The Bones of You

by Debbie Howells

  “Thank you, Kate. . . .” She looks haunted. I notice, too, that for the first time since I’ve known her, her roots need doing. That under the salon pale blond, she’s quite gray.

  A man’s voice calls out, “Who is it, Joanna?”

  A fleeting look crosses her face, and I’m reminded of Rosie’s when she was caught off guard.

  “He keeps thinking it’s the press. They won’t leave us alone,” she says, then raises her voice. “It’s Kate, darling.”

  “He’s working from home,” she says, glancing over her shoulder.

  “That’s good,” I say, relieved she’s not alone. “For all of you.”

  But before she can reply, Neal appears behind her.

  Though I know his face from numerous TV appearances, I’ve met him only a handful of times, at local cocktail parties or parents’ evenings at school. In the flesh, he’s good-looking, a well-built man with a limp that’s the legacy of his job—a sniper bullet in Afghanistan, according to local gossip. Apparently, he was lucky it wasn’t worse.

  He’s weathering this better than Jo is—at least on the outside—but even in their combined grief, they’re a striking couple, his healthy robustness contrasted with Jo’s frailty.

  “Hello, Kate. Are you coming in?”

  Even now, I notice that quiet assurance in spades, the kind of charisma he has, which men can’t learn but either have or don’t have.

  “Hello, Neal. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you all. I just wanted to tell Jo . . . well, nothing really. Just, if I can do anything, she knows where I am. . . .” I trail off, leave it open-ended, because it sounds so lame and so inadequate, like offering a Band-Aid for third-degree burns or a broken neck.

  He nods just once.

  “I’ll see you soon.” I kiss Jo’s cheek, then glance at the clock on the wall behind her. “Sorry, I have to go. I’ve a meeting with a client. I’ve already postponed twice. . . .”

  I babble the lie, but I don’t want to say I’m taking Grace to see a movie. It’s irrational, but such is my guilt that she’s here and Rosie isn’t that I can’t even mention my daughter’s name.

  Is this how it is now? Are we all suspects? Behind the facade of constrained smiles and familiar exchanges, there’s a shift in our village. That we could have a murderer in our midst is a thought none of us can ignore.

  Remember that man who rented the Stokes’s barn conversion a few months back, who allegedly commuted every day, who kept to himself? He could have been up to anything. Do you think the police know about him?

  Those young men who camped on Dudley’s farm this summer, helping out, so they said. They were illegal immigrants, you know. He didn’t even have their real names.

  “There were some boys camping in the woods. Friends of Sophie’s. . .” I fall silent, wondering if the police have been told, berating myself for not reminding Grace.

  “What about the boyfriend the press keeps on about? He’s the obvious one to talk to, isn’t he? He’d know if anything funny had been going on. I’m surprised she didn’t mention him to you. . . .” Rachael sits at my kitchen table, stirring her coffee.

  “I think all that’s just gossip. You know what the papers are like. Jo told me she didn’t have one. And Grace didn’t know anything.”

  “Really? Bloody scandalous, isn’t it?”

  I nod, feeling the lump in my throat. “She was so private, Rachael. And shy. And now she’s everyone’s business. . . .”

  “I know. Awful, isn’t it? Talking of the press . . .” Rachael’s thoughtful. “Have you seen your friend at all?”

  “You mean Laura? No. To tell you the truth, I’m avoiding her.”

  “Why?” Rachael frowns. “I liked her. Did you look at her magazine? Only it’s not trashy. It’s intelligent. Did you know she’s a psychologist? She writes really well.”

  “I’ll look. I just hate the idea of adding to all the gossip out there.”

  “Kate, look at it this way. You could help her tell the actual true story—if you wanted to, that is. Fair enough if you don’t, though. I’m sure she won’t be short of offers.”

  I keep coming back to Sophie’s friends, knowing I have to tackle Grace about them.

  “Sweetie? Did you talk to Sophie? About going to the police?”

  She shakes her head, her eyes wide and serious. “I have to, don’t I?”

