‘If you have anything you need to speak about, you can talk to me. Now, as I said . . .’ He smiled coolly. ‘Lots to do.’
‘Course.’
She walked back out into the sunshine, sensing him right behind her. Once on the track, she looked back to see that he was watching her, making sure she left. A few metres down, the track took a turn to the left, near some oak trees. She stopped. Checked behind again and saw she was out of view of the farm. Damn. That hadn’t gone how she’d wanted it to. She’d hoped to have more of a look around. But now Justin was about, she couldn’t check anything out. Unless . . . maybe he did have lots to do. Maybe he would be off in one of the fields in a minute. She looked up. Dare she?
Dropping her bag on the ground, she hoisted herself up one of the oaks. Carefully and slowly, she climbed until she could see back to the farm. There he was. Talking to someone else, another worker it looked like. Then he headed back up to the farmhouse, got into a Land Rover and started it up. In a panic, Kate realized he was heading for the track and that in a few seconds he’d drive right past her. She cursed as she saw her bag at the foot of the trunk. There was no time to rescue it now. It was partially hidden by some long grass and she prayed it would be enough. Holding her breath as he drew closer and closer, she shrank back into the tree, grateful for its new-leaf coverage.
Then he was gone. She waited a moment until her heart calmed, then looked back up to the farm. The other worker had changed into a suit of some sort: white, from head to toe. He turned, and she saw he wore a respirator mask. He headed to a small building set aside from the others, a corrugated-steel container outside the barn she’d just been in. He went inside and reappeared with a plastic container, the contents of which he started to pour into a vessel at the back of a piece of machinery attached to a tractor. Once it was empty, he took the plastic container back to the steel box. He attached a pump to the vessel, and waited for a while. Then, after removing it, he got in the cab and began to drive away from the yard, the machinery dragging behind. It was then she realized what he was doing. He was going out to spray the fields.
It was a sobering sight. Despite the sunshine, she shivered. She couldn’t quite believe what she’d just witnessed. How could an operator be kitted out like that and still no one did anything about the residents, just metres from the spray?
Kate made her way back down the tree and retrieved her bag. Scurrying back up the track, she kept her eyes open for any other workers but, to her relief, no one else seemed to be around.
She tentatively headed for the steel container emblazoned with ‘hazardous’ stickers but the door was closed. She tried the handle and her heart leapt as it turned – he hadn’t relocked it. She stepped inside. There were shelves from floor to ceiling, stacked with a wall of plastic containers. The labels thrust themselves in her face: bright-orange ‘hazardous’ warnings, skull and crossbones, ‘Toxic!’ written again and again. The majority of them were a product called Crixus, manufactured by a company called Senerix. Knowing Justin could come back at any moment, she quickly got out her phone and took photo after photo. Then she heard a Land Rover drive through the yard and she froze.
Kate risked a peek out of the container and saw Justin park outside the farmhouse. Please don’t come into the yard, she urged silently. Instead, he went into the house and she took her chances. She ran across the yard and back down the track as fast as she could. She didn’t stop until she’d got all the way to the train station. Thankfully, there was a train due in three minutes and it was only once she’d jumped on, breath heaving, and the doors had been locked shut behind her that she could sink into her seat with relief.
TWENTY-THREE
2005
Kate sat down on the metal-legged plastic chair in the headteacher’s office, Becky taking the seat next to her, swinging her legs quietly back and forth. With a pang, Kate noticed how Becky’s feet just touched the floor now, another marker of how she was growing up.
‘Thank you for coming in,’ said Mrs Parker (‘Call me Mrs P’), going to sit opposite them. Over Mrs P’s shoulder, out of the window, Kate could see the playground teeming with kids and parents – a swathe of blue uniforms ready to go home. She had no idea why she’d been summoned to this private meeting with the headteacher but had been told by the office staff that it was ‘nothing bad’.
‘So, as you’re obviously aware, it’s Becky’s last year of primary school,’ said Mrs P. ‘Have you had any thoughts on where next?’
