I’m falling. Down, down towards the ground. As I do I hear the voice again, loaded with venom, calling my name.
I get to my feet, my head spinning. A huge wave of nausea comes over me and I throw up on the grass. The vodka and pills come out in a disgusting chalky bile which burns my throat.
My body trembles as I pick up my bag and stagger away from the riverbank.
Part Three
* * *
52
I stand outside the house, rigid with fear. I raise my hand and knock on the door three times. Behind the glass a shadow crosses the hallway and it’s all I can do to stop myself from running away. Stay strong, I tell myself as someone turns the key on the other side of the door, you’re not a scared child any more.
She is dressed for winter in a dove-grey jacket and long silver skirt.
‘Hello, Barbara,’ I say, staring her straight in the eye. ‘May I come in?’
The colour drains from her face so that she becomes as pale as her attire. She tries to shut the door, but I put my foot in the way.
‘What are you doing?’ she cries as I step past her. ‘You can’t just barge in here like this.’
‘Like you barged into my life?’ I hiss, spinning on my heels to face her. ‘Like you appeared at the scene of the accident and then ran away, leaving my daughter to drown? I know you were there that night, Barbara, so perhaps now you can stop lying to me.’
She goes to speak and then her eyes widen, like she’s seen a ghost.
‘Barbara,’ says a voice from behind me. ‘Is everything all right?’
I turn round and see a tall, familiar figure walking down the hallway towards us.
‘Julia?’ I gasp. ‘What … are you doing here?’
‘That’s none of your business, Margaret,’ Barbara hisses behind me.
I look at Julia. She folds her arms across her chest defensively.
‘What is going on?’ I say, looking from one to the other. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I was here to discuss some work that needs doing on the house,’ says Julia, but she’s avoiding eye contact.
‘On Larkfields?’ I exclaim. ‘What’s that got to do with Barbara?’
‘She’s my … well, my landlady, I guess,’ says Julia.
‘Your what?’ I cry, turning to face Barbara. ‘What’s she talking about?’
‘I’m afraid it’s true,’ says Barbara, a sick smile appearing on her face. ‘Julia is my tenant. I really never intended for you to find out like this, Margaret, but as you’ve barged in here throwing accusations at me you’ve left me no choice.’
‘Your tenant?’ I repeat incredulously. ‘You mean you –’
‘Own Larkfields,’ says Barbara. ‘That’s correct, I do.’
I stand for a moment, unable to move, the smell of flowery air freshener clogging my lungs.
‘Listen, I should go,’ says Julia awkwardly. ‘You two have a lot to discuss.’
‘No,’ I cry, running after her as she makes her way to the door. ‘You can’t just go like that. I want to talk to you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Julia, her face flushing. ‘I really do have to go. I’m due at the surgery.’
She glances at Barbara and something passes between them.
‘I’ll see you out, dear.’
I watch as Barbara opens the door and ushers Julia out. Closing it behind her, she turns to me with a grave expression.
‘I think we should go to the kitchen,’ she says. ‘I don’t know about you but I need a drink.’
She leads the way down a set of narrow stone steps to the large basement kitchen. It’s a dark cavernous room with only a small window above the sink to let in light. The walls are exposed brick and are covered with oil paintings of pastoral scenes. Barbara’s ‘other’ kitchen, the one she uses to entertain, is on the ground floor if I remember correctly. My mother had been so envious of it. This basement kitchen had been the staff quarters, though now it looks rather neglected. I suppose, with Harry gone, the days of Barbara’s elaborate entertaining are over. I haven’t been here since I was a child. I grimace as I recall hiding in the pantry down here during the games of hide and seek Ben and I used to play. I’d found the place oppressive back then and it feels even more so now as I sit down at the large wooden table.
‘You’ll have a cup of tea, Margaret,’ says Barbara as she lights the stove.
