The Secrets Between Us

by Louise Douglas

  ‘Here we are,’ said Alexander, turning sharply into a gap between the trees. We rattled over a cattle-grid and went up the track that led to Avalon. The Land Rover bounced and bumped over pot holes as we wove through a tunnel of trees, until the trees gave way to fields and up ahead I saw the house.

  The light was fading but was still strong enough to illuminate the front face of the building. It was larger, older and more substantial than I’d imagined. It had been there for so long that it seemed to be part of the landscape that surrounded it, an organic thing of stone, red-clay roofing tiles, wood and plaster. Alexander parked the car at the end of the track, next to a semi-derelict barn overrun with bramble and ivy, a couple of empty stables and a double horse-trailer, tilted forward to rest on its towing bar. Bales of hay were stacked at the back of a big old shed. Swallows darted in and out of the bucolic clutter of buildings and into the orchard beyond, swooping fast as arrows close to the top of the long grass. Black and white cows grazed beneath the tree. The orchard boundaries were defined by nettles, tall as my shoulder, that leaned over with their own weight.

  The house sat in its own gardens, separated from the orchard by walls at the front and a barbed-wire fence at the back. A substantial wooden porch, overwound with honeysuckle so old that its main stems were as thick as my wrists, stood slightly lopsided before the front door. There were windows on either side of the porch and above it. It looked as if the original house had been extended to the side and backwards, or maybe it had just been built in a ramshackle way, with extra rooms added on as afterthoughts. A couple of tiles had slipped from the roof and the dun-coloured plaster that rendered the old stone walls was peeling in huge, papery flakes. The flower beds in the garden were untidy and overgrown but it was clear from the faded blooms on the stems of the roses and the colours and shapes of the shrubs, now jostling for light and space, that at one time the garden had been beautiful.

  ‘It’s a mess,’ Alexander said, following my eyes. ‘Genevieve was too busy with her horses to bother with the garden and I haven’t had the time.’

  ‘She’s a rider?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘She might be in the Olympics,’ Jamie said.

  I laughed. I thought he was joking, then I remembered that Jamie was not a frivolous child. He looked at me crossly and immediately I tried to make up for my reaction by saying: ‘You mean she’s a really good rider?’

  ‘One of the best,’ said Alexander.

  ‘Oh. Does she do show-jumping?’

  ‘Eventing,’ Alexander said. ‘Dressage, show-jumping and cross-country. A lot of people are into it round here.’

  ‘You don’t get much of that in Manchester,’ I said.

  Alexander smiled at me.

  ‘Where are the horses?’

  ‘Genevieve’s mother’s looking after them for the time being. She … well, I’ll tell you later. This way,’ he said.

  I followed him through a wooden gate and up a small, flagstoned path to a side door that opened into a whitewashed room full of boots, stacks of newspapers, empty wine and vodka bottles and other things waiting to be recycled, unwashed laundry and cobwebs. One whole wall was covered with shiny rosettes, mostly red, and a couple of rope horse-collars hung from a metal hook beneath the window. Grooming equipment and a rusty tin of hoof oil were packed into a blue plastic pail. Riding coats and boots were heaped in one corner together with an assortment of heavy-duty rope, metal and leather kit that must have been something to do with horses. A misshapen cardboard carton of washing powder lurched on top of a washing machine in the far corner of the room and an old dog bed lay beside it.

  A second door led into the kitchen, which was large, warm and untidy. Soiled crockery was stacked in the sink, and a cat stood on the counter eating the remains of a chicken carcass. The floor looked as if it had not been washed in weeks and the windows were grimy.

  Alexander put my bag down, shooed the cat from the chicken and turned the dish round. There was little meat left.

  ‘Bollocks,’ he said. ‘I was going to make us a sandwich for dinner.’

  The cat had a self-satisfied look on its face. It jumped on to the kitchen table and cleaned its paws, licking its fur with its tiny pink tongue.

  Alexander sighed. ‘It doesn’t even belong to us. It just comes in and steals our food.’

  Jamie went over to the cat and stroked it. The cat ignored him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Alexander. ‘This isn’t much of a welcome. We were going to have a tidy round, weren’t we, Jamie?’

  Jamie scowled and put his head on the table. He watched the cat.

  ‘Only I had to work late so Jamie had tea round at his cousins’ house and between us we got nothing done.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To help sort things out.’

  Alexander looked bone tired. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s why you’re here.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  ALEXANDER MADE A pot of tea. I was touched that he went to the trouble of the teapot rather than simply putting teabags in mugs, and I drank my tea while he made toast for Jamie. When the boy was settled at the table, he took hold of my bag.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘This way. I’ll take you to your room.’

  I followed Alexander as he hefted my bag through a small door built into the wall of the dining room, up some narrow stairs.

