The Art of Hiding

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Is this the desk? I don’t think I’ve seen it before.’

  Connor lifted a paint-spattered dustsheet to reveal a narrow console table. In its former life, it had sat in a spare bedroom with an ornate lamp on either end. Connor had rarely entered the room where it once sat, and months later, their life had been reduced to one sofa, three beds and a couple of odds and ends.

  We had too much. Greedy, really. Needless, all that stuff, all that expense . . .

  ‘Yes, that’s it.’

  Mr Firth helped remove the desk from its hiding place and lift it into the back of the van. They moved on to the boxes loaded with spare blankets, linens, towels and summer clothes. The boys sorted through their belongings and selected a couple of books, school files and one or two frivolous items that made her smile. ‘Of course you can’t live without that, Dec!’ They all laughed as he gripped a plastic Thor Hammer that lit up when whacked.

  ‘And don’t worry, Nina, there is no rush. As you can see, we have the space and can keep your things here for as long as you need,’ Mr Firth said.

  She felt tempted to ask him to consign the lot to charity, but knew enough not to make a rash decision. Strangely, for the first time, she didn’t think about the place she might live next; instead, she pictured the flat and knew the last thing they needed was clutter.

  ‘Thank you for being so kind,’ she offered sincerely, looking at the man her husband had trusted.

  ‘You look well.’ He smiled.

  ‘Getting there,’ she replied. ‘And thank you once again.’

  ‘Nina.’ Mr Firth called her back into the barn as the family piled back into the van. She went to him, bracing herself for some kind of bad news he could only tell her in private. ‘You have two fine boys there,’ he said.

  She smiled at him. Yes, she did.

  Nina walked back to the van.

  ‘Okay, wagons roll! My turn!’ Tiggy called as she pulled out of Hollydown Farm. ‘He seems nice,’ she offered.

  ‘He is. And can I just say thank you for coming with us all this way and for being so great?’

  ‘My pleasure, sis. That’s what family’s for.’

  They drove along the lane in silence for a minute or two.

  ‘Can we go and look at our old house?’ Declan asked.

  Nina had half expected the request. ‘I don’t know if that’s a good idea.’ She hesitated.

  ‘Please, Mum!’ Declan begged.

  She looked at Connor. ‘I don’t mind.’ He gave a shrug of indifference.

  ‘I’m more than happy to take you if you’d like,’ Tiggy said.

  Nina nodded tightly. ‘Okay then.’ Maybe it would help them all find closure.

  Connor sat forward in his seat, proudly issuing directions and showing off his local knowledge to his aunt. Nina felt strange, sick, as the van drew into the lane. She felt the swirl of nerves in her stomach, a feeling that had been missing of late.

  As they approached, she saw the gates were closed with a heavy padlock and chain, as she had pictured. A sign nailed to the front gave the number for a security company to call in the case of emergency. Two back-to-back ‘For Sale’ signs hung from a post in the driveway.

  Tiggy slowed the van and before Nina had a chance to make a plan or say anything, Connor jumped out. ‘Connor!’ she called, but he didn’t move from where he had his nose pressed up to the gate. Then Declan made a break for it and ran up to his brother. Reluctantly she unclipped her seat belt and climbed down.

  She had quite forgotten the sound of the gravel crunching underfoot. It was the first jolt to her senses. Her eyes strayed through the bars to the large turning circle, and the many criss-crossed dual lines of tyre marks that had churned up the stones, and of course there was no willing gardener with a wide rake to restore them twice weekly, making sure they looked perfect. She tried to remember the person she had been when this kind of thing felt important. It reminded her of the dirty footprints that Mr Ludlow’s men had left in the hallway on that terrible, terrible day. The memory of Connor’s horrified face when she found him at the house made her shiver: ‘. . . only doing their job, a horrible job, but their job nonetheless.’

  ‘Let’s go in!’ Declan jumped up and down.

  ‘We can’t, darling. They have changed all the locks, and even if I did still have a key, it doesn’t belong to us any more. It would be trespassing,’ she explained.

  ‘We could go through the gap in the side hedge and have a look, but not actually go inside,’ Connor suggested.

  Tiggy now stood behind the trio. ‘Come on then, Con. If we are going to do this, let’s do it quickly!’

  Her sister’s tone made it sound like some kind of adventure, and without further discussion, Nina found herself being ushered to the side hedge, where Connor and Declan rummaged along the tall, bushy leylandii until they found the gap they were looking for.

  ‘Here it is!’ Before she had a chance to remonstrate, Connor had disappeared into the hedge, quickly followed by Declan. Tiggy was next. Nina felt she had little choice but to follow. She crouched low and scrabbled on her knees through the gap. When she emerged, the sight was enough to take her breath away.

  She placed her hand over her mouth. She hadn’t realised, or rather had forgotten, quite how grand the house was. The pale stone building stood proudly in the sunlight, the many, many windows glinting, hiding a labyrinth of rooms behind.

  ‘Wow!’ Tiggy exclaimed. Nina looked towards her with a nod. It was, indeed, wow! Although now, strangely, she felt quite removed from this opulent setting. And the house and grounds looked different from her memory. The grass was longer than she had ever seen it and the border plants had grown wildly without the patient hand and secateurs of the gardener. The apple trees had dropped their fruit, which now lay brown, spoiling and riddled with maggot holes. ‘Such a waste,’ Nina said, thinking not only of the cost of apples, but of the shortcrust apple pies, the crumbles, chutneys, purées and puddings that she had made year after year, gifting them to people along the lane, piling them up in the freezer or lining jars up in the larder.

