by K. L. Slater
‘I can’t believe it,’ Ray said again. ‘All these years on the scrap heap and now I could end up with a plum job right on our doorstep. To tell you the truth, I thought I was washed up good and proper, Gareth.’
Whilst Ray stared out of the small paned window onto the road, Rose stole a glance at Gareth but she couldn’t bring herself to smile at him.
‘Far from washed up, Mr Tinsley. We need people like you on board, folks that know the village and the community. I’m really interested to hear your ideas for the future.’
‘It’s Ray. Please, Gareth, call me Ray.’
‘Ray it is then. Now, Rose, I was just telling your dad I’m new to the area and trying to find my way around. He was saying you’re a bit of an authority on Newstead Abbey. It’s one of the places I’m really keen to see.’
‘Not really, I mean I don’t know that much about it—’ Gareth shot her a meaningful look ‘—but… I’d be glad to tell you what I do know.’
‘Great. I was thinking of popping over there tomorrow actually, after work.’ He turned back to her father. ‘Is there a shortcut through the village at all, Ray?’
‘Why don’t you go with him, Rose?’ Ray seemed inspired by his own suggestion. ‘You could tell him all about the Abbey’s history then, while you’re there.’
Both Gareth and her father watched her closely. Rose swallowed but her throat felt parched. Her head pounded, trying to reconcile the fact that Gareth was here, in her house, talking to her father.
And now Ray himself was encouraging her to meet up with him. It all felt so underhand.
Perhaps she ought to feel glad but, the truth was, she didn’t want to see her dad being made a fool of. He’d suffered enough, scouring the area for years in search of a job and now… well, he looked so optimistic. She hadn’t seen him this buoyant for a long, long time.
But why hadn’t Gareth warned her he was going to call at the house?
Ray coughed. ‘So what do you say then, Rose? Are you going to show Gareth round the abbey on Friday, or not?’
‘Yes,’ Rose said with a small smile. ‘That’s a good idea, Dad. I’d be glad to.’
22
SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER
On Friday, Gareth picked her up outside the house.
Anyone would think it was her dad who’d got the date, Rose thought, the way he was stalking up and down and peering through the window every few minutes.
‘He’s here, Rose!’ Ray called excitedly, holding back the net curtain.
When she saw Gareth’s car, her neck and shoulders began to cramp.
Ray raised his hand and looked pleased when Gareth waved back. ‘Have a nice time, love,’ he said as she left. She couldn’t help thinking how different it was to their first date and his barrage of awkward questions.
‘Looking gorgeous again.’ Gareth beamed as she slipped into the passenger seat. He started the car. ‘I suppose we’d best get straight off. We can’t sit here with your dad watching us. I might not be able to keep my hands off you.’
This time Rose knew he must be joking because she’d left the make-up off altogether, pulled her hair back into a severe pony tail and wore her usual boring jeans and T-shirt. Her dad had taken a real interest in her leaving the house so everything had to appear normal.
‘Don’t forget, Rose. If you get the chance, tell Gareth all about my managerial experience at the pit,’ Ray had instructed her. ‘I don’t want him thinking I was just a cart horse down there.’
Managerial was stretching it a bit but Rose had smiled and assured him she would. After all, her father had barely said a bad word to her since Gareth’s visit.
At the top of the street, Gareth indicated and pulled into the slip road by the school where he’d first picked her up.
He leaned over and planted a kiss on her cheek.
‘Hey, why the long face?’ He cupped his fingers under her chin and turned her face to look at him.
‘I just feel a bit stressed out,’ Rose said lightly.
‘Aww, drawing with your pretty crayons at college is classed as stressful now, is it?’
She searched his face, trying to decide if he was being serious when his mouth relaxed into a wide smile. ‘I’m just kidding, Rose; you’re so tense. What’s wrong, gorgeous?’
Rose squirmed at what she considered to be a ridiculous compliment. ‘You just turning up at the house like that… it – well, it was a surprise.’
‘Did the trick though, didn’t it? Here you are and with your old fella’s blessing, too. Just call me a genius!’
‘I just wish you’d told me what you were planning,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Then it wouldn’t have been such a shock.’
‘It was a spur of the moment thing.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t realise it would be a problem for you, me meeting your family.’
‘It’s not that,’ she said quickly, watching as his face dropped. ‘It’s just… I’d have liked to have known and – and—’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s just that I don’t want Dad to get his hopes up if—’
‘If what?’
‘If you just said all that about him working on the project to get on his good side, I mean.’
‘What do you take me for, Rose?’ He looked down at his hands. ‘I can’t believe you think I’d pull a stunt like that just for the fun of it.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t want to upset you. It’s just that Dad’s been like a different man since you’ve been round to the house.’ Gareth seemed to have taken great offence at her ill-chosen words. She stammered on, trying to rescue the situation. ‘Y—you see, the pit closing took everything away from him; he’s been sort of hollowed-out inside for years. Yet in the short time you spoke to him yesterday, you’ve really given him something to hope for.’
Gareth’s face darkened as she watched him. ‘So why are you throwing accusations my way, if he’s happy about it?’