  Mine was a smallish room at the back of the house, in the eaves. The ceiling sloped so steeply that I could only stand up straight by the bed-head wall. There was room for the bed and a rickety old chest of drawers with a dusty Tiffany-shaded lamp perched on top. I had to stoop to open the drawers. The window on the far side of the bed was small and square, divided into four equal panes. A cobweb stretched across the top left-hand pane and dead insects dusted the ledge. Still, somebody had made an effort. A small glass vase stood on the sill and in the vase were three roses, their petals the yellow and pink of ripe pomegranates and their scent faint, but sweet.

  ‘Will this do?’ Alexander asked, setting down my case.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said. Then a little more enthusiastically: ‘It’s lovely.’

  It wasn’t lovely though. It felt like a servant’s room. I was certain it had never been used by the family because it had a lonely, unloved feel to it and there was a faint smell of damp and must, as if the door and windows were rarely opened. I’d been hoping for something different. I didn’t know what exactly, but something better than this, something more welcoming.

  Alexander and I had spoken on the telephone several times since we’d returned to England. We had been careful with one another, avoiding awkward topics such as his wife and where she’d gone and Laurie and what he’d done, instead making practical arrangements – agreeing my wage and so on, and exploring one another’s tastes in books, music and films. I knew that he came from the West Midlands but was not close to his family; he would not talk about them at all. I also knew that his father- and mother-in-law, Genevieve’s parents, were well off and lived in a big house on a hill close by. The family fortune had come from the rock that was quarried from the heart of the hill. Alexander said the family had dug into it like a child would dig into a favourite pudding. The original Victorian quarry had been exhausted years ago, and a new, enormous, state-of-the-art one had been opened closer to the main road. I knew that it was Alexander’s job and Genevieve’s father’s fortune that had brought and kept them together, in ways I did not yet understand. We both liked Merlot but Chardonnay gave us a headache. Neither of us had a sweet tooth. We were both better at listening than talking. As such, our conversations tended to go for some time with neither of us actually saying very much. Despite this we had, I believed, achieved an acceptable level of intimacy.

  Now I was thrown into a well of insecurity and anxiety. I’d learned not to assume how life would turn out, but it scared me, this small, dark room with its sloping ceiling and its tiny window.

  Alexander scratched his
forehead. The situation was horribly uncomfortable. Coming here, so many miles from Manchester, and escaping that awful, all-encompassing emotional intensity, all those people walking on eggshells trying to avoid talking about the myriad subjects they thought might upset me, had seemed such a good idea, it had looked like the easy option. I’d never been to Somerset before, nobody knew me or Laurie or what had happened and I thought that would make it much easier for me to put it all behind me. Also, I’d been looking forward to helping Alexander and caring for Jamie.

  Instead I felt as if I didn’t belong there. Nothing felt right. It felt as if it might never be right.

  Alexander and I both looked at the bed that was to be mine. I realized that, just as I was wondering if I had made a mistake by coming, he was wondering if he’d made a worse one in inviting me. I sat down on the edge of the mattress, bouncing as if to test the springs.

  ‘It’s really comfy,’ I said.

  Alexander sat beside me and the mattress tipped me towards him. I had to clench my stomach muscles to avoid rolling into him.

  ‘Sarah,’ he said gently, ‘there are things I need to tell you. This situation … it’s more complicated than you realize. Genevieve … she …’

  I pushed my hair out of my eyes and hooked it over my ear.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to explain.’

  ‘But I have to tell you. The thing is, you’ve come from Manchester, where I guess you could pretty much be who you wanted to be. People don’t judge one another so much in cities because there are so many different kinds of people there.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Now you’re in Burrington Stoke, population less than a thousand people. Everyone knows everyone else and everyone thinks they have the right to know everyone else’s business. It’s like being part of a big family and I know that sounds cosy but it’s not always a good thing.’

  ‘You mean they’ll speculate about why I’m here?’

  ‘Just a bit!’

  I smiled shyly.

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘But you don’t know what it’s like to be the centre of attention in a place like this.’

  I shifted my weight a little and shrugged.

  ‘I don’t mind people being curious about me,’ I said.

  He shook his head. ‘You’re not the point.’

  ‘Then who is?’

  ‘Genevieve.’

  I felt a prickle of unease. I looked down at my hands.

  Alexander exhaled.

  ‘I need to tell you about her,’ he said.

  ‘OK.’

  He began to talk about his wife and, as he did so, his voice became slower and heavier and his head hung forwards and his shoulders became rounded like an older man’s. I listened as he told me about their relationship and felt as if I were being included in something huge and important.

  He told me that Genevieve was very precious to her parents because she was her mother’s only child, and her father’s only true love child. He said both her parents would do anything for their brave and talented daughter. She had, from a very early age, shown a prodigious talent for riding and this had been nurtured and encouraged. She’d had the best education, the best of everything, and the investment had paid off.

  Alexander didn’t tell me how he and Genevieve met, but he said, when they married, she was on the rebound from an intense affair. She told Alexander that she would do her best to forget the man she had been seeing, but that he was the love of her life. For a while – several years – Alexander and Genevieve had managed. But lately, their relationship had foundered. Genevieve was clearly unhappy. The two of them had begun to bicker, then argue, then fight. They kept up appearances for the sake of her family, the village, Jamie, but no matter how hard they tried, they both knew it was never going to work. Their marriage had been over for a long time before Genevieve left. He said he was resigned to her going; in a way it was a relief to him. But nobody else knew quite how bad things had become or how unhappy they were together. So while Alexander expected it, everyone else, including her parents, had been shocked when Genevieve went away.