It’s more a statement than a question. I don’t respond. Instead I think about Julia. How can she have kept this from me, knowing the distress I was in? And her body language with Barbara just now was very strange; it was like she was scared of her.
‘Here,’ says Barbara, placing a tray of cups and a teapot on to the table. ‘Help yourself. I’m afraid I only have plain biscuits.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Barbara,’ I cry, slamming my hand on the table. ‘I don’t care about bloody biscuits. Will you just tell me what is going on.’
Barbara’s face hardens. ‘What do you want to know?’ she says, sitting down on a chair at the far end of the table.
‘Well, I came here to confront you about the night of the accident and the fact that you were there,’ I say, my voice shaking with anger. ‘But then I arrive to find my doctor here, a person I thought was my friend, saying that you’re her landlord. I want to know what the hell is going on.’
‘As Julia told you, I am the owner of Larkfields,’ says Barbara, her voice measured.
‘But how?’ I cry. ‘When?’
‘We purchased it in 2009,’ says Barbara, raising her eyebrow. ‘And as for the reason why, I’m afraid it was Harry who dragged me into it.’
‘Harry?’
‘Yes,’ says Barbara. ‘He and your husband concocted the whole thing.’
‘But Sean didn’t know Harry,’ I say incredulously. ‘This doesn’t make any sort of sense.’
‘You’re right, he didn’t know him,’ says Barbara, narrowing her eyes. ‘In all the time you lived there neither you nor he made any effort to re-acquaint with your neighbours.’
‘Are you serious?’ I exclaim. ‘After everything that happened to me when I was a teenager you think I was going to be friends with you?’
‘Do you want me to tell you or not?’ she says, glaring at me.
I nod my head and she continues.
‘The thing is, Margaret,’ she says, twisting her diamond ring between her finger and thumb, ‘you are more like your mother than you realize.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about living in a fantasy world,’ she says. ‘Living beyond your means. Your poor father mortgaged himself up to the hilt so his darling Marion could live her “Country Life” dream and it seems the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.’
‘How dare you bring my parents into this,’ I say, anger burning through me. ‘They were worth a thousand of you. All this, the Sussex country set, the parties, the etiquette, it’s just bullshit.’
‘Oh, really?’ says Barbara. ‘If that’s the case then why did you force your poor husband to saddle himself with crippling debt so you could live in your childhood home? If it’s all “bullshit” as you put it then why did you move back here?’
‘Debt?’ I say. ‘What debt?’
‘Sean was up to his eyeballs,’ cries Barbara, throwing her arms in the air. ‘He had a good income but not enough to pay that huge mortgage. After the financial crash his wages were capped and he started to take out loans. Loans he couldn’t afford.’
‘How do you know all this?’ I say, my head spinning.
‘Just let me finish,’ she says. ‘He couldn’t afford the repayment on those loans so he turned to credit cards. The debts mounted up. He tried to remortgage Larkfields but he was seen as high risk by the bank.’
‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘You’re lying. If Sean was in this kind of trouble I would have known. He would have told me.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, snap out of your bloody fantasy world,’ says Barbara. ‘He
didn’t tell you because he was scared. You were happy to be a full-time mother living the country-house dream and faffing about with bits of writing. Sean knew you were mentally unstable. He was terrified that if he told you the house was under threat you’d have some sort of relapse.’
I try to speak but no words will come out. I feel like I’ve entered some parallel world.
‘Anyway, poor chap was at his wits’ end,’ continues Barbara, oblivious to my distress. ‘Bills and final demands were coming in left, right and centre. He’d just found out that the bank had turned down his request to remortgage when he and Harry got talking in the pub. Harry asked if he was okay and out it all poured. As soon as he mentioned you and the little one and how you could be made homeless Harry stepped in and offered to buy Larkfields.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘I know what my husband was like,’ she says bitterly. ‘He was a sucker for a sob story and despite the unpleasantness that you’d brought into our family he always had a soft spot for you. He told Sean that the whole thing would be done discreetly, with the minimum disruption. You could stay in the house and pay a minimal rent as and when Sean got back on his feet financially.’
