The Playground

by Jane Shemilt

  Dedication

  To my husband, Steven Gill, and our beloved children:

  Martha, Mary, Henry, Tommy, and Johny

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part One: The Truth

  1. May

  2. May

  3. June

  Part Two: Summer Holidays

  4. July

  5. August

  6. October

  Part Three: Watching the Grown-Ups

  7. October: The Night After the Party

  8. November: Three Weeks After Ash’s Death

  9. November

  Part Four: Damage

  10. November

  11. November

  12. November

  Part Five: Disguises

  13. November

  14. November

  15. March

  Part Six: Friendship

  16. April

  17. April

  18. April—Same Day

  19. May

  20. December

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Jane Shemilt

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part One

  The Truth

  It was surprising how quickly things took off in the end, like a bonfire, one of those big ones the children loved so much. Some nights I hear that sound of crackling again, like a bomb ticking down. I wait for the roar and see the flames; the scent of scorching fills the air. I can feel that searing heat.

  The children danced around fires all summer, lit up and yelling like wild things. We left them to it, watching from a distance, watching each other more. We were kindling ourselves those long hot months, parched and waiting, though we didn’t know that till far too late.

  I used to think truth was a simple thing. That there could only be one truth, single and essential—like light, say, or water. Now I know it comes in layers, some more transparent than others. If you look carefully—and we didn’t—you can see through the top layer to the darkness beneath. I’m thinking of ice on the surface of deep water.

  Eve told the truth: she told the police she loved her children and that her marriage to Eric was happy. That was true, the top layer of her truth. She didn’t tell them that she hadn’t watched her children carefully; she didn’t tell them about the affair. She didn’t say how upset Sorrel had been or that she hadn’t listened to her properly, but I don’t think she was hiding that on purpose; she hadn’t seen the truth either though it was staring her in the face.

  And Melissa—designer, wife, mother, hiding under that perfect exterior, we didn’t look deeper, not until later, and by then the damage was done.

  The children, well, it never occurred to them to tell us the truth. But then it probably never occurred to them they were lying. They were simply surviving. We were all skating on ice, thin ice. No one was looking at the depths beneath, which was pretty stupid, considering what happened.

  The day it started began the same for all of us, with blood and sunshine, with hope, with no idea at all.

  1. May

  Eve

  Eve is in her kitchen making bread; her hands knead and press and throw. The sound will travel up through the ceiling to the beds where the children drowse. They’ll remember this, the sound and the scent, the light through the curtains, feeling safe, being safe. Beyond the open windows, the garden rolls to the wood, the long grass fringed with sun. There’s warmth in the air already. Eve divides the dough into rolls and fills a loaf pan with the rest; she takes the croissants out and stacks them on a rack.

  Everything is ready: books, piles of paper, the pencils for each child, and the name tags in bright blue ink: Poppy, Isabelle, Blake. She glances at the certificates hanging by the sink: EVE PEMBERTON, BA (HONS) IN PRIMARY EDUCATION; the smaller certificate means more, the diploma in teaching learners with dyslexia, the course she did online this year, for Poppy.

  Eric comes into the kitchen; he reaches for a croissant, which disappears in a couple of bites. “Nervous?”

  She pushes the lines of pencils on the table together until they meet with a little click. “A bit.”

  “I hope it’s worth it.” He kisses her, the stubble scraping her cheek, and smooths a strand of hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to put yourself through this; school will sort Poppy, given time.”

  She shakes her head and moves away, sliding the kettle onto the stove. “Time isn’t on Poppy’s side. If you feel stupid, every day, every minute matters. I have to try for her sake. It might seem a little crazy but—”

  “You must do what your heart tells you to.” It’s a favorite expression of his and it usually helps. He smiles at her; he’s hardly changed since they met twelve years ago, back when the garden was still her father’s and he was shaping beds and planting trees. His eyes are the same sky blue as they were that hot morning in June, the week before her finals. She’d been lying on a blanket in her bikini making notes. Her parents’ cocktail party was in full swing on the sundrenched veranda above; the babble of chatter and chink of glasses reached her hiding place behind a bed of roses. She could hear her mother calling her, thinly disguised impatience in that well-bred voice. Eric had almost stepped on her.

  “Now there’s a coincidence,” he’d said, as he lowered the wheelbarrow. “I hate parties too.”

  When her parents died and it came to choosing, her brother chose the shares, the cars and the yacht, the racehorses. She’d wanted space. The villa among the olive trees in Greece, and the house where she’d grown up, this very house with its two acres of planted land between the road and the railway. The chance to be barefoot in a kitchen with children in the garden, running in and running out. Her mother had been too busy for her, too occupied with friends and parties. Eve’s kids would have a normal childhood, though as Eric pointed out, it wasn’t normal at all. Most mothers had a job nowadays; if you wanted normal you had to model it. Well, now she was.

  Privately she wonders if Poppy inherited her dyslexia from Eric; he had talked late, and says little still. Her father had liked his silences, finding them restful. The old man had walked with him in the garden each evening, sipping wine, gesturing with his pipe to the wood, the planted slopes, the wildlife pond in the paddock where his donkeys lived. He’d put his arm around the young landscaper’s shoulders, growing expansive with drink. All the same, when Eric asked for Eve’s hand after three short months, her father was cautious. He advised her to wait, but Eric had been what she wanted, she had been quite sure. She’d wanted peace back then, not words; a kind man, a garden, children.

