Little One

by Sarah A. Denzil

  At the end, Fran followed Emily, the local gossip, to the edge of the room, hoping to catch her in a chatty mood. It wasn’t hard. Emily was notorious around the village, and her husband, Clive, ran the Red Lion. If she was going to get information about the Whitakers, Emily was the person to speak to.

  “Do you know about the new family in Leacroft?” Fran asked, resting casually against the back of a chair.

  “Oh, yes, I do,” she replied. “American, they are.” Emily’s blue eyes glistened. She was in her seventies, thin shouldered and short.

  “I heard they were from Arizona,” Fran said, leading her gently in.

  “That’s right. The Whitakers. He just got a job with Gary, you know, the guy who does the dry-stone walls.”

  “Oh, yes. Sall’s husband.”

  “That’s him.” She scratched the side of her nose and leaned in, which was a clear sign that she was about to talk about something she shouldn’t be talking about. “They’re very religious. Gary told Sall, who told Clive, that he’s a Mormon or something like that. You know… those that build their own houses and that.”

  “Amish?”

  “Yes. Well, he assumed the man’s Amish. Otherwise why would he work so hard? And why would he wear those shirts and have a beard like that?”

  “Maybe he’s a hipster?” Fran suggested.

  “Oh, you mean those men with the hair buns?” She made a face as though she’d eaten something distasteful. “Oh, no. He’s not one of those.”

  “But he is Amish? From Arizona? Seems like the wrong part of the country, though. Don’t they live in Pennsylvania?”

  “Maybe Gary got it wrong. Why are you asking?”

  “Oh, no reason. Just wanted to get the lowdown on the newcomers.”

  “Have you met the wife yet?” Emily’s eyes shone again. “Skinny little thing. Barely looks twenty, and she has a child. Something odd happened there. Do you think she was one of those child brides?”

  “No, surely not,” Fran said. “Not in the US.”

  Emily expelled air in a pfft sound. “You never know. They marry much younger there. Clive’s got family in Idaho. No, Iowa. No. Oh, doesn’t matter. Anyway, their nephew got married at eighteen, can you believe it? In this day and age? Even Clive and I waited until we were twenty-five and that was over forty years ago.”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “So, did you meet them? The Whitakers.”

  “I, um, saw the mum and daughter in the park this morning.”

  “Oh, the child is adorable, like a little doll. Looks nothing like the parents, though, with that gorgeous blonde hair. Isn’t that odd? A blonde-haired, blue-eyed child with two brunette parents.”

  “It happens though,” Fran reminded her.

  “Yes, I suppose it does.” Emily paused, placing a hand on Fran’s arm. “Anyway, how are you doing? I haven’t asked in a while.”

  Fran found that she stopped breathing for a few heartbeats. She hadn’t been expecting it to be brought up again. “I’m great, Emily, honestly. I’m completely fine.”

  “If you ever want a reading, you know where I am.”

  Fran gently extracted her arm from the woman’s hand and left.

  Chapter Four

  Fran jogged through the village green at 5:00 a.m. as always. Leacroft was still in the burgeoning first light, with a dotting of streetlights illuminating the roads, house fronts, and parked cars. There was birdsong breaking the silence. Only the foxes moved the reeds of grass in the hedgerows and the woods on the perimeter. She headed into the centre of the green, stopped, and turned towards the swings, still slightly out of breath. For a moment she stood there staring at the chains, the worn plastic seat, the metal frame with its peeling red paint, her chest rising and falling. Rising and falling. Then she let out a laugh, internally berating herself for the ridiculousness. The girl was not here, she was at home, safe with her parents.

  Her thighs ached for the rest of the jog. In fact, she cut it short, heading back to the house. Her husband’s house. That was always how she thought of it. He owned it, and she lived in it. Not one brick belonged to her. She’d never contributed to the payment of the house, though neither had he. The modest size of their detached property hid the fact that Adrian had been born wealthy. He’d inherited the house from his parents a decade ago, when his mother and father died of heart disease and cancer within five years of each other.

