by Ann Cleeves
Only when she was closing the padlock behind them, did Felicity think that the roses couldn’t have been there for more than a few days, and Mary, an unimaginative woman, would never have thought of a touch like that without being prompted.
They stood for a moment outside the cottage. ‘Well?’ Felicity asked. ‘What did you think?’ She caught a falsely cheerful note in her voice.
Lily smiled. ‘It’s lovely,’ she said. ‘Really. But there’s such a lot to think about. I’ll be in touch, shall I, next week?’
Felicity had intended offering her a lift, at least as far as the bus stop in the village, but Lily turned away and walked off across the meadow. Felicity couldn’t bring herself to shout or run after her, so she stood and watched until the red and gold figure was lost in the long grass.
Chapter Three
Julie couldn’t stop talking. She knew she was making a tit of herself, but the words spilled out, and the fat woman wedged in the Delcor armchair that Sal had got from the sales last year just sat there and listened. Not taking notes, not asking questions. Just listening. ‘He was an easy baby. Not like Laura. She was a real shock after Luke. A demanding little madam, either asleep or crying or with a bottle in her gob. Luke was…’ Julie paused trying to find the right word. The fat detective didn’t interrupt, just gave her the time to think. ‘… restful, peaceful. He’d lie awake all day, just watching the shadows on the ceiling. A bit slow talking, but by then I’d had Laura and the health visitor thought that was why. I mean, she was so bright and taking up all my time and sucking my energy, that Luke had got left out. Nothing to worry about, the health visitor said. He’d catch up as soon as he started nursery. Geoff was still living with us, but he was working away a lot. He’s a plasterer. There’s more money in the south and he went through one of those agencies, ended up working on Canary Wharf… It was a lot to cope with, two kids under three and no man around.’
Then the woman did respond, just nodding her head a touch to show that she understood.
‘I started him at the nursery at the school in the village. He didn’t want to go at first, they had to drag him off me, and when I went back an hour later he was still sobbing. It broke my heart, but I thought it was for the best. He needed the company. The health visitor said it was the right thing to do. And he did get used to it. He used to go in without screaming, at least. But all the time looking at me with those eyes. Not speaking but the eyes saying, “Don’t make me go in there, Mam. Please don’t make me go.”’ Julie was sitting on the floor, her knees pulled up to her chin, her arms clasped around them. She looked up at the detective, who was still watching and waiting. It came to her suddenly that this woman, large and solid like rock, might once have known tragedy herself. That was why she could sit there without making those stupid, sympathetic noises Sal and the doctor had made. This woman knew that nothing she could say would make it better. But Julie didn’t care about the detective’s sadness and the thought was fleeting. She went back to her story.
‘It was about that time Geoff came home from London. He said the work had dried up, but I heard from his mate that there’d been some row with the foreman. He’s a good worker, Geoff, and he won’t be pissed about. It was a difficult time for him. He was never one for sitting around and he was used to making big money. He put in a new kitchen for me and did up the bathroom. You’d never believe what this place looked like when we first moved in. But then the cash ran out…’
Sal had made tea. In a pot, not with bags in the mugs as Julie always made it. Julie reached out to the tray and poured herself another cup. It wasn’t that she wanted one, but it gave her time to sort out what she wanted to say.
‘It wasn’t a good time. Geoff wasn’t used to the kids. When he was working in London, he had only one long weekend a month at home. Then it was a novelty for him being there. He’d make a fuss of them, bring presents. We were all on our best behaviour. And every night he was out at the club drinking with his mates. When he came back for good it couldn’t be like that. You know what it’s like. Baby clothes drying on the radiator and toys all over the floor. Mucky nappies… There were times when he lost patience, especially with Luke. Laura would giggle and play up to him. Luke seemed to be in a world of his own. Geoff never hit him. But he’d shout and Luke would get so scared you’d think he had been battered. I used to shout all the time but they knew I never meant it. They’d get their own way anyway. It was different with Geoff. Even I got scared.’
