Just as the russet sky turned to indigo, I fell into a deep, natural and dreamless sleep with not a mermaid in sight.
It was Grace who woke me the next morning. She had dirt ingrained under her fingernails and there were dark bags hanging under her eyes, but, despite her haggard appearance, she was grinning. She untied my hands and pulled me to my feet.
“Time to get you home,” she said, her voice too cheerful. I glimpsed the steel in her amber eyes and an ache of dread seeped into my stomach. She was up to something.
“It’s just the three of us now.” She linked arms with me. “Oh!” she giggled. “That’s obviously not including our four-legged friend, Tiggy.”
She led me through a storage room, the walls of which bulged with fishing equipment, and into what appeared to be summer hut set on two levels. On the upper mezzanine floor lay an old mattress and a sleeping bag and on the lower deck sat an armchair and next to it a small table littered with empty crisp packets and crumpled cans of beer. This must have been Grace’s home for the past few days.
She opened the front door of my prison and the bitter scent of algae filled my lungs whilst tiny flies tickled my face. As we descended the steep steps onto the gravel bank, I heard sloshing and tapping. I turned and, peeping through the rungs, I spied a wooden rowing boat bobbing up and down on the surface of the dark water, its snout knocking against the stilts as though bursting to get out of its pen.
Grace was in a hurry and marched me along a tangled dirt track which fanned out into an overgrown lawn dotted with tall poppies. At the far end of the garden, beneath a cluster of fir trees, stood a tumbledown cottage which was cloaked in shadow.
“This is our new home.” Grace squeezed my arm. “What do you think?”
I stared at the crumbling bricks, crooked chimney and moss-carpeted roof.
It was dismal.
I blinked and forced my mouth into a smile.
“We knew you would love it.”
We. My heart sank into my stomach and Frank’s face simultaneously popped into my thoughts. Frank. Was the reason for Grace’s happy mood the prospect of us all playing happy families together?
We made a path through the dewy grass and went into the cottage through the back door and straight into a boot room. The smell of hoof oil made my nose twitch. Grace ushered me past the rows of Barbour jackets and wellington boots before pushing me across a narrow corridor and into the downstairs bathroom.
“Give me a shout when you’ve cleaned up and I’ll show you to our bedroom.”
I turned around and almost jumped two foot in the air – there ahead of me was a glass container and inside it a stuffed fox – its mouth open, as though mid-scream; yellow marbles instead of eyes. I shuddered and peeled off my damp clothes, discarding them across the linoleum. I turned on the shower and stepped behind the curtain, trying to prevent its mildewed hem from grazing my ankles. As the hot water pounded against my skin, I scrubbed the dirt away with soapy lather until my flesh was pink.
There was a loud knock on the door. I held my breath. Please don’t let it be Frank.
“Come on dearest,” said Grace in a sing-song voice.
I wrapped myself in the fresh towel laid out for me and when I emerged from the steamy sanctuary Grace took me past another cabinet, containing a dead owl perched on a stick, and showed me into a bedroom.
“This is where we are all going to sleep. Now, hurry and get dressed then join us outside for tea on the lawn.”
All the inner warmth from yesterday had disappeared.
There had never been a guardian angel. I was simply losing my mind.
I stared at the double bed and my stomach bubbled.
On top of the patchwork quilt was laid out a selection of strange, old-fashioned clothes: underwear, a navy gymslip, white blouse, white socks and shiny patent black shoes.
My fingers trembling, I put on the clothes and turned to stare at myself in the mirror on the wardrobe. “You’re okay,” I whispered, surprised to find my voice was still there and hadn’t vanished along with my protector. Maybe I could make a run for it. Shout for help. But if they caught me, that would be the end – I’d never be able to help Flo clear her father’s name.
I re-traced my steps through the boot room and stood on the threshold looking out. Grace was busy arranging furniture and crockery at the bottom of the garden. As soon as she saw me, she beckoned me over. I forced my body forwards and she greeted me with an air kiss before pointing to a plastic chair with a scarlet cushion on top.
