Traces of Her

by Amanda Brittany

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, wake up, Ava,’ Gail snapped. ‘Please.’

  Ava rose. ‘I’m keeping this baby,’ she said, holding her stomach, a feeling of nausea swirling. ‘Whether you like it or not.’ And with that, she turned and left the room, leaving Gail to comfort their mother who burst into tears.

  Chapter 6

  ROSE

  Now

  My phone rings as we pull onto the drive outside Darlington House. It’s Aaron.

  ‘Go ring the bell, sweetheart,’ I say to Becky, and she clambers from the passenger seat and hurtles towards the front door. I answer the call.

  ‘Just landed,’ Aaron says, as though he is a passenger on a flight, rather than the pilot. I admit it’s what hooked me in when I met him a year ago. Although I’m not sure if, at the time, I equated a pilot’s uniform with being alone so often. But when he is home he’s the best partner there is, so I mustn’t complain.

  ‘That’s great,’ I say. ‘I thought we might have a takeaway tonight. I’ve picked up wine.’

  ‘Sounds good. I should be home in a couple of hours.’

  I will only see him for two days before he takes off again. I don’t like it, but I guess I’m getting used to it. I love him and the times we spend together mean everything. And there’s always the bonus that absence is a great aphrodisiac.

  ‘I’m at my dad’s at the moment,’ I say into the phone. ‘But I need to tell you something when I see you.’

  ‘What?’ He sounds alarmed. ‘You can’t leave me hanging. Nothing’s wrong, is it? Is Becky OK?’

  ‘She’s fine. Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that … well, Willow called.’

  ‘Willow? Is she OK?’ He’s met Willow several times, and they seem to get on well, although he does find her a bit flaky, and frankly I’m not surprised.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I think so. I’ll tell you everything when you get home.’

  ‘Did she say why she hasn’t been in contact?’

  ‘Of course.’ I don’t want to get into a conversation about it right now. ‘She’s staying in Cornwall, apparently. I’m going down there when school breaks up.’

  ‘What’s she doing in Cornwall?’

  ‘It’s a long story, Aaron.’ I bite down on my bottom lip. ‘Listen, can we talk at home? I’m at my dad’s,’ I repeat.

  ‘OK, yes, I’ll see you soon,’ he says.

  He rings off, and I drop my phone into my bag.

  As I climb from the car and stride towards Darlington House, I notice Eleanor’s jeep isn’t on the drive. Dad will be alone. The house is too big for two people, but Eleanor refuses to sell up and move somewhere smaller – she says her memories are here. She told me once she still hears Willow’s childhood laughter echoing around the walls.

  Becky has left the front door ajar, and I step inside out of the bright day, and into the dimly lit hallway that feels cold, whatever the weather.

  ‘Hi,’ I call out, placing my bag on the antique cabinet by the door.

  ‘In here, Mum,’ Becky calls back, and I make my way into the lounge, where three sofas – that have been there since we moved in and are now a little worn – hug an open fireplace that hasn’t been lit since last winter. Sun pours in through the huge bay window, and I blink, my eyes adjusting to the sudden light. Becky and Dad sit in the middle of one of the sofas, her head on his shoulder.

  He peers at me over his glasses, ‘Rose, darling. It’s lovely to see you. How’s the headship going?’ He’s so proud – part of the reason I accepted it. ‘I was telling the boys at the Fox and Hound how well you’re doing.’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, looking about me. It isn’t strictly true –I’m not sure I’m cut out to manage a school. ‘Where’s Eleanor?’

  ‘Shopping with the girls,’ he says, with a small laugh. ‘They call themselves “the girls” and yet they’re almost sixty.’

  I want to say I know. That he tells me that every time I visit. I bend and kiss his silver-grey hair, his familiar aftershave tickling my nostrils, making me smile. ‘Shall I make some tea?’

  ‘Not for me, dear,’ he says, and Becky shakes her head, giving me a look as if to say tell him, tell him Willow called.

  ‘It’s such good news,’ Dad says once I’ve told him. His irises look far too blue, as though he might cry, showing however many times Willow takes off, it still worries him. He loves Willow as though she is his own daughter.

