Annie swallowed and ran her finger around the neck of her disgusting blouse. “Well! Congratulations, indeed.”
“Oh, thank you,” I said, trying to hide the fact I was relishing Annie’s discomfort. “At first I thought I would miss living around the corner from the café, but if Tom has his way, I doubt I’ll be working there much longer.” I patted my stomach. “He wants to put the café and this little house on the market this autumn.”
Lily sauntered into the room and Annie’s body sagged with relief.
I gave Lily an optical sweep; the gypsy skirt was too long, the linen shirt too baggy.
Lily nodded at Annie.
Annie rubbed her hands together. “Hi Lily. Right! I just wondered if either of you recall seeing Amelie in the café on Friday.”
Lily shrugged.
Maybe, but I couldn’t say for sure.
I shook my head.
Annie paused then gave a thin smile. “Ah well. Don’t worry, I’ll show myself out. By the way, you look lovely, Lily.”
When I heard the front door close, I turned to Lily. “Well done.” Lily’s face remained devoid of expression and she turned away. Lily went back upstairs. There was a slam then the dull, thud, thud, thud as her music reverberated through the ceiling.
She was cross with me because I had halved her dose last night and she had suffered for it. I had sat there in the corner of her bedroom and watched my sister writhe around, kicking off the sheets, murmuring and fretful as she played out her nightmare. What the selfish bitch didn’t understand was that, although I had to punish Lily for her disobedience, I was the one who really suffered not her. She would never be able to comprehend what I’d lost or how my heart split in two each time I heard her voice; a most cruel reminder of my beloved.
Chapter Seven
Lily
It was Monarchy Day and there we were in the middle of a field which was supposed to be the place where King Charles I watered his horses after he was defeated at the battle of Naseby, long before the reservoir was flooded. The well was so far from picturesque that ramblers often missed it completely. Imagine a fairy tale well; circular brick walls with dainty wooden bucket swinging from a slate roof – now scrap that: King Charles’ Well was a sunken rectangle of green slime, surrounded by a mesh of wire and avoided by all living creatures. Once a year, in June, the villagers came together to dance around it and give thanks for our blessed monarchy before peeling back to the other pub in the village – aptly named, The King’s Head.
Grace was dressed as though she was attending Royal Ascot. She wasn’t a natural at marrying the right appearance to the right occasion – I sometimes wondered if she could see colours at all. She had picked her outfit straight out of her latest catalogue. The original model was wearing a fascinator with magenta plumes but even Grace, despite her missing link to reality, was aware that this was a bridge too far and instead had tied a black ribbon around her straw gardening hat.
Grace was acting her part to the fullest and this particular episode was worthy of an Oscar nomination. Every movement and utterance was designed to be seen and approved of; if she could have given this sketch a title it would be a match made in heaven. She liked to think that all eyes were upon her as she fluttered around the field, shaking out the picnic blanket which smelt of chemicals. Tut! Tut! She hadn’t thought to iron out the tell-tale creases which showed the rug was a recent purchase and that we didn’t usually picnic with such panache. Grace was laughing, her speech too loud and high-pitched; pass the napkins, darling and other such nonsense.
Meanwhile, every other thought of mine was perforated with worry. Even with my back turned, I could envisage the rickety pier stretching out towards the glittering water; Amelie’s body snagged up in the weed beneath.
Tom came rambling across the field and Grace, catching a glimpse of his gangling frame, went running towards him like something out of the Sound of Music; freshly dyed, copper mane streaming behind her, floaty dress billowing in the breeze. She kissed her fiancé full on the lips causing Mrs Nayler, who was laying out her tatty old plastic ground sheet next to us, to coo something about young love.
Then I saw Flo and despite half my brain being in shadow, I couldn’t help breaking into a smile. For some inexplicable reason, Flo was dressed in full morris dancer attire.
“Don’t you dare,” said Flo. She threw herself down next to me, jingling as she did.
I bit my lip and allowed my gaze to wander up and down her entire outfit before giving one of the bells on the hem of her knickerbockers a rattle, producing a good solid top C.
