After the Eclipse

by Fran Dorricott

“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to! I told her to stay where she was—”

  “Don’t you blame her. Don’t you dare blame her!” Mum was shouting too. She moved to put her hand on my shoulder but I couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t stand the thought of being touched because it seemed like the grief had pierced every inch of me and even my skin ached.

  Dad didn’t move, frozen in the corner, arms straining against the counter behind him as though he was having to hold himself back.

  “Where were you?” I screamed at him.

  He didn’t speak.

  “It wasn’t her fault,” Mum repeated. Over and over. “Not her fault. She’s all we’ve got.”

  Dad and I stared at each other. My breath heaved and with every movement I thought I would be sick. Because it was my fault. Even Dad thought so. And although Mum hadn’t said it, I knew the only reason she didn’t blame me, couldn’t blame me, was because then she would have to agree with him.

  I’d felt myself get hollower and somehow heavier too as I stormed out and then slunk up to my bedroom, sickness churning in my belly.

  Dad hadn’t answered the question. Where had he been? Could he have hurt Olive? He hadn’t been at work like he’d said. The police had told us.

  By the time I’d written Dad’s name in my diary I knew things would never be the same again. He’d known it, too. He had seen the doubt in my face. There were no words that could change what had happened between us, that fracturing, splintering – even after the police cleared him. It wasn’t about truth, it was about guilt. I felt guilty for losing Olive, and he felt guilty for it too.

  Then he moved out. And that was the last time Mum ever stood up for me – or did anything that might have been considered warm or passionate, or anything much at all.

  My mouth had grown dry. I swilled cold tea around my teeth with a grimace, realising with a jolt that I’d been looking in the box for a sort of confirmation – about my own instincts. I’d known something was up with my dad long before my mum had. I’d known Dad hadn’t been telling the truth about where he’d been, what he’d been doing on days when he was meant to be working even before Olive was taken, but I’d never listened to my gut. In fact, I’d gone out of my way to pretend that I hadn’t noticed.

  Even if he hadn’t hurt Olive, Dad was guilty of lying. And the feeling I’d had about my own dad was the same sort of feeling I got when I looked at the picture of Grace Butler’s stepfather.

  He had a secret.

  I knew, suddenly, that Henry was right. It was too late to pretend that I wasn’t interested in Grace’s disappearance. Because I was interested. I couldn’t let a good story go without at least a quick look, especially a story like this one. And I couldn’t live off the money Grandad had left me for ever.

  And, dammit, that meant that there was somebody I needed to speak to about a job.

  * * *

  Marion’s house was almost identical to the one I shared with Gran, right down to the dry-stone wall out front and the lace curtains in the window. She’d inherited it when her father died and it didn’t look like she’d changed much.

  I sat in my car for several minutes working up the courage to go and knock on her door. Just like I’d been putting off driving over here all day. I felt like a teenager again, my palms sweaty and my heart racing. It had been two years since I’d seen Marion – actually physically seen her – and now I didn’t know why I’d let it go this long.

  Just as I was about to suck up the courage to get out of my car, I saw Marion’s front door open. Out stepped a dark-skinned man in a suit, smart white shirt and a red tie that flapped in the wind. I saw a hand reach out – Marion’s – to squeeze his shoulder. Then he cut across the drive and passed my parked car on the way to his.

  I told myself that it didn’t matter – that he was probably a colleague and anyway I didn’t have the right to be upset when I hadn’t seen her in ages – but the sight of Marion touching somebody in such a familiar way made my stomach lurch. And she hadn’t told me about him when we last spoke. Did she want to hide him from me? Was she embarrassed – or concerned I’d ruin it for her?

  When I finally made it to the front door, I was so wound up that I’d forgotten everything I wanted to say. And I had no time to compose myself because suddenly, there she was, door open wide and a small smile on her face.

