by Jay Howard
~~~
It was a beautiful bright morning, a most auspicious start to her new life. Daphne closed the front door, the last time she would ever do so. She hadn’t felt so light of heart since her wedding day, and drew in deep lungfuls of crisp, narcissi-scented air with a big smile. She touched her face lightly, suddenly realising how unused to the feel of smiling she’d become. Soon someone very special would smile back at her; they would share smiles and laughter and all the good things life had to offer that she would provide.
Sale of the house had been easy. She’d certainly had enough practice. Her father had bought her the first house, insisting only her name went on the deeds. After that Ron had found it was easier for him to have it that way. All he had to do was say, “We’re moving the month after next to xyz,” and leave her to cope with it all: the estate agents, the solicitors, the packing, removal and utilities. Yes, she had it all down to a fine art, knew all the tricks to make it happen fast and smoothly.
She waved as the small removal lorry rolled off the driveway, taking her personal treasures to a storage facility several hundred miles to the north. Her plan had called for a clean break, but there were things her parents had left her, things she felt a great attachment to, that belonged in her new home when she was ready for them. I’ll just have to be careful how and when I retrieve them.
For the first time she saw their frequent moves in pursuit of Ron’s career as an advantage; it meant she knew intimately many towns and cities in which to lay false trails, a web of deception to prevent, or at least hinder, him ever finding her again. Daphne had no doubt he would try to track her down, at least in the early days, to force her to give up her evidence, but he’d always underestimated her. He would be hampered in the search by his own certainty that he was cleverer than she was, and by the demands of his oh-so-important career. He might not even believe she had the documents which would destroy his reputation, or choose to think that she would never release them. He saw her as meek, pliant to his will, and she would have remained so if…
She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, pulled her mind back to the task in hand. It was time to use her formidable organisational skills on her own behalf.
The Man with a Van she’d hired had been most helpful, following without comment her instructions about what was to go in bin bags, destined for the tip. He’d stuffed them in the van around the electrical goods without even what her mother would have called ‘a queer look’. No doubt he’d seen similar situations before and might well decide to sell them on, but such a possibility, or even probability, was of no concern to her. Another van owned by the Red Cross charity shop in town had taken other things she didn’t want or need.
She paused to listen to the birds competing with each other in their early spring mating calls but decided against refilling the feeders in the back garden. She had several tasks to complete before heading off to the first of her meticulously planned destinations. Besides, the new owners would be arriving soon; there was seed in the shed if they chose to feed her saucy, squabbling sparrows. The hedges were alive with them and she mentally bid them a fond farewell as she climbed into her car.
First she delivered the keys to the solicitor and signed the final paperwork for the house sale. She went for a leisurely swim while she waited for the funds to clear then went to the bank; she wanted an overt card trail, knowing Ron would use his masonic contacts to try and uncover her whereabouts, plus plenty of cash for the covert side of her plan. She wanted him to know she was in five different cities, seemingly simultaneously, but have no warning about how or when she was moving from one to the other; rail and bus tickets would be cash purchases, as would her final move when Daphne Richards would disappear off the face of the earth and Marie-Anne Mesurier would take up residence in France.
It’s going to be a tiring week, little one, she thought as she pushed open the glass doors and entered the bank’s foyer, but then we can relax together before your birth, safe in the sunshine of our other country. As you grow up you will absorb French chic with the air that you breathe. Your very accent will have men falling at your feet, desperate to please you. But being French you will have the savoir-faire to use them, to pick and choose, to say ‘no’ until you find the right one.
She was certain it was a daughter she carried. She didn’t know why she felt so certain, and sometimes wondered if it was just wishful thinking, but from the start it had felt right to ‘talk’ to her little girl.
At the bank she was ushered through to the safety deposit box room and left there in privacy. She filled the travelling case she carried with the contents of her box, all the copies of documents she had made before Ron shredded them, carefully hoarded against just such a rainy day. Then she transferred the majority of her funds to a Swiss account she had opened ready to receive what for many people amounted to a small fortune. She was not rich by any means, but certainly the house sale and her investments had amounted to sufficient for her to raise her daughter comfortably, to pay for her to go to university and start her own life.
Ron was always meticulously polite, charming even, to people who could help him, but had mentally dismissed his wife as a nonentity, hardly noticing if she was present or not. When serving refreshments in the study or taking notes for Ron she’d paid careful attention to his conversations with his many business visitors, and those on the phone. She’d played the stock market accordingly and done rather well at it with so much insider information. Ron had no idea she kept an account separate to the joint one, had no idea she no longer needed her job to pay the bills, but she was certain his contacts would soon unearth its existence, so she left just enough in it to make him think she was still in England with a little nest egg kept secret from him.
Last stop in this town, ma petite fleur, then we’ll be on our way.
Daphne handed an envelope to the woman on the motorcycle couriers’ reception desk. “Please ensure it is delivered no earlier than 3pm, no later than 4,” she said. That would ensure he was still in the office, but too late to do much until the morning.
