by Jess Ryder
Something else is tugging at my brain, demanding my attention. It feels important, but I can’t work out what it is. Not to do with Lori or Abi, or even Jack … Some appointment, perhaps? I reach for my phone and look at the screen. Today’s date stares back at me. Ah, that’s it. How could I possibly have forgotten?
It’s the anniversary of my parents’ death tomorrow. So much has happened recently, the day has crept up on me unawares. Last year it was like having a mental countdown clock flashing in my brain. The nearer I got to the anniversary, the more my stomach twisted with anxiety about how I would cope. But this year I’ve only been dimly aware that the dreaded day was coming.
Tears spring into my eyes and my vision blurs. Two years without Mum and Dad. They were so respected in their community, left a hole in so many people’s lives. They remembered every child who ever came to them, even if they only stayed for a couple of weeks. Dad took photos of new arrivals and stuck them on the fridge to make everyone feel part of the family. After they moved on, the photos were transferred to scrapbooks. Mum wrote the children’s names underneath, together with the date of their arrival and a few comments – Leah loved fish fingers or Tyrone drew amazing pictures. I still have those books in one of the boxes in the other room. I don’t know what to do with them, can’t bear to throw them away.
Last year, Molly came with me to the cemetery to see the rose bush and the commemorative plaque. It rained solidly all day and we huddled beneath my tiny handbag umbrella, heads touching, water dripping onto our shoulders. She didn’t complain when I said I wanted to stay for a few more minutes, just patiently let the rain soak her back and turn her fingers to ice as I stared at the small plaque, reading their names over and over. Afterwards, we went to a nearby pub and had lunch. We talked about the tragedy of their deaths and the savage injustice that their killer had never been found. Molly had always suspected they were deliberately mown down, perhaps by some former foster kid out for revenge.
‘But you don’t understand, everybody loved them,’ I said. ‘There was nothing to get revenge for.’
‘What about that fire?’
‘The police asked me about that.’
‘Where’s that boy now? He’ll be grown up, of course.’
‘The police checked him out. He’s in prison for drugs offences. The perfect alibi.’
‘Hmm … I suppose he could have paid someone else to do it.’
I felt suddenly sick. The idea hadn’t occurred to me until that moment. Images from that terrible night came flooding back. The choking smoke, the alarm blaring, kids screaming, my parents carrying them down the stairs in their arms and laying them on the front lawn, then running back into the smoking house to get the others.
I’ll go to the garden of rest tomorrow, I decide. Face it on my own. I’ll tell Mum and Dad everything that’s happened and see what answers come to me. It’s been a long time since we had any kind of conversation.
* * *
The day passes without my being aware of the light fading, and suddenly it’s dark again. Still not a squeak from Lori and Abi. They must be starving hungry up there. So much for Abi’s blood-sugar issues. I leave my room and wander around the ground floor, half expecting to find them cooking in the kitchen, or eating in the freezing conservatory, or chatting in the room Abi has commandeered for her office. But they’re not there. Nor are they in the other reception room, hiding behind the storage boxes.
I climb the stairs to the first floor to check the bedrooms and bathrooms, picking my way carefully over gaps in the floorboards, trying not to brush against the dusty walls or catch myself on protruding nails, avoiding the ragged splinters where the door frames have been wrenched off. The place has been torn limb from limb, ransacked and then abandoned. There’s so much to do here and I know I’ll never face it on my own. I need Abi and Lori’s help just as much as Lori needs me. But there should be complete honesty between us – no secrets. I’m not going to be fobbed off with excuses. Abi collapsed because she recognised Alan’s name, and I have to know why.
I walk up the next flight to the very top of the house. There’s a small landing and three doors. One leads to the room overlooking the garden, the second to the tiny turret room on the corner, and the third, with the sea views, is where Lori – and now Abi – sleep. A sliver of light is escaping from under their door. I can hear talking. Moving closer, I press my ear against the wood and listen.