  She looked good. Really good. Her dark hair was pulled back into a messy bun and her fringe was just that little bit too long. She’d probably only been home from work for an hour or so, probably having a drink with him, and she was dressed in a creased white shirt and black trousers. I noticed that she still wore the necklace I had bought her. A little golden acorn – an amulet that in Norse folklore had symbolised luck and protection, the oak tree immune to the lightning and wrath of Thor. I didn’t believe in that sort of rubbish, but Marion had spent too long in Bishop’s Green and the town’s superstitious nonsense had well and truly claimed her.

  The last time I’d seen Marion had been at her father’s funeral. I’d come to town just for that. We were both emotional. Marion’s dad was her only family. I’d just had my first massive fight with Helen and I wasn’t good for anybody, much less somebody who was grieving.

  We hadn’t had words as such but I had too much to drink at the bar after the service and ending up puking in her kitchen sink, which was probably the low point of my year – although it wasn’t the first or the last time during that year that I drank too much. After that we stayed in touch by email and still had regular phone conversations, but I was more careful. She at least couldn’t see me doing anything that stupid again.

  Now I was surprised to see the lines that had crept in around the corners of her eyes. They made her look more sophisticated – more grave, somehow – than before.

  “Hi, Cassie,” Marion said simply.

  I was overwhelmed by a rush of warmth, and then embarrassment. I was still a mess – a sober mess this time, granted – but Marion looked impeccable. High cheekbones, strong jawline, brows perfectly groomed; she was sleek, almost cat-like; her eyes, bright blue ringed with steely grey, sparkled with kindness.

  “Your fringe is too long.”

  It was the first thing I could think of to say. I saw Marion reach up self-consciously, but she smiled anyway.

  Two years. For two years we’d been dancing around the subject of me coming back to town to visit. And I never had. Yet here I was, without warning, living only a few streets away just like when we were kids. Marion didn’t look surprised.

  “Do you want to come in?” she asked. I didn’t want to. My heart was thudding and I felt like I might puke. But I also did want to – very badly. So I nodded and followed her inside, trying not to think about the man I’d just seen leaving. I couldn’t imagine Marion with a boyfriend. I knew that time changed people but she’d never been particularly interested in men. Especially not the clean-cut type. And she never dated colleagues or Suits.

  “I did wonder when you’d finally screw up the courage.” I saw her lips twitch as she led me into the dimness of her lounge. “I’ve only been waiting six weeks. I saw you at the police fundraiser last month with your gran.”

  I avoided meeting her gaze. I hadn’t realised she’d seen me. I’d done my best to duck for cover, heart hammering in the way of a nervous teenager. I tried not to look sheepish now, but the warmth in my cheeks belied my embarrassment.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  Marion shrugged.

  “I’m sorry I missed your grandad’s funeral,” she said. “I know he meant a lot to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to show up out of the blue.”

  It was my turn to shrug. I hadn’t expected her to be there. I hadn’t told her it was happening, and although she could have found out the date I wasn’t surprised when she hadn’t shown up. Now I didn’t know why I’d shut her out.

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  The lounge was crowded with travel knick-knacks that had belonged to her dad. On t
he mantelpiece there was the Statue of Liberty in miniature, her torch alight with a colour-changing rainbow flame. Next to her was a snow globe from Cornwall with two busty ladies on a beach. And on every surface there were elephants: statues, cushions with elephant embroidery, artistic photographs of elephants bathing, even a little plaque above the door. Elephants. More elephants than you would think could fit in one room, symbolising wisdom, power, loyalty – and overcoming death. These didn’t belong to Marion’s father.

  Marion noticed my gaze.

  “For the Hindu god Ganesha,” she said. “The remover of obstacles.” She gestured to the sofa. “The kettle’s actually just boiled. Sit and I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

  I sank onto the sofa, hands between my knees, frustrated by how awkward I felt. It wasn’t like we didn’t know each other. I had often thought that I knew Marion better than I knew myself. But our friendship had been virtual for a long time; emails, text messages, phone calls – no substitute for the real thing.