  “Yes.” I say it gently. “They may know nothing about Rosie.” I frown. “But what if they do? And I’ve never really understood why you’ve kept so quiet about them.”

  Grace sighs; then the familiar defiant look is back. “If you really have to know, they’re not really Sophie’s friends. They were just these guys she got weed from, that’s all. I didn’t touch it, Mum. I never do. Just so you know.”

  Knowing what my reaction will be, daring me to be furious with her, Grace stands her ground. Any other time, I probably would be, but while I wasn’t looking, while a murder took place, the rules shifted imperceptibly.

  “Sophie know how stupid that is? Buying weed from just anyone like that?”

  My mind racing, because yes, they’re probably harmless, but what if they’re not? What if Rosie somehow got caught up with them?

  “Mum! It’s just weed!” Grace’s outraged cry breaks into my thoughts. “Everyone does it—except me, of course.” She says it resentfully, as if it’s somehow my fault that she’s missing out.

  “Whatever, Grace. All that really matters is finding the murderer. I’m sorry, but Sophie talks to the police today, or I will.”

  Knowing she’s in the wrong, Grace glowers at me, then turns and flounces away.

  And then a thin veneer of normality filters in, sorely needed, as I busy myself with new clients’ gardens, finding peace as I always do in the music of the seasons. The drone of insects and the harmonies of the birds, pitched against the backdrop of the wind. Perfect fleeting moments, until the Everest-sized mountain that’s Grace’s university shopping list rears its ugly head.

  “You can’t need all this!” I gasp in horror at her list. “You don’t need new bedding, Grace. We have plenty. Or towels . . . and plates and mugs . . . Come and have a look in the kitchen.”

  And then we go shopping and buy new towels, new china, new bedding, and new everything else, diverting ourselves from recent events with frivolity, soft fabrics, and prettiness, as the closer she gets to leaving, the more time picks up speed, the more precious each minute suddenly becomes.

  8

  September

  The next time I see Jo is at Rosie’s funeral, a sweet, gentle endurance test, with sunlight, tears, and too many people crowding into the small village church. The overflow mourners stand outside, forming a human tunnel, which, I’m told later, closes in as her coffin passes, and follows behind. Here at least, no side of her is left unguarded.

  The service is far removed from the brutality that’s brought us here, with flowers, familiar hymns, and the unbearable, overwhelming sadness that unites us. The only indication of the untimeliness of Rosie’s death is the two uniformed officers standing at the back. At one point, Grace nudges me, mouthing, “Poppy,” and across the church, I glimpse a pretty face flanked by two others, caked in thick makeup running with little rivers of black mascara.

  Some classmates bravely deliver a eulogy through their tears, painting a picture of Rosie so bright, none of us will ever forget, while ugly, pointless thoughts filter into my head. Is the giver of the necklace here? The murderer, even?

  There’s relief afterward that it’s over. I snatch the last days of our summer, cramming them with late nights and early mornings. Long rides with Grace, where we gallop recklessly, flat out across stubble fields, then let the horses wallow in the stream. With barbecues and friends and oversize plates of food, the house upside down but scented with cooking and the last of the roses from the garden. They’re joyous, life-affirming gestures, where I concentrate enough love and laughter into sweet, precious memories to tide me over until
Grace is back.

  One evening, I find myself alone, and there’s a window of daylight that’s just wide enough to exercise Zappa. He’s my sole remaining client, which at this time of year, with its shortening days, is a blessing.

  As I walk across the fields, I see the three of them—Zappa; Grace’s pony, Oz; and my old Reba—walking peacefully together as they used to follow Rosie. For a moment I fancy I catch a strand of pale hair, see Oz rub his head on an invisible shoulder, Zappa nuzzle a hand that isn’t there, before suddenly, they throw up their heads seemingly at nothing, then wheel round and canter away.

  As I ride up the lane, the sky is quiet, a veil of high cloud washing it a milky blue. There’s also a chill in the air, and I jog Zappa to keep warm. Then at the top of the hill, on impulse, for the first time since the storm, I turn him into the woods.

