‘When I was eighteen,’ she said, ‘I fell pregnant and I had an abortion. I won’t go into the details. Suffice to say, I came to regret it later, especially when it took us so long to have Danni. She was so certain her life would be ruined if she had a child, but knowing what I did, I couldn’t bear her to have the same regrets. That was why we argued so strongly against it. I wanted to make her understand the enormity of what she was doing.’ Melody paused for breath. ‘We would have supported her in the end, of course, whatever her final decision. She was our daughter, and we’d have done anything to make her happy. But she’d only just told us and we were in shock. She went back to university without us having made our peace with her.’
How sad, Layla thought. But Danni knew her parents loved her, and she loved them. Melody and Reece knew that, too.
‘Why didn’t she talk to me?’ Layla spoke in a half whisper, as if she was speaking to herself. ‘I was her best friend. I might have been able to help.’
‘If it’s any consolation,’ Reece said, ‘she probably wouldn’t have told us, either, only we’d arranged to take her on holiday straight after her final exams. To Rome, somewhere we’d always said we’d go. We’d booked it as a surprise for her, only it was us who got the surprise…’ He smiled ruefully. ‘When she said she couldn’t go, that’s when we knew something was wrong. She had to tell us, then.’
‘I think, also,’ Melody said gently, ‘that she might have felt too ashamed to tell you. She thought the world of you. She would have found it hard to admit how stupid she’d been.’
‘Yes.’ Layla nodded. ‘Maybe.’
She could understand how Danni might think that. She’d have been completely wrong, of course, but Danni being Danni…
She remembered that time, when Danni had returned early from her weekend at home. She’d been determinedly cheerful, but brittle and on edge. And the night of the party, she hadn’t looked well… Oh God, Layla realised. Nathan. It must have been him, the boy Danni was crazy about and been so upset over when he’d dumped her. She hadn’t been seeing anyone else.
Melody interrupted her thoughts. ‘No more guilt, Layla. Not for you. And not for us, either. It won’t go away, what happened, and the part we played in it. If we can learn to live with it, then so can you, because you, Layla, you were her best friend and you did nothing wrong. Nothing at all.’ Melody smiled sadly. ‘Love – or what we sometimes see as love – has a lot to answer for.’
‘You don’t think’ – Layla hardly knew how to say this but she had to know – ‘you don’t think she did what she did on purpose, hoping that she’d lose the baby?’
‘No, we don’t,’ Reece said. ‘She may have thought that by drinking, doing drugs, going a little bit crazy, she could pretend it wasn’t happening, or that she could say she’d done those things and she needed the termination – we’ll never know that now. But jumping out of the window, no. There was no ulterior motive behind that. It was a heat of the moment thing, a crazy stunt gone wrong. A tragic accident, as the Coroner said.’
‘We know – knew – our daughter,’ Melody added, ‘and we’re sure about that.’
Then, as if they’d spent the last half hour making idle chat, Melody pointed towards the window and said, ‘Oh look, the rain’s stopped. The wind’s dropped, too.’
Layla looked. The trees were still. The cloud had lifted, leaving patches of bright blue sky.
‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to go outside,’ she said.
‘Shall I come with you?’ Melody smiled. There was relief in her expression.
‘I’d like to be on my own for a bit, if that’s okay.’
‘Of course,’ Melody said.
Layla walked along the gravel path, puddled from the rain, towards the converted stable holiday lets. To her left, the fish pond with its tattered fringe of reeds and sloping grassy bank inset with rockery stones. To her right, the irregular-shaped lawn, emerald-bright from its recent dousing, and edged with a tapestry of cottage-garden flowers.
She hadn’t been able to breathe inside the house, as if so much emotion had used up all the air. Still, she couldn’t believe how wonderfully understanding the Morlands had been. Both were mortified at the long, drawn-out punishment she’d inflicted on herself for something which, according to them, she had never been guilty of in the first place. She felt as if she’d been trapped in a room to which the door was stuck, but not locked, as she’d thought. One hard shove and she would have been free.
