After the Eclipse

by Fran Dorricott

  “That’s nice of you,” I said.

  “I’m always nice.”

  I laughed weakly. “Sure you are. I’m just not sure I’ll be much use. I’ve been thinking a lot about my sister lately. Trying to remember. Grace being missing is bringing up a lot of stuff. A lot of questions about Olive and what happened to her. Do you… remember anything?”

  “I’m sorry,” Ady said awkwardly. “It was a long time ago.”

  I avoided his gaze, not wanting to see the pity in his eyes. “Yeah. Okay. Anyway, are we still up for that coffee morning at the end of the month?” I was hoping that getting Gran out and about more might help her to feel a little bit less like a prisoner at home. Ady did so much for charity that he had become the central point of my sad little social calendar. Never mind that he was the only point.

  “Sure,” he said. I could see he had questions about what I’d said. About Olive. He started to say something and then changed his mind. “Remind me next week. I can’t really think about it right now. Organising these searches is frying my brain.”

  I paid for my newspaper and a coffee from Ady’s little instant machine, not trusting myself to speak. I’d spent all morning telling myself that I mustn’t keep thinking about Grace as though she was like Olive. Especially after what Marion had said. She isn’t your sister. But I couldn’t help it. That flyer for the eclipse viewing at Earl’s almost felt like a sign. Of what, though, I wasn’t sure.

  In the car I spread the newspaper out across my knees so that the front page lay before me, a new photo of Grace Butler beside the old one. This one looked like a more recent picture from somebody’s phone, the quality grainier but more up-close, the colours dark and muted. She was very blonde, dressed in jeans and a plain T-shirt, no jewellery except for the silver and black mood ring in the shape of a mermaid on her finger as she gave a thumbs-up to the camera. The ring – it reminded me of something, but I couldn’t place it.

  Below it there was a smaller image, a man with dark hair cropped short and day-old stubble darkening his jaw. He was tall, but a little podgy, dressed in a too-tight polo shirt. The caption read: Eleven-year-old Grace’s stepfather says, “Don’t hurt my daughter.”

  The mother still hadn’t agreed to be interviewed. I thought about Henry’s suggestion. Marion’s offer to recommend me. It was the sort of story I could sell. I looked at the photograph of the stepfather for a long time, unable to shake the oily squirming in my stomach – the same feeling I’d had yesterday. Something wasn’t right.

  Marion had asked me to wait but I knew from experience that once one interview was granted, others were likely to follow. I wanted to get a feel for Grace’s mother, see what she might tell me about her husband.

  I didn’t like the look of him and, frankly, I wanted to know why.

  4

  BISHOP’S GREEN WAS LAID out in much the same way as many similar towns in Derbyshire. It had grown up around a tiny village-like hub of gift shops, restaurants and tacky boutiques, drawing tourists in with the surrounding lush fields and the Triplet Stones and keeping them with the promise of more overpriced cafés than they could visit in a day. The fountain in Chestnut Circle sat at the heart of town, and the main shopping streets with the arcades and art galleries branched off from there, the houses getting bigger and grander the further from the middle you went.

  The street I wanted was lined with cherry blossoms, a fifteen-minute walk from Grace’s school, and right on the other side of the Circle from where I lived with Gran. I took a photo of the trees and made a mental note to show it to her later, when the carer had gone. She’d always loved cherry blossoms.

  There were only two secondary schools in town, both almost interchangeable to me but probably less so to the parents and students who fought for the places at Arboretum, which was the smaller of the two. Figured.

  I parked my Fiesta under one of the blossom trees and sat for a minute. The street was speckled with pastel pink petals, as were several of the cars that were parked along it. I wondered how many of these belonged to journalists, camping out and waiting for a chance interview.

  I was going to go one better.

  This area of Bishop’s Green was all Tudor houses and neat front gardens, lace curtains in the windows and freshly painted front doors. It felt almost old-fashioned, but wealthy, the houses decently sized but outside of the maze of more central streets surrounding mine and Marion’s little houses.

