Sunshine Through the Rain

by Gilly Stewart

  ‘And what shall we have for tea?’ she said brightly as they drove up to the front of the long, low, white-painted house. ‘I don’t think I can justify chips two days in a row, but how about pizza?’

  ‘I never had any chips yesterday,’ began Lucy, and was brought up short by a resounding crash. Ellen had parked at the kitchen end of the building. A couple of inches in front of the car a massive slate had come down and shattered on the paving stones.

  ‘That was close,’ said Ellen, taking a breath.

  A second slate fell and hit her offside head light. This time slate and head lamp shattered. ‘Oh sh - sugar.’

  ‘This doesn’t look good,’ said Angus, craning his neck to look up through the rain. ‘We’ve never had two down at once before.’

  ‘Damn right it doesn’t look good. What about my car?’ Ellen reversed and parked at a safer distance from the house. From here, between the waves of rain, you could see where the slates had come from. There was an ominous hole just above the gutters.

  ‘Dad said those slates’d had it,’ said Angus. ‘He said he’d better replace them before something like this happened, but Mum said there were more important things to do.’

  ‘Looks like this time Dad was right,’ said Ellen. ‘Let’s get inside, shall we? Don’t go anywhere near that corner, I don’t want one of us being hit.’

  ‘Old buildings,’ said Callum, knowingly, when they had reached the warmth of the kitchen. He was a solidly built boy, with his father’s wavy brown hair. Now he sounded just like him, too. ‘There’s always something.’

  ‘At least the rain’s not coming in,’ said Ellen, examining the ceiling.

  ‘Not yet,’ agreed Angus.

  ‘Can I go and watch television?’ said Lucy.

  ‘Yes, off you go, all of you. I’m going to get myself a glass of wine and have a think about this.’

  ‘We’ll need a fire. It’s really cold in there. Will you light a fire, Auntie Ellen?’

  Ellen could feel her patience wearing thin. Why did everything have to be so difficult? What wouldn’t she give for lovely gas heating that sprang into life at the touch of a switch? With an effort, she swallowed down a retort. She might be exhausted but it wasn’t the children’s fault. She shouldn’t take it out on them.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Angus.

  ‘Angus, you’re a star. I bought fire lighters, use one if you like.’

  It was bliss to have half an hour on her own, sitting at the long wooden table with a magazine and a glass of wine. This room was cosy and she rather enjoyed the snuffles of the little border terrier curled up before the Rayburn. She seemed to remember that Jess and Sam spent a lot of time in the kitchen, and she could see why. It could do with a lick of paint, and Ellen wouldn’t be seen dead with cupboards like those in her house, but there was something very comfortable about the place. Her sister and brother-in-law had made a good life for themselves down here. Busy and impoverished, but not bad for all that.

  She took the dog out for a stroll before bedtime and examined the kitchen roof as best she could in the moonlight. The slates shone wetly, showing a gap where the two had fallen. Eventually she decided that, as the rain was dying down, she would keep her fingers crossed and hope for the best. It had lasted decades, surely the rest of the slates would stay put until Monday?

  To Ellen’s relief, Sunday did not go too badly.

  The roof stayed on, the children were bearable. When the phone rang at teatime, she wondered whether to answer. It was probably her mother or Jess, checking up on her yet again, and she really didn’t have time to chat. It was ages since she had cooked a proper Sunday dinner, and it was harder work than she remembered.

  But there was the off-chance that it was Richard, so she picked up the receiver, hoping for rather than expecting his voice.

  There was a long, crackling pause, the normal precursor to Jess’s calls, but this time the voice on the other end was unfamiliar.

  ‘I speak to the household of Mr Moffat?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ellen, with a jolt of fear. A foreign accent. ‘Yes, can I help you?’

  ‘To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?’

  ‘Ellen. Ellen Taylor.’

  ‘Ah.’ The speaker coughed nervously. ‘I have the household of Mr Samuel Moffat?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I’m his sister-in-law. I’m Mrs Moffat’s sister. How can I help you?’

