by Imogen Clark
‘What’s wrong with Bump? It’s a fine name and it’s done him proud till now.’
Exasperated, Grace ploughed on. ‘And we need to swap diaries so I know where you’ll be when I need you.’
‘I’ll be right here with you, my darling,’ replied Charles, finally stopping what he was doing and focusing on her entirely. ‘You can squeeze my hand as tightly as you like. I’ll even tolerate a little light swearing if it helps you push him out.’
When he was in this kind of mood there was little point in persisting, so Grace gave up. There would be time enough to sort things out, she thought.
Eventually, though, they could dance round the subject no longer. The new baby was due in the third week of October and Grace, determined to discuss the birth arrangements with Charles whether he was interested or not, went to search him out. He wasn’t hard to find. The ethereal yet haunting phrases of The Lark Ascending drifted through the echoing corridors of the Hall and all she had to do was follow the sound.
Grace adored these private moments when she could eavesdrop on Charles playing purely for his own pleasure rather than practising a work for performance. She made her way to the music room, treading as softly as her bulky size allowed so that she wouldn’t alert him to her presence. He was unlikely to hear her, though. When he played like this he became entirely lost in his music. Often, Grace had learned, it was because he had something important on his mind. No doubt, she thought, his choosing this soulful piece now was to do with his apprehension about becoming a father for the second time.
She reached the music room but stayed back, hidden by the shadows in the corridor. Charles was standing near the piano, his back to her, and he swayed as the notes poured out of him. It was obvious that he had no idea she was there. She waited until he reached the piece’s fragile ending, the lark ascending into the heavens out of sight. The beautifully haunting final note was such a pure sound that its vibration sent a shiver down Grace’s spine before the echoey acoustics of the Hall carried it away into the darkness.
Certain that he had finished, Grace moved silently into the room. She expected that Charles would sense her presence or at least lower his instrument and find another score to play, but he just stood there. Reluctant to interrupt whatever moment he was having, she waited. Her back was aching and her feet were sore, but being eight months pregnant could do that to you and she was stoical about the discomfort.
After what felt like an age, Charles lowered his violin and turned to put it back in the case that lay open on the George III desk that he had purloined from her parents’ old room to use as his music table. When he caught sight of Grace, he started as if he’d had no idea that she were there, and she saw that his cheeks were wet.
‘Stupid,’ he said, tutting and wiping the tears away with the back of his hand.
‘No,’ replied Grace gently. ‘Of course it isn’t stupid. It’s such a moving piece and you play it so beautifully. You’d have to be made of stone not to be touched by it.’
She searched his face, looking for a clue as to what had made him cry, but there was nothing. Whatever emotion had consumed him had already evaporated.
‘Come here,’ he said opening his arms wide and welcoming her into them. ‘What would I do without you?’
‘Well, I’m not planning on making you find out,’ said Grace lightly. She let him hold her, enjoying the feel of his arms enclosing her despite her bump. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘if you have a minute, I just thought we could look at the diaries and make sure we have a plan for when Junior arrives.’
‘But that’s weeks away yet,’ said Charles, now holding her at arm’s length so that he could see her face. ‘You mustn’t worry about things so much, Gracie. It’s bad for you and the baby. And anyway, Hector was late. No doubt this one will be too.’
‘All the same,’ said Grace. ‘Given how often you’re away these days, I’d rather have an idea of your movements around the due date. If I’m going to have to rope someone else in to be with me, then they’re going to need a bit of notice.’
She was smiling as she spoke, but she was only half-joking, and she hoped that Charles was sensitive enough to pick up her real concerns. But it appeared that he wasn’t.
‘Me, miss the birth of my own child?’ he said, cocking his head to one side and planting his hands firmly on his hips so that he looked a little like a superhero. ‘Never! I will be there, my darling. Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.’
Grace smiled weakly. ‘Indeed. But where will you actually be on the nineteenth of October?’
Charles felt in the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out the little blue notebook that he always kept on him. He flicked through the dog-eared pages until he found the appropriate week.
