Fran found out that Elijah worked part time as a delivery driver for their local supermarket as well as his labouring job for Sall’s husband. It sounded as though he was a hard worker trying to make ends meet for his family. He’d be out of the house for extended hours, Fran thought. At least then he couldn’t control Mary all day. Each morning, as Fran took her coffee into the garden to catch some morning sun, she considered sending Mary a message. Something bright and breezy about showing her around the area, taking her shopping in town, going for a walk in the Peaks. But she didn’t.
“They homeschool the girl.” It was Wednesday afternoon and Emily had sidled over to Fran once choir practice ended. “Did you know that?”
“I did actually,” Fran said, enjoying the surprise register on the woman’s face.
Then Emily leaned closer and grabbed Fran’s forearm. “You never told me about what happened on the green. About you finding the child that morning.”
“I know. I wasn’t sure if they wanted it to be common knowledge.”
Emily extracted her arm and leaned back on her heels. “Very sneaky of you. I didn’t know you had it in you.” She reached over a chair to retrieve her handbag. “Still, it must be hard for a young mum like her. Do you know how old she is?”
“I don’t, no.”
“She’s young to have a daughter that age. What’s the child, about sixish?”
“Seven,” Fran said.
“Who are we talking about?” Noreen, a rail thin woman with a large, aquiline nose poked herself into the conversation.
“The Whitakers. You know, the young family from America.”
“Oh yes,” Noreen said. “I’ve seen him out and about. He’s older than her, I’ve heard. In his forties.”
“Oh,” Emily said. “She’s in her twenties, unless she has some secret formula for eternal youth!”
“I would tell her to send it my way, but I think it’s too late for me!”
“And me!”
Noreen and Emily hooted like two tickled owls. Fran left them to it, giving them a wave as she turned away. On her way out, Fran heard Emily tell Noreen about the incident on the green. About how the child ran away before sunrise, but that she wasn’t surprised given how young the mother was. How she probably couldn’t cope with such a wayward daughter. Emily made a point of bringing up the religious aspect: they make their own clothes and look like those Amish people. You know, like Witness. It made Fran wince to hear them gossiping with abandon. Yes, most gossip was harmless, but there were thin-skinned people who shouldn’t be the centre of thoughtless scrutiny. Mary and Esther came across as particularly innocent and more vulnerable than most. They were the kind of people who needed protection and kindness, not suspicion and speculation. Back in her car, Fran took a moment to collect herself. It’d been a while since this sort of swelling emotion had risen up, threatening to overflow. Perhaps she needed to spend time on the bereavement forum again, and not just as an administrator, but as someone in need of help.
“Oh dear,” she said out loud as she brushed away a few tears. She was thinking about Chloe again.
Once she managed to compose herself, Fran took her phone from her bag, opened Facebook, found Mary’s page and sent her a message. Adrian wouldn’t approve of this, but Fran was sure that both of those girls needed someone. Needed her.
Chapter Seven
As Fran drove to the east side of Leacroft, near to the brook, she tried to forget Adrian’s worried expression and careful words. “They aren’t family, Franny.” It meant, don’t get attached. Don’t presume that you can help them. Don’t allow yourself to be hurt by them, because they might reject you and your help. Nevertheless, Fran drove to the Whitaker’s small semi-detached house and parked on the kerb outside. It was pleasant enough. The front garden had been recently pruned and weeded; she could tell by the few leftover leaves scattered across the gravel. There were curtains up. The porch was tidy. There was no car outside, so she assumed that Elijah was at work.
She made her way down the drive and knocked.
“Hey,” Mary said, opening the door almost immediately as though she’d been waiting on the other side. “We’re all ready. Come on, Esther.” Mary stepped into the porch and gestured for her daughter to follow.
“Father says I shouldn’t go.”
One small black shoe grazed the porch tiles. Esther stood half inside the house, half out, bottom lip protruding and her eyebrows bunched together. “He’s telling me not to go.”
“Is she okay?” Fran asked quietly.
“She’s fine. She’s in a mood this morning.” Mary flashed her an anxious smile.
When Fran had reached out to Mary, she’d suggested that a trip to Chatsworth House might help them with homeschooling. After all, it was full of art and history. She’d offered to drive them both there and back, and, she hadn’t said, but she was planning to pay the entrance fee, too.
“Are there demons in this house?”
“Our house? No, honey. Our house is our shelter. It keeps us safe.”
“Catswort House.” The girl frowned, her chin low down towards her chest.
“Chatsworth.” Mary bent her knees so that they were at eye-level. “Houses are bricks and mortar. They don’t have souls. They don’t have demons.”
This seemed to soothe the girl, which meant Mary and Fran could coax her out and into the car. She still pouted in the backseat for a while but ended up distracted by watching the other cars passing by. Every now and then Fran watched her in the rear-view mirror.
“I’m sorry about Esther,” Mary said. “She takes her studies so seriously. Sometimes it’s hard to explain what things mean and she gets all muddled up.”
“You don’t need to apologise,” Fran said.
Mary let out a long, thin sigh. “You must think I’m a terrible mom. First, I let her run away. Now she’s walking around talking about evil houses. I’m getting it all wrong most of the time, I know I am.”
