Lost Daughter

by Ali Mercer

  The crunch of her footsteps as she makes her way to the front door is as loud as a warning signal, as if she were a would-be intruder whose bad intentions have already been foiled.

  It’s Mary who answers, looking fresh as a daisy. Botox? Or maybe it’s just lots of sleep and a happy marriage and a clean conscience.

  ‘Hi, Rachel, good to see you. Come on in,’ Mary says, with a consciously gracious smile.

  Rachel’s instinct is to decline and bolt for the safety of the car. But she can hardly refuse when Mary is being so magnanimous. She puts her right hand to her left wrist, pinches hard, and steps in.

  The hallway is sweet with the scent of the huge bouquet of spring flowers standing on a mahogany side table. Hanging on the wall to one side, back in place, is the watercolour of the garden at Rose Cottage that Mitch had done the previous winter. There’s no sign of any damage; you’d never know that it had ever come to any grief.

  She’s glad to see that it is intact. It’s one less thing to feel remorseful about.

  ‘The girls are just about up and dressed. They haven’t been terribly lively this morning,’ Mary says. After a pause that is just short enough not to be rude, but just long enough to let Rachel know she’s not expected to accept, she adds: ‘Can I offer you anything? Cup of tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Oh, no, we should be heading off.’

  Mary’s smile has more than a hint of relief in it. Rachel imagines her telling some friend or other about it later: Poor woman. It’s so difficult. I really didn’t know what to say to her.

  She makes a conscious effort to remember her manners. ‘Thank you so much for having Becca to stay, and for picking her up last night.’

  ‘Absolute pleasure. Becca’s welcome here any time, Rachel. I really want you to know that. They seem to have had a fun evening.’

  ‘Oh good,’ Rachel says. She had messaged Becca to ask if she’d enjoyed the disco, but hadn’t received a response.

  ‘They looked gorgeous,’ Mary says. ‘See, I took some photos.’

  She picks up a smartphone from the side table and shows Rachel a couple of snaps. Amelia is pouting and posing, her arm flung coercively around Becca’s shoulders. It’s obvious that Becca didn’t really want to be photographed, but in other ways she looks quite different to her usual self; she’s wearing shiny lip gloss, and a tight red top Rachel doesn’t recognise.

  ‘I put a couple of Amelia online, but you don’t really do Facebook these days, do you? I’ll email them to you,’ Mary says.

  ‘Thanks,’ Rachel says.

  ‘So how’s everything with you?’ Mary asks, adopting an encouraging, receptive expression. ‘Is there a new romance in your life, by any chance? Becca mentioned that you’ve made some new friends.’

  Why has Becca been talking to Mary about her? And why is Mary so interested, anyway? It’s almost as if she wants Rachel to be seeing someone else. As if that would be a sign that she really had moved on, and had once more become a fully functioning member of the human race.

  Suck it up, Rachel tells herself. Don’t make a scene.

  ‘Yeah, not that kind of friend.’

  ‘Oh well. Maybe in time. Good for you, anyway. It all sounds really constructive.’ She drops her voice. ‘And how’s Becca doing? Hugh mentioned that Mitch had told him there had been some issues at school.’

  Once again Rachel has to suppress her reflex reaction, which is to object to Becca’s problems having become pillow talk for the Chadstones. Of course Hugh and Mitch talk… surely that’s a good thing? They’ve always gone for the occasional drink together. But she has generally assumed that they talk about nothing much, or at least nothing personal, and that this is part of the point: that what they both get out of the friendship is an easy, undemanding companionship that doesn’t involve discussing or analysing anything emotional – that is actually a rest from all that.

  ‘I think Becca’s doing OK now, actually,’ Rachel says. ‘I mean, there were some concerns. But it all seems to be going the right way.’

  ‘Oh good. Good. It’s always worrying when there are these little blips, isn’t it?’ Mary reaches out and squeezes Rachel’s arm. ‘You know, it’s great to see you doing so much better.’

  Becca comes downstairs, her schoolbag hanging off one shoulder; she’s also carrying an overnight bag Rachel doesn’t recognise. She averts her face from Rachel’s gaze as if she can’t bear to look at her. Amelia, groomed and golden as ever, is just behind her, her eyes glued to the screen of her phone as she walks down the stairs.