  I stared at the old-fashioned floral pattern on the quilt and pulled at a loose thread. She was special, he said. She was the best rider in Somerset and that made her a local celebrity. Her parents were influential and respected. And because everyone felt as if they knew her, they were all concerned when she left and they were still concerned now.

  I nodded and nibbled at the cuticle of my thumb.

  ‘It’s all anyone talks about,’ said Alexander. ‘They want to know where Genevieve is and what she’s doing, why she left so suddenly. There are a lot of rumours. That’s why it’s best for everyone if, for now, we make it very clear that you’re my housekeeper and Jamie’s nanny, nothing more than that.’

  He scratched his head. The light outside was fading and the room seemed darker and colder. A black beetle scuttled between two of the huge black roof beams.

  ‘You don’t mind me telling you all this?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I replied, rather too brightly. ‘It’s best I know.’

  ‘Genevieve’s family owns most of the land around here. A lot of the people in the village are their tenants. And … well, they’re devastated.’

  ‘Doesn’t Genevieve call her parents?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She doesn’t write?’

  ‘She left letters for me and for them the day she went away. She told her parents not to worry if they didn’t hear from her for a few weeks and that she’d be in touch once the dust had settled. Since then, we’ve heard nothing.’

  ‘I expect she’ll contact them soon,’ I said cheerfully.

  Alexander didn’t smile.

  ‘We parted badly, Genevieve and I,’ he said. ‘I said some things … we both said and did some things we shouldn’t have.’

  I nodded.

  ‘You never met her so you can’t understand what she was like,’ he said, and his voice sounded terribly sad. ‘To me she was …’ He trailed off and stared at the wall as he tried and failed to find a word to sum up his feelings for Genevieve.

  ‘Why do you say “was”?’ I asked. ‘Why do you talk about her in the past tense?’

  He shrugged. ‘I meant when she was here.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  HE LEFT ME to make myself at home. I lay across the bed to reach the window, unhooked the catch and opened it. It overlooked the orchard. The very last of the sunlight stained the top leaves of the trees a brilliant gold; their branches were weighed down with apples, and mistletoe bloomed a darker green in their crooks and elbows. I could not imagine anyone wanting to leave this place nor how it would feel to own it, to have been born into it. It was so beautiful. It seemed so perfect.

  I thought I heard footsteps on the landing and the door moved a little; the metal latch tapped against the chimney breast. I turned, but nobody was there. I went over to the door to see if it was Jamie, spying on me. The landing was empty. I waited a moment to make sure he wasn’t hiding somewhere. I was certain someone was there, but nothing moved, there were no creaks or sighs. I supposed it must have been a draught from the window disturbing the door. Old houses made noises; it was their way. I knew that.

  I had promised to call May, but there was no signal on my phone. I wrote a text and held my arm out of the window, but it didn’t send. That made me feel very alone. I tried not to remember what my mother had said to me about men who isolate women. It was hardly Alexander’s fault there was no network coverage.

  I made up the bed with the linen stacked at its foot, and unpacked my bag, putting all my things into the chest of drawers. The wood smelled a little musty and I balled up the paper liners, which were damp, and as I put them in the waste basket I remembered the clothes I’d left in my drawers at home: baby clothes. I hadn’t bought much before the baby was born, because we had asked not to be told if it was a boy or a girl – we wanted to be surprised. I had anticipated the
pleasure of shopping with my new child snug against my chest in the sling, choosing clothes specifically for him – or her, if he’d been a girl. And when that pleasure was taken away, well, I’d been drawn to the infant sections of shops anyway. I spent hours in the department stores, hovering over the pale-blue jumpsuits, pretending, to myself at least, that I was a real mother. I picked up little coats and hats, tiny pairs of socks and gloves, and I’d feel the fabric, checking it was soft and warm enough for my son. Other women, clearly pregnant, looked at me. I smiled at them and they looked away. I wondered if they could tell, if they were worried I would jinx them. The assistants were kind to me, though.

  ‘It’s for my son,’ I would say as I laid my purchases on the counter to be paid for and bagged. ‘He’s so gorgeous. He’s going to look lovely in this.’ And the assistants smiled and they didn’t ask where my baby was. Nobody ever asked.

  So I bought nappies and vests, and hundreds of pounds’ worth of clothes. I filled up my drawers with baby-boy clothes and toys and, when I was alone in the house, I took the clothes out and laid them out on the bed, and I talked to my son as I held each item to my cheek.

  Laurie knew about the clothes, but he didn’t say anything; not to me anyway. But I knew he knew, because sometimes I’d catch him staring at me with concern in his eyes, as if I were an alcoholic and he’d found a half-empty bottle of vodka hidden in the laundry basket.