Sarah looked around the table, watching Anna very closely, and it was like stepping back to watch from inside a strange bubble, realising that this really was their version of normal. Not a show put on for a visitor at all. Anna’s norm. Anna’s very different life.
And it wasn’t exactly jealously she felt, but there was this awareness, a stirring inside that was uncomfortable because it was the first time she had had her own life thrown into such sharp relief.
Anna was so different from her in other ways, too. Beautiful and kind and patient. She had been the first to befriend Sarah when she was standing awkwardly in the playground – the new girl. Anna had invited her to join in with a skipping game. And later to play two-ball against the wall, chanting rhymes as they each took a turn, moving in to juggle the balls without letting them drop.
They were thrilled to discover it was a shared passion – the two-ball. They became known as the best in the school. That’s really how it all began. Anna and Sarah. Best friends forever.
It was a long time before Sarah had the courage to return Anna’s invitations. She had probably had tea at the farmhouse dozens of times by then. Stews and pies, lasagne and all manner of delicious offerings – always with a pudding to follow. Anna’s favourite was this plum slice, like a flapjack with stewed fruit through the middle. It had a lovely smell, which Anna said was cinnamon. They would eat them cold as snacks some days when they played two-ball in the yard, and other times Anna’s mother would warm them for pudding to be served with clotted cream or custard.
Often Jenny, Anna’s sister, would have friends for tea, too, and the table would be crowded and noisy, like a party. Tim and Paul were regulars; Sarah was pleased because Tim was from the council estate and she liked that she wasn’t the only one with a very different life. In fact, it made her feel better that Tim’s mother apparently never cooked at all. She pretty much left him to fend for himself, which was why Mrs Ballard loved to spoil him – and everyone else, too – with her open house, her hotpots and her upside-down cakes.
Very quickly they became this little gang, with the farmhouse as their personal playground. They set up a camp in the bushes near the barns. On warm days, Mrs Ballard put a sprinkler on the front lawn so they could run in and out of the water in their swimming costumes before tea. Mr Ballard let them all ride in a trailer behind the quad bike, with the boys shouting faster, faster.
That first summer, the farm became a second home to Sarah. She was so happy.
And then suddenly, nearer Christmas, Anna asked outright. Could I not come to your house some time, do you think, Sarah?
I suppose.
Sarah had felt this twisted sense of nerves and shame and guilt, too, wanting to be proud of her family but worrying what Anna might think. She couldn’t understand why someone who had such a wonderful home herself would want to go anywhere else. But if Anna was surprised by their tiny house and the oven chips and the baked beans, she certainly didn’t show it.
It’s so warm, she said as they snuggled up to watch television downstairs, under the throw her mother had offered them. Your house is so warm, Sarah. Ours is always freezing in the winter.
They stayed best friends into secondary school, where Sarah discovered something special of her own – that she was actually a lot smarter than she realised. It had been difficult to tell in the small pond that was the village primary. She always came top in the spelling tests; her writing was always displayed on the wall and she always got an A for maths. But there was very little competition. Then, in secondary school, Sarah’s star suddenly shone more brightly. Top sets for everything – even maths, which Anna found a struggle.
Sarah took on a new role in their friendship, which made her feel proud and valued and able to offer something important back to the family who had been so kind to her. She helped Anna with her maths homework. Her essays.
Paul was bright, too, and it became a joke that he and Sarah were the ‘boffins’. Paul was the son of one of Mrs Ballard’s friends, and when he suddenly grew taller and quite handsome, Sarah looked forward to her visits to the farmhouse even more. Anna’s mum and dad continued with the open-door policy even as the children grew. Eating more. Loudly chasing each other, climbing trees and playing hide-and-seek around the barns. Other parents complained about the noise and the food and the music and the mess, but Mrs Ballard never seemed to mind at all.
For a spell, with Sarah and Paul helping the others with their homework over plates of pizza and cakes and scones, everything felt so beautifully balanced. Giving and taking. Happy and good.
Yes. She remembered that golden period, during the first year of secondary school, as the happiest she had ever been.
Until, that is, the very end of that year. Another summer term. Sarah was twelve, nudging thirteen. Her mother was away, visiting an old school friend, and out of the blue Sarah’s period started.
Her sister Lily was around at a friend’s house for a sleepover and so Sarah began rummaging through her sister’s chest of drawers, desperate for some sanitary towels. Stick-on ones hopefully, ‘with wings’, which she had seen in adverts and looked pretty simple to use.
But all she could find were tiny tampons in a box. She was horrified, opening out the instructions, trying to figure it out as her father came in.
Very soon Sarah was in tears. Absolutely mortified while he was telling her not to be so silly. That it was nothing to be worried or embarrassed about. All perfectly normal. Of course it would feel a bit awkward. And he was so sorry that her mother was away for the night, but she was not to be afraid or upset. This was just a part of growing up.
He put his arm around her shoulders and, for a moment, Sarah felt so very happy and relieved that she had the kind of father who wasn’t fazed by this, who could talk about this stuff without it being truly dreadful and awkward. And then he took the instructions from her hand – the leaflet about the tampons. And he said the problem was that these were really for older girls and probably not suitable just yet. Sarah was about to ask if he could take her to the chemist to buy some of the sticky-backed sanitary towels, when her father said the important thing was to check. So as not to do any damage.