  ‘God, Ollie just liked another of my pictures,’ Amelia announces. ‘Mum, I think I might have actually got myself a stalker.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, dear,’ Mary says. ‘Stalking’s actually a very serious offence. Ollie Pickering is a very nice boy who just happens to have taken a shine to you.’

  ‘Ollie Pickering needs to learn how to play it cool,’ Amelia mutters, then, to Becca: ‘Come here, you.’

  She draws Becca into a flamboyant embrace, then withdraws almost instantly and turns back to her phone.

  ‘See you Monday,’ Amelia says without looking up.

  ‘Darling, you’re not posting another picture, are you?’ Mary says.

  ‘Well, you’ll be able to see for yourself, won’t you? Since you insist on stalking me, too.’

  Becca turns away. ‘See you,’ she says gruffly. ‘Thanks for having me, Mrs Chadstone.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure, dear,’ Mary says.

  ‘Thanks, Mary. I guess I’ll see you around,’ Rachel says. She holds the front door open for Becca, who barely acknowledges her on the way out, and then makes her escape.

  ‘I can carry your bag,’ she says as she catches up with Becca.

  ‘No need,’ Becca says, with a sullen glance.

  A crunching sound announces the arrival of somebody else: Henry Chadstone, dressed in running clothes and sweating lightly. He veers across the gravel towards them and comes to a halt by the car.

  ‘Hey, Becca,’ he says. ‘Morning, Mrs Moran.’

  Becca manages a small sound of acknowledgment, but otherwise seems to be completely tongue-tied and doesn’t respond to Henry’s slightly nervous smile.

  What must this boy think of Rachel after what he’d seen last time she was here? And Amelia, too – but Amelia had just ignored her, and Henry’s impeccable politeness is more of a challenge.

  ‘Morning, Henry,’ she says. ‘Been far?’

  ‘Did the loop down to Kettlebridge lock,’ Henry tells her, and starts stretching out his hamstrings.

  ‘That’s a good run,’ Rachel says. ‘Well, enjoy the rest of the weekend.’

  ‘Yes, you too.’

  Rachel unlocks the car and goes to take Becca’s overnight bag, but Becca resists and puts it in the boot herself before getting in the passenger seat. Rachel settles beside her as Henry disappears into the house. She says, ‘So how was it last night? Did you have a good time?’

  ‘It was all right. It wasn’t that great,’ Becca says. ‘Mum, I’m actually not feeling too good.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry – what’s up?’

  ‘I didn’t sleep very well, and I just got my period,’ Becca says. ‘I know we’re meant to be having a day out and everything, but I think I might need to go home and go to bed.’

  Well, she does look pale. This isn’t necessarily just a ruse to get out of spending time together. Or a reaction to being back at the Chadstones’ house after what had happened here in the autumn…

  Maybe Rachel should be pleased that Becca doesn’t feel obliged to put a brave face on things and soldier on, and is willing to tell her how she’s feeling. Becca is private to a fault – once she’d started her periods, she was reluctant to discuss the subject with Rachel ever again, all the more so once Rachel had left the family home. Becca certainly showed no signs of wanting or needing her mother’s support; if she did, it had been even more important to her not to admit it.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Rachel says. �
�You can come back to mine and curl up on the sofa and we can watch TV together, if you like.’

  But Becca shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, I just want my own bed,’ she says, and there is an edge to her voice that suggests she’s not all that far from bursting into tears.

  ‘OK, sure, whatever you want. I’ll just let your dad know.’

  Rachel takes out her phone, makes the call. She’s conscious that Mary must be aware that they’re still parked in the forecourt, and is probably wondering why they haven’t left yet.

  Mitch picks up almost straight away and says, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Hi… Becca’s not feeling very well. She wants to come home and go to bed. Is that OK?’

  There is a pause.

  ‘Sure,’ Mitch says. ‘Sure, if that’s what she wants. Look, can I speak to her?’

  Rachel passes over the phone. Becca listens to her father and then says, ‘It was fine, Dad. Don’t fuss. I’ll see you soon, OK? Love you. Bye.’

