In Her Wake

by Amanda Jennings

  Henry knew she meant it. She would fight this man to the death to keep this little girl – her Bella – with her. His death. Or hers. Whichever came first.

  ‘Money.’

  Henry Campbell wasn’t sure if the strangled word had come from his mouth or someone else’s, but judging by the way Tremayne snapped his head around to look at him, it must have been his.

  ‘What?’

  Unconstrained aggression had taken over Tremayne’s demeanour, replacing the shock and anger of his daughter’s rejection.

  ‘Money,’ Henry rasped again. ‘I’ll pay you. Anything you want. All you have to do is forget you’ve seen her.’ He paused, tears welling; his weakness sickened him. What kind of man had he become?

  No, not a man, he thought. You are no longer a man.

  He braced himself for Tremayne’s punch, imagined it would land in the centre of his face, maybe break his nose, perhaps his teeth, knock him flat. He imagined Tremayne would then beat Elaine until she finally gave up the child, and then he would snatch her into his arms, bundle her into his car and call the police. He was convinced it would all soon be over.

  Elaine was crying in the background now. Long, agonised wails that cut into him. ‘Don’t take her. Bella stays here.’ Then whispering through her tears. ‘Bella lives here. With me. Everything’s alright, my darling. Mama’s here. Mama’s here to keep you safe.’

  Henry saw Tremayne glance over at them, saw his brow furrow, confusion flickering over the anger in his eyes.

  Oh my God, thought Henry. He’s going to take the money.

  Then he watched Tremayne taking in the hallway, the distant sound of classical music drifting in from the radio in the kitchen. Then his body collapsed as if he was crumbling from within. Tremayne’s hands unclenched and as they did, Elaine’s crying ebbed.

  ‘Go upstairs, Bella,’ she said. Her body straightened in front of Henry’s eyes. She pulled her shoulders up, lifted her chin. ‘Quickly, angel. Mama will be up in a minute. Choose a story, yes?’

  ‘Can Tori listen to the story, too, Mama?’

  Elaine bent and planted a soft kiss on the head of the girl, who eyed Tremayne warily one last time. ‘Of course she can, darling. Run up and I’ll be there in a moment.’

  Elaine waited until the girl had run up the stairs, her legs carrying her so quickly that she had to drop her hands in front of her to balance her as she climbed; she looked like a little dog scampering up.

  ‘We can give her everything, Mark,’ Elaine said, her voice low and strong.

  Henry started to protest. No. No this had to end. He hadn’t meant to offer the money. He hadn’t expected Tremayne to say yes.

  ‘Be quiet, Henry.’

  Henry Campbell watched her step towards Tremayne with the air of an advancing predator.

  ‘We can give her everything. She will have the best life and you will have money. We can give you enough money that you never need to worry about working again. You can drink what you want, smoke what you want, as much as you want, all day long. And you can reassure yourself that you gave her the best start in life. She won’t want for anything. I will make sure she is safe forever.’

  Henry Campbell looked between his wife and Tremayne. He could see the man’s demons raging inside him, his confusion, his anger, his doubt.

  Elaine must have seen it too.

  ‘You hurt her, didn’t you, Mark? She was injured when we found her, a wound that looked like a burn, circular and deep. A cigarette, maybe? It was nasty and it scarred. And she was terrified. Underfed. She ran away from you because you didn’t treat her well, did you? Look how scared she was of you tonight. She didn’t want to come with you, did she? She doesn’t want to be with you because you aren’t capable of looking after her, are you? You let her go, Mark. You are a bad father. Unfit. If you go to the police, I will show them her scars and you will be prosecuted. Are there scars on your other child? On your wife? The odd hit when you got a bit cross, had one drink too many, but you didn’t mean it? You know, they don’t let children stay with parents who hurt them. She’ll be taken away from you and put in a home. Is that what you want for her? In care, alone, somewhere she might be hurt by strangers.’

  He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge her words. ‘No, you … you are strangers,’ he said. ‘Stop saying all these things.’ Tremayne put his hands to his temples and rubbed them hard. ‘You took her.’

