The Bones of You

by Debbie Howells

  I get out two of her coffee mugs, distinct from tea mugs—Jo has a separate shelf for each type—and notice some new additions in there, gleaming white with intricately designed handles. She’s still deep in conversation, and absentmindedly, I pick one up, turn it, admiring the unusual shape, before it slips through my fingers onto the floor. Jo looks up from her phone, aghast.

  “I’m really sorry,” I tell her later, for about the tenth time, because she looks so upset. “Please can I replace it?”

  “Oh, it’s fine,” she says, managing a laugh I know is forced. “Really. Don’t worry, Kate. It’s just a mug! It’s my fault, anyway. I shouldn’t have been chatting for so long.”

  Is she really taking responsibility for my clumsiness? It puts me in mind of the kind of thing I’d say to Grace—when she was four. It’s my fault you tipped the paint over. I should have been keeping an eye on you.

  We move on to small talk about the weather and how unseasonably warm it is. How gorgeous her kitchen is, which clearly pleases her, because she animatedly, bizarrely, tells me at length about the company that designed it for them, but how it isn’t perfect and how next time, they’re already planning something better.

  Then I comment on her garden, designed by someone who really knows what they’re doing. It has the structure and year-round interest that many lack. Something’s changed, too, since I was last here. A small, evenly shaped apple tree has recently been planted—not by Jo, who has beautiful hands. Her unchipped nail polish is a dead giveaway.

  “It’s a lovely shape, Jo. Do you know which variety it is?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know the first thing about gardening.”

  “Does Neal look after it?” I gesture through the window. The long, neat lawn is flanked by elegantly planted borders. The new tree is dead center at the far end.

  “Oh, no . . . We have this man who comes in every week. That reminds me—I must call him. He’s missed the last two.” She shakes her head. “Or maybe he’s not coming anymore. I get so muddled, Kate.” She looks at me beseechingly. “He and Neal didn’t get on.”

  “Where is Neal?”

  “He’s gone away.”

  “How long for?” I can’t believe he’s left her alone so soon after Rosie’s funeral.

  “He wasn’t going to,” she adds, reading my face. “He’s in Afghanistan, though not working this time. He and some colleagues started a charity. For children orphaned by the fighting.”

  “I had no idea.” Laura had mentioned the orphanage, but she hadn’t said he started it. Suddenly, Neal Anderson’s joined my list of people who do great things in this world, who count. And just maybe, too, it gives him something else to think about and takes him away from what’s here. “You must be so proud of him.”

  She nods. “It’s the main reason I don’t have a job. Oh, I know some of the mothers think that I do nothing with my life, but sometimes he’s away for weeks. And anyway, I help him—do some of his paperwork, make calls, organize meetings.”

  As she speaks, I realize how little I know about her. About either of them.

  “Why don’t I help you with the garden? Just for now? I could fit in a couple of hours . . . if you wanted me to.”

  But Jo doesn’t reply. She’s gazing outside, beyond the trees, beyond the sky even, somewhere far away where I can’t reach her.

  I lean forward and touch her arm. “Jo? This must be so hard. . . .”

  Feeling it with every fiber of my being.

  Her gaze doesn’t alter. “I wonder sometimes”—her voice seems to come from miles away—“what I did to deserve this, Kate. All I ever wanted, as long as I can remember, was a happy family. I thought it was one thing I could do really well. . . .”

  There’s a lump in my throat, because I share every word, every sentiment of what she’s saying. To a mother, most of life can be reduced to the one thing that matters: family.

  “I can’t talk about it,” she whispers, her eyes swinging round, catching mine and showing the full force of her agony. “I’m so sorry. . . .”

  As I look at her, I see how little it would take for her to shatter into a thousand pieces—like the mug. Even taking her grief into account, she looks terrible. She gets up, pushing away her chair, struggling to hold herself together.

  “Why don’t you lie down for a bit, Jo? Try and get some rest.”

  Wishing with all my heart I could in some way ease the burden on her.

