by Kathy Shuker
*
Laura stayed for a week and returned to Oxford on New Year’s Eve. Claire drove her to the station at Liskeard and waved her off, feeling bereft. One of Laura’s friends was throwing a New Year’s Eve party. It had been arranged on a social media site that they were all on, something Claire neither used nor understood.
‘Somebody you actually know?’ Claire had queried.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘You will be careful?’
‘Yes mum. It’s just a party.’
Driving home again, Claire wondered what she had learned about Laura’s life in Oxford. Not much, she decided. She knew the names of a few friends and a couple of the tutors. Laura had been her usual pleasant company, easy to have around, polite, willing, but she was still as reserved as she had always been and shared few confidences. She’d never been the kind of kid to put music on at silly volumes or to lie in bed till midday. Claire sometimes wished she would. Maybe a little rebellion in her soul and more fire in her belly would make her better able to cope with what life threw at her. Laura might have inherited Neil’s doggedness but not, it seemed, his thrusting personality. Still, as far as Claire could tell, she seemed happy.
Claire pulled the car to a halt in the muddy space opposite the house and got out. Eddie was watching her from his front window, bundled up in a thick sweater, an old scarf wrapped tightly round his neck. She raised a hand as she walked to her front gate. She did it regularly, obstinately, because he never responded, just watched her suspiciously with a fixed, slightly sidelong gaze.
Once inside, she turned towards the kitchen. Jane had apparently planned nothing for New Year either so Claire had invited her over for the evening, determined to make an effort to get to know her again. She had to make a fresh life; it was both unfair and foolish to be dependent on Laura for company.
She paused by the sideboard. In amongst the greetings cards was the small, oval stained-glass panel Neil had given her for Christmas. She picked it up for the umpteenth time and held it to the light. A kingfisher glowed blue and orange, cleverly shifting tints as she tilted the panel this way and that. There used to be kingfishers along the river and as a youngster she had been enchanted by the iridescence of their plumage. Had Neil remembered? Or had Ted, the glass artist, noticed how her gaze had lingered on this particular panel and given her away?
‘Why are you doing this, Neil?’ Claire murmured distractedly to the glass panel. ‘Do you want to torture me?’
*
‘You did say casual, didn’t you?’
Jane arrived at Claire’s door wearing ankle boots, purple corduroy trousers and an over-sized sweater. As usual a huge shawl had been thrown over the top.
‘I did. No airs and graces here, I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t be afraid. It’s a relief. Oh here.’ Jane thrust a bottle of red wine and a couple of scented candles at her. ‘Some offerings.’ She kicked off her boots inside the door and threw off the shawl, looking round. ‘You’ve got it looking nice here, Claire. Oh and good, you’ve got the stove lit; it’s freezing out tonight.’
Claire relaxed. This was more like the Jane she remembered. The dramatic eye make-up was still there but the smooth-talking professional persona had been sloughed off and replaced by something more natural.
She left Jane warming herself and went through to the kitchen to get a jug of mulled wine. When she returned with a tray, Jane was standing with the photograph of Gilly in her hand and Claire felt the usual freezing sensation inside. Everyone focussed on that picture, ‘the girl who disappeared’. It was the same way people were fascinated by conjuring tricks. Ladies and gentlemen, watch and try to work out just how one nine-year-old girl can disappear before your very eyes… Except that I wasn’t watching, Claire thought bitterly.
‘This must be your lost little girl,’ said Jane. ‘It’s so sad.’ She flicked Claire a sympathetic look, put the picture down and picked up the photo of Laura. ‘And this is your eldest?’
‘Yes. Laura.’
‘I think I saw her up at the vineyard one day. How is she?’
‘Fine, thank you. Settling in to university life, I think.’
‘Good.’
They sat down. Claire poured the mulled wine into two glasses, gave Jane one and invited her to help herself to the snacks she had put out. They ate mince pies and nuts and made small talk. Claire asked politely about Jane’s session; Jane enquired after Claire’s Christmas. They talked about the Craft Yard and they joked about the Pennyman empire. They discussed the village and what had changed, what was still the same. It was cosy and began to feel reassuringly like the old days of their friendship - before it all went wrong. Claire went to the kitchen to refill the jug with hot wine and replenished their glasses.
