Goodbyes all round. As we stepped out into the cooling warmth of evening, Petra drew a theatrical breath. ‘My God—I’m so sorry, Anna. I had no idea you hadn’t told them any of it.’
‘Oh, don’t worry. It’s not your fault; it was bound to come out sooner or later, anyway.’ I spoke with deliberate briskness, trying to convince myself it was the truth. ‘I know it was silly of me to hide it—I should have mentioned it when I first met them. It just never seemed to be quite the right time, somehow.’
‘You and your writing.’ Carl smiled. ‘I don’t know, Annie—there are probably drug dealers who aren’t so secretive about their work.’
I was delighted to see that Liz’s apparently unquestioning acceptance of my announcement seemed to have coloured his view of it, as well—before she’d spoken, he’d looked cautious and ill at ease, now he seemed to view the evening’s events as an amusing irrelevancy. Only I couldn’t quite see them in that light, not deep down; part of me still crawled with the embarrassment of half an hour ago, wondered what on earth Liz must really think.
‘Well,’ I said, rather self-consciously, ‘all’s well that ends well. Anyway, shall we go for dinner somewhere? It’s a lovely evening, and there are some good pubs round here.’
We did, driving to one midway between Wareham and home; sat outside in the mosquito-flickering beer garden, where a crowd of cheerful twentysomethings looked like they were on their way to a night’s bowling and clubbing in Poole Tower Park. At our rickety wooden table, we talked, ate and drank. Evening came down in rosy gauze layers, wine glasses en route to laughing mouths—a picture of camaraderie so perfect that it could have been a still from a TV ad, frozen above a discreet logo before the real programme began again.
‘So what did you make of the locals?’ I asked Petra. ‘Liz is nice, isn’t she?’
‘Too sweet for words—wish I had a neighbour like that. Mind you, I could have done without meeting that other one, the Nazi-looking one in the white shirt. My God, talk about a charm bypass.’
I saw Carl nodding humorous agreement beside me and I felt obscurely glad that they shared my reaction to Helen; that it wasn’t just me who found her intimidating. ‘There was something really creepy about her,’ Petra went on cheerfully. ‘She hardly said a word. Is she always like that?’
‘As far as I can tell. I don’t see that much of her, luckily—as little as I can, to be honest.’ The waitress arrived with our main course. ‘Anyway, let’s talk about something nicer,’ I said quickly. ‘How’s work been going lately?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
‘GOOD TO SEE her again, wasn’t it?’
It was five thirty on Sunday evening, and we’d just dropped Petra off at Wareham station. Pulling out of the little car park, I spoke rather distractedly, even as I twisted round in my seat and waved back at her for one last time. ‘Yeah.’
‘You don’t sound too convinced.’ Glancing at me more closely, he saw that preoccupation rather than indifference had created the vague note in my voice. ‘What’s the matter, Annie?’
‘Oh, I just keep thinking about last night—you know, what Petra said about me writing at the Women’s Institute thing. I’m not that bothered what Helen or Muriel made of it, but I can’t help worrying about Liz.’ Even as I spoke, her image came back to me: her unsurprised, cheerful reaction that could only have been a mask for something else. ‘We’ve talked to each other so often, it must seem bizarre that I never told her before. God knows what she must think.’
‘Well…’ He spoke awkwardly and I could see him wanting to deny it, not quite being able to. ‘It doesn’t matter, you know—it’s not as if she’s your best friend or anything, there was no reason why you had to tell her. It was just a shame it ended up coming out like that, that’s all.’
‘I’m going to go round and see her when we get home.’ I was thinking aloud—the words came out at the same time as I made the decision. ‘Try and explain why I didn’t tell her before. Just to set the record straight.’
‘You don’t have to,’ he said reassuringly. ‘It’s really no big deal, Annie.’
‘I want to. I won’t be able to relax till I’ve done it. I won’t be long, anyway. You’ll hardly know I’m gone.’
When we got back, Carl put the TV on and settled down to watch the football highlights while I went round to Liz’s back door and knocked rather tentatively. She opened it almost at once. ‘Oh, hello, Anna. I wasn’t expecting to see you.’
