Ricky took me into the travel agent’s in Falmouth and we asked the assistant about cheap ways to fly to Chile. She asked questions and we told her about the dig and she said, ooh, she wished she’d done something like that when she was younger. She said, ‘You always think you’ll have time to do these things, and then one day you wake up and you’re married with three kids and a mortgage and you’re exhausted and you realize it’s too late.’ Ricky and I smiled at one another. We were quietly proud that we hadn’t left it too late. The assistant printed out a list of flights and prices and gave it to me. Even the cheapest and least convenient option was more expensive than I’d anticipated, and it was clear I was going to have to save every penny I could earn until September if I was going to join Ricky on the dig.
After the travel agency, Ricky and I drove out into the countryside, found a secluded lane, pulled in at the gated entrance to a fallow field, wriggled out of our jeans and had breathless, gleeful sex. We did this at every opportunity. Our private joke was that the little Fiat would soon need new springs. I walked around with a permanent sore feeling between my legs that I bore with pride because it reminded me of Ricky every time I sat or stood or simply moved about in my chair. Ricky came for tea at my house often. He charmed and perhaps ever so slightly bored my parents with his earnest enthusiasm and his detailed descriptions of South America. I was invited to Sunday lunch at Ricky’s and was intimidated and impressed by his tall, well-spoken mother and high-ranking Royal Navy father. After a huge meal I played Monopoly with Ricky’s younger sisters in a living room the size of a tennis court and hung an imaginary photograph of myself and Ricky on our wedding day amongst the scores of family portraits on the walls.
Every Friday afternoon, I went into the Post Office and paid the money I’d earned that week into my savings account. It was adding up.
I was so tied up with Ricky and my own newfound happiness that, in the little spare time I had when I was not working, I was not paying any attention to Ellen. Tante Karla was still at Thornfield House and I excused the neglect of my friend by rationalizing that, as long as Karla was there keeping an eye on things, I didn’t have to worry about Ellen. Jago was working extra shifts wherever he could get them, saving up his money too. Because of this he wasn’t seeing much of Ellen either. She was, for a while, pretty much on her own.
She tried to see me. She walked down to Cross Hands Lane to call for me, but each time I was out. If I’d been there for her then … if I’d been more observant …
But I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t notice.
The morning when things started to go badly wrong again started auspiciously enough. I was alone at home, eating toast and honey in the kitchen, listening to the radio, when Trixie set up her daily routine of barking at the postman. On the hessian mat by the front door that said Welcome was a blue airmail letter. I pulled an astonished face at Trixie – who grinned and panted back – picked up the letter, and Trixie and I ran upstairs. I shut the bedroom door behind us and sat on the floor with my back against the wall, holding the letter to my chest. I could feel my heart beating through my shirt.
I opened the envelope with my thumb, unfolded the letter, read. It was brief and to the point. There was a vacancy for another volunteer on the dig and the team would be happy to welcome me among their number.
‘I can go. I’m going!’ I cried. Trixie thumped her stubby little tail as I knelt beside her and covered the side of her big, ugly head with kisses.
I read the letter about twenty times, until I’d memorized every word, then I folded it carefully, tucked it into the pocket of my shorts and went downstairs. At last, something amazing had happened to me. At last, I had something exciting to tell Ellen! I put on my trainers in a hurry, hopping on first one leg, then the other, got the bike out of the shed and pedalled up the hill, my legs powered by excitement. I stood on the pedals, leaning forward over the handlebars and pushing down as I rode through the dappling tree shadows. I knew my days in Trethene were numbered, days of going up this hill, of listening to the brook rushing down over its stones, of collecting wildflowers from the hedgerows, and waiting for the Williamses’ prize-winning dairy herd to lumber in their docile manner from the grazing pasture to the milking sheds while covering the lane in manure.
When I reached Thornfield House, I propped my bike against the wall and skipped over to the front door. I rang the bell, expecting Tante Karla to open the door. I couldn’t wait to see her – I knew she’d be thrilled by my news – but instead Mrs Todd was there and my heart sank, because I knew, as soon as I saw her face, that something bad had happened. It wasn’t only Mrs Todd. The inside of the house seemed darker. There was no music playing, no windows open, no sound of Tante Karla cheerfully going about her business.