  He’d never intentionally kept his wealth a secret, but at the same time it rarely came up, and Adrian cared little for flashy cars, mansions or diamonds, and to tell the truth, neither had Fran. Still, it meant they had a sizeable amount in the bank to live on. He was older than her by ten years and retired from his lecturer job at Derby University five years ago. After which, he’d gently encouraged her to do the same. It’d been his idea, in fact. Since then, Adrian had settled easily into the gentle potter of retirement, but Fran was still finding it an adjustment.

  Once inside, she peeled away her sweaty clothes, tossed them into the washing machine, had a brief shower, fried some bacon, put the coffee on, and then relaxed in the garden. This was her time to unwind, to allow her body and mind to release tension. At least, that was the idea. Instead she was thinking about what Emily, that perpetual busy-body and pushy bat, had said to her at choir practice. If you ever want a reading… Who did she think she was? Fran sipped her coffee, enjoying the bitterness. However, it failed to distract her, so she took out her phone and decided to allow herself fifteen minutes of scrolling through memes on Facebook. To her surprise, she had a new friend request.

  It was rare for Fran to meet anyone new these days. She had her choir friends, ex-journo friends, a couple of close university friends who lived spread out over the country, and people she saw regularly in the village. She did not expect a new request, and when she flicked through to the notifications, she was even more surprised. Mary Whitaker.

  Fran tapped Mary’s icon and scrolled through her profile page. Now that they were friends, she could see everything. Emily was right about them being religious. Mary shared prayers on her profile page. There was a heavily filtered picture of someone’s hands with the prayer text over the top. In another, a child’s face filled the background image, and in a third it was a lit candle. Fran still attended church for festivals or when she was feeling low, but she’d always found these kinds of images somewhat cloying. Still, the prayers were sweet, usually focusing on love and light and the healing power of God.

  There were few photographs, but everything Fran found appeared to be recent. There were no baby pictures of Esther. No giggling toddler in a onesie. No family holiday pictures on the beach. There were a couple of pictures of Esther holding a ragdoll, wearing that same yellow dress with the bows. Mary’s profile picture was dimly lit, her pretty face set into earnest seriousness. She was certainly different to Fran as a young woman. Living on beans on toast, vodka and cigarettes in a student flat. Every night a house party, every morning a desperate attempt to finish her articles for the afternoon lectures. Free, yes, wild, sometimes, but never serious. Not even during the exam period.

  “Any milk knocking around?” Adrian shuffled down the stone steps to the outdoor table, barefoot, bare chested with his grey hair ruffled.

  “There should be a bottle in the fridge.”

  “It’s empty.”

  Fran angled her chin over her shoulder. “Who put an empty bottle of milk back in the fridge?”

  Adrian shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose I’m going to the shops then.”

  “I suppose you are.”

  Before he ambled back to the house, Fran waved her hand. “Come here a minute. Do you think this is odd?”

  “What?”

  “Mary Whitaker has sent me a friend request.”

  “What’s odd about that?”

  “Well, her profile for a start. Hardly any photos, no holidays, just prayers.”

  Adrian leaned back and yawned. “That’s nothing new for private people. She p
robably started it up after they moved. Look, it shows you when she joined. Oh, two days ago.”

  “Now that’s strange,” Fran said.

  “She probably joined to request to be your friend. She wants to connect with you. After all, you found her daughter in the park. Maybe she wants to say thank you. Want anything else from the shops?”

  “Wine.” Fran thought for a minute. “Not that nasty Chardonnay you bought last time. And chocolate. The good stuff.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Oh, and we need toilet roll.”

  His voice began to fade as he disappeared into the house. “Shall I write a list?”

  Fran raised her voice. “Dishwasher tablets.”

  Her mind was split between household needs and the young woman’s profile on the screen. She was so caught in her thoughts that the next notification startled her with its suddenness. A round bubble of Mary’s face popped up on the screen. She’d sent Fran a private message. Fran tapped on the tiny icon to bring up her inbox.

  Can we meet? I want to say thank you for what you did.

