Finding Grace

by K. L. Slater

  I stand at the fence, my wild eyes scanning the sparse trees that edge the grassed area for a pink coat, a red hat.

  We came here last August, in the final few days of the school summer break, when I was about six months pregnant: me and Grace, Bev and Livvy. We packed up a simple picnic, which made us all laugh as we were still effectively on our own road.

  We spread out a tartan blanket, and we had the best afternoon sitting in the sun putting the world to rights: debating whether Mike would get his long-awaited promotion to national sales manager of the high-end kitchen manufacturer he works for; whether the community would get behind new councillor Blake; and most importantly, what sex the new baby might be.

  The girls played happily around us, weaving in and out of the trees and hiding from both us and each other.

  That was barely six months ago, and I hadn’t a care in the world.

  All I had to fret about was a dinner Blake wanted to host at home for the people who had helped run his campaign. And I can remember worrying whether, having left a shopping trip a bit late, I was going to get Grace her new school uniform in time.

  I’m aware of the noise level increasing behind me, a flurry of movement responding to authoritative voices. But I can’t break the spell.

  I stand and stare at the spot where we picnicked, and something writhes up from the bottom of my stomach. I retch and vomit at the side of the fence.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mutter, mortified with myself. ‘Sorry, I…’

  ‘Lucie?’ Bev touches my arm. ‘The police are here.’

  I turn to see two police cars behind us. Mike is helping a limping Blake across the road and back over towards us. Bev steps forward and identifies herself as the person who called in ‘the incident’, as the policeman refers to it.

  She moves next to Mike, but I watch as she reaches out to Blake, grasping his hand. They don’t say anything, just look at each other, and I can almost see the pain radiating between them.

  A police van pulls up and a platoon of uniformed officers emerge, their faces grim and focused. Their uniforms are dark; most of their faces are white. They all look the same, like a small army drafted in to help.

  I feel frozen, as if I’m standing on a flimsy platform of ice that could give way at any moment. I just can’t move.

  I watch, my throat burning with stomach acid, as Mike and Blake join Bev in talking to the officers. They all turn and glance at me, then look back at each other and nod.

  I bring the cuff of my sweatshirt up to my mouth and blot my vomit-spotted mouth.

  Blake limps over, envelops me. His arms feel cold, unyielding. I want him to stop holding me, but I can’t find the strength to push him away.

  He looks at me, his eyes pleading, his face impossibly pale and drawn.

  ‘They want us to get into the police car, Luce. They’re going to take us home.’

  ‘No,’ I say with steely determination. ‘I’m not going home without Grace.’

  ‘We have fifteen officers out here looking for her and carrying out door-to-door inquiries, Mrs Sullivan.’ The uniformed officer looks young, as if he’s just finished university. ‘And most of the local community are out too, by the looks of it. If Grace is here, we will find her.’

  If. He said if Grace is here.

  Blake reaches for my hand, grips it so I can’t easily slip away. He starts to lead me to the police car, but I stand firm.

  ‘And if she’s not here, what does that mean? Someone has taken her into a house, or driven her away in a car?’ I can’t dampen down the panic that’s filling my chest. ‘She could be on the motorway by now. She could be anywhere!’

  Suddenly I’m wailing. Pushing concerned hands away. My face is wet with tears and I’m coughing so hard it feels like I’ll rupture my windpipe.

  I can’t do it. I can’t leave this place until I find Grace.

  People surround me, in a supportive but firm manner. We’re all moving together. Hands on my back, my shoulders. Words of reassurance murmured in my ears.

  I feel weak with desperation, with rage. Sound and movement flicker in and out of my circle of attention like an ebbing tide. None of this feels real. None of this can be happening… It just can’t.

  I’m sitting down in a soft seat. I’m in the police car, and Blake slides in next to me. Doors are slammed, concerned faces line up outside the window.

  An engine starts, purrs as the car starts to move.

  We’re going home. Just Blake and me, without our little girl.

  Without our precious Grace.

  Four

  Before: Saturday afternoon

  I stood by the riding school practice field, watching as my daughter’s party guests paraded past us parents.

