She whipped out of the drawing room and up to the bedroom, afraid that her answer, if she gave it, would ignite a bigger row.
The artist from the city was due within twenty minutes. It would intensify the rift already present between herself and Arnold if she did not wear the dress. Reluctantly, she lifted the navy gown from its shop box. Slipping it on, she saw it suited her beautifully, accentuating her waist, swishing around her ankles, a perfect fit. Why it made her feel uncomfortable, she did not quite know, but to even wear it for the several sessions required for the portrait would be a trial.
When she came downstairs, her husband tersely introduced her to the artist, but said not another word to her. Neither did he comment on the family necklace she clipped on at the last minute, in an effort to appease him.
Looking at the painting now, she knew Arnold was feeling sore: his shoulders hunched, crouched over his newspaper, tightly gripping the sides, almost as if he wanted to maintain a barrier between them.
When Eve heard a car, she thought it was Connie coming back, so she grabbed some fabric and pretended to be concentrating on her sewing. A knock on the drawing room window made Eve jump, the sewing needle dropping onto the carpet.
Michael Conway, outside, pointed to the front door and Eve went to open it.
“I met one of the Society ladies, she said you were going to walk. I thought you might appreciate the lift.”
“You mean you are checking to see if I am all right leaving Ludlow Hall.”
He smiled. “Something like that.”
“I was going to wait for Connie to come back, but she might not like the intrusion.”
“I think she will be good for Ludlow, Eve.”
“I hope you are right,” she said, as she got her coat and checked that everything was unplugged in the kitchen, as she always had in the past, before making for the front door.
Michael turned the car and was sitting, the engine running, waiting for her, when she came out on the top steps. She did not hurry; he was not an impatient man.
“What did it feel like, having the place to yourself?” he asked when she got in beside him in the car.
“Just fine. The ladies liked it too. I am back again tomorrow, to get a good head start on my quilt. Hetty might come. You know, our quilts might be shown to the Obamas. What do you think of that? I might learn to dance too.”
He laughed. There was an excitement in Eve’s voice, something Michael had not sensed in her in a long time.
15
Connie was glad there was nobody at Ludlow Hall when she returned.
Letting herself in the back door, the lingering mingled scents of the ladies’ perfumes clouded around her. Peeping into the drawing room, she took in the neat piles of fabric set along the carpet. The chair by the fireplace had been moved slightly, as if the sitter was angling for a better view of the painting. The house appeared different, the buzz of conversation from the Ludlow Ladies’ Society blowing away the stagnant air. Stepping into Arnold’s room, she itched to get started. Yet she worried. Could dance steps be forgotten? Would she stumble? When it came down to it, would she be able to dance day in day out, be able to teach again? She stepped along the carpet, tentatively pacing out the dance in her head.
That is what she had been doing when she met Bill the first time. At first she did not see him standing in the doorway of her small dance studio, a cup in his hand, waiting to borrow a teabag. When he made to steal away, she heard him, because he fell over a student’s discarded rucksack, crashing to the floor, his mug sliding away, making her step smartly to the side to avoid it. Studying for his masters, he gave French classes in the room next door twice a week.
She smiled to think how they got to know each other, as she began to teach him to dance, step by step together, intense, their love deepening, the music sweeping them along. That was ten years ago, but it might have been a lifetime ago, it was so different. Abruptly, she stopped dancing, leaving the room quickly.
All day, Bill sent too many text messages, each saying the same thing. She tapped out her reply.
Bill, I am finding it very hard to cope. There is no doubt I will always love you, but it is not going to help anything if you turn up on the doorstep. I need time alone to figure out where this place fits in the whole jigsaw of events. Please understand. C x
Straight away there was a return message:
I love you, Connie. I want to help, no more, no less.
She wanted to scream. How could he help, how could he soothe the agitation inside her, calm the grief, understand the pain and the guilt which consumed her? She loved him, but she had nothing left for him.
She put the phone away, her head weary, her heart aching. Was it so bad that she could never regret meeting him, loving him, missing him? Leaving the phone in the kitchen, she went upstairs.
Wanting to go back to happier times, she opened the laptop to read the blog she had started when baby Molly was born. It was now her escape and her torment. The Mommy Blog. Was life ever so sweet? Scrolling through, she sat in bed, the night looking in on her because she had not bothered to close the curtains. If anybody was close enough to Ludlow Hall, they would think she was hard at work. She was, rolling back the past, a place she preferred to dwell, because the future held almost nothing at all.
Lingering in the baby years, she traced her finger across the screen, following the shape of Molly’s face, her eyes, the scruff of black hair. Pushing her hand against the perfect little fingers, remembering her tight grip, the gurgle of contentment, like a pain now through her heart.
WELCOME BABY MOLLY
MAY 2006
She has ten fingers and toes and the most beautiful smile and, would you believe it, her daddy’s black hair.
She is our princess, born at 3 a.m. on Friday morning, screaming her little heart out and telling us she was ready for this life.
We feel blessed and lucky, and thank you all for your lovely gifts and messages. We as a family are going to spend precious family time together, and when Baby Molly is ready to meet you all, we will throw a lovely welcome party, so you can meet our special girl.