  Chapter Five

  There was one coffee shop in Leacroft and Fran knew the owner. She raised her hand in greeting as she walked in, setting off the bell above the door. There were small potted rosemary plants on each table, giving the place a pleasantly herby aroma, mingled with the usual coffee and bakery scents. After a quick scan, Fran saw Mary and Esther sitting by the window. Mary smiled, and Fran noted that it wasn’t a relaxed smile, more of a fleeting, anxious one. The young woman fiddled with her hair, tucking and untucking it behind her ear. In contrast, Esther sat perfectly still with her hands resting on her lap, as though posing for a school photograph.

  Esther’s hair had been plaited into pigtails. She was wearing a pale blue sundress today, again, handmade. Mary was in long sleeves, but the material was light, perhaps linen. Her hair was pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck, two long tendrils framing her face.

  “Sorry I’m a bit late.” Fran rested her bag on the table as she reached inside for her purse. “What did you order?”

  “Oh,” Mary said, her eyes wide. “I waited for you. I wasn’t sure what to get.”

  “Well, everything is good here. Tell you what, get whatever you want. It’s my treat.”

  “No, I couldn’t,” she said. “Not after what you did for me and Esther. Here.” She slid a fiver across the table. “Could you please order me whatever you’re having? Thank you so much.”

  Fran pocketed the fiver and ordered two cappuccinos and two Bakewell slices for her and Mary, and a hot chocolate with marshmallows for Esther. She decided not to tell Mary that her five-pound note didn’t cover even half, she simply placed the tray down and handed out the goods.

  “How are you settling into Leacroft?” Fran asked.

  “Good. The people here are so friendly.” Again, that anxious smile slipped across her face. A storm cloud blown across the sky.

  “What about you, Esther? Do you like your new school?” It dawned on Fran as she was speaking, that it was school time now, and yet Esther was here.

  Sure enough, Mary answered, “We homeschool Esther.”

  “Wow, that’s great!” Fran heard her own phoney enthusiasm and hated it.

  “It’s more unusual here, I think,” Mary said. “It was something of a tradition in my family.”

  “I see. I bet that keeps you busy.”

  Mary sipped her coffee as she nodded her head. “It sure does.” Mary turned to Esther, who was staring intently at her hot chocolate. “It’s okay, honey, you can drink it.”

  “But, Mommy…”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Father…”

  “Drink the hot chocolate, Essie.”

  “I can get her a different drink if you like. I’m so sorry, I should’ve asked,” Fran said, her eyes darting between mother and daughter, an uncomfortable creeping sensation spreading over her skin. “Is she lactose intolerant?”

  Mary frowned. “Lactose?”

  “It’s a digestive issue.”

  “Oh. No. Nothing like that. She’s not used to things that fancy,” Mary explained. “We keep things simple in our house and save up for treats. But today is a treat, Esther. We’re meeting Mrs. Cole to say thank you for the other day.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cole.” Deep blue eyes the shade of a summer sky latched onto Fran’s. The girl did not smile or fidget or act coquettishly as many other girls her age would. She brought the mug to her lips and sipped her hot chocolate as though to prove that she was grateful.

  “There’s no need to say thank you,” Fran said. “Though I am curious as to how you found me on Facebook.”

  Mary straightened Esther’s right pigtail and let out a small laugh. “I took Esther for a walk around the park this morning and we bumped into this lady called Emily. She was so nice. We chatted for a long time. Esther here, little tattle tale, blurted out about her wandering off the other morning so we talked about that. I asked her if she knew someone called Fran and she pretty much gave me your full name and address. I felt like turning up to your home would be intrusive, so I looked you up on Facebook. Had to make an account and everything but I guess it’ll help me get to know people here.”

  Fran found that some of the tension left her body. That did seem reasonable. And now that she saw Mary and her daughter interacting together, she had to admit they were a sweet mother-daughter team. She’d have to admit to Adrian that he’d been right all along. She had been obsessing over the child for no reason.

  “I guess the cat’s out of the bag now. What did your husband say when you told him about Esther wandering off? I bet he was still out for the count that morning, wasn’t he?”

  “Out for the count?”