‘I’ll be in Newcastle,’ he said, and Grace felt herself relax. ‘We’re in rehearsal until the twenty-eighth so hopefully young master or mistress Montgomery Smith will put in an appearance before then. After that we’re in Edinburgh and then Glasgow, but I’m sure that won’t be a problem. They’re not so far away.’
‘And the Formula One?’ she breathed, hardly daring to ask. She knew that the racing was very important to him these days – he went to as many races as he could manage in the season – but surely he wouldn’t want to be haring off chasing his self-indulgent hobbies when she was about to have his baby? If he did, though, Grace was going to have to drop a gentle hint about priorities.
‘All done and dusted by then,’ Charles said, and she felt at least some of the accumulated stress leave her body. ‘Last race is South Africa on the fifteenth and I wouldn’t be going to that one anyway. Don’t worry. I’ll definitely be around.’
‘Good,’ she said, satisfied that everything seemed to be as organised at it could be in the rather vague circumstances. ‘Well, let’s hope he or she arrives on time. Dinner will be in twenty minutes.’
‘I’ll just pack this away,’ he said, stroking his violin affectionately, and then added, ‘You do know I love you, don’t you, Grace?’
Grace smiled indulgently at him as if he were a child. ‘Of course I do,’ she said. ‘Although some days it feels a bit of a close-run thing between me and Dad’s car collection.’
She was joking and expected that he would respond in kind, but instead his smile slipped and he frowned. He looked so earnest that Grace almost giggled.
‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘Whatever happens, you must never forget that I love you. Come what may,’ he added.
He was so exasperating! Always so dramatic. He couldn’t help it, she supposed; it was the performer in him, and one of the many reasons why Grace loved him.
‘What are you talking about, you foolish man?’ she laughed. ‘Whatever happens, indeed. Are you planning a bank heist or something? Honestly! Of course I know you love me and I love you too. And in a few weeks we’ll become the perfect little family of four. I can’t wait to meet our new little he or she.’
‘Me neither,’ said Charles. ‘Me neither.’
16
LEAH – NOW
Our day out at Hartford Hall turned out to be far more fun than any of us had expected. Even my ever-so-slightly reluctant Poppy had to admit that Clio’s house was ‘pretty cool’ and that Marlon was ‘a right laugh’. Noah spent most of the journey home asking when we could go again and then fell asleep with his head in my lap.
‘Mum?’ said Poppy as the train rattled its way along the tracks. ‘Do you like Clio?’
‘Yes,’ I replied without stopping to think about it. ‘I do. Why do you ask? Do you think it’s weird that we can be friends when we’re so different?’
‘That’s just it,’ Poppy said. ‘Even though she’s dead rich and lives in that massive house, you and her are just the same.’
‘Well,’ I said, stroking Noah’s curls. ‘People are just people, no matter where they come from or how much money they’ve got. And Clio is really nice.’
‘Yes, but it’s not just that,’ said Poppy, tipping her he
ad to one side and furrowing her brow as she thought about what she was trying to say. ‘You just seem alike. I mean, you laugh at the same jokes and everything.’
‘That’s how friendships start,’ I said. ‘You don’t just make new friends when you’re young, you know? You go on finding people that you have things in common with even when you’re grown up. In fact, it’s even more special when it happens then, because you aren’t expecting it. I really like Clio and I hope she likes me too.’
As I said this I realised that it was very important to me that Clio liked me.
‘She definitely does, Mum,’ confirmed Poppy. ‘I could tell. You’re just like me and my friends when you’re together. You’ll be finishing each other’s sentences next. You even look a bit alike.’
‘No need to go that far!’ I said. ‘Shall we get some chips on the way home? I can’t be bothered to cook.’
When Poppy and Noah had gone upstairs and I was on my own again, I ran over the day in my head. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to actually live in a place like Hartsford Hall. I wasn’t certain I liked the idea of people being around all the time, either. I mean, having servants that lived in the house sounded like fun to start with, but the reality was probably very different. How did you get any privacy, for a start? Then again, I had nothing but privacy and I had to admit that it could get a bit lonely.