Kate looked at Becky, nonplussed. ‘Well . . . it would be Priory . . .’ It was the local state school, part of a large Academy chain that hoovered up most of the kids in the area.
Mrs P smiled. ‘Hmm. And I wouldn’t be one to knock Priory, but I wondered if you were aware of Hillcrest?’
Kate was, vaguely, in the same way she was aware of skiing holidays and branded trainers. Things other people did. People with money. She wondered why Mrs P was talking to her about it; surely it was obvious they could never afford a private school – for that’s what it was. She had added to the money her dad had given her at Becky’s birth, a carefully put away ten pounds a month, for that was all she could afford. It was intended to help with Becky’s university costs, so she couldn’t think about blowing it on school fees. Kate inwardly snorted. It would barely cover half a term, anyway. She felt a rosy glow appear at the top of her cheeks.
‘It’s not really an option,’ she said, thinking, you might as well ask me to fund a trip to the moon.
‘I think it could be.’
Kate opened her mouth to speak but Mrs P gently held up a hand.
‘Allow me to finish. Once a year, they take in a child from a local primary school and offer them a full scholarship. As you’re aware, Becky is extremely bright, and she works hard.’
Kate felt Becky bloom next to her.
‘I think she has a good chance,’ continued Mrs P, ‘and I would certainly write her a glowing reference.’
Kate didn’t know what to say. Her daughter at a fancy private school? It was so far from the realm of possibility she couldn’t quite imagine it. And anyway, would she fit in with all those hoity-toity posh kids? Would she be happy?
‘At least go and see,’ said Mrs P. ‘They have an open evening next Thursday.’ She turned to Becky. ‘You’d like to see it, wouldn’t you, Becky? If you got in . . . well, I believe they have horse riding.’
Kate gave Mrs P a hard look – seriously? – but the wily head just smiled back at her. Becky, of course, was fidgeting in her seat with excitement. ‘Can we, Mummy? Please?’
Kate mentally thought through her shift pattern at the restaurant for the following week. Thursday was her night off. Looked like they’d be going to this school, then.
She’d been rendered silent by what she’d just seen: the 200 acres of grounds (actually, she hadn’t seen all of these, just a swathe of green); the new 25-metre pool; the huge, well-equipped gym; the climbing wall; the photos of the trips to Mexico, Silicon Valley, China; the modern classrooms which she’d been told were filled with just a handful of bright-eyed children; the energetic teachers; the peacocks that wandered through the grounds, the kids passing them as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
All this had been presented to her by a girl a mere three years older than Becky, who had more poise and confidence than Kate had ever possessed in her life. In fact, right now, she felt deeply uncomfortable, as if someone had let her look around this place by mistake. She’d looked for fault but found none and, to her shame, had even wanted to dislike this young tour guide but she could criticize nothing, and the girl was warm and funny and had taken Becky under her wing.
They were back in the main hall, a large space with a stage and enough equipment for a West End production, in time for the headmistress’s speech. Small round tables were spread around the room, covered with linen cloths, and as Kate drew nearer, she was astounded to see they were loaded with bottles of wine and sparkling water and tiered tray
s of canapés and petit fours. With the theatrical lighting set to something soft and inviting, the overall look was like some kind of high-end restaurant.
Kate took a seat, and Becky, wide-eyed, asked her mother’s permission to help herself to cakes. As her daughter got stuck in, Kate looked around the room. The tables were beginning to fill up with prospective parents and pupils, teachers assisting on the sidelines. A couple of people approached her table, nodding a friendly hello as they took their places, while talking with confidence and enthusiasm about what they’d just seen. A woman offered to pour Kate a glass of wine and she got an unexpected surge of bravery. Why shouldn’t she have some wine like these other people were so casually doing? As if it were the most ordinary thing in the world to turn up to a school open day where free food and alcohol were offered. Food that was way more upmarket than she could ever serve at home.
She took a sip and sat up in surprise. It was nice, felt smooth on her tongue. For the first time that evening, she started to relax.
