by Karen Clarke
‘Are you going to meet up with her while you’re here?’
‘She lives in New York. Works in the public health sector,’ I said. ‘She’s got family in Berkshire, that’s where I know her from, although her parents moved to Grimsby a couple of years ago, to be near her brother and his family. She’s coming over in the summer, so we’ll get together then. It’ll be great to see her.’ The relief of knowing he hadn’t been asking after me at the restaurant released a gush of words, as though a dam had broken. ‘She’s met someone recently. They’re thinking of moving in together. I’ve a feeling they’ll get married. I hope it’s here, though she’s got a lot of family over there. She’s half Spanish on her mother’s side.’
‘Nice to have a good friend.’ Declan’s face had subtly altered, the contours becoming less rigid as I babbled on. ‘She sounds nice.’
‘She is. I think you’d like her. Most people do.’
A thought planted itself in the centre of my mind. If Ana hadn’t found Patrick and told him I was pregnant, I wouldn’t be here, sitting beside Declan on a steam train on the side of a Welsh mountain with my daughter in my arms. As I looked at him and smiled, warm relief pushing away suspicion, another thought sneaked in – the kind I usually scoffed at. Maybe this was where I was supposed to be.
*
Taking a train up a mountain. Pathetic. He supposed it was a safer option with a baby, but couldn’t resist giving her a little scare on the crowded platform. He failed to see the thrill of taking pictures of an old engine, but seeing the group of middle-aged men had given him the opportunity to push in where he wouldn’t be noticed. Though part of him had hoped she would notice and run crying to her aunt. No one could prove anything. There weren’t any cameras in this place.
He’d always been a risk-taker. Maybe that was why he was finding it harder to stay hidden, to keep his intentions private. He’d thought about going into the cottage again while she was there, just to see what she would do if she saw him. But he had a plan and must stick to it. He was overdue to give an update. Easier now, with a phone signal.
Even so, he would leave it for a while.
Until he’d decided exactly what to do next.
Chapter 28
Morag was parked outside the station and beeped the horn when she spotted us.
‘Thanks for a lovely time,’ I said to Declan, like a seven-year-old leaving a party.
‘My pleasure.’ Mild irritation rippled over his features when the van horn broke the thread between us again. ‘Let’s do something else soon. You have my number.’ He mimed putting a phone to his ear. ‘Promise you’ll use it.’
‘I only make promises to my daughter.’ Seeing the good humour fade from his eyes, I added, ‘Fine, I’ll call.’
He half smiled. ‘Don’t overdo the enthusiasm.’ He took his phone out. ‘Let me send you the photo of Lily so you actually have my number.’
‘That means giving you mine and I have a photo already.’
‘Mine’s better quality.’
‘True.’ Caving in, I gave him my number and his fingers flew over his screen. ‘There you go.’ Hearing the ping of a text from my bag I took my phone out and opened the photo attachment. He was right. It was a far better photo than the ones I’d taken. Lily was actually smiling, looking right at the camera. My lips curved in response.
‘It’s lovely. Thanks.’ Morag beeped again, longer this time. ‘I’d better go.’
‘Me too.’ He didn’t move.
‘How did you get here?’
‘I borrowed Hugh’s car.’ He looked around, vaguely. ‘It’s in the car park round the back of the pub. Hopefully not vandalised.’
‘I’d have said that’s unlikely round here, but according to my aunt it’s not.’
‘Oh?’
‘There’s been some trouble with bored teenagers.’ I nearly told him then about how I really got my bruise, about involving the police – how someone had hurt me – but Morag beeped again and kept her hand on the horn.
‘Jesus,’ I said, clambering into the van, trying to console Lily who’d woken and was grizzling. ‘I’m not some teenager at a rave, Morag. It’s mid-afternoon, not two in the morning.’
I said it with good humour and she responded with a grunt, thinning her gaze at Declan as we passed. He raised his arm in a static wave, watching until the van was out of sight and he was a tiny figure in the wing mirror.
‘Had a good time then?’