“Do be seated.” She sat down on the opposite chair. On top of the cushion on the third chair sat a rectangular chocolate biscuit tin. I went to move it onto the table with the rest of the pastries, but Grace smacked my hands away.
There was a loud woofing and from out of the undergrowth scampered Tiggy. I squinted into the woods behind her, fully expecting to see Frank lumbering into sight, but he didn’t emerge.
“I went to get all of these goodies this morning.” She pointed to a bike leaning up against a gate in the fence then turned her face to the box. “We were just saying how lucky I am to have transport. Isn’t that right, dearest?”
I stared at her bright cheeks and then at the tin of biscuits.
I needed to know where Frank was but wasn’t ready to share my voice with her yet.
As if she could see into my mind she said, “Uncle Frank has gone. We won’t be seeing him again.”
Relief flooded my body, but was swiftly replaced by an uneasy prickling at the back of my mind. If there was no Frank then what was with the three chairs? I held up three fingers.
Grace leaned across to the biscuit box on the cushion and patted its lid. Perhaps there was a small creature inside; a tortoise or hamster. Butterflies started to flap their limp wings inside my belly. There was something very wrong going on here.
“Darjeeling?” I nodded. Grace made a fuss of lifting the teapot high and pouring the golden liquid into the china from a great height. “We like it with lemon, don’t we?” she said to the biscuit tin and nodded her head several times. “But Cassandra takes it with milk.”
She passed me a cup and saucer and pointed to the plate of cakes – Bakewell Tarts with thick icing and half a glacé cherry stuck in the middle like a clown’s nose. “I got them for you. I know you like them.”
I didn’t. She didn’t know what I liked, but I picked one up and took a small bite, icing instantly gluing itself behind my front teeth.
My mind felt as though someone had tipped a cloud of fog into it. This person in front of me wasn’t recognisable.
A loud ‘hello’ from the far end of the garden made Grace spill tea over the rim of her cup. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth followed suit.
“Stay here,” she hissed through clenched teeth. I wasn’t sure if she was talking to me or Tiggy.
She marched across the lawn and I strained my eyes to see who our visitor was.
It was a slim woman wearing smart jeans and a fitted jacket. I couldn’t make out her features because she had on a baseball cap and dark glasses, but there was something familiar about the way our caller carried herself. The woman appeared to be upset about something; she was waving her arms about her head and pointing.
Aware that Grace’s attention was elsewhere, my curiosity got the better of me and I snatched up the tin and lifted the lid.
Inside was a skull, nestled on a navy velvet cushion.
In my fright, I dropped the box and the skull tumbled onto the grass. Tiggy yapped with delight and sank her teeth around the nasal cavity. I tried to seize it back from her, but the silly creature thought I was engaging in a game of tug-of-war and clamped hold of it tighter.
Before I knew what was happening, Tiggy, now victorious, went tearing across the lawn to show off her prize.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Flo
“For God’s sake, Mum,” I said, holding the phone away from my ear. “Would you calm down a sec and tell me what you just said again.
” I sat up and downed the glass of water by my bed – my mouth tasted disgusting after last night’s jalfrezi.
“I just bumped into Cookie.” She sounded like she was walking somewhere fast and air crackled through the receiver making it hard to work out what she was saying.
“Who’s Cookie?” I forced myself out from under the duvet. I padded barefoot into the kitchen and squinted at the clock on the far wall. It was eight thirty in the morning and, until my phone had rung a few minutes ago, I’d thought Mum was still in the flat.
Maybe she’d gone to that lovely deli two streets down for croissants.
“Cookie is Frank’s housekeeper at Toad Bungalow. Well, I say housekeeper,” continued Mum, “even though she doesn’t seem to do anything more than rinse a few teacups and shake a mop across the floor.”
I switched my phone onto loud-speaker and stuck it on the draining board. I reached up to the super shiny coffee machine set into one of the overhead cupboards and flipped out the water jug.
“So,” said Mum, “it turns out that Frank has got his relatives staying with him in his horrible little shack.”
“And that’s bad because?” I clattered around, searching the fridge for a packet of coffee. Last night’s leftovers smiled at me from their Tupperware box. It wasn’t a good idea. I knew I shouldn’t…
“It’s bad because I didn’t even know he had relatives.”
