Before You Die

by Samantha Hayes

  ‘Dad would have a fit if he could see this lot,’ Stella giggled as they’d wrapped the food in foil and dropped various other junk into a carrier bag.

  ‘Then we won’t tell him, will we?’ Lorraine said, feeling slightly smug.

  ‘Dad can force Grace to eat his organic yoghurt and bucketloads of berries later,’ Stella said, also enjoying the subterfuge.

  Lorraine had said goodbye to her older daughter the night before, knowing she wouldn’t be up before they left. Grace was meeting a friend later and they were off to an athletics camp. She’d been looking forward to it for ages.

  Their week together would be, Jo had said on the phone a few days ago, just like old times. Lorraine hadn’t said anything, but that’s exactly what worried her. ‘Old times’ implied Jo getting herself into an emotional pickle, making ludicrous decisions and bad choices – and, as ever, Lorraine bailing her out.

  She’d always called her a restless soul. Jo, it seemed, was never satisfied with what she had.

  ‘Why do you have to drive so bumpy?’ Stella asked.

  Lorraine rolled her eyes and smiled. ‘It’s not my driving, it’s these country lanes. We’re not in the city now you know. If you look up from that phone you’d see . . . cows or something.’

  She flicked her hand towards the windscreen. Endless fields dotted with dark green wooded areas, ripening crops scattered across the undulating earth, and the meandering lane tacked on to the farmland spanned the breadth of their view. Everything was vibrant and lush, as if it had been coloured in from an entirely different palette to that of their built-up neighbourhood in Moseley.

  If she was honest, Lorraine envied her sister still living in the country. It was where they’d both grown up. Moving to Birmingham at the age of eighteen had been an escape for her at the time – twenty-five years ago now – and she admitted the city was in her blood, part of her life, a place she couldn’t imagine not being in.

  But these Warwickshire villages, especially her childhood home of Radcote, would never leave her heart. The mellow ginger stone of the local buildings, the low brows of thatched cottages, the cow parsley verges, the tiny post office with its musty wooden floor and big jars of penny sweets on crooked shelves, the landmark churches with their towers and spires marking the route on endless summer bike rides – it was all tattooed on her heart.

  As the road narrowed and curved, bending between farms and livestock, crops and Dutch barns with stacks of hay, Lorraine wound down the window and breathed in deeply, tasting the air. It was sweet and slightly cloying. Just how she remembered it. Already she felt the feeling of coming home seeping into her skin.

  She smiled. This week was going to be just what she needed. A damned good rest.

  She indicated right and turned down an even narrower lane. The hedges pulled in close, cloaking their passage with varying shades of green, as well as brighter patches of white or yellow flowers. Every so often they passed a gateway with a crusted muddy entrance where tractors had been coming and going.

  ‘What happens if another car comes?’ Stella asked, dropping her phone into her bag. Her arms were folded across her stomach as if she might be sick at any moment.

  ‘One of us has to back up to a passing point,’ Lorraine stated.

  ‘But what if no one will?’

  ‘Then I guess we sit there all day,’ Lorraine replied, quite used to her daughter’s endless questions. Occasionally her wayward line of thought would contain a shred of what seemed like brilliance or unusual insight, which prevented Lorraine from silencing her when other mothers might have grown impatient. As far as she was concerned, Stella could babble on. It was white noise that she enjoyed, a welcome contrast to her job. ‘But people are generally friendly in the countryside.’

  ‘What if they have a gun?’

  ‘Well, you’re in trouble then,’ she said, speeding up again as the lane straightened into a more driveable stretch. ‘Know what they call this road?’ Lorraine asked, pointing ahead. It used to scare her as a kid, give her a creepy yet slightly irresistible feeling. She’d always pedalled that bit harder when cycling along it to the next village to visit a friend.

  ‘A road?’

  ‘Devil’s Mile,’ Lorraine said, with a slight growl to her voice. Before Stella had a chance to ask, she added, ‘I have no idea why.’