  I could hardly believe Grace had turned nine today. The years had passed in a blur, like a long car journey where people and buildings seemed to merge together and lose their sharp detail as you watched them from the window.

  My Grace was bright, clever and kind. Our world turned on her smile, and seeing her happy was as vital to me as the air I breathed.

  I took a step back from the fence and inhaled a deep breath of fresh air mixed with damp earth and the unmistakable aroma of horse manure and hay. Grace had left ball ponds and bouncy castle parties behind a while ago; yet another sign she was growing up fast.

  I smiled and waved as she trotted past on her sleek black horse, side by side with her best friend, Olivia. Both girls were perched perfectly on their placid mares. Grace’s eight other young invited guests followed in procession, supervised by the two riding school staff.

  My dad had offered to look after Grace’s baby brother, Oscar. Dad suffered from emphysema, the legacy of working in a chemical factory for nearly forty years. He put in the requisite claim after being hounded by legal companies hungry for a cut, and after nigh on two years of wrangling, he did receive a modest payout. But nothing to compensate for the restricted quality of life he now endured.

  Of all the variables that could affect his health, cold weather was the worst. He could barely walk a few steps these days before he was gasping for air. So when Grace begged for a riding party, I knew Dad would struggle to attend.

  Little Oscar was just getting over a bad cold himself, and when Dad suggested, quite rightly, that he was better off staying wrapped up warm at home while we celebrated at Grace’s party, Blake and I both readily agreed.

  Life had been busy for us, especially since Oscar came along unexpectedly, and to be honest, we’d both thought it would be nice for us to focus on Grace for a few hours on her special day.

  It sounded trite, but I did feel blessed. Two gorgeous kids and a husband who cared deeply about us all; it was honestly far more than I ever expected for myself. The empty black space inside myself felt soothed, even if it could never be fully healed.

  The horses circled again, and this time as Grace passed us, she turned slightly, her face animated with joy. The energy and passion for her beloved riding buzzed around her like an aura as she paraded in front of us, her friends and family.

  A delicious sweet scent distracted me, and when I turned around, I saw that Blake was standing there holding up two steaming mugs of hot chocolate like trophies.

  ‘There we go. And before you ask’ – he extended one towards me, his soft brown eyes twinkling with mischief – ‘I didn’t put any marshmallows in yours, so there are hardly any calories in it.’

  I grinned and accepted the mug gratefully. I didn’t mention that I’d seen the owner of the stables making the hot chocolate with full-cream Jersey milk before we went outside. I was probably about to consume an entire day’s points in the next few minutes, but after the first tiny sip, I knew it was going to be worth it.

  I’d joined an online slimming club a couple of months ago. Apart from the odd blip, I’d managed to stick to my diet, and to date, I’d lost nearly a stone. Blake had been really supportive, as he knew how steadily piling on weight over the last few years had badly affected my al
ready flaky self-confidence.

  Over the past months, I’d watched as Blake became more and more absorbed in his work. When we were invited to a black-tie ball at the Council House after Christmas, I felt a bit nervous, as I didn’t know anyone there. If I’m honest, I thought about making an excuse.

  ‘It doesn’t matter that you won’t know anyone.’ Blake had swiftly dismissed my fears. ‘I’ll introduce you to everyone, and besides, I want them all to meet my amazing wife. You have to come. No excuses.’

  I’d expected low-key, but when we got there, I’d been surprised how much effort the other female guests had put into their dresses, make-up and hair.

  I’d been forced to buy a new dress because I simply couldn’t comfortably fit into the two or three cocktail dresses I’d bought a few years ago, when I had evening corporate events of my own to go to at The Carlton. They were still hanging in the depths of the wardrobe, because I insisted on kidding myself that one day I’d get back into them.

  We’d just about scraped by for money the last few months. There was hardly anything going spare while Blake was investing in his political career, as he put it. Certainly no money allocated for a spending spree on a fancy new dress I’d probably only wear once or twice.

  I ended up ordering one in a bigger size than I’d have preferred, from an online clothing catalogue. More than I wanted to pay, but still. I opened an account to spread the cost over a few months.