Having been initially grateful that Clio’s family weren’t there, I was starting to wish that I’d met them. If I knew more about who they were, that might help me understand Clio a bit better. She seemed close to them, even though she’d been pretty rude about her brother, and she was obviously devastated about the death of her dad. Now there, the two of us really were different. I’d meant it when I’d said that I could cheerfully murder my dad if he ever showed his face again. Not that that was likely now. He could be dead as well, for all I knew. A lot could happen in fifteen years.
God. Was it really fifteen years since Mum died? Time played such strange tricks. In some ways I could barely remember what it was like living with Mum and Dad and yet at the same time my memory of that awful December day was as sharp as if it had only just happened. Dad had left us the week before. One day he was there and the next Mum was in bits and he had gone. I was used to him not being around that much. Mum would moan about it and sometimes they’d argue, but basically him not being there was our status quo. And there was nothing odd about it either. Most of my friends lived in a home with no dad at all, so the fact that I did have one part of the time put me head and shoulders above the rest of them.
I missed the final, fatal argument. I was out at an eighteenth birthday party when it happened. By the time I got home Mum was completely broken, smashed to bits by whatever Dad had said or done. I tried to get her to tell me, but all she’d say was that he wasn’t the man she’d thought he was and that he wouldn’t be coming back. And that was it. That was all the explanation I got.
I kept asking questions for a few days. I was desperate to know what had happened, but Mum just seemed to retreat further and further into herself. Dad hadn’t taken any of his stuff – nothing to even remind him of me. That really hurt, but I kept hoping it meant he’d come back. Then one day I got home from school and his stuff was just in piles all over the garden where Mum had thrown it. I had to bag it all up on my own. Well, I couldn’t just leave it there for all the neighbours to gossip over, even though they all knew what had happened. Most of them had heard the row and those that hadn’t were soon filled in on all the gory details. I didn’t know what to do with his stuff. At first, I thought I shouldn’t throw it away in case he came back, but then I got so angry with him that I just dumped the lot outside the Oxfam shop.
After that, Mum took to her bed. She just disappeared into some dark and impenetrable place and barely even spoke to me in those few final days. Then one night when I was fast asleep, Mum left too. When I woke up in the morning there was no sign of her anywhere. I felt sick. How could this be happening to me a second time? I raced down to the police station to report her missing. I could barely make myself understood, couldn’t get my words out. It must have been the shock, I suppose, but eventually they worked out what I was trying to tell them. Not that they were interested, not really. The sergeant on the desk tried to reassure me: people often went away for a day or two, he said. When I told him that Dad had just left us, he said that Mum was probably licking her wounds somewhere and that she’d be back, right as rain, soon enough.
When I was woken up that night by a sharp rap on the door and saw the two doleful policemen on the front step I knew exactly what had happened. I didn’t want to hear the details, but they told me anyway. A dog-walker had found her, or what was left of her after the waves and the rocks were done with her. I listened to their words, nodded to show them that I was absorbing what they were telling me, but inside my heart was screaming. I couldn’t believe it at first. Then I got so angry that I frightened myself. How dare she leave me like that to cope on my own? I wasn’t old enough. I didn’t know anything about anything. I needed her.
I had no way of getting in touch with Dad. His work was secret and it was before the internet so I couldn’t just look him up. I suppose I could have hired a private detective or something but I didn’t think of that, and anyway I had no money to pay one with. That meant that I couldn’t tell Dad what had happened so instead I just brooded on his absence. It didn’t take long for all the pain that I was feeling about Mum to morph into anger at Dad. Anger was an easier emotion for me to deal with. Within weeks, I had convinced myself that I hated him. Even if he’d come back then, I’m not sure I could have forgiven him for what he’d done.
And so I sat through the coroner’s inquest on my own, listened to the generous verdict of accidental death and then got on with the task of being, to all intents and purposes, an orphan.
