hey? You?’ He points to a red-faced man in a pinstriped suit, who shakes his head rapidly and almost runs down to the gate. ‘What about you?’ Another victim makes a hasty retreat.

  Ian watches in horror, frozen to the floor. Nathan looks like he is about to charge, but before he can, Steve Kirby intercepts, pushing Nathan back, talking to him quietly. Meanwhile, Priya Prashad helps Ian get to his feet, while a furious Dickon and Ernie look on. Arabella’s sisters have their arms around their mother, who is hunched over, her face hidden against their shoulders, her body heaving with sobs.

  ‘Ian,’ Priya says, her voice soft but firm. ‘Perhaps it would be a good idea if you came down to the station and answered a few more questions for us.’

  31

  the dinner guest

  April 2005

  Eleanor’s mother has suffered mild concussion from her fall, and comes back with her arm in a sling. It will take six weeks to heal, and Eleanor’s father gets busy redrafting his plans, trying to figure out how to get the rest of the roof on. ‘Hire someone,’ Eleanor’s mother says through gritted teeth, but only when she threatens to walk out altogether does a roofing company get involved, and finishes the roof in less than two days.

  With her mother out of action, Eleanor is kept busy taking on more of the household duties and helping with meals. She doesn’t mind this so much, at least it provides a purpose to her days over the Easter holidays. Katie’s mother hasn’t invited her back.

  Solomon brings around a few bags of fruit and vegetables for the family. He offers to help Eleanor’s dad and ends up driving to town a few times for parts and equipment that are needed. Eventually, Eleanor’s mother informs them that Solomon will be coming for dinner that evening, and catches the way Aiden’s nose wrinkles at the prospect.

  ‘He’s our neighbour,’ she chides, ‘and it pays to be friendly. Besides, I want to thank him for helping us out so much.’

  ‘He’s weird,’ Aiden says, playing with the ring pull on a can of coke, working at it until the whole thing comes off in his fingers, then dropping it into the can. He gets up, leaving the empty can on the table. ‘Anyway, I’m meeting Coby and Timmo soon. Timmo’s brother is driving over to pick me up from the end of the road.’

  Their mother stops from her slow process of pouring herself a cup of tea in a cramped space with only one good arm. ‘Well, you can put that can in the bin for starters. And I’d rather you asked me than told me about your plans, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Mum,’ Aiden pushes his chair back harshly, heading for the door, ‘I’m fifteen.’

  And he’s gone. Leaving the can on the table.

  Eleanor goes across to pick it up, hearing her mother mutter ‘Exactly’ under her breath, but she says nothing else, just carries on dipping her teabag up and down, up and down in the cup.

  Dinner that night is three packets of noodles mixed in with frozen vegetables and fried up in a premixed sweet-and-sour sauce, but afterwards Solomon pats his pot belly and declares it the ‘best meal I’ve had in years’, while Eleanor struggles to finish what’s on her plate. She has been seated opposite him at their embarrassingly small and intimate table, trying not to look up so she doesn’t have to watch his mouth collapsing and expanding like an old accordion as he works on his meal. His gums are so wrinkled and concave she suspects there may not be many teeth left in his mouth, imagines them worn down by years of enthusiastic chewing. She’d hoped he would bring Charlie but he had turned up without the dog. ‘He likes to steal food,’ he explained to Eleanor when she asked.

  Eleanor’s father dominates the evening, droning on about building technicalities that go completely over Eleanor’s head. He’s like a machine nowadays, unable to think outside the scope of his own project. She wonders if he’ll ever come back to them. When Martin finally pauses to eat, Solomon looks across at Eleanor. ‘And how do you like to spend your spare time, then?’ he asks. ‘Not much to do around here.’

  ‘Oh, Eleanor is a budding artist, aren’t you, Eleanor,’ her dad cuts in before she can reply. ‘She’s pretty good, actually. Have you got your sketchpad handy, Els? Show Solomon your stuff.’

  Eleanor reddens. She balances her knife and fork on the lip of her plate, and goes across to the bed, collects the sketchbook and shyly opens it to show Solomon one of her recent pencil drawings.

  ‘Well, I never,’ Solomon says, taking the pad and holding it up to see it more clearly. ‘It’s Charlie boy.’ And he lets out a rasping chuckle that makes everyone else smile too.

  He hands the pad back to Eleanor, who studies her own drawing of the dog waiting on the back of the pick-up, pride swelling inside her.

  ‘Your father is right. You are very good,’ Solomon says, and she smiles back at him.

  ‘My wife was a bit of a painter too,’ he tells them all. ‘My Lily, god rest her soul. We were together for forty-six years, came over as ten-pound poms in 1959 when Philippa was three. I tell you,’ he leans forward and his crumpled rheumy gaze is fixed on Eleanor’s father, ‘I loved that woman but I didn’t tell her often enough. Hardly told her at all, truth be told. Too easy to take for granted, all she did at the time – I hoped she just knew, you know, without me getting all mushy and that. But when you end up like me, the one left behind, then – then you see things a little differently. And sometimes you wish you hadn’t left so much unsaid.’

