The new house, a thirties semi in a road near the station, had nothing of Roland in it; nothing of Sandy, either. Her parents had established themselves, their furniture arranged in much the same way as before, but to Sandy it felt temporary, as if she’d never really belong here. Maybe she wouldn’t stay long. Once armed with shorthand and typing, she could find a flat of her own; even share with Marion, whose baby, six weeks old, was handed over to his adoptive parents in mid-January. ‘It was so awful I can’t tell you about it,’ Marion wrote from Rochester, where she had returned to her parents. ‘But I expect you know.’
On the TV screen, American aircraft bombed villages in North Vietnam; villages burned, terrified children ran from the smoke. In the Winter Olympics, ice-skaters twirled and glided, goggled skiers flew down ramps, commentators stood on snowy slopes. The Beatles went to India to study meditation with someone called the Maharishi, and were photographed sitting cross-legged, hung with flower garlands. Mounted police rode into a crowd of protestors in Grosvenor Square. Martin Luther King was shot dead in Memphis; students rioted in Paris. Cloistered in Bridge House, Sandy had taken little notice of television news and had only the vaguest idea what the Vietnam War was about, or who Martin Luther King was. She skated over the surface of her new life, tentatively at first, certain that the ice would splinter and she would be sucked through into the stifling dark. Something had been left behind; she must go back, go back. But everything was pulling her forward.
Sandy’s parents gave the story to relatives and to their new neighbours that she’d had a long illness and convalescence: ‘Yes, glandular fever takes a long time to get over, but she’s making headway,’ she heard her mother telling the woman next door. Lying was acceptable, apparently, under these circumstances. Usually Sandy found that she could use vagueness as a shield, saying ‘I’ve been in hospital,’ only if pressed. It was taboo to mention the pregnancy, the baby. No one talked about that at home, beyond her mother’s occasional reference to your trouble or all that business. It had been a diversion, a swerving; now she was back on course.
The surface part of her mind concerned itself with Pitman shorthand, with vowel signs and line position and abbreviations. We are in receipt of your letter dated 15th March, she read. I am writing in connection with the above unpaid invoice. Kindly sign and return the enclosed document in the pre-paid envelope. She learned about different kinds of filing systems and how to keep a boss’s diary. In the middle of the night she jolted awake from the horror of earth spattering over Roland’s coffin, the impossibility of him being put into the ground. She saw the cross-faced baby that had lived inside her; she dreamed that she had carelessly lost it, abandoned it to die, left it in the street for a stranger to find. In her dreams she searched and searched, with a heaviness inside her that told her she would never find what she was looking for.
She would be found out. Someone would see through to the tangle of guilt that twisted and coiled inside her.
Chapter Twenty-three
Knowing she couldn’t concentrate on a book, Anna bought the Saturday Guardian to read on the train. The stands and kiosks at Paddington were decked out in red and silver: hearts and ribbons, candles and chocolates, the florist’s frontage knee-deep in crimson roses. She’d forgotten that it was Valentine’s Day tomorrow; for the first time in years, it was irrelevant.
But, making her way to the Plymouth train, she found herself recalling last year, when she had surprised Martin by booking theatre tickets and a late supper afterwards, and he’d surprised her by asking her to marry him.
‘Are you joking?’ she had answered, thrown by the timing as much as anything, because Martin was so sceptical of the torrent of slush that Valentine’s Day had become. ‘Have you had a glass of wine too many?’
But he assured her that he wasn’t, and hadn’t, and that he loved her, and why not?
‘But what for?’ she objected. ‘What difference would it make? I know you could tell me all about the tax advantages of being married, but to me it’s just a piece of paper we don’t need.’
‘So much for my romantic gesture,’ Martin said. ‘So you’re turning me down? For my clodhopping way of introducing the subject, or because you really don’t want to? Should I be distraught?’
‘Course you shouldn’t! It doesn’t mean I don’t love you. You know I do – at least, I hope you know. We’re happy as we are, aren’t we?’ And they had held hands across the table until suddenly it seemed urgent to return to the flat.
