The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton

by Catherine Alliott

  After Anna's little outburst on the Banbury Road, I knew, of course, that something reasonably monumental had happened. And initially, I'd rung, of course I had, nearly broken my phone in the process. Something had stopped me calling The Old Rectory – pride, maybe – but the very next morning, on my first day at work, I'd tried again, hoping to get Ant on his mobile, when I knew he'd be in the car with the rep, and not with Bella. His answer machine was on. I left a message. No reply. I sent a text.

  ‘I know you can't talk, but Anna was very upset when I picked her up yesterday. What's going on? LOL E x.’ Quite measured, I thought.

  I got an equally measured one back. ‘I'm sorry she was upset. Can I please tell you when I get back? LOL A x.’

  I read it again. I was making coffee in Malcolm's back room at the time, Malcolm having just popped out to get the croissants. As the kettle came to a rolling boil I felt my blood rise with it. My thumb got to work.

  ‘No. Tell me now. If you think I'm going to sit here and stew while you…’

  What, Evie? While he what? I stopped. Stared into space. Slowly erased the message. Scrubbed out my rant. Some quiet wisdom, something very un-Evie Hamilton stole over my soul. Something in my daughter's face in the Banbury Road, which I couldn't quite put my finger on.

  Feeling curiously light-headed, I put the phone back in my pocket and walked into the main body of the shop. It was empty, happily. I went to the shelves, still feeling a bit… peculiar. Anna's face. Frightened. Contorted. Angry. I leaned my forehead on the spines. Breathed in… out… in… out… inhaling and exhaling the smell of new books, the paper, finding some small comfort in it, as I always had done. I shut my eyes. Tried to think. To find a sliver of light. Something Ant had to tell me face to face. Something to make Anna rush out and have every orifice pierced. To make her turn on me, accusingly, in the car, almost as if she hated me. And then want to get away from me. I stood up straight. Felt frightened. I went upstairs and plumped the sofas where the students sat. Came back down with the books they'd been reading and replaced them in the shelves. Frightened? Why? What had I ever done? This mess was all of Ant's making, this child of his. I was an innocent, a pawn! I'd ring again. Of course I would. No, I couldn't frigging well wait. No way. I reached for my phone, began to punch away – stopped. It was almost as if an invisible hand was staying mine, saying… no.

  There was, of course, the very certain knowledge that Ant wouldn't tell me anyway if I rang. I knew that. And that only a fraction of him would come to the phone. The last time we'd spoken, when he'd informed me he was staying on, I'd got about a tenth of him. This time I'd get even less. He'd be polite yet firm. Whilst I got shrill and desperate. Cried, perhaps. I looked at the text. He'd asked if I could please wait. Asked politely. And implicit in that, I realized in a sudden rush of blood to the head, was Trust Me. My heart stopped rattling around in its cage and lay down quietly for two seconds. And Ant was an honourable man. I mustn't lose sight of that. Mustn't doubt him. I went about my work, opening a new delivery that had just come in from a supplier, with something approaching calm. With a dawning sense that something bigger than the personal happiness and wellbeing of Evie Hamilton was going on here.

  Some customers came in. Two women, early forties, wanting to start a book club. Did I have any ideas? Obviously as the weeks went by they'd ask for suggestions from the rest of the group, choose the titles that way, but what would be a good book to start with, did I think? Not too heavy, said one, glancing nervously at her companion, and not too – you know – frivolous, countered the other. Something middle groundish, they agreed, to get the ball rolling, to get together and have a chat over, maybe a bite to eat. Remarkably I managed to lose myself in their enviable dilemma, watching as their brows furrowed and they argued this way and that, discussing the relative merits of John le Carré or Martin Amis. Oh, to be starting a book club. Oh, to be choosing my first book and for that to be keeping me awake at night. They left with eight copies of Atonement.

  The next day, I got another text. ‘I've booked Carluccio's for Friday night. LOL Ant x.’

  Carluccio's. Where we always went for major chats. The biggies. Which school for Anna? Should she board? As an only child, wouldn't she enjoy the companionship of others? Or would I miss her too much? Where to holiday? Should we ski, because once you start, there's no stopping, they want to do it every year.