  Eleanor glances between the two men. Her father’s eyes are wide. For once, it looks like he doesn’t know what to say.

  Solomon sits back and catches Eleanor’s eye. ‘It’s just nice to eat in company nowadays – Charlie’s great, but he’s not such a talker.’ And he gives that rasping laugh again.

  Eleanor finds herself smiling, and realises that she is actually warming to this peculiar old man. She looks across to her mother, wondering what she’s making of all this, only to realise that she isn’t really with them. Her food is half-finished, she’s just pushing it around her plate with the fork clasped tightly i
n the palm of her good hand. Eventually it’s as though she can stand it no longer. ‘I thought Aiden would be back by now,’ she says softly to her husband in the brief lull in conversation.

  ‘Where is yer boy tonight?’ Solomon asks.

  ‘He’s made some new friends – but we don’t really know them yet,’ Eleanor’s mother admits.

  ‘Not too many friends to make out here,’ Solomon says. ‘You know their names?’

  Eleanor’s mother hesitates.

  ‘I think he said Coby and Timmo, didn’t he, Mum?’ Eleanor asks.

  Solomon exhales slowly and purses his lips in a way that makes both Eleanor and her mum shift uneasily.

  ‘You know them?’ Eleanor’s mother’s voice is faint.

  ‘Unfortunately, I do,’ Solomon says. ‘Coby ain’t a bad lad, but he’s easily led. That Timmo, though, you gotta watch him. Likes to pilfer stuff – been brought up that way, I’m afraid. His dad’s the same and his mother’s a rough old bird.’ He seems to remember Eleanor is listening. ‘Excuse me,’ he adds, nodding at her, ‘but it’s true. The kids are different nowadays,’ he continues, gesturing at Eleanor but looking at her parents. ‘Lot of unhealthy stuff going on, too much access to all sorts of things, don’t give a damn about their parents. Not like it was when our Philippa was a girl – but that was a long time ago.’

  Eleanor can’t fail to notice the icy glance her mother shoots at her father. It’s a look that says What have you brought us to? To her surprise, for a moment even her father loses his usual zeal and appears perturbed.

  ‘Well, thanks for the warning. We’ll keep a closer eye on him – I’m afraid the building has been occupying me a bit too much of late.’ Eleanor’s mother snorts loudly and they all pretend not to notice, although Martin glares in her direction. ‘But it shouldn’t be too much longer now, at least not until the main structure is finished. Like I was saying,’ he continues, bringing the plans over and laying them out on the table, pushing the dirty plates towards his wife, ‘we just have to adjust the angle here . . .’

  And he’s off again, and it was as though they’d never had him back.

  Eleanor catches her mother’s eye and sees the glint of a tear reflected in the low yellow light. She jumps up and quickly collects the plates from in front of her mother, who sits there with one arm resting in its sling, biting her lip, not speaking or looking at any of them.

  Eleanor glances across at her father. His head is bent over his drawings. How can he not notice this? She wants to shake him.

  Then she realises Solomon is staring at her. He doesn’t look away and there is some kind of meaning, some intent of transmission in his eyes, but she becomes too uncomfortable too quickly in that wrinkled gaze and breaks the eye contact before she has time to figure out what it means.

  As she moves to the kitchen area she finds herself unsettled by that look. Perhaps it’s his ancientness – she can’t help but feel repelled by the rough, uneven redness of his face, the way the skin beneath his eyebrows collapses into his eyes, the mole on his cheek sprouting thick grey hair, and his brown, uneven teeth. Yet when she’d caught his gaze, it felt like he saw something in her that the others didn’t. And, whatever it was, she isn’t sure she likes it.

  32

  aftermath

  Chris Lennon, contracts manager at Parker & Lane, is heading fast down the lane away from the church, half-expecting to feel a hand on his shoulder any moment. He is sure Nathan caught his eye as he roared at them all; sure he saw the guilt emanating from Chris, even though he bitterly regrets that one-night stand, and it was two years ago, for heaven’s sake, and he’s since lived in terror at the thought of it coming to light. He’ll have to lie low for a while, he thinks, sweat pouring off him as he finally reaches his car.

  In the churchyard, most of the congregation have turned to statues. A wind whips up as Eleanor watches Ian walk between the detectives, through the gate towards their unmarked car. A few late-fallen leaves skitter between the gravestones, and some of the mourners grab on to hats or tighten scarves. Nathan stares after Ian, chest heaving, his face aglow. No one seems to know what to do next.

  The vicar breaks the impasse, his white robes billowing behind him as he moves to clasp the hands of Dickon and June and then walks between people, his steady touch releasing them from uncertainty. As soon as he has spoken to them, groups begin to drift away towards the gate.