  I’ve known for some time that I have to do this. Lay Rosie’s ghost, if that’s what it was. Only, unlike the last time, we’re not alone. As Zappa trots past dog walkers and someone running, he snorts gently, feeling the layers of freshly fallen leaves under his hooves, wanting to canter. When I touch his sides with my legs and lean slightly forward, he breaks into strong, rhythmic strides.

  Here and there, sunlight brushes the trees, painting them burnished copper and gold. We keep going until up ahead, I see the slope where I fell last time. Boldly I point Zappa up there, and again he takes it in two long strides, only now I’m ready.

  This time, at the top, I just listen. To Zappa’s breathing gradually slowing, to the wind through the treetops, to crisp leaves floating, then landing on the ground. Here and there are the scattered remains of flowers people have left, nibbled at by rabbits or the deer that hide until dusk, when they can claim the woods as their own. And again, I can’t help thinking, Rosie? Are you here, too?

  Then all too soon, Grace goes.

  I always knew it would be difficult, but in the aftermath of what’s happened, illogically, I want to keep her close. It’s a three-hour drive to the university in Bristol, and we manage to laugh most of the way there, but after, when the last of her possessions is unloaded and installed in the simple room that’s to be her home, when it comes to good-bye, I fall apart.

  “Please, Grace, be careful.”

  “Mum! I’ll be fine! Don’t! You’ll set me off, too.”

  “And call me . . . anytime you like.”

  “I know! Of course I’ll call you, Mum.”

  “And . . .” But I can’t let her go.

  Angus kisses her cheek, then firmly takes my hand. “Come on, Kate. It’s time to go.”

  I can’t speak at that point, just steel myself, indelibly scorching our hug into the fabric of my memory.

  ROSIE

  I’m not sure where the wish comes from, but when I’m eight, more than anything in the world, I want a puppy. I can’t know it’s because my heart bursts just to love, that it craves to be loved in return, only that Lucy Mayes has a small spaniel that’s old and doesn’t play. She says he’s boring and he smells bad, but his fur is soft and his eyes melt when he looks at me. When I ask my father, he says I have to wait until I’m older. So I do what he says. I use the time to learn about puppies. About training them, about walking them and feeding them, about how tail wagging can mean all these different things. Then, before my next birthday, I wait until Mummy’s there, too, and Delphine is sleeping upstairs.

  My father’s sitting next to her, on the new white sofa, which Delphine and I aren’t allowed on. I wait until he’s finished telling Mummy about the assignment he’s just come back from, where there was shooting and their hotel got blown up. How frightened everyone was, but how lucky we are he got out alive.

  It’s the perfect moment. He’s survived. It should make him the happiest man there is. Mummy looks at him, then kisses his cheek. But even before anything happens, I’m nervous. Snakes-in-my-insides nervous—which is what Lucy always says, because it feels like snakes curling and wriggling inside you. Or when I’m less nervous, maybe worms.

  When I ask, my father looks at me crossly and says, “If you really want a puppy, you’ll have to wait, Rosanna, until you’re twelve,” even though Mummy places her hand on his arm, says, “Please, Neal. A puppy would be really lovely for the girls. . . .”

  But he pulls his arm away, gets up, stands there, his back to us, while Mummy catches my eye and shakes her head, looking worried, because his anger is like a storm cloud. We both know it’s decided. And the room turns into a horrible, cold place that I don’t want to be in, full of people I don’t want to be with. But there’s nothing I can do.

  When. I’m. Twelve. Seems too far away to be real.

  Soon after that, I remember my skin erupting into dry, scaly patches that itch. The doctor saying I have eczema. My mother saying it’s in the family. How can they not see?

  I know what it is. Not eczema, but disappointment, a parasite in my blood, circulating round my body, eating me away, gnawing at my skin first until it flakes off, then deeper inside, at my belief in people.

  The next year, before my birthday, I know I shouldn’t ask, but there’s a picture in my head about how it would be, having a puppy. Cuddling it, feeding it, watching it grow. And I find an ember of hope. Ask again. Even though I know.

  “How dare you?” says my father. “Don’t you remember? I said twelve, Rosanna. Twelve.”