  She ends the call and passes the phone back to Rachel.

  ‘Sorry, Mum,’ she says. ‘It’s just… I don’t really feel up to it, that’s all.’

  ‘You don’t have to feel up to anything to spend time with me,’ Rachel says, but Becca doesn’t reply.

  They drive back to Rose Cottage in silence. It is only when they’re finally parked in front of Rose Cottage that Rachel finally blurts out, ‘Was it OK for you, being back there?’

  ‘You mean at Amelia’s house?’ Becca says. ‘Sure it was OK. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s fine, Mum. Don’t worry about it. It’s almost like nothing ever happened.’

  Becca gets out of the car and opens the boot. Rachel hurries to her side and says, ‘At least let me carry your stuff.’

  Becca shrugs and stands back, and Rachel takes her things to the doorstep of Rose Cottage, where Mitch is standing with his arms folded, waiting to let Becca in.

  He has on the blue canvas fisherman’s smock that he wears over his clothes when he is painting; there is a dab of fresh cadmium yellow on his sleeve. He smells, faintly but unmistakeably, of linseed oil and turpentine, a once-familiar odour that Rachel had almost forgotten. To come across it again is a shock – not an unpleasant one, but disorientating, as if time has just dissolved and allowed the past to emerge from whatever has been hiding it.

  Becca takes her bag from Rachel, murmurs something inaudible and slips inside.

  Mitch doesn’t quite manage to smile at Rachel, but he doesn’t glare at her either. He says, ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yeah, you?’

  ‘Not bad. So… how’d it go? The handover, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, fine. In and out. No big deal.’ She attempts a smile. He doesn’t look convinced. ‘I see they’ve got your painting fixed up and back in place,’ she goes on. She can’t meet his eyes as she says this. ‘It looks really good.’

  Silence. She looks up. He is watching her, not angrily, but with reproachful resignation, as if to say: I know you feel bad. And so you should.

  ‘I see you’re back on the oil paints now,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah, it’s another reproduction. My dabbling in wishy-washy watercolours is over.’

  ‘You’ve never done anything wishy-washy.’ He shrugs. ‘Anyway, I hope Becca feels better soon. Is it OK if I phone later to see how she’s getting on?’

  ‘Sure. Did you see that there’s a picture of her in the school annual report?’

  ‘Oh, no. I haven’t got my copy yet, I don’t think.’

  ‘It’s a good one. I’ve got it somewhere – I can show you, if you like?’ Then he says the words that Rachel had never expected to hear him say again: ‘Why don’t you come on in?’

  And so Rachel steps over the threshold of her former home and finds herself back in a place that she had only thought to see again in her dreams.

  The doormat still says Welcome, though she only knows this because she bought it; the rainbow colours of the letters have long since been obscured by dust. The hall carpet is the same as ever, worn and slightly grubby. It is all so familiar that the novel details leap out: inexplicably, there is an empty cereal packet at the foot of the stairs, and amongst the jumble of shoes in the alcove by the front door is a pair of women’s boots she has never seen Becca wear. They are black, buckled, with a Cuban heel. A low heel, but still… a heel! Becca has never had a pair of shoes with a heel before. Not that Rachel is in any position to lay down the law.

  In her dreams, she drifts through the house as a ghost, or is locked inside while shadowy intruders rattle at the door, and Rose Cottage is never quite as she remembers it, though she doesn’t always register the differences at the time. Rooms might have grown or shrunk or changed colour and there are unexpected people there, people who she hasn’t seen for years or who are no longer living: her mother weeping quietly into the washing-up while her father drinks in front of their old TV, school friends she has drifted out of touch with or colleagues from the job she has lost.

  It still doesn’t seem real. It’s as if this is just another dream version of the house, and the Rose Cottage of the here and now is somewhere else, still in a world she has lost access to.

  Mitch says, ‘Come on through to the kitchen. I’ll go find the thing,’ and she does as she’s told.

  The kitchen table. Rectangular, oak, indefatigably sturdy; they had chosen it together soon after moving in. Many birthday teas and Christmas dinners had been set out on it. She and Mitch might even have had sex on it, or at least near it, though she actually can’t quite remember.