  ‘I speak from the hotel in Prague, in the Czech Republic.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I have to tell you there has been the accident.’

  Ellen could feel her legs quiver beneath her. ‘Yes?’ This couldn’t be happening.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Moffat, they are on holiday in Prague?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I fear to tell you, madam, that they have been hurt. I fear to tell you that Mr and Mrs Moffat are unfortunately dead.’

  Chapter Two

  Kit Ballantyne sat at the dry end of his caravan and stared out of the window. It was too dark to see anything, but he could hear the falling rain clearly enough, and he didn’t have much faith that the patch-up job he had done the previous night would hold out if the downpour worsened. Hell and buggeration. There was no time to waste on caravan repairs just now. Once the house was ready he would take it to the scrap yard, which was the best place for it.

  The rain made him think of Australia. He hadn’t seen much rain when he’d been over there, and that very fact brought those dry, sunny days to mind. He wondered what Sally was doing and told himself it wasn’t very surprising she hadn’t made it to the UK yet. All Australians knew that Scottish winters were the pits. Perhaps once spring was here she would get herself organised. And maybe by then he would have worked out a way to keep the whole of the double bed dry.

  It was almost a relief when his mobile rang. He didn’t want to sit here thinking. Being on call, he couldn’t even have a beer. Work was the best thing for him. The call was about a calving somewhere up the Dalveen Pass. He checked the calf jack and other equipment in the back of his beaten up estate car, and headed off down the track.

  The calving was difficult and depressing. The calf had come too early and the farmer had called Kit too late. He managed to save the heifer, and the farmer expressed surly gratitude for this, but the process of extracting a dead calf was one Kit particularly hated. Hard work, and only a carcass to show at the end of it. He sluiced himself off at the outside tap when they finished, declined the unenthusiastic offer of tea, and climbed back into the car.

  He was shivering now, the sweat dried by the bitter wind and the water icy on his hands. He turned the car’s heater on full and cursed as his mobile rang again. What was going on? The beginning of February was supposed to be a quiet time, which was the only reason he had agreed to do three nights on-call in a row.

  The number flashing on the phone was his mother’s. Which was possibly worse than work. He stopped the car, sent up a silent prayer for patience, and answered it.

  ‘Kit, darling, it took you ever such a long time to answer. I was worried you might not be there.’

  ‘I’m here. I’ve just finished a calving the other side of the Dalveen.’

  ‘Jolly good. Kit, darling, I’m phoning about next Saturday. I’ve got Alistair and Debbie coming for lunch as well as yourself and, do you know, I couldn’t for the life of me remember what time I had said for you all to arrive.’

  ‘Mum, I don’t think its next Saturday, I think it’s Sunday. Didn’t you say Sunday lunch to Debbie?’

  He held his breath. There was no knowing, these days, how his mother would respond.

  ‘Sunday?’ Her voice was plaintive. ‘Have I got it wrong again?’

  ‘We all get confused, Mum, but I’m pretty sure it’s Sunday, ’cos neither Al nor I are on call then. I’ll tell you what, why don’t I check with Al in the morning and ring you back then?’

  ‘Thank you dear. That would do nicely.’

  Kit sighed. He loved his mum, she had
always been his main supporter in life, but there was no denying her memory wasn’t what it used to be. He was starting to think it had been selfish, opting for the caravan instead of his old bedroom at home. But he’d wanted to be on-site for the house, and, he had thought that being back in the area, dropping in at home a few times a week, would be more than adequate. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  He drove slowly past the Moffats’ place, not wanting to disturb them, and was surprised to see lights on in almost every downstairs window. Perhaps Jess and Sam had just arrived home, or maybe that townie sister didn’t have quite their attitude to conserving the world’s resources. The thought of Sam and Jess made him smile. He hoped they had had a really great time, away on their own. Jess would never have got around to booking the trip without his encouragement, so that was at least one good thing he had done. He retired to his slightly damp bed feeling happier about life.

  It can’t be true, Ellen was thinking. It can’t possibly be true. Things like this don’t happen in real life.