  ‘No, Mark,’ Elaine said softly. She stepped closer, like an assassin ready to finish off a dying victim with a last bullet to the brain. ‘I am her mother. I am the mother she wants. You saw that, didn’t you? Did she cry for Alice? Did she call out for her? No. She wants me. Do the only good thing you can do in your miserable life and let her stay where she’s happy and safe. She needs to stay here. This is her home.’

  Mark Tremayne stood for a moment, his hands pushing against the side of his head, turning circles as his face knotted with confusion. And then he fell to his knees like a puppet who’d had his strings cut. There was no fight left in him. Henry glanced at his wife and as he did so, he caught the victorious smile that flashed across her face.

  THIRTY-SIX

  I arrive back into Penzance station and see Craig.

  The thick fog that had hugged the Cornish landscape like a shawl on the journey home turns into the heavy summer rain that Phil predicted almost as soon as I step off the train. It’s getting late and getting dark, and there are no taxis lined up waiting, so I run to the bus shelter and wait for one to show up.

  A car pulls up in the drop-off zone outside the station entrance. It’s an old blue Peugeot, a small one, a 205, I think. Inside are two people who appear to be having some sort of heated discussion, though I’m not close enough and the rain is driving through the dusky light, so it’s hard to be certain. The man looks familiar. I squint through the rain, and yes, it’s Craig.

  The other figure is a woman.

  They are turned in the car facing each other and the woman has her back to me, so I can’t see her face, but I know it’s not Dawn because this person’s hair is blonde. She appears to be gathering things into a bag, an air of irritation about her, before she opens the door and gets out. It’s clear she is young, but I can’t say for sure exactly how old she might be. Her hair is scraped into a ponytail and she has two pairs of gold hoop earrings in each ear, her skirt is hardly there and she is wearing impractical kitten heels with bare legs and a vest top that is growing transparent in the wet. I see her glance up at the sky, shake her head, then lift her bag to cover her hair ineffectively. She runs towards the station entrance. He must have called her back because she turns and after a moment’s hesitation she goes back through the rain to his car window, then bends to kiss him, before turning again and disappearing through the station doors.

  It’s as if I’ve been punched in the stomach. As if it’s me he’s hurting, not Dawn. I remind myself that I don’t know the whole story and that Dawn herself told me she and Craig weren’t together. Am I being naïve? Am I latched onto the romance of Craig and Dawn for my own benefit? To reassure myself that sometimes life is beautiful? Does the hurt of seeing him with another woman come from my own need for Craig to love Dawn? I’ve only met him twice, so maybe I am imagining the way they are with each other. The way her face lights up and her body relaxes when he’s with her. The way he looks at her when she speaks, the way they brush each other, thinking I won’t notice, a finger over a hand, a hand on a knee, a foot against a foot.

  I spend the taxi journey back thinking about Dawn and Craig and the girl with the double-hoop earrings.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  That night I think about Mark Tremayne. Going over and over the horror of what he told me. Of what he did. I don’t know whether to tell Dawn. I know I should but I can’t predict her reaction. I don’t want to upset her. Or make her angry.

  I recall what he told me. The way he described me hiding behind Elaine. I have a flash of memory. His face materialising from the shadow
s, his hand reaching out, her skin so soft and safe. I remember how safe she made me feel. And as I’m drifting off, hovering in that space between wakefulness and sleep, it’s as if somebody somewhere has turned on a switch. Like the woman in the green-and-white striped dress on the beach, a buried memory comes tumbling back. Or maybe it’s a dream. It feels like a dream.

  It’s dark and I’m scared. I’m definitely scared. And cold. I can’t feel my toes. I wiggle them, but nothing happens; it’s like they’re playing dead lions. There’s a taste in my mouth. Dirt and grit and bits of leaf, which I try to spit away but can’t. I have a graze on one knee. Crusted blood mixed with dirt. It stings. I look at my arm and see my skin is blotchy, that all the little hairs are standing tall on goose bumps. Tiny soldiers on tiny hills, I think. And then the next thing I know, I am blinking into the bright sunlight. There’s a person looking down at me. It’s a lady but her features aren’t clear. She is fuzzy, just a shape, with a glowing ring of sunlight lighting her from behind, like a perfect golden halo.