  Becky takes her grandpa’s hand in hers and squeezes. ‘We’re going to see her at the weekend. We’ll bring her back. Promise.’ She fumbles in her pocket for a tissue and dabs his cheeks. ‘Everything is going to be just fine, Grandpa. You’ll see.’

  *

  Aaron’s Mercedes is on the drive when we get home, and a fizz of excitement runs through me.

  ‘Call me when the Chinese is here,’ Becky says once we’re inside and she’s unlacing her Doc Martens and tugging them free. She jumps to her feet and bobs her head around the lounge door. ‘Hey, Aaron,’ she calls, raising her hand in a wave.

  ‘Hey, Becky,’ he says, waving back.

  ‘I’ll have beef and broccoli with boiled rice.’ She’s done her research online for the healthiest Chinese takeaway options, and always has the same thing.

  She drops her boots and heads up the stairs. I bend to pick them up and stand them neatly on the shoe shelf.

  I enter the lounge. Aaron is watching The One Show. He looks up, points the remote control at the TV, and presses pause.

  ‘Hey, beautiful,’ he says, rising and heading towards me, taking me into his arms. He’s showered – smells of Jimmy Choo. He’s worn it ever since I bought him a bottle at Christmas.

  ‘It’s so good to see you,’ I say, nuzzling into his shoulder, breathing him in. I suppose the only consolation of this difficult way of life is we never seem to get bored with each other. My heart still races when I see him, and he says his does too. I’m guessing if we’d seen each other every second of the last year, things might be different – more static, normal. But I guess I’ll never know. He suggested once that he could change careers, said he hated that we were apart so often, but I knew how much he loved his job – still does. It wouldn’t have been fair to ask him to throw it in for me.

  ‘It’s so good to see you too,’ he says, placing a kiss on my forehead, and releasing me. He sits back down, patting the seat next to him.

  I grab my laptop, and as I lean back, opening it up, his arm falls loosely around my shoulders, and I feel safe. ‘I’d better order the Chinese,’ I say with a smile.

  ‘Pork in black bean sauce for me, please’ he says, pointing the remote control at the TV again and unfreezing Matt Baker, his smile dimpling his cheek as he glances at the menu with me.

  An email notification appears in the corner of my laptop screen. I click on it. It’s from Willow, telling me her address in Cornwall – and a brief message:

  I can’t wait to see you, Rose. I need you so much, Willow. X

  Chapter 7

  AVA

  2001

  Ava screwed up her face and wiggled so the bridesmaid dress rustled. It was floor-length, yellow satin, like her daughter’s – although Willow looked like child-sized sunshine, and Ava most definitely did not.

  But in seven weeks Gail was getting married to Rory, and Ava would be their bridesmaid.

  ‘I look stupid, Mum,’ Ava said, strutting around the lounge, bashing her leg on the coffee table, as her mum looked on. ‘This headdress would look better on our front door this Christmas.’

  ‘You look fine, Ava. Now stop with your whinging,’ Jeannette said, pinning her with a stare.

  Ava pulled the fake floral headdress over her eyes. ‘Ah, I can’t see.’ She held out her arms like a zombie and took pigeon steps across the room. ‘I reckon Gail pinched this thing off a gravestone.’

  ‘Enough. Stop that stupid talk.’ Her mum reached up and straightened her daughter’s headdress. ‘Your sister wants you and Willow to look beautiful. Why would she go out of her w
ay to make you look stupid on her wedding day?’ She took short, sharp strides away from Ava, retreating into the kitchen.

  ‘Because she hates me, that’s why.’ Ava had no doubt of that. ‘She’s only having me as her bridesmaid because you told her she had to, and Rory wants Willow as their flower girl.’

  Her mother reappeared in the lounge, and folding her arms across her slim body, said, ‘She doesn’t hate you, Ava. She despairs of you, as we all do. There’s a difference. And this is Gail’s big day, not yours. So can you please stop thinking about yourself for once, and be happy for her?’

  The words stung. Ava rarely thought about herself.

  Ava followed her mum as she headed back into the small, impeccable kitchen. ‘I’m pleased for Gail, really I am,’ she said. It wasn’t true. She wasn’t pleased for her sister. The only plus she could see was that Gail had finally moved out of the cottage. It had taken a while for the move to happen, as Rory had had problems getting rid of his lodger, but now her sister had moved into Rory’s Edwardian detached in Newquay.

