by Inga Vesper
Praise for
The Long, Long Afternoon
‘A tasty, tense page-turning combo of James Ellroy and Kate Atkinson with a bit of Mad Men thrown in. Fabulous’
Liz Hyder
‘Reminiscent of Hollywood noir . . . a tense, gripping exploration of the darkness beneath the sunny exterior of 1950s suburbia’
Zoe Somerville, author of The Night of the Flood
‘A stunning debut . . . I loved every page, evocative of a time in relative recent history and yet a world away. The story unfolds intricately, but with pace and ease’
Amanda Reynolds, author of Close to Me
‘Beautifully crafted, claustrophobic and compelling, Inga Vesper’s skilfully woven suburban noir is as delicious as a long drink on a hot day’
Stacey Halls
‘Loved this taut slice of classic noir. Shimmering Santa Monica skies, Technicolor 1950s suburbia hiding the darkest of secrets.
All set against a backdrop of stifling racial tension’
C.J. Tudor
‘It’s breathtakingly stylish, hypnotic and masterfully gripping. Inga paints the most beautiful portrait of 1950s suburbia, yet each page scratches away at the sunny gloss to reveal the darkness beneath. Outstanding’
Chris Whitaker
‘Beautifully written and brilliantly observed, as well as being a page-turning mystery. The 1950s come alive with issues that resonate today’
Simon Lelic
‘Such a vivid atmosphere of stifling LA heat and stifling 1950s domesticity – the brittle facades of those suburban mansions with their manicured lawns and maddened housewives. A homage to hard-boiled American crime fiction, but told with a distinctive female sensibility’
Clare Chambers, author of Small Pleasures
‘The perfect marriage of contemporary domestic noir and old-style Hollywood noir’
Laure van Rensburg, author of The Downfall
‘A perfect read. California, 1959, a nation divided. In one stifling suburb murder plays out against a backdrop of racial and gender injustice. The desire for change rises from the pages like heat off a sidewalk’
Mary Paulson Ellis, author of The Other Mrs Walker
‘I was hooked from the opening sentence . . . As well as being a sharp examination of privilege and oppression, it’s also completely gripping and kept me guessing right to the end’
Amanda Mason, author of The Wayward Girls
‘Raced through this very atmospheric novel set in a hot American 1950s summer. Not just a beguiling murder mystery but [it] also has important things to say about race, gender and class. Loved it!’
Araminta Hall
‘Evocative, stylish and gripping, The Long, Long Afternoon exposes the dark underbelly of 1950s suburban America in a thriller that is pure class’
Deborah O’Connor, author of The Dangerous Kind
‘This wonderful, beautifully written novel held me to the very last word. I loved everything about it – characters, setting, twists and turns . . . It’s a perfect period piece that manages to bring new light to the world we live in today’
Stephanie Butland, author of Lost for Words
‘Lose yourself in the twisted thrills of a 1950s marriage’
Glamour Magazine
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Any derogatory language and views presented within this novel are reflections of a specific period in time and are those of fictional characters, not the author’s own.
To Birgit, for all the books
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
Letter from Author
Reading Group Questions
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter One
Joyce
Y
esterday, I kissed my husband for the last time.
Of course, he does not know this. Not yet. In fact, I have a hard time believing it myself. But when I woke up this morning, I knew that it was true.
I am standing on the terrace, trying to discern my future. Right now, it seems to consist entirely of the morning air. Cool and still, but with the promise of heat.
This is as far as my future can be told.
For the next five minutes, I shall stand out here and drink my coffee and admire the colors of the garden in the first light of the day.
Oh, how many colors there are. The May-green lawn. The patio’s salmon tiles. The white wall that surrounds the house. The crimson geraniums in their terracotta pot. The sky, hazy at the fringes, as my head is fogged with fatigue. The pool’s blue is so deep and vivid I want to fall in and go under, and dissolve like aspirin.
I wish to paint this moment. To fix it on paper before it slips away. But I gave away my materials long ago. Instead, I clasp my hands around the coffee mug and imprint the scene on my memory. A morning like this will never come again.
The geraniums need water. But they will have to be patient. Ruby won’t arrive until the afternoon, and I am on the last day of my period. Frank does not like it when I water the flowers during menstruation. The female miasma will make them wilt, he says. Best let the help do it.
I agree with him, of course. I never point out that he also says Negroes have no talent for raising anything, which is why they don’t have window boxes and their babies often die.
These are dark thoughts. They engulf the universe of my brain and swallow up the light. A Mellaril would snuff them out, but I don’t think I’ll need it. Not yet. There is hope in the morning hours, just as there is desperation in the afternoon, which stretches like gum and yet contracts into nothing, once it is filled with laundry and dusting and dinner and the children running around, always at risk of falling into the pool.
Where will I be tomorrow morning?
My heart begins to pound in my ears. For the first time in my life, I do not know. And for the first time in many years, I long for the afternoon.
