by Diane Janes
Inside the hall, the first thing I saw when Simon turned on the light was Trudie’s denim jacket, hanging over the banister where she had left it several days before. I burst into tears again.
‘It’s all right, babe. It’s all right. It’s all over now. All over.’ Danny held me tightly while I clung to him. We both caught sight of Simon’s harrowed expression at the same moment and held out our arms to him. Group hugs were not the norm in those days, but the events of the night had broken down the usual barriers and constraints. We stood in the hall, locked in a mutual embrace: all our animosity drained away, everything else forgotten in the knowledge of what we had just shared. It was Simon who finally spoke. ‘It’ll be light in a few hours,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to start work really early if we’re going to get the bottom level again, before we can start with the sand.’
‘You set your alarm,’ said Danny, ‘and come and wake me, as soon as you’re up.’
Wake him? I thought. How are we ever going to sleep again? Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Trudie’s face. I feared sleep, lest it reconfigure the very images I was trying to banish. My eyes fell on the denim jacket. Simon caught me looking at it.
‘We’ll have to decide what to do with her stuff,’ he said.
‘In the morning,’ said Danny, firmly. ‘Now we have to go to bed.’ He drew me towards the stairs. Simon followed us, a step or two behind. Danny turned to him. ‘Take it easy, man. Okay?’
Simon nodded. ‘Goodnight,’ he said.
In spite of our angry exchanges earlier I felt sorry for him as we parted on the landing. At least Danny and I had each other. Simon had to spend what was left of the night alone. I thought of the way he had comforted Trudie after the seance – made sure she wasn’t left on her own. As I closed the bedroom door behind me I gave an involuntary shiver.
‘Cold?’ asked Danny. ‘Never mind. We’ll soon have you safe under the blankets.’ He was pulling off his shirt as he spoke. It took me a second or two to realize what was missing.
‘Danny – where’s your crucifix?’
He looked down. The cross and chain were not there.
‘Shit,’ he said. ‘It must have come off when we were in the wood. I thought I felt something, when we first lifted Trudie up. Bloody hell. I’ll have to go back and look for it in the morning.’
A couple of minutes later, when we were lying side by side and Danny had switched off the light, I asked: ‘Why does Simon hate me?’
‘He doesn’t.’
‘He must do. He never has a good word to say for me. Tonight he even accused me of killing Trudie. You would have to really hate someone to say a thing like that.’ A new thought struck me: ‘You don’t think he really believes it, do you?’
‘Of course not. He wasn’t saying that stuff because he believes it. He was just trying to show you how things might look to an outsider – to someone who doesn’t know us and doesn’t believe it was an accident.’
‘Do you believe it was an accident?’
There was a pause before Danny said: ‘Yes, I do . . .’
‘But that scream—’
‘I think she must have stumbled and fallen into the wires. That’s when she screamed. She would have struggled to get free, but once she completely lost her footing, her weight would have tightened the ropes and the scarf around her neck.’ He paused because I was crying again, my breath coming in a series of ragged sobs. Danny stroked my bare arms and shoulders. ‘It was must have been very quick,’ he said. ‘She probably didn’t suffer.’
After that we didn’t talk very much. I eventually stopped crying, but my head pounded like the worst hangover in history. Danny slept fitfully, myself not at all. I had never realized before that the birds start to sing before it gets light, a choir of tormentors, their volume swelling as the curtains grew paler. At last I heard some movement on the landing – Simon’s bare feet entering the bathroom. Danny heard it too and slid carefully out of bed, moving around the room with exaggerated care.
‘I’m not asleep,’ I said, at which he relaxed perceptibly and began to move normally. I sat up in bed, watching him as he rummaged around for clean pants, then climbed into the rest of his clothes.
‘You don’t need to get up yet,’ he said. ‘You should try to sleep.’
‘I can’t. I may as well get up too.’