It wasn’t that simple, of course. Melody’s ever-more pressing invitations to Foxleigh, Reece’s attempts to jolly everyone along and make it all seem perfectly normal when clearly it wasn’t, had impacted on her conscience at a time when she had been most vulnerable.
And now, this new piece of the tragedy had shocked her deeply – she hadn’t dared show them exactly how much, for fear of upsetting them further. Three lives were lost that night, not two. Layla couldn’t think about that now, not in any depth – it was too much to bear – but she would later, and she would give way to grief again, but not for long. Danni and her unborn child were as one, and she’d already mourned enough for both of them.
The path opened out into the courtyard bounded by the three holiday lets. The pretty little dwellings were deserted, their tenants off somewhere enjoying their holidays. A thin, brown tabby cat shot out of the trees behind the stables and streaked diagonally across the yard to disappear into the undergrowth. She had seen cats here before; they came from the working farm along the lane.
As a place to grow up, Foxleigh was a picture-book paradise; Danni must have loved it. She’d never said, but perhaps she’d taken it for granted, which you would if you’d never known anything else. But Warbler’s Way had its good points, and Maybridge itself, well, that was pretty special, too. She was beginning to realise how special, now that she was leaving.
Her next thought stilled her feet, rooted her to the spot. Not only was she leaving, she was running away; that was the plan. Only now, there was nothing to run away from, was there?
She pushed the thought away. If anything, her reasons for going to New York were stronger because they were genuine. She was doing this for herself, to make something of her life. There was no turning back. And anyway, she wouldn’t be gone for ever. Maybridge would still be there when she came back.
And Morgan, would he still be there, waiting for her to fling herself into his arms and tell him she’d made a colossal mistake? Of course he wouldn’t. He’d given her every chance to explain, to put things right between them, and she’d pushed him away. He’d want no more to do with her now. It was far too late.
Her eyes filled with tears. She forced them back. Resort to self-pity and she was lost. Taking a deep breath, and giving her head a little shake, she turned and walked back along the path towards the house, to find Melody coming towards her. She was waving, smiling. She looked happy. Layla waved back, and broke into a jog.
‘I’m going to look at my roses,’ Melody said, when they met at the fork in the path. ‘Coming?’
Melody was born and brought up in Birmingham, she told Layla. An only child, she lived with her parents in a third floor flat with no garden. The walk to school took her past large, mock-Tudor houses in tree-lined avenues.
‘It was my favourite part of the walk because I loved looking at the gardens, especially in the summer when all the flowers were out. My favourite garden was one which was full of roses. There were pinks and creams and crimsons and yellows, so many you couldn’t count. They hung off the bushes, right over the front wall.’ Melody stopped halfway along the brick path and gazed dreamily into the middle distance. ‘They were so pretty, and the scent, oh the scent; so strong and sweet, nothing like I’d ever smelt before. I used to put my face up close and stand there for ages, looking and sniffing.
‘Then one day I picked one, a bud that was about to open. Snapped it off, just like that. It was a pink one. It smelt like sugar and I wanted to eat it, it was so delicious.’ She laughed. ‘I
didn’t, though. I held it in front of me, by the stem, all the way to school. It gave me a very special feeling, as if I was holding the future in my hands. But you know what happened the next day?’
She turned to Layla. ‘The front door opened and an old woman came out. She must have been watching for me from behind her net curtains. She shouted at me to clear off, and said if I ever went near her garden again she’d fetch the police. And I thought, what was the point of growing beautiful flowers if nobody was allowed to enjoy them? It was incomprehensible, the stupidest thing.’
Melody continued along the path, Layla following. ‘When Danni was born, of all the things I wanted to give her, I wanted most of all to give her roses.’ She smiled. ‘Isn’t that silly?’
‘Of course it’s not silly,’ Layla said. ‘I think it’s lovely. And you gave her the name.’
Melody smiled. ‘Yes. Danni Rose. Danni Rose Morland. Look, these are Danni’s roses. They were one of the first I bought, when I was making the garden. I chose them because they suited her, I thought. The bush has been replaced since then, of course, but you can still get the variety so I pretend it’s the same one.’
The roses were pale pink, the flowers delicate and unshowy, and wonderfully scented.