I grabbed a teaspoon and dived into a heap of pea paneer. It was even more delicious cold.
“Florence? Can you hear me?”
“Hmmm. Well, it could be worse, they could be staying with us here in Chelsea. At least he’s bundled them off to the country.”
I heard a bell ring followed by chattering. “Soya latte double shot.”
“Mum what’s going on?” I swallowed another spoonful of last night’s take-away and flicked on the coffee machine. I would start my healthy eating routine tomorrow. I wondered what Lily would say if she could see me eating curry for breakfast. If only she would get in touch. Let me know she was okay.
“But why didn’t he tell me about them? Yes, double shot. I mean, he’s always said he’s completely alone in the world. Why lie? I mean, if he’s lied about that what else has he lied about? Contactless.” More scuffles and a pinging sound. “Apparently they’re the daughters of Frank’s dead sister.”
“Hang on.” I repeated the connection in my head. Something didn’t sit right. Grace and Lily had lied about their pasts too – was that just a coincidence? “Know anything else about them?”
“She died when the youngest one was only two and then the father died twelve years ago.” She whispered something, but I couldn’t make it out.
“What?” I squashed coffee powder into the handle and wedged it under the head.
“Suicide,” said Mum in a loud whisper. “Frank’s brother-in-law had been caught up in some sort of scandal. His name was James Buchanan and he was an MP – I vaguely remember the name. According to Cookie his death was all hushed up for the sake of the children, but she says there was a history of mental illness which ran in the family and unfortunately Buchanan seems to have passed the loopy gene down to the girls.”
“Muuuum. Seriously?” The light on the machine blinked green and I hunted around in the cupboards for a mug. All the crockery in the apartment was snow white – not a cheesy slogan to be seen. I wondered where the mug I’d bought her for Christmas had ended up: the one with Keep Calm and Carry On Shopping printed on it in capital letters.
“Maybe he didn’t tell you out of embarrassment,” I said. “I mean his generation are pretty shit at talking about mental health stuff.”
“But where have they been all these years? Cookie said she thought they may have been in a special school. Perhaps they are transitioning.”
“Oh my God. Did you really just say that out loud? That’s really not the right word, Mum.” I pulled the lever so the coffee trickled out, filling the room with a gorgeous nutty smell.
“You know what I mean though. Perhaps they are using Toad Cottage as a half-way house.”
Thankfully the phone went dead.
I went into the sitting room and curled up on the massive sofa. I took a sip of coffee and scrolled though my music until I found Friday I’m In Love. Then I sat back and gazed out of the French window at the treetops; a narrow branch wobbled as a couple of grey squirrels bounced across it.
Where the fuck was Lily?
I decided to scribble down some of my thoughts. I grabbed my bag and pulled out a notebook and, as I did, Lily’s toy mermaid fell out too. I held it in front of my face and its shimmering tail crackled. As I moved my hands over it, I felt something hard wedged down the back of its body. I flipped the doll over and slid my fingers behind the join where the mermaid’s velvet tummy changed into a sequinned tail. I pulled out a faded photo and my fingernail caught on a large clump of fluffy Blu Tac squashed onto the back, I guess where it had been tacked up on a wall. Two girls; one a plump teenager with short white hair, the other a much younger child with gaps between her front teeth. Shit! It was Grace and Lily – but how could that be – Grace was far too young-looking in this picture to be a mother. I turned the picture over and on the back was written: To my dearest Emily, long time, no see, Uncle Frank.
My heart pounded against my rib cage. Were they the nieces staying at Frank’s cottage? Mum always rolled her eyes at the mention of Toad Cottage and was very quick to moan about the state of it. In fact, Mum had only ever stayed there once because it was close to a dinner party both of them were going to. Never again. According to her, the cottage, actually a bungalow, wasn’t one of those chocolate-box thatched ones with roses around the door. It was damp and full of stuffed animals and all the furniture looked like it had been bought from an old people’s home. It smelt of cabbages and wee.