  Gail and Ava had always shared the bigger room – neither wanting to sleep in their brother Peter’s old room when he left for Australia when he was eighteen. They both claimed it smelt funny. When Willow was born, the young women had fought over the limited space. Gail had never had any patience with Willow – said she wasn’t cut out to be an auntie and didn’t want kids herself. But now Gail had gone, and it was bliss for Willow and Ava to have the room to themselves.

  ‘Do you like Rory, Mum?’ Ava asked, taking two mugs from the cupboard. She wasn’t sure what she felt about her soon to be brother-in-law. He had the looks, the charm, but she’d seen him grip Gail’s arm a little too tightly on occasions, and the aggressive way he’d treated her in the arcade two years back when she’d bumped into him, still stayed in her mind. ‘You’re sure Gail’s making the right decision marrying him?

  ‘For Christ’s sake, stop, Ava.’ Her mum raised her hand. ‘Rory is handsome, intelligent, witty, well-off—’

  ‘Too good to be true?’

  ‘He’ll make your sister happy.’ She turned and shoved the kettle under the streaming tap. ‘Sometimes I think you’re jealous of Gail.’

  ‘Maybe I am,’ Ava whispered, out of her mother’s earshot. Gail was marrying a rich, handsome man, while Ava struggled to hold on to Willow’s father. Some days she felt as though she might lose her mind stuck in this isolated part of Cornwall, with no means of escape.

  But she had her beautiful daughter. Willow made things right.

  And while she didn’t have many friends, she drew comfort from being close to the sea. From her bedroom window she would watch the tides rise and fall, and could be on the beach within moments; smell the salty air, feel sand between her toes. It kept her sane. Gave her hope. Hope that one day everything would be different. One day she would give her daughter a perfect life – the life she’d never had.

  She looked down at the yellow dress once more. ‘Right,’ she said, putting the mug back in the cupboard, deciding she didn’t want a hot drink. ‘I’m getting out of this.’

  She climbed the stairs, unzipping the dress as she went, and once in her room, she pushed it from her shoulders, letting it drop in a heap around her ankles. She stepped from it, and grabbed her robe, and pulled it on over her bra and pants, and flopped onto her bed wishing she was a million miles from away.

  ‘I’m heading out, Ava,’ her mum called up the stairs later. ‘Do you need anything from the shop?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ she called back.

  The door slammed shut, and a cry came from the bed in the corner of the room. Willow was stirring.

  As Ava padded over to her, she glanced out of the window to see her mum, wrapped in her winter coat, hurrying down the uneven road towards the local shop – her head down. She always avoided eye contact with dog walkers, neighbours, holidaymakers, and now she was quickening her step as she passed a lad with a yellow baseball cap pulled low. He stopped, turned, and watched her mum dash onwards until she was out of sight. Suddenly his gaze flicked up to the window where Ava stood. Before she could register his face, she moved out of sight with a jolt. When she looked again, he’d gone.

  Willow had drifted back to sleep, lids closed over blue eyes, her thumb in her mouth. Ava stroked a strand of hair from her daughter’s face. ‘You deserve so much more, darling girl,’ she whispered. ‘One day your life will be perfect, you’ll see.’

  Chapter 8

  YOU

  Always surrounded by friends – so popular – but then you had a charm, didn’t you? A charisma that drew people in, so much so you could make them do almost anything.

  When I was young I imagined, as I watched you from a distance, what it would be like to be part of your network of friends. What did you all do when you went into the woods at night?

  Mystery and darkness shrouded you and I suppose that made you all the more intriguing, fascinating – made me want to be a part of your world even more.

  You didn’t see me following you everywhere. See me watching you.

  I thought about you constantly – wished for the day when you would wrap your arm around my shoulders, pull me close, and kiss me.

  But you never did. Well, not at first anyway.

  I was so young when I made it my mission to infiltrate your world. You were so beautiful to me – I had to be close to you. But it was later – much later in fact – when you finally noticed me. You glanced over and smiled, and I don’t mind admitting, my stomach flipped. You had such a winning smile – those dimples making you look so innocent. No one could have imagined what was beneath that smile – not even me. Not back then.