Instinctively, I took a step back. ‘Well, I just thought I’d pop round, it’s not important. If it’s a bad time for you right now—’
‘It isn’t at all, dear. Come on in, I’ll put the kettle on.’
I followed her into her impossibly welcoming, nutmeg-smelling kitchen that was cluttered without being untidy in the slightest. Sitting down at the central table, I watched her bustle over to the kettle. ‘I suppose your friend’s gone home now,’ she said. ‘It was very nice to meet her yesterday evening—she seems a lovely girl.’
‘She is. She said to thank you for asking her along; she really enjoyed meeting you all.’ In fact, she hadn’t said any such thing, but I told myself that she’d probably meant to. As Liz filled the kettle from the tap, I couldn’t help myself speaking slightly more seriously, a new awkwardness entering my tone. ‘I suppose I really came to explain about last night,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry I never told you about my writing before. You must think I’m incredibly secretive.’
‘Not at all, dear. Really, it’s nothing to feel guilty about.’
Her expression and voice were both matter-of-fact and impeccably diplomatic, but much as I wanted to let the subject go, I wasn’t quite able to. ‘I know how strange it sounded, coming out like that,’ I said. ‘Helen was giving me funny looks all evening, after Petra said—’
‘Oh, you mustn’t worry about Helen, dear. She can be a bit off with people, sometimes—it’s only to be expected, really, as I’ve said before.’
I couldn’t help my curiosity from showing on my face; Liz carried on speaking with a kind of cosy, unruffled sympathy. ‘She’s had a very difficult life, poor Helen. I’m not talking behind her back, you understand, I know she wouldn’t mind me telling you. She hasn’t lived here as long as you might think, only seven years or so…before that, she’d spent all her adult life looking after her mother, her father died when she was young and her mother was very ill. No social life to speak of at all, and a rather puritanical upbringing, very religious in an old-fashioned way. Terribly sad, when you think of it. As far as I know, she’s never even had a boyfriend—there simply wasn’t any time for that sort of thing while her mother was alive.’
It was true, I thought, it was a sad story. But her image was still oddly menacing in my mind, and I couldn’t banish that feeling no matter how hard I tried. ‘She moved here after her mother died,’ Liz continued. ‘She’s very shy, you know. I know she can seem a bit forbidding, but she’s just not used to people—she’s such a nice lady when you get to know her.’
A slightly awkward pause fell before Liz spoke again, more briskly. ‘Anyway, dear, you certainly don’t need to worry about last night. I’m sure you had your own reasons for keeping that to yourself.’
‘Well, yes, but there’s nothing sinister about them.’ I was suddenly gripped by an irresistible urge to explain, to make her understand the full story. ‘I don’t really know why I didn’t tell you. I suppose I just didn’t want an action replay of the way it was in Reading, before we moved. With everyone who knew I’d written a book. Friends of Carl’s. Friends of mine. People I worked with. It was a nightmare.’
Her expression betrayed more concern than curiosity. ‘What on earth did they do?’
‘Oh, it sounds silly, when I say it. Trivial. But they’d always ask the same questions. How much I’d made from it, for a start—no, really, people who’d never have dreamed of asking me that about my job—it was the first thing they ever wanted to know, and they’d never take not enough
for an answer. They’d just keep on pressing, till I either told them the truth or told them to sod off. And I always told them the truth. And they always looked so disappointed. It was horrible. I always wanted the ground to open up and swallow me.