  I texted back: ‘Fine.’

  That night, as I lay in bed, in that slightly delusional state halfway between sleep and wake, I conjured up what seemed an entirely plausible scenario. One that had Bella and her father blackmailing Ant. Yes, that was it. Caro had been right all along. They were after his money. And once I'd gone, it had all turned ugly. Bella had hissed bitterly that Ant had ruined her life by getting her up the duff, Ted had pinned him to a chair to make him listen, Stacey had slumped in another, glaring at him, chewing gum. Ted had slapped him across the face, or maybe even pistol-whipped him, yelling, ‘Bastard!’ I vowed sleepily to myself that I'd go and rescue him tomorrow. Drive up first thing and spirit him away. Bring him home, which I had a vague, fuddled idea was at the farm, in the kitchen, where, as Ant came in, face swollen from pistol-whipping, I was the child standing on a stool by the Aga, helping Mum – or was it Maroulla? – make cakes. Clearly I'd slipped my moorings and drifted into sleep.

  I was woken some hours later by the sound of a sash window sliding up. Still in the folds of a disappearing dream I groped groggily for the clock in the dark. Ten past two. I lay there listening. No. Nothing. Must have been the wind. The veils of sleep swathed me once more and I began to doze off, when another noise jerked me into consciousness. A creaking noise from below, in the kitchen. I sat bolt upright. Soft footsteps were stealing around down there. I jumped out of bed and threw on my dressing gown. I'd often wondered how I'd react to a break-in. Lying doggo and simulating sleep whilst the masked intruder went through my jewellery box, then realizing there was nothing of value, decided to rape me instead, whereupon I'd simulate death, which would surely put him off, I'd once laughed to Ant. It was a surprise, therefore, to find myself on my feet, clutching the lapels of my dressing gown at my neck, my heart pounding.

  It occurred to me that I'd forgotten to lock the kitchen window. I listened, terrified in the dark. Faint, deliberately cautious footsteps crept towards the foot of the stairs. I prickled with fear; felt the hairs on the back of my neck literally rise. Panic button. I knew we had one, or even two, one downstairs in the study, the other – under the bed. I dived underneath. But it was pretty crowded. Over the years I'd stashed a lot of rubbish behind the valance, and the panic button, up by the wall, had mountains of detritus in front of it: old duvets, shoe boxes, plastic crates of Lego. I couldn't get to it, I realized in horror. Couldn't reach it.

  The footsteps kept coming up the staircase, creeping… then stopping. Creeping… then stopping. Sick with fear, I realized I had two options. To stay hidden under the bed and hope he didn't find me, or scramble out now, break the window, and scream into the street. Break glass, Ant had said. People always came running, always phoned the police.

  The door softly opened. Too late: he was in the room. There was a pause as he assessed the situation, and then his footsteps stole on. I put my fist in my mouth to stop myself screaming. I heard him first at the chest of drawers, scooping up the loose change Ant kept in a saucer. Then drawers opened softly, but didn't shut. Next I heard him at my dressing table, rustling in my jewellery box. Despite my terror I wondered how old he was. Was he on drugs? With a knife? I bit my fist, willing my body not to shake, to rustle and give me away. He came towards the bed. I could sense him standing there above me, breathing. I stared, wide-eyed into the darkness, nerves as taut as violin strings, ready to wriggle out backwards, spring up and keep the bed between us. Then, improbably, awfully, the mattress above me sagged heavily as the springs gave way. My eyes bulged in the darkness. He'd got in my bed. This was beyond my stunned intelligence. A tramp? A
vagrant? I lay there, rigid with horror. Then he cleared his throat. I slowly took my fist out of my mouth.

  ‘Ant?’ I said, mostly under my breath.

  ‘Yes?’ came back a cautious response from above.

  It still took me a moment. I scrambled out of there on my tummy like a crab, stumbled to my feet and darted to the light switch by the door. As I illuminated the room and swung about, we stared at one another in astonishment.

  ‘Where did you spring from?’ he gaped, sitting bolt upright in bed in his old Balliol T-shirt, clutching the duvet, looking about twelve.