It is so overwhelming to think this little person has come into our world and already we love her so so much.
She might be an astronaut, a hairdresser, a college professor, a mathematician (not of course if she has my head for figures) or even an entrepreneur like Ed. Whatever she wants, she can be, and now it is our responsibility to give her the love and the values to reach her potential.
Above all, we want for our lovely Molly to be happy.
Connie xx
JANUARY 2007
Poor little mite, she has such a snuffly cold. I stayed beside her cot all night, worried she would be uncomfortable or maybe afraid. I think this is what it means to be a mother, to love and care so much for this little person. She woke up at one stage. I rested my hand on hers and it seemed to calm and comfort her. I was going to sing, but she settled. I stayed sleeping on the divan beside the cot. I didn’t wake up until Ed came in the next morning, saying he had two sleepyheads in the family. Sometimes it is such hard work being a mom.
Connie xx
Connie felt a stab of anger reading the post. She remembered it well: the little snuffles from Molly, Ed complaining bitterly every time she crept out of bed to check on their daughter, so that she stayed in Molly’s room, curling up on the divan, nodding off, only waking up when she heard her husband turn on the shower as he got ready for work. He had not even put his head in the door, citing afterwards the important meeting of district managers he had to prepare for as an excuse for his lack of concern.
MARCH 2007
Molly’s first steps. Why are we always in such a hurry to reach the milestones? How I longed for her first steps, and now I know she is growing up. She danced across the carpet to her daddy. I was supposed to capture it all on camera, but I was so entranced I did not even think of holding up the camera. To see her move like a ballerina into Ed’s arms is something I will nev
er forget: her joy at reaching him, his pride in his daughter. Memories don’t have to be recorded to be special forever. I am an especially proud mom today.
Connie xx
Connie shut the laptop. The real story: Amy was holding Molly, Connie was cajoling, pleading, smiling, her arms outstretched almost a foot away as they sat on the sitting room carpet. Two jumpy steps she took, her achievement beaming across her face, falling into Connie’s arms as the two women whooped in joy. She told Ed when he came home from work later, but he became sullen and cross when Molly would not give a repeat performance.
SEPTEMBER 2008
There are mornings like this. Ed was busy with what Ed does best, wheeling and dealing in business. I was rushing about and little Molly turned around, her two hands open wide, and said “Hug.”
We laughed, we hugged and the world was put to rights.
Just sometimes the smallest person in the house is the wise one. Remember, there is always time for a hug.
Connie xx
Connie got out of bed and began to pace the room. So much time for a hug now and nobody to hug.
Understand. Forgive.
The words pounded inside her brain, pain coursed through her, the room twirling about her. Her head was dizzy, but she could not stop pacing.
For two days, she was not allowed to even see her, touch her; only when she was stiff cold in the coffin could she place a hand on her. She would not leave the coffin either; she insisted it be this way, that she sit and keep vigil at Molly’s side. She wanted to scoop her into her arms, to warm her up, to make the life start coursing through her. Instead, she rubbed her hair ever so gently, sang her favourite song. Her voice soaked with tears, she managed to get to the end. In a little white coffin, Molly looked frail and gentle, as if she had forgotten to wake up.
When he had placed the pillow over her face, had she felt the pressure straight off or was it only when she was deprived of air? Was she terribly afraid? Was she hurting so? Did she know her father was the one hurting her, sucking the life from her?
Had he ever hesitated, reconsidered, regretted? Was it too late when he came to his senses, which is why, like a coward, he continued with his plan, or did he feel the life seep away from her, numb to all feeling but a compulsion to persist? How could he have calmly locked the doors of the house as he left Molly dead in her bed that morning? Did he wave as normal to Mr Singh?
Questions, too many questions, but no answers.
She had calmly asked the detectives first, the pain numbing her reactions. Later, screaming, she scratched at the big detective, clawing at him as if he could provide some answers. Amy held her back as she lashed out, before crumpling like a rag doll in a heap on the floor. They looked at her with kind faces and eyes full of pity, because they knew she was taking on more than any mother should have to bear.
They had pity, but no answers. Not even the post-mortem results could tell them why Ed Carter had killed his daughter and then himself.
They wanted to seal her coffin, but she needed to say goodbye. To say sorry. Leaning in, she touched her daughter lightly on the head.
“I am sorry I was not there, my little one. I am sorry.”
She pulled and caressed each strand of hair she could reach, ran her fingers gently over her eyelashes, down the contour of her cheeks: life gone, nothing left but memories, regrets and a little girl who would never grow old.
Cupping Molly’s hands, she told her she was sorry again, she whispered the words in her ear, sat with her daughter and thought how could she have stopped this, how could it have been different, this day in the funeral home marked in the calendar a long time ago as a promised girls’ day out.
Instead, she sat and listed all the things that would never happen: Molly’s first crush, sweet sixteen, the tears of a broken heart, college, silly things mothers and daughters do. Molly was to be forever moulded in her heart. One thousand, eight hundred and eighty-nine days of her, no more.