I hid a smile, feeling even more like a teenager being picked up from a date – something that never happened because my father had forbidden me from going out with boys. ‘Yes, I had a nice time. Snowdon’s worth seeing. You should go up there sometime.’ I didn’t mention almost falling from the platform. There was no need to worry her when nothing had actually happened.
‘You want me to ask around about him, get Ewan to check him out?’ I realised she was talking about PC Thomas checking out Declan.
‘God, no.’ I wondered why it hadn’t crossed my mind. ‘It’s fine, he’s OK. He’s lovely, actually.’
Morag pursed her lips but didn’t comment. She’d been shopping and had invited Ifan for dinner. Still in good spirits, I cooked a stir-fry while they entertained Lily. Afterwards, we played a game of Cluedo at the table, picking at a box of chocolates Morag found in the cupboard. It was the closest I’d felt to being with family in a long time and I managed to hold on to a feeling of wellbeing.
It was dark when Ifan and Morag headed out. ‘Chess club at the village hall,’ she said. ‘You’re welcome to come.’
‘Thanks, but I know nothing about chess except that I don’t wish to learn.’
After they’d gone, I called Skip in and bolted the door. Morag would have to knock when she returned. After bathing, feeding and settling Lily, determined to get a routine going, I read to her from an ancient copy of Anne of Green Gables I found in the dresser until her eyes blinked shut.
I’d spotted a photo album in there while I was delving through, old-fashioned with a brown suede cover. After making a mug of tea, I sat on the sofa and flicked through the brittle pages, scrolling past images of my grandparents, my mum and Morag at different ages, even a few photos of me as a baby and as a gap-toothed toddler. None of my father, I noticed, though I clearly remembered Mum taking one of me on his shoulders, laughing behind the camera. I must have been about five. I could still recall the feel of his hair beneath my fingers, his strong hands holding me firm as he ran into the garden, excitement snatching my breath.
There was a batch of postcards from me, stuffed between the next two pages, held together with a rubber band. I was embarrassed reading the words on the back, which could have been from a stranger; bland and meaningless. Yet Morag had kept them all. I had a couple of hers too – Bet you’re glad you’re not here! on the back of an image of a sandstorm-swept desert – but to my shame had left them at the apartment.
As I put the postcards back and turned another page, a photo slid out and fell onto the rug. Skip shot over and sniffed at it before lying down again. I picked up the picture and turned it over. It looked to have been taken in the Eighties, slightly bleached out – a photo of a man, pale-eyed and high-cheekboned, perhaps in his early thirties. I knew Morag had taken the photo as surely as if she’d told me. He was sitting in what looked like a bombed-out room on a chintzy sofa with foam exploding from the cushions, wearing a padded vest and army-style trousers. A soldier? Someone she’d met out there, wherever it was. She’d caught him pushing a hand through a crop of silky black hair, gazing at the camera with knowing eyes and a smile that looked slightly cruel. He was good-looking, but something cold behind his wolf-like stare was unnerving.
Was he the someone Morag had been involved with? Why else keep the photo? I thought again of the letter I’d found tucked away in the picture frame. Was this B? Something told me Morag wouldn’t like me looking at the photo, never mind asking her about it.
I’d just tucked it back and put the album awa
y, disturbed in a way I couldn’t pinpoint, when there was a knock at the door. I froze on my knees in front of the dresser. Skip looked up, a growl rumbling in his throat.
‘Shh.’ I pressed a finger to my lips, glancing at Lily to check she hadn’t stirred. Skip ran to the door and barked when the knock came again. I glanced at the clock. Just gone nine. It felt much later.
Maybe it was PC Thomas with some news. I tiptoe-dashed to the window. The security light was on, a car parked just out of view, only the gleam of chrome wheel trims visible. I shrank back. Skip barked with menacing sharpness, but Lily didn’t wake up.
I pressed my ear to the door. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me. Declan.’
The air rushed out of my lungs. I shot the bolts back and swung the door wide, a palm pressed to my forehead. ‘Christ, you scared me,’ I said. ‘What are you doing here?’
Declan held up my wallet. ‘You dropped this,’ he said. ‘It must have fallen from your bag when you took your phone out at the station.’