My eyes fill with tears as I remember Harry sitting in the visitor’s room at the psychiatric unit. All those years later he had helped me again.
‘The estate agent told me that a company called BH2 Properties had bought Larkfields,’ I say, my brain rebooting. ‘So who are they?’
‘The name is made up of mine and Harry’s initials,’ says Barbara, watching me stealthily from the other side of the table. ‘We thought the buyer needed to remain anonymous.’
‘Well, I can understand Harry wanting to help,’ I say. ‘But what about you? You’ve always hated me. Surely you would have been glad to see the back of me.’
‘That’s true,’ she says, her lip curling. ‘Though to be honest I rather liked the idea of owning the place. Of course, after the accident there was no way I was going to help you any more. I told Sean he’d need to give notice. Though it turned out he was only too happy to leave after what you did to him.’
What is she getting at? Is she accusing me of harming Elspeth? I feel scared and fragile, just like I did when I was fourteen and my mother marched round to Ketton House to confront Ben.
‘Do you know where he is?’ I say, my voice trembling. ‘Sean.’
‘No, I don’t,’ she says. ‘As far away as possible from you I’d imagine.’
‘You know he was having an affair, don’t you? With a woman called Freya Nielssen.’
Barbara stares at me for a moment then her face breaks into a horrible smile.
‘Why are you smiling?’ I cry. ‘For God’s sake, do you think this is funny?’
She leans forward, her hands clasped on the table in front of her.
‘I am Freya Nielssen,’ she says, her glassy green eyes hardening.
‘What?’
‘That is my official name, Freya Barbara Nielssen,’ she says with a flourish. ‘Though I always preferred Barbara. I never took Harry’s name when we married as I didn’t much care for it. Cosgrove is such an ugly English name.’
‘So it was your name on the estate agent’s papers,’ I say. ‘You sent my things to the storage facility?’
Now the words on the boxes make sense. There is only one person who sees me as a bitch round here and she is sitting right opposite me, her face distorted with hatred.
‘I had no choice,’ she says. ‘I knew that we’d never get another tenant with all that piled up inside. So I arranged for everything to be collected and I made sure that your name was recorded as a key holder. I suppose I could have just got rid of the lot but I knew there was a lot of the child’s stuff there and … well, I thought it might give me some leverage should I need to make you leave.’
‘Leverage?’ I cry. ‘What are you …’
I stop speaking and look at Barbara. Now it all makes sense.
‘It was you,’ I say. ‘You sent Elspeth’s cardigan, didn’t you?’
‘Oh, what are you talking about now, Margaret?’ says Barbara, shaking her head condescendingly. ‘You really are quite deranged, aren’t you?’
‘I’m not mad,’ I yell, pushing the chair back so hard it falls over. ‘Even though you’ve tried to drive me to it. I know exactly what you’ve been doing.’
‘For goodness’ sake, calm down, girl,’ she says, slamming her hand on the table. ‘You’re talking nonsense.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s what you’d like to think, but my mind is very clear. You sent me Elspeth’s cardigan and you were there the night of the accident. You were wearing red.’
‘Was I indeed?’ says Barbara. ‘And was there a pink elephant there too and little green men?’
I can see I’ve shaken her though. She coughs out a hollow laugh and the scared fourteen-year-old cowering inside me suddenly gets angry. I rush at her, sending the delicate tea set flying.
‘You evil witch,’ I cry, grabbing her arm. ‘You think it’s funny, eh? You think it’s funny to stand and watch a child die? To watch her mother in the water trying to save her and just do nothing?’
Barbara wrenches away from me and strides towards the door.
‘Come back,’ I yell. ‘You don’t get to walk away without telling me the truth.’
She stops and looks round, her face contorted with hatred.