  The lady bends close and murmurs. She is smiling. She places a hand on my cheek and her touch feels velvety and familiar. She opens her arms wide and I climb into them, close my eyes, breathe her in. She smells lovely, all scrubbed and perfumed, with makeup, creams and soap. I lay my head on the lady’s shoulder and push my face into the smooth curve of her neck. She stands and begins to walk away from the cold, dirty hollow at the foot of the tree. She is talking to me and there’s a lightness to her voice that sounds like singing, and it’s the most beautiful singing I have ever heard. Magical singing that makes me feel safe.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  ‘You OK, love?’ says Phil kindly, as he hands me my coffee.

  ‘A bit distracted, that’s all.’ I smile and he smiles back. ‘Actually, can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘If you have a friend, a good friend, someone you love, and you know the person they love is, well, you know, seeing someone else … would you tell them?’

  ‘That’s a tough one. I can tell you from experience there’s nothing that hurts so much as knowing the person you love is mucking about. Personally, when it happened to me, I’d have given anything not to have found out, but I’m soft. I’m sure most folk would prefer to know.’

  ‘I’m sorry it happened to you.’

  Phil shrugs. ‘One of those things. I’m over it now.’

  But the look on his face says he’s anything but.

  By the time I arrive at the flat, whether or not I should mention the blonde with the hoop earrings is all I can think about.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ Dawn says.

  ‘A bit tired.’

  ‘Did you have a good day yesterday?’

  ‘It was fine.’ I think of Mark Tremayne rotting in the house in Bristol.

  You need to tell her.

  I know, I reply silently. But not now. I’ll tell her soon, I promise.

  You’re being a coward. You need to tell her about Mark Tremayne and the blonde girl with the ridiculous skirt.

  While she busies around me, fixing soup, shutting out the cat, putting the kettle on, I sit at the table and pick at the edge of my nail, trying to find the right words.

  Dawn stops wiping the table and stands looking at me, tightly balling the cloth in her hand. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Yes…’ I hesitate. ‘I’m fine.’ And with that I put both things in a box to be opened another time.

  ‘Right, well, I’m going to have a quick bath before I feed her. That OK?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll sit with her,’ I say, but she’s already left the kitchen.

  I get up from the table and walk down the corridor to Alice’s room, feeling the bite of my craven reluctance to be honest with Dawn. The stagnant depression that hangs around the bedroom hits me as soon as I open the door. It’s no wonder Alice doesn’t talk or interact when she’s confined day and night to this dingy room decorated only by a wall of wretched memories. I walk over to the wall and look at the miserable montage with those headlines screaming out at me, and suddenly, violently, I hate it.

  ‘You know, I think we should make this room a bit cheerier.’ I pat Alice’s hand. ‘The past should be in the past and you need to stop fixating on this morbid rubbish.’

  I begin to remove each article, carefully pulling the blu-tack off the wall so it doesn’t take off the wallpaper, remembering Elaine’s pathological hatred of the stuff. When I’ve cleared the area of newspaper cuttings, I look at the mermaids and hesitate.

  ‘I don’t know, what do you think? Leave them up or take them down?’ I pause. ‘There are so many of them. Too many. I think they have to go.’

  The wall looks naked when I’ve finished, just empty rectangles of lightened wallpaper where each mermaid has sat for too long and I feel a little guilty. I glance at Alice, ready to reinstate the collage if I have to, but she shows no sign of distress.

  ‘I’ll get some picture frames for a few of the nicest pictures this afternoon. They’ll look good when they’re hung properly. And now you don’t have to stare at the wall!’