  Eric pushes the window open and stares across the meadow to the wood. “Those trees need thinning.”

  “Those trees are just fine.” She tucks her arm into his, resting her head against his shoulder. She loves the soft mass of leaves; the way the branches mesh together, blocking out the railway at the back. They cast shadows, making secret places for the children to play. All children should have the chance to escape from their parents, though he doesn’t agree.

  “I’ll take Sorrel to school and drop Ash at playgroup on my way,” he offers.

  “It’s half term; there’s no school today and no playgroup.” She lifts her head from his shoulder. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

  He doesn’t reply; he’s not listening. His gaze shifts between the wood and the meadow, working things out. He wants a Japanese garden. A landscape should have shape, according to him, symmetry preferably, a proper sense of order.

  She takes her arm from his. “You promised you’d look after Sorrel and Ash, remember?”

  “I promised I would if I was here.” He shakes his head, his mouth turns
down, there’s a trace of guilt in his eyes. “We’ve just been handed the contract for felling in Crystal Palace provided we do it quickly. I’d happily take both of them, but it would be far too dangerous.”

  She closes her eyes, praying for patience. He could have told her before, but she won’t lose her temper, not today. Today has to be perfect for the children, as perfect as the cloudless sky over the garden and the warm sunshine that’s beginning to creep through the kitchen windows. There is no point in getting annoyed.

  “They’ll have to stay then; they can join in once I’ve finished teaching.” She puts paper on the smaller table. “I warned Melissa and Grace that Sorrel and Ash might have to be around sometimes. It’s not all bad; little ones are supposed to be calming for dyslexic kids, it gives them a sense of control.”

  “So I’m forgiven?”

  “I’ll just have to hope they don’t mind.” She straightens, staring across the lawn to the wood, imagining the group of children playing together after the lesson, their laughter drifting back to her through the open window.

  “I’d keep them inside,” he says, following her gaze. “I don’t want to tell Paul we lost track of his daughter. He’s not the forgiving type.”

  “This is Dulwich, my darling, not the Amazonian jungle.” She touches his cheek. “If it makes you feel happier, I’ll ask Igor to mow a path through the meadow; they’ll be easier to spot.”

  “I’ll do it. Anything for my princess.” A mock bow; he doesn’t like her calling on his coworker to do jobs.

  The two men had met during a landscaping project in Dulwich Park. Igor was living in a hostel at the time, scraping a wage to send back to his family in Poland. Eric offered him a job and a place to stay in the old staff bungalow on the grounds; it had been empty for years. Eric and Igor make a good team: Eric designing and planning; Igor following his lead, a giant of a man with the jowly face of a bulldog, the same steadfast loyalty in his eyes.

  A heavy footstep sounds on the stone veranda outside the kitchen.

  “Talk of the devil.” Eric vanishes to confer with Igor. Eve hands a croissant and a mug of coffee through the window; Igor nods as he takes them, his face half hidden behind a large beard, cap pulled low. He seldom speaks to her; whether he’s shy or sullen she can’t quite decide.

  “Who’s a princess?” Poppy appears, dressed for the day in a red sequined jacket unearthed from the dress-up box. She’d been listening outside the door. Her beloved eldest with thick auburn braids, a splash of freckles over her nose, and toenails painted blue; eleven going on sixteen.

  “You are of course, my precious one.” Eve swoops for a hug, but Poppy grabs a croissant and makes for the door. Eve watches her go, registering a small tug of sadness; she used to be allowed to hold her eldest daughter. She’d hold all three children so close it was hard to tell in the tangle of limbs where her body ended and theirs began. Poppy disappears as Sorrel tumbles over her sister’s feet and into the room. She scrambles up, used to this. Six years old, a smaller edition of her sister but rounder, more disheveled, sunnier in nature.

  “May I have one, and one for Ash?” She lisps, her tongue catching the wide gaps between her teeth.

  “Of course you may, my little darling.” Eric has returned for his boots. He lifts her to the table and she frowns, breathing deeply as she chooses two croissants, one for each hand; put down on the floor she tiptoes out, silent as Noah, Sorrel’s little Labrador puppy asleep in front of the stove.

  Eric shakes his head. “We should have breakfast round the table, Eve.”

  Eve holds on to an image of her daughters upstairs, whispering under the tented sheets, littering fragments of pastry, the filtered sun rosy on their skin. They will have brought Ash into bed with them.

  “We should just let them be,” she replies.

  “Kids need a structured life.” He laces his boots; this is an old argument, one they’ve tossed back and forth for years.

  “They need freedom,” she calls out as he shuts the door. She hears him clomp down the path in his boots. It doesn’t matter; she lets them stay outside for hours when he’s away, playing until dark or the cold brings them in. She gives them the run of the garden as a secret gift, the childhood she wishes she’d had.

