HUNT CONTINUES FOR MISSING MOTHER AND SON
PART TWO
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26
Grace
23 November 2004
Today I found out what real life feels like and it was magical, like some exciting new kingdom I’ve just been given the keys to. I want to hold on to this feeling for ever, the feeling of being a normal girl doing normal things. It all began this morning, when he had gone out to the woods. As soon as he was out of sight I sneaked out and went up to the village. I knew that he would go mental once he came back and saw I’d gone but I didn’t care. He gave up all rights over me when he did what he did in that room.
I will admit that it felt weird to be away from the house though and every few minutes, as I walked along the road that leads to the village, I stopped and looked behind me just to check it was still there. I saw the lake and the wooden boat he made for me when I was four years old. I saw the tarpaulin roof of the house wobbling in the wind. And those sights reassured me. Even with everything that’s happened I still can’t imagine any other home. So, yes, I could go to the village and defy him but I was always going to go back, not for him but for the house and all the things I loved.
It was easy to find her place. All I had to do was look for the church steeple. As I walked through the village I could see it sticking out above the tops of the little cottages like a big rocket. I kept my eyes fixed on that steeple because I could feel people staring at me and I wanted to block them out. I know what the people in this village think of me and him: the freak and his brown-skinned daughter, living in a broken-down old house, shooting animals and wearing strange clothes. I know that because I’d heard them when I was a kid. It was in the pub, the one I’m walking past now.
He had taken me there with him one day to try and sell the landlord some cuts of meat. He must have been really low on funds to do something like that because he mostly avoided the village at all costs. I was happy though, because it felt like a nice trip out and the pub was all warm and cosy and full of lovely cooking smells. Anyway, while he was at the bar talking to the landlord I sat down at one of the tables. It was a Sunday and there was a load of people in there eating dinner. I could feel them staring at me. Staring at my army gear, my unbrushed hair, my muddy boots. Then one of the women said something I’ve never forgotten. She was an old woman with rolls of fat on her neck and arms, and bulging eyes, and she had a big plate full of Yorkshire pudding and gravy in front of her. She looked over at me then nudged the man beside her and said in a loud whisper: ‘Poor kid. Do you think she knows she’s a dirty raghead?’
I had no idea what raghead meant so, when we got out of the pub, I stopped and asked him. And then I wished I hadn’t cos he just went crazy and ran back inside waving the cash the landlord had given him for the meat. He stood in the middle of the pub, ripped the notes into pieces and threw them on the floor, yelling, ‘That’s what you can do with your money, you ignorant bastards!’
Afterwards, once we were safely back at the house, he told me that it didn’t matter, that I wasn’t to worry about the opinions of small-minded people and that we would be fine as long as we trusted each other and stuck together. But despite his reassurances I couldn’t stop thinking about that woman’s words and what they meant.
For the first time in my life I realized that I was different from everyone else. From the people in the village, from the characters in the books I read, from the rosy-cheeked ramblers with their red socks and rucksacks, who liked to hike up on the crag. No one was like me. I didn’t belong. And I carried that feeling with me down the years and did as he asked. We stuck together like the two outcasts we were and shut out the world. And I thought that was the only life that existed, the only one I needed. Until the day he locked me in that room.
When Isobel saw me on the doorstep her eyes lit up and she said it was lovely to see me. No one has ever said those words to me before. But she meant them. I know she did.
When I stepped inside the house I felt like I’d been transported into one of my library books. It was the most perfect house I’d ever seen, a proper Green Gables. The walls were covered in pretty floral wallpaper and there were framed pictures of ladies in crinoline dresses and houses with white fences. The living room was very grand, with leather sofas and a big wooden desk. I reckoned that must be where Isobel’s dad, the vicar, sat to write his sermons.
Isobel told me that her dad was at the church all day and wouldn’t be back till late. I don’t know why she felt she had to say that. Would it have been different if he’d been there? Would he have welcomed me into his house as warmly as Isobel had? I certainly looked out of place in my grubby army fatigues and hob-nailed boots, like I’d been blown out of the desert and landed in the middle of an English fairy tale.