  ‘Probably because the Devil lives here or something,’ Stella said matter-of-factly. She was obviously feeling less nauseous all of a sudden as the phone came out of her bag again in response to the bleep of an incoming text. ‘It would liven this place up a bit if he did. It looks dead boring.’

  ‘There’s another straight road not far from here called the Fosse Way,’ Lorraine continued.

  She’d been going to explain about the Roman road’s route but slowed at the sight of a dozen or so wilted bunches of flowers laid at the base of a tree to their left. There were a couple of notes and cards pinned to the trunk, drooping and soggy from all the recent rain. Lorraine hated seeing these temporary shrines to lost loved ones. Usually these cases were tragic accidents rather than anything sinister, but occasionally she’d have to deal with the clean-up, the painful aftermath of assessing what had happened when Traffic, the first officers on the scene, called her in. She’d worked a number of times with the Serious Collision Investigation Unit when initial findings weren’t entirely clear-cut and a more disturbing outcome was suspected.

  She glanced in the rear-view mirror at the faded floral tribute as they passed and wondered if it was anyone local.

  ‘Very sad,’ she said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Those flowers. Someone must have died in an accident.’

  Lorraine flicked the indicator again and turned down the final lane that would take them to Radcote.

  ‘Maybe the Devil killed someone,’ Stella said, pulling open another bag of crisps and stuffing a handful into her mouth.

  ‘I can’t believe you didn’t bloody tell me,’ Lorraine said, easing out of the sisterly embrace. ‘It’s pretty up there as family crises go.’

  They’d barely got out of the car before Jo had emerged from the front door, picking her way across the gravel with bare feet, cotton skirt swishing at her ankles. She was at her sister’s side, unperturbed by Stella’s indifference to their arrival, and had simply stated, calm as anything, ‘Malc’s buggered off.’

  ‘When?’ Lorraine beeped the car locked, thrust a bag at Stella to carry, and walked across the drive with Jo.

  ‘Two months ago.’

  ‘Two months? And it didn’t occur to you to pick up the phone and tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you. You’re always so busy.’

  Lorraine felt a surge of familiar guilt. Her work spilled into family time, into everything. It was the way it was, always had been. Yet Jo was making it sound as though the break-up was somehow her fault.

  ‘And I knew you were visiting soon anyway, so thought I’d tell you in person,’ she added.

  They went inside the hallway of Glebe House. The cool, slightly musty air immediately transported Lorraine back to her childhood. The smell of the place never changed. She wouldn’t have been in the least surprised if her mother had come through from the kitchen to greet her, wiping flour-covered hands on a faded floral apron, her hair twisted behind her head in a tight grey knot, a handmade skirt over the dark tights she always wore, winter or summer.

  Lorraine shook the memory of her mother from her head. This was Jo’s house now, and she was glad.

  She gazed around and gave a little shiver, realising she’d left her cardigan in the car. It was cooler inside. The thick-walled house remained a constant temperature all year round. Only once all three fires had been blazing for at least half a day during the winter months did the pervading chill lift, allowing them to stretch out of all but the essential layers of clothing.

  ‘Oh, come here,’ Jo said as they dumped the bags on the uneven flagstones.

  It was then that they h
ugged properly. Lorraine felt her sister’s slightly leaner body pressed against hers, felt her ribs and slim waist beneath the cotton of her white blouse. She suddenly felt ashamed of the two rounds of bacon sandwiches and crisps she’d consumed on the journey. But Jo’s bucolic lifestyle was more conducive to keeping healthy than her own frantic, grab-any-food-going, busy-working-mum routine as a detective inspector.

  ‘Are you OK for money?’ It had to be asked. Jo hadn’t had a paying job in years.

  They were in the kitchen now. Nothing much had changed in here since her last visit either. In fact, you wouldn’t even know that Malc had left, Lorraine thought, noticing a pair of man’s sunglasses on the dresser and a tweed cap hooked over the peg beside the back door.

  She’d never thought of Malc as a cap man. He worked in the City, commuting some days, but more often than not he’d be holed up in his Docklands studio flat, returning to Radcote at weekends.