  The boys ran around the garden, up on to the terrace and around the pool. Declan had his arms spread wide like an aeroplane, appreciating the open space. Connor stood by the edge of the pool and pushed down onto the dirty cover with one foot. She watched him stare at the mosaic edge and wondered if he, like her, saw a memory of larking around with his dad, sending a cascade of droplets high into the air as they splashed and wrangled in the warm water, jumping on and off the inflatable animals that littered the surface, before coming up to the terrace to wrap themselves in plush towels and to sip on a cool drink straight from the iced pitcher.

  Another life . . .

  Tiggy hung back as Nina trod the meandering path up to the house. The windows were desperate for a clean. She pressed her nose to the glass to take a look at her favourite place in the whole house, where she liked to rest, sitting on her comfortable chair with the incredible view.

  She imagined she saw the four of them, sitting around the breakfast table. The image was so real, she leaned in even closer, with her hands splayed on the glass. Her heart raced and her breath came quickly. Finn reading the newspaper, the boys with their heads bowed, devouring cereal. Nina saw herself jump up suddenly to grab the cafetière for a refill of coffee. Her twitchy manner was telling; she looked more like an attentive waitress than a member of the family. It looked like a school morning. She was struck by the opulence of their surroundings, the acres of shining surfaces and the myriad lights, all burning brightly and wastefully for no other reason than aesthetics. She was also shocked by the silence that enveloped them and the sullen expressions on their faces. Nina from Portswood would have thought that to have all this could only mean that you were permanently happy! She leaned closer, watching as Connor bounced his leg, as if he were edgy, wanting to be elsewhere. Declan’s shoulders were slumped over; he looked tired. And Finn . . . Finn’s brief smile faded the moment she turned h
er back to go and grab his coffee refill, and in that second she saw the worry etched on his brow. He looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, and that weight was worth approximately eight million pounds.

  One of Finn’s stock phrases loomed large in her memory: ‘You don’t have to worry your head about anything. Worrying is my job . . .’

  ‘That was it, Finn, wasn’t it?’ she whispered into the aether. ‘It wasn’t that you deliberately lied to me, deceived me. You just wanted to keep the worry from my door, wanted me to glide through life because you loved me . . . and I loved you. I did.’

  Pressing her fingers to the window, she saw the imperfections of life in the glass bubble of their home, and in that instant she knew that she would not swap the life she had now for all the money in the world. Her only regret was that Finn, her handsome, flawed husband, had not got to experience this too.

  ‘Goodbye, my darling,’ she whispered.

  ‘Don’t remember it like this.’ Tiggy’s voice startled her. With her sister’s words the image was gone, and she found herself staring at a vast space that was almost unrecognisable. The kitchen and adjoining breakfast room had been stripped bare. The light fittings were missing; bare wires now hung down forlornly, as if grasping for the stunning glass chandeliers they once held. The stove had been hauled from its casing and where the hob had once sat was now a neatly cut rectangular hole. The walk-in fridge-freezer was gone, revealing an empty alcove, and the furniture, mirrors and granite surfaces had also been removed. The cool, pale floor was covered in a thick layer of what looked like fine sawdust and debris, peppered with dirty footprints and the black marks of wheels that had been carelessly dragged along.

  ‘It’s not our home any more, is it, Mum?’ The boys were right behind their aunt. Declan looked up at her, and she realised that he, like her, had probably held an image in his head that was a mirage, where a vivid display of flowers lit up the hallway and dinner bubbled on the stove.

  ‘No, my love. It’s not our home any more.’

  Nina was finally able to make the statement, ending any hankering for the fantasy bricks and mortar of a place that no longer existed – not in any guise that they might recognise. Connor took her into his arms and Declan held her around the waist and she held them fast.

  The three stood locked together in the shadow of the grand house, united as a family, with determination and resolution to make a better future.

  ‘I still miss Dad, of course I do, every day, and I wish it hadn’t all happened.’ Connor spoke. ‘But you have a job, we have a home, and things are . . .’ He hesitated. ‘Things are okay. More than okay.’

  Nina nodded in agreement. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It felt as if finally the world had stopped spinning, and the path beneath her feet was solid. She knew now she could carry this little family, and was capable of becoming the person she had always wanted to be; someone who could conquer the world.

  ‘Yes, they are, darling.’ She smiled at Connor, knowing that from tomorrow onwards, she would look at the sky and feel, not only satisfied, but also optimistic about their future. ‘Things are more than okay.’

  BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

  Did Nina’s story alter your view of whether money will guarantee happiness? If so, how?

  Which member of the McCarrick family did you most sympathise with, and why?

  Has The Art of Hiding changed you or broadened your perspective? If so, how?

  What, for you, was the book’s main message?

  In a movie, who would play the part of Nina, her eldest son, Connor, his younger brother, Declan and Nina’s sister, Tiggy?

  There were a number of difficult choices that Nina made – what did you think of those choices? Did you agree/disagree with them?

  Did any parts of the book make you feel uncomfortable? If so, which parts, and why?

  What will be the overriding memory from The Art of Hiding, the one incident or paragraph that will stay with you?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2012 Paul Smith of Paul Smith Photography at www.paulsmithphotography.info

  Amanda Prowse likens her own life story to those she writes about in her books. After self-publishing her debut novel, Poppy Day, in 2011, she has gone on to author sixteen novels and six novellas. Her books have been translated into a dozen languages and she regularly tops bestseller charts all over the world.

  Remaining true to her ethos, Amanda writes stories of ordinary women and their families who find their strength, courage and love tested in ways they never imagined. The most prolific female contemporary fiction writer in the UK, with a legion of loyal readers, she goes from strength to strength. Being crowned ‘queen of domestic drama’ by the Daily Mail was one of her finest moments.

  Amanda is a regular contributor on TV and radio but her first love is and will always be writing.

  You can find her online at www.amandaprowse.com, on Twitter @MrsAmandaProwse, and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/amandaprowsenogreaterlove.