I want to paint. I could pick up some supplies at the mall today, after I see the doctor. It would give me something to do while the children are down for their nap. Something to bridge the gummy hours, when the minutes crawl past like slugs. Afternoon, when the heat wilts the geraniums and m
y mind crumbles into dust.
My stomach thrums with half-remembered pains. The menstruation, of course. But something else as well. Dark thoughts. Galaxies of blood.
How far does my female miasma reach? I imagine it as a halo, framing me like a saint. But my halo is dark red, not light, and I am not a saint, but a sinner.
Gently, I set my coffee down on one of the pool chairs and pick up the watering can. The touch of the metal makes my palms tingle. My first revolution of the day. There is a little water left at the bottom. I sneak up to the flowers, one arm extended. But then a bawl from inside the house catches me out, followed by lazy, half-interested crying.
Lily is awake.
I freeze. I should head up and see to my daughter. My whole body yearns to stifle her wailing with a hug. But Frank showed me a clipping from the paper, where a Professor Summers said that instant response may spoil the child.
And something in me heartily agrees. I want a moment longer with the pool. I want to care for the geraniums before I care for my child. Does that make me a bad mother? Does it make me worse than I already am?
I ignore the crying, pour a sad trickle of water onto the flowers and pick up my coffee. I shall finish it out here, alone with the pool and the sky mirroring its perfect color. Blue, so blue. False and True.
Me and You.
Chapter Two
Ruby
T
he bus jerks into motion, crawls ten yards along Southern Boulevard and grinds to a halt. Ruby stifles a sigh. It’s hot. It was hot yesterday and it will be hot tomorrow, so what gives? That’s what Momma would have said. What gives, girl? It’s hot, you deal with it. The Lord ain’t changing the weather for your sorry ass.
Speaking of which, her butt is so sweaty it sticks to the plastic seat. She arches her spine and pulls her skirt down. Too late. The cotton fabric is already crumpled. Mrs Ingram will have a fit.
Damn this job.
Today is a day for shorts, sandals and loose hair. Instead, her head is burning up under her little cap, and her feet are marinating in her sneakers. She almost longs for the clumsy white slippers the wives of Sunnylakes insist on, so they can trace every single molecule of dirt on the carpet back to the perpetrator.
A lost-looking white lady is sitting near the front, as far away from Ruby as possible, with a big hat and a bag clutched tightly to her chest. She’s not turning around, so it’ll be OK to slip the sneakers off for a minute.
The sweet relief is accompanied by a whiff of cheese.
She checks her watch, a gift from Joseph. It’s past noon. Oh, Lord, she’s already been on this bus for more than an hour and she’s meant to be at Mrs Ingram’s at 1 p.m. and Mrs Haney’s at five.
Finally, the bus crests the smog line and descends into Sunnylakes. The trees here are still small and do nothing to shield the road from the heat. The houses fly past her, one identical to the other, each surrounded by a pretty lawn and a pretty fence, the walls adorned with fake stone fronts. Pa says that stone fronts cost more, so all the men in Sunnylakes ordered them when they built these houses with their hard-earned dollars. Make mine stone, sir. Make it look like a fortress to protect my property against the Commies and the Japs and the Negroes.
Ruby chuckles. Well, too late for that. I’m already in your house, mister.
She disembarks at the corner of Pine Tree Avenue and Roseview Drive, and walks up Mrs Ingram’s driveway, past the plastic parakeet Mrs Ingram has stuck into her lawn by way of sophisticated home decoration. At the pink front door, she digs the key out from under a flower-pot and sticks it into the lock. Every time she does this, her innards start to curl. The key is too easy to find. One of these days someone’s gonna break in here and clear the place out. And then Mrs Ingram will know who to blame.
Inside, the house looks as if it’s already been ransacked. Mrs Ingram works – a rare thing for a white woman – and doesn’t have time to tidy, as she loves to proclaim.
Ruby puts on the slippers, and wipes and cleans and mops. The street is quiet. Just once a car drives past and she tenses for the inevitable arrival of Mrs Ingram. But it’s not until just after 4 p.m. that the front door clicks open and the mistress of the house returns. Mrs Ingram passes by the toilet, where Ruby is elbow-deep down the U-bend, and makes a face like she’s spotted a pile of dog poop on her carpet.
‘Still in the bathroom? You’re slow today.’
You’re running late yourself. Ruby keeps her eyes on the sponge dunking in and out of the water. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Ingram. Sorry, my bus was stuck in traffic.’
‘The bus goes along the highway. It’s never stuck.’
Ruby bites her lip. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Don’t let it happen again.’
‘No, ma’am.’
Mrs Ingram sniffs the air. ‘And what is this? I smell an odor. Haven’t you got a shower at home?’
No, ma’am, I wash at a fire hydrant in the street, ’coz I’m from South Central, and this is how we play.
‘Sorry, ma’am.’
