by A J Waines
‘I wish she’d talk to me. I’ve sent messages and emails, but she’s not responding.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll have a word with her. I’m certain it’s a misunderstanding. She adores you, you can be sure of that.’
When I get back, I go upstairs to find her. I can hear her, in her room, talking to someone. I’m hoping she’s made contact with Peter, after all.
I don’t want to eavesdrop, but I linger a moment, just to set my mind at rest. Then I hear the words ‘lover…killed…can’t carry on…’
What the f—
She’s on her phone confessing to someone!
I burst in and find Beth standing in front of her full-length mirror.
‘Who..?’ I’m expecting to see her mobile in her hand, but there is only a loose batch of papers.
‘Beth…who are you talking to?’
She tuts loudly. ‘Mum…I’m trying to rehearse my lines…’
‘But, you were talking about…it sounded like…’
‘It’s a dystopian thriller…I’m going for the part of Nerola, the woman who finds her father has killed her brother in World War II…I told you about it.’
I sink down onto the bed; fully aware she’s waiting for me to leave. ‘I’m sorry…it sounded a bit too close to the bone.’
She stops staring at me and leans against her dressing table, making all the jars on it wobble back and forth. ‘I know,’ she says, with a weary sigh. ‘I thought that when I read the synopsis. I’m not sure I can do it.’
There’s an arid silence between us.
‘Listen, Peter rang me,’ I tell her.
‘You? When?’
‘Just now. He’s trying to reach you, Beth…he says he’s been trying to get in touch and you’re not answering. What’s going on?’
‘I can’t face him. I feel so terrible about the whole thing.’ She flings the papers on the bed. ‘If he’s the slightest bit nice to me, I’m scared I’ll break down and tell him everything.’
I launch to my feet. ‘You have to speak to him, be your usual self – just don’t let your guard down.’
‘But I’ve been so awful behind his back. Sneaking around with Carl was a terrible mistake. I’m such a lousy human being.’
‘People shouldn’t be defined by the worst things they’ve done,’ I tell her.
‘Yeah, but even if you discount the fact that I covered up a murder, I’m still a cheat.’ She lets out a hollow laugh. ‘I feel so crap. If I speak to him he’s going to wonder what the hell’s the matter with me.’
‘He’s already asking that. He’s starting to think it might be the wedding that’s the problem.’ I grab her skinny wrist. It feels like loose bones wrapped in clingfilm. ‘You’ve got to draw on all your acting skills and turn this into a star performance, like we said. Think of it as a part you’re playing in a big Hollywood blockbuster.’
She drops her head. ‘I’m trying, I really am.’
‘Ring Peter…I can stay with you in the room, if you like.’
‘No, it’s okay. I’ll give him a call tomorrow.’
I leave her to carry on rehearsing and go down to the kitchen to make us both cocoa, but I can’t relax. She’s so close to the edge and jumpy, I can imagine her spilling out what happened all too easily – to Peter, to one of her friends. Either way, it would be a disaster. Every day, I’m half expecting to find her resolve has crumbled and the police are at our door.
I can’t let that happen.
19
Beth
I’m sitting near the window in my bedroom, huddled inside my dressing gown, drying my hair. Peter will be in New York by now. I’m hoping the time difference will mean it’s easier to avoid speaking to him.
Mum has done a U-turn. Until yesterday, she’d been hassling me to speak to him and smooth everything over, but then, suddenly, she said she ‘understood’ that speaking to him could be difficult right now. She’s promised to stop pestering me about it.
‘Why don’t you give me your phone?’ she said, yesterday evening, ‘then I can check who’s calling and I can be right by your side if you actually want to speak to him.’
I told her that was a bit extreme.
‘Okay, but don’t speak to him on your own, you hear me?’
‘Fine. I don’t want to, anyway.’
I keep coming back to the call I made that links Carl to me. The one I haven’t told Mum about. Surely, the police won’t have the resources to follow up that one tiny piece of information. It was only one call, after all. A short one. As a high-powered businessman, he must have taken hundreds of calls from different numbers.
My phone lights up on the bed with another message I won’t be answering. All my friends are going mental, wondering what’s wrong with me. I’ve barely spoken to any of them. I put a general post up on Facebook to say I’m mega busy with auditions and the wedding and not to worry if I don’t get in touch.
I messaged Maria and Tina personally to say pretty much the same. Maria came back saying something about me being ‘so in love’ and Tina said he hoped I wasn’t going to forget everyone now that I was stepping up the social ladder.
Laura and Giles, my mates from drama college, are both working on films at the moment, so I don’t need to worry about them, but if I speak to any of my closest friends, they’ll know instantly there’s something badly wrong and they’ll wheedle the truth out of me in about twenty seconds flat.
I have to suck it up to protect Mum, more than anything. If it was just about me, I think I would have given in by now.
Mum still visits Russell, but it’s less often. She’s doing double shifts at the pub and when she comes home, she immerses herself in wedding plans.
By now, we’ve sent out the invitations for the hen night and I’m trying to be super enthusiastic, because I know it means so much to her. We’re holding it at Mum’s pub. Unbelievable! The scene of the crime – but it’s the cheapest option.