She took me into the kitchen, which was so clean it made my eyes hurt, and made us both big cups of hot chocolate with tiny sweets on top which I’d never seen before. Isobel told me they were called marshmallows and that they melted into the hot chocolate and made it taste delicious. She was right. It was the sweetest, most lovely thing I’ve ever had, nothing like the stuff he makes, which is just a spoonful of cocoa with hot water. This was creamy and gooey and made me feel like I was floating on the ceiling with happiness.
After we’d had our drinks Isobel said she’d show me her room. It was just as pretty as I’d imagined, with pale-yellow curtains tied back with ribbon and a huge bed with fluffy pillows and frilly sheets and curtains all round it. Isobel told me it was called a four-poster. The walls were covered with pictures of men in baggy trousers and vests, who, Isobel told me, were a band, but I’d never heard of them because the only bands he ever mentions are the marching bands he knew when he was in the army and I didn’t like to ask Isobel if she liked them because she’d probably think I was weird so I just stayed quiet and looked around. The one thing I noticed most about the room was just how much stuff Isobel had. Books and clothes and pretty little trinkets seemed to cover every surface. How was it possible to have so much? Her dad must be a very rich man, I figured. But the best thing in there, the thing I was most envious of, was the big doll’s house in the corner of the room. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. And what made it so magical was that it was a miniature version of the vicarage itself. It had the same exterior, sandy-coloured brick with a dark-red door, the same pointy roof and tall chimneys, and inside the same décor, right down to the yellow curtains in Isobel’s room. She told me that her mother had put the doll’s house together before she died. She’d wanted something for Isobel to remember her by. When she said this I felt like hugging Isobel and never letting go. She had lost her mum like I had. She’d grown up with just her dad in a big house and she must have had questions that her dad didn’t want to hear, just like I did. I wanted to tell Isobel that I understood, that we were the same, but before I got the chance she took my arm and told me to sit down on the bed next to her while she showed me her make-up case.
‘Do you like this?’ she said, pulling out a gold tube. ‘It’s dusky rose, my favourite shade.’
She took the top of the tube and wound it up to reveal what looked like a big red crayon.
‘Is that what you paint with?’ I said as she passed it to me to take a closer look.
‘My face, yes,’ she said, giggling. ‘Do you ever wear make-up?’
‘No,’ I said, handing back the lipstick. I didn’t really know what she was talking about, to be honest.
‘That’s a shame,’ she said, pulling out a tub with glittery powder inside. ‘You’d look lovely with a bit of mascara and blusher. Hey, why don’t I give you a makeover?’
I had no idea what a makeover was, but I liked being with Isobel and I didn’t want the time to end so I agreed. When I said yes, she clapped her hands together and looked so excited, like she’d just won the biggest prize in the world. Then she brought a chair over to the bed and sat down in front of me.
‘I’m going to start with
moisturizer,’ she said, squeezing a line of white cream out of a silvery tube. ‘Then we’ll have a good base for the make-up.’
While she applied the make-up, which made my face tickle and my nose go sneezy, she told me more about herself. She goes to school in Threshfield, which is about five miles away. It’s a big school, she said, and kids go there from all over Yorkshire, some coming in from as far as Leeds. She said she liked Art and History best and was thinking of studying one of them at university. I had no idea what she was talking about but it sounded lovely. I wanted to tell her about the stories I’d read in the books from the mobile library – about Anne of Green Gables and Great Expectations (my two favourites), about the poem in Sarge’s book about love being like water and the photo of the dead mother in the desert, and how all those things made me feel. But every time I tried to get the words out, my brain froze. I felt like my world would seem so small and silly to Isobel so I kept it all in my head and listened to her while she told me about things I’d never heard of like netball, revision timetables and gel nails.
The way she talked about those things, with that serious look on her face, made me think they must be very important so I nodded my head and said ‘hmm’ a lot, though to be honest it was all a bit boring. But then, when she was putting some weird black stuff on my eyes that smelt like creosote, she started to giggle. I asked her what was up and she said that I was funny. I asked her why and she said it was a good thing, that I wasn’t like the other girls. I was sweet. Sweet wasn’t a word I would use to describe myself but Isobel seemed to think I was and that made me happy. She continued with the make-up then, but while she was doing it she asked if I’d ever had a boyfriend and I just went quiet because I didn’t really know what she meant. I hadn’t had any friends, boy or girl. Isobel smiled then and said that she had a boyfriend. She said he was older than her and lived away from the village but he was really ‘hot’ and they met up lots to do stuff. I asked what kind of stuff and she started giggling again and said that they did a lot of kissing and were going to do much more once they could find the right place.