‘Thanks.’ I took it from him. ‘Not that there’s much in there.’ I peered past, straining my eyes through the darkness beyond the security light’s glare. ‘How did you find this place?’
‘I asked at the pub,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Is that OK?’
‘I’m not sure my aunt will appreciate them giving you her address.’ Skip frisked around Declan’s feet as if he’d never seen another human. ‘You could have left my wallet at the pub.’ I wondered whether he’d spoken to Annie. I couldn’t imagine her telling him where Morag lived. ‘Who did you ask?’
‘The landlord.’ He squinted, as if the sight of me was blinding him. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.’
He turned and started walking back to the car.
‘Wait.’ Suddenly, I didn’t want him to leave.
He came back, hands in the pockets of the unzipped parka hanging from his shoulders. ‘Hi,’ he said, in a gesture of starting over. ‘I really enjoyed our trip.’
‘Me too.’ I stepped outside, hugging my arms for warmth. ‘I’m sorry about just now,’ I said. ‘It’s just that my aunt lives here for a reason. She values her privacy.’
‘I get it.’ He looked around. ‘It’s not easy to find.’
‘That’s the point.’
‘Doesn’t she get lonely?’
‘She has friends,’ I said. ‘But she chooses who to invite here.’
‘You don’t think she’d invite me?’ He seemed to be searching for something in my eyes.
‘She’ll take some convincing,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to work on her.’
He laughed quietly, seeming pleased. ‘I hope you will.’
He came closer and propped his shoulder against the doorframe. Everything about him seemed brighter, sharper, his eyes more vivid.
‘I should go back inside. Lily’s sleeping.’
‘You’re not going to invite me in?’
‘Definitely not.’
Skip woofed. He was sitting between us like a buffer.
‘Sensible dog.’ Declan lifted his gaze to mine. ‘He must be reading my mind,’ he said softly. The lamp from behind cast golden light and shadow across his face. My breathing grew short and a charge surged through my blood, as though I’d been plugged in. I wanted more than anything to grasp his hair, run my hands under his T-shirt and feel the curve of his spine. His mouth was inches from mine, his eyes on my lips.
‘I … I have to go.’ I clicked my fingers at Skip. He trotted inside and I followed, slamming the door before sliding the bolts across, as if Declan might be tempted to burst in and wrestle me to the floor. Would I stop him if he did?
I stood there, hands pressed to my mouth, heart thundering in my chest until I heard the car drive off, then sat on the floor with my back pressed against the sofa. Skip settled his head on my thighs while I stared at the fire, Lily sleeping beside me in her basket. What was I thinking? Hadn’t I learnt anything from Patrick? But Declan was nothing like him. If I’d been able to compare the two of them a year ago, I wouldn’t have gone near Patrick. I’d have known that his was the sort of love that came with conditions. It wasn’t solid and sure, the kind I’d told myself was the only love worth settling for. The kind that didn’t make unreasonable demands, wasn’t cruel, didn’t exact a price.
But I hadn’t known Declan then and – I reminded myself as I stroked Skip’s fur and kept staring at the leaping flames – Lily was all that mattered now: the only love that was truly unconditional.
Chapter 29
‘Are you sure you want to do this? It’s not too late to turn back.’
‘As sure as I’ll ever be.’ There was a determined set to Morag’s chin as she swung the van into the petrol station. ‘And we’re not turning back after coming this far.’
We’d set off on our four-hour journey to Berkshire at seven-thirty to ‘make the most of the day’ as Morag had put it. She’d risen early, packing sandwiches, apples, chocolate and a flask of coffee with the zeal of a scout leader. It was reminiscent of a road trip, though Morag’s coiled energy suggested she was preparing for an ordeal, not travelling to see her sister, and my body was as tightly strung as a guitar string.
‘It must feel strange after all this time,’ I said when she got back in the van with a couple of packets of crisps.
‘Of course it does.’ Her jaw tightened as she thrust the crisps into the glove compartment. ‘Your mum will be horrified. Why do you think I haven’t called ahead?’ She darted a look at me. ‘She’d make sure she was out for the day if she knew I was coming.’