If it hadn’t been for Mrs Newman at the church, I don’t know what I would have done. Thank God there are still some good people in the world. She picked me up and helped to put me back together. We met every couple of weeks. I’d tell her how I felt and what I was struggling with. She explained practical stuff to me, like how to pay bills and what rates were, and she listened to me when I cried. She never judged Mum or Dad like other people did. She just looked out for me unconditionally. To be honest, I don’t think I’d still be here today if it hadn’t been for her.
I wondered whether I should have shared any of this with Clio, but I decided that if she was going to be my friend there’d be plenty of time for all that. I’d tell her when the moment was right. I was pretty sure that she wouldn’t judge me, that she’d be kind like Mrs Newman had been. When I was younger I used to worry that people would think that Mum’s death was my fault, that I should have done more to stop it from happening. I actually believed that myself for the longest time, but I didn’t any more. What Mum did was Mum’s issue. It wasn’t anything to do with me. I was pretty sure that Clio would get that straight away.
It was ironic, I thought, that Poppy had seen straight through to the potential of my relationship with Clio when her own teenage friendships were so turbulent. I should probably work at getting on with Clio, if only to show Poppy what a decent relationship was supposed to look like, but actually, being friends with Clio was going to be no problem. It just felt right.
Wiping the stray tears from my cheeks, I pulled my phone out of my bag and typed a quick message. Hi Clio. Thanks for today. We had a great time. Let’s meet again soon. L x
17
MELISSA – THEN
It was something that Melissa’s Auntie Kathleen said that changed everything. Kathleen wasn’t really her aunt, merely a friend of Melissa’s mum, or was it her grandma? Melissa couldn’t remember which now, but she’d always been required to call her ‘Auntie’ for reasons that had never been entirely clear. That said, Kathleen was an interesting old lady and Melissa wouldn’t have minded if they had been related. There was always a tale to tell with her, high jin
ks from her youth or something she’d witnessed in the post office queue the day before. Melissa could never quite work out how much was true and how much was created just for the telling, but it really didn’t matter; she just soaked up the stories regardless.
Melissa and Leah had been invited for afternoon tea at four. Auntie Kathleen was very much a fan of afternoon tea and Melissa knew, from many other similar occasions, that there would be ham and pickle sandwiches followed by shop-bought cakes. In days gone by, Kathleen used to bake, but the arthritis in her hands was so bad that this was now beyond her. Melissa wasn’t bothered, though. She had never really understood why anyone baked their own cakes when Mr Kipling did such a good job of it.
This wasn’t the first time that Auntie Kathleen had met Leah, but it was the first time that Melissa had dressed her up for the occasion. For Leah’s outings in the early days, a babygro was all that was needed, but now that she was a little bit bigger and a lot more predictable, Melissa could put her in cute dresses or dungarees and be pretty certain that they would last more than five minutes before they were soiled. Today she had selected a pink gingham dress with tiny puffed sleeves paired with little white lace bloomers to cover her nappy. Melissa was delighted with the result. Leah wouldn’t have looked out of place in a baby magazine advert, even if Melissa did say so herself. Her bright blue eyes were showing no sign of turning brown and the downy hair that she had grown so far was blonde with a gentle wave. Melissa topped the outfit off with a little flowery headband but Leah insisted on pulling it off, not really appreciating how adorable it made her look, so Melissa was reluctantly forced to abandon it.
It was quite a walk from her caravan to Auntie Kathleen’s house, but the day was dry and the wind whipping in off the sea wasn’t too cold. As Melissa pushed the pram along she kept an eye open for people to whom she could show Leah off. Granted, at twenty-six she was a bit old to be a first-time mum around here, so it wasn’t much of a novelty. Most of the girls that she’d been at school with were on their second or third baby by now. There was even talk that Suki Shaw was about to be a grandma at the grand old age of twenty-nine. This was just a rumour, but Melissa, who had known Suki since primary school, wouldn’t have been surprised if it were true. Today, though, the streets were clear and there was not a soul around who might be the least bit interested in Leah.