Well, she thought now, finding her window seat, hanging up her coat; look how things change. They might have been two different people.
Valentine’s Day, though. Martin’s dismay when she told him she was staying away tonight – did he imagine she was heading for a steamy weekend in a hotel, with red roses and champagne and breakfast in bed? And with who? It was a ridiculous idea, almost laughable. But she regretted making him think more badly of her than he already did. For a second she thought of sending a text: It’s not what you think. She took out her mobile, started entering the message, then cancelled and put it away again. What was the point?
Her attention was moth-like today, settling lightly then flitting off again. Somewhere past Swindon, she was looking without much interest at the Guardian travel section when her mobile rang; Dad showed on the screen.
‘Anna? Just thought I’d give you a call.’ His voice bubbled with excitement. ‘It’s great news, love. Can’t tell you how pleased I am.’
‘What news?’
‘Sorry if I wasn’t meant to know yet. Your mum let it out – she couldn’t wait. It’s the best news I’ve had in ages.’
‘What news?’ Anna gazed blankly at the fields and hedgerows flashing by.
‘That we’re going to be grandparents! It’s great, Anna – fantastic. Well done, love. I thought, if you and Martin are free tonight – why don’t we go out to dinner, the four of us, have a little celebration?’
‘Dad, Dad! I don’t know what you’re on about. Where on earth did you get this from? Did Mum say something?’
A pause, then her father said, in a changed voice, ‘She’s bought baby shoes. I found them in the wardrobe.’
‘They must be for someone else. It’s nothing to do with me, Dad.’
‘But she said—’
‘Mum told you I was pregnant?’ Anna lowered her voice, all too conscious of other passengers nearby; this wasn’t a conversation to have in public.
‘Yes, love. So … she’s got it all wrong? Oh, dear dear dear.’ His tone was flat now. ‘Well – maybe you and Martin could come over anyway? Tomorrow, if tonight’s no good?’
‘Actually, Dad, I’m on a train – I’m on my way to visit someone. And – I’m not with Martin. I’m staying at a friend’s house for a bit.’
‘Is everything all right, love?’
She knew he’d picked up her dissembling. She would have to tell him, but not now.
‘Everything’s fine, Dad. I’ll give you a call when I get back.’
Trying to make sense of this, Anna gazed out at undulating landscape, ploughed fields and meadow, woods, a church spire in a distant town. Could her mother really have told him she was pregnant? Or had he simply misunderstood, finding a present bought for someone else? She had heard of imaginary pregnancies, but could you have a phantom pregnancy at one remove? This sounded un comfortably like mental slippage on her mother’s part, and now Anna was guiltily aware that she’d had little contact with her parents since the brief visit; no more than the odd evasive phone call. She ought to go and see them; phoning wouldn’t be enough. When she next saw them she’d have to tell them about her split with Martin; it couldn’t be put off indefinitely. Rather than celebrating imminent grandparenthood they’d be devastated and upset, and that might propel her mother into further confusion.
She’d worry about that later. Today, first. There might be a revelation more important than any of that.
Not confident of recognizing Michael Sullivan,
she had sent a text message to say that she was wearing a black coat and red scarf. When the train reached Plymouth and she went through the barrier, a man standing at the entrance looked at her intently and walked towards her.
‘Anna?’
‘Yes.’
They shook hands like people at a business meeting. ‘Thank you for coming all this way,’ he said, as if it was for his benefit.
No, she definitely wouldn’t have picked him out of a crowd; she scanned his face without seeing anything to recall the young teacher of her memory. He looked a little older than Martin: taller, with hair greying a little and swept back from a high forehead; thin, mobile face, diffident smile; the kind of face that’s unremarkable at first but becomes interesting with acquaintance. He looked entirely personable, but she wasn’t going to trust him. Certainly she wasn’t going to let herself like him.