  Throughout this Eleanor has been aware of a distant noise, like the zaps of mosquito lamps. Now she realises that a dozen cameras with long lenses are resting on the churchyard wall, clicking away.

  She is still close to Arabella’s family. June’s head comes up from her daughter’s shoulder, and she reaches in her bag for a fresh bunch of tissues, clutching them to her mouth. The sisters confer over their mother, and begin to lead her towards the gate.

  Once they have gone, Dickon rounds on Nathan. ‘You couldn’t control yourself for one day?’ he growls. ‘Do you think this is what Arabella would have wanted? Do you? Oh, but I forgot, you have never cared one jot what Arabella might have wanted.’

  Still caught in the remnants of the receiving line, Eleanor is uncomfortably close to all this, but she doesn’t dare move lest she draw attention to herself. She can only watch as Ernie comes towards Dickon, and Dickon holds his hands up, backing away. ‘Don’t Ernie – just, don’t.’

  Ernie gives Dickon a curt nod, then his gaze falls on his son. ‘Nathan, let’s go.’ Ernie takes Nathan’s arm and leads him away, but there’s no escaping the small scrum of journalists that converge on the gate as they get closer. They remind Eleanor of seagulls, jostling one another, cawing for scraps.

  It has all happened so fast that Eleanor has forgotten about Susan, but as it dawns on her that her aunt may have witnessed all this, she looks around. The churchyard is clearing surprisingly quickly – as though the air is tainted now. There is no sign of Susan, but Will stands a few metres away, and hurries over as he catches her eye.

  ‘What the hell just happened?’ he exclaims, clutching the neck of his coat tighter, hopping from foot to foot in the cold. ‘Was there any truth in that, or has Nathan gone completely insane?’

  ‘No, he’s not insane – well, not in this instance. My uncle was having an affair with Arabella.’

  Will’s mouth falls open and his face reddens. ‘Are you serious?’

  Eleanor is taken aback by his expression. She isn’t sure if he’s appalled or angry, or something else. She is trying to gauge how much to tell him when she jumps at a soft touch on her arm. Heart hammering, she turns to find the vicar at her shoulder.

  ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’ He quickly removes his hand. ‘Are you Eleanor?’

  She nods, frowning.

  ‘Your aunt asked me to find you. Would you mind coming with me for a moment?’

  Eleanor glances apologetically at Will, whose jaw is still slack with surprise. ‘Wait here for me,’ she says, and then follows the vicar back through the silent church. It is so different now all the pews are empty, and yet there remains a heightened energy to the air. At the front, Arabella stares out of her portrait into the empty, cavernous space, past the wilting flowers, beyond the vicar and Eleanor hurrying down the aisle, as though she can see nothing and everything at the same time.

  Eleanor tries not to look at the photograph as the vicar guides her towards the cracked wood of the arched vestry door, and opens it for her.

  Susan paces the small area inside, hands repeatedly smoothing her clothes, her head jerking slightly with each rapid breath.

  ‘Susan?’ Eleanor begins tentatively.

  As soon as Susan sees Eleanor she rushes across and grabs Eleanor’s hand, pushing a bunch of house keys into her palm. ‘I want you to go and get the girls from school as fast as you can,’ she says. Her voice is steady, but her eyes are wide. ‘Take them straight home, and do not talk to anyone until you’ve heard from me. Do you understand?’

  There will be no refusal, Ele
anor realises that. Susan is not asking a question, she is giving a command. ‘Yes,’ she replies.

  ‘I’m going to get a taxi to the police station and meet my lawyer there,’ Susan continues, pulling her bag off her shoulder and fumbling inside it. She opens her purse, and Eleanor watches her fingers tremble as she pulls out a fifty-pound note. ‘Here,’ Susan pushes the money towards her. ‘This is probably too much but just take it – I’ll collect the change later. I’ve already called a taxi for you, and the school knows you’re coming. Remember, don’t let the girls talk to anyone, okay? And don’t tell them anything except we are both caught up with work. I know Naeve won’t believe you, but it doesn’t matter for now – I’ll talk to her later.’

  ‘Okay.’ Eleanor can feel the flush in her face as she takes the money. The responsibility of getting this right is daunting. She turns to go, keen to leave this unravelling vision of her aunt behind.

  ‘They’re making a huge mistake,’ Susan snaps to her back. Eleanor turns around and Susan’s stare is fierce, unwavering. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can, and Ian will be with me. I can promise you that. I don’t care if Nathan is out for blood, there’s no way we’re taking the fall for this. If you remember anything, Eleanor – anything about that night that you have yet to tell anyone – I suggest you tell me right now.’

  As Eleanor tries to hold her aunt’s gaze she can feel herself trembling. Is Susan threatening her? Is Susan telling her, while they stand facing each other in this centuries’-old place of worship, that she doesn’t believe Eleanor’s story? Will she throw her niece to the hounds if it means saving her own skin?