‘Oh,’ said Annabelle. She put down her basket and a large pot plant she was carrying. ‘You poor, poor girl.’ She crossed the room to Willa, wrapping her arms around her. Willa let her head fall onto Annabelle’s shoulder.
‘I just brought you some flowers from the garden,’ said Annabelle, after Willa felt strong enough to raise her head. ‘For Esme.’ She pulled them out of the basket and handed them to Willa.
‘Thank you,’ said Willa. And she was genuinely touched. Most people tried to avoid the subject of Esme at all costs, and if they accidentally mentioned their own daughter and how well she was doing, or talked about a party their teenagers had been to, they would suddenly remember, and in their eyes Willa would see a split second of sinking terror. Then they’d stutter and stumble, and she would see the colour draining from them, or collecting in vibrant patches around their necks or cheeks. Sometimes she would help them – Of course you must tell me about Amelia/Katie/Henrietta – even though she didn’t want to hear about their girls at all, or maybe she did, depending on the day, depending on how fragile she was feeling. Sometimes she’d just pretend not to have noticed and the conversation would be turned around without a word from her. But here was Annabelle with a huge bunch of hydrangeas, and she was smiling and bringing Esme right into focus.
Willa smiled back at her and wiped her sleeve across her eyes.
Annabelle hurried across to the doorway and picked up the pot plant, which Willa now realised was a rose.
‘And this. To plant somewhere for her. I thought it might be nice to have something growing in Australian soil.’ Annabelle plucked off a small black growth from the side of the plant, and tutted as if the sight of it offended her. ‘It’s an Esme rose. A bush variety. Quite hardy, apparently.’
‘Oh. Thank you,’ said Willa again, stunned at her thoughtfulness.
Annabelle gave her a huge smile as she put the plant on the table and looked across to the ocean.
‘Is that them?’ she asked.
Hamish was paddling out to meet the swell. A large wave began to crest, and he turned the board to shore right as it peaked and rolled forward, and Annabelle said, ‘Go!’ at the same time Willa said, ‘I think he’s missed it.’
But Hamish had just caught its surge. He balanced across the top of it, then in one miraculous motion pushed himself up into a squatting position, stood and rode the huge breaking wave right into the shore.
Annabelle clapped. ‘Good boy!’ she said.
Willa laughed. She felt off balance with the see-saw of emotion, but better all the same. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Annabelle.
Willa boiled the kettle, grateful for something to do with her hands.
‘Did Esme like the beach?’ asked Annabelle.
‘Yes,’ said Willa, then she added, ‘She wasn’t really a sun bunny, but she liked to try everything. If she were here now, she might well have been surfing with the boys.’
‘They’ll be missing her out there then, I imagine,’ said Annabelle.
Willa poured the water over the tea bags then began searching through the cupboards for a vase. How to explain Esme? ‘Perhaps. But equally, she might have been trying her hand at macramé right now, or painting the ocean, or building elaborate sandcastles. Then when she’d mastered those, it would have been something else. She liked to put her mind to things, just to see if she could do them. She was very talented.’
‘She sounds extraordinary,’ said Annabelle.
‘She was,’ said Willa. ‘And the good thing is that now I get to say things like that and nobody minds that I’m boasting. I have a permanent leave pass to be annoyingly boasty.’
Annabelle chuckled. They both watched as the boys began walking back up the beach with their surfboards under their arms. At the base of the hill on which the beach house was built, they dropped the boards in the grassy area, rinsed under the outdoor shower and headed up the side path to the house. Willa waved to them.
‘I should probably cook them something substantial before we have that,’ she said, nodding at the pie on the table.
‘I’ll go then,’ said Annabelle.
‘No, please, you must stay. They’d love to see you again. And have some banoffee pie with us. It was Esme’s favourite. It’s our celebration of her.’
‘Well, I’ll stay for a cuppa at least,’ said Annabelle. ‘I’d love to see them again too, although I’ve got lots to do for this silly fete.’
‘You’re such a busy person,’ said Willa. ‘I do hope you’re looking after yourself.’
‘Oh, pfff,’ said Annabelle, blowing out her lips.