  After the phone call she had returned to the kitchen and sat in petrified silence for five minutes or more. She could hear the crackle of the chicken in the oven, the dog snuffling, the rain on the window. All exactly as it had been moments before but now totally different. And she, Ellen, the decisive one, had had absolutely no idea what to do next.

  It might be a mistake, she told herself. She tried Jess’s mobile but it was switched off. Jess never switched off her mobile when she was away from the children.

  What on earth had happened? Why hadn’t she asked? She’d been so stunned she hadn’t managed to question the stranger, and when she tried to phone the hotel back there seemed to be no one at this time of night who spoke English.

  Ellen somehow got through the evening without saying anything to the children, although Angus certainly suspected something was amiss. She couldn’t tell them until she knew for sure.

  Once she had ushered them off to bed she tried the Embassy in Prague and then the Home Office in London. But all she got was answer phones. Maybe that was a good sign? Maybe, if something really had gone wrong, someone official would have contacted her by now?

  But eventually, the waiting and wondering was too much for her, and she phoned her parents. She needed to talk to someone. And they needed to know, didn’t they?

  Afterwards she sat shivering beside the Rayburn, waiting for her mother to arrive and make everything all right. The drive from Stirling would take a couple of hours, plus arrangements would have to be made with Moira-next-door. Her father’s illness had progressed to such a point that he couldn’t be left alone for long. Poor Dad, he would hate being beholden to a stranger. Feeling sorry for her father was something real amidst this sudden horror.

  When she heard tyres on the track she ran to the window, but the car drove on past. It must be the caravan man. Chris? Kit? Wonder what he was doing up at this time of night. Think of something else, think of anything, don’t think of Jess.

  She sat back down and pressed her fingers to her dry eyes.

  When her mother arrived they hugged each other tightly, neither speaking. What was there to say? Ellen put on the kettle and went to check that her mother’s arrival hadn’t disturbed the children.

  ‘The poor babies,’ said her mother, her voice almost a whisper. She must have been crying as she drove, her eyes were red and puffy, but now she was trying to be strong. ‘What will we say to them?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nothing, yet.’ Ellen gripped her mug in her hands. ‘We need to know something definite. I can’t just say – your parents might be dead – can I? We need to be sure.’

  ‘You don’t think we should wake them tonight?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mum. I don’t know.’

  ‘I suppose there couldn’t have been any mistake?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but …’ Ellen knew she was procrastinating, but even the decision to delay speaking to the children was still a decision taken, and it made her feel very, very slightly better.

  They knew finally, irrevocably, that it was true, when a policeman and policewoman arrived at the rarely used front door soon after seven the next morning. Neither Ellen nor her mother had gone to bed. They had called Jess’s mobile again and again, with no success.

  ‘No,’ said Vivien Taylor, when she saw the police car. Her face was grey, almost the same colour as her hair.

  ‘You look after the children,’ said Ellen quietly. ‘I’ll deal with this.’ And somehow she did. After a strangely elongated interview, which according to the clock had lasted less than ten minutes, she let the two police officers out of the front door once again. Now she was going to have to tell the children. Ellen felt ice-cold, no blood flowing in her veins.

  ‘What’s happening?’ said Angus. ‘Why is Grandma here? Who were you talking to?’

  ‘That was the police.’ Ellen nodded stiffly to her mother. She had been chivvying the children to eat, but now she turned away to hide the tears that were welling up.

  Ellen took a deep breath, trying to speak past the lump in her throat. ‘My dears, there’s no easy way to say this. I have some very bad news. Your parents … your mum and dad … they’ve been involved in an accident in Prague.’ She paused. It was hard to make her lips move properly. ‘The … the police came here to tell us … to tell us that they have both been killed.’

  She tried to keep her eyes on all three faces at once, but it was Angus’s expression that held her. His thin face was usually pale. Now it was white, the eyes staring, bloodless lips ajar.