  ‘Under the bed!’ I gasped.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I thought you were a bloody burglar, that's why! What are you doing here, Ant?’

  ‘I live here!’

  ‘Yes, but you were coming back tomorrow.’ Fear had sucked the air from my lungs and I sounded like I'd inhaled a helium balloon. ‘I was about to break a window, couldn't reach the panic button – what were you doing in my jewellery box?’

  ‘I wasn't in your jewellery box, I was putting my watch down.’

  ‘Opening drawers, scooping up money—’

  ‘Putting my clothes away, putting down money – for God's sake, Evie!’

  I stared at him in disbelief. ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘Through the door.’

  ‘But the window. I heard it—’

  ‘You left it open. I shut it.’

  ‘Why didn't you ring?’

  ‘Because it's the middle of the night. I didn't want to wake you.’

  ‘But you must have known I wasn't in bed!’

  ‘Only when I got in!’

  ‘Didn't you think it was a bit odd?’

  ‘Yes, but I assumed you were at the farm or something. I wasn't going to go looking for you. I've just driven a hundred and fifty miles, for heaven's sake!’

  We stared at each other, temporarily mute. I came to first.

  ‘Oh, Ant…’ I flew to him. Threw my arms around his neck and he held me close. I could hear his heart doing gymnastics like mine. ‘I was so scared,’ I breathed in his ear. ‘So scared.’

  ‘I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,’ he whispered back. ‘You scared the living daylights out of me too, as a matter of fact.’

  We held on tight like that for a minute. Eventually I drew back; sat opposite him on the bed, still gripping his hands. My heart rate was coming down a bit.

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Because when I got your terse little text, I suddenly realized what you might be thinking. I knew I had to come back. It hadn't occurred to me until then.’ I looked at him. My text. What had I said? Fine. Yes, a bit terse, but then I'd felt terse. He took my shoulders. Gave me a lopsided, intent look.

  ‘What's this about, Ant?’ I managed, as something familiar tightened inside me.

  ‘It's about Bella. But it's not what you're thinking.’ He shook my shoulders gently, a little reproof. Those eyes were kind. Full. But I still couldn't read them.

  ‘What is it then?’ I whispered.

  I saw him weigh the possible routes in. He took a breath to steady himself. ‘She's ill.’

  ‘Ill?’

  ‘Yes. Very ill.’

  His eyes were sad too, I realized. Full of emotion. Some distant wave of consciousness, some swell of comprehension was gradually building out at sea, gathering momentum, slowly approaching.

  ‘Define very ill.’

  ‘It's terminal. She's got cancer. She's dying.’

  He watched me absorb it: watched the wave break over me and throw me onto the beach. Like so many tiny pebbles I skittered wildly up the shore in its wake.

  27

  I let go of his hands as if they were molten. Felt one of mine go up to cover my mouth. I hadn't been expecting that. I stared at him. ‘Shit, Ant.’

  We gazed at each other, our eyes silently communing. I shook my head slowly in disbelief as the enormity of what he'd said continued to filter into my consciousness; as I thoroughly absorbed it. My eyes filled quickly. I raised them to the ceiling, then brought them back level with Ant's. Shook my head again, dumbfounded, my fingers still pressed to my mouth.

  ‘She can't be,’ I heard myself say eventually, in the smallest voice.

  ‘She is,’ he said, a sad little smile bringing down the corners of his mouth. He took my hand, waiting for me to catch up.

  ‘How long?’ I whispered.

  ‘How long has she had it?’

  ‘No, how long until…’

  He made a helpless gesture. Spread his hands. ‘I don't know, exactly. No one does, yet.’

  ‘That beautiful girl?’ I narrowed my eyes at him incredulously, as if perhaps he'd got it wrong, hadn't entirely been telling the truth.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed.

  ‘But… isn't there something they can do? Surely these days – chemotherapy, radiotherapy—’

  ‘It's spread too quickly. Far too quickly. And it wasn't caught in time. Wasn't picked up.’

  ‘From where? Where did it start?’

  ‘Oh… women's… you know.’

  ‘Breast?’

  ‘No, I think…’ His eyes slithered past mine awkwardly.

  ‘Cervical?’