‘When will you be starting treatment?’ asked Willa.
‘A few weeks’ time. After the fete. Anyway, I feel great. Some days I think the doctors don’t know what they’re talking about.’
Willa noticed the forced cheer in the set of Annabelle’s jaw; the bright, brittle sound to her words.
‘You’re being very strong,’ she said.
‘Well, you’ve faced much worse, my lovely, so I’m taking your lead,’ said Annabelle.
‘But still,’ said Willa, ‘I always had Hugo to hold me up.’ She glanced across at Annabelle, wondering if making space to bring Dan into the conversation was wise. But she knew that sometimes you needed to give people permission to talk about their problems.
‘Yes,’ said Annabelle. ‘Well, I have Dan too. I’ve forgiven him. For the Sylvia thing. Well, not that I’ve told him I know about it. Some things are better left unsaid.’
‘Right,’ said Willa. ‘I’m not sure I could be so understanding.’
Annabelle’s face took on a perplexed look. ‘He’s my husband. We made vows. Till death do us part and all that. I’d never leave him.’ She shifted in her seat. ‘Did you decide to read the diaries?’
‘I haven’t yet,’ said Willa.
‘Well, that’s all for the best, I should think,’ said Annabelle.
Hugo and Hamish startled them, appearing on the front deck, towels around their shoulders. They dried themselves and Willa opened the door.
‘Cold?’ she asked.
‘Nah,’ said Hamish, shaking the wet strands of hair from his face. ‘We went numb ages ago.’ He grinned at her, and Willa thought: you’re nearly a man. Look at you, all muscled and tall.
‘Hello!’ said Annabelle. ‘Goodness, you are brave! Dan likes surfing but he hasn’t done it for ages. Too busy. He’d be jealous if he saw you now.’
‘Hello, Annabelle,’ said Hugo. ‘How lovely to see you again.’
Willa smiled at her handsome husband, the perfect English gentleman. She could see Annabelle melting. People did that around Hugo. She did it too sometimes.
‘I hope you’re staying for brunch,’ he said.
‘Oh, no, I… I can’t really, I’m… I’d hate to impose.’
Willa watched the colour rise in Annabelle’s cheeks as she mentally discarded all the reasons why she needed to go. It would be nice if she stayed. It might help them get through the next little bit of the day.
Hugo leaned down to Willa and kissed her cheek.
‘Mum does a really good bacon sandwich,’ said Hamish, smiling at Annabelle, and Willa saw then that sometime in the last two years, when she hadn’t been looking, he had developed his father’s charm.
‘Oh, well, I was going to stay for a cup of tea,’ said Annabelle. ‘But I’m on a health kick. No bacon for me!’ She gazed at Hamish adoringly.
Hamish began digging through the fridge and brought out a huge packet of bacon. Willa took it and began searching in the drawers for a knife.
‘Hamish, could you show me how to do that Instagram thing again?’ asked Annabelle. ‘I tried to post a shot of one of the weddings on there earlier, but I’m hopeless with all these apps and things.’
‘Sure,’ said Hamish. He pulled on a T-shirt. ‘Where’s your phone?’
Willa pushed the hissing bacon around in the pan and listened as
Hamish explained the functions of Instagram again and they discussed the best hashtags to use to get more brides to follow Merrivale Garden Weddings.
After that, the bacon sandwiches were demolished in minutes. They sat sipping tea, until Hugo said, ‘I’d love a piece of that special pie.’ He reached across and took Willa’s hand.
She nodded.
Hamish picked up the knife. ‘You would have liked my sister, Annabelle. She was much better at social media than me. She’d have loved all that wedding stuff.’ He began putting pieces of the pie onto plates and handing them round with the spoons.
‘You must try it,’ said Willa, as Annabelle’s hand faltered above her plate. ‘We feel very lucky to be here in Australia with you, remembering Esme.’
Annabelle nodded gravely, and after a moment, she leaned over to Willa and said, ‘I do hope you keep The Old Chapel for yourself, Willa. Then you could come back every year.’
‘Yes,’ said Willa, warming to the idea.