  A croissant falls from the rack into a shaft of dusty sun. Eve checks the fridge: carrot sticks, small sandwiches, homemade pizzas. She pulls butter from the middle shelf, strawberry jam from inside the door, and lathers both on a warm croissant with a knife, nicking her finger. She leans her elbows on the windowsill, sucking the blood off her skin, eyes half closed like a cat in the sunshine. The garden spreads out in front of her, the blue hydrangeas nodding their great heads near the house, roses and lavender against the side wall by the drive. The donkeys in the field, and beyond them the grass in the meadow and then the trees, which are larger than they were when she was a child, much taller. They cast shadows that are darker and stretch farther than they did back then. As she watches, the little wood seems to shiver in the breeze, as if readying itself for the children.

  Melissa

  Melissa spends an hour in her basement gym, the cross trainer first and then the rowing machine, working out until her hands are too slippery to hold the handles. In the bath afterward her body is visible from all angles in the steamy mirrors. There is a new softness at her hips and her shoulders look stringy. Shaving at the bikini line she misjudges the angle and cuts the skin; blood ribbons into the water, staining the foam. She watches as though it belongs to someone else. Thirty-five is still young. There are always things to try: a personal trainer, a new diet. She steps from the bath, wraps herself in her dressing gown, and pads barefoot to the kitchen. She waits for the kettle to boil, placing her palm against the kitchen windowpane equidistant from the metal edges. She spreads the fingers; hand as art. The spaces between the thin digits are shaped like knives, there are hollows beside the tendons, some blue veins are scarred. The tips of the fingers tremble. The kettle flicks off; she turns her face from the light. The sun is already heating the curved lines of brick and gravel outside. The landscaper talked about flow and focal points, but Paul took over and the results were disappointing. She makes chamomile tea and takes it to her office, where she sifts through her emails; an architect wants bespoke blinds for his garden room in Dulwich, then there’s a mural to commission for the flat in Chelsea; the clients expect her to be on hand whenever they call. Her desk is awash with computer-aided designs for their kitchen, but it’s unlikely they’ll agree on anything. The plans have been sent back twice already. She’s painted sheets of paper to try against the walls of their flat in soft yellow and burned orange, the colors of happiness, though in reality she suspects those clients are miserable; like us, she thinks as she glances at the glowing hues; like me.

  A tapping noise picks at the silence, a tiny woodpecker of sound. She ties her dressing-gown cord more tightly and walks upstairs to the sitting room. Her daughter, up early, is focused on her laptop, legs tucked under her on the leather sofa. She’s in pajama bottoms and a skimpy vest through which breast buds are visible. Melissa leans against the door, pride and fear curdling. Thirteen. She reaches back for her own thirteen, but the years are blurred with misery. Her father’s taunts about puppy fat had sparked a frantic determination to lose weight. The starvation became extreme, the exercising desperate. She was taken to the hospital twice. Recovery was slow and incomplete; Izzy must be allowed to be the person she’s been becoming since she was little, at all costs. Happy or at least content or at least not cowed. It’s worked so far—shame seems to be the last thing on her daughter’s mind.

  “Hi, sweetie.”

  Izzy jolts and snaps the lid shut. She glares up, her pretty face contracting.

  “Can’t you knock?” Her fury is palpable. Melissa feels automatic guilt, a low-down flooding like waters breaking. Ridiculous, she’s done nothing wrong.

  “This is the sitting room, Izzy. Everyone’s space.”

  “Where
’s Daddy?”

  “His flight arrives at three. He’ll be here when you get back later.”

  The blue eyes blaze. “Back from what? What have you arranged now?”

  “Your day with the teacher, Daddy’s landscaper’s wife. You met her when they came to lunch. You liked her.”

  Izzy jumps up, her laptop clatters to the ground. “What’s the matter with you? It’s half term. Why are you doing this?”

  “Calm down, darling. It’s about finding you the right kind of help—”

  “Why pretend it’s for me when it’s actually for you? You want to get rid of me so you can work, it’s pathetic.”

  Isabelle chucks a cushion across the room; it hits a vase, which topples to the floor and smashes on the marble. She reaches for another.

  “There’ll be a couple of other children too,” Melissa says quickly.

  The cushion lowers.

  “How old?”

  “Eve’s daughter’s eleven and there’s a boy coming of about the same age.” She glances at Izzy, hurries on. “Her other children may be around sometimes, a girl of six and a little boy of two.”

  “You have to be joking.” Izzy’s eyes narrow.

  “Everyone will look up to you; you’ll be leader of the gang.”

  Izzy’s face becomes thoughtful. No one waits with her by the entrance to the school lane where Melissa finds her at the end of the day, slumped against the railings by herself. Friends never last. The only person she goes to the movies or shopping with is her father; she must yearn for friends of her own.

  “How much will you give me if I go?”

  “How much?” Melissa is confused.

  “As in a hundred pounds,” Izzy replies impatiently.

  It’s impossible for her daughter to look anything other than beautiful, the thick fair hair, the fierce blue stare, the way she stands on long legs as graceful as a colt; strong bodied. Dyslexia is better than anorexia. Funny how flowery they both sound, like girls’ names, pretty girls.

  “Fifty.”