  Chapter 9

  ROSE

  Now

  I stand in the corner of the staffroom gripping the stem of my wine glass, the sun beaming through the small Georgian windows behind me, bringing on the makings of a migraine. I’m exhausted. It’s been a difficult first year at Mandalay Primary School. Some days I feel like running back to my old school and begging them to take me back. I loved being a teacher. I hate being a head.

  And secret-gift swapping with staff is far from my idea of fun. In fact, as I said to Aaron when he picked me up for lunch earlier, the whole thing is quite bizarre.

  ‘It’s like a Secret Santa, but in the summer,’ the school secretary told me a few weeks back, coming into my office brandishing a too-bright smile. She thrust a tartan cap full of pieces of paper towards me. ‘We’ve been doing it for years,’ she went on. ‘It was John’s idea.’ It was an obvious nod to the previous head who I knew she preferred. ‘We normally give gifts around the ten-pound mark.’

  It was one of those many moments when I wanted to say, ‘I think some of these silly traditions need changing.’ But instead I pulled out a name and smiled politely.

  I’d studied to be a teacher when Becky was young, after Seb left. I was living with Dad and Eleanor at the time, and I know, without their support, I wouldn’t be where I am. I guess that’s why I’m here, in this role, continually trying to prove their faith in me was worth it.

  A shriek of laughter brings me out of my daydream, and I stare at the gift collection box in the middle of the room. It has stood outside my office for the last month, with staff dropping parcels off, and children and parents nosing inside. Even Becky, when she met me last week after work, asked who the gifts were for. ‘Sounds cool,’ she said when I explained. But then at fourteen, it probably did.

  I sip red wine and wince. Not one for drinking in the day, I put the glass down, deciding not to touch any more. I’ll be driving soon, so shouldn’t anyway, and I know it won’t help a migraine.

  Several members of staff are red-cheeked already, enjoying the fact the children have gone home to their families for six weeks, and chatting and laughing together after a long term.

  I’m struggling to fit in here, and I try telling myself that being a headteacher isn’t about making friends. I must accept I will be slightly removed
from the staff – on the outside looking in.

  Ralph Martin, a trainee teacher who looks young enough to be brought to school by his mum, stands up and claps his hands. My heart sinks as the chatter fades. I hate surprises. They make me feel out of control.

  ‘It’s pressie time,’ he says, sounding upbeat, clearly enjoying the excitement. ‘Do you want to do the honours, Rose?’

  ‘No!’ The word shoots from my mouth sharper than intended, and everyone looks at me. ‘You go for it, Ralph,’ I say, trying to smooth the edges from my words.

  The presents are distributed quickly. Wrappings are ripped off, flying everywhere, and the room fills with laughter and overexcited ‘oohs’. The gifts range from saucy pink, furry handcuffs to sensible silk scarves.

  The teaching assistant who receives my gift doesn’t look too thrilled by a book of poetry, but I didn’t know what to get a man I barely know. And he is attached to literacy after all.

  ‘Rose,’ Ralph says. ‘This one’s for you.’

  I take it with a fake smile, and pull free the gold wrapping paper, like I’m ripping off a plaster. Inside is a set of body oils. ‘Thank you,’ I say, flicking my eyes around the room, wondering who sent me such a thoughtful gift.

  ‘Just one left,’ Ralph says, lifting out another parcel. I see the tag is torn. ‘Another one for you, Rose,’ he says, arching his eyebrow.

  ‘That can’t be right, can it?’ I look at everyone in turn. ‘Wasn’t it one for each of us?’ I take it from him, feeling too warm in my short-sleeved polo neck top. The room’s too noisy. Too crowded.

  In my hand is a green box, tied with a yellow silk ribbon. I feel a slight dizziness, a need for air. ‘Betsy,’ I whisper.

  ‘Sorry?’ Ralph says.

  ‘Listen, I’m just going outside for a moment,’ I say, turning to head for the door, unsure what’s wrong with me. Is it the stress of the long term? The worry I’m not cut out for a leadership role? Thoughts of Willow?