She was silent for a moment thinking of Geoff and his temper, the gloom which lingered over the house after one of his outbursts. But she couldn’t keep quiet for long and the words started again.
‘Luke was no bother in the infants’ school. He even seemed to like going. Perhaps he was used to it, because the nursery was in the same building. He had a lovely teacher in the first class, Mrs Sullivan. She was like a grandma to them, sat them on her knee when she was teaching them to read. She told me he had problems – nothing serious, she said – but it would be best to get him checked out. She wanted him to see a psychologist. But there was no money, or the waiting list was too long and it never happened. Geoff said the only thing wrong with Luke was that he was lazy. Then he left us. He said we got on his nerves. We were dragging him down. But I knew fine well that he’d been having a fling with a nurse from the RVI. They ended up living together. They’re married now.’
She stopped again for a moment. Not because she’d run out of things to say, but because she needed to catch her breath. She thought Geoff had known all along that there was something wrong with Luke. You could tell by the suspicious way he’d stare at him when he was playing. He just didn’t want to admit it.
It was eight-thirty in the morning. They were still sitting in her neighbour’s house, in Sal’s front room. Outside the postman walked past, staring at the cop standing by her front door. The kids further down the street were chasing and giggling on their way to school.
The fat woman detective leaned forward, not pushing Julie to continue, more showing her that she was content to wait, that she had all the time in the world. Julie sipped the tea. She didn’t tell the woman about the way Geoff had looked at Luke. Instead she moved the story on a year.
‘The tantrums started when he was about six. They came out of nowhere and you couldn’t control him. Mam said it was my fault for spoiling him. He wasn’t in Mrs Sullivan’s class then, but she was the only one at that school I could really talk to, and she said it was frustration. He couldn’t explain himself properly and he was struggling with his reading and writing and suddenly it all got too much for him. Once he pushed out at this lad who was teasing him. The lad tripped and cracked his head on the playground. There was an ambulance and you can imagine what it was like waiting to pick up the bairns that afternoon – all the other mams pointing and whispering. Luke was dead sorry. He wanted to go and see the lad in the hospital, and when you think about it, it was the other lad who’d started it with his teasing. Aidan he was called. Aidan Noble. His mam was all right about it, but his dad came round to the house to have a go at us. Mouthing off on the doorstep so the whole street could hear.
‘The head teacher called me in. Mr Warrender. He was a short plump man, with that thin sort of hair that doesn’t quite cover the bald patch. I saw him in town the other day and I didn’t recognize him at first – he’s taken to wearing a toupee. He wasn’t nasty. He made me a cup of tea and that. He said Luke had behavioural problems and they weren’t sure they could cope with him in school. I showed myself up. Started crying. Then I told him what Mrs Sullivan had said about it being frustration and if they’d pushed for Luke to see a specialist earlier on then he might not have worked himself up into such a state. And Mr Warrender seemed to listen because Luke did see someone. They did tests, like, and said he had learning difficulties, but he should be able to stay in school with some support. And that was what happened.’
Julie paused again. She wanted the fat woman to understand what it had fe
lt like, the relief of knowing that the tantrums and the moodiness weren’t her fault. Her mam had been wrong about that. Luke was special, different, had been from the beginning. Nothing she could have done would have altered the fact. And the woman seemed to know how important that had been because at last she allowed herself to speak.
‘So you weren’t on your own.’
‘You don’t know,’ Julie said, ‘how good that felt.’
The woman nodded in agreement. But how could she know, when she’d never had children? How could anyone know, if they hadn’t had a child with a learning disability?