  I thought back to the summers I’d spent here, the long weeks with Marion out in the fields or hanging around Earl’s café for cheap hot chocolates or sundaes. It had been our yearly ritual – Olive and me. Summer in Bishop’s Green with the grandparents while Mum and Dad stayed at home so they could work. We’d loved it; the freedom, the seaside feeling of this landlocked town with its amusement arcades and ice-cream shops right down the middle. Its obsession with symbols of luck and prosperity. The fact that you could walk pretty much anywhere in less than an hour.

  And Marion, the policeman’s daughter, who knew all the short-cuts, the best places to get two-penny sweets in great big paper bags, and which arcades had the best win-lose ratios. She always knew which department stores were having closing down sales, which boutique was flavour of the month, and which film screenings we could sneak into without being caught.

  She was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen.

  When Marion came back into the room, I jumped. She was carrying two cups, and she handed one to me. I wanted it to be like no time had passed, wanted for us to be able to talk easily, but the years stretched between us.

  “I knew you’d come if I waited long enough. You’ve been ignoring my emails.”

  I had. Since moving to town, I’d put off answering anything that wasn’t urgent. I’d pretended it was Gran, that I was busy, but it wasn’t true. I actually had a lot of free time.

  “I’m going green,” I said. “Less tech. More… Zen.”

  Marion laughed. “I get it. I’m terrifying.” She narrowed her gaze. “You look tired. Is it – stuff with Helen? I know you were feeling a bit down when we last spoke…”

  I shrugged but I knew she wasn’t being mean. She was reminding me that it had been weeks. That I’d been avoiding her since I told her I was thinking about moving to town. It meant she’d been waiting for me.

  “No,” I said firmly. “I haven’t spoken to Helen since I moved out. That’s all over. More than over, actually. It’s just Gran. I’m trying to get a better care situation in place. Grandad was doing so much for her and it’s just exhausting.”

  Marion put her cup of tea down and my heart stuttered as it looked like she might reach over and touch me. But she only straightened some magazines on the coffee table. I exhaled.

  “I’m sorry,” Marion said. “If you’d told me I could have given you a hand or something. I don’t know. Still, I’m glad you’ve finally come.”

  “Did you miss me?”

  “I missed having an excuse to check my emails at work.” She smiled again. “But anyway, I get the feeling that you’re not here just to see me. What brought you out of the Cass-cave?”

  I was about to deny it, but I couldn’t. Even after all this time, she’d know. I never was a very convincing liar.

  “Grace Butler,” I said. Marion didn’t flinch exactly, but something about her body language changed. Banter aside, I could see that my being here had affected her, and so had the missing kid. But I’d already said it, so I continued, “She’s been missing for a couple of days, hasn’t she? I wasn’t going to bother you – but then I saw that she’s the same age that Olive was… Anyway, I got interested.”

  “You know I shouldn’t discuss it, Cassie, even with you. I could get in trouble.”

  “I’m just intrigued. I don’t know. I was thinking about writing something. It’s just with Gran, and the eclipse coming up in a few days… I’m a bit antsy. I mean, they’re dragging the lake. That’s kind of a big deal.”

  I thought of the poor girl’s parents, having to watch it all happen, powerless to stop it or to help. I felt my insides clench, as they always did when I thought of the families.

  “Do you have any leads?” I asked.

  Marion sighed. Shook her head. “She’s been gone two days and we’re not getting anywhere. Plenty of leads but nothing is panning out. A lot of people are trying to help, organising searches and things, but we have to consider the worst while hoping for the best. You’ve spoken to enough families in the aftermath of things like this. You know how it goes.”

  Marion exhaled again, and I saw that her knuckles were white when she picked up her cup. I started to get up.

  “Sorry. I’ll go. I didn’t want to pry. I realise it’s early days.”

  “No, Cassie. Wait.” Marion didn’t move to stop me, but I heard an urgency in her voice and when I looked I saw a flash of indecision in her face. “I know it’s rough for you. I’ve been thinking about Olive a lot lately, too. Especially with the eclipse. But do you think this is for the best? Grace Butler isn’t your sister – I don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to connect—”

  I tried to fight my growing frustration.