I waited until he and Simon had both finished in the bathroom – six bedrooms, but only one bathroom – then I went in there to use it myself. There was no hot water and I needed to wash my hair. It came as something of a surprise. It was as if normal things could never happen again – and yet here I was, thinking that I would have to put the immersion heater on so that I could wash my hair. In the meantime I did my best with cold water. My eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot; dark shadows of smudged mascara blended with sleeplessness. I looked like something off an Alice Cooper album sleeve.
When I got downstairs, I found the unification of the night before had dissolved. Simon and Danny weren’t getting annoyed with one another, merely adopting polarized points of view.
‘This takes priority,’ Simon was saying. ‘I’ve been out there and you can still see . . .’ he didn’t finish the sentence.
‘I have to find it,’ said Danny. He saw me entering the kitchen and turned as if to appeal for my confirmation. ‘I’m just telling Si about my crucifix. I’ll have to go and look for it.’
‘Later,’ Simon began.
‘I can’t lose it,’ said Danny. ‘It was a present from my father – when I made my first communion. I’ve worn it ever since.’
‘I’m not saying—’ Simon tried again, but Danny wasn’t listening.
‘If I’m not wearing it, Dad will notice straight away. Anyway, I’d never forgive myself if I lost it.’
‘Fine,’ said Simon, impatiently. ‘We get it. But there are things to do here first.’
‘No,’ said Danny. ‘I’m going straight down there to look for it. If I don’t and it’s just lying about someone else might take it.’
‘Who the fuck is going to be mooching around the woods at this time of day?’
‘You don’t know,’ said Danny, obstinately. ‘Besides – one of us ought to go back and have a look around where it happened. Make sure there’s nothing of Trudie’s left lying about.’
‘What could there possibly be?’ asked Simon, but his eyes registered defeat. It was clear that Danny was not going to be deflected from his chosen course.
Simon sank down on to one of the kitchen chairs. The unwashed plates from our last meal together were still on the table, together with our dirty glasses. Four of everything. An empty Party Seven tin stood on the worktop, and there was a big pan on the stove with a thin layer of Trudie’s casserole congealed in the bottom.
Danny had been standing beside the sink, drinking a glass of water. When he had completely drained it, he plonked the empty glass among the assortment of other washing-up which was awaiting attention. ‘I’ll go now,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
Simon watched his departing figure, saying nothing. Something about Simon had changed. He looked so vulnerable and dejected that for a moment I wanted to put my arms around him; but I thought Danny wouldn’t like that, if he happened to look in as he passed the kitchen window. On the other hand – if Simon didn’t like girls, which Danny presumably knew, perhaps it didn’t matter. I didn’t do it anyway.
‘I’ll help you,’ I said. ‘Outside, I mean.’
Simon looked up at me: relief mingled with surprise. I had surprised myself. The words were out before I had time to think about them. ‘I have to have a cup of coffee first,’ I added.
The milk had been left out overnight and there was no more in the fridge, so I had my coffee black. It tasted bitter, in spite of a generous addition of sugar. Simon found some orange cordial which he diluted in a pint glass, drinking about half before setting it aside. There was no talking.
When we were done with our drinks, he led the way o
ut into the garden. I had braced myself for something terrible, but there was very little to see. The freshly dug earth was hummocky in comparison with the smooth surface which had been achieved the day before, but apart from that there was no clue to the pond’s new secret at first glance. Then I noticed a gaudy scrap of red and yellow, which I recognized as part of Trudie’s skirt. It looked like a small piece of fabric lying in the bottom of the hole, where it might have been blown by the wind: but I knew it was a part of something much larger, which led down to Trudie herself. Simon took up a spadeful of earth and positioned it carefully on top of the telltale remnant.
‘When I first came out this morning,’ he said, not looking at me, almost apologetic, ‘one of her feet was still showing.’
‘Just tell me what to do,’ I said.
Simon frowned. ‘We were going to level the earth, then put an even layer of sand over that,’ he said. ‘But I think it would save time if we just started putting the sand in and got that level. I don’t suppose it matters if the sand is thicker in some places than others.’