  Lorraine would never have guessed he’d give up the country life so easily. But if she was honest, she thought Jo looked better for being single. Her skin seemed healthier and brighter, and her eyes had a mischievous sparkle to them.

  ‘Malc’s being generous. Giving me what I need.’

  Stella dragged a wooden chair from under the table, making a terrible noise on the quarry tiles. She slumped down, earphone wires winding out from within the unbrushed tangle of her hair. She rested her head on the table and made an overstated yawn.

  ‘Oh, poor little Stell,’ Jo said. ‘Didn’t you get all your beauty sleep last night?’ She rubbed her back playfully. She had always doted on her nieces.

  Stella made a grumbling sound from within the nest of her arms.

  ‘You can do me a favour if you like and wake Freddie up. He’s still in bed. A couple of bombs and an earthquake should do the trick.’

  Another indignant moan and squirm from Stella made Jo stop teasing.

  ‘Shall I make some tea?’

  Lorraine nodded, trying not to show her irritation with her sister’s news. Whatever she felt about Malcolm and the way he’d so speedily stepped into Jo’s life eight years ago (although that was almost certainly down to Jo’s impulsiveness at work) and now his sudden retreat, he was the man her sister had chosen to marry, the man who had adopted her son, the man who’d looked after her and supported her financially. And knowing Jo as she did, that was no mean feat.

  But she still thought he was a complete shit for deserting his wife.

  No doubt, she thought as the kettle boiled, he’d found something younger, something less tarnished by the nagging drudgery of running a large house and bringing up a teenage boy mostly alone while he was living it up in London.

  They sat outside in the mid-morning sun, the tray set down on the white-painted iron table that she remembered her father sanding and lacquering every couple of years. It was clear to Lorraine that Jo had kept up their mother’s high standards around the place since she’d moved in five years ago. It looked as if she’d worked her fingers to the bone weeding and maintaining the acre of garden. It was immaculate, and the crammed-in shrubs and herbaceous plants were in full bloom. The thick scent of the overhead jasmine winding around the pergola and the nearby thicket of roses made Lorraine feel almost dizzy. She marvelled at the patchwork of coloured borders that she knew had taken years to mature.

  It was nothing like her modest, sun-deprived suburban patch that only ever got used a few times in the summer when they threw a last-minute barbecue for friends or work colleagues, or when she ducked outside for a sneaky cigarette, usually at the end of a long day during an investigation that didn’t allow for any kind of routine. She hadn’t done a scrap of gardening this year, and Adam had only cut the grass a handful of times.

  ‘You’re going to tell me it was an affair, aren’t you,’ she probed, but with a casual inflection so it didn’t sound as if she had an issue with the word. Jo wouldn’t respond to an inquisition.

  She thought she noticed a small nod.

  ‘You know, if dog-ends grew into flowers, mine would look way better than this,’ Lorraine said with a laugh, sweeping her hand out in front of her.

  ‘Yes,’ Jo said with a curt nod. ‘And I mean about the affair, not the dog-ends.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Jo. I hope you kicked him out in a good and proper village-rousing, suit-slashing display of emasculation, rather than allowing him to slink off with his tail between his legs when no one was looking.’

  Jo fished the teabag out of Lorraine’s mug, added milk and stirred in some sugar. ‘He left quietly of his own free will.’

  ‘I bet he bloody did.’

  ‘Lorraine . . .’ Jo sighed. ‘It’s me having the affair, not him.’ She slid the mug towards her sister.

  Lorraine took a breath. ‘I see,’ she said, picking up her tea.

  The first thing she thought about was the house. It had belonged to their parents. It was their family home – Freddie’s inheritance now. When their father had died ten years ago, their mother, June, had continued to live there for several years. But the place was no good without him, she’d said. Too big, too empty, too heartbreaking . . .

  Too much to cope with, Lorraine suspected but never said.