I felt very confused but I didn’t show it cos I didn’t want her to think I was stupid so I just sat there while she talked and put more stuff on my face. When she’d finished she went over to the window and grabbed a mirror. ‘Are you ready to see the new you?’ she said, holding the mirror behind her back. I said yes and she pulled out the mirror and shoved it in front of my face.
The shock of what I saw nearly threw me off the bed. I couldn’t believe it. I had disappeared and in my place, staring back at me with those familiar dark, shapely eyebrows and black-lined eyes, was the dead mother in the desert. I didn’t say anything to Isobel, though she kept asking if I liked it. I said I did and then she started talking about her boyfriend again, but I wasn’t listening. All I could think of was what I had just seen in the mirror. After a few minutes I told Isobel that I had to go. She pulled a sad face and asked me if I wanted to stay for dinner. I couldn’t think what to say so I followed her down the stairs, letting her think I was going to join her in the kitchen, then I opened the front door and ran all the way home.
Thankfully he was still out when I got back so I got the chance to pull myself together. I can hear him now though. He’s making scran in the kitchen as I sit here writing this on the bed. I can smell the usual scent of animal carcasses boiling up. I’m used to that smell, it’s the smell of home, but it doesn’t comfort me any more. Not after today when I saw what a real home should be. I just wish I hadn’t run away from Isobel like that. She must think I’m mad. I have to go back and see her, say sorry for running off, tell her that I want to be her friend, want to spend time in her pretty bedroom with the books and the doll’s house and the smell of flowers in the air. I’ve had a taste of normal life now and it’s not the scary thing he’s always said it is. It’s real and comforting and solid, just like Isobel. I want to be a normal girl and do normal things, and I know I’ll only be that way if I stick with Isobel. She’s the only person I trust now, my only ally.
27
Lisa
Outside the window, a light snow begins to fall. It brushes against the glass like small feathers.
I read the headline again.
Below it is a mugshot of me, pale-faced and wild-haired, while next to that is a photo of Mark sitting at a table alongside two police officers, one male, one female. He looks broken. His eyes are swollen and red, his face unshaven, his hair matted and unkempt. It looks like he has given a press conference as underneath the photo, in quotation marks, is written: ‘Please, just bring my boy home.’
There’s a lengthy transcript of the press conference, five columns long, accompanying it, which I read with trembling hands.
At one point the reporter asks Mark if he believes Joe is in danger. ‘I hope not, but then Lisa is so unpredictable, I can’t rule that out,’ Mark replies. At the end of the report there’s a summary of the case, of what had gone before and of the story I have spent the last few days trying to rewrite.
In January 2018, Lisa Ward was released from prison where she had served twelve months for assaulting her husband. Mr Ward was left with life-changing injuries to his face and torso after being attacked with a broken glass. He was granted full custody of their child, 3-year-old Joe, but had recently allowed Mrs Ward supervised visits. It was during one of those visits, on 9 December, that Mrs Ward abducted Joe. Police have advised the public not to approach Mrs Ward who they describe as a volatile and dangerous woman.
I stay sitting at the table, unable to move. Mark’s stricken face looks back at me from the newspaper, his words now imprinted on my brain: Please, just bring my boy home.
I hear Joe playing merrily in the room next door but his high-pitched lion roars set me on edge. I need to be with him now, I tell myself, as I close the newspaper and get up from the table. Now more than ever. The passageway is dark and I shiver as I think of the stories attached to this house, the mad father and the girl. Grace.
Arriving at the prison was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. The invasive body searches, so intimate and yet detached, as though the guards were dealing with a piece of meat, the screams and shouts from the other cells as I was walked to mine, flanked by two sombre-faced guards, the smell of bleach and excrement in the air, the panic as the cell door closed behind me. I felt like I had arrived at the gates of hell and that the only way I could possibly get through it was by shutting down. So for the first few weeks I did just that. I didn’t speak, barely ate, just lay on my bed with my eyes closed thinking about Joe’s lovely face.
