Ruth looked at her; realizing that this could have come over as Let’s talk about me, Anna added, ‘Patrick’s sharp enough to find out what he wants, and find a way of doing it.’
‘Mm. I expect you’re right. I feel like a go-between, trying to keep the peace.’
Anna couldn’t stop herself from saying, ‘Why did you invite me to stay? I mean – you’ve got enough to think about.’
‘It was the obvious thing to do,’ Ruth said.
The winter of the year Rose disappeared, Grandad Skipton was diagnosed with a heart condition, and died at the start of December. It was such a strange and terrible Christmas, that first one, that Anna was glad when it was over, relieved when the school holidays ended. Rose had always made Christmas special, taking charge of the present-buying and the tree-decoration in a bossy way that Anna secretly rather liked. Without Rose, the prelude to Christmas was flat and ordinary, the festive days an ordeal.
But first there was Grandad’s funeral. Anna cried a little, awed by the occasion: the black clothes, the hushed voices, the solemn moment when the coffin was carried in. Grandad Skipton wasn’t her favourite grandfather; he had always appeared rather stern and forbidding, compared to Grandad Taverner with his jokes and cuddles and games of Scrabble and Monopoly.
By the graveside Anna’s mother stood arm in arm with Gran as if braced against an earth tremor, while the coffin was lowered into the ground. Anna watched at first in fascination and then in horror, as the realization struck her that death was final, that this was what it meant. Rose, Rose … Could Rose be dead, really dead, like Grandad? But what would be worse? Rose boxed into a coffin and buried under such a weight of earth as the heap that was ready to smother Grandad? Or Rose dead somewhere but yet to be found, floating in water, perhaps, or tangled in a ditch? That made Anna shiver, the thought of Rose with eyes open, dead staring eyes that would swim out of her dreams to stare and stare at her.
Anna’s mind clouded, and panic shivered through her. Tears rolled down her face; she thought she was crying soundlessly, but Dad had noticed and put his arm round her, holding her close.
‘I know, love. I know,’ he whispered. And maybe he did.
Cassandra knows that the others in the reception office at Meadowcroft think of her as prim, staying aloof from their gossip. She presents herself smartly, always in a skirt and jacket, with careful make-up, neat hair and discreet jewellery. She would never keep a patient waiting at the hatch while she finished a conversation, the way Pauline and Jilly sometimes do; she makes a point of getting there first, with a bright ‘Can I help you?’ in a way that reproaches the others. She answers the phone, deals with appointments and referrals, sends out reminders about vaccinations, health checks and prescription reviews. Over the years she’s been here, the doctors have got younger and younger; she and the other receptionists are old enough to be parents to some of the newer ones. That doesn’t deter Pauline and Jilly and the other part-timer, Louise, all well into their fifties, from making silly remarks about handsome Dr Sharp, the latest to join the practice. Lately their attention has switched to the new physiotherapist, who rents a treatment room in the annexe and sees private patients on three afternoons a week.
‘I wouldn’t mind him running his fingers down my spine,’ Jilly says, with a suggestive giggle; she clutches her lower back, miming extreme pain. ‘Ooh! I felt a definite twinge just now – maybe it’s a sports injury?’
‘I don’t think you get sports injuries from slumping on the sofa,’ Pauline teases. ‘Bit old for you, isn’t he? I thought you liked them young.’
‘There’s something to be said for experience. He looks like he knows his way around.’
Cassandra can hardly stop herself from tutting. She hates it when they talk like that; so unprofessional. They’d soon complain if they heard the pharmacist and his assistant, both male, talking about women that way.
She hasn’t seen this man, the physio. Only his name.
Pointedly she gets on with her work. She keeps her head down. Every morning she is first to arrive, opening up the office, turning on the computers, sitting in her place by eight-twenty, ready to receive the first phone calls, the requests for appointments. At one o’clock, not a moment later, she puts on her coat and scarf and tells the others she’ll see them tomorrow. She suspects that they talk about her when she’s not there. So buttoned-up, she imagines them saying; never one to share a laugh and a joke.
She found her escape route in the property pages in the local newspaper, soon moving to websites and setting up email alerts. Don was astonished when he found her studying floor-plans and Google maps on the computer at home. ‘It makes sense,’ she told him. ‘You’ve always said we should look for somewhere new. Perhaps it’s time. A change is as good as a feast.’
