by Emma Rous
They showed me the tall iron gate in the back of the boundary wall, but we didn’t have time to go out to the cliffs and see the sea.
“Next time,” Ruth said. I was returning her smile before the full implication of her words sank in, and then the remaining tension in my stomach melted away.
We toured the vegetable garden and the apple orchard on our circular route back toward the house, and Ruth introduced me to the gardener, Mr. Harris. With his thick white hair and leathery skin, he had the appearance of a person who’d lived outdoors his whole life.
“Mister Michael Harris is Joel’s grandad,” Edwin told me.
“You’ll have passed his cottage in the lane,” Ruth said.
The older man nodded at me, and I smiled back. I used to love helping my aunt in the garden of her little bungalow, before Mum fell out with her and I was banned from visiting. When Michael slid open the greenhouse door for Edwin to pick a handful of sun-warmed tomatoes, I leaned in to inhale the earthy aroma of humid green growth.
The biggest surprise came at the end of our walk. Sheltered by the back wall of the stable block, encircled by faded timber decking and a hedge of lavender, was a glorious turquoise-tiled swimming pool. The water sparkled invitingly in the August sunshine.
“You’re a swimmer, aren’t you?” Ruth asked. “Although the solar heating’s pretty puny, I’m afraid. You have to be fairly tough to bear it.”
I smiled. “I taught myself to swim at a lido when I was ten. It was freezing, but you get used to it.”
“And you swim competitively now?”
“I did, yes. Until—my exams, the last few months.” I squinted at a single green leaf floating on the surface of the pool. “I love it.”
“I’m glad,” Ruth said. “I’d much prefer to have someone who’s a strong swimmer. To keep Edwin safe, you know.”
I looked at the little boy. “What do you reckon, Edwin? Do you think we’re brave enough to swim in a bit of cold water?”
Edwin did a wild dance to show his enthusiasm for the idea, and Ruth laughed.
“Do you have any questions?” Ruth asked me, and then, “Have you had lunch? We had ours before you arrived. Come and sit on the patio, and I’ll bring some tea out.”
The patio furniture was more substantial than Mum’s three-piece suite at home, with sturdy wooden frames and deep cushions. Stone urns brimmed with orange marigolds and blue lobelia. Along with the tea, Ruth carried out a plate laden with squares of chocolate tiffin, cinnamon pastries, and slices of carrot cake with thick lemon frosting. Edwin scampered off to his sandpit with a piece of tiffin cake, and Ruth poured the tea.
“I was very impressed by your references from your school,” she said. “I’d like to offer you the job, Laura. I do hope you’ll say yes. I think you and Edwin would get on extremely well together.”
I fumbled with my saucer. “Yes, please,” I said. “Thank you. That’s brilliant.”
“Lovely,” she said. “Can you start a week from Monday?”
I was finishing my second slice of cake when the peace of the garden was interrupted by sounds drifting over from the front of the house. Tires crunched over gravel, and a door slammed. Ruth made a noise in her throat.
“My mother’s taxi,” she said. She didn’t get up. “Technically, this is her house, and she likes to keep an eye on what goes on. She was angling to meet you. Sorry.” She must have caught my expression, because she added, “Oh, don’t worry, she doesn’t visit that often. She comes down from London once or twice a month on the train. Anyway, she’ll adore you. I’m sure of it.”
“Granny!” Edwin hurtled toward the woman who stepped out onto the patio, his arms outstretched. Her sleek bob of dark hair was immaculate, her white blouse pristine, but she dropped her handbag and swung the little boy up and hugged him to her chest, laughing.
“Hello, my darling boy.”
I brushed cake crumbs from my lap as I stood.
“Mother, this is Laura Silveira,” Ruth said, remaining seated. “Laura, this is Vera Blackwood, my mother.”