Flo raised her knees into a bridge and buried her head in between so all I could see was her fair hair which she had scraped back into a short ponytail and tied up with ruby ribbon. I patted her between her shoulder blades.
“Bloody Dad volunteered me,” she said, talking to the blanket.
I held my phone under the bend of her legs.
I think you look lovely.
“Piss off. I’m meant to be meeting up later with Steve and the band. I can’t do that looking like this.”
You can go back and get changed as soon as it has finished.
Flo sighed. “Apparently Amelie was due to do the stupid fucking dance around the well and because of her being missing and all that, they were going to call the whole thing off. But Amelie’s Dad didn’t want them to because he thought Amelie wouldn’t want them to, so Dad said I’d step in.” She sucked in her breath.
I carried on stroking and patting her back as though she was a toddler I was trying to calm down after a major tantrum.
“I even had to go to a rehearsal first thing this morning. You wouldn’t think it was hard to join hands and move around in a circle, but I managed to fuck that up. I actually tripped and pulled a couple of old dears down with me.”
It was too much and my body started shaking with bottled laughter. Flo felt the tremors and tipped her head on one side, left ear glued to her kneecap. Her cornflower eyes darkened, but after a few seconds of holding my gaze, the edges of her mouth twitched. “It’s sooo not funny.”
I nodded, my vision cloudy with tears.
I especially like the ribbons around your ankles. It’s a good look.
“Hi Lily,” said Tom sitting down next to me and taking up the rest of the blanket with his long limbs. He stared at the overflowing hamper. “My goodness, Grace, you’ve done us proud.”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” Grace beamed, tapping Tom’s thighs until he tidied them away into a cross-legged position. She clapped her hands together. “You do the champers, darling and Lily you hand out the plates please.”
All around there was the rustle of people unwrapping parcels of food or prising the lids off plastic tubs.
Annie walked past swinging a jute bag, bottle of Dr Pepper peeping over the brim. She was deep in conversation with a tall, unshaven man who was carrying a beach towel under his arm.
“Hey!” called out Flo. Tom waved.
Annie gestured for her companion to continue on without her. She came over and stood in front of us, blocking out the sun. “I hear congratulations are in order.” Tom opened his mouth to say something then snapped it shut.
“Sandwich anyone?” said Grace, placing the perfect triangles in a central position.
“What are they?” asked Flo, wrinkling her nose at the smell.
“Smoked salmon.”
Flo sighed.
Annie put her hands on her hips. “Don’t worry. I know for a fact that Grace has made you your own special ham ones.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed as Flo rummaged around in the hamper.
“I can’t find them,” said Flo.
Grace cleared her throat. “They…they must have fallen out.”
“How odd,” said Annie, raising an eyebrow. “Flo, you’re welcome to come and have one of my corned beef ones.”
Flo shrugged. “Ah, thanks Annie, but you’re alright. I’ll beg a sarnie off Stella – she’s bound to have marm
ite or something else normal.” She rose to her feet and sauntered off with Annie in tow. Stella, clapping eyes on Flo’s outfit, laughed as though she were a crow caught fast in a trap.
Grace cast her gaze to the ground. “Sorry, Tom. I can’t think where those pesky ham sandwiches have got to.”
He waved his hand across the open basket. “Don’t be sorry. This is amazing. Thank you so much.” He opened the champagne and the cork, as it left the bottle, gave out a loud pop and flew into the air. He winked. “I’m getting a taste for this, aren’t you?” Grace held up her bottle of Perrier. “Oh! That was a silly thing to say,” he added, slightly shame-faced. He poured the frothing, pink liquid into the glass goblets and, dressed in his cream linen suit, it would have been easy to mistake him for a character out of The Great Gatsby.
“Any more news about…?” Grace widened her eyes and licked her lips.