“I don’t think anything of the sort,” Fran said, taking her eyes off the road to smile at Mary, who was sitting slumped over, defeated. “Being a mother is one of the hardest jobs in the world. No, it’s the hardest job in the world, and probably the loneliest. Be kind to yourself. You’re doing the best you can.” Fran tactfully glanced away as Mary brushed away a tear. “Does Elijah help out? Is he a hands-on dad? I heard he has two jobs. That must be tough for you and Esther.”
“He works hard,” she said. “He’s a good dad.”
Fran wanted to press but decided not to go too far. “Esther certainly talks about him a lot. It was funny how she was saying that he was telling her not to go, like he was here with us.”
“Oh, she’s not talking about Elijah when she says Father,” Mary said. “She’s talking about God.”
Fran lifted her eyebrows and opened her mouth at the same time. It took her a second or two to compose her expression so as not to be rude. “How… unusual.”
“Crazy, you mean.” Mary turned back to look at her daughter, patting the girl’s knee with her palm. Then she faced forwards, leaning against the headrest. “Esther isn’t crazy, though. I swear I looked it all up and sometimes this happens with kids. It’s harmless. God is her imaginary friend right now, but she’ll grow out of it soon.”
Mary’s rational words brought a huge sense of relief to Fran. “Ah, I understand.” She loosened her grip on the steering wheel.
“I had an imaginary friend when I was little, too,” Mary said.
“Was it God?” Fran refrained from laughing, sensing it would be a step too far for Mary.
“No.” Mary gazed out of the window. She pressed a finger to the glass. Fran noticed that her voice sounded faraway. “It was a police officer. I called him Sheriff. He followed me around making sure I was safe. Whenever I felt scared, Sheriff was there to make it all right.”
Something about Mary’s words made the air in the car colder. “What was your childhood like in Arizona?”
M
ary inhaled deeply through her nose and directed her eyes forward. Her voice lost that sense of remembrance. “I grew up with wholesome, God-fearing people.”
Fran pulled into the carpark with an unsettled sensation creeping through her abdomen. She couldn’t put her finger on why Mary’s words made her uneasy. Was it because she thought she was lying?
Chapter Eight
Fran had been to Chatsworth House with her friends’ children before and always enjoyed watching them run carefree through the gardens. Hearing the laughter of children was her most treasured sound, but Esther was not laughing. It was a glorious day, with pink spring blossoms brightening the skyline. There were many treats for the eyes. A grand fountain spouted at the end of a long, perfectly manicured lawn. Wide gravel paths framed by marble statues. Cosy corners filled with roses, their floral aroma lingering in the air. Fran had been looking forward to watching Esther run down the garden paths, pigtails bouncing, patent leather shoes clattering along. The reality was that Esther walked by her mother’s side at all times, barely reacting to the beauty around them.
Inside the stately home it was Mary who craned her neck up to the glisteningly bright chandeliers and radiant frescos. Esther scowled at the paintings and sculptures as though personally offended by them. Meanwhile Mary was in awe, reading every plaque aloud to herself. At one point she asked Fran if a king had lived there. She told Fran it was like being transported to another world. In the chapel she was pensive, her lips moved once or twice as though she whispered a prayer.
Fran took them to the café for lunch and ordered tuna sandwiches all round. Esther was quiet as always, which allowed Fran and Mary to talk freely. It almost seemed as though Esther wasn’t listening at all; she was so silent. In a way, it lulled them into a false sense of security, allowing them to discuss whatever they wanted in front of her.
“How did you and Elijah meet?” Fran asked.
“We worshipped at the same church. He’s a little older than me, but everyone said how kind he was. When he asked me to couple, I agreed.”
Fran noted the odd turn of phrase. Coupling. It almost sounded arranged. “How old were you when you met?”
“Twenty,” she said.
“So, you’re in your late twenties?” Fran said. “I have to say, you look quite a bit younger. It’s perplexed a few folks in Leacroft.”
“People are talking about me?” Mary placed her sandwich down and frowned.
“Harmless gossip. Don’t pay attention to it,” Fran said. “We don’t get many new families moving into the village and some of the locals have nothing better to do, that’s all.”
“Okay, I won’t take it to heart then,” Mary said. But her expression remained downcast.
“What made you move to Leacroft?”
She took another bite of her sandwich and chewed slowly. “I don’t know if I can answer that question. It just happened.”
Fran waited, sensing more to come.
The sandwich was back on the plate before she continued. “We wanted to leave, for various reasons.” She tensed up, her hands roaming over her upper arms, squeezing the tight flesh through the fabric of her dress. Fran watched Mary’s fingernails dig deep. “Elijah has a cousin who lives in Derby and we lived with him for a while. We came to Leacroft for a day out about four weeks ago and saw the house for rent.” She shrugged, but her upper body remained rigid, her arms hugging herself. “I loved it. We used nearly all our savings getting here but I’m glad we did.” Finally, she released, and her chest lowered.
