The Memory: A Gripping Psychological Thriller With a Heart-Stopping Twist

by Lucy Dawson

  As she stands there in her too-big coat, I suddenly see myself, all those years ago. Perhaps it’s what she’s shared with me – our commonality – but out of nowhere, the best part of thirty years roll back in an instant as I wonder what would have happened, had I not let Michael persuade me to take on such a ludicrous project at such a young age on barely more than a whim. How different life might have been, had my little family not moved here?

  ‘Don’t buy this place,’ I beseech my younger self desperately, out loud.

  Her eyes widen further still. Everything has gone very quiet. I can feel the house holding its breath too.

  ‘It really is a lot of hard work, and I’m not sure I think it would make you terribly happy.’

  I blink and see Claire standing in front of me once again. Unlike earlier, I feel embarrassed and immediately wish I hadn’t spoken. I need to sell. This woman is paying cash and is nothing to me – a total stranger. What do I care if she is about to make a huge mistake?

  And yet, I find, I do. I think about another innocent little girl sleeping under the branches of the bewitching cherry tree – Rosamund is such a pretty name – and feel slightly sick with anxiety. Neither of us moves… and suddenly a door slams somewhere downstairs. We both jump out of our skins.

  ‘For God’s sake, Izzie!’ I shout suddenly, and Claire takes a step back from me. ‘I’m so sorry.’ I rub my forehead lightly, trying to regain a sense of equilibrium. ‘My daughter sometimes finds visitors a little unsettling. She’s lived in this house for so long that anything new or different is very different.’ I exhale deeply – my heart is racing. ‘Look, I shouldn’t have said anything just then, about what you should or shouldn’t do. I don’t know your circumstances; your situation is none of my business and I spoke out of turn. I shan’t do another house viewing again! Now, you wanted to see the garden, I think? Do you still?’ I look at her desperately.

  She nods silently. She seems to have lost the power of speech. I can’t blame her really. We take the main staircase as it’s closer, rather than the back one. ‘Not many houses can claim to have three separate flights of stairs!’ I joke, trying hard to lighten the atmosphere, but we are well past that point. We make our way to the garden in silence.

  Once we are outside, however, I feel instantly better, as I always do. The cold wind cools my anger as we arrive on the main lawn. I turn my face to the hills and fields for a moment, looking towards the just-visible roofs of the new development Mary so ‘helpfully’ mentioned in the shop – and take a gulp of air, before looking back at the house. The skeleton of the bare, overgrown honeysuckle is clinging to the stones, although more accurately, probably propping the house up. I’m scanning the bedroom windows when Claire eventually speaks again.

  ‘This is a stunning garden. Do you do all of this yourself?’

  I nod as I glance at the ordered beds, the rockery, the pergola, the apple tree with the swing, right down through to the orchard and vegetable patch. ‘It is nice in summer,’ I admit. ‘I mow little paths through the orchard. Rosie would probably like that. And in the spring, the farmer puts lambs in the fields behind the house.’ I point at the back hedge. ‘The garden is what I will miss most.’

  ‘My late grandmother was a good gardener. Very instinctive and she knew all of the Latin names for everything. Now, I’d love to learn from her, but I didn’t appreciate her knowledge when I was younger.’

  ‘It’s not so complicated,’ I confess. ‘You’d very quickly get the hang of it if you spent a little time working alongside someone in your garden and being introduced to some of the plants. People are afraid of making mistakes, but gardens are very forgiving.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. I should try and arrange something. An in-garden tutorial. Thank you.’ She smiles.

  ‘You’re very welcome.’

  We stand in silence for a moment alongside each other, until the robin begins to sing again and breaks the spell. I gather myself and remember my manners.

  ‘Well, thank you for coming, Claire. I’ll show you out.’

  ‘It was very nice to meet you, Eve.’ She holds out her hand on the doorstep. ‘Happy Christmas.’

  ‘And to you,’ I say.

  We shake and she smiles at me before turning to make her way back to her car.