  Then he takes the ember, snuffs it out, tramples it under his boots, and buries it in ice until it’s dead.

  When it gets to my twelfth birthday, I don’t ask. But the week before, even though I don’t want to, my father makes me go to look at some puppies, a whole litter of them, squirming and wagging and whimpering. My wish comes back stronger than before, and I know if I can have one of these, I will never ask for anything again.

  They are all beautiful, and it’s hard, but I choose one—a little black and white girl puppy with a springy tail like a piece of rubber, who nibbles my chin, then washes my face with kisses.

  All the way home, I think, The best things really are worth waiting for. Even four years—that’s how long it’s been. But my father’s kept his word. In my head, I have lists of names, then decide there really is just one name that’s perfect for her.

  It’s Hope.

  The night before my birthday, I can’t sleep. I’m wondering where my parents are hiding Hope, straining my ears for little whiny puppy sounds, imagining that small, wriggly body in my arms again, knowing it’s my last night without her.

  The next morning, when I open my presents, I ask where Hope is.

  “Oh,” says my father, “we changed our minds. We’ve bought you a guitar instead.”

  Then he laughs.

  And the love that was waiting inside me, the huge, bubbling, bottomless well of it, leaks away until it’s gone.

  After that, I lose trust and faith, too, watching my face grow paler as in their place, disappointment breeds, spreading through my body like a network of veins. Then my eczema gets worse, and I get blinding, thumping headaches that make me sick, which Mummy gets, as well. She says I need to lie down and take pills. That I’m just like her, but she’ll look after me. Not long after that, my father goes away for a long time. Then, when he comes back, I lose Lucy Mayes, too, because we move again. Another town, another house, another school. I start at Blackley Secondary School, a sprawl of concrete and glass under a midsummer sky.

  It looks welcoming, the sunlight rebounding off the glass, making it sparkle. That’s where I see the sky, in window-sized pieces of blue-black, with fluffy clouds reflected above mirror trees.

  My teacher, Miss Wilson, is young, in high heels, and says she hopes it won’t be difficult joining midterm, but if it is, I must tell her and she’ll help me. Then she turns round and says to another teacher in a very quiet voice, “How strange, moving schools midterm. You’d have thought parents would think about that. Oh well . . .”

  The work isn’t difficult, but this time, making friends is. Not because the gir
ls aren’t nice here. They’re really friendly and interesting. They ask where I live and what music I like. I could be friends with them, but I already have friends, friends I really like, in other schools, which I didn’t ask to leave. And if I make new friends, they’ll be taken away, too.

  I miss Lucy, but it’s not like before. It’s like a nerve dying or a tooth being pulled out. When the pain fades, there’s emptiness.

  9

  October

  With the funeral behind us and our teenagers scattered around the country, as the wrench of separation gives way to relief that away from here, at least they’re safe, as we adjust to new, quieter lives, I get together with other mothers to organize an informal rotation where we take turns calling on Jo. A good idea in principle, we agree, but being up close to Jo’s grief, in the home in which Rosie’s absence is so noticeable, is too much for most of them, and before long it dwindles, then stops altogether.

  “You’re so good to me,” she says as she lets me in, beautifully dressed as she always is in a slim tunic and pale linen trousers, one of her trademark scarves looped round her neck. Touched up before Rosie’s funeral, the roots are perfect again. “But you mustn’t worry, Kate. I’m fine.”

  I know she isn’t. How can she be? I wonder, too, how she ever will be.

  “I brought a cake.” Even though I know Jo won’t eat it, but it’s a gesture. “Chocolate. I thought Delphine might like it.”

  She takes it, says nothing. As I follow her down the steps into the kitchen, over on the table, her mobile buzzes. She glances across at it.

  “Would you mind? It’s probably about the work I’m doing for Neal.”

  “Of course. I’ll put the kettle on.” I’m gradually feeling my way around this pristine, ordered kitchen that’s so unlike my own. I know to fill the polished steel kettle from the tap with the built-in filtration system. Once I used the other one. Only once.