Sorry?
Well if you let me have a look. See how grown up you are. You know. Down there. We can work out if you can try the tampon straight away.
No. It’s fine. I’ll wait till Mum gets back.
Don’t be silly. There is absolutely no need for you to be embarrassed about this. Periods are perfectly normal. Not dirty or anything to be ashamed about.
Looking back, Sarah knows, as she knew deep down at the time, that this wasn’t OK at all. But she was in such complete shock. Had no time to process the situation.
And so she did the most terrible thing and also the only thing. She let him look. She let him feel whether she was grown up enough. And then he said, No – probably not suitable for tampons. Not yet. That he would pop to the shops and get something else for her. No need to be embarrassed.
She had sat on her bed with tissues stuffed in her pants to soak up the blood – frozen. Unable to move. Just sat there in this terrible silence. It was as if her whole life had shrunk suddenly into this tight, tight ball that hurt as much as the pain in her stomach.
And the problem is, she still doesn’t know what to do or what even to think. She still hasn’t told her mother. Or anyone else. Not Anna. Not anyone.
The pin is still in the grenade.
When her parents separated very suddenly, she just refused to go and visit her father, which made both her parents very angry.
‘You didn’t drink your tea.’ Her mother is moving the cup on the locker to set out the grapes, removing the cellophane wrapping.
Sarah looks at her. She looks at the cup of cold tea in her hand.
And the worst thing now? She cannot get out of her head how her father was always saying how very beautiful Anna was. At school concerts. At parent evenings. Everyone said that, to be fair, but Sarah has b
een thinking, with all these hours stuck in the hospital with nothing to do but think, that her father said that a lot more than most. Certainly more than felt comfortable.
She is very lovely. Your friend Anna. Very lovely girl.
‘Anna’s mother, Barbara, phoned to see how you’re doing. Everyone sends their love. Apparently the vigil went very well. It was on the local news. And the gang was wondering if they could come and visit? Cheer you up?’
‘The gang?’
‘Yes. Jenny and Tim and Paul. They’re very worried about you and would love to pop by.’
‘No. I don’t want that. Not yet.’
‘Right. Well. If you’re not feeling up to it. But it would probably be good for you. Barbara seemed very keen. You know how fond of you she is.’
‘I said not yet. OK? When I’m home. Maybe when I’m home.’
Sarah cannot think about that now. She is suddenly thinking about a lot of other, more important and confusing things.
How she hasn’t told the police the truth about what happened with Anna in the club.
And she hasn’t told anyone about the text from her dad that night.
CHAPTER 15
THE WITNESS
Sometimes people ask me, Why flowers, Ella?
The truth is I cannot remember when life, for me, wasn’t about flowers. Right from when I was tiny and I used to collect wild flowers on walks with my gran, mesmerised by the colours and the scents and the way you could make the whole impact and mood change by combining them in different ways. The simple, joyful sunburst of a huge fistful of primroses, then the softening and mellowing effect if you added in just a few bluebells for the surprise, the contrast. The hint of the Mediterranean, with the blue and the yellow together.
I would so love it when my mother let me pick flowers from the supermarket to put in vases at home, experimenting with the way they fell. Learning how tulips only look right if you put them in precisely the right height of vase so they weep over the rim. Not too much. Not too little.
I have never forgotten the joy of learning to revive roses with fresh water and cutting the stems super sharp at an angle. The miracle of them lifting up their heads again as if saying thank you.
It was no surprise that when I was old enough for a Saturday job, I knew precisely where I would try first. There was a small florist in the town I grew up in. I passed it every day on my walk to school, always stopping to examine the buckets of daffodils outside in the spring, glancing at the window displays. It wasn’t especially inspirational, to be honest: standard bouquets, standard displays and too many carnations.
But I have never been more proud than when I was offered my regular six-hour Saturday shift. Up early to help sort the new stock, breathing in the heavenly scent of it all. The shiny ribbon. The rustle of tissue and cellophane. I learned very quickly to respect the popular tastes – the horror of those carnations and the ugly ferns. I was careful not to offend, biting my tongue at first. But as my confidence and my knowledge grew, I started to make little suggestions to our regulars. How about sunflowers? Or lilies? Something a bit different for a change?
And it wasn’t long before the manager, Sue, allowed me to order in new things, and to make up my own little set-price bouquets.
You have a really good eye, Ella. You’re a natural . . . You should do a course.
So I did. A basic course for starters, then a second, more advanced course for wedding flowers, and a third for contemporary design. After that I entered a competition and made the local paper by winning a regional award.
The prize was a week working with a top florist in London, visiting the flower markets at the crack of dawn. Scary. Exhausting. Exhilarating. Heaven . . .
And then the unimaginable. After I had finished A levels, I did a year at college: floristry and business studies. During that year, my grandmother died, leaving an unexpected legacy to be shared between her five grandchildren. Go travelling, said my friends. Blow it on a car. Or a world trip.