‘But they never let it go, any of them. Every time I saw them, they’d say they’d been looking for my book and couldn’t find it anywhere—Carl’s own parents said that, and God knows how many other people. They’d reel off this exhaustive list of all the bookshops that didn’t have a single copy in stock, and I don’t think they knew how much it hurt when they reminded me of that; it meant so much to me, and I had to try and pretend I didn’t really care. And then I had to apologise, and explain it didn’t have much distribution, it wasn’t doing that well—and then they always asked about sales figures—’
I paused for a second, taking a shuddering breath. ‘I hate it. I’ve tried to explain to Carl, but he just doesn’t understand—he laughs about me keeping it such a secret, thinks it’s something to be proud of. It’s like banging my head against a brick wall, trying to make him realise I would be proud of it if I was successful, I’d be happy to talk about it till I was blue in the face. But as it is, I just feel like I did when I was a kid, when I used to write then. Like it’s something pathetic. Laughable. Something you do to make you feel better about yourself, because nobody wants you around—’
I broke off, amazed and appalled to realise I was on the brink of tears. I hauled myself back as if for dear life, not quite able to meet her eyes. I felt she’d seen me naked. ‘Well, that’s why I didn’t tell you, anyway,’ I said, forcing an unconvincing smile. ‘I expect you think it’s stupid.’
‘Not at all, dear. I can understand, only too well.’
My gaze moved back to her slowly, with trepidation—I dreaded a thin veneer of sympathy over dubious incomprehension, but her expression was both frank and kind. ‘Really? Honestly—you’re not just saying that?’
‘I’m really not just saying that. I’ve never had a hobby that meant that much to me—you can’t really count my gardening, let alone my little part-time job. But if I did, I’m sure I’d feel the same way about it. I’d feel protective about it. I’d want people to understand that it mattered.’
It was extraordinary, dreamlike to find empathy in such an unexpected quarter. At best, I was used to having my secrecy treated as an amusing creative caprice, akin to an actor wearing a lucky pair of socks on first nights. In Liz, I saw understanding without judgement. It amazed me to think I’d taken her at face value for so long, complacent, slightly overbearing, quick to privately disapprove of anything she couldn’t see reflected in her own life. There was, I realised, far more to her than I’d suspected—true sensitivity behind the bland, conventional niceness, a slightly guarded but nonetheless genuine warmth.
‘I’m really glad you think that,’ I said quietly, then, with a determined injection of cheerfulness, ‘anyway, I’m hoping it’ll be different with my second book. Maybe it’ll do better.’
‘Oh, yes.’ She held back for a second, looking simultaneously curious and embarrassed. ‘Tell me to mind my own business if you like, dear. But I can’t help wondering—what made you want to write about Rebecca Fisher?’
Normally, I’d have been wary of discussing the subject, too aware of its power to inspire shock and disapproval. Suddenly, however, I felt entirely comfortable describing how it had all started, how I’d read a little more about the case and felt unexpected inspiration take root. How it had quickly begun to interest me for reasons that had little or nothing to do with the book. As I told her about it, I felt we were meeting for the first time, discovering an immediate, unforced rapport.
When I’d finished speaking, she looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘It’s certainly an interesting story, in a horrible sort of way. I’m surprised you’re not more frightened by it. This probably sounds silly, but I still find it quite upsetting to think that woman lived next door. It was the last thing you’d expect to happen in a little place like this. When I first moved here, I’d never have dreamed of such a thing.’
I glanced at her, surprised. Something about her settled cosiness here had made me assume she’d lived here all her life. ‘Where did you move from?’
‘Oh, the outskirts of Bournemouth—over ten years ago, now. Soon after my husband passed away. The girls had moved out by then, and the house was far too big for me on my own. And even if it hadn’t been, it just felt wrong there. I don’t quite know how else to describe it.’
‘I know what you mean.’ I envisioned a many-bedroomed family home in a leafy suburb, crowded with possessions and achingly empty; its echoes, I thought, must have been similar to those of number four Ploughman’s Lane, less sinister, yet infinitely more poignant. ‘I’d have moved, as well.’
A grateful glance, acknowledgement that I understood her—then I saw her brushing old sadness away with quick determination, rearranging her familiar smile. ‘I took to Abbots Newton at once, anyway. I’d been rather worried that the locals wouldn’t welcome a stranger, but they honestly couldn’t have been kinder.’
‘I’ve heard they weren’t that kind to Rebecca.’
The words jumped out before I’d had a chance to think about them. She didn’t try to conceal her own curiosity. ‘Whoever told you that?’