  One house stood out from the rest here, not because of the building itself but because of the flowers and messages of hope that lay against the garden fence. Well-wishers had left teddy bears and pictures of angels, which, I thought, were more than a little premature.

  The garage to the house was open, and as I approached I heard a clatter. An errant basketball rolled out into the daylight. It was followed by a woman. Skinny and dressed in a white T-shirt and dark tracksuit bottoms. I inched closer, not wanting to startle her as she picked it up.

  “Excuse me,” I called gently. “Mrs Upton?”

  The mother of the missing girl spun around. She looked older than I had expected. Haggard, almost. I strode forward and stuck out my hand.

  “Mrs Upton, my name is Cassie Warren,” I said. “You don’t know me but I was hoping we could have a chat.”

  The woman froze, her expression shifting from startled to suspicious. Her hair was blonde but dark roots showed, the curls limp and a little greasy. She folded one arm across herself, tucked underneath her small chest, while the other dangled at her side and she nervously spun her wedding ring round and round her finger with her thumb. The circle made me think of the eclipse, that white-gold band in the darkness.

  “Are you with the newspapers?” she asked. “You’re not police. I’m not talking to the papers.”

  “I’m not a detective,” I agreed. “But I would like to have a chat with you – about your daughter. I’m not like those other vultures.”

  I watched her for a second, taking in her posture, the way she wasn’t watching me, not really. The way she was looking behind me, even as we spoke, even as her brows dipped and she started to leave.

  “I know what you’re going through.” This halted her in her tracks. I saw a flicker of anger in her face, a how dare you bubbling on her lips. But I ploughed on. “I’ve been there. I know how this feels. You’re out here waiting for her, aren’t you?”

  I’d seen it before, the look of defeat that had come when she saw it was me in her driveway and not her missing child. I’d seen it in my mother a hundred times. Each time her eyes were duller, her lips thinner. I’d seen it in my own face, too, in the years that followed.

  “You want to be here when she comes home. To be the first person she sees.”

  Mrs Upton’s blue eyes started to water and she blinked hard. A cold wind whipped down the street and she wrapped both arms around herself.

  “Listen, Mrs Upton, I want to help. If you want me out there on the streets that’s fine, but I can do more than that. Can we please just go inside? You’re no good to Grace out here in the cold.”

  Her gaze was fixed on my face, as though she was seeing me for the first time since hearing my name. She pointed at me, her finger hovering just below my collarbone.

  “I know you,” she said. “I recognise your name. Don’t I? Oh God. You’re that girl’s sister…” She stopped, sucked in a mouthful of the cool air, her whole body trembling. “I think you’d better come inside.”

  * * *

  The Upton home was tastefully decorated in shades of cream and brown. Vases filled with fake flowers and sprays of twigs filled all available surfaces, illuminated with what looked like Christmas lights. We went through the open garage straight into the downstairs hall, the polished wooden floors echoing our footsteps back at us.

  Mrs Call-Me-Adelaide Upton led me into a large open-plan kitchen-diner with patio doors looking out over a neatly pruned garden. On the kitchen windowsill were a few photographs in silver frames. A wedding photo of Mr a
nd Mrs Upton, faded from the sun; a picture of two blonde girls in bikinis eating ice cream on a beach. Another photo was propped up without a frame, a group of girls all crowded together, wearing almost identical outfits, and another taken on the same day, of Grace posing and pointing at the camera. I noticed that she was wearing the same ring she had been in the other photograph. Something about it tugged at my thoughts as it had done earlier, but I couldn’t think what it was. The ring seemed familiar, maybe, but I wasn’t sure why.

  All of the girls in the group photo were laughing. I couldn’t suppress the pang of sadness that washed through me. I studied them, knowing I might need to remember their faces.

  “Are these two recent?” I asked.

  Adelaide nodded.

  “Last week. I printed them both off. I like that she’s happy in them.” She stopped. Shrugged, helplessly.