  And then, one day, her mother had packed up a few essentials and, without telling anyone, moved into her caravan on the north Cornish coast. It was a month before they knew where she’d gone. She’d since relocated to a more substantial park home, and had never set foot inside Glebe House again. No one really understood why. It was just the way she was.

  In the meantime, she had made arrangements for the property to be signed over entirely to her youngest daughter, as if she was already dead and buried. Lorraine’s theory was that she wanted to leave a family feud in her wake that she could actually witness and enjoy. She gave nothing to Lorraine.

  Lorraine had barely finished reeling from the unfairness of this transaction when, without prompting, Jo did the right thing and bought out her stunned sister’s imaginary share – or rather, Malc bought it out soon after he’d married Jo.

  ‘She’ll have to try harder than that, sis,’ Jo had said once the paperwork was finalised.

  Lorraine was grateful. There had been no family feud for her mother to enjoy. But the gesture had made her feel indebted to Jo – something she continued to feel uncomfortable about, and even, if she was honest, a bit resentful of.

  ‘Tell me he wasn’t . . . you know, hurting you or anything,’ Lorraine said now, taking a sip of tea.

  There was silence, interrupted only by the buzzing of insects driven wild by the garden scents. Lorraine had brought this up a couple of Christmases ago, after noticing a pale green bruise around Jo’s upper arm, but had been told in no uncertain terms to let it drop, that she’d bashed herself while hauling the tree inside.

  ‘I just met someone else,’ she finally responded. ‘We clicked. Malc’s job was taking him away all the time. We weren’t really getting on.’ She batted a wasp away with her hand, flinching when it returned.

  ‘You were lonely, then?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t lonely.’ Jo seemed certain about that.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I can’t honestly say,’ she replied.

  Lorraine wasn’t sure if it was more a case of won’t say or that she simply didn’t know. Or, she wondered, was it another of Jo’s manically bad decisions that she would live to regret?

  Either way, the moment of finding out had passed because Freddie emerged from the kitchen door, stumbling out on to the terrace wearing pyjama bottoms and a tatty blue dressing gown. His feet were bare and huge, Lorraine noted, thinking back to the last time she’d seen him – far too long ago, considering they only lived an hour or so from each other. Every time she saw Jo and Freddie she made a mental promise that she’d come up more often, every month or every couple of months at the very least. But promises soon fell by the wayside when work took over.

  ‘Freddie, my God, you’ve grown another six fe
et!’ Lorraine stood up. She opened her arms wide, trying to ignore the pained expression that spread across her nephew’s face.

  Freddie absorbed the hug as best he could. Lorraine was grateful for that. She released his limp body and held him at arm’s length. She thought he looked a little pale, washed-out, and he smelled of sleep.

  ‘You look well,’ she said tentatively, with a forced grin and a wink at Jo. ‘What’s your mum been feeding you?’

  Freddie laughed pleasantly, humouring his aunt. He’d always been a good-mannered boy, brought up properly by his mum and stepdad. By Jo, Lorraine thought to herself, not wanting to give Malc too much credit. She hoped by the end of the week’s stay she would know more about what had gone wrong, but for now she wasn’t entirely prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. There must be a good reason for Jo to have acted this way, she told herself.

  ‘You look well too, Aunty Lorraine,’ he said, pulling the dressing gown tightly around his chest. He folded his arms, wrapping himself up as if it was winter rather than the twenty or so degrees it must already be.

  ‘What’s the plan before we go to the theatre this afternoon, then?’ Jo said to her son in an expectant way.

  Lorraine knew that tone of voice well, having used it on her girls many times. It contained the vague hope that the morning might consist of something other than lounging around watching TV, and military manoeuvres on the fridge every half hour.

  Freddie shrugged. His hand paddled through his hair, as if sweeping away the idea that he might be required to do something useful. ‘Dunno. Not sure I’m coming. I haven’t woken up yet.’ He shifted from one foot to the other and his eyes narrowed to slits in the sunlight. He was clearly wishing that he hadn’t come outside.

  ‘Did you say hello to Stella?’ Jo asked him.