Vera’s handshake was firm, and I braced myself against her appraising expression, struck by an unsettling conviction that she understood more about my personality and my background from that brief greeting than Ruth did after an hour of talking to me. I wondered whether Vera had met the other girl Ruth said she’d interviewed. I found myself scrutinizing Vera in return, wondering how it felt to own a house like this and yet live elsewhere.
Vera’s direct gaze softened when she smiled, and she nodded as she released my hand. She turned to Ruth.
“Sorry to interrupt your interview, darling. How are you getting along?”
“I’ve offered Laura the job. She’s perfect.”
Vera’s smile widened. “How wonderful. I’m so glad to meet you, Laura. Edwin is our pride and joy, and we do so want him to be happy.”
Ruth gave an exaggerated blink and turned to watch Edwin practicing handstands on the lawn.
“Ruth?” Vera tilted her head as she scrutinized her daughter. “You look tired, darling. How are you feeling?”
Ruth sighed. “I do have a bit of a headache, actually. This sun doesn’t help. I might go and lie down now, if you don’t mind, Laura?”
“Not at all,” I said. “Of course.”
“I’m so glad you’re going to come and live with us.” Ruth kept her hand on her forehead as she stood. “Just let me know which date suits you to move in—maybe next weekend? Mother can call a taxi to take you back to the station when you’re ready.”
“Oh, but—” I stopped, ducking my head as they both looked at me. “I mean, it’s a shame, that’s all, that the other taxi just left. I should have gone in that one.”
Heat rose to my cheeks. Ruth looked at me blankly, but Vera waved away my concern with a gentle smile.
“Not to worry,” Vera said. “Ruth, you go and lie down, and I’ll ring for the taxi and keep Laura company until it gets here.”
Edwin trotted into the house after them, and I stayed on the patio, fanning myself with a picture book from the table. When Vera returned, she brought a jug of cold juice with her, and she sent Edwin off to eat a Popsicle on the lawn so as not to drip it on the cream cushions. She poured me a glass, and asked me a few questions about my school and my swimming squad.
“I’m so glad Ruth likes you,” she said. “She can be rather overprotective of Edwin sometimes. Unsurprisingly, after what happened to his brother—did she tell you?”
I shook my head, the glass at my lips.
She twisted the rings on her fingers. “Edwin had a twin brother. He died the December before last. In an accident.”
The liquid caught in the back of my throat, making me cough. I covered my mouth with my hand, staring at her. “No.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “It was just after their second birthday. I thought you ought to know. We all miss him terribly, of course. But Ruth has found it particularly difficult because she blames herself.”
Her tone was matter-of-fact. I couldn’t find any words.
“Ruth can be a little . . . unpredictable at times,” she continued. “I’m hoping she’ll get better once you’re here. She doesn’t like me coming over too often, and Dominic’s in the city for work during the week, of course. It’s rather lonely for her. Although she says that’s the way she likes it.”
I watched her twist her rings, struggling to follow her words, the horror of Edwin losing his brother pulsating in my mind.
She paused to scrutinize my face for a moment. “I think you’ll be perfect for her.”
Edwin brought his Popsicle stick to the table and then scampered back to practice forward rolls on the lawn.
“My number’s in the book on the hall table, if you ever need to ring me,” Vera said. “Ah, that’s the taxi.” She rose in one smooth movement. �
�Edwin, darling. Come and say good-bye to Laura. She has to go now.”
Edwin slid his sticky hand into mine as we walked through the kitchen and hall, and out to the drive. Vera held her purse in front of her.
“When are you coming back, Missus Laura Silvey?” Edwin asked. I cleared my throat, squashing Vera’s words to the back of my mind and concentrating on the serious blue eyes gazing up at me.
“You can call me Laura,” I told him, smiling. I looked at Vera. “If I’m starting a week from Monday . . .”
“Shall we say Saturday the seventh?” she said. “Give you time to get settled.”
“Yes, great.” I gave Edwin a quick hug, and climbed into the taxi while Vera paid the driver.