I was so spaced out that I barely noticed the woman in the bunk above me until sometime in the third week, when I was crying myself to sleep yet again.
‘You got to toughen up.’
The voice was gruff, northern, and in my agitated state I thought for a moment that it was coming from inside my head.
‘If you want to survive in here you got to stop crying or they’ll ’ave you.’
It was then I realized the voice was coming from above me. I didn’t answer her but I did stop crying and after that something changed. The woman, who introduced herself the following day as Grace, became my confidante, a friend of sorts. Thinking about it now, I can’t imagine I would have survived prison if I hadn’t been put in her cell. Though we couldn’t have been more different, Grace got me through those first few weeks, she toughened me up, made me see that life was worth living and that I had to be strong for the sake of my child. I never found out what crime Grace had committed as she never told me much about herself or her background, though I could see that the other women were wary of her, this strange, straggly-haired woman with fierce eyes. They used to call her ‘Mad Grace’ or ‘the wild woman’, though never, I noticed, to her face. Nobody dared challenge her, that was clear. At the time, I was so focused on my own survival, on getting through the prison ordeal one day at a time, that I gave little thought to the crime that had brought Grace the
re. She was kind to me and, in my terrified state, that was all that mattered.
The living room is illuminated by candlelight when I enter and the fire Isobel lit is still going strong. Joe is lying on his back holding a lion in the air.
I sit down on the armchair in the corner of the room, folding my arms across my chest to stop them from shaking. The yellow net curtain on the far window shivers as cold air blows in through the rotten frames. This place is the stuff of nightmares but I have no other choice now. I have made the news in one of the biggest national papers; most likely my face will have been splashed across the television and the internet too. If this place had Wi-Fi I could scroll through my phone, see what else is out there, but I figure that is a mercy. This way I can hide away, pretend it isn’t happening.
My thoughts turn once again to Grace. Now, sitting here in the house she shared with her father, watching my little boy playing on the rug, oblivious to it all, I think back to Jimmy’s words – but I can’t reconcile those descriptions with the woman I knew. Yes, Grace was eccentric and clearly troubled, but she wasn’t a killer, I’m sure of it. We shared that cell twenty-two hours a day for twelve months and during that time I’d opened up to her in ways in which I’d never done with anyone else before. Grace was my friend and she was good, I know that in my heart, and that goodness was reinforced by the gesture she made on the day I was released from prison.
When I left the prison gates there was nobody there to meet me, no familiar faces, no hugs, no reassuring voice telling me that everything was going to be all right. But why should there have been? Mark was still furious at what I’d done and had refused to bring Joe for visits the whole time I was inside. The idea that he would be standing outside the prison gates with open arms was absurd. My friends had disappeared, no doubt appalled at the story of this violent, dangerous woman and the frenzied attack on her poor, defenceless husband. And I didn’t hear from Beth and Harry at all. Beth, my oldest friend, with the watchful eyes, the one who had warned me about Mark and his controlling ways – even she had stepped away. As for family, well, there was no one left. My father had died and my mother had been so grief-stricken in the years that followed, she pretty much left me, a child, to fend for myself. My abiding memory of those years is of sitting by the fire in the living room of the Highgate flat eating cold rice pudding from a tin. That was my small link to my dad. He loved tinned rice pudding and we would often share one warmed up and spooned into two dessert bowls with a splodge of strawberry jam on top, on cold winter afternoons after school. After his death I couldn’t bring myself to perform the ceremony of the bowls and jam but eating the rice brought me closer to him and helped me block out the pain. As for my mother, she finally booked herself into therapy to deal with her overwhelming grief a few years later when I was about to start university. She seemed to respond well and for a few months it felt like I finally had my mother back, but then she met a new man, a property developer named Tony, and they embarked on a new life together in Portugal. I heard from her sporadically but it was clear she had new priorities and that her distant daughter wasn’t one of them. The gulf widened when I met Mark because I decided he was the only family I needed. After a while I stopped all communication with my mother and tried to put her and my old life behind me.
The House on the Lake Page 15