  I close the door and stand well back in the gloom of the hall, watching her through the glass as she climbs into the Volvo and starts it up. I feel oddly sad to see her go. Although, actually, there is nothing odd about it at all. She’s a cash buyer and I just told her not to buy this place. Urgh. What is wrong with me? I am NEVER going to sell this damn house.

  I sigh, then shriek, leaping about ten feet in the air as someone right behind me blows on the back of my neck. ‘Jesus Christ, Isobel!’

  I hear her giggle – having finally succeeded in pushing me over the edge – and sense the change in the air as she darts back out, slamming the sitting room door so quickly behind her that by the time I’ve spun round, clutching at my heart, she is already gone.

  I furiously throw it open again. ‘I’m glad you think this is funny!’ I shout into the house. ‘Isobel?’

  I wait, but hear not so much as a whisper in response.

  Four

  Claire

  I can just about make out Eve’s face as she stands motionless inside the small hall, watching me through the glass panel in the front door. I start the car and take one last look at Fox Cottage. Such a pretty name… but made for chocolate-box prettiness and gardens of wild flowers – not this sprawling pebble-dash monstrosity with its murky, mustard lintels. Either side of the front door stand two shiny-leafed bay trees in modern, square planters – an obvious attempt to smarten it up for sale – but all it does is make it appear as if Eve is somehow standing sentry within, like a life-sized doll ready to come to life again when someone next knocks on the door.

  I pull off the forecourt and begin the drive back. When the estate agent told me the owner of Fox Cottage – an art teacher up at the local high school – would be showing me around, I immediately pictured a Germaine Greer-type in a hessian smock top, self-made silver jewellery, loose trousers and flat, round-toed leather shoes. Eve has completely wrong-footed me. I didn’t expect someone so attractive – very few women her age keep their hair long. She’s let it go past her shoulders, and it’s exactly the sort of burnt bracken colour I’ve always wanted but never been brave enough to try. In any case, I don’t think you can fake that particular Celtic tone, although she has to be in her fifties… it can’t still be natural, surely?

  And when she took my hand – just like that – after I told her about Mum and Dad. To my huge surprise, tears spring to my eyes at the memory of her warm kindness. Most people just stare at the floor or do the sympathetic head on one side bit, but she obviously understands exactly how it feels when you violently lose someone you love.

  I hear the echo of her voice in my head warning me not to buy Fox Cottage because it won’t make me happy, and sigh. The poor woman was so obviously talking about her own experiences – the devastation of her grief. I imagine her arriving as a young wife, the excited effort of doing up Fox Cottage with her husband… Please God, she didn’t lose the little girl as well? I don’t think I could bear it if that’s what happened, because apart from the beautiful cherry blossom bedroom full of unplayed-with toys… I didn’t actually see the daughter she insisted was in the house. And how could she possibly be Rosie’s age now in any case? She’d be grown-up, surely?

  It’s all wrong and Eve is too vibrant to be trapped in that tumbledown house, alone. I bite my lip, thinking about those brown eyes looking back at me, her amused smile lifting apple cheeks. The vividly floral dress over a black polo neck had a Biba vibe, hugging her petite but ample figure and all topped off with that frilly apron. She ought to be the head of some large farmhouse family: an adoring husband, strapping sons, their wives and grandchildren everywhere as she competently bakes bread, hangs out clean washing on blustery da
ys, paints and sells her work in local galleries… motherly and voluptuous all at once. I’ve never met a woman so obviously living the wrong life. Just tragic.

  I try, instead, to clear my head and focus on the job in hand. I ought to be getting ready to deliver my report on the houses themselves – Tony, in particular, will want my opinion the second I get back…

  But when I arrive at The Rectory, Susannah’s car is missing from the drive and nobody appears when I call. Only Tony’s fat, black Labrador, Badger, comes waddling out into the hall, lazily waving his tail. Assuming they are all out, I dump my bag on the floor, hang up my coat above the boot rack and wander through into the enormous kitchen to put the kettle on, reaching for my phone in my back pocket as I sling the large cast iron kettle on the Aga plate.

  ‘Aha! You’re back!’ says a sudden voice behind me. I turn to see Tony standing in the doorway smiling, slippers and reading glasses on, holding The Telegraph and a mug. ‘What did you think? Did you get to see all three houses? Oh sorry – you’re about to make a call?’