‘They’re beautiful,’ Layla said. ‘Like her.’
‘Yes, they are, aren’t they? They’ve taken a bit of a battering with the rain.’ Melody touched one of the blooms, bowing on its stem. It fell apart, scattering pink petals on the dark soil below. ‘Never mind. There are plenty more. We must cut some for you to take home. Roses are for sharing.’
Reece peered out of the kitchen window and rubbed his hands together. ‘You should get home in the dry, if it lasts.’
Melody stood beside him, emptying the dregs of tea into the sink, rinsing the mugs under the tap. She’d offered to make lunch, but Layla was both too full from the croissants and too nervy in her stomach to eat anything else.
‘Oh, I didn’t tell you, did I?’ Melody said. ‘I’ve got a job. I’m starting next week, at the animal charity shop in the village.’
‘Are you?’ Layla was surprised. She wouldn’t have associated Melody with racks of old clothes and dog-eared books. Nor voluntary work, for that matter.
Melody slapped her playfully on the arm. ‘It’s quite a posh one, as charity shops go. It might sell old tat, but it’s clean old tat.’
Layla laughed. ‘I’m sure it is.’
‘I was passing the other day and nipped in for a chat with Gwen who runs the shop – I’ve known her for years. She said was I free for a couple of mornings a week, and I said I was, and I thought, why not? If I’m to go back to work at some point, I’ll need to start off gently.’
Reece raised his eyes. ‘Yes, we don’t want you overtaxing yourself, do we?’
This was so good to see. The Morlands, joshing with one another, a real partnership again. And Melody, ready to return to the world. Layla’s heart went out to them.
Melody picked up a tea towel and began briskly drying one of the mugs. ‘Yes, I thought it was time I talked to some real people for a change. About ordinary things. Not that Kate wasn’t real, and she helped me a lot, but I don’t need to be cloistered any more.’
‘Kate?’
‘My therapist, down at Haverstone. Anyway, I’m going to be busy. I shan’t have time to trek all the way down there.’
‘What was she like?’
‘She was nice, helpful, as I said. Young, not much older than you. She had freckles, and lots of lovely hair, all red-gold curls, like “Annie”, I always thought. Why?’
‘No reason. I just wondered.’
Kate. It had to be her, didn’t it? Morgan’s ex. All along, the connection had been there, an invisible thread, weaving them all together. What a strange world it was.
The roses Melody had picked for Layla to take home were on the kitchen counter, their stems wrapped in newspaper.
‘They’re gorgeous,’ Layla said, picking up the bunch and holding them to her face to take in the scent. ‘Thank you.’
Melody looked doubtful. ‘I should have nipped off the thorns. I wouldn’t want you to get scratched.’
‘They’re fine as they are. I’ll be careful,’ Layla said.
Nobody spoke for a moment. The long-case clock in the hall ticked on.
Reece broke the silence. ‘Send us a postcard, let us know how you’re getting on.’ He smiled.
‘I surely will,’ Layla said. Then, ‘There’s something…before I go…’
She hurried through to the other room and fetched her bag. Opening it, she brought out an envelope containing the cheque, and handed it to Reece. Glancing inside the envelope, he gave one firm nod.
‘Is this what I think it is?’ Melody picked up the envelope and looked for herself. ‘Layla, you are very welcome to keep this. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I do, but it wouldn’t feel right. Please?’
‘Of course. We understand.’
She took the envelope across to where letters and papers stood in a rack and dropped it in amongst them. Then she returned to Layla and gathered her into a hug.
Outside, more hugs, kisses, promises to keep in touch. Layla waved as she turned the Fiesta in the direction of the gate. The Morlands waved back. Reece’s arm was round Melody’s shoulders, hers around his waist. Together. Where they belonged.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Monday morning. Rain was forecast for later, but now the air was muggy and still, the sky screened in low white cloud. Traffic slunk across the bridge with muffled engine sounds. Along the banks of the May, the fronds of the willows drooped despondently into the moss-green water. Moorhens upended silently, their foraging activities barely disturbing the perfectly described reflections.