  “It’s just so bloody awful,” I say to Angus that evening.

  After the warmth of the day, the night is chilly, and he’s lit the first fire of the season. We’re slumped on the sofa, and I’m leaning against him, my feet up, with a glass of wine, watching the flames flickering against the heavy pattern of the fireback.

  “Every time I go over there, it’s the same. She holds it together—just. I’ve no idea how. You know, since the first time, she hasn’t cried.”

  “It’s probably just her way of coping. Different people react differently, don’t they?” says Angus. “And God knows what it does to you, knowing someone killed your child.”

  “I know.” I’ve thought of that, also. Still do, far too much, imagining pain that can only be an echo of what Jo feels.

  We’re quiet. I’m thinking of Grace. She’s called a few times, bright exchanges that leave my eyes blurry and my heart bursting with pride. She’s settling in, breaking away from us. Discovering beautiful, iridescent wings.

  “Nice, this, isn’t it?” Angus sits back happily, feet up on the coffee table. “Just you and me . . . There’s actually food in the fridge, no teenagers tearing in and out. And Grace’s doing what we always wanted her to do.”

  He’s right. I snuggle against him, feeling his warmth, my feet curled underneath me, trying but not able to savor the moment.

  As Rosie’s death blends into the backdrop of our lives, the petals drop on the last of Jo’s flowers, which for weeks have kept arriving. But when I next visit, flowers aside, the sitting room’s changed.

  “New sofa?” My surprise must show in my voice, because Jo looks up sharply.

  “We were going to redecorate . . . before.... I’d forgotten all about it until the sofa turned up yesterday.”

  “What a nuisance for you. I mean, right now, you could probably do without it.”

  “Oh, it’s fine,” she says briefly. “It’s just a sofa. Would you like tea?”

  “Please. Have you managed to track down your gardener?” I ask, following her into the kitchen, thinking how this normal, meaningless conversation about things that don’t matter is somehow bizarre.

  “He’s not coming anymore,” she says vaguely. “Neal’s found a local boy to sweep up the leaves over the winter. To be honest, right now, it’s the last thing I want to think about. We can find someone new in the spring.”

  She’s right. There are more important matters than her garden to worry about. “Tell me, Jo . . . only, how’s Delphine? She’s always at school when I’m here. I never see her.”

  She considers her reply. “You know . . . she’s quite surprising. She’s not at all like Rosanna was. The police sent someone for her to talk to—a family liaison officer. But she’s okay. For someone so young, she’s strong.”

  It’s a detached assessment rather than an affectionate one, and I look at Jo, wondering if she’s on something. Her tone is flat, her words are measured, and there’s the same numbness about her I saw just after Rosie was found. The same blankness in her eyes. Unless, as Angus says, switching off is the only way she can function.

  She turns away from me. “The police told me. How Rosanna used to go to see your horses.”

  There’s the smallest edge of resentment in her voice.

  “She did—if she was passing by. She’d just walk down across the field to talk to them. Not for very long,” I assure Jo, feeling awkward that she heard about this from someone else. “She loved horses. I would have mentioned it before. I always assumed you knew.”


  It’s easier to lie than to tell the truth. Even now, it would feel like a betrayal of Rosie’s trust.

  Jo nods very slowly. “I didn’t,” she says, adding tearfully, “I didn’t know about her friendship with Poppy, either, did I? It makes me wonder what else I didn’t know about.”

  Guilt washes over me for adding to her already backbreaking burden. “I should have told you—only there really wasn’t anything to tell, Jo. It was never a planned thing. More like walking down the street and stopping to talk to someone you weren’t expecting to see. That was all.”

  She dabs her face with a tissue. “I’m sorry, Kate. I overreact to everything.... I’m glad it was your horses she went to see. And you.”

  Slowly, she turns back to making the tea. Feeling awful, I try to change the subject to the daughter Jo still has, who must surely be suffering, too.

  “Does Delphine have many friends?”