I said nothing. I didn’t know anything about making ponds – or burying people.
‘One of us needs to stand in here and spread the sand, while the other one barrows the sand across from the pile.’
‘I’ll do that,’ I said quickly. ‘I’ll fetch the sand.’
‘It’s very heavy work,’ said Simon, doubtfully.
‘I want to do it. I don’t mind.’ Anything rather than stand in that hole with Trudie. Anything.
Simon was right about it being hard work. Pushing the loaded barrow wasn’t the worst part – it was the filling, hefting shovels of sand from the pile into the wheelbarrow. My shoulders were aching in no time, and little runnels of sweat found their way into my eyes and down my back, despite the fact that it was still early enough in the day to be chilly.
Each time I brought a fresh load to upend into the hole, Simon had managed to hide another small patch of dark earth under a layer of warm orange. My back and shoulders ached with the unaccustomed labour and my arms felt stretched, as if I’d had a preliminary taste of the rack, but I didn’t falter. When Simon asked if I wanted to stop for a rest, I shook my head. It seemed right that I should suffer. It was a punishment for the dreadful thing we had done. Neither of us was wearing a watch, but I estimated we had been working for about an hour when Danny returned. He came round the side of the house, just as I was pushing a wheelbarrow full of sand in the opposite direction. We met at the edge of the pond and I saw the familiar glimmer of the gold chain at his neck before he spoke.
‘I found it,’ he said. ‘And I also found this.’ He held out the torch for us to see. It was the one with the dud battery, out of Simon’s car.
Simon went white. ‘I must have put it down when we first found her. I’d forgotten all about it.’
‘Just as well I went back,’ said Danny. He wasn’t smug, but his tone let us know that he had been right.
A thought struck me. ‘What happened to the other torch? The one Trudie was using?’
‘I brought it back last night,’ said Danny. ‘Don’t you remember? I found it lying on the ground – broken. I picked it up and put it in my pocket.’
‘There wasn’t anything else, was there?’ asked Simon. He was clearly shaken by this example of our carelessness. It brought home how very easily we might be found out.
‘Nothing to say anyone had been there at all,’ said Danny.
‘What about the kids’ climbing net? It’ll be obvious something’s happened to that.’
Danny hesitated. ‘It was already a bit of a mess,’ he said. ‘Anyway, it might easily have been damaged by the wind or a bird flying into it or something. Maybe even deliberately sabotaged by another gang of kids.’
‘Where did you find your crucifix?’ I asked. ‘Did you have to search very long?’
‘No – hardly at all. It was just hanging in amongst that tangle of stuff. I suppose it must have snagged on some wire when I was getting Trudie out of that awful mess. Luckily the chain hasn’t broken. The catch must have given way again. It’s been dodgy for a while – I’ll have to get it fixed.’
In my mind’s eye I could see the crucifix hanging there as he described it. The little golden cross marking the place where Trudie had died.
‘We’ve got on really well,’ said Simon. He gestured to where almost a third of the bottom was already covered, but his tone was flat, unenthusiastic.
‘That’s fantastic,’ said Danny. There was genuine contrition in his voice as he continued: ‘I feel really bad that you guys have had to do so much without me – but I had to go down there.’
‘You did the right thing, man,’ said Simon. ‘My initials are on that torch, in marker pen.’ Whatever division had existed between them earlier, the partnership was rock solid again now.
After Danny’s return I lingered in the garden for a while, watching them work. Danny transported the sand and Simon spread it, barrowload after barrow-load. Gradually it dawned on me that they were finding this attention discomfiting – that they felt I should be elsewhere. My thoughts turned to the house and in particular the state of the kitchen. I would have to go inside sooner or later and tackle the mess. There was no one else to do it now.
TWENTY-THREE
On the eve of my second trip to Sedgefield, the conclusion of my night-school class in Conversational Italian coincides with a cloudburst. My car is at the furthest end of the car park, and naturally I have left my umbrella in the side pocket of the door and consequently get soaked to the skin. To cap off this wonderful evening, no sooner have I got my key in the door than the phone begins to ring.