*
Normally, white folk try to forget as best as they can that the help is in their house. But today, once she’s changed and freshened up, Mrs Ingram is after Ruby like she’s expecting a photographer from Better Homes and Gardens . Bad day at the office, Ruby guesses, or perhaps she’s just bored. Mrs Ingram runs fingers along surfaces, picks at invisible dust bunnies and tests the wetness of the cloth with which Ruby is rubbing down the sinks.
The best thing is to make a game of it by playing double meaning. Mrs Ingram is particularly good for that. She’s got no husband and wears lots of bright-red lipstick and tight sweaters that bring out her cone-shaped breasts.
‘Am I rubbing it OK, Mrs Ingram?’ Ruby asks. ‘Want me to make it wetter, Mrs Ingram? Would you like me to plunge faster?’
The women of Sunnylakes never wise up. Most of them are so uptight it’s hard to imagine anyone here having sex. Mrs Ingram gives a thin smile, paces her crisp, clean house, powders her crisp, clean face and snorts and hisses and complains.
The next time Ruby checks her watch, it’s almost 5 p.m. Fortunately, Joyce Haney never counts the minutes. She’s always chasing after the kids, so she’s got no time to go chasing after the help. Sometimes, she cracks open a soda and shows Ruby her sewing. They talk about patterns and family and the kids. Joyce pays for that time as if it were work.
At quarter past five, she tidies away the cleaning things and pulls the front door shut. As soon as she is on the driveway, she catches the curtain twitch. Mrs Ingram is watching.
*
The afternoon light slides golden blades between the trees. Ruby stretches her knees and swings her arms. The worst is over now. Only two more hours, and she’ll be on her way home with three dollars in her pocket.
The roar of an engine cuts the stillness of the street. A fancy car thunders out of the Haney driveway, turns the corner and speeds away toward President Avenue. It’s a Crestliner, silver and black, with a green rear fender. Mrs Haney must have had visitors.
The Haney house sits a little back from the main road, because the property slopes down to the lake. The trees here are older and darker, and Ruby never likes to walk between them in the winter, when the night lurks between the branches. Behind the house, the trees have been cut away to clear the view toward the lake. But Mr Haney has built a big wooden fence, so there is no lake to see from the house, only tidy white boards that he paints once a year in spring.
Ruby stops. Joyce’s car is parked up in the driveway. The front door is closed, the flowers planted on either side wilting in the sun.
Something feels wrong. Her stomach tingles with it.
She listens. The windows are open to let in the breeze, but nothing is moving behind the curtains. No pots clatter, no children scream, no radio babbles from the living room window.
A movement catches the corner of her eye. Ruby spins around and spots a flicker of color dancing among the trees. The breeze catches her skirt
and sends a shiver up her spine. She balls her fists and wills her breath to stay calm.
‘Hello? Who’s there?’
A child’s head pokes around a tree trunk. Blonde hair bristles over eyes that are large and blue and very wet. Joyce’s daughter. Barbara.
Ruby kneels down. The pine needles are soft under her legs. She stretches out her arms. ‘Barbara, come here. What are you doing out?’
‘I’m waiting.’
‘Waiting for who, baby?’
‘Joanie’s mom.’
It takes Ruby a moment to remember. Joanie’s mom is Mrs Kettering, the family one house over. Barbara and Joanie are best friends.
‘Come here,’ Ruby says. ‘Time to go inside.’
‘I promised to wait.’
‘Well, Joanie’s mom didn’t come, so you should go in.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘But it’s nearly dinnertime.’
‘No.’
Something about the girl’s eyes makes Ruby’s hands tremble. Barbara peers toward the house as if it contains a bogeyman or a dragon.
‘Barbara, where is your mommy?’
‘She told me to wait.’
‘Shall we go see her?’
Barbara lowers her eyes. ‘They made a mess, Whoobie.’
‘Well, I’m here to clean it up. Now, come on, baby.’
Barbara detaches herself from the tree and takes Ruby’s hand. Together they walk toward the house. Barbara’s hand is hot. Her little nails dig into Ruby’s palm.
Ruby rings the doorbell. No answer. But inside the house, Lily begins to cry.
‘Mrs Haney?’ Ruby shouts. ‘Joyce.’
She rings again. The tingle in her stomach crawls into her chest. The way that baby’s crying. Hoarse and hopeless, as if she thinks no one’s ever going to come.
She gropes for the spare key under the porcelain eagle by the door and opens the lock. The hallway is tidy and there are fresh flowers on the sideboard. The Haney’s house has a mezzanine, a term she had to look up after her first day. It means the bedrooms are halfway up some stairs, as is the big bathroom.
From the nursery comes the sound of Lily’s crying.
The lavender carpet swallows Ruby’s footsteps. She takes the stairs two at a time and bounds toward the nursery door. She flings it open. Lily is sitting in her bed, her eyes streaked with tears, her face red and tired. The room stinks. The girl’s diaper is soggy. Something has run out of it and stained her playsuits.