‘Truth?’ she hisses, her face inches from mine. ‘You don’t deserve the truth.’
She turns and opens the door. I hear her footsteps on the stone steps.
‘Come back here!’ I yell as I follow her up the steps, back towards the hallway.
It’s dark and I can’t see. But I can feel the steps beneath my feet. My chest is tightening and I don’t have my inhaler with me. Just count, I tell myself, and take one at a time. Then I hear someone at the top of the steps. I turn and stagger towards them but as I reach the top step they push me hard in the chest. I scream as my legs give way and I feel myself falling. I try to grab the railings but there is nothing there.
53
When I open my eyes I am back in the kitchen. My head is burning with pain. I try to touch it but my arms won’t move. I look down and see that they have been bound.
‘Hello?’ I say, my voice raw and cracking. ‘Help me!’
I hear footsteps. I look up. Barbara is standing in the doorway.
‘Untie me,’ I say as she comes towards me. ‘This is insane. Just untie me and let me go.’
Barbara ignores me and sits down at the table opposite. She leans forward and clasps her hands tightly.
‘I told you to stop and look what’s happened. Why didn’t you just stay away?’
‘Why have you tied me up, you mad woman?’ I yell.
‘She didn’t,’ says a voice. ‘I did.’
I turn round. Julia is standing at the sink. Her hands are covered in blood.
‘Julia?’ I say. ‘What are you …’
And then I see it. The knife. A simple kitchen knife, but the way she is clasping it in her right hand fills me with fear. The blade glints in the light.
‘Please,’ I say, trying to keep my voice calm and steady. ‘I don’t know what is happening here. I don’t know what I’ve done.’
I look at Barbara. The colour has drained from her face. It’s then I realize: she’s scared too.
‘Julia,’ she says shakily. ‘Why don’t you put that down? There really isn’t any need for –’
‘I’ll decide what there’s a need for,’ Julia snaps, her eyes blazing.
She comes towards me then and instinctively I flinch.
‘Don’t be so jumpy,’ she says, pulling a chair out next to me. ‘I just want to talk.’
She sits down, still holding the knife.
‘What do you want to talk about?’ I say, keeping my eyes on the knife.
‘I want to talk about me,’ she says, leaning forward. ‘I want to tell you about my life.’
&nbs
p; ‘Julia, come now, stop this,’ says Barbara. ‘You’re doing yourself no favours.’
‘I don’t want favours,’ she says, spitting the words out. ‘I just want to let this bitch know what she’s done to me.’
‘Done to you?’ I say. ‘I’ve done nothing to you. I barely even know you.’
‘That’s right, you don’t know me,’ she cries, leaping to her feet. ‘You don’t know anything about me.’
‘Julia, calm down,’ says Barbara. ‘Or someone’s going to get hurt.’
‘I think it’s too late for that,’ Julia says quietly.
Then she kneels down in front of me and holds the knife to my throat. I can feel it there, pressing against my skin. I don’t dare to breathe.
‘Please,’ I whisper. ‘Please, I’m begging you. Don’t hurt me. Whatever it is. Whatever you think I’ve done to you. We can sort it out. I’m sure.’
‘You’re scared, aren’t you?’ she says. I can feel the knife, feel the shake in her hand through it. ‘You’re really scared.’
‘Julia, that’s enough,’ shouts Barbara. ‘Just put the knife down.’
‘I was scared once,’ she says, ignoring the old woman’s pleas. ‘But then I learned to look after myself. You have to, when you’re all alone in the world.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, remembering her dead mother. ‘It must have been very tough for you.’
She stares at me and for a moment her expression softens; she’s changing her mind. But then her face twists again and she slides the knife across my cheek.
‘No,’ cries Barbara. ‘Julia, stop.’
‘It’s nothing more than a paper cut,’ she says, putting her fingers to it. It stings. ‘You forget, I’m a doctor.’
Day of the Accident Page 22