‘Come in the spring,’ said Annabelle. ‘We have a wonderful tulip festival. The farm down the road is glorious when they’re in bloom. Come for your birthday.’
‘My birthday’s in the Aussie summer,’ said Willa. ‘December the tenth. So we would have to make it a lovely long stay for Christmas.’
Willa brought a portion of the pie to her mouth and closed her eyes as the caramel melted across her tongue. When she opened them again, she noticed that the colour had drained from Annabelle’s face.
‘Annabelle?’ she said. ‘Are you all right? Are you sick?’
Annabelle gave a tiny shake of her head.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘December the tenth,’ said Annabelle, her voice a whisper.
‘My birthday? Yes,’ said Willa.
‘But you must be in the spring,’ said Annabelle. ‘Lillian’s baby would have been born in early spring. September, or… even earlier.’
‘Oh,’ said Willa. Suddenly her whole body was encompassed by a swoop of sorrow as another door closed on her identity. She slumped, drowning in the sensation that Esme should be here, and that if she was, none of this would matter at all. Just last night she had confided to Hugo that she believed she’d gotten to the bottom of who her parents were. It made sense that it was Lillian and this unknown man, this dead man that Annabelle didn’t want to talk about. The man Willa would gather up the courage for soon – the courage to read about him in the diaries. Both her biological parents were dead, so there was no hurry. And for that moment, when she had been lying there last night with her head in Hugo’s lap, listening to the waves and drinking wine, it didn’t feel important, because Esme was more important and there was only so much loss you could carry, and tomorrow it would be the day to think about Esme.
Hugo squeezed her arm. ‘Darling?’
She didn’t respond. She just felt so tired.
Hugo looked from Willa across to Annabelle, who sat ashen-faced in her chair, clutching hard at the edge of the table as if the room was spinning.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ he asked.
Annabelle lifted her head and seemed to consider the remaining banoffee pie in the centre of the table.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. Her chair clattered noisily across the timber floor as she stood, then she picked up her basket and walked out.
Twenty
Annabelle
Annabelle sat in her car, clutching the steering wheel. She could do it. It wasn’t hard. Press the ignition button, put it in gear, foot on the pedal, drive up the hill. But the fear was grasping at her throat, punching at her insides. She squeezed her eyes shut. Stupid girl, stop fussing, just drive the darn car home!
She pushed the button and reversed out of the driveway, refusing to look at Willa and Hugo, who were standing on the porch looking at her with puzzled faces. As she drove up the wet, winding cliff-side road towards Merrivale, she thought, push your foot down hard, woman. Go over the edge. How much better, to be at the bottom of the sea. And yet the cold tip of something enormous was pressing at her. An iceberg of realisation. No, I might be needed. What if I’m needed?
She pulled out onto the main road, taking slow, deep breaths that didn’t seem to be having the slightest effect on the heavy sense of dread that had settled on her chest. She turned down the road towards home, and at her driveway, she stopped as a woman waved to her.
She let her window down and the woman leaned towards the car.
‘Hi, Annabelle. I thought I’d come and help with repotting all those rosemary cuttings we put in the back shed.’
Annabelle stared at her. She began counting in her head – ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five – hoping the woman’s name would come to her. She knew her. Yes, she was certainly someone well known to her. But Annabelle’s head was spinning. ‘Right,’ she said. She realised she was staring at the woman, and so she put her finger on the window button and the window moved up noiselessly. No. That looked even more odd. She wound it back down again. ‘Cuttings.’ She heard the word come out of her mouth, not sure where she had been going with the thought.
‘Are you all right?’ asked the woman.
‘Perfectly,’ said Annabelle.
‘You don’t look well. I actually came up here because I thought you might need some moral support.’
‘Really?’ Annabelle wondered how the woman could read her mind.
‘Rita Perotta was mentioning this morning at the café that Sylvia seemed a bit off balance. Rita was spouting stories. Silly untrue gossip, no doubt. About… Sylvia and Dan. And Sylvia being in her underpants when he—’
‘Mira!’ It was Mira she was talking to. The relief at remembering her friend’s name had made Annabelle bark it out. Mira from the garden club. Why did Mira think she wanted to hear the town gossip?