  She sits down and Mitch comes in with the school’s glossy, A4 annual report. The scar on his hand is less noticeable today; it’s beginning to fade – it’s a little closer to the colour of skin, a little further from the colour of blood.

  He sets the report out in front of her, open to the right page. The picture is of Becca as Nancy in her torn red dress, singing her heart out.

  ‘There’s something else you might want to see, too,’ Mitch says, and puts down a proof copy of Becca’s most recent school photograph next to the report. Becca looks acutely self-conscious in it, as if she’s trying to smile without showing her teeth.

  Rachel says, ‘Would you order me a copy? Biggest size possible? Let me know how much I owe you for it and I’ll transfer the cash.’

  ‘Will do. Just don’t expect Becca to appreciate it. She hates it,’ Mitch says, and almost smiles.

  ‘Well, I like it. Is it OK if I go up and check on her before I leave?’

  Mitch shrugs. ‘Sure.’

  And so Rachel goes up the stairs and knocks on Becca’s door.

  From inside, a muffled voice says, ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me. Mum.’

  Cautiously, and as gently as she can, she pushes the door open. Inside the room it is dark; Becca has drawn the curtains and is already in bed.

  She says, ‘Is it OK if I come in?’

  ‘I’m trying to sleep,’ Becca grumbles, which Rachel takes as a yes.

  She advances into the room and comes to a halt about a foot from the bed, just close enough to reach out and stroke Becca’s hair back from her forehead, which she would like to do but doesn’t quite dare. She stoops and gazes at Becca in the gloom and says, ‘Well, you take care. I hope you feel better soon.’

  Becca’s thin white hand shoots out from under the covers and grabs hers; it is startlingly cold. She had forgotten that Becca is always cool to the touch. It used to be a family joke.

  ‘I’m sorry about today,’ Becca says.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Rachel tells her. ‘All that matters is that you’re OK.’

  Becca releases her hand and Rachel retreats back towards the hall. She pauses in the doorway to take in the room for what is likely to be the last time, at least for a while.

  ‘I’ll see you next week. Sleep well,’ Rachel says. She withdraws and shuts the door.

  Mitch is sitting at the kitchen table downstairs, staring into space. He gets to his feet as Rachel comes i
n.

  ‘All right?’ he says finally, and she sees that it is time for her to go, and that, quite possibly, he is already regretting letting her in, but that at the same time he is worried about Becca, and feels slightly out of his depth.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ Rachel says, since some kind of reassurance seems to be called for. ‘I’d best let you get on.’

  He accompanies her to the front door. But then, in the hallway, he seems to hesitate before showing her out, and she can’t help but feel that he is waiting for her to say something, or to ask him something – as if there’s a conversation that they ought to be having, but that it’s down to her to initiate.

  All she can think of is to ask him what he is working on.

  ‘It’s a Canaletto this time. I’m actually learning a lot. I can’t really recapture it, of course, even doing it brushstroke by brushstroke with the whole thing mapped out in front of me. It’s a lesson in humility if nothing else.’

  ‘Like reassembling the code,’ Rachel says.

  ‘I suppose it is,’ Mitch agrees, and their eyes meet.

  What she sees there is fear. He is afraid of her. Even now. No wonder he hasn’t wanted to let her in the house.

  And then he ushers her out and closes the door behind her.

  Twenty-Five

  Finally, the time has come for Rachel to do something that, not so long ago, would have seemed impossible.

  She is expecting visitors.

  She’s back in the bedsit by 6.30, plumping up the sofa cushions and wiping down the few surfaces; at least there isn’t much of the place to clean. She tries to tell herself that there is no reason to be apprehensive: this is Viv, who she drives to see her son every week the day after seeing Becca, and Leona, who she sits opposite at work. They are not going to take against her simply because they have seen inside the place where she lives. But she’s still nervous; she’s nervous because she wants so much for it to work – for this evening to be the proof that her rehabilitation is complete, that she can enjoy a perfectly ordinary pleasure like having friends round. Or is at least capable of taking her turn to host a support group.