Tom shook his head but leaned in. “What the head, Ms Phibbs, has told me,” he whispered, “on the q t, is that the police are almost certain there was a boy involved. Sounds like she’s gone off with him, whoever he might be. Apparently, they found a burner phone in her locker at school. It appears that was how they communicated. They are trying to trace the other number as we speak, but they think the device is most likely switched off.”
Grace swallowed and gave an involuntary shudder. Tom patted her arm and gave a sympathetic sigh, but, if he had looked closer, he would have noticed her pupils had dilated, reducing her irises to slivers of lime.
Grace sighed. “What a silly girl! But,” she tilted her head on one side, “I do know how it feels to be hopelessly in love.”
Tom gave her a peck on her nose before taking a huge bite of sandwich.
The field was filling with a rainbow assortment of chairs and blankets whilst loud chatter, buzzing and laughter drifted up into the hazy blue sky. The pale, white sun burned fierce behind a sheen of fluffy clouds but thankfully there was a gentle breeze. Every so often the stench of stagnant well water wafted across the clumpy grass, mingling with Grace’s coconut sun lotion. Someone had put red, white and blue bunting around the wire which surrounded the well and the triangular flags slapped against the corner posts like waves lapping against the shore. Lining the edge of the field nearest to the village stood a row of horse chestnuts, their blossom like hundreds of upside-down wedding cakes.
Flo returned to base camp, dusting flakes of pastry from her top. Grace and Tom had finished eating and she was sitting, her back leant against his chest with his knees either side, like she was reclining in a comfy armchair. Tom kissed the top of her head then rested his chin on her shoulder.
The sound of a gong cut through the noise and people sat up and re-positioned themselves so they were facing the well. The mayor buttoned up his scarlet jacket and picked up his tri-cornered hat which he’d been using to stand his wine bottle upright. Mrs Mayor helped winch him to his feet.
From varying positions throughout the field, all those in white knickerbockers, Flo included, rose to their feet and picked their way through the sheep droppings towards the well. Flo’s jaw was set.
“Break a leg,” said Tom and Flo mumbled something unrepeatable.
A tall man with a snowy handlebar moustache picked up a drum and held it above his head. He nodded at a plump, pink-faced woman who raised a flute to her lips. Then three women started singing a jolly tune about a frog and someone called Roly which made no sense, but which Tom hissed was all about King Charles. Meanwhile, the jingling white-walkers linked hands and circled the rectangle, stopping every ten steps to clap their hands and bang their knees before re-grouping to move in the opposite direction.
Flo’s face flushed maroon with embarrassment. I filmed the whole thing with my phone. The local newspaper was there too so no doubt tomorrow she would find herself on the front page of The Rutland Chronicle. It should have been hilarious, but I kept thinking about how it should have been Amelie there dancing around the well, not Flo, and the champagne burned an acidic trail down the back of my throat.
Next, the Mayor and some grey-haired woman with a large, wooden cross around her neck kissed the long stick she was carrying.
“Today we give thanks for our blessed monarchy,” she called out in a reedy, high-pitched voice. “As this well gave King Charles’ horse sustenance in its time of need, so we give thanks for our life-giving water and pray that it will ever flow eternal and quench the thirst of all those who should desire it. Please join me all for a few minutes’ silence to offer up our own prayers for the Queen.”
Just the thought of drinking from that well made me gag. In years gone past, the vicar had to draw a cup of gloop from the stagnant pond and actually swallow it. I bet the last one to do it died of typhoid.
The woman bowed her head, kissed the stick again then poked it into the well. There was silence, then from the shore of the lake came a piercing scream.
Chapter Eight
Flo
I stumbled through Lily’s front door and we spent a couple of minutes scrabbling around turning on every single light switch. The house smelt of lavender pot-pourri and public swimming pools. I had never seen such a clean and tidy home – unrealistic standards for me and Dad to keep up with when we all moved in together. I mean – there was literally no clutter anywhere. No photos either; just a few black-and-white nature prints – the sort you’d find in a show home.
I couldn’t get the dreadful image of a dead body out of my mind and I’d been grateful for Lily’s silence on the way over. I didn’t want or need to add anything to Stella’s endless stream of possibilities about what we’d just seen.