No. Lying in bed at night, beaming, I knew exactly what I wanted to do.
I managed to negotiate the lease on this place. A shop of my own. Complete madness, my parents said. Do you have any idea how many small businesses fail in their first year?
And yes – they were right, in a way. It took much longer to come good than I expected. In truth, it provided little more than the minimum wage after costs, in that first year, and let’s not talk about the hours I put in. But it didn’t fail – quite the opposite by the time I got into my stride, in the second and third years.
I learned how to make the bread-and-butter earnings from weddings and seasonal holidays. Mother’s Day. Valentine’s Day. But the devil was definitely in the detail, I was sure of that.
To compete with the supermarkets, I knew I had to offer something distinctive. My floral USP was an informal, shabby-chic style, with homemade touches that set us apart. My bouquets were hand-tied before this was common practice. I used unusual twine, and handmade labels decorated with pressed flowers from blooms that had gone over.
I learned to waste nothing. Discounted posies when I’d over-ordered. Spent extra hours with the flower presses to ensure no waste.
Soon I was selling little cards and labels, as well as using them on my bouquets. A very useful extra-income stream.
And so this is where I am happiest. My shop. My creation.
Here in the shop I do not worry so much what people think of me or what I say – whether I am old-fashioned or an old head on young shoulders, which is what everyone used to say when I set this place up.
Here – where it is just 6 a.m. and the rest of the world is barely stirring – I am in my own little world, with orders to make up before we meet with the police back at the house. Back in the real world, where Anna is still missing and the postcards have started to frighten Tony as well as me.
I work carefully. A birthday bouquet to be collected at noon. Six table decorations for a dinner at one of the local hotels. Two cups of coffee. Three.
I work carefully, using my favourite secateurs. Bright red handles with the sharpest blade on the market. Superb.
And then the strangest thing. At around six thirty, maybe six forty-five, I leave the last of the table decorations on the counter, nearly finished, to use the loo, which is a tiny extension at the back of the unit. When I return to the bench, the secateurs are gone.
There is the noise of a car right outside and, I admit it, I am spooked. Thrown by this. I am normally so very careful with the secateurs, you see, not just because they are dangerous but because they are extremely expensive. I don’t want them to drop on the floor. For the handles to crack. They are a bit like a chef’s favourite knife. A lucky charm. I have two spare sets in the drawers but I don’t feel comfortable using any others. They just don’t feel the same in my hand.
I walk to the front door and stare out to the parking area outside. A single car has its headlights on full beam so I can’t see who is inside. I check the shop door. Unlocked. But then I don’t normally worry about this. Whenever I am here, I consider myself open for business. If anyone spots the lights on and calls in early, I want to sell. Will always take an order. But today, just this once, I put the latch across the top. I stand very still and find that my heart is pumping. I wait a while. Two minutes. Maybe more.
Don’t be so silly, Ella. Don’t overthink this.
And then the car finally pulls away and I feel my shoulders move, reminding myself that the neighbouring shops have flats above them and this is not so surprising. This early movement. Probably just someone off to work?
So I return to the workbench area at the back of the shop and am totally confused. From this new angle through the archway to the serving area at the front, I can see the secateurs resting on the top of the till. I honestly don’t remember putting them there. Can’t ever remember putting them there before. There is a slight slope to the top of the till, and this doesn’t seem the kind of thing I would do at all. What if they
were to slide off?
I look around me in the way you look around the kitchen when you can’t find the ingredient you thought you had removed already from the fridge.
I am tired. That’s it. You are tired and you are on edge. Overthinking and messing up, Ella. Tony was right . . . you should have stayed home and done this later.
Way too many thoughts pumping around my brain. I finish up the final decoration quickly and store everything in the cooler near the workbench – a sort of flower-fridge that keeps everything at the perfect temperature, all ready for my return.
Back at the house, Tony is in the kitchen in his dressing gown.
‘You OK? I’ve been worried. You should have let me come with you.’
‘It was fine. I wanted you here to speak to Luke. All done.’
His tone is just a little calmer now, but I can tell from the way he is standing, and also the dark shadows under his eyes, that he has not slept much either. He reacted just as I expected, more worried than cross. You should have told me, Ella. No more secrets . . .
Which makes me feel terrible. I showed him the most recent postcard. But I haven’t mentioned Matthew yet . . .
‘I don’t know how I feel about you working at the shop on your own now. Early like this, I mean. Until we know precisely what is going on. What the police say. I wish you had listened to me. Stayed home. Or let me come with you.’
‘I had to get the orders done, Tony. And anyway, it will just turn out to be some saddo. A spotty teenager with nothing better to do.’ I cannot make this sound entirely convincing, because I no longer know what I think. What I believe. How scared I really ought to be.
‘They called at the house, Ella. Whoever wrote that card called here. At the house.’
‘Yes. And you’re right – it changes things, and I realise now that I should have told you right at the beginning and I’m very sorry about that. But I am happy to take advice now. The police are going to be here in half an hour. I’ll listen to whatever they say, Tony. The only reason I wasn’t worried before is I honestly thought it was the mother.’
I Am Watching You Page 8