Mum says it looks like a totally different place after the makeover. She says I need to pretend ‘the accident’ happened somewhere else. I’ve got a few weeks to pull myself together before then, but right now, I’m dreading a party in my honour. Any other time and I’d be totally wired. Normally I can’t get enough of being the centre of attention, but not now. I’ll have to tank myself up with drink to get through it and just hope I don’t let anything out of the bag.
Mum’s also ticked the wedding car off her list this week, together with the reception flowers, the catering and the photographer. We still need to sort out the music, the flowers for the church and arrange the seating for the reception.
I’ve just had another dress fitting and the seamstress is going to have to bring it in at the waist, yet again. I should be over the moon I’m so thin, but I feel lacklustre most of the time. Mum is coming shopping with me on Saturday to get shoes and a tiara. This event should be any girl’s dream, but I can’t drum up genuine gusto for any of it.
Mum continues to watch my every move. I’ve started writing down how I feel in a diary, like Mum suggested, but it’s not the same as talking the whole thing through with someone. I actually punched in Maria’s number yesterday but managed to cut the line before she answered. I’ve got to be so careful all the time, I can’t afford one tiny blunder.
I’m just about to go to bed when Mum calls me from the bathroom.
‘It’s Peter,’ she whispers, holding out her phone to me.
‘Again?’
She flattens the phone against her chest. ‘He wants to speak to you. What shall I tell him?’
I acquiesce and take the phone. Mum hangs at my shoulder, waiting.
‘Hi, Peter…I know…I’m sorry. Yeah…been focussing on my audition.’
She smiles at me, nodding with encouragement.
He tells me about his hotel room, how close he is to the Guggenheim and how he came across a crew filming a remake of The Ipcress File in Central Park, yesterday.
‘I wish you were with me…I mi
ss you like crazy,’ he says.
I try to be normal with him, but I can tell my voice sounds strained and my chit-chat is half-hearted. He says he loves me and I pretend there’s a blip on the line to avoid responding.
I give Mum a knowing stare. I can’t help myself, I have to ask about Amelia.
‘Thanks for asking. She’s worried sick, actually. It’s nearly two weeks now and the police are taking it more seriously, but they’re coming up against dead-ends. She’s been obsessively going through Carl’s paperwork looking for clues to his whereabouts.’
I hand the phone back to Mum shortly after.
‘You did really well,’ she says. ‘That should keep him quiet for a day or two.’
My next audition is a disaster. I knew it would be. I did surprisingly well at the piece I’d prepared – the one I was rehearsing when Mum barged in on me, about a character who’s lost her brother during the war. In fact, it was easy, all I had to do was think of Carl and Peter and the mess I’m in and I was in floods of tears. They looked impressed, but only until they asked how I might respond if I’d discovered the brother was alive. I couldn’t stop crying. They tried to do an upbeat improvisation with me but I was a wreck. I think they’d got the message by then that I was a one-trick pony and sent me packing.
The only person I can talk to is Grandad, so when Mum is out, I catch the bus over there again. He says it brightens his day, so it’s worth it for both of us.
We play cards and I put an evening meal together for him. I wash up, then do a batch of laundry and ironing while I’m there. It feels safe being with him because he doesn’t ask tricky questions and often he forgets what I’ve said and asks them again, anyway.
He has periods of time when he forgets about the wedding altogether and it’s a relief not to have to pretend to be all full-on about it. During this visit, he seems more confused than ever. He keeps taking his slippers off and leaving them in front of the fire, then putting them back on again as if he’s been searching for them.
I’m almost tempted to spill the beans and tell him that Way-way killed a man and we buried him in the graveyard, but I manage to keep myself in check. It’s not fair on him, even though he wouldn’t remember a thing after about twenty minutes.
On the bus home, I think about Peter. I love how the sculpted muscles move in his jaw when he speaks, how trim and fit he is from dancing, his expressive hands, his husky voice.
The more I think about sneaking around with Carl, the more I wonder what the hell I was playing at. How could I ever have gone behind Peter’s back? What drove me to follow Carl to the summer house in the first place? Total madness. He seemed to strip away all my defences.
Peter’s so perfect. When we’re together we talk all the time, share our private thoughts and have a real laugh about the odd things people say and do. We cross-examine each other after every film we see; he likes heart-rending biopics, I prefer French and Scandinavian domestic noir.
I just wish the wedding wasn’t so soon. I need time to sort myself out properly. I’m still in shock after what happened. Even now, I can’t believe it.
I start to wonder about how things will be after we’re married, what life will be like five years down the line. I’ll be safe by then and all this will be behind me. Then I muse over the dad I never knew.
When I was with Grandad earlier, I asked if he could remember anything about him, but he seemed to get mixed up and started talking about a pub.
‘Is that where Way-way met my dad?’ I asked, ‘in a pub?’
Mum has always said my dad went to her school in Southampton. Pollard’s secondary school near the station.
‘You must never go near it,’ he said.
‘Why? Which pub, Grandad?’
‘Such a bad thing…but we all kept our mouths shut.’
After that, he appeared to lose interest and wanted to watch the football on television, so I left it there.