It’s Lori’s voice I hear first. ‘If you want to leave, that’s fine by me.’
‘No, no way,’ says Abi. Her voice is deeper, older, scratching against the inside of her throat.
‘But this changes everything, surely. If it is him, it means she told you the truth.’
‘I still have to find out for sure.’
‘Foxton’s not that unusual a name. It could be a coincidence, you know.’
‘No, there’s got to be an explanation.’
‘Well, he’s not coming back. He’s taken Stella’s money and done a runner.’
Abi’s voice. ‘But what if he is Foxy? Why did he come here in the first place? That’s what’s scaring me. There’s got to be a reason, but I can’t work it out.’
Foxy? I lift my ear from the door and step back. The floorboards creak and I freeze.
‘Did you hear a noise just then?’ Abi sounds anxious.
‘It’s nothing,’ Lori soothes. ‘Just the house settling. Come on, calm down … It’s going to be all right, I promise.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Stella
Now
As I turn off the M25 at the usual junction, I find my thoughts constantly straying to the situation back home. The conversation I overheard last night continues to play in my head, as if my brain recorded it and set it on a loop. Now I know for sure that Abi was reacting to the name on the business card, and that she had a bad experience with somebody called Foxy. Such a creepy nickname. It makes me think of foxes in children’s fairy tales. They’re always sly and untrustworthy, constantly working some scam. But whether Abi’s Foxy and Alan Foxton the builder are the same person, we don’t know.
What did she say, exactly? Why did he come here in the first place? That’s what’s scaring me. She meant Westhill House. And that makes me think that maybe there’s a reason she’s here too; that it’s not just to pay back the favour I did for her friend. Could it be connected to the house’s past life?
I pull away from the traffic lights, cross with myself for going over it yet again. I don’t want to keep thinking about all that. This is Mum and Dad’s day.
Turning off at the Old Stag roundabout, I drive past the garage where Dad always bought his petrol and the parade of shops where Mum made her everyday purchases. The shops are so small they can only stock a limited range of goods, but that never mattered to my parents. I can hear Mum’s voice telling me for the hundredth time that we have to support the local shopkeepers or they won’t survive. Unfortunately, not many other people followed their example. Most of the shops I remember from my childhood are still there, but they’re looking starved and weary, on their last legs. A few have closed down completely, giving Springfield Parade a desolate air.
I drive under the dark bridge that used to scare me when I was little, and head away from the village. Within a couple of minutes I’m in open countryside – flat grassy fields, the odd horse and a smattering of low trees. Old farms have been turned into gated developments and barn conversions. It’s typical Essex commuter belt. The price of property has leapt up since the announcement of an even faster line with direct connections to the West End.
The garden of rest is part of the new cemetery and crematorium, built in the middle of nowhere. It’s busy today. A funeral must be going on in the main chapel, because there’s another cortege lurking by the front gates. I overtake at a slow, respectful speed and park in the overflow car park, away from the gathering mourners.
As I turn off the engine, a message comes through on my phone. For a second, I thi
nk it might be from Jack, wondering how I’m feeling, but no, it’s from Molly.
How are you, hon? Thinking of you today, hope you’re okay xxx
I quickly tap a reply, telling her I’m in Larkswood and asking if she fancies meeting up for lunch. She replies instantly.
Bit tricky with Zara in tow! Want to come to me instead? Soup and sarnies?
Yes, that would be great, I type. And I mean it. Molly is exactly the person I’d like to spend time with today.
It’s not raining like it was a year ago. The sun is sharp and bright, but there’s a cold wind, which has free rein to blow across the gravestones. I remember how there was nowhere to take shelter last year, how the rain formed shallow puddles in the gravel paths, how Molly and I had to pick our way around the edges, muddying our shoes on the sodden grass. It’s an easy walk today, on my own.
The garden of rest is empty and I’m glad I’m alone; it means I can have a private conversation. One way, of course, but better than nothing.