A body. A dead body washed up onto the shore of the lake.
After the police had taken down names and addresses, the crowds, stunned into a spooky silence, trailed back towards the village. The smell of the charring hog roast and crispy crackling, waiting for us at the King’s Head, made my stomach turn. The sad twangs of a bass guitar drifted into the sky as the band, unaware of what had just happened, continued with their sound check. But, regardless of my stupid morris dancer outfit, I was no longer in the mood for trying to catch Steve’s attention. The whole thing would be cancelled out of respect anyway, although the pub said it would remain open for those locals in need of something to calm their nerves.
That’s when Dad begged Grace and Lily to stay the night: Grace in the spare room and Lily on an inflatable mattress in with me. It was weird that they didn’t stay over more, but I reckoned one of the reasons was because Grace was hung up about what the older women in the village thought of her – she didn’t want them to think she was a slag. I also knew about Lily’s night terrors and all the pills she had to take to keep her dreams in check and Grace never ever let her go on sleepovers, not that she got many invites.
While Lily creaked around upstairs, packing an overnight bag for her and her Mum, I raided the cupboards. Five or so minutes later Lily came back into the kitchen. She was pale – her eyes red rimmed.
“Where does your Mum keep the booze?” I asked.
Lily pointed to a corner shelf underneath a neat row of cookery books.
“Oh!” The so-called spirits consisted of a startling violet liqueur, an almost empty bottle of sweet sherry and an evil-smelling cooking brandy. I did eeny-meeny-miney-moe then picked up the brandy along with a couple of tumblers. I sat down at the kitchen table and poured a generous measure for each of us, pushing a glass towards Lily. Lily sniffed at it and wrinkled her nose.
I gave her arm a gentle punch. “It is good for shock.” Just then my phone rang, and I jumped, sloshing brandy over the rim. Lily grabbed a cloth from the sink and mopped up the spillage. “For God’s sake, Dad. Yes, we’re on our way.” I dropped my phone onto the table and knocked back what was left in my tumbler before pouring myself another double helping. It tasted disgusting.
“How in the hell do you think she got there?”
We don’t know for sure it’s Amelie.
Lily pinched
her nose and took a sip of brandy.
“Stella saw her, you know.” I was still wearing my morris dancing outfit and the bells jingled as I ran my fingers through my greasy hair. “Well, she didn’t exactly see her, no one did, but she said there was definitely a foot, bursting out of the corner of the bag.”
Lily’s skin was almost green, and she took a bigger gulp, dark eyes staring at the bottom of her glass.
I stood up and paced around, the soles of my dumb-looking leather slippers slapping against the lino. “It’s got to be murder hasn’t it? I mean she was all wrapped up. And what do you reckon – someone local? I mean, to put her there a few days before Monarchy Day was either really stupid or really nasty.”
Or they didn’t know the importance of the well.
I patted my stomach. “No. My gut tells me it was planned. Someone wanted to shock the whole community. I mean, half the county was there.”
Lily drained her drink and I poured her another which she downed. A pulse flickered at the corner of her left eye.
“It’s really shaken Dad. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so upset. He never talks about his students, but I guess he must be close to them – I mean he sees them every school day. You can’t help getting attached, can you?” I thought of the time I’d gone into the classroom without knocking and found him with his arm around her. They hadn’t seen me, and I’d made a quick exit. There was nothing in it, I knew that. I did.
The phone rang again. “Alright,” I shouted. “Yes. Yes. We’re leaving now.”
When we got back to Spinney Cottage we went in through the back door and straight into the kitchen – Dad only ever turned the Aga off if there was a worldwide drought, so it was currently leaching heat. The kitchen table, tucked into the alcove under the bay window, had a half-empty bottle of whisky plonked in the centre. Dad’s upper body was stretched across the painted pine surface, head cradled in his hands. Grace was leaning against the oven; pink cheeks to match her dress.
The Cry of the Lake Page 5