A woman passed by, heading for the next table along, her daughter by her side. Kate’s eyes were drawn to her – or rather, the woman’s coat. It was a subtle pink in what looked like the most luxurious soft wool Kate had ever seen. As the woman sat, the coat undulated in waves and folds around her tall, neat frame. She’d pinned a brooch onto one of the lapels, something creamy and pearl-like, and the whole effect was truly a thing of beauty.
Kate couldn’t help staring; its impracticality was something alien to her. This coat did not look like it would tolerate rain or mud or public transport and would positively baulk at a practical backpack clinging to its back like a crusty, aged limpet. The coat’s owner did not notice Kate, didn’t seem to be aware of much but her own self and her offspring. So distracted was she by this woman and her outer garments, Kate reached for her glass of wine without looking and accidentally knocked it over. A large red pool spread across the white tablecloth and dripped onto the floor.
Mortified, Kate inwardly cursed – so clumsy! – but a quick glance up reassured her no one had really noticed.
‘Are you OK, Mummy?’ asked Becky and Kate nodded. She saw a pile of paper napkins on one of the tables on the edges of the room, a table full of spares: several extra bottles of wine stood sentry-like, should their services be required. Kate went over and grabbed a handful of napkins and then got on her hands and knees and started to mop up the wine on the floor.
‘Excuse me,’ a crisp voice cut over to her. Kate looked up.
‘Yes, you.’ It was the woman in the pink coat.
‘I’m afraid we have a little spillage here, too,’ she said, pointing at a spot on the floor with her foot.
Kate’s gaze rested on the puddle of liquid, her face the same level as the pointing shoe. For a moment, she didn’t understand.
The woman was looking at her expectantly, with a hint of impatience. Kate suddenly realized the woman was waiting for her to act so she could go back to her conversation undisturbed. The woman obviously thought Kate was some sort of staff member. A cleaner-upper. Someone below herself in status.
Becky was frowning, and Kate felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She ignored the woman and slowly got up and sat back at her table. One or two people next to her glanced around, maybe even rolled their eyes, but no one said anything.
The woman realized her faux pas. Then she laughed at her silliness and turned her pink-clad back. No apology. No acknowledgement of her rudeness. No embarrassment.
Just dismissal.
During the headmistress’s speech, Kate’s humiliation blossomed into anger and she cut the woman (who she would later learn was called Julia Cromwell, as her daughter, Violet, would be in Becky’s class) several daggerlike looks. Not one of which Julia Cromwell noticed.
It was only when Becky began to outshine Violet in her lessons that Julia began to take any notice of either of them.
TWENTY-FOUR
2018
‘Two hundred and forty-seven? Seriously?’ said Kate, wide-eyed.
‘Just goes to show how many budding journalists out there need help.’ Greg put a large tower of paper on the table in front of them. ‘You still up for it?’
‘Course. How many are we narrowing it down to?’
‘Depends on how many you want to interview – and, of course, how many great applicants there are. But I would suggest around fifteen max.’
Kate reached over to take the top CV off the pile.
‘Wrong bit of paper,’ said Greg, wagging his finger, and he handed her the gin-tasting menu instead. ‘If we’re going to get through these, we need sustenance.’
She smiled. They were in a quiet bar just around the corner from the Vietnamese he’d taken her to and their visit had coincided with gin-tasting night.
‘Leather and raspberry?’ Kate marvelled. ‘Are they having a laugh?’
As Greg ordered two leather gins from a young waistcoat-clad bartender, Kate took in her surroundings. The bar had the feel of an atrium, with floor-to-ceiling windows and skylights. Moroccan-patterned tiles in shades of chocolate and orange covered the floor and the room was awash with green palms in copper pots. It was unlike anywhere she’d ever been before. The cocktails arrived in elegant martini glasses carried on a silver tray by the waistcoated bartender.
She took a sip. It was sublime. Kate got a sense of her world opening up. Who knew leather could taste so awesome? Who knew people made drinks like this? For that matter, who knew bars like this existed?