  He nodded. Obviously couldn't say it. It struck me there were a lot of words Ant couldn't say; this literature professor, this dealer in the English language. Cervical. The silent killer, they called it. The one you didn't know about till it was too late. Non-negotiable. The one that grew where babies were supposed to, but where instead, a hobgoblin had set up his stall, rubbing his hands with glee. Size of a grapefruit, women would whisper later, huddled in supermarkets, sucking their teeth. ‘When they took it from that poor girl's body…’

  ‘She doesn't look ill,’ I said stubbornly, fighting her corner.

  ‘She's very thin.’

  Yes. Yes, she was thin. I remembered those tiny legs protruding from her denim skirt and disappearing into floppy boots. Remembered being taken aback.

  ‘And very pale,’ he added.

  ‘Yes,’ I conceded numbly, recalling her face as she turned it up to me when we'd walked together in her knot garden, in the evening light. Pale. Anxious. A very slight tinge to the whites of her eyes too. I remembered feeling ruddy and hulking, beside her. Beside what I imagined to be her ethereal beauty. I just didn't know how ethereal. How rude my own health was. I quickly got off the bed, wrapping my dressing gown around me tightly. And I remembered Ted's face too, when I'd commented in the car on how lovely she was. How the tears had welled up again, his face creased with grief. Of course. Tearful Ted. No wonder. His daughter. His granddaughter.

  ‘Stacey!’ I breathed, swinging back to Ant.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Oh my God – does she know?’ I asked stupidly.

  ‘Of course. From day one.’

  Yes. Of course she knew. I came quickly back to the bed. Sat down, curling my legs tightly under me. What had that been like? How had that little scenario played out? Telling your only child. It didn't bear thinking about.

  Questions were muscling through the wall of shock now, in no particular order. ‘When did she tell you?’

  ‘Bella? The second day we were there. You were still asleep upstairs, I think. Or getting dressed. She told me in the garden.’

  I stared at him. ‘Under the cherry tree?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On that little round seat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You pushed her hair back.’

  ‘Did I?’ He looked startled. Then bewildered. ‘Maybe. I don't remember. Perhaps I felt I had to… you know, do something.’

  I squinted at my husband. ‘She tells you she's dying and you push her hair back?’

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘Oh, Ant.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ant!’

  ‘What? What should I have—’

  ‘You should have taken her in your arms!’ I roared. ‘Held her close, held her tight,
my God, Ant!’ I gazed at him. What kind of uptight emotionally repressed academic was he?

  He shrugged helplessly. ‘I didn't know what to do, what to say. I needed you then, Evie. You'd have known what to do.’ He looked at me beseechingly. ‘She'd have sobbed on your shoulder, told you everything, but I couldn't.’

  I shot my fingers through my hair as I stared at him.

  ‘You came to meet me in the garden together, all smiley.’

  ‘Because she was smiley,’ he said desperately. ‘I just took my cue from her.’

  ‘You should have stopped me going home, taken me to one side – told me!’

  ‘I know, I know, but—’

  ‘Oh Lord,’ I breathed. I remembered them waving me off, her diminutive figure beside his. So brave. And Ant, smiling, waving too, playing a part. What part? What planet was he on? But actually – oh, what did it matter: the girl was dying. What did it matter how emotionally strait-jacketed my husband was? What did it matter he probably suggested popping the kettle on? I scratched my head energetically. Stood up again, needing to distance myself.

  I heard him sigh behind me. He knew me very well. I turned. He looked wretched. I swallowed my irritation and went to sit beside him, took his hand.

  ‘Is that why they asked us up there?’

  ‘Yes. Mostly.’

  ‘So does Anna know?’

  ‘Yes. I told her.’

  ‘Which is why she's so upset?’

  ‘She was terribly shaken.’

  ‘But why with me? Why is she angry with me?’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Because… one thing I did do, when Bella and I talked later, with the girls, which I shouldn't have done without consulting you, and the reason I needed to talk to you face to face, and didn't want Anna saying anything first…’ This was all coming out in a bit of a rush. He stopped, hesitating.

  I frowned. ‘Is?’

  ‘Is I promised to look after Stacey.’

  ‘Well of course.’