She wanted Molly to herself, the fading light lingering around the coffin, clinging, waiting to spirit her away.
Connie hummed softly. She tucked in Cuddly Cat, with his broken eye, beside her, expecting Molly to acknowledge his presence. There was nothing, only shouting silence where once there had been life. For the last time, she felt the starchiness of Molly’s skin, the make-up delicately applied to the bruising left after Ed pushed Cuddly Cat’s eye so hard into her cheek that it broke, leaving a jagged imprint. Connie licked her finger, rubbing at the make-up until it caked off. Anger swelled inside her. Had her baby felt the pinch of the plastic as it smashed under the pressure? Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the faded blue-grey cloth that looked more like a dishcloth. Gently, she pushed it beside Molly’s neck, using her finger to ease it underneath. Molly never went anywhere without her favourite blankie.
Later, they came to place the lid on the coffin, screw it down. She insisted on staying in the room, silently witnessing this end, worrying she would forget what she looked like or that the act of her father would stain her memory.
Connie did not remember much of the funeral service, only the kind, clammy hands which took hers, the words whispered to her, the journey to the crematorium, where she and Amy watched as the coffin slipped away.
The next day, Ed was brought to the crematorium early in the morning. She waited until the curtains were pulled across fully and his coffin was out of view. She stood with Amy, clutching Molly’s back-up blankie, dragging it between her fingers. It hurt, but that was good, she wanted to feel this pain. How could she ever understand or forgive?
That night she had sat on the porch huddled in a corner where nobody could see her from the sidewalk. When the screen door creaked open and Amy stepped out, she knew by the determination of her step she would not take no for an answer.
“We are going for a drive,” she said, handing Connie her sweater.
Amy drove through the streets at a slow pace, only pulling over when she got to the park.
“You need to scream.”
When she did not move, Amy gently pushed her.
“Get in the gap at the side of the hedge. Nobody will see you. You have the whole park to yourself. Nobody will hear. Get out and scream.”
Connie reluctantly got out of the passenger’s seat, gingerly feeling her way through the hedge. When she was far enough away, she opened her mouth, but nothing came. Feeling stupid, she made to turn back, but Amy, coming up behind her, blocked her way.
“It is not fucking fair! Shout it out,” Amy screamed, reaching over, squeezing her sister’s arm.
Connie shouted out the words.
“Again,” Amy shouted, joining in with her, until they were both screaming so loud the stars overhead could hear.
She screamed until her throat hurt, letting the words bullet into the sky, so that the other world knew her pain. She screamed, because it was the first time since it happened that she could.
Afterwards, Amy helped her to the car, sobbing into her scarf, until they got home, where she climbed into bed and Amy tucked her in.
Here in Ludlow Hall, Connie fell on the bed, exhausted. Not bothering to pull the duvet over herself, she curled into a ball, closing her eyes. The deep sleep of exhaustion took over, a sleep that brought no rest.
16
Eve rooted through her wardrobe, until she put her hand on the navy chiffon Bloomingdale’s dress. She had almost forgotten it until she saw the painting at Ludlow Hall again. It was beautiful, well cut, stylish, elegant, and she hated it. It signalled the point in time when her attitude to her husband changed: a subtle change at the outset, but she could trace it back to that dress. Arnold had never frequented a women’s clothing department in his life, as far as she knew. Why he suddenly should have done so to buy her a dress remained an absolute mystery.
The trip when he bought the dress came up unexpectedly and at a peculiar time, just days after they buried James.
“I will refuse to go, stay here with you, Eve. I
will tell them the situation,” he said.
She could see the agitation in his face, his brows furrowed into his eyelids, the nerve in his right cheek twitching the same as the night she had come home from the hospital, leaving baby James in the morgue.
“Arnold, I understand. It’s work.”
“I don’t have to go.”
“You do. It must be important or they wouldn’t have asked you.”
He sent word to the travel agent to book him a seat and began straight away packing his case. When she offered to help, he refused, telling her to rest.
He left early the next morning. Turning down breakfast, he was anxious to get on his way. At the front door, when she reached out to him to kiss goodbye, his shoulders shook, tears streaking his eyes. Squeezing his arm as reassurance, she whispered in his ear.
“Go. We will be fine. I will be fine.”
He nodded, and she thought she saw sadness glint across his eyes.
Standing on the front steps of Ludlow Hall, she watched the car go down the driveway, rounding the rhododendron and slipping out of sight. It was a crisp, cold morning, but she did not move back inside, dropping down to sit on the step, the cold damp seeping through her.
The sheep, normally huddled in one corner, began to drift across the field to the fence nearest the house. The geese pecked around on the gravel at the front as she sat, tears coursing down her face. The sheepdog, panting after following the car down the avenue, came and settled beside her, sniffing at the tears, gently nudging her face.
When Michael Conway drove up the front avenue an hour later, Eve was still sitting on the steps, the front door wide open behind her. Thinking something terrible had happened, he rushed from the car.
“What is wrong, Eve, what has happened?”
“Arnold has rushed off to America.”
“Why?”
“Something at work, I don’t know.”
The Ludlow Ladies Society Page 14