“Safe journey,” she called as we pulled away. I waved to the two of them, craning my neck to keep the golden bricks of the house in sight for as long as possible. The greengage in my pocket I would savor on the train home. I had just over a week to pack and say good-bye to my friends, most of whom were starting new jobs, or themselves packing for university. Then I could put my old London life behind me, and dive into the year at Summerbourne that glittered ahead. Ruth and Vera had both said I was perfect for the job. As far as I could see, the job was perfect for me.
3
Seraphine
DESPITE MY FAILURE to speak to Laura, despite the sharp ache of missing my father, my spirits rise as I drive that last mile to Summerbourne—through the village and out the other side, down the winding lane, cruising between the hedges where we picked blackberries as children, past the flint cottages with their windows propped open, swinging right onto the driveway. Apart from the three years I spent living in shared student houses in Liverpool, Summerbourne is the only home I’ve ever known.
My stomach growls, but I stay in the car for a minute more, contemplating the familiar yellow bricks in front of me, my gaze skimming over the peeling paint on the windowsills and the nettles in the front beds. Danny and I were the first children to be born in the summer months here for several generations, and despite the Summerbourne surname having been lost via female inheritance many years ago, we grew up proud of being called “the Summerbourne summerborns.” It made up for the less friendly nicknames anyway.
As well as Summerbourne, my grandmother Vera inherited a smart London house called Winterbourne—apparently renamed as such to amuse a Summerbourne ancestor. When Vera decided a few years ago that she’d prefer the amenities of a luxury city apartment, she gave Winterbourne to Edwin, making the announcement on his twenty-fifth birthday. It’s perfect for him—close to his work in Canary Wharf—and he’s always made it clear that Danny and I can stay there whenever we want, even gave us our own keys.
But the question of Summerbourne’s fate festers inside me like an abscess: I try to wall it off and ignore it, but at moments of weakness it swells and erupts and gnaws away at me. Last month, as Danny and I approached our twenty-fifth birthday, I wondered whether Vera was considering giving the house to one of us, or both of us. How could it be done fairly? And then Dad died the day before we turned twenty-five, and I haven’t given it another thought until now, mulling it over here on the drive.
I’m the one who still lives here, and I’m the one who dreams of always living here. I can picture myself growing old at Summerbourne, and although I used to dream of falling in love and sharing it with someone else, I’m perfectly resigned now to living here by myself. Edwin has Winterbourne, Vera has her shiny new city apartment, Dad had his own flat in London when he was alive. Danny works abroad a lot and shows no sign of wanting to settle anywhere. I’m the one who still lives here; I’m the one who loves this house the most.
I fix my eyes firmly on the round door knocker as I leave my car, determined not to glance toward the patch of gravel in front of the garages where last month they had to hose Dad’s blood away.
The air inside the house is even warmer than outside, and I fling open windows and back doors. Edwin left food in the fridge for me, and I reheat a bowl of pasta and carry it out to the patio. The lawn is an uneven patchwork of yellow and brown, parched and dejected. The gardening company that Vera hired after Michael retired a few years ago has never come close to re-creating the lush green velvet that Michael achieved seemingly effortlessly.
My phone vibrates with a text from Edwin: How’s your day been?
I consider ringing him, but I can’t face confessing that I tracked down his old au pair today, that I tricked her and followed her, and then lost her. I picture Laura’s expression as she looked up and down the street, her irritation sliding into unease.
Fine, I text back. Tired. Going to bed.
The sky is still light, and I prowl into the kitchen for a beer, deciding instead on a hot chocolate in the hope the warm milk might make me sleepy. I reach for a mug from the shelf, grab the powder from the cupboard, pluck a spoon from the drawer—all without having to really look. Nothing has changed in this kitchen since I used to do this as a child, even as far back as the days when I needed to stand on a chair to reach the mugs and was obliged to ask Edwin or Joel or one of the nannies to heat my milk in the microwave.