‘So, another year has gone by,’ I say, standing in front of the rose bush. In summer the blooms are a peachy pink. The bush has grown a few inches and is looking a bit straggly. It probably needs pruning, but I don’t know how to do it. ‘Things have changed a lot,’ I continue in a low voice. ‘I bought a house with the inheritance money. It’s right by the sea, you’d love it. Used to be women’s refuge. Ironic, eh? Needs a lot of work, but that’s another story … Anyway, this woman knocked on the door late one night, she’d escaped from her violent husband and she was all bruised and bleeding. I took her in, looked after her, just as you would have done. I think – I hope – you’d have been proud of me … of how much I’ve changed.’
I crouch down in front of the commemorative plaque. The engraved letters look darker, the grooves full of dirt, and the brass has lost its sheen. I read the words in my head. Elaine and Peter Johnson. They shared their lives until the very end. Their deaths suddenly feel like a long time ago.
The ground is damp and soft. I close my eyes and try to breathe in their spirits, to feel their familiar touch and hear the sound of their voices. But the ashes I buried are just ashes, nothing more.
‘It didn’t work out with Jack,’ I whisper, my voice breaking as a lump hardens in my throat. ‘I tried really hard. The house was supposed to be a forever home, for the family we would have one day. My dream was so strong, it was like a boat and I was at the helm steering. But he wasn’t even on board; he was still in the water, being pulled along on the end of a rope that broke before we reached dry land.’
I swallow hard. My thighs are aching and I stand up, wobbling before I regain my balance. My heels sink into the springy earth and I unstick them, one at a time.
‘He’s left me,’ I continue. ‘Somebody called Pansy. A silly name for a grown woman … Yes, Mum, I know that’s a mean thing to say. He hurt me really badly, but you probably think I deserved it, after everything I’ve done. When you left me your money, I thought it meant you’d forgiven me, but maybe it was a punishment. Maybe the universe thought I’d got off too lightly and decided I still needed to pay.’
The cold wind is making me shiver. I kiss my fingers and place them on their engraved names, leaving a damp mark that instantly disappears, then button my coat to the chin and go back to the car.
Before setting off, I text Molly. Be with you in about ten mins. Okay? I hope she has a hot cup of coffee waiting for me.
* * *
‘Well this is a nice surprise,’ she says, standing in the doorway, her baby daughter hoisted onto one hip. Zara is ten months old, which means there’s only two months of Molly’s maternity leave left. ‘You should have told me you were coming over today.’
I step inside and we hug, then I follow her down the hallway to the kitchen. I’m so used to the vast expanses of Westhill House that everything feels cramped and narrow, making me squeeze my shoulders together. It’s a lot warmer, though. Cosier, too. I’ve almost forgotten what proper central heating feels like.
The kitchen diner, about an eighth the size of the one I’m planning, is cheerfully messy. A saucepan of congealed porridge sits on the hob. There are plates and mugs waiting to be loaded into the dishwasher. I smile at the fridge door, which is covered in brightly coloured magnets – an apple, a banana, a balloon, a flower, the numbers one to five.
‘Watch out for little plastic balls,’ says Molly, plonking Zara into her high chair. ‘She’s started throwing them out of the pool. We’re going to have to lose that toy before somebody breaks their neck.’ I laugh, bending down to pick up a few and toss them back into their proper place. ‘You look frozen,’ she adds. ‘Soup now or coffee first?’
‘Coffee, please. I haven’t had one yet today and I’m feeling a bit shaky.’
‘Not surprising.’ She plugs a little sachet into the machine. ‘How was the garden of rest?’
‘Restful. I had a little chat to Mum and Dad, got a few things off my chest.’
Molly gives me one of her deep, searching looks. ‘How are things?’
‘Not great.’
‘Still got your guest?’
‘Lori? Oh yes.’
Her eyebrows rise beneath her glossy fringe. ‘What’s Jack got to say about that?’
I shake my head and plunge in. ‘He’s gone. Dumped me for a girl in the office.’