‘Do you remember that time Neil insisted he could swing right across the river up by ‘the steps’?’ Jane grinned.
‘Ye-es.’ Claire slowly grinned too. ‘I’d forgotten about that.’
‘The steps’ were a series of uneven shallow waterfalls up river, each with a long ‘tread’ before the next. The river was narrower there so the water ran deeper and faster. But there was a birch tree on each bank and they both had branches which reached out over the water, overlapping, a gap of little more than a foot between them. Neil, long-armed and tall for his age, boasted that he had managed to swing, monkey-like, along the branches, crossing the river to the other side.
‘Prove it,’ Phil had challenged. Phil was a couple of years older and resented all Neil’s boasting.
So Neil pulled his shoulders back in an adolescent show of bravado and started well, but something went wrong in the transfer of his second hand to the farther branch and the next minute he was in the water. Later, he swore that a gust of wind had made the branches move at the wrong moment.
‘Curious that no-one else felt that wind,’ Jane said now.
‘Very curious.’
They laughed and drank more wine.
‘And then there was the time with the cider,’ said Jane.
‘Oh yes. Our first hangovers. I was sick when I got home and Dad was furious. Jon played the know-it-all big brother too as if he’d never do anything so stupid.’
Jane pulled a wry smile. ‘My mother was cross too. Fiona was with us and she thought I should have been looking after her better.’ The smile quickly faded as if she wished she hadn’t said it.
‘I’d forgotten Fiona was there.’ Claire cast her mind back. ‘I suppose she was a bit young. What happened?’
‘Oh nothing,’ said Jane impatiently. ‘She had an embarrassing kiddie crush on Timothy, that’s all, but he was with someone else. Can’t remember her name now. Her family moved away soon after. Anyway, Fiona walked home by herself, all upset because he hadn’t bothered with her. Mum fussed about it but she was fine.’
‘It was quite a long way, I suppose.’
‘She was fine,’ Jane repeated stiffly. ‘Mum always fussed over her. Thought she was delicate. And she was – when it suited her. Used it to get me into trouble mostly.’ Her upper lip curled with disdain but she glanced up and saw Claire watching her and turned it into a smile. ‘Have you been back to the boathouse? Recently, I mean?’
‘No. You?’
‘No.’
Jane hesitated, swirling the wine in her glass. ‘Have you ever thought, Claire, about what would have happened if you hadn’t settled with Neil, who you might have met?’
‘No, never.’ Claire frowned. ‘Why? What are you getting at?’
‘Nothing. I just wondered - now that you’ve finished with him. Only life is full of these decisions, isn’t it? Things we do on the spur of the moment.’
‘Neil wasn’t a spur of the moment thing,’ said Claire defensively.
‘But you were very young.’
‘We all were.’
Jane nodded without further comment.
The church clock struck midnight, then the bells began pealing in the New Year. Claire welcomed the distracti
on.
‘Let’s drink to the New Year,’ she said, ‘and…to what it might hold.’
‘The New Year,’ said Jane, raising her glass. ‘Health, happiness and two new men.’ She drank, eyes on Claire’s face.
After a moment’s hesitation, Claire drank too. ‘Are you looking for a new man?’ she asked curiously.
‘Sure. Why not? Aren’t you?’
Claire shook her head. ‘Too soon.’
She picked up another mince pie; she was feeling muzzy and needed something to soak up the alcohol. She bit off and chewed a mouthful, watching Jane's face.
‘You know you talked about having a gift? What did you mean exactly?’
Jane met her gaze. ‘You don’t believe me.’
‘I don’t know what I believe because I don’t understand what it is.’
Jane drank the last of her wine and put it down. Nothing about her suggested she was as drunk as Claire felt.
‘I can sense things,’ said Jane. ‘I can sense when someone’s upset or if they’re worrying about something…or if they’re happy.’
‘But we can all do that, can’t we?’
‘Up to a point. But I feel it more strongly. And I get very strong insights too.’