  ‘No!’ he said.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Ellen moved to pull him close but he resisted her. She put her arms around Callum and Lucy instead. ‘My darlings, I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know much about what has happened yet. I just know they were in a taxi and there was an accident. I’ll try to find out more, and we’ll look after you, don’t worry. But just we now need to be brave and try and comfort each other.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Angus. ‘I don’t believe you! How did you know?’

  ‘There was a phone call last night. And then the police came around this morning and – and confirmed it.’

  ‘The police? How would the police here know?’ His voice was beginning to rise. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Where are my mum and dad?’

  His grandmother had turned back now, wiping her tears with a white cotton handkerchief. She looked stronger once the words had been said. ‘I’m afraid it’s true, Angus. I’m so very, very sorry, darling.’

  ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You knew already. You’ve both known since last night.’

  Lucy had started crying and clung to Ellen, Callum was slumped like a deadweight in his chair, both of them mutely accepting. Only Angus was refusing to take it in. It made no sense to Ellen so why should it to him?

  She said quietly, ‘The phone call last night was so strange, the man didn’t say much, I didn’t know what had happened … I hoped …’

  His face went from white to red in an instant and tears sprang to his eyes. ‘You knew and you didn’t tell us. Anyway, I don’t believe you. I don’t.’ He jumped up, knocking his chair over, and ran from the room.

  Kit was asleep when someone hammered on the caravan door in the late afternoon. He could tell it was late afternoon because it was already going dark, and he cursed himself for not having set the alarm clock. He’d had a second call-out at 4 a.m. and then spent the early part of the morning in the vet practice, filling in the partners on his night’s work and confirming social arrangements for his mother. It had been nearly lunchtime when he finally got back to bed, by which time he had been too exhausted to notice its cold discomfort.

  He pulled on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and gave the door the sharp tug it needed to make it open.

  Clare, Jess Moffat’s best friend, was standing at the bottom of the steps. She was a potter who lived at the edge of the village. Kit didn’t know her well, but thought of her as something of a free spirit
, always cheerful, bright in her hippy clothes. Today there was something strange about her. She stood holding her small daughter by the hand, staring up at him with a fixed, anxious expression. ‘So you are there. I’m so glad.’

  ‘Hi. Can I help?’

  She chewed her lip and glanced back down the track. She looked as though she might be about to cry, which made Kit uneasy.

  ‘Look, can I come in?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Sorry it’s …’ He pulled open some of the flimsy curtains and cleared a bench so she had somewhere to sit.

  ‘Something bad has happened,’ said Clare in a whisper. ‘Something really bad. I only heard when I picked Grace up from school just now. I asked why the Moffat kids weren’t there and … Look, the head teacher told me that Sam and Jess have been – have been killed. Both of them. Something must have happened, while they were away.’

  ‘Dead?’ said Kit faintly, putting out a hand to steady himself.

  ‘Yes. So we’ve got to go down to the house now. Are you coming?’

  ‘Go down? Why?’ Kit felt panic. ‘Won’t we be intruding?’

  ‘We’re their nearest neighbours. We must go and offer help. I’ve bought them a candle.’ She gestured with the brown paper bag she was carrying. ‘I thought you should come too.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ Kit’s head was spinning. It wasn’t possible. He couldn’t take it in. Jess and Sam had gone away on their first holiday in a decade, one he had encouraged them to take. And now they were – dead?

  ‘We won’t stay long. We’ll just offer to help, so they know they’re not alone. I’ll have the kids if need be and you can do things around the house. And help with the animals. There’s a lot to do, as you know, and Jess’s sister Ellen won’t have a clue.’

  Kit managed to get his visitors out of the caravan while he changed into something slightly more presentable. He still felt stunned, but he allowed himself to be towed down the track by the child Grace, a diminutive of her mother in long skirt, long jersey, and long, loose hair. He couldn’t seem to take in that Sam and Jess might not be coming back. Were not coming back. His steps dragged as they approached the kitchen door. What on earth would he say? Sam and Jess were his friends, he had had supper with them only a few days ago … He really couldn’t bear to face the children.