‘As a rest,’ Don corrected her. ‘That’s the saying.’
‘But I don’t want a rest. I want to do something.’
‘A feast, then, OK,’ Don said, laughing, and she showed him the houses she’d bookmarked. So easy, at that stage, like choosing from a paint chart. I’ll have that one, or maybe this …
Of course it wasn’t really as straightforward as that. So much to think about. But Don saw it as a change for the good, a project to work on together. Anna – Anna was doubtful at first, Cassandra heard it in her voice. But this was Anna’s new area of expertise, and she had contacts – heard that the Cranbrook house was coming up for sale before it appeared on RightMove or any other website. She spoke to the agent, arranged an early viewing. All this activity made Cassandra realize how inertia had settled over her like a cloak. Don and Anna were eager to throw themselves into purposeful activity on her behalf; all she had to do was let herself be swept along. Surveys, solicitors, searches – it would happen. Things only had to be set in motion.
Now, though?
No. She’s got to stop this before it goes any further. She can’t do it, can’t break out from the walls she’s built around herself. She doesn’t deserve it, anyway; the airy space of a new house, the sense of life starting again. She can’t abandon the life she has: it’s her sentence, her curse, it’s all she knows. She must stay here for Rose; she must wait. One day – when, when? – one day, she knows, Rose will walk in, casual, unflustered, still eighteen, as if she never really left, but stepped aside into a parallel world where time behaves differently.
And an obstinate part of her insists that she won’t be driven into hiding because of that man. She won’t abandon Rose. She’ll brave it out; she will carry on as she is. But – is she standing up for herself, or being defeated? It’s a puzzle she can’t sort out.
‘Look, love,’ Don tries. ‘I know it’s a big thing to face – packing everything up, getting used to a new place. We’ll cope, with Anna to help. There’s no rush. A few months from now, and you’ll wonder what you were so anxious about. You’ll be out in that lovely garden every spare minute.’
‘No. No.’ She shakes her head like a dog shaking water from its ears. ‘It’s no good trying to persuade me. I can’t do it.’
Chapter Seven
Anna woke on Saturday to the sound of steady rain outside. She lay for several minutes thinking about the day ahead – another day of clearing and tidying at Rowan Lodge – and wondering what Martin was doing. He usually spent Saturdays with Liam, but this week it would be Sunday, as Liam was going on a friend’s birthday outing today. With time to himself, Martin would more than likely catch up on work, spending hours at his computer, maybe breaking off for a session at the gym.
She found herself oddly touched by his loneliness before telling herself that she had no right to know, having walked out on him. That had been her intention, but Ruth was making her stay here seem normal, unprompted by anything drastic. She hadn’t encouraged Anna to talk about Martin, speaking of him only in affectionate terms or in connection with the boys. This odd three-sided relationship was starting to feel comfortable, as if Ruth had always been part of it. No mention was made of wh
en Anna would leave, or what she’d do next. It was enough to go from day to day.
After dropping Liam at his friend’s house, Ruth and Anna headed out to Rowan Lodge. In the drizzle of a mild but unpromising morning, the countryside looked grey, featureless, the gateways rutted and striped with puddles, the hedges blackly severe. The fields rose through mist to the ghosts of distant trees. Rowan Lodge looked forlorn behind its fence, but Ruth, resolutely cheerful, pointed to blunt green spears poking through bare earth by the gate. ‘Daffodils. There are dozens along this edge.’
Inside she turned on the heating and made tea, and they returned to their clearing, Ruth sorting blankets and bed linen, Anna starting on the kitchen. They’d come prepared with boxes and old newspapers for wrapping, and progress was brisk; Ruth had put aside a few kitchen items to keep, and Anna packed the rest for the charity shop. The drawers contained mostly spice packets and sachets, sauce and mixes well past their sell-by date, and a range of cooking implements, some unrecognizable. One drawer was stuffed full of papers: receipts, and instruction manuals for the cooker, microwave and washing machine. Anna put these on the worktop, knowing that Ruth intended to find homes for the appliances via Freecycle.