  “One or two. There was this dreadful girl she was friendly with, but we’ve discouraged that. It wasn’t the right kind of friendship.”

  Another Poppy. It puts me in mind of the girl Grace befriended a few years ago. Cleo. Loud, in a too-short skirt, and reeking of cigarette smoke. I struggled with that one, wanting to steer Grace away from her. It was Angus who persuaded me not to and assured me that no harm would come to Grace if we watched her from the background, not too closely, but just closely enough. He was right.

  “There’s always one,” I say sympathetically. “Only you have to let them make their own mistakes, don’t you?”

  “Neal isn’t quite that forgiving,” she says. “He has such high standards. He always wants the best for them, for . . . her.”

  She fumbles with the unfamiliarity of the singular. And we all want the best for our children. But whatever Jo says, Delphine can’t be that strong if her parents decide who her friends are.

  “She misses Rosanna dreadfully.” Jo pours the tea and sits opposite me. “And the press coverage hasn’t helped.”

  I shake my head. “It must be dreadful, for all of you. Especially—” I break off. I can’t bring myself to mention the rumors that even now are still being whispered around our neighborhood.

  “What were you going to say?” Jo looks up from her mug.

  I’m awkward again, treading on eggshells. “Nothing, really.”

  Then I change my mind, because surely Jo should know.

  “Actually, Jo, it’s not nothing. I was thinking about the rumors that paper printed. About Rosie . . . Rosanna having some kind of secret life. It was disgraceful.”

  She freezes. “She really didn’t. She was a good girl who worked hard at school. They were just rumors, Kate. The papers are full of them.” She stirs her tea before looking up again. “You know what they’re like. Half the time, they print just for effect. You have to try not to let it get to you.”

  I’m not sure I could handle it as well as she appears to. “What about Neal? How is he coping?” Gently, not meaning to pry, but the loss of a child can destroy the closest of families. I watch as Jo’s eyes fill with sorrow.

  “He’s heartbroken. He just throws himself into his work. It’s what he does—to take his mind off things. We try to stay strong for each other, but underneath, he’s like I am. He just hides it better. He’s an amazing man, Kate.”

  “You all are, Jo. Strong. Amazing.”

  She shakes her head, but her eyes are shining. “Thank you. But I’m really not.”

  Two days later, just as I finish breakfast, there’s a knock on the door.

  Mildly irritated at the interruption when I’m rushing to get ready for work, I open it to find Laura standing there.

  “Kate! I hope you don’t mind me turning up like this, only I didn’t take your number. Beth Van Sutton told me where you live.”

  “Hi! I’m sorry. I’d ask you in, but I’m about to go off to work.” Aware it sounds like an excuse.

  Laura looks uncertain, unsure whether I’m fobbing her off.

  I pause. Rachael’s right. I should at least talk to her about this properly. “Why don’t you come back? Say, one-ish? Have lunch?”

  She looks relieved. “Thank you. That would be great.”

  But the few hours pruning and tidying a client’s walled garden allow me to order my thoughts and step outside my rather blinkered view of journalists. I realize I want to know what’s happened as much as any other parent around here. And just maybe, strangely, Laura has a place in all of this. By the time she arrives for lunch, I’ve come to a decision.

  “Come on in. You’ll have to excuse the mess. I haven’t been back long.”

  “Please. You should see my house. And it’s just me.” She follows me in.

  “Have a seat. I’ll finish throwing this together, and we can eat outside.”

  “Great.” Laura perches on one of the battered wooden chairs, tanned legs neatly arranged, skirt reaching just above her knees.

  “So, how are you getting on? Are you finding out what you need?”

  “Slowly . . . There are always people who want to talk for ages about nothing of relevance to Rosie. And others who don’t want to know me.”

  Like me, I’m thinking.

  “It isn’t personal,” she goes on. “But just by nature of being a reporter, some people think you’re the devil’s spawn.”

  The spoon I’m holding slips out of my hand, clattering to the floor.