‘Good morning, Mrs Todd,’ I said. ‘Is Ellen in?’
Mrs Todd opened her mouth as if she were about to send me away, and then she changed her mind and closed it again. Behind her, I saw Ellen standing in the gloom of the hallway. She was wearing a long white nightgown and she looked like a wraith, her hair all lank around her shoulders, her long feet bare, her shoulders hunched and her eyes like hollows in her face, as if she had been crying for a hundred years. Her arms were wrapped around herself as if she were cold and her head was held low, like a prisoner in a war photograph.
‘What’s happened?’ I whispered. ‘Oh God, what now?’
I pushed past Mrs Todd and she moved her body slightly to let me by. I heard the front door closing quietly behind me as I rushed forward and clasped Ellen in my arms. She was resistant, doll-like, and she smelled strange – unwashed, but there was another smell to her, slightly metallic, slightly milky. Her hair was greasy against my cheek. I took her hand, led her into the kitchen. She was limping oddly. I pulled a chair out from the table and helped Ellen into it; I almost had to fold her at the waist and knees to make her sit. Then, because it was what my mother would have done, I filled the kettle from the sink tap and put it on the stove. An undrunk cup of tea was already cold on the table, a skin on top of the liquid. The kitchen was dark and cool, full of the salty, meaty smell of boiling ham. A large saucepan rattled on the hob. A blue glass vase full of dying knapweed, oxeye daisies and yellow ragwort stood on the windowledge. Tante Karla must have put the flowers there – they weren’t Mrs Todd’s style at all – but already there was a smell of slime and decay about the vase.
Is Pieter Brecht dead? I wondered for a moment. Has he killed himself or been mortally injured in an accident? No, that was not possible. Mrs Todd would have said something at once. It couldn’t be Jago. Jago was fine when he left for work at the crack of dawn that morning. He had been whistling when he left the house. I’d heard him slam the door of his Escort and start up the engine. If anything had happened to him, I would have heard before Ellen.
‘Where’s Karla?’ I asked. ‘Has something happened to her?’
‘She’s gone back to Germany,’ said Mrs Todd.
Ellen looked up. ‘Papa sent her away.’
‘Oh.’
‘Mr Brecht’s mother is unwell,’ Mrs Todd said. ‘She’s been unwell for some time. Karla has returned to Magdeburg to look after her.’
‘Papa insisted,’ said Ellen. ‘He told her we’d be fine. We were fine. We were right as rain until she left.’
I unhooked three mugs from the rack and glanced over my shoulder at Ellen. She was sitting, leaning forward with her hands between her legs, her back hunched, her hair falling over her face. Her feet were dirty. Mrs Todd stood at the entrance to the kitchen. Time seemed to have slowed down awfully. I put a spoonful of coffee granules into the bottom of each mug and, when the kettle whistled, filled them with boiling water. I took a bottle of milk from the fridge door, and poured milk into each mug. I put the bottle back, stirred three heaped teaspoons of sugar into Ellen’s mug and put it in front of her. Ellen did not move.
‘What’s happened?’ I asked Mrs Todd again.
Ellen looked up, for
the first time, and held a thin finger to her lips.
‘Papa’s upstairs,’ she breathed.
Because the light was behind Mrs Todd as she stood in the doorway, she was a silhouette to me, odd wisps of hair caught by the golden sunshine coming through the hall window, and I couldn’t see the nuances of her expression, only the line of her lips.
‘Ellen has got herself into trouble,’ she said quietly.
‘What kind of trouble?’ I asked, sitting down in front of Ellen, taking hold of her hands. I squeezed them for reassurance but she did not respond. They were icy cold in mine and limp as a dead girl’s hands.
‘The baby kind,’ Ellen whispered.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
THAT NIGHT, IN Berlin, in my hotel room, I thought about Mrs Todd. I remembered how loyal she had been to the Brechts, how she had stayed on for Ellen’s sake after Mrs Brecht’s death, how she had always tried to protect Ellen. I had been so scared of her when I was young, and now I could see the situation from an adult perspective, I was ashamed of the way I’d treated her.