‘I reckon she’ll be pleased to see you.’ Even as I said it, nerves circled my stomach. If Morag was filled with apprehension at what lay ahead, so was I. I’d spoken to Mum fairly regularly since leaving for America, and even visited four years ago but the visit had been awkward, filled with stilted silences, the gap between us seemingly too wide to bridge after such a long absence. I’d left earlier than planned, slipping away in a taxi just after dawn, glad to get back to work where I didn’t have to think about what had gone wrong between us.
‘She’ll take one look at that baby and whatever happened between you in the past will be forgotten,’ said Morag, seeming to read my mind. Lily was in the car seat between us for the long journey, tilted so she was almost lying flat. ‘You mark my words. A baby …’ She paused, focused on rejoining the busy road. ‘A baby is healing.’
It was a very un-Morag thing to say. For a moment, my throat felt choked with emotion. ‘She’ll be upset that I didn’t tell her about Lily, or give her the chance to see me pregnant, to come out to New York and be there when Lily was born.’ Would she have wanted to? Since opening the animal sanctuary, my mother was wedded to her menagerie, to her life in Wokingham where she’d moved after Dad died, half an hour from our home in Maidenhead. She’d escaped from the town to countryside as if, like Morag, in her moment of crisis – or clarity – she’d yearned for more familiar surroundings, for the simpler life of her childhood.
‘What happened between you two?’ Morag asked.
I scrolled back to my father, collapsed in the kitchen, clutching his chest, and my mother a few weeks later with red-rimmed eyes, showing an estate agent around the house. Later still, Mum gripping my shoulders, her eyes blazing as she urged me to get out there and live your life, Grace. Don’t end up like me. I hadn’t argued, or challenged her; hadn’t demanded answers.
‘It’s complicated.’ I looked out of the window. The sky was a squally grey, rain splattering the windscreen. Hills and valleys had smoothed out to industrial estates and red-roofed towns as we headed onto the motorway. ‘She was different after Dad died.’
‘A good thing too.’ When Morag fell quiet, I thought about all the knowledge she must have about my mother; about me. ‘I should have done more,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘I could have helped, I see that now, but I was …’ She lifted one hand off the steering wheel in an impatient gesture. ‘I was on my own path to no good, even i
f I didn’t know it at the time.’
I turned to look at her. ‘Morag, did you ever want children?’
Her knuckles turned white as she fixed her gaze on the traffic ahead. ‘I wouldn’t have been a good mother.’
‘You don’t know that.’ I shook my head. ‘I didn’t think I wanted children until I had Lily.’ The shame still burned when I remembered how terrified I’d been during my pregnancy, how I hardly dared think about the baby I was carrying before she was born.
It’s perfect, Patrick had said. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.
‘I got into a bad situation, like you did.’ It took a second to realise Morag was referring to Patrick, as if my thinking about him had jogged her memory. ‘A man I thought was good who turned out to be bad.’
‘I saw a photo,’ I confessed. ‘In an album, last night. It fell out. I wasn’t snooping.’
Her face paled. ‘That was him.’ Her voice lowered. ‘Bernhard.’ I thought of the letter I’d found. B. Bernhard. A love letter he wrote to her during happier times? ‘I don’t know why I kept that picture.’ She sounded disgusted. ‘Maybe as a reminder to never be that gullible again.’
‘He … hurt you?’ I thought of Dad and the ever-present threat of violence when he’d been drinking, filling the air like toxic smoke, sucking out the joy. Mum being extra careful to not tip him over the edge.
‘Not exactly,’ Morag said. ‘I had to get away though. Just like you have.’ She flicked me a look. ‘So, I do understand.’
I wondered just how bad Bernhard had been. It was strange that my life and Morag’s had followed a similar path, though I doubted hers had ended with a body lying at the foot of a staircase. ‘Is that why you let us stay?’ I swivelled to face her, nudging the car seat with my knee. There must be something about being in a moving vehicle that invited confidences; maybe a lack of eye contact, knowing that nobody else could hear. ‘Because you knew how it felt to run from someone you’d trusted?’
‘You’re family.’ She pulled into the fast lane, head turned so I couldn’t see her face. ‘Maybe I finally realised that family matters.’