‘In what way?’
‘It’s hard to describe.’ She frowned. ‘They come best when I ‘read’ an object. If I hold something it can tell me things - about its owner, the way they feel, their ailments perhaps, their desires.’ She shrugged. ‘It varies. Some objects are clearer than others.’
Claire stared at her, saying nothing, frowning heavily.
‘You see,’ said Jane, ‘I knew you didn’t believe me.’
‘No, I’m just trying to understand. Give me an example.’
‘OK.’ Jane glanced round the room then got up and crossed to the sideboard, her eyes drifting along its surface. She picked up the glazed panel, held it for a minute then put it down again. She picked up a silver locket on a chain. Claire’s mother had found it at an antique market and had sent it to her daughter for Christmas. It was heart-shaped and had a pretty engraved design on the front and was still empty. Claire hoped to find a tiny photo of Laura to put in it.
Jane held it, motionless, eyes closed, head tilted back.
‘I’m getting sunshine,’ she said. ‘Heat.’ She frowned. ‘And sadness. Yes, someone who had this was very sad…quite recently.’ Jane’s eyes flicked open and she looked at Claire. ‘This is yours?’
‘Yes. I was given it for Christmas. It’s old.’
Jane looked down at the locket and turned it over thoughtfully. She nodded. ‘Yes. The sadness was someone else’s, not yours. It’s a different sadness.’
‘I’m not sad. I’m…’ Claire abandoned it. All she knew was that sad didn’t describe it. ‘So you can sense the previous owner too?’
‘Sometimes. The goods are reflections of the person; they hold the owner’s energy, that’s all. Personal items are the best for getting a reading.’
Jane replaced the locket on the sideboard and moved along. She picked up a long, narrow silk scarf which had been folded and let it fall open, closing her eyes again as it ran through her fingers.
‘I’m getting lights. Artificial lights and yet darkness too. Music. Yes. Lots of energy.’ She opened her eyes and turned to look at Claire with an expectant expression. ‘You wore this to a party perhaps?’
‘No.’ Claire hesitated. ‘I don’t do parties any more.’
‘Oh OK.’ Jane looked disappointed, put the scarf down and turned. ‘Well, I’m not claiming it’s infallible.’ She smiled. ‘I think I should be going. But it’s been a lovely evening. Thank you.’
She was already slipping on her boots, now reaching for her coat and Claire joined her by the door.
They embraced. Something of their awkwardness had returned.
‘I could help you, Claire,’ Jane said softly. ‘I know how much you still hurt. I can feel your pain. I could help you let go of the past. Think about it.’
She produced a small torch from her bag and walked away, pausing briefly to wave from the gate.
Claire went to the sideboard, picked up the scarf and carefully refolded it. It was a bit of nothing really, light, insubstantial, pretty. She had found it on the floor in Laura’s bedroom, slipped down beside the chest of drawers and forgotten. Had Laura worn it to a party with music and bright lights? Could Jane really do that? Could she tell or was she just making a stab in the dark?
She put the scarf down, opened one of the top drawers of the sideboard and withdrew a small velvet pouch, tipping Gilly’s hair slide out onto her open palm. Did it mean Jane could read this? Had Gilly touched it recently enough to leave her mark? What might it say about her, about how she was or where she was? Could an object really do that?
Claire shook her head; it was a crazy idea. This was the wine teasing her thoughts, luring her into quicksand. But just suppose it was true… For a moment there, Jane had seemed very plausible.
She slipped the slide back in its pouch, pushing the notion away, snorting derisively. She wasn’t that gullible. There must be something else she could do to track Gilly down. She just hadn’t thought of it yet.
Chapter 8
For Adam, all the New Year had brought him was a hangover and Christmas had been even worse. He was glad the holidays were over. The house was too quiet. Adam felt Zoe’s absence as a material loss, as if someone had cut a huge hole in the middle of one of his paintings, a space which no amount of patching would ever properly restore. Despite the emptiness he felt shocked too that he was taking it so hard. He had shared his life with several women over the years and he had never before felt as bad as this when they’d broken up - though this had been his longest relationship by far.