I was not haunted by nightmares, but by regret. I thought of all the times when Mrs Todd had quietly intervened at Thornfield House; how, sometimes by simply walking into a room, she had caused a subtle shift in tension; how she had protected both Anne Brecht and her daughter. It had to be more than loyalty that kept her there after Anne’s death. She must have loved Ellen. It was something neither of us realized or recognized at the time.
The next morning, I went downstairs for an early breakfast of bread and fruit, then I returned to my room and telephoned my mother. She was surprised and flustered to hear my voice, assuming immediately that something had gone wrong, that I was in trouble, that I was ill. I reassured her that everything was absolutely fine, and made some small talk about the frustrations of airport security checks and the friendliness of the German people, then I took a deep breath and asked, ‘Mum, you don’t happen to know what became of Mrs Todd, do you?’
She paused before replying. ‘She stayed with her sister for a while and then she went to Germany. The Brecht family gave her a cottage in the grounds of their house. They looked after her in her old age.’
‘Do you mean Schloss Marien? Was that where her cottage was?’
‘That’s it! She liked it there. She used to write to me every Christmas, just a few lines inside the card, and once she sent me a photograph of the Christmas Market; it looked very nice. Your father and I were thinking maybe of going one year and meeting up with her, but we never got round to it.’
‘She used to write?’
‘Before her stroke. She lives in a nursing home now.’
‘Do you have the name of the home, Mum? Or the address? I thought I might pop in to see her, seeing as I’m so close.’
Mum wasn’t sure this was a good idea, but I assured her that all I wanted to do was take some flowers to the old lady. I didn’t tell Mum, but I also needed to let Mrs Todd know that I finally understood how brave she had been, how loyal and how helpful. I wanted, in some small way, to atone for not understanding or appreciating Mrs Todd when I was younger.
My mother obligingly went off to find her address book and her reading glasses, and returned a few moments later. She dictated the name and address of the nursing home to me, taking great care of the spelling. I thanked her, promised I’d be in touch when I was back in Bristol, and then I trotted along the hotel corridor to John’s room and knocked.
‘Come in!’ he called.
He was sitting at the desk by the window, drinking coffee and looking at his emails. He smiled when he saw me and jumped up to move his suit from where it lay over the back of a second chair. I sat down.
‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked.
‘Great, thanks. You?’
‘Like a log.’
I felt shy being with John in a hotel room. It seemed intimate. I tried not to look at the unmade bed, the crumpled white sheets, the boxer shorts balled up beside the bedside table.
I cleared my throat. ‘I just wondered if I could borrow your laptop to find out about getting to Magdeburg, like you mentioned yesterday.’
‘Help yourself.’
He passed the computer to me and I Google-mapped firstly Schloss Marien, and then Mrs Todd’s nursing home. Both were outside the city, although the nursing home was closer to Berlin than Magdeburg. While John made more coffee, I researched the options for using public transport, and realized it was not going to be easy.
‘Any luck?’ he asked.
‘It’s going to have to be taxis,’ I said.
John looked over my shoulder. ‘What’s that place?’
‘You remember I was telling you about the housekeeper, Mrs Todd? She’s had a stroke and that’s where she lives now. I’d like to go and visit her. Just to say hello, and take her some flowers.’
‘That’s going to be awkward to get to.’
‘I know. But …’
‘I could take you,’ John said. He smiled and scratched his head. ‘We could hire a car. That’d be the easiest thing to do.’
‘What about the conference?’
‘All that’s on this morning is a workshop on Interactive Interpretive Tourism. I’m not that interested.’
I exhaled. ‘I don’t want to ruin your trip, John.’
‘You won’t,’ he said. ‘If we drive, we can go and see your Mrs Todd, have lunch in Magdeburg, take a look at the Schloss Marien and still be back in time for the evening session.’
‘But why would you want to come with me?’
‘I’ll get to see a bit of the countryside. Let’s face it, once you’ve seen the inside of one conference facility, you’ve seen them all.’