  We sat down at the small dining table overlooking the grass and trees outside. I noticed an empty swing set out there, and an old Wendy house that was covered in a patina of moss.

  She sat opposite me, facing away from the empty garden. Waiting for me to speak.

  “I read about Grace in the newspaper,” I said. “I want to help… My… My ending wasn’t a happy one, but yours can be.”

  My tongue felt heavy but I knew I had to press on. Mrs Upton might decide any moment that she didn’t want me here.

  “I’m a journalist,” I said. “I know that’s a dirty word right now, but I’m not like the others. I practically grew up here. And I know from personal experience how scary this all is – how you don’t know who to trust. But you can trust me.”

  “You’re the one who lost a sister,” Adelaide asserted again. “Aren’t you? All those years ago? People have mentioned her because she went missing too. They think Gracie was – abducted. Oh God, they never found your sister and people think…”

  She started to cry.

  Hearing it laid out like that I felt a numbness begin to seep into me again, that same old feeling that I’d almost, but not quite, forgotten. But the numbness was better than the sadness so I let it wash over me and then sat up a little straighter.

  “That’s why I can’t just sit here and do nothing,” I said firmly. “Sometimes people tell me things they don’t tell the police – because of my sister.” Also because I don’t look threatening, and I don’t always follow the rules, but I didn’t say that part. “I’d like to ask questions for you, Mrs Upton. I know the area relatively well and I know how things work.”

  Adelaide didn’t say anything for a moment, chewing on her lip as she began to twist her wedding ring around again. I watched the metal band as it spun and spun.

  “Do you think there’s a connection between Gracie and your—”

  “I don’t think anything,” I said firmly. “And the police won’t jump to any conclusions either. The chances are that Grace just went somewhere without telling anybody. Kids these days, they’re so independent with their phones and tablets.”

  “But Gracie knows she’s not allowed to talk to people she doesn’t know. And she’s a good girl, she doesn’t break the rules.”

  She started to cry again, this time giving in to whole-body sobs that wracked her until her shoulders were hunched and she’d almost doubled up on herself. I found a box of tissues on the counter and brought a couple to her, waiting by her side until she could speak again. I didn’t say that that’s what people had said about Olive, too.

  “What do you need from me?” she asked.

  “Just tell me everything you can. Tell me what sort of person Grace is. Does she like school? Does she have a favourite subject?” This was for Mrs Upton’s benefit as much as my own; if I was going to help, in any sort of way, I needed to know who Grace was, but telling me about the mundane things might help to calm her down, too. With the information she gave me I’d decide where to go next.

  “She’s quiet. Sort of shy, I guess.” Adelaide fought back a hiccup. “But she likes school. Or she did, until recently. You know how kids are, changing their minds every few minutes. She likes history, though, the teacher is really helping her to come out of her shell.” Mrs Upton smiled sadly. “Last week she told me they were doing a family tree, but Grace didn’t want to do it – you know, because of John – her dad – leaving and the fact that I married Roger.

  “She said that some of the kids teased her. Said her dad didn’t love her and that’s why he left. I told her it wasn’t like that – you know how it is. We just fell out of love. Things got a bit nasty between us but she never saw any of that, she was only a baby, and we’re okay now – well, not okay, but we keep out of each other’s way. Gracie’s too young to understand that’s what happens sometimes. It happens all the time now, but some of the kids at Arboretum are – well, a bit stuck up, honestly.”

  I took out a notebook and began to make notes. Once again I found myself thinking of Olive, of our own parents’ crumbling marriage when we were kids, and how sensitive she always was about it. I remembered Olive asking a question, only a few weeks before she was taken: “Will Dad still love us the same if he has to go away?” At the time I’d told her she was being silly, that Dad wasn’t going anywhere. I even half believed it. But looking at Dad now, with his new wife and his new daughter… Maybe Olive had been right to ask.