‘I could put up with people talking about us and the whispering at the school gate about the special help he was getting, because it was out in the open and most people were dead kind. There was a classroom assistant who came in just to help him. And Luke did all right. I mean, he was never going to be a genius, but he tried hard and his reading and writing came on, and some things he was good at. Like, anything to do with computers he took to really quickly. They were good years. Laura had started school too and I had some time to myself. I got a part-time job in the care home in the village. My mates couldn’t understand why I enjoyed it so much, but I did. It made me feel useful, I suppose. Geoff was never very interested in seeing the kids, but he was OK about money. I mean, nothing exciting ever happened, no holidays or wild nights out, but we managed.’
‘It can’t have been easy, though,’ the detective said.
‘Well, maybe not easy,’ Julie conceded. ‘But we coped. Luke started getting into bother again when he moved to the high school. Other kids saw he was an easy touch and took advantage. Set him up to act out in class. He was always the one that was caught. He started getting a reputation. You must know how it happens. You must see it all the time. The police were called when he was caught thieving from a building site. Plastic drainpipes. What would he want with those? Someone had offered him a few quid to take them, but it wasn’t that. He wanted people to like him. All his life he’d felt left out. He wanted friends.’
You could understand that, couldn’t you? Julie thought. She didn’t know how she’d have managed without her friends. The first trouble with Geoff and she’d be on the phone to them. Sharing her worries about Luke when he’d been ill. And they’d be straight round with a bottle of wine. Keen for the gossip of course, but there for her.
‘He did have one special friend,’ she went on. ‘A lad called Thomas. They met up when Luke started at the high school. He was a bit of a scally. In and out of trouble with the police, but when you talked to him you could see why. His dad had been in prison for most of the time he was growing up and his mam never seemed to bother with him much.
‘I’d never have chosen Thomas as a friend for Luke, but he wasn’t a bad lad, not really. And he seemed to like spending time in our house. In the end he was almost living with us. He was no bother. They’d be up in Luke’s room, watching videos or playing on the computer, and while they were there they weren’t thieving, were they? Or taking smack like a lot of their mates. And they got on really well. Sometimes you’d hear them laughing at some daft joke and I was just pleased that Luke had a friend.
‘Then Thomas was killed. Drowned. Some lads were messing about on the quayside at North Shields. He fell in and couldn’t swim. Our Luke was there too. He jumped in and tried to save Thomas but it was too late.’
Julie paused. Outside a tractor and trailer with a load of bales went past. ‘Luke wouldn’t talk about it. He shut himself in his room for hours. I thought he just needed time, you know, to get over it. To grieve. He stopped going to school, but he was fifteen by then and he wasn’t going to get any exams, so I thought I’d just let him be. I’d talked to the lady who runs the care home and she said she might be able to find some work for him there when he was sixteen, helping in the kitchen. He’d come to work with me a few times and the old folk really took to him. But I should have realized he needed help. It wasn’t normal the way he carried on, but then our Luke never really was normal, was he? So how could I tell?
‘He stopped washing and eating and he was awake all night. Sometimes I’d hear his voice, as if he was talking to someone in his head. That was when I got the doctor. He got him taken into St George’s. You know, the mental hospital. They said he was very depressed. Post-traumatic stress. I hated visiting him in there, but it was a relief not to have him at home. I mean, I felt guilty thinking like that, but it was true.’
‘When did he come home?’ the fat woman asked. Her first question.
‘Three weeks ago and he seemed better. Really. I mean, still sad about Thomas. Sometimes he’d burst into tears just thinking about him. And he was still seeing the doctor at the outpatient clinic. But not crazy. Not mad. This was the first night out I’d had in months. I really needed it, but I wouldn’t have gone if I hadn’t thought he’d be all right. I never thought he’d do something like that to himself.’
The woman leaned over and took Julie’s hand, covered it in her great paw.
‘This wasn’t your fault,’ she said. ‘Luke didn’t commit suicide.’ She looked at Julie to make sure that she’d taken that in, that she really understood. ‘He was dead before he was put into the bath. He was murdered.’