‘I’m not accusing you of anything, Gareth. I just wondered if it was real. Saying Dad could work on the project, I mean.’
‘Yes, it’s real. Satisfied?’ Gareth said shortly. ‘I’m sorry you have such a low opinion of me, Rose. I truthfully explained to your dad it would be a voluntary position at first. I can’t be any clearer than that, can I?’
‘No. And I’m sorry,’ she apologised yet again.
‘It’s an awful shame you have such a low opinion of me and of your father, too. You seem to have made your mind up that he’s a bit of a no-hoper.’
‘That’s not true,’ Rose said, wounded. ‘It’s not Dad’s fault that there are no opportunities round here and it’s not his fault that the pit closed in the first place.’
Gareth frowned at his watch.
‘If you really think I’ve no scruples then maybe we shouldn’t bother with the abbey visit,’ he said curtly. ‘And maybe it’s a bad idea after all to get your dad involved with the project, if you consider that I’m just leading him on.’
A flood of images filled Rose’s mind. Her father’s crumpling optimism, Cassie’s incredulous face and her own boring, featureless life making a swift and unwelcome comeback.
‘No!’ she heard herself say. ‘Just ignore me, I’m sorry. I honestly didn’t mean to insult you, I—’
He placed his forefinger over her lips and she fell silent.
‘I forgive you,’ he said softly. ‘Let’s start over again, yes?’
‘Yes.’ She sighed with relief. ‘I really am sorry, Gareth.’
‘Let’s just forget about it now,’ he said, his expression intense. ‘You can make it up to me later.’
Rose felt a small jolt of panic and then she saw him grinning and realised he was having her on again. She smiled back at him. He was such a joker.
‘I hope you don’t mind, Rosie, but I got you this.’ He opened the glove compartment and took out a small, silver mobile phone and charger. ‘It’s charged and ready to go. I know it’s awkward for you, speaking on the landline. Now we can talk fr
om the privacy of your bedroom.’
‘Oh! Are you sure? This must’ve been expensive.’
‘Of course I’m sure. Nothing’s too much for my girl.’
Rose took it from him, her eyes bright. ‘Thanks!’
‘I’ll feel better knowing you can always get in touch with me.’ He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘If you need to, that is.’
A warm feeling flooded her solar plexus. Cassie was going to be green with envy.
She blushed. ‘That’s really nice of you.’
‘There’s more.’ He reached into the back of the car. ‘Before we get off again, I want to give you this. Sorry it’s not wrapped.’
He handed her a rather tatty olive green, cloth-covered book with faded gold lettering on the cover. She peered closer, in an effort to read the words.
‘It’s a book of Byron’s poetry,’ he told her.
‘Oh, thank you,’ Rose breathed, opening the yellowed pages and inhaling the pleasant fustiness of a genuinely old book. ‘It’s lovely.’
‘It’s got our elegy in it, look.’ He took the book from her hands and leafed through, holding both pages open.
‘Here it is.’
Rose saw that Gareth had made a couple of pencilled amendments so that the line read, My Rose is here.
‘My Rose,’ his voice echoed as she silently read the words. ‘I’ll never let anyone snatch you away.’
23
ROSE
PRESENT DAY
Sometimes, misery is a comfort to the soul… like a bitter poultice.
For so many years, grief has wrapped itself around me like a heavy cloak the second I walk through the door, as I walk through the rooms full of memories and family belongings.
Sixteen years after it happened, I still don’t feel ready to walk away from it.
I don’t want to escape my family and the past. My discovery has bound me to revisiting the raw pain of it all.
I sit in my kitchen now and I can almost hear the sound of Billy’s feet hammering up and down the stairs, Mum shouting for him to quieten down and Dad roaring with frustration in the front room as Forest let in another goal.
Other times, the silence serves to remind me of just how alone I am.
And a backdrop to it all is the ticking 1930s’ Westminster chime mantel clock Mum was so proud of. She was fond of telling us how it had been in her family for years and that it was a valuable antique, worth thousands of pounds.
After she died, I looked up similar versions on eBay and found it was worth around fifty pounds at the most.
I’m glad Mum never got to know that. There are small things in all our lives that have no importance to anyone else but that keep us breathing, keep us believing.
There’s other stuff around the house too. Dad’s record player, Mum’s sewing box and Billy’s torn felt slippers. I keep these things in the living room so I have them close to me at night as I watch television or read.
I sometimes like to look across and believe that nothing changed that day, sixteen years ago.
It might sound pathetic to some people, you know the sort. The ‘it’s time to make a fresh start’ brigade.
I must have heard that phrase a thousand times and it’s always uttered by the sort of people who mean well but who’ve never had to make a fresh start in their life.
Never had to construct a new existence from the ashes of a tragedy.
New things can’t ever erase what happened or make it right again.
But the discovery I’ve made this morning pours petrol on the glowing embers of my grief and I know now that everything I thought I knew for sure has already changed.
24
ROSE
PRESENT DAY
The thought of what I might find if I continue to poke around Ronnie’s house fills me with a crawling dread but I instinctively know this is no time for dithering.