  “Come on, Marion,” I said. “You know me. The personal touch is what people want. They want to feel like they know them – the family, the police. Those people out there, helping you search, they want to know who they’re helping. All I’m asking is for a bit of info. And I’m a bloody good journalist.”

  The more I talked to Marion, the more I realised that I wanted to do this. To get my life back. To claw back my reputation, make a living. To help find that little girl and bring her home.

  “If I don’t agree, you’re still going to do this, aren’t you?” she asked.

  I faked a grin. “Yes.”

  “Look… I can probably put in a good word for you with the family. Strictly a suggestion. They’re not speaking with a lot of the press – but I know they’ve been looking for somebody to write something. I wasn’t going to get involved with that side of things, but maybe I can make an exception for a bloody good journalist.”

  This time my smile was real. I took in Marion’s wiry strength, trying not to let my gaze linger. It would be good to have an excuse to see her again, too.

  “Just be careful though, will you? This is sensitive. I don’t know if you remember what it’s like here, but… it’s not like London. People are softer. They won’t want an outsider digging around. Just wait for me to set this interview up, okay?”

  I nodded, but didn’t agree. Marion was half right: this wasn’t like London, but people here weren’t soft. I remembered that much from Olive’s disappearance. They might be more subtle than city people, but they would fight tooth and nail to protect their own. To keep their secrets. Perhaps even if it meant that another little girl never came home.

  3

  Tuesday, 17 March 2015

  THE NEXT MORNING I headed to Ady’s corner shop on the Circle. It wasn’t far from Gran’s, and despite the prices being a little higher I never had to queue inside and Ady was a real stickler for keeping the shop pristine. Besides, it reminded me of my grandad, who swore there was something better about the cigarettes behind the counter than any supermarket in a ten-mile radius.

  Ady had only just opened as I entered and he still looked half asleep. His grey-brown curls were wild, his warm eyes crinkling at the corners. He was fixing flyers to the noticeboard behind the till, where his daughter w
as sitting with a colouring book. Ady didn’t allow her to have a phone yet because she was only just out of primary school, and there was something refreshing about her old-fashioned creativity instead of mindless scrolling.

  I scanned the wall and saw a flyer for a fun run Ady was hosting in a couple of weeks for the local RSPCA, and another for a jumble sale at the church. Today was St Patrick’s Day and there were several posters adorned with four-leaf clovers and cartoon leprechauns. Then one that made me shudder: an invitation for people to enjoy tea and cakes in the garden at Earl’s café while watching the eclipse on Friday.

  Suddenly I could taste heat and sweat, the scent of fruit in the air as I remembered the darkness, the silent birds, the silvery sky. Blinking, I swore I could still see the crescent burn pattern behind my eyelids.

  “Morning.” Ady’s daughter, Tilly, was dressed in school clothes, her white shirt so wide on the shoulders it looked like a tent. Her short blonde-streaked hair was pinned back with a brass clip in the shape of an owl.

  “Hi. Nice hair clip,” I said, wiping my slick palms on my jeans. I was terrible with kids, but I actually tried with Ady’s daughter because he was probably the nicest person in town – the only one to date to make me feel welcome in Bishop’s Green. Most people seemed to have a sixth sense for Londoners in their midst and acted accordingly. “Those were all the rage when I was a kid. You look pretty.”

  “Thanks,” she said awkwardly, reaching up to touch it, knocking her glasses with the tip of her thumb so they sat crookedly. A green four-leaf clover ring on her finger caught the light. “It was my mum’s. Dad’s really into them. Owls, I mean. For like… wisdom and that.”

  Ady’s wife had died when Tilly was a baby. I didn’t know what to say so I grabbed the newspaper I had come for, Grace’s face smiling up at me.

  “I’m going out to look for her after I close up,” Ady said when he noticed my gaze. He stopped to straighten Tilly’s crooked glasses and she waved him away. “There are a few of us going to walk the path behind her school – Arboretum Secondary. You should come. We need all the manpower we can get.”