Mira looked at her oddly. ‘I didn’t want people to be talking about it behind your back. Thought you should hear it—’
‘Yes! Yes.’ Annabelle took a quick breath and put her shaking hands back on the steering wheel. ‘Let’s do some repotting. I’ll just get changed.’ She wound up the window again and drove the car into the garage. She felt a pang of relief as Mira headed off in the direction of the shed instead of following her in.
She didn’t have time to think about repotting, or cuttings, or Rita’s stupid gossip. She needed Lillian’s diary urgently. The one from 1977. Willa must never be allowed to read it. Making sure Mira was safely out of sight, she ducked around the side of the main house and crossed the lane into The Old Chapel garden. She looked left and right, but the lane was deserted. Across the paddock, the ocean was a deep grey-blue. She rattled at the door handle and was annoyed to find it locked. She ducked back down the two steps and skirted the house, hoping she could push open the kitchen window. She stood on tiptoe and placed her hands against the dirty glass, but the swollen timber and old paint held it fast.
Annabelle’s mind ticked over frantically. She needed a ladder. Yes, a ladder would get her in one of the windows – she’d try a far-side window, though, so she wouldn’t be spotted from the lane or from Merrivale’s gardens. She hurried back across to the shed, and as she crashed through the door, she was startled to see Mira. How could she have forgotten about her already? She cursed her silly brain. It was like a piece of Swiss cheese.
‘Er, I just need the ladder for something. Something up high. A high item… on a high shelf,’ she panted, her curls sticking to her face as she began to sweat. ‘I’ll be back soon to help you with those lavender cuttings.’
‘Rosemary,’ said Mira.
‘Who?’ said Annabelle.
‘Not who. What,’ said Mira.
‘What?’ said Annabelle, scrunching up her face.
‘It’s rosemary, not lavender!’ said Mira.
Annabelle shook her head. Who cared? The woman was being obtuse. She pushed past her and found a screwdriver, which she shoved into her front pocket. Then she picked up her favourite lightweight ladder from the back corner and
hurried out and across the garden with it. Light as a feather was her ladder, although frightfully unstable. But good for middle-aged ladies like herself who couldn’t lug those dreadful heavy contraptions around every time they needed a pot of pickled walnuts down from the very high shelf in the laundry.
Around the back of The Old Chapel, she extended the ladder and pulled the legs apart, balancing it against the house on the rough grass. She tested it for stability, then climbed up it, clutching at the side of Lillian’s house with one hand. Paint flecks broke away beneath her touch. When her feet were two steps from the top of the ladder, she swivelled and took a moment to gain her balance before retrieving the screwdriver from her pocket and levering it carefully under the window latch. With a few sharp bangs on the handle, the latch rattled and gave way. Success!
She stopped and considered what she’d done for a moment, then gave a mad little laugh. I’m a burglar! But it didn’t matter. She needed that diary, and a tiny bit of law-breaking was perfectly understandable in the circumstances. Necessary, in actual fact.
She dropped the screwdriver onto the grass below and pushed up the little sash window as high as it would go, which was only halfway. She peered at the open window sceptically. It wasn’t a large opening, and she hadn’t really seen any results from her health kick yet. Her hips and belly were still annoyingly large. Still, she could probably wriggle through. Inside, beneath the window, was a sideboard, so if she lost her balance, she wouldn’t fall far.
Annabelle swivelled again to hold onto the ladder, then put one leg through the window and lowered herself down just a fraction until her foot felt the sideboard. She put the other leg through and pushed her bottom in. She slid backwards and tried to move herself sideways, so she wouldn’t fall off the end of sideboard. A sharp jab at each side of her hips made her stop. Her hands wobbled on the ladder. She moved her leg slowly behind her, trying to find traction, but all she could focus on was a sharp pain where her knee was digging into timber. The noise of a car engine approaching, followed by the slamming of a door, made her stop. Her breath quickened. She wiggled further backwards, and as she peered to her left down the side of the house, her hand slipped. She grasped wildly at the ladder, but instead of holding it, she knocked the silly thing away.
The Daughter's Promise (ARC) Page 20