‘Wow.’
‘I’ll second that,’ said Greg, placing his glass down. ‘Before we start, I just wanted to apologize. If I offended Tim the other week, I certainly didn’t mean to.’
Embarrassed, Kate brushed it off. ‘It’s fine. He’s fine.’ She could sense him checking her, making sure he hadn’t caused any harm.
‘Nice guy,’ he said.
‘He is. You married?’
‘Divorced.’
‘Oh, sorry.’
‘Don’t be. She found someone who works less. I now get to work more without worrying about leaving her. Win-win.’ He handed her half the papers. ‘Let’s go through a pile each and highlight the ones we think shine. Just to recap, what are we looking for?’
‘A passion for journalism,’ said Kate. ‘Dedication and genuine need.’
‘OK.’
She looked down at the first sheet. ‘Blimey . . .’
‘What?’
‘This person . . . Andrew . . . has written, “I am bilingual in three languages.”’
‘No . . .’ Greg said, laughing.
‘“Current salary: thirty-four thousand. Salary desired: two hundred and fifty thousand.” It’s not a job! Have they not read the ad properly?’
‘It appears not.’ Greg cleared a space on the table. ‘Reject pile?’
She nodded and picked up another CV. ‘“I think I will make a good journalist as I am quick with typing. Thirty wpm or fifty wpm with an espresso.”’ She flicked further down the page. ‘“I am drawn to investigative journalism by my love of finding out what the latest fashion trends are worn by celebrities.” No. No, no, no!’
‘My turn,’ said Greg. ‘“My dream is to be an astronaut but as I have absolutely no chance of this happening, I’m seeking a career as a journalist instead.”’
Kate groaned. ‘Who are all these people?’
‘Don’t worry, it’ll improve. Go on. Turn the next one over.’
She picked up the next application. ‘Gillian Harris, aged twenty-one. Graduating from Sheffield University this year. On target for a first-class honours degree in Journalism.’
‘Impressive.’
‘Worked part-time on a local newspaper throughout university. Hold on, it says here she’s been offered an internship with the Guardian – beat twelve hundred other applicants. But she can’t afford to take it up.’
‘One for the interview pile?’
‘Definitely.’ She smiled. ‘This is a good thing we’re – you’re
– doing,’ she said. ‘Becky would have approved.’
‘It’s all inspired by her.’
‘Thanks, Greg,’ she said.
‘What for?’
‘Helping keep her memory alive. It’s been hard, the last year. Some people talk about her; some think it makes it too painful. But I’d rather talk. If I don’t, it’s as if she was never there.’
‘It’ll never be like that.’
‘Last Christmas, I got my first card addressed just to me, without her name in. It was from a girl from work. She thought she was being sensitive, but it had me weeping on the floor. It was as if Becky had been erased. And that’s my greatest fear. That she’ll be forgotten.’ Kate felt herself get emotional and quickly picked up another paper. ‘Look at this one. Three spelling mistakes in the opening sentence! Becky would’ve had her red pen out. She was a stickler for spelling. Grammar too. Only person I knew who could use a semi-colon properly. Or at least I think she could. I wouldn’t know the difference.’
‘What was her writing like?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well . . . you said before she liked to work on investigative stories.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Anything in particular?’
‘Her first piece at the paper was on corruption in the Premier League – bribes and so on. Not her story but she supported her boss.’
‘Impressive. What else?’
‘There was something she was working on just before she died. Something big.’
‘Oh, yeah? What was it?’
Kate paused. She suddenly realized she didn’t want to say anything about Becky’s unfinished story – not yet. She had a lead she was hoping to follow up in the morning but until anything was concrete, she didn’t want to discuss it with anyone. She shrugged. ‘She never told me. I’d ask but it was too top secret.’ That wasn’t a lie. She looked at him and got the sense he didn’t believe her, but he smiled.
‘If you do find anything, it would be great to know. We could incorporate it as part of Becky’s legacy. Something inspirational to put on the bursary website.’
The Daughter Page 13