Attached to their moorings, Lady Tabitha and Princess Delilah idled, coloured flags hanging limply above the scrubbed decks. The rowing boats, gleaming with fresh blue paint, rocked gently alongside the jetty. The kiosk was still shuttered. No call for drinks, ice creams and tickets for the boats yet, although it wouldn’t be long before they came straggling down to the river: tourists; local families in search of school holiday amusement for the children; and the older generation, to gather in chattering groups in the café.
The café was where Morgan was bound for now, intent on helping Maureen and the other assistant open up and begin the food preparation. Connor came out of the office and headed him off.
‘Leave them to it. They can manage. Let’s go while we’ve got the chance.’
A few minutes later, they arrived in front of a small, red-brick cottage with green-painted window-frames and a walled front garden spilling over with pink hydrangeas. Ted’s house. The old man had suffered another stroke, this time a major one; he wouldn’t be coming home for many months, if ever. Last week, Connor and Gina had seen him settled into a nursing home, a short distance from Maybridge.
‘The houses along here used to get flooded quite regularly. But not any longer, since they did something to the banks,’ Connor said, turning the key in the lock and giving the door a shove with his foot. It opened with a creak of protest.
The front door opened straight onto a living room with dated but homely furnishings, and a 1930s curved, red-tiled fireplace surrounding an ash-strewn black grate. Morgan followed his friend through the door at the end into a bright and cheerful kitchen.
‘Nan was always on at him to have the place modernised,’ Connor said, ‘but the stubborn old devil insisted he liked it as it was, and that was that. He let her have a new electric cooker, but that was back in the eighties. He had the house re-wired, though, so it isn’t a death-trap, and it’s got storage heaters as well as the fire.’
The house might exist inside a time warp, but it was cosy and quiet. Morgan liked it, very much. He’d had no luck so far in his search for a place of his own, and the bungalow seemed more crowded every time he set foot in it. A move was well overdue. There was, however, a slight feeling of wrongness a
bout using Ted’s illness to his advantage.
‘Are you sure, though, about me moving in?’
‘To be honest, you’d be doing us all a favour, mate.’ Connor picked up an empty milk carton from the wooden draining board, scrunched it up in his hand and dropped it into the waste bin. ‘If you were living here, I wouldn’t have to check up on the place, and the rent will be useful for Grandad.’
Connor had already named a sum that was well within Morgan’s reach.
He could write here, late into the night if he wanted to; that had been his first thought. The boathouse was great in summer but was only really useful during the day, and even then, it would be decidedly draughty in the chillier months. He could buy a desk and set it up in front of the window in the living room, or perhaps upstairs in one of the two bedrooms, where he’d be able to see the river.
A new writing place for a new novel, the next in the Poodle Chafferty series. His agent – Fiona’s friend, whom he’d met up with in London a fortnight ago – seemed convinced that the sale of his first book to a publisher was only a matter of time.
‘Right then,’ he said. ‘You’re on. But on one condition.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You let me take you and Gina out for a meal tonight. Somewhere decent, anywhere you like.’
‘You don’t have to do that,’ Connor said, ‘but since you ask, thanks, that’d be cool. If we made it The Swan, it would be a kind of tribute to the old man, seeing as he’s spent so much time in there.’
‘The Swan it is then.’ Morgan’s palm met Connor’s. ‘I do appreciate this, and for letting me stay at the bungalow and everything.’
‘Don’t be daft. Here…’ Connor threw Morgan the keys to the cottage. ‘Move in whenever you’re ready.’
‘So, you haven’t tried phoning or messaging again?’
‘No point. She made that all too plain at the time. Anyway, I promised I’d leave her alone.’
They’d left Ted’s house and were walking along the river side of the road, passing The Swan and the bridge. Morgan had wondered when Connor would raise the subject of Layla again. Since he’d been told the story – not that there was much of one to tell – he’d been surprisingly silent on the subject, and Morgan had rather hoped he would remain that way. But now, having found him a place to live, it seemed Connor was on a mission to sort out the rest of his life for him. Well, he needn’t bother, Morgan thought uncharitably. He was fine as he was.
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