She’d imagined they would go into the city centre, but instead Michael gestured towards the station buffet. ‘I thought we’d get a coffee to start with,’ he said.
Not sure what this meant – as a prelude to what? – Anna followed. There were a few customers in the café but she supposed they might as well talk here as anywhere else. At his suggestion she installed herself at a corner table while he went to the counter.
‘Do you live in Plymouth?’ she asked, when he returned with two lattes.
‘No – I just work here. You? London, you said, but where exactly? What do you do?’
Anna gave only brief answers, conscious of the big questions hanging between them; in return he told her that he left Oldlands Hall the same year she did, took a temporary post in Bristol which became permanent, then moved on to the Plymouth school where he was promoted to Head of Science.
‘Do you remember me from your time at Oldlands?’ Ridiculously, she caught herself being deferential towards him, just because he’d been a teacher at her school.
‘Yes, of course,’ he said, ‘though I never taught you, did I?’
‘Why of course?’
He didn’t answer, asking instead, ‘So – what’s prompted this?’
‘It seemed like a long shot,’ Anna told him, ‘a very long shot. One of Rose’s friends told me that Rose was keen on you, that last year. She told me about the leavers’ dance, and I remembered you coming to the art exhibition when I was in the upper sixth. I know, it doesn’t sound like much. But, well …’ She looked at him intently. ‘When I phoned you it didn’t seem such a long shot after all.’ She paused. ‘Do you know what happened to Rose?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
A beat of silence; she found her voice. ‘How? You’ve known all this time and not said? How – how can that make sense?’ She had the wild idea that he was about to confess to a murder, that this was his purpose in bringing her here. ‘Is Rose dead?’
‘No, Anna. Rose is perfectly well,’ he said gently. ‘I’m married to her.’
‘You’re—? No. That’s impossible.’
The buffet swayed and blurred around her, the bright adverts, the cooler with racks of bottled drinks. His face had become a pale medallion hanging in front of her, the mouth moving, speaking nonsense. An announcement about a Paddington train floated at her, mixing itself up with Michael’s words. He was playing an elaborate trick on her, seeing how much he could get her to believe. He was mad, deluded; he had to be. He’d killed Rose, or was keeping her captive somewhere.
‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘We’ve been married for fifteen years.’
‘But – I don’t understand,’ she said helplessly.
‘No, of course you don’t. Not yet.’
They were interrupted by a bustle at the next table: a couple accompanied by a sulky teenage boy and a slow-moving elderly woman, settling themselves in the seats; the man bumped his wheeled suitcase against Anna’s chair without apologizing. Anna looked at Michael, thinking that surely they couldn’t continue their conversation here; but the younger woman called out, ‘Platform two! I said platform two!’ and the whole party got up and surged out again.
‘Where is she?’ Anna demanded, as the door swung to with a bang.
‘She’s at home.’
‘Can I see her?’
‘Yes, if you like.’
‘If I like!’ Anna knew that she wouldn’t believe him until she did see Rose for herself; her thoughts whirled between longing and fear, eagerness and reluctance. ‘Tell me,’ she pleaded. ‘Tell me everything.’
‘Yes, I will.’
Anna listened, her eyes fastened on his face, anxious not to miss a word, a nuance. Words hung briefly in the air and melted like snowflakes, words she needed to gather and store, take out and examine: words too frail to fill a gulf of twenty years. How could words do that?
‘In a way,’ said Michael Sullivan, leaning forward, hands clasped, ‘I helped her to leave. I didn’t want to, but I did.’
‘You helped her? Why? How?’