  But as we sit outside, lunch laid out on the table under the shade of our old oak tree, as the spark of our old friendship is rekindled, I start to relax. I’m curious, too, about Laura’s life.

  “So, tell me. Why did you move?”

  “They offered me a job. Ten years ago.” She helps herself to salad and slices of ham. “It was a job I couldn’t refuse. You see, I went back to school and studied psychology. Lifetime wanted someone to write about mental health issues. At that point, I just wanted to get away from here.... It was the right job at the right time. I was lucky.”

  “No children?” I’ve already noticed the absence of a wedding ring.

  She shakes her head. “There was a guy. It’s a long story. . . . Anyway, as it turns out, I’m better off without him. I have great friends. And I love my work.”

  But as we eat, I have to ask. “So . . .” I hesitate, not sure how to put this. “How is what you write different from everyone else?”

  “Well”—her voice becomes more businesslike—“forget everything you’ve ever thought about the gutter press. I’m not interested in hitting the headlines. There’s always a story, but I want more than that. I guess, with Rosie, I’m looking from her parents’ angle. Trying to find out not just what but why it happened. Was Rosie already a victim in some way even before her death? I suppose you could say it’s what’s behind the story that interests me.”

  As she speaks, suddenly I have goose bumps, realizing that aside from wanting to see a murderer caught, I, too, want to know. Why?

  “Okay,” I say quietly. “Ask me anything you like.”

  She looks surprised. “You’re sure, Kate? I completely understand if you’d rather not.”

  “No. It’s fine. I’ve thought about it. And I do trust you. It’s not like it will hurt Jo. It might even help.”

  Laura looks grateful. “Thank you. Do you have time . . . if we make a start now?”

  I nod as she reaches into her bag and pulls out a leather-bound notebook.

  “Okay. So, why don’t you tell me how you know the Andersons.”

  I tell Laura what I told the police, including about the necklace, while she takes notes, only at the end pausing to ask a question.

  “Isn’t your daughter a similar age?”

  I nod. Laura’s been doing her homework, but then, what did I expect?

  “They weren’t friends?”

  “Not particularly. It wasn’t that they didn’t get on. They were just very different.”

  “And they didn’t spend time together with the horses?”

  “
No.”

  “Did that surprise you?”

  “I never used to think about it. It was a hot summer, and Grace used to ride out early in the morning. Her social life took up her evenings. It’s just how it was.”

  An echo of Grace’s words bounces back to me. She never comes when I’m around, does she? It’s as if it’s not just the horses she wants. It’s you.

  A frown wrinkles my forehead. “Grace commented on it, though. Just the once. That Rosie came over only when she wasn’t around.”

  Laura writes it down, then sits thoughtfully, her head slightly tilted to one side.

  “I’ve talked to a few people,” she says quietly, “who, in all honesty, probably didn’t know her as well as you. I’m trying to build a picture of the people in her life. Her relationships. What she did, where she went, who might have seen her . . . One or two mentioned seeing her with a boy. No one has a bad word to say about her—or any of the Andersons. One or two bitchy comments about Jo, perhaps, but she’s incredibly beautiful. People are jealous of that.”

  “Grace told me there were some boys hanging around. Druggies. One of her friends bought some weed from them.”

  Laura looks at me questioningly.

  “I just keep thinking . . .” I hesitate.

  “Kate, there will always be someone selling weed.”

  “It’s not that so much. It’s just, well, I keep wondering if maybe Rosie knew them. Or got caught up with them because of someone else. Like Poppy, her friend.”

  “That’s the other thing.... There are all these rumors, Kate, about a boyfriend, but no one seems to have come up with who he is.”

  “Jo told me ages ago there wasn’t one.”

  Laura frowns. “Maybe she didn’t know. I should try and talk to Poppy. Do you know where she lives?”

  “I can find out from Grace. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up. And be careful. Her family is quite . . . intimidating, I guess you’d say.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Laura reaches into her bag and passes me a card. “If you think of anything else, could you call me?”