  It didn’t make any difference; I still felt utterly crap at the ball. When the dress arrived a day before the event, I could just about do the zip up, but it was very much on the snug side. I felt shocked. Since Oscar’s birth, my at-home uniform had consisted mainly of stretchy leggings and tunic tops, which I jazzed up a bit with costume jewellery and high heels on the rare occasion we went out socially.

  Somehow, an additional few extra pounds had crept on over Christmas without me even noticing.

  I’d done my hair and make-up myself for the ball to save cash, although it was painfully obvious that most of the other women had pulled out all the stops to look fabulous. Worst of all, they gravitated to Blake like bees to a honey pot.

  He kept pulling me into his conversations – ‘Meet my lovely wife, Lucie’ – and they’d smile and say hello, but I couldn’t miss the disapproving sweep of their sooty false lashes, taking in my unvarnished toenails, my mismatched handbag and the way the front of my new dress pulled unflatteringly around my tummy.

  How come a man like Blake Sullivan has such a dreary wife? How has such a frump bagged a catch like him?

  I swear I could hear their judgemental thoughts as if they’d actually said them out loud.

  To be fair, I never saw Blake eyeing anyone up or flirting. Not once. He behaved impeccably, never left me on my own at all, but I still felt all chewed up inside.

  I didn’t say anything when we got home that night, but I sort of made a pact with myself to get back on track with a healthier lifestyle. Blake was working hard for all of us, and he was only human. If I didn’t make myself a better prospect, how long might it be before his head was turned?

  I returned my attention to family and friends who were clustered around the riding practice field, chatting amongst themselves and waving to the girls as they trotted past.

  As I surveyed all the bright, happy faces, a solitary figure standing near the riding school office caught my eye.

  I nudged Blake discreetly. ‘Isn’t that Jeff over there, from next door?’

  ‘Looks like him, yeah,’ Blake agreed quickly before looking away. ‘Fancy a bit of lunch tomorrow when Grace is out?’

  I narrowed my eyes, instantly suspicious at his manner.

  ‘Don’t tell me you invited him here today?’

  ‘No!’ Blake frowned. ‘Well, not exactly…’

  He was a terrible liar. ‘Oh Blake!’

  ‘I didn’t invite him to the party, OK? I happened to mention we were coming here, and he said he used to love horse riding when he was younger and he’d often wondered what it was like here…’

  ‘Save it, Blake. You basically invited him.’

  He hung his head bashfully. ‘I didn’t see any harm in it, Luce. Sorry. I told him to come and have a piece of birthday cake with us, that’s all.’

  My husband was a sucker for an underdog. According to his mother, Nadine, he’d always been the same. Good-looking, tall and sporty at his all-boys grammar school, he liked to take the new starters who were finding life difficult under his wing. Nadine once proudly told me, not long after we met, how Blake would occasionally wade in to disputes at school in order to protect the more vulnerable boys.

  ‘He could’ve made their lives a misery and joined in with the bullying, but that’s just not Blake’s way. He’s the last of a dying breed; a true gentleman,’ Nadine boasted, stroking his hair in a proprietorial way.

  He was still the same now; got a real pleasure out of putting right injustices and helping people who found it difficult to stand up for themselves. Councillor Blake Sullivan.

  It was an admirable quality most of the time, but at other times it could grate. We, his family, needed him too, and I’d have liked him to focus a bit more on us. On me.

  Jeffery Bonser was our middle-aged neighbour. When we moved into our semi-detached house on Violet Road three years ago, he’d just lost his mum.

  He became really awkward about the shared driveway at first, insisting on putting out the bins at the end when we were out at work, so we couldn’t get our car back on without having to move them. And he’d play what he told Blake was his mum’s favourite Frank Sinatra album on full blast upstairs, often until midnight, in the room right next to Grace’s bedroom.

  ‘He’s just hurting from his mum dying,’ Blake had insisted, making me feel like a witch when I suggested contacting the antisocial-behaviour department at the local council. ‘Cut him a bit of slack, can’t you? I think his heart’s in the right place, under the prickly exterior.’