I start to carry my hot chocolate toward the day nursery, old childhood habits resurfacing, but then I shake my head and turn instead to the sitting room. A faint breeze from the open window stirs the curtains as I walk in.
On a whim, I send a text to Vera: Hi Gran, Do you fancy coming down to Summerbourne tomorrow? I could pick you up from the station. I have one of Edwin’s quiches in the fridge. Love, Seph x
Surely, Vera must have raced over here that day when she heard Danny and I had been born, excited to see her new grandchildren? Perhaps, now that Dad’s gone, she will agree to share some more details of that day with me. Perhaps she can explain why one of us was missing from the photo, and what happened to drive our mother to take her own life.
I wonder about Laura—where she lives, what she’s doing right now. I’m torn between frustration at her for evading me today and a reluctant sympathy after seeing how carelessly the hook-nosed man and her own mother gave up her details. What sort of a life has she had, with people like that as family? I rub my temples. Maybe right now Laura is immersed in the distractions of her own busy home: overseeing homework, cooking with teenagers, opening a bottle of wine with her husband. I chew my lip. Or perhaps she’s worrying about hoax deliveries and stalkers. I turn on the television in an attempt to focus on something else, but the phrase “poor little orphan” bursts out, and I hit the off button savagely, hurling the remote control across the sofa.
And then my phone vibrates with a reply from Vera: Love to, darling. Pick me up at 12. I carry my hot chocolate up to my bedside table, where it grows a slimy skin during the night.
* * *
• • •
THE FOLLOWING DAY I keep the conversation light all through lunch, until Vera and I have carried our tea out to the patio, hoping for a breeze to relieve the relentless heat. We settle in the shade, and I run my fingertips over the chipped stone rim of the plant pot next to me. A couple of the other pots hold wilting hydrangeas, but this one has only a low fuzz of weeds.
Vera’s gaze sweeps across the neglected lawn. “We need to sort this garden out.”
“Yeah. Um—Gran?”
She starts to pour the tea. “Hm?”
“Can I ask you about Laura?”
She freezes. Literally holds the teapot an inch above the table and stares at it without moving. I reach out and gently push the pot down until the china clunks on the wood, and then she shakes her head slightly and sits back in her chair, her expression distant.
“Laura who?” she says eventually.
“Laura Silveira, Edwin’s old au pair.”
“Darling, I’d really rather not.”
We sit facing the garden for a while, listening to the bees droning in the faded lavender. Vera keeps her chin high, one
thumb stroking the rings on her other hand. I run my fingertips over the rough fabric of the sofa cushions, back and forth.
“I’m sorry, Gran, but I can’t spend my whole life not knowing about this stuff.”
She acknowledges this with a dip of her head. “Well, what is it you’d like to know?”
“What was she like?”
Vera sighs. “She was a young girl who worked here a very long time ago, Seraphine. I hardly remember what she was like. Why do you want to know?”
“She was here on the day Danny and I were born?”
“She helped your mother deliver you, yes. Ruth was ridiculously resistant to the idea of calling a midwife or doctor. It was part of her illness.”
“I’m sorry, Gran, to bring up bad memories. But—what happened afterward? After Mum died? Did Laura leave straightaway? Edwin doesn’t think he ever saw her again.”
She frowns at me. “Why have you been discussing her with Edwin?”
“Oh, just—I found a photo. In Dad’s desk. It made me wonder.”
“What photo?”
I jump up and fetch it from the kitchen. She puts her reading glasses on and stares at it for a long time.
“I’ve never seen this before,” she says eventually.
“Edwin thinks he remembers it being taken by Laura. But I don’t understand why Mum looks so calm, when it must have been just hours before she . . .” I shake my head. “And why there’s only one of us in the picture. Why not both of us? I don’t understand.”
The photo trembles in Vera’s hand, and she drops it on the table. I snatch it up again, fearful of it being damaged by a stray drop of tea, reminding myself that I must scan it tonight, save it safely in digital format.