‘She asked me to. You probably know I was in my first year of teaching when I met Rose. I had a sixth-form tutor group, not the one Rose was in, but I saw her most days in the sixth-form centre, coming and going. I was attracted to her from the start. Occupational hazard, for a young teacher surrounded by so many adolescent girls – but there was something about Rose … and of course I knew I had to be careful, I was very aware of that. Rose would always smile and say hello, and then she started approaching me at odd times about her university applications – whether I thought she should take a gap year, things like that. I helped her as best I could. I was flattered – there were plenty of other teachers she could have asked, and it wasn’t as if she was going for science subjects. Then the exams started. She got herself into a state, the morning of her art history paper – said she couldn’t go in, couldn’t face sitting in the exam room again. She was crying, shaking. I had to calm her down, persuade her it’d be OK. She went into the hall and did the exam, and next day she brought a present to thank me.’
Yes, Anna thought, recognizing the Rose she knew: the tears, the hysteria, the sudden change of mood. ‘What did she give you?’
‘It was one of her drawings. Postcard-sized, a female nude.’
‘Quite a suggestive thing to give a young male teacher.’
‘Yes. She told me she’d done it in life class, but the face was hers. I suppose I shouldn’t have accepted it, but I did. I’ve still got it.’
‘Then what? The dance?’
Michael nodded. ‘On her last day at school she asked if I’d dance with her at the ball, in a sort of flirty Please, sir way. I laughed it off. Then, on the night, she looked so beautiful, in a green dress …’
Anna nodded. ‘I remember.’
‘I couldn’t take my eyes off her. When she came over, I just couldn’t, much as I wanted to – couldn’t risk it, in front of everyone. I’d have given myself away. So I said no. I hoped she’d understand, but … to her it was a put-down. A public rejection.’
‘So when did you see her after that?’
‘When she followed me home. It was still July, term-time. I’d just got in one afternoon – I usually walked to and from school, I was renting a house near the library – when she turned up, wanting to come in and talk. I felt uneasy, and she knew – she teased me, said she wasn’t a schoolgirl any more, she was eighteen, a consenting adult.’
‘You mean you—?’
‘No, no. Not then. I explained about the ball, and that was enough. She came round again on the first day of the summer holidays, and that time – yes. We spent the whole afternoon in my bedroom until suddenly she upped and left. I wanted to see her again, but also I was scared shitless, wondering what I’d done. Technically she was over eighteen and had left school, but still, if it got out I’d have been in serious trouble.’
‘Even though she’d been practically stalking you? Where would you stand, legally?’
‘I don’t know. If it happened today, there’d be questions about grooming – though I hadn’t. Anyway. The very next day I was due to le
ave for Thailand for the whole summer break, with Pippa, my girlfriend from university. And I didn’t want Pippa to know about Rose. My head was in a spin, to be honest. I told her when I’d be back, and we planned to see each other. But in Thailand I felt sure I’d made a fool of myself, or was about to. She was heading for art foundation – well, you know that – and she’d meet other people and forget about me. Maybe she’d even hit on me for a bet. That’s what I thought at the time.’
‘So you were away when she went missing? But you said you helped her.’
‘Yes. The first I heard about her disappearing was at the staff training day. Beginning of September. People were talking about it – it had been all over the local papers, apparently. Well, that threw me into a quandary. I wasn’t the last person to see Rose by a long way, but all the same I should have gone to the police. Even if only to eliminate myself as a suspect – someone might have seen her coming to my house or leaving. And of course I was worried for her. Pippa had gone back to Hull – she was starting a teaching job there – and I was wondering what the hell to do when Rose phoned.’
‘Phoned? Rose phoned you? So you were the one person who knew she was alive, and you didn’t let on?’
‘Anna, I couldn’t. I struggled with that, believe me. She wanted me to help – she pleaded, said I was the only person she could trust. And before she’d tell me where she was, she made me promise not to tell anyone.’
‘But, God, we were thinking of murder, kidnap, all sorts of horrible things – my parents – I don’t know how we stayed sane!’
‘I know. Or rather, I can only imagine. That’s why I wanted her at least to send a card or something, or let me take a message – let your parents, and you, know she was alive and OK. But she wouldn’t. Said they’d track her and try to make her go home. Said they didn’t have a claim on her any more.’
‘But why did she—?’
Quarter Past Two on a Wednesday Afternoon Page 25