  ‘It can wait.’ I put my phone away. ‘Yes, I did see them. Would you like a cup of tea?’ I point at the kettle.

  He shakes his head determinedly. ‘I won’t, thanks, darling.’ He raises the mug he’s holding and puts it down on the side. ‘I’ve just had a coffee. Come on then – put me out of my misery. Which would you buy?’ He raises a quizzical eyebrow.

  I hesitate. ‘Well, it needs the most work, but I think you’d make the most profit from Fox Cottage because you could easily split it into four properties. Although I don’t know what the tax implications would be; you’ll be more up to speed with that than me.’

  ‘Ha HA!’ he says delightedly and thwacks the kitchen table with his paper. ‘That’s my girl!’ He points The Telegraph at me. ‘I knew I could rely on you!’

  I groan. ‘So it’s your choice? I’m not going to be popular with Susannah.’

  ‘Ah – she’ll come round.’ He waves dismissively. ‘Well, that’s marvellous. Thank you for that. Have you seen Timothy since you’ve been back?’

  ‘No – not yet.’

  He nods. ‘Right-o – well, when you do – I’m in my study. Excellent!’ He begins to whistle a happy tune under his breath and makes to leave the room.

  ‘Tony,’ I say suddenly, imagining Eve walking out of the house into bright sunshine, shutting the door behind her for the final time. ‘The woman who lives there – Eve Parkes. She mentioned she had a daughter?’

  Tony pauses in the doorway. ‘Isobel.’

  ‘That’s right. Is she?—’

  He holds up a hand to silence me and listens carefully. ‘Hold that thought – I can hear my wretched phone ringing. Uno momento!’ He spins on the spot and strides off down the corridor as suddenly as he arrived.

  I return to the kettle. Since his retirement, if anything, Tony has become busier. He’s constantly on the phone offering advice, involved in this and that project/charity/ initiative, taking various meetings in London, improving his already impressive golf handicap and managing the small estate in which The Rectory sits. As well as maintaining both the house and outbuildings, he looks after the gardens and surrounding fields. All family requests for him to slow down have fallen on deaf ears.

  ‘What, and drop down dead at the ninth hole like poor old Hugh Portman?’ he said indignantly the last time he and Susannah had a row about it over supper, while Tim and I tried to steer the conversation onto less controversial ground. ‘Stopping is the last thing you want to do. That’s when your body just gives up. The secret is maintaining a manageable but constant level of stress. You shan’t be getting your hands on my insurance policy anytime soon, I’m afraid.’ He finished his mouthful of food and took a large gulp of wine. ‘I fully intend to hang around like the proverbial bad smell for many years to come.’

  In fairness to him, I’m not sure how someone mentally taxed day in and day out by complex legal issues could be expected to just give that up for a life of Bargain Hunt and a spot of light gardening. I’ve seen Tony presiding in court and was both very impressed and secretly a bit proud. He was every inch the charismatic, kind, considered but authoritative judge. You can’t operate as an important part of the Establishment one day and simply walk away from a lifetime’s work the next. I retrieve my mobile from my pocket to return to the call I was about to make.

  ‘Hello!’

  I turn, to find Tim stood in the doorway this time, smiling, where his father was moments earlier. They really do look so alike, except for Tim’s brown hair, where his father’s is silver. It’s a bit odd sometimes, knowing exactly what Tim is going to look like when he’s older – although I can’t see him adopting his father’s ‘gentleman of a certain age’ uniform of a well-cut shirt and cords without a fight.

  Tim pulls the jumper I bought him for his birthday over his head and comes to sling it on the rack above the Aga, padding across the cold tiled floor in thick socks which he’s tucked his jeans into. He’s obviously been working outside.

  ‘I thought you were out!’ I say, pleased. ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ He reaches for a tissue from the box on the side and blows his nose, his cheeks ruddy. ‘I was outside doing a bonfire but it’s just started to rain, which is annoying. I thought I heard the car.’

  I put my phone back in my pocket, put my arms round his waist and kiss him. His skin is refreshingly icy. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you, too,’ he says, surprised. ‘You all right?’