‘Fucking hell …’ Molly covers her mouth. ‘Oops, got to watch what I say, she’ll be talking soon.’ She peels a banana and cuts it up, puts a few pieces on Zara’s high-chair tray. I watch her poke them with her chubby little finger, then push them off the edge and onto the floor. ‘So … what happened?’
I tell her about Jack faking the burglary, about how he was convinced that Lori was some kind of con artist. ‘He was so jealous of this poor abused woman who had nothing, it was pathetic. The more he tried to get rid of her, the more I dug my heels in,’ I say.
‘Hmm … Doesn’t that sound a bit familiar?’
My cheeks colour up. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
She shrugs, deciding not to press further, and adds a few florets of cooked broccoli to the mush on Zara’s tray. ‘So Lori’s not moving out any time soon. You okay with that?’
‘Yeah, she’s been really kind to me. And her friend’s there too.’
‘Her friend? What’s the deal? Are they paying rent?’
‘No. They’re camping in the attic and I feed them in return for them working on the house. Loads of people do it these days, especially on building projects. We’re part of the sharing economy.’
Molly looks confused. ‘And this friend, is she a domestic violence victim too?’
‘No, she’s just helping out. Abi’s really good at project management, which is great because I’ve lost my builder, who walked off with a load of cash, and now it seems there’s some weird connection …’ I tail off, realising how odd this is all sounding. I’d better not tell her about the latest development and the mysterious Foxy.
Molly picks up the discarded banana and broccoli and puts them in the little compost bin on the windowsill. ‘Not interested, sweetie? How about an oatcake?’ Zara, who has cleared her tray without putting a single thing in her mouth, looks unenthusiastic.
Molly pauses with her hand on the biscuit tin. ‘Is that why Jack left? Because you wouldn’t tell these women to go?’
‘Basically, yes. He doesn’t know about Abi, but he had a real thing against Lori; he was so mean to her. Then again, he’d already slept with this girl at work, so maybe he was using Lori as an excuse to split up. You know, so he could put the blame on me. He lied, Molly. He lied and cheated; he’s been appalling.’ I look through my bag for a tissue.
‘That’s really bad, and obviously I’m not condoning it.’ She breaks an oatcake into pieces and passes one to Zara. ‘But surely you of all people should understand his position.’
‘What? What are you saying, Molly?’ My mouth tightens.
‘Come on, Stel … it’s me you’re talking to
. Surely I don’t have to spell it out. There’s a pattern here, isn’t there?’
‘This has nothing to do with Mum and Dad,’ I say quickly, feeling my heart starting to race. I look away, studying little Zara, who is crumbling the oatcake and making a miniature sand pie. But there’s no deceiving Molly; she knows me better than anyone.
‘You’re doing to Jack what your parents did to you,’ she says slowly. ‘You felt you were ignored for your whole childhood. You were jealous of the foster kids, you despised your folks for giving them so much attention—’
‘I loved my parents,’ I protest. ‘They were amazing people.’
She gives me a stern look. ‘You say that now, but when they were alive, you hated them.’ I gasp, as if she’s just struck me. ‘Don’t deny it, you know it’s true. I know you never told Jack the truth about that relationship. As far as he knew, they were saints and you adored them, but it’s me you’re talking to now, remember? I was there.’
Molly has always been on my side. She remembers only too well how I was always hanging around her house when we were teenagers, complaining about the situation back home. My parents were never interested in my problems – they were always considered insignificant compared to the troubles of the foster kids, and looking back now, I realise they were right. I hadn’t been physically or sexually abused, my parents weren’t drug addicts or criminals, I’d never been starved or left to wander the streets at night. But I couldn’t see it back then; I just felt jealous and neglected.
‘And you know something,’ Molly continues. ‘I don’t blame you for hating them. They cared more about that revolting boy who tried to burn your house down than they did about you. It broke their hearts.’ She sighs. ‘What was he called?’
‘Kyle.’ Just saying his name out loud makes my blood run cold.