Next came a manila folder of recipes cut out of magazines, and underneath that a framed photograph, face down. Anna turned it over. The frame held a grey mount, with oval cut-outs allowing four small photographs to be inserted. One was a wedding photo, an image blurring in Anna’s eyes then swimming sharply into focus: Martin and Ruth. Ruth wore a simple white gown, scoop-necked and long-sleeved; Martin – longer-haired than now, and less consolidated somehow around the jaw – was smiling broadly. There were separate pictures of Liam and what must be a gap-toothed Patrick, each aged about five. The last, larger than the others, was a family group – Martin holding baby Liam, looking down at him, Patrick standing close to Ruth, her arm reaching over his shoulder, his hand raised to clasp hers. Here in Bridget’s garden, perhaps? There was a hedge behind: Martin wore jeans and a polo shirt, Ruth a long patterned skirt and vest top, Patrick was in shorts.
What had happened? Why had Martin left? He looked so happy in the photograph, so proud; a loving father.
‘I’ll start loading these boxes in the car.’
Ruth’s voice behind her made Anna jump; fumbling, she almost dropped the photo frame. Too late to hide it, to shove it back in the drawer or pretend she hadn’t been looking; Ruth had seen.
‘Oh,’ Ruth said flatly. ‘I didn’t know Mum still had that.’
As she looked at Anna, awkwardness spiked the air, the consciousness of how it could so easily be between them.
After a pause, Anna said, ‘Why did it end?’
‘You don’t know? Hasn’t Martin told you?’
‘I haven’t really asked. It just didn’t work out, that’s all he’s ever said.’
‘Hah. Didn’t work out.’ It was the first time Anna had heard Ruth speak of Martin with any bitterness. ‘He left me for someone he met through work. Hilary. She was married too. They’d been seeing each other in secret for nearly a year. You know the sort of thing – he’d be working late, seeing clients in the evenings, staying away at conferences. I never guessed. Till suddenly he announced he was leaving us to live with her.’
‘But—’ Anna felt her mouth dropping open. ‘Martin did that? What happened to this other woman, then? When I met him he wasn’t with anyone. Or if he was, I didn’t know.’
‘Things didn’t work out,’ Ruth said, with an ironic twist of her mouth. ‘Hilary went back to her husband. And – Martin didn’t come back to me.’
‘But, what, do you mean—’ Anna faltered. ‘You’d have taken him back? After he lied to you and deceived you? Left you and the boys for this Hilary who couldn’t even make up her mind?’
‘I don’t know whether I would have or not. He met you.’
‘But I didn’t—’
‘I know.’
The silence of the kitchen settled like dust: too quiet, too still. Anna’s mind blurred. The idea flitted into her mind that Ruth had brought her here to kill her. Helpfully, Anna had placed six knives, lined up in order of size, on the worktop. Don’t be stupid. There was no glitter of madness in Ruth’s eyes; she looked, if anything, as if she regretted saying so much. Her eyes, so blue and guileless, always seemed ready to film over with tears.
Anna swallowed. ‘I don’t understand. I don’t know why you don’t hate me.’
‘What would be the point?’
‘And I don’t know why you don’t hate Martin.’
‘I did, for a while,’ Ruth conceded. ‘But, well, he made an awful mistake. He knows that.’
‘Is there – have you met anyone?’ Anna asked. ‘In five years there must have been opportunities.’
‘Not really. Not the way you mean.’ Ruth pushed the drawer shut. ‘I don’t know if I’ve got the confidence to start out again. Martin and I married so young, and I thought he was the only person I’d ever want, or need. I’ve been out with people occasionally, but nothing serious. There’s someone I know through the garden project, a good friend. But Martin’s the only man I’ve ever slept with. I suppose that makes me hopelessly old-fashioned.’
She looked at Anna for a reaction; Anna said nothing.
‘I wasn’t actually a virgin bride,’ Ruth went on. ‘In fact I was pregnant with Patrick when we got married. I suppose we were too young, both of us barely in our twenties. But after so long, I don’t know that I want to get used to anyone else.’
Anna needed to be on her own to assimilate this. She could only think that Ruth had loved Martin with a loyalty he hadn’t earned. What he deserved was her, someone as fickle as he was, someone who’d flit off and abandon him on a whim.
She was still holding the photo frame, unsure what to do. Hanging onto it looked like an attempt to claim what was rightfully Ruth’s.
‘I’ll take that,’ said Ruth, reaching out for it.