Strange, though. I can’t help thinking there’s something about my history that Mum has kept from me.
20
Rachel
I’ve just returned home from an appointment at the florists when Beth comes charging in.
‘They’re digging up the cemetery,’ she yells at me. ‘They know something.’
She’s hyperventilating, then stoops forward, her hands on the arm of the sofa, as her gasping develops into a full-blown asthma attack. She’s trying to suck in huge gulps of air, her eyes bulging, darting blindly around her.
‘Beth, where’s your puffer?’ I rush to her bag and she nods frantically, reaching out her hand.
I press the blue inhaler into her palm and she pumps a dose into her mouth. I ease her into a seat, stroking her back. ‘It’s okay…easy…slow down…’
She’s wearing a tatty baseball cap and tracksuit. It’s so unlike her. She never had a tomboy phase. From an early age everything about her has been feminine. Lately, however, it’s as if glamour is a concept she’s never encountered. I barely recognise her.
She lets me stroke her, cosset her and for a moment I feel a pang of nostalgia; this is how it used to be between us.
Once the attack has subsided, she gives my finger two squeezes, our secret sign – and a sharp sting creeps behind my eyes.
‘What’s happened, exactly?’ I say softly.
‘There are people in the churchyard near…where we…and they’re digging up the earth. They’re looking for him.’
‘The police...?’
‘Yes…’ She hesitates. ‘I…I think so.’
‘Well…was there a police car, and blue and white tape cordoning off the area, any officers in uniform?’
‘Er…I’m not sure. There were definitely men in yellow bibs with spades and a mechanical digger with caterpillar tracks.’ She shivers. ‘I took one look and ran back here to tell you.’ Beth gets to her feet. ‘We must go and check. They’re going to find him.’
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ I tell her, putting out my arm, so she has no option but to fall back onto the sofa.
I hadn’t told her about the vandals defacing Russell’s grave, last week. I didn’t want another tremor under her feet unsettling her, but now she needs to know. ‘It’s not about Carl,’ I tell her, holding her hand. ‘It’ll be about Russell’s grave. A bunch of thugs sprayed graffiti over it and they’ve been fixing it up.’
She looks dazed as though she’s just woken up.
‘That would account for any police,’ I add. My voice fizzles out. As I’m speaking, I’m taking in what she actually said.
Mechanical digger…caterpillar tracks…
Why are they digging five days after the graves were defaced?
‘I’ll pop over and check just in case,’ I say, trying not to look agitated.
Beth stares straight ahead, waiting for her breathing to slow back to normal.
I grab the coat I’ve just left on a hook by the door and snatch my keys from the ledge. I’m about to leave, then stop myself. I can’t leave Beth here in this state. It’s not just the asthma attack, it’s her state of mind. She’s shaking like a leaf. If I leave her alone it wouldn’t surprise me if she does something stupid – runs to tell someone else or even turns herself in to the police.
‘Okay, let’s walk back together,’ I say, ‘but you mustn’t react or say a word to anyone. Just stay close to me, nice and calm, okay?’
She nods.
I hold her jacket open for her, like I did when she was little and she slides her arms into it. It’s moments like this I wish I could capture and hold on to forever. ‘Make sure you’ve got your inhaler.’
I bundle her out of the door and we head over to St Andrew’s Church, taking such rapid strides, we’re almost breaking into a jog. We pass the main building and take the footpath around the back. I force her to slow down like we’re just talking a stroll.
‘See…’ she hisses into my shoulder, ‘there are men in…’
‘Yellow bibs. I know. It’s not the police, it�
��s health and safety. Don’t worry.’
Without another word, I link Beth’s arm and pull her away from the gate, back to the main high street.
‘It’s okay. They’re digging for the next coffin, that’s all,’ I tell her as we walk purposefully away. ‘They’re not digging anybody up.’
Beth seems barely able to walk in a straight line. She looks pale and dead on her feet. Have my rash actions in the cellar turned my confident and courageous daughter into this flimsy, feeble young woman in one cruel blow?
Even though we have no budget for meals out, I suggest we stop at a café. ‘When did you last have something to eat?’ I ask gently.
‘I had a few brazil nuts this morning...’ It’s now nearly three o’clock.
As we walk, a police car screams past us and we both whip round to see where it’s going. We’re like deer caught in headlights.
The car crosses the mini roundabout and takes a right out of town. We both breathe out in unison. Beth mutters under her breath and leans into me and I wrap my arm firmly around her.
We find a table in the French deli near the bridge and share a pot of tea and an omelette.
She’s silent for a while, taking ages to chew her food. ‘Why don’t you ever tell me much about my dad?’ she asks.
I stretch my eyes wide. ‘There’s not much to tell. He was young and still at school when we got together. He ran off when I got pregnant and I hardly ever saw him again. You know all this.’
‘What did he look like? What was he interested in?’
Hairs on the back of my neck shoot up. ‘Where’s this coming from?’
‘Just getting married…families, you know. I was looking at the list of people for lunch and apart from Grandad, there’s no proper family on our side.’
‘There’s not much to tell. He was just an ordinary schoolboy; shaggy blonde hair, blue eyes. He played the violin.’