  “Sorry, asleep.”

  Mary’s anxious facial tics came back, the fleeting smile, followed by a slight grimace. “He was awake when we got back. He was worried, obviously, but glad that nothing bad happened.”

  Fran bit into her Bakewell slice trying not to notice the change in Mary’s body language. Failing to keep her thoughts from spiralling out of control. Here was this young mother in front of her, displaying hints of what Fran believed could be a controlling relationship. Adrian would tell her that none of this was her business, and he’d be right.

  “So, what are your plans for the rest of the day?” Fran asked, trying to manoeuvre the conversation to a lighter topic.

  “We’re learning math later. Then some reading and Bible study.” Mary’s eyes flicked anxiously towards Fran.

  “Sounds lovely. You know my husband was a lecturer before he retired. He taught English and some philosophy. He’s always looking for things to do and would certainly lend a hand if you needed one.” Adrian wouldn’t appreciate Fran volunteering his services, but Fran couldn’t help herself.

  “That’s kind of you, Mrs. Cole. I’d have to check with my husband first. But I’m so grateful.” She smiled.

  “Well, just let me know,” Fran said.

  “How did you two meet?” Mary asked.

  “I took a course at the university,” Fran said. “It was an adult learning course for English literature. I had a journalism degree and had been working as a journalist for a women’s magazine, but I wanted to do a masters.”

  Mary’s eyes were bright and engaged, but Fran couldn’t help wondering if she was feigning interest. Her love story with Adrian wasn’t a particularly interesting one.

  “He was one of the lecturers there and he asked me out,” she said. “We’d actually met during my undergraduate degree, but I hadn’t realised it. I just remembered this attractive lecturer with hazel eyes.” She hadn’t intended to talk this much, but now she had an audience, she kept going. “When I went back to university, Adrian was teaching a module about Chekhov, which I hated. But I liked him very much. He asked if I wanted to go for a meal and a movie one night. He cooked me a lamb tagine and we watched an Ingmar Bergman film on his TV. I never did finish that mast
ers but at least I got a husband out of it, I suppose.” Fran found herself grinning at the memory of that first date. She’d assumed a meal and a movie would mean a restaurant and the cinema. In reality, he’d taken her back to his house and they’d curled up on the sofa together, bowls of steaming hot food on their laps. She still recalled the scent of cinnamon and dates drifting up from her tagine.

  “That’s so lovely. How long have you been married?”

  She was sure that the young woman could not possibly be so interested. It was sweet of her to pretend. Fran decided then and there that they would be friends.

  “Nine and a half years.”

  “You got married so late.” Mary bit her lower lip. “Sorry, that was rude.”

  Fran sipped her coffee. “It’s fine. It’s true, I did. Adrian was married before, but they’d separated by the time I met him. And I’d had a few long term relationships while I lived in London, but nothing stuck until I met Adrian.”

  “Doesn’t he have children either?” Mary seemed genuinely perplexed by the idea that Fran had no children to look after.

  “No.” Fran glanced out of the café window. Then she plastered on a smile and changed the subject.

  Chapter Six

  Life went on, Fran supposed. It wasn’t as though she could meddle in another woman’s affairs. Neither could she spy on the Whitakers in some shady attempt to uncover what went on behind closed doors. And, indeed, she should not be passing judgement on how these people lived their lives. If she dug deep into herself, could she be sure that she wasn’t doing just that? They were deeply religious people who had chosen a more traditional path, and there was nothing wrong with that at all. Both the girl and the mother seemed healthy enough. Perhaps it was time to let her worries go.

  In the days that followed their meeting, Fran jogged every morning, sang The Greatest Show in the garden, potted plants, and managed her online bereavement group. She also chatted to Clive in the Red Lion, perhaps mentioning Elijah Whitaker once or twice to gage his reaction. She refreshed Mary Whitaker’s Facebook page every now and then and took long walks around the village hoping she might bump into her. Fran’s mind never truly drifted from the thought of Esther standing alone in the park, but she tried hard to keep those thoughts from her husband, knowing exactly what he’d say about it.