  I tried to clear my head. Olive’s ghost was making me itch, her cold, eleven-year-old hands tracing my spine like they hadn’t in years. I had to focus.

  “I don’t know how this is of any use,” Mrs Upton said. “I told the police everything, about the kids and the teachers. They asked if she had any special routines, and if she has any friends outside of school, but she doesn’t, really. Not that I know of. Just those girls in her class.”

  “Anybody she’s particularly close to?” I prodded.

  Adelaide shook her head. “I think there’s one girl mainly, but I don’t know her that well. Her name is Bella. They’ve not been friends for very long, only since October, November-time.”

  Another onslaught of tears distracted Adelaide from her train of thought and I had to wait for her to stop crying again before I could ask any more questions. We spoke some more, about Grace and school and her habits, but mostly I made notes on Adelaide. On her posture, the obsessive spinning of her wedding ring, the glazed look on her face. If Henry wanted me to get writing again, this was the jackpot of human emotions. And yet I couldn’t help feeling like I was taking advantage of her, so eventually I put my notebook away and just listened.

  I wanted to ask about her husband, but I had a strong feeling that Adelaide would clam up if I did. She hunched her shoulders when she said his name, as though she’d already been asked uncomfortable questions about Grace’s relationship with her stepfather.

  I tried to smile in what I hoped was an encouraging way. I wasn’t going to ask her any more of those questions. Not right now, anyway. It was all about trust, building it a layer at a time.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m such a mess. That’s why I didn’t want to talk to anybody. I just keep thinking that it was something I did. That there was something I could have done…”

  “You’re doing everything you can. Grace’s case is in good hands. The police are a good team. I know the DI. She’s incredibly capable and very good at her job.”

  I reached out. Mrs Upton seemed like a hugger. Some women I interviewed craved physical contact, the gentle reassurance that they were still there, that they still existed. These women were the opposite of my mother, who in those early days of Olive’s disappearance became cool and aloof. A woman made of stone. Too afraid to speak in case her emotions got the better of her again.

  I pressed my warm hand to Mrs Upton’s cold one and felt it relax in my grip.

  “So, Grace was walking home from school on Friday. And she never arrived?”

  Adelaide nodded. “I thought she’d just gone back with one of her friends. She’s done that before, but usually she’ll call to let me know whether she’ll
be home for dinner. But you know what kids are like: they forget; time isn’t important. I called her a couple of times and got voicemail, but she leaves her phone on silent or it runs out of battery. All the time. So I waited until about 9 p.m. – that’s near enough her bedtime, but I didn’t want to interrupt her if she was with her friends, it’s just so nice to see her happy – and then I called a few of the girls’ parents. I don’t like to do that unless it’s important. I want her to know that she – that she can trust me.”

  “These friends, can I have their names? I’d like to see if they remember anything, if Grace said anything to them.”

  Mrs Upton looked exhausted, as though she’d done three rounds in the ring with a woman twice her size; she deflated.

  “I gave a list to the police already.”

  “I know,” I said. “But it’s important we don’t miss anything so I want you to write one for me as well. You’d be surprised how much people forget when they talk to the police. And the girls might be more willing to talk to me. Less intimidated.”

  This wasn’t the only reason. I didn’t want to have to beg for Marion’s scraps of information. I didn’t want to have to admit to her that the more I spoke to this girl’s mother the more similarities I started to see – similarities between Grace and Olive. A connection between the girls that I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t made, despite Marion telling me not to.

  It was the eclipse. The eclipse loomed over it all like a dark shadow, inky tendrils reaching to draw them together. People didn’t just leave Bishop’s Green. It was the sort of place where people were born, lived and died on the same street, sometimes even in the same house. People came into town; they didn’t usually run out of it.

  Adelaide pulled the paper and pen towards her and began to write. Then stopped as if she’d heard something. She looked up. Like a storm cloud moving across the sun, her expression changed. She flinched, retracting her limbs and shrinking inwards, shoulders curved as though she could become invisible. I half-turned in my seat.