He’s still in hospital, thank God. This might be my only chance.
I swallow down a sickly taste and pick up the phone and dial the hospital, tapping in the direct extension for the ward.
‘I – I’m just checking on Ronnie Turner’s progress,’ I falter when they pick up. ‘And I wanted to ask when he’s likely to be discharged? I’m looking after his house, you see.’
The nurse covers the telephone receiver for a moment and I hear her speaking to someone else nearby. All the sounds, the voices, are muffled. I imagine Ronnie lying in his hospital bed. Will he be worrying about what I might find while he’s away?
‘Hello?’ she says impatiently and I realise she’s already said it once.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m here.’
‘He’s comfortable, still no exact date for discharge but shouldn’t be long now.’
I thank her and end the call.
Frankly, I’m not worried about how Ronnie is feeling any more. I’m relieved he’s out of the way so I can investigate a bit more.
I need to gather as much evidence as possible before I go to the police.
Fifteen minutes later I’m back next door.
I climb the stairs, my clammy hand gripping the rail because I don’t trust my sense of balance.
The air around me feels thick with my own trepidation and yet I know nothing has changed here. What I discovered in Ronnie’s spare room this morning has always been here.
All those times I’ve sat in the Turners’ kitchen chatting to Sheila.
All the times Mum and Dad have called round to thank them for their support.
Every time Ronnie has been with me to the cemetery.
Billy’s blanket has been buried up here, just like my brother is, in the cold, hard ground.
My heartbeat is in my throat. I swear, in the echoing silence, I can hear it thrumming relentlessly. I can’t be sure if it is warning me off or urging me to continue but I know I have no choice but to do this.
I owe it to Mum and Dad.
I owe it to my poor, dead brother.
Systematically I unpack each box right down to the bottom and then replace its contents, moving to the next one.
I don’t know what I’m looking for but I keep on going.
I have three hours before I’m due in at work but because the hospital didn’t seem to think Ronnie would be out anytime soon, I’ve no intention of ringing in sick. There should be plenty of time to get this done over the next couple of days.
I plough through about a third of the boxes before I stand up, groaning and pushing the heels of my hands into the bottom of my back. My clothes may hang off me but I’m so unfit and inflexible. My back is now aching with a vengeance.
I arch and brace back and forth a bit before making my way into Ronnie’s bedroom.
Everything I see here is offering another unwelcome suggestion: a pair of shabby, heavy boots, sat next to the oak freestanding wardrobe; a walking stick with a carved brass wolf for a handle; a solid glass paperweight on the bedside table.
All perfectly ordinary items unless you attribute them to a monster. A murderer.
Is that what Ronnie Turner is?
I ignore the tight feeling in my chest and press on. I search through drawers, rummage in wardrobes, check under the bed. I open a dusty old wooden ottoman at the bottom of the bed to find it full of candy-striped brushed-cotton sheets, the sort I remember my gran had when I was small.
I’m careful to take out and replace everything as I find it.
But that’s just it.
I don’t find anything else at all.
25
SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER
‘I’m sorry I said we’d go, Gareth. It’ll just be a really quick visit, I promise.’ Rose lay on her bed and whispered into the mobile phone. ‘It’s just that Cassie is dying to meet you. Everyone wants to meet you.’
‘We’ll only be staying half an hour at the most,’ Gareth replied.
‘I know. I’ve told her that.’
‘When you say everyone wants to meet me, who do you mean, exactly?’
A beat of silence. ‘You’ve got male friends, too? You never mentioned that.’
‘They’re just boys from college.’ Rose shrugged, staring at the same spot of flaking plaster on the ceiling. ‘We all hang around together at lunch sometimes.’
‘You might think they’re just friends but I can guarantee the boys have got other ideas. They’ll be after getting in your knickers.’
‘Gareth! That’s so gross.’
‘Gross is right. What do you think people say behind your back about girls who spend their lunchtimes hanging out with boys?’
‘We just talk, that’s all. We’re all on the same course.’ It kept happening. She opened her mouth without thinking and managed to upset Gareth without fail. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly.
The silence at the end of the line lasted so long that Rose looked at the handset to see if the call had cut off. ‘Hello?’
‘Give me Cassie’s address. I’ll meet you there at eight.’
‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,’ she said again, after reeling off the address. ‘There’s nothing in it, honestly. We just hang out together sometimes.’
‘I don’t like the thought of it, Rose,’ he mumbled. ‘I didn’t have you down as the type to be flirting around boys at college.’
She snapped back a retort without thinking. ‘You’re trying to suggest it’s something seedy and it really isn’t. We’re just mates, is all. Why can’t you get that?’
She expected him to snap back at her, but after a short pause his voice was soft and conciliatory.
‘Why do you always think the worst of me, despite everything I do for you and your family? I’m just trying to look out for my girlfriend. I’m sorry if that annoys you, Rose.’ He sounded genuinely troubled.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, chastised. He’d said she was his girlfriend. He’d actually said that and he was right about the other stuff, too. He’d done so much to restore her father’s hope and confidence. Why couldn’t she just be happy about it?