  More like weird exterior, I thought at the time.

  But Blake had other ideas about how to get Jeffery onside.

  ‘He reminds me of some of the boys at school,’ he told me. ‘They’d purposely get into trouble over the silliest things. It’s a cry for attention really. He’s lonely, Luce. That’s all it is.’

  Over time, he casually befriended the man, spending a few minutes chatting at the fence when he got home from work and Jeffery just happened to be out in the front yet again.

  I heard him asking Jeffery’s advice on what to do with the overgrown garden, even though we’d discussed plans to pave over the patchy square of grass and straggly borders, favouring the easy option to keep it neat.

  Then one day, it occurred to me that the bins were no longer blocking the driveway and the Sinatra had stopped.

  Now, our neighbour seemed to see my husband as a true friend and often popped around for a chat with him… often at the most inconvenient times.

  As if he could feel our eyes on him, Jeffery looked over now from where he stood by the riding school office and raised his hand. We both waved back.

  ‘Our girl is loving the attention.’ Blake nodded towards Grace, who had just embarked on her third loop around the practice field. The horses seem to have speeded up to a canter now. ‘I’m so glad everyone got here despite the bad weather.’

  There had been a light covering of snow over the last couple of days. We lived three miles from the city, and the weather never got too extreme here, but some of Grace’s party guests had travelled down from north Nottinghamshire, where it could become pretty bleak at this time of year, and Blake’s parents had come all the way up from London, where they claimed to have had a good covering of the white stuff overnight. Yesterday it was touch and go whether they’d get here.

  ‘You’ll just need to put your big coat on to survive up north, Mum,’ Blake had joked on the phone.

  ‘I’m especially glad your parents managed to get here,’ I said archly and he shot me a stern lo
ok, tempered by a little amused twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Luciee…’ He elongated my name, admonishing me playfully. ‘Be nice!’

  I widened my eyes and took another sip of hot chocolate. ‘I’ll have you know, I’m on my best behaviour. Seriously, though, I am glad they could make it, for Grace’s sake.’

  ‘Me too. I’m hoping it might encourage them to visit us a bit more.’

  ‘Steady on. You’ll be asking your mother to approve of my parenting skills next,’ I sniped cheekily.

  Right on cue, Blake’s mother turned from her place at the splintering wooden fence and gingerly picked her way over to us, mindful of the mud spattering her glossy black court shoes.

  ‘It’s such a sweet little gathering, Lucie,’ Nadine said in the west London accent she’d adopted within weeks of leaving Nottingham six years ago when Colm, Blake’s father, retired. ‘Did I tell you that Liberty rides, too? The stables near their home in Kensington are enormous, four times the size of this place. Prince Charles actually visited them a few years ago, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I think you might have mentioned it once or twice, Nadine,’ I said, feeling Blake’s elbow nudge gently into my side. ‘Sadly, we don’t have anything remotely as grand around here, but Grace loves to ride anyway.’

  Nadine nodded and glanced back towards the field, smiling affectionately at Grace. ‘Liberty has to have all the matching gear, you know. Pink this, sparkly that, whereas dear Grace, well, she seems happy to wear anything at all!’

  Liberty was her other granddaughter; the daughter of Chester, Blake’s brother, and his wife Aisha. It was fairly obvious that Nadine saw a lot more of Chester’s family than she saw of us.

  Blake coughed. ‘The parents who come here make a point of recycling their kids’ used riding gear amongst themselves, Mum. It’s perfectly good quality, and kids grow so fast. All that fancy stuff is just a waste, in my opinion.’

  ‘Oh yes, recycling,’ Nadine murmured, as if the very concept of it baffled her.

  Blake, as a local councillor for the Green Party, was passionate about walking the talk, and environmental living was very much part of our lives. I couldn’t claim to be the world’s biggest eco-warrior, but I had managed to absorb rather a lot of climate-change facts and figures from Blake over the years, and my opinion was that there was probably something in it. Climate change, I mean. Which always made my husband laugh.