I had a feeling he was being gracious to make it easy for me. Still, I was overwhelmed with gratitude and relief. Whatever happened, I knew I would cope with it better, and in a more reasoned way, if John were with me. I would be able to share some of my history with him. And always, afterwards, this would be something we would have between us.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
CHAPTER FIFTY
THE SHOCK OF Ellen’s words left me breathless. Ellen did not look up but she must have felt the tension in my hands. I wondered why she hadn’t said anything to me sooner, then I realized that she probably hadn’t confided in anyone. Mrs Todd did Ellen’s laundry, she watched over her, she must have guessed that Ellen was pregnant, and when I thought back, it seemed obvious to me too. Ellen’s pallor, her tiredness, her weight gain, her recent quietness were all signs. I hadn’t been with her much, or I would surely have realized. I forgot entirely about my own good news. It was nothing compared to this.
‘Ellen has been seeing your brother in secret,’ said Mrs Todd in a quiet voice. ‘Clearly they haven’t been very careful.’
I looked up at her. Her face was still in shadow. She was hovering like a spectre.
‘Please can I talk to Ellen on my own, Mrs Todd?’
‘There isn’t much time,’ The woman replied. ‘Pieter might come downstairs any minute. He mustn’t—’
‘He mustn’t know,’ Ellen hissed. ‘He’ll kill Jago if he finds out.’
I thought back to New Year’s Eve and I felt sick.
‘Ellen needs your help,’ said Mrs Todd.
‘What are we going to do?’ I asked. I could see no way out of this situation, and for a moment I was furious with Ellen for allowing this to happen. Jago too. How could they have been so irresponsible? So stupid! How could they have mired themselves in this mess when everything in my life had been going so well? I’d never have allowed Mr Brecht to see them kissing if I’d known this was going to happen!
Mrs Todd sighed. She stepped forward into the room, standing behind Ellen. Her hands were twisting, the fingers working away at themselves. I’d never seen Mrs Todd so unsettled before and it made me uneasy.
‘It’s not too late.’ Mrs Todd hesitated over her choice of words. ‘What I mean to say is, the situation can be sorted out.’
/> ‘The trouble can be got rid of,’ Ellen whispered, keeping her head low but raising her eyes to meet mine. She had the look of a zombie about her, she was so pale and her eyes were so shadowed and tormented.
‘Mr Brecht must not know,’ said Mrs Todd. ‘For your brother’s sake, Hannah, as much as Ellen’s.’ She made a little gagging sound and I remembered that it was Mrs Todd who had found Ellen cowered over Adam Tremlett’s battered body on the wooden floor of the smashed-up front room; Mrs Todd who had pressed clean tea-towels against Mr Tremlett’s wound to stem the bloodflow while she waited for the ambulance; Mrs Todd who, with my mother, had swept up the broken glass and china and tried to scrub the stains from the floorboards. She knew and understood Mr Brecht’s potential for violence. She knew what he was capable of.
A shiver ran across my scalp and down the back of my neck. I looked from Mrs Todd to Ellen. I thought of Jago.
‘Mrs Todd is right,’ Ellen said, almost robotically. ‘We have to get rid of the baby.’
I wished Ellen would not use words like that. I remembered a film we had been shown at school about the consequences of unprotected sex and closed my eyes to get rid of the image.
‘There’s a private place outside Truro where they won’t ask questions,’ said Mrs Todd. ‘I can find the money.’
‘There must be another way,’ I said.
Ellen looked up. She shook her head. ‘There isn’t.’
‘What about Jago? Does he know about the baby?’
‘It’s not a baby yet,’ said Mrs Todd.
‘Yes, he knows,’ said Ellen.
‘That’s all right,’ said Mrs Todd. ‘You can tell him you lost it. Miscarried. It’s not much of a lie.’
‘No, no!’ I felt agitated now, as if Mrs Todd and Ellen were pushing a huge boulder towards me and it was gaining momentum. ‘You can’t do what you’re saying without telling him. You can’t lie to him! You can’t, Ellen – it’s not fair. It’s his baby as much as it is yours!’
In Her Shadow Page 24