  I release him, still thinking about Eve Parkes. ‘Yes, just lucky to have you, that’s all. You’re freezing. Are you sure you don’t want a tea? Is Rosie wearing her coat, hat and gloves if she’s outside, by the way? And she’s not on her own near the pool, is she?’

  ‘She’s gone out into town with Mum actually, but for the last time, the pool cover is on, the safety fence is up, and yes, of course she’s wearing them.’

  I don’t say anything, but it’s far from guaranteed that any of them would have put sensible clothing on Rosie. Tony and Susannah are fully paid up members of the ‘fresh air’ club: family swims at windswept beaches in all temperatures, shoving on an extra jumper rather than turning the heating up, building fires, chopping wood, riding horses and walking the dogs. While Rosie loves the lifestyle and becomes practically feral every time we visit, I feel like I spend most of my time running around after her checking her lips haven’t gone blue.

  ‘Anyway, were you about to make a phone call?’ Tim has also inherited his father’s eye for detail.

  ‘Only my sister, but it’s no problem. She’ll probably be out on the town – it’s 11 p.m. their time. I’ll try her tomorrow morning instead.’ I huddle next to the Aga. ‘Do you know, I would very much like to be in Sydney right now myself.’ I shiver. ‘Perhaps we should think again and move there after all?’ I grin teasingly at Tim.

  He smiles briefly. ‘Perhaps.’

  I pretend to pick my jaw off the ground. ‘Who are you?’ I joke as I take the now-boiling kettle off, ‘and what have you done with the man I love, who hates spiders?’

  ‘It’s more the snakes, to be honest. Don’t forget the snakes.’ He scratches his stubble as he sits down at the kitchen table and looks up at me. ‘Can I talk to you about something, Claire?’

  ‘Of course. What’s up?’ I reach for a cup and teabag.

  ‘I didn’t say anything, but I had some bad news yesterday.’

  My heart sinks and I turn to face him. ‘Oh – you didn’t get the part? I’m so sorry. You did say the audition didn’t go very well.’ I knew that was why he was quiet in the car on the way up.

  ‘No, it’s not that. I still haven’t heard anything about that.’ He clears his throat. ‘Charles Blake, a bloke I was at school with, committed suicide on Thursday night. He jumped out of the window at work.’

  ‘Oh, Tim!’ I put the cup down, make my way over to the table to sit down and take his hand. ‘I’m so sorry. How sad, and what a horribl
e shock.’

  He nods and doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Was it work-related then?’ I say carefully.

  ‘Yeah, kind of.’ Tim looks down at our clasped hands. ‘He was under a lot of pressure. His wife called Harry yesterday, to let him know and then Harry called me. It’s going to be all over the news.’

  ‘Has he got children?’ I whisper, thinking first of Rosie and then my mum and dad.

  ‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘Which is something, I guess.’ He gives my hand a squeeze.

  ‘But his poor wife though.’ I reach an arm out, put it around his shoulder and he leans his head briefly on mine.

  ‘They’d only been married a year, I think,’ he says. ‘That’s just no time, is it? No time at all.’ He straightens up again. He has tears in his eyes. ‘Sorry.’ He wipes them away quickly. ‘I didn’t even know him that well any more, to be honest. I mean, we were close at school, but not so much recently. Harry saw him far more regularly than me. They… did a lot of deals together. Charlie made a huge property investment on Harry’s recommendation last week actually.’

  ‘Oh shit…’ I say, seeing where this is going.

  ‘No, it came good. Harry knows his stuff.’

  ‘Well, that was lucky.’

  ‘It’s not luck, Claire. Harry’s very skilled at what he does.’

  ‘What went wrong then?’ I say diplomatically. ‘If they’d just made a load of cash?’

  Tim takes a deep breath. ‘Harry had the nod about a bit of land that was coming up for sale. The plan was to buy it, sit on it for a few weeks, then sell it on once the council approved some new development plan – Charlie stood to get double his original investment back. He paid the cash into Harry’s company; the company bought the land: everything was great. Only then, you know Harry also makes those random air conditioning units?’