  I bend down and push my shoulder against the chair. It’s not heavy and swivels easily to face into the room. With that done, I pat her hand again and then scan the room for the next thing to tackle. I am suddenly invigorated, filled with an energy I haven’t felt for a long time. When I pull back the grimy net curtain that hangs over the window, the room instantly lightens and brings the outside in. Alice’s bed needs to be swung out from the wall, I think, so I turn it, pushing the head end directly under the window. I expect to find years’ worth of dust, grime and tumbleweeds of hair and the like beneath the bed, but there’s nothing; like everything in this flat, it’s spotless.

  I stand back and assess the bed’s new position. It eats into the room a bit and you have to walk around it to get from Alice’s chair to the door, but I think it’s worth it. I take the few things – the lamp, a box of tissues, a pointless alarm clock – off the cardboard box that makes do as a bedside table and collapse it. I shove the box under the bed then move the small table from beside the bookshelf. It needs a cloth to cover the chipped melamine so I go to the cupboard in the hall to where Dawn keeps the linen and root around. At the bottom, underneath the piles of rough towels and worn sheets is a navy blue blanket. The moths have had a go at it, but it will do. It needs to be folded in half, but once on the table with the lamp back on top it looks passable. I switch on the lamp to add some cosiness and then stand back and admire my handiwork.

  ‘Look!’ I say with a pleased smile. ‘Isn’t that better? You’ll be happier in here now. I’m going to get you a few bits and pieces from town to decorate it and maybe I’ll even paint it for you on the weekend.’ I re-straighten the rug that lies over her lap. ‘A lovely buttercup yellow. And you’ll need a new curtain. That old thing’s vile.’

  I walk back down to Dawn’s bedroom and find her roughly drying her hair with a towel.

  ‘Nice bath?’

  Dawn nods.

  ‘When you’re dressed I’ve got a surprise for you in Alice’s room.’

  Suspicion settles over Dawn’s face. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’ll have to see,’ I say. Then I go back down to the bedroom, shut the door behind me and smile at Alice. ‘Don’t say a word, OK? Let’s surprise her.’

  When I hear Dawn’s footsteps, I run back to the door, open it a crack and peer at her.

  ‘What is it then?’

  Dawn couldn’t look less excited, but I don’t let that put me off. ‘Well, you know how her room’s a bit,’ I pause. ‘Dreary?’

  A look of confusion replaces the mild irritation on Dawn’s face.

  ‘Well…’ I smile then step aside and fling the door open. ‘Ta dah!’

  Dawn stands motionless.

  ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I’ve changed the room around. Made it nicer.’

  ‘Nicer?’ she says, making no attempt to hide her anger
.

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘No, you didn’t. You didn’t think. If you’d thought then you’d have left it how it was. How it’s always been.’ Her lips draw tight. ‘The bed’s blocking the way to the door. It’s going to be hard to get her out to go to the bathroom, isn’t it? And why is the lamp on?’

  ‘So there’s more light in here.’

  She walks over and turns it off.

  ‘How can she get better in the dark?’

  ‘There’s light from the window.’ She says as she draws the net across again.

  ‘But the net cuts out the light.’

  ‘It doesn’t. It’s designed to let in light but stop people from the street seeing in,’ she says, through her teeth.

  ‘She needs the light on then.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do in my home.’

  ‘I’m not telling you what to do, I’m—’

  ‘You are. You’re telling me how things should be. What do you know? What do you know about looking after someone who’s not well?’

  I usually avoid confrontation, but the sight of the net falling back across the window, reignites the claustrophobia I used to feel at The Old Vicarage and the retrospective link to my captivity seems to make me braver. ‘I know she needs light.’

  ‘Not in the daytime.’

  ‘But the room’s gloomy.’

  ‘How dare you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but—’

  ‘We don’t need the light!’

  ‘Dawn, you’re making a mistake.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s easy for you to say. I don’t think I’m making a mistake when the bills fall on the doormat each month. All I bloody care about is being able to pay them and keep her warm and fed. So if it’s alright with you, we’ll keep them off, unless you think she needs a lamp on more than she needs food.’

  ‘Let me pay the bills then!’

  Dawn glares daggers at me, before spinning on her heel and storming out of the room.