It was the first time I described my meeting with Mr Wheeler to anyone who knew him. Deliberately, I left nothing out: his fury, his accusations against myself and the village in general, what he’d told me about Rebecca’s dog. As I finished speaking, Liz’s expression was slightly concerned. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I continued hurriedly, ‘I’ve managed to track down other people who knew Rebecca—old teachers and school friends and God knows who else—I didn’t need Mr Wheeler to talk to me. It just shook me up a bit at the time. That’s all.’
‘I’m not surprised, dear.’ She still looked worried, and the pause lasted slightly too long. ‘He was very good friends with Rebecca,’ she said at last, ‘so far as I could tell, at least. I saw his car parked outside so often.’
It had the unmistakable edge of a warning, as if she didn’t want to sound silly or hysterical, but still wanted her misgivings to come across loud and clear. Looking at her, I felt much as I had done with Petra yesterday morning, in the spare room. Only this was somehow worse. I could imagine Petra’s internal casting director putting Vincent Price in the vet’s role, but Liz knew him. Unaware of the cry I’d heard in the night, the day I’d seen him watching the house or my suspicions regarding Socks’ death, she’d still found my brief summary of that meeting ominous. The silence had become too heavy, demanding to be broken.
‘Do you think he’s still in touch with her?’ I asked.
‘Your guess is as good as mine. Still, I expect so. They seemed very close when she was living here—I’m quite convinced that they knew each other before that.’
I wondered if they could go back decades, if he could be as loyal to her as he’d have been to an immediate relative. As furious and vengeful on her behalf. I struggled to submerge the thought.
‘Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’m certainly not getting in touch with him again—I’ve got plenty of leads to follow as it is.’ I wanted to get this conversation as far away from the sinister ambiguities of Mr Wheeler as possible, to put it back where it belonged, among the spice racks and cookery books of a pleasant rural kitchen in summer. ‘Anyway, how did your sale go last night, after we left? It was a shame we couldn’t stay for longer.’
The change of subject was glaringly obvious, but she didn’t acknowledge that by so much as a raised eyebrow—I could see her tacitly understanding my need for normality and reassurance, and blessed her for it. In my mind, we moved another step closer together.
Eventually I caught a glimpse of the clock across the room and did the kind of double take I’d thought I’d have to feign at the bake sale. ‘My God, it’s almost seven,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry, but I’d better make a move.’
>
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.’
‘Well, come round for a cup of tea whenever you like.’ Even if I’d wanted to extend that invitation this time yesterday, I wouldn’t quite have been able to; suddenly, however, it was simplicity itself. ‘I can usually do with a distraction from the research.’
Out of the back door, I walked down her garden path, past the spot where we’d buried Socks. As the sunset came down, the flowerbeds were controlled explosions of colour, as if viewed through a golden-pink filter. Unsettling as I’d found our conversation about Mr Wheeler, I couldn’t help feeling startled and happy as I realised how Liz had changed in my mind; she seemed to have crossed some crucial boundary, turning from pleasant acquaintance to genuine friend in the space of an hour and a half. It had, I remembered, been much the same way with Petra, in another time and place completely…
But that didn’t matter, not now. I didn’t want to think about that time in my life this evening. Quickening my step, I headed back to dinner and Carl as if I could hurry away from terrible memories. That was the worst thing about them, I thought, the way they could jump out of nowhere, the way a tiny part of my mind always had to stand vigilant guard against them.
The following morning, I was stepping into the shower and Carl was getting ready for work when the knock came at the front door. Turning the shower off, I heard him going downstairs and answering it, a brief muffled exchange with a male voice I didn’t recognise. Seconds later, the door was closing again, and Carl was calling up the stairs. ‘Just the postman, Annie. You’ve got a parcel. I think it’s that book you bought online.’
It was the sort of thing that only ever arrived when you weren’t expecting it, and I’d virtually forgotten it existed. I felt ridiculously pleased, as if I’d just received an unexpected present.
‘Thanks,’ I called back, ‘just leave it wherever.’
In the Spider's House Page 20