Summer 1986
Rose was on the swing, reading. She had a look of intense concentration, her mouth slightly open. One hand fiddled with a strand of hair, corkscrewing it round her finger, releasing it when she was ready to turn a page. The hand that held the book was wrapped round the swing rope; she turned herself in slow half-circles, one way and then the other, her sandals trailing on the bare, scuffed patch underneath. Anna was nearby, crouched over the small section of border the girls had been allocated for their experiments in growing. She was waiting for Rose to notice what she was doing, a little resentful of Rose’s absorption in her book.
It was a day of heat and stillness, of pleasure that was part boredom; the passing of time was measured only by the house’s shadow slowly elongating itself across the grass, the chattering of starlings and the drone of a light aircraft already assimilated into memory. This end of the garden, the girls’ end, beyond the pear tree and the swing, was in full sunshine, and Anna felt heat strike at the back of her neck as she crouched over the baked earth.
Anna’s patch of ground was divided from Rose’s by a line of pebbles. Rose had grown marigolds, but Anna’s seeds had failed to come up, and now she was making a pattern with stones and shells collected on their seaside holiday. Earth-dust caught in her nostrils, mingling with the sharp scent of marigolds from Rose’s more productive half. She was humming quietly to herself, a repetitive tune without words. She wanted to transform the shells and stones into something magical, the way Rose would, but already it was becoming pointless; she was merely scraping dust about. To be real and purposeful, it needed Rose’s attention, and the elaborate detail she would bring to the pretence.
Rose gave a sharp intake of breath. Anna looked up. Rose was holding the book close to her face as if she were short-sighted. She couldn’t get the story in through her eyes fast enough.
‘What?’ Anna demanded. Rose didn’t answer. ‘What are you reading about? Rose?’
Rose’s book was called Lord of the Flies. Anna didn’t know what it meant, and th
e cover, just words, gave nothing away.
‘Rose?’ she said again.
Rose’s eyes swam back from some other place, as if it took an effort to remember where she was.
‘What?’
‘I said what are you reading about?’
‘Oh Anna, it’s horrible,’ Rose said. Her mouth twisted; Anna thought she was going to cry.
‘Is it sad? What’s happening?’ Anna prompted.
‘Listen – this is really horrible. There are these boys on an island, right? In two gangs. They’re all up on a cliff. Listen. One of the boys levers a big rock off the top, and then this …’ She started to read, in a hushed voice, so that Anna had to creep closer to hear. ‘The rock struck Piggy a glancing blow from chin to knee; the conch …’ She glanced up. ‘That’s a special shell he’s holding … the conch exploded into a thousand white fragments and ceased to exist. Piggy, saying nothing, with no time for even a grunt, travelled through the air sideways from the rock, turning over as he went. The rock bounded twice and was lost in the forest. Piggy fell forty feet and landed on his back across that square, red rock in the sea. His head opened and stuff came out and turned red. Piggy’s arms and legs twitched a bit, like a pig’s after it has been killed. Then the sea breathed again in a long slow sigh, the water boiled white and pink over the rock; and when it went, sucking back again, the body of Piggy was gone.’ Rose lowered the book and looked at Anna, her eyes wide, then she shut them tightly. ‘Isn’t that awful?’
‘Is he dead?’ Anna had moved closer, and was poking at the long grass at the edges of the concrete the swing was set in. Something had come into the garden, something dark and furtive that chilled the bright day.
‘Of course he’s dead, stupid. Weren’t you listening? Oh … oh, that’s so awful. I can’t stop thinking about it.’ Rose dropped the book, folded her arms tightly and hugged herself.
His head opened and stuff came out and turned red. Anna imagined it, the boy Piggy falling like Humpty Dumpty, smack on the rock. Falling and falling to the violent crack, the shock of not falling any more, the slam of bones and skull against rock. The stuff that came out would be like creamed rice. And then he’d be sucked away by the sea and the other boys wouldn’t have to look at him any more. He’d be eaten by fishes, all gathering round for the rice pudding, red, like when you mix it up with raspberry jam. Piggy, what had been Piggy, would be there in the water with nothing inside his head, nothing behind his eyes. Anna put down her stick and started to cry, quietly sobbing at first, then letting her voice rise. Mum would hear from indoors if she wailed loudly enough.
Quarter Past Two on a Wednesday Afternoon Page 9