Mum told me that one of the rooms in Toad Cottage was piled high with boxes of Frank’s memorabilia and, apparently, he’d gone ballistic when he found her poking around in it. I wondered what he’d do if he found out she’d used some of his crap in a couple of her sculptures. With a bit of luck, he’d have a heart attack.
But Mum wasn’t a fool. Both Frank Fanshawe and Nina Jackson had pasts they would rather not drag up. Mum was always going on about how a marriage only worked if a husband and wife had loads of time apart and she often went away for weekends with her girlfriends. Mum’s favourite catchphrase was past lives have no business in the present. This kind of pissed me off because I was very much a part of her past life, although she swore it didn’t include me. Since she and Frank had got hitched, she’d been bugging me to come and live with them and kept banging on about how Frank had never got the chance to have a family of his own and how delighted he was to have a stepdaughter. So, I suppose I had to agree with Mum; hiding young, female relatives was an odd thing to do.
My phone rang again.
“So, Frank has nieces, Mum,” I said, trying to sound bright and cheerful even though I was feeling on edge. “Maybe they’re nice. Do you… er, know anything else about them?”
“Well, they certainly aren’t nice. Cookie said that the older niece gave her the sack. Just like that. No warning or anything.”
“Surely only Frank can do that?”
“That’s exactly what I said. I told her that it wasn’t up to them, but Cookie said Frank had gone abroad and left them in charge and the older girl said she didn’t have any need for her. And, get this, she told Cookie that the cottage actually belonged to her and her sister.” Ah! That’s why Mum was so pissed off.
I remembered Lil’s message in the hotel bathroom. We used to have a different life.
I closed my eyes, desperately trying to get my thoughts straight in my head. “Wait! Frank’s gone abroad? But he wouldn’t go away without telling you first, would he?”
“Of course not. It’s absurd and I’m on my way there now to get to the bottom of this whole thing. Maybe Cookie has got herself muddled up about what they actually sai
d. Either way, I shall remind them who is really in charge.”
Lily’s pale and anxious face sprung into my mind. “Be careful though, Mum. Don’t go barging in and upset them.”
Mum tutted. “Right. I’ve arrived at the gate.” I heard a car door slam. “Keep the meter running. This won’t take long. Good God this place is revolting. Everything is overgrown with weeds – even the air smells of decay. Why he didn’t cherry-pick the penthouse for himself simply beggars belief. The signal will give out in a minute, Frank has no understanding about the need for broadband so be warned. I’ll see you later, right?”
“No, Mum. Remember, I’m meeting a friend today and I’m not sure when I’ll be getting back.”
The line went dead.
I was relieved. Okay, so I wasn’t lying about the friend, but I wasn’t telling the truth either. A bit more probing by Mum and I might have blurted out that I was meeting Annie at Redding Station. We were going together to see Dad and just the thought of going inside a prison was making me jumpy – I had no idea what to expect. Also, Dad had no idea I was coming because, so far, he had refused to see me. Annie had only managed to get me a visiting slot because of her police status; they were under the impression she was asking Dad a few questions and that I needed to be present to clarify things. My conversation with Annie to get me inside had consisted of me crying, then begging, then crying again. In the end, Annie, although it ‘was against her better judgement’ told a white lie to get Tom to agree. But I really did need to see him now. I had to ask him what he knew about Uncle Frank and his estranged nieces and why had he never thought to mention that Lily used to be his patient.
I tried Mum again, but there was no answer. I put it out of my mind; the taxi driver was waiting for her; what was the worst that could happen? Most likely no one would answer the door.
After I showered and dressed, I still had an hour spare before I needed to get to the station. I made myself another mug of coffee which I took into the sitting room. I sat back on the sofa, opened up my laptop and typed James Buchanan MP into the search engine. Nothing much came up on him apart from one article about his retirement from public life. At the bottom of the paragraph was a headshot of James wearing a pinstriped suit with a perfectly knotted silk tie. I’m ashamed to admit, I thought he was quite fit – if a little boring looking with wavy black hair, dark brown eyes and chiselled cheekbones.
The Cry of the Lake Page 17