Chapter Four
They were sitting at the table in the kitchen eating breakfast and already it was sunny, the sunlight bouncing off the yellow crockery on the dresser, reflected onto the ceiling. Peter was buttering toast and talking, complaining about a record he’d sent to the British Birds Rarity Committee, which had been rejected. Felicity seemed sympathetic without giving the conversation her full attention. She’d had a lot of practice. When he was a young man Peter had been convinced that he was destined for greatness. He’d been described as the best young scientist of his generation. Now, close to retirement, he had come to realize that the natural history establishment did not recognize his abilities. He expressed his disappointment in a way Felicity considered churlish and ugly – there were snide comments about other staff in the department, their lack of rigour, and he dismissed other birdwatchers as chasers after rare birds, saying that they didn’t appreciate the importance of covering a local patch. Felicity understood the background to his disillusion. She wished with all her heart that his talent would be recognized. How wonderful it would be if he found a spectacular rarity close to home. Or was given promotion within the university. But his complaining irritated her. Occasionally she found herself wondering if he really was the great man she had believed him to be when they married. Then she would look at him, at the anxiety and sadness in his face, and feel disloyal. She’d stroke his face with her finger or kiss him while he was still in the middle of a sentence, shocking him into a sudden grin which made him look twenty years younger.
‘What time are the others arriving?’ he asked, breaking into her thoughts. He sounded excited. The gloom seemed to have lifted. She thought he was more excited about seeing his friends than he was about her. She never had that effect on him any more.
Felicity had been wondering about Lily Marsh, the student teacher, about whether she would accept the offer of accommodation. Felicity realized that they hadn’t discussed money. Perhaps that had been the problem, why Lily had run off in that way. Perhaps having seen the cottage, very picturesque, if a little primitive, Lily had thought the rent would be beyond her. She was only a student after all. Felicity wondered if she should send a note to school with James, something welcoming but very precise, mentioning a sum which wouldn’t put the young woman off. She’d been composing the letter in her head when Peter spoke.
She turned her thoughts to the matter in hand. Peter’s birthday meal. A ritual. The same three friends invited each year. ‘I’ve told them dinner at eight, with a walk to the lighthouse beforehand.’ The walk to the lighthouse was a ritual too.
She heard the postman’s van down the lane and then the flop of envelopes onto the hall floor. She left Peter to his toast and went to collect them. All the letters wer
e for him. She recognized the children’s writing on three of the cards. She set the letters on the table in front of him. He put them into his briefcase without opening them. He always did that, always saved them to open at work. She’d wondered once if he had something to hide, in a moment of fantasy imagined another wife, a secret family. But it had just become a habit. He did it without thinking.
As he shut the briefcase, he stood up. There was a flurry of activity; Peter had promised James a lift up the lane to the bus and stood at the bottom of the stairs shouting for him to hurry. There were bags to be picked up and the packed lunch was almost forgotten. Felicity realized the note to Lily Marsh had never been written. She almost shouted to James as he ambled towards the car. Tell Miss Marsh to give me a ring about the cottage. But Peter would want to know what it was about and she couldn’t hold him up now. Besides, he might disapprove of the idea. She would need to sell the plan to him when things were less fraught. She put Lily Marsh out of her mind. At last the car drove off and the house was wonderfully silent.
She sat over another coffee and made a list for the farm shop. She had planned the weekend meals already in her head. There was a cake of course, already baked and iced. It was a pity the three older children lived too far away to share it. For dinner tonight she’d made a daube of beef, rich and dark, slippery with olives and red wine. It stood in the pantry and needed only to be reheated. Now she changed her mind. It was too hot for beef. If Neil at the farm had a couple of chickens, she’d do that Spanish dish with quartered lemons and rosemary and garlic. It would be much lighter, beautifully aromatic and Mediterranean. Samuel would like that. She could set a long table on the terrace under the veranda and they’d eat it with plain rice and a big green salad, and make believe that they were looking out over orange trees and olive groves.