As Mary’s arm dropped back onto the table, the sleeve of her dress caught the edge of her plate and pulled back. That was the moment Fran noticed the purple bloom of a bruise. Mary moved her arm underneath the table and took a sip of her lemonade. The two women made eye-contact, and it was in that moment Fran debated asking her outright. But Esther was with them and she didn’t want to frighten the child.
“Moving somewhere new has been harder than I expected,” Mary said, continuing the conversation before Fran had an opportunity to ask about the bruise. “I love it in Leacroft, but I don’t know how to meet people.”
“Why don’t you come along to the community choir?” Fran suggested.
Mary smiled shyly. “I’m not much of a singer.”
“Neither am I.” Fran let out a short, sharp laugh. “To be honest, neither are most of the others. We meet to natter and share whatever we’ve baked that week. I think everyone would appreciate some young blood. To tell the truth, I’m the youngest there. Most people my age are still in full-time employment or have young children.” Fran’s gaze drifted to Esther. “I don’t think the others would mind Esther coming along, though. She’s so well-behaved.”
Mary stroked Esther’s hair down to the end of her pigtail. “Yes, she is.”
Fran felt a sudden swell of grief so powerful that it took the air right out of her lungs. To save herself from causing a scene, she excused herself from the table, hurried to the bathroom, and cried into the sleeve of her cardigan.
Chapter Nine
Esther took a tumble on the way back to the car. It wasn’t her fault; someone had let their dog off the lead and the excited golden retriever had bounded straight into her. Mary had offered to carry the takeaway coffees and pastries that Fran had bought for the drive home, so it was Fran who jumped into action, shooing away the dog, and lifting Esther onto her feet.
“Did you hurt yourself, sweetheart?”
Esther didn’t answer, but there was blood visible through her white tights, a red blotch that was continuing to spread across her knee. She was sitting up on the grass, her poorly leg bent. Fran crouched next to her to get a better look.
“Is she okay?” Mary asked, her body halfway in the car, putting the takeaway cups into the cup holders.
“There’s a cut on her knee. Shall I take her tights off and check it?”
“Yeah. I’ll be there in a moment.”
It was Esther who pulled the tights down from her body, in a wordless, businesslike manner that reminded Fran of her last trip to the doctor. She didn’t even wince as the material tugged at her broken skin, though Fran winced herself. Fran leaned towards the wound, smaller than she’d thought. A skinned knee, nothing to be concerned about.
“Mary, there are some plasters in the glovebox. Can you grab some?”
“Plasters?”
“Band-Aids. I mean Band-Aids.”
“Got it.”
Fran took the dirty tights from the girl’s hand and used some water from her bottle to wash any dirt from the graze.
“Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry.” The dog owner hovered in the background, the excited puppy now back on its lead, its snout snuffling in the grass. “Is she okay?”
Between gritted teeth, Fran answered. “She’s cut her knee thanks to your dog. Keep it on a lead!”
“She’s usually fine, I don’t know what happened.” The dog walker backed away but remained fairly close.
Fran rolled her eyes and brought her attention back to Esther. “They all say that. Irresponsible is what it is. Now, does that sting?”
Esther shook her head.
“You’re an extremely brave girl.” She took some tissue out of her bag—taken from the café toilet—and patted the area around the wound until it dried. It was the best she could do. The graze wasn’t too bad now that the tights were off. She could do with some antiseptic cream but that would have to wait until later. “Did you land on something?” Fran’s eyes caught the purplish bruise on Esther’s upper thigh. She’d seen the girl fall over herself and couldn’t remember Esther landing on any stones. She checked around the grass to see if she could feel anything.
“No,” Esther said quietly.
“How did you get that bruise?”
“Can’t remember.”
The colour was too dark for the bruise to be recent, she realised now. It was about the size of a two-pound coin, but oval in shape. Children get into all kinds of scrapes and that bruise coul
d be from anything. Esther may have forgotten how she got it, and Fran would believe it. At least, she would’ve believed it of any other child except for Esther. Her friend Justine had a five-year-old who would throw himself at any and every surface while playing rocket ship or Captain America. Fran would think nothing of bruises all over him, so why did this bruise on Esther’s leg disturb her?
“Oh, Esther.” Mary planted a big kiss on the top of the girl’s head. “Here let me put this on for you.”
Fran stood up and backed away, remembering that Esther was not her child. She wasn’t the one planting the kisses or putting the plaster on the boo-boo. She balled the soiled tights into her fist and walked over to the bin. The dog walker was gone, one thing she was grateful for. In this mood, Fran would happily unload onto the nearest, unsuspecting person. The tights fell into the bin on top of a can of Diet Coke.
She watched as Mary lifted Esther back onto her feet and fussed around the little pinafore dress she was wearing.
“We need to put this straight into the machine when we get home.” Mary scratched at a grass stain.
Fran walked back to the car. “I meant to ask you whether you made these clothes. They’re adorable.”
“You think so? I started off mending tears and scrapes and I guess I got into the habit of sewing.”
“And your own, too?”
“That’s right.”
Fran allowed her hand to brush the fabric of Mary’s sleeve. “You’re talented, you know. You could make and sell your own clothes.”
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