It’s my sister. A rare event. She opens by asking how I am, but this is only a feed for my line, which is ‘Fine. How are you?’
Cue leading lady who embarks on a long speech explaining the various problems currently besetting her life. The divorced estate agent she had such high hopes of turns out to have been a dud. Her older daughter Martine is living with someone ‘completely unsuitable’ in ‘some terribly squalid part of Bristol’ – meantime her younger daughter, Belinda (Binny to her mother), is suspected of having an eating disorder. Both her ex-husbands are being aggravating – one has just married a much younger woman – a clear act of provocation, apparently. Is it my imagination, or does my sister actually say, ‘He has only done it to annoy me’?
She finally gets round to asking: ‘So how’s your life? Have you seen anything of Eddie lately?’ In the dramatic production that is my sister’s life, my offstage activities are not liable to amount to much more than being the conduit for occasional news of our mutual sibling – hence the coupling of these two unrelated queries.
‘I went out with them for the day, a couple of months ago. They’re all fine.’
She takes this as a signal to issue thinly veiled accusations of neglect, implying that neither he nor I ever go out of our way to spend a day with her. This is partly true and in my case not least because of an occasion when I did go out of my way to spend time with her, only to be blown off because some bloke with an Aston Martin asked her out to lunch.
While I’m doodling on the message pad, giving half an ear to all this, a picture of Mrs Ivanisovic grows in my mind: not the frail habituée of Broadoaks, who could be toppled like a pile of leaves in an autumn breeze, but a younger, stronger version, her body taut with focus and determination as she sits at her son’s bedside, posing ever more dangerous questions, to which he signals his response with a squeeze of her hand. The vision is abruptly blown apart by my sister announcing that she has the use of a friend’s villa in Portugal for a fortnight, and why don’t I join her? There’s a pool, a lovely restaurant nearby – a market within walking distance if we want to do our own food – and best of all she has enough air miles to bring the plane fares down to next to nothing. ‘How about it?’ she asks, so heartily that anyone listening in might think a fortnight of each other’s company is something we’ve been simply
longing for these past ten years.
‘When is it?’ I ask. ‘I’ll have to look in my diary.’
I can tell she is miffed. It’s only a couple of weeks away but someone like me ought to be available to accept without demur. I go through the pretence of rustling the pages of my diary while mustering up a tone of regret. ‘I’m sorry, Amy, I can’t. I’ve got something on virtually every day. Two lots of theatre tickets, I’m down to play badminton in the club championships—’
‘You could scratch,’ she interrupts.
‘– and I can’t let my partners down,’ I continue smoothly, as if she hasn’t spoken. ‘It would mean missing two weeks of night school – and at this stage I’d probably never catch up; and it’s the week our book group meets.’
‘Surely none of these are exactly matters of life and death?’
‘Well – no. But it means letting lots of people down – and I don’t like to go back on my word and leave people in the lurch.’ (Not even for a jolly in an Aston Martin.)
I don’t tell her that I’d actually much rather go to the book group, where wine and conversation will flow and Hilly will come over all earnest, and our Irish friend Brendan will make us laugh, so I try a conciliatory tack. ‘Why not go on your own?’ I suggest. ‘Look on it as an opportunity to pamper yourself, have some quality time. Chill out.’
‘It’s all very well for you to say that, Kate,’ she snaps. ‘You’re used to being on your own.’ Her vision of a lonely spinster travels down the line, as loud and clear as her accompanying words. She really hasn’t got a clue.
‘Well, I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone else. I bet there are lots of people who’d love to go with you.’ Actually I’d lay a substantial wager that she has already asked everyone else she knows – otherwise she wouldn’t be asking me. ‘It’s a shame I can’t make it. Maybe next time.’
She brings the conversation to an end soon after that. I sign off with a jaunty, ‘Enjoy Portugal.’