Throwing himself back into work, he had found it possible to forget the issues while he was busy. In his down-time it was harder. Reluctantly he became introspective, wondering if Claire was right and he would have to change to get Zoe back. But hadn’t Zoe fallen in love with him the way he was? She had said she had. Why did women always have to try to bloody change men, try to crush them and then rebuild them in some kind of one-fits-all mould? Could he change? Did he even want to? Maybe he should have been more amenable to having children.
He conjured up an image of a family group, himself, Zoe, two children, a boy and a girl. Part of him cradled the image, cherished it, felt good about it; the other part felt uncomfortable, repelled even. It didn’t sit well. All those practicalities which he had enumerated to Zoe about the difficulties of bringing up a family with their lifestyle and their erratic income jumped to his mind again, but maybe Claire was right and they were just excuses. He earned enough these days to make ends meet. They’d manage. They’d adapt. That’s what people did.
But he wasn’t sure he wanted a cosy family life; he was scared of the tie and of the commitment it involved. He was an artist, a free spirit, and artists didn’t do well when they were tied down. History was littered with them, wasn’t it? He tried to bring one to mind and gave up. Perhaps he had already blown it with Zoe anyway and it was too late. His head hurt with the turmoil of his thoughts and he felt alternately heartsick then drained of emotion and he yearned for distraction.
Without intending it, Gilly became that distraction. The conversation with Claire about her lost child had piqued his interest. It intrigued him. He started searching online for information about her disappearance, reading reports and interviews with the police and with local people. He followed up each supposed sighting in the days, weeks and months that followed. There was no shortage of conjecture and opinion from those both near and far. Claire and Neil were discussed at length by people who had never met them. There were hints and accusations but no apparently useful evidence and he began to guess at Claire’s confusion and frustration. How does a child go missing in a village of this size where so many people knew her? Usually no-one could do anything here without the other end of the village knowing about it within hours.
But then he wondered about Claire too and whether she was as innocent as she appeared. Perhaps she was simply a good actress. There were questions all over the internet asking how much the police had checked on the parents because - it was suggested - they must have known more than they were prepared to say, for how else could the child so easily have ‘disappeared’? Adam was less certain. He was convinced that most of these people were just cranks and troublemakers. Still he thought it would be interesting to learn more about both Claire and Neil from the people who had known them of old.
So he made a list of all the current residents of the village who had been living in Bohenna when Gilly Pennyman disappeared, then he added a cross next to the ones he knew had been living there when Claire was growing up. This had taken some research: casually posed questions in the pub or the vineyard restaurant, earwigging conversations, checking again through newspaper and internet reports, noting down witness names. There were a few. Some of them were people he knew, at least by sight, though there were probably more. Despite a number of incomers to the village over the years, the core of the population hadn’t changed. The graveyard - where he had memorably gone sketching one day and frightened an elderly woman putting flowers on her husband’s grave by suddenly appearing from behind one of the big crumbling gravestones - was full of memorials to people with the same family names as many of the current residents. And the Cornish brogue softened the tongue of every other person to whom he spoke. It was one of the charms of the village as far as he was concerned: it was small, intimate, timeless.
But how would he set about asking questions without starting the village gossip machine? Unusual activity of any kind aroused curiosity and frank speculation. If he was going to find out anything about Claire Pennyman he needed to be discreet, cunning even.
There was a woman called Trish who sat in the pub sometimes. Widowed, lonely, she had lived in Bohenna forever - had run the shop for twenty odd years, she’d told him once. She was approachable.
*
Claire reached the old wooden bridge over the river and paused at its centre, looking down at the water as it scurried on its way west towards the River Fowey and then out to sea. How long did it take for the water to reach the sea, she remembered asking her father when she was a child. Ooh, several days I should think, he’d replied, pottering between his rows of seedlings. But how could you tell? she’d persisted. Did the water mix with the River Fowey water or did it stay together in its own stream? Her questions never stopped. You’ll have to do lots of learning and find out for yourself, her father would say in the end. Then you’ll know more than me. She smiled wistfully at the memory.