The Au Pair

by Emma Rous

  “My heart alive! It’s one of them Summerbourne sprites,” he says as I come into his field of vision, and I scuff my shoe with a jolt at the unexpectedness of it. I resented this nickname for years as a child, but hearing it now in Michael’s voice makes me wonder again about its origins. I steady myself against his gate, staring at him. His eyes dart on either side of me, and a crease of worry forms across his forehead.

  “I’m Seraphine, Mr. Harris,” I manage eventually. “Seraphine Mayes.”

  He screws his face up.

  “Have you come about the—what was it?”

  “No, no. I’m just passing.” The flickering of his eyes makes me glance away. “I hear Joel’s been staying with you, Mr. Harris?”

  Michael frowns, but at that moment, Joel’s head appears at an open upstairs window.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Joel says. “Hang on. I’ll come down.”

  Michael and I wait in awkward silence for him to emerge, and my pulse jumps as he ducks through the low front doorway.

  “Seraphine. Hi.”

  He’s wearing shorts and a creased gray T-shirt, battered old sneakers. This is only the second time I’ve seen him this year, and I try to absorb all the details without making it obvious. He looks as though he’s considering holding out his hand to shake mine over the gate, but changes his mind and tucks it into his pocket.

  “Not working today?” I ask. As if I’m suspicious that he might in fact have a waiting room full of patients upstairs in his grandfather’s cottage. Even Michael looks slightly taken aback.

  “Er—nope. Got a few days off. I’m giving Grandad a hand while Mum and Dad are away.” His eyes narrow as he studies me, and I shrink in my skin slightly. It strikes me that Edwin has probably asked him to look out for me, has quite possibly told him that I’ve been behaving erratically.

  “How about you?” he asks.

  “I’m just heading into the doctor’s, actually. I’ve got an appointment.” I wince. Shut up, Seraphine. He doesn’t need to know this.

  “I could give you a lift?” he says.

  “No, no, it’s fine. I wanted to walk.”

  “Okay. Well. Give us a shout if you need anything.”

  I give a half wave in reply and hurry on. I’m annoyed at myself and at the Harris men. Joel and I are never going to regain our old friendship, but if they didn’t insist on calling me names, or colluding with my brother to spy on me, we might manage a more comfortable neighborly relationship.

  The office’s tiny waiting room is empty. Hayley Pickersgill gives me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, and I keep my chin high as I sweep past her and stand in front of the array of posters on the noticeboard, each one precisely fixed with brass pins. At the edge of my vision, Hayley waggles her fingers and beams down at a sparkly ring, and I remember Vera mentioning that she was recently engaged to Ralph Luckhurst. The lump in my throat is hard to ignore. There was a time when Ralph used to tell me I was the most beautiful girl in the world. He deserves so much better than Hayley Pickersgill.

  Pamela calls me through to her room. She’s a smiley woman with a kind manner, and I’ve always liked her, even when she used to give us our dreaded childhood inoculations. She always gave us chocolate buttons afterward.

  “Seraphine Mayes, it does my eyes good to see you. You looked just like your dear mama standing out there in the waiting room. I’m so sorry about your father, my dear, such a terrible accident. Martin and I came to the service—I don’t know if you saw us?”

  I nod. “Thank you for coming. It means a lot.” I’m reminded suddenly of one of Michael’s old stories: Martin was one of the village bad boys my grandmother took under her wing many years ago after breaking up a fight he was in—“blood from Martin Larch’s nose dripped all over Mrs. Blackwood’s white gloves,” Michael used to tell us.

  “It was such a moving service,” Pamela continues. “I had a chat with Edwin in the church afterward. Such a fine young man he is. And Danny looked well after his travels. How’s your grandmother?”

  Pamela has always talked a lot, and isn’t any more discreet about her patients’ affairs than she believes she ought to be. I’m thinking this can only help my cause.

  “Granny Vera’s very well, thank you,” I say, and she smiles, the skin on either side of her eyes crinkling.

  “So what can I do for you today, my dear?” she asks.

  “I’m after my mother’s medical notes.”

  She sits back in surprise. “Whatever for?”

  I lick my lips. “Her maternity notes, particularly. I’d like to know whether she had any complications with her pregnancies, and births, you know. In case it might be useful to know for my own . . . future.”

  Her gaze flicks to my abdomen. She blinks with professional thoughtfulness, but I can feel the force of her village-centric curiosity behind her eyes. I gesture with my hands palm up.

  “Most women—they can just ask their mums, can’t they? But I’ll never be able to,” I say.

  She purses her lips. “Of course, my dear. I understand. But I’m afraid it’s most unlikely your mother’s notes still exist. It was all paper in those days, and they’d have been shredded after—well, they’re destroyed after a patient dies, you see. A year or so afterward, maybe. There’s no room to store such things in the long term.”

  I’m unprepared for her reaching across to pat my hand, and I flinch as she touches me. She draws back. I close my eyes, embracing the swell of disappointment that encourages a tear to spill over and roll down my cheek.

  “Oh, there, there, my dear.” She scoots her chair closer to mine and passes me a tissue with a practiced flourish from a cardboard cube on her desk, not touching me this time. “Don’t get upset. What was it you wanted to know, particularly? Maybe I can help?”

  I dab at my nose. “I suppose any scan records from the hospital would have been destroyed by now too?” I ask. She nods, her widened eyes fastened on mine.

  “Did you know my mother well during her pregnancy with us—with me and Danny?” I ask.

  She settles back in her seat with a small satisfied sigh. She’ll enjoy repeating all this to Martin tonight, I’m sure. He’s a police inspector nowadays—the village bad boy turned good. Between them, Pamela and Martin must see most of the local troubles and catastrophes firsthand.

  “Ah, I did, my dear. And in her previous pregnancy too, with Edwin and Theodore. Such beautiful boys. Such a tragedy.” She sighs again, loudly. “She didn’t want to see Dr. Motte with her second pregnancy, or anyone else. She went off doctors and hospitals for good after little Theo. They told her he might recover, you know, after he fell. Your poor parents sat by his hospital cot for a week before they turned the life support machine off. Terrible, it was.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I whisper. I suspect Edwin doesn’t know that either. I wish she hadn’t told me. I dig my nails into my palms.

  “So who did she see, with her second pregnancy?” I ask.

  “Now, let me think. I believe she had a scan at a private hospital in London. She didn’t want community midwife visits, I know that, and she was determined to have the baby at home. Well, babies, as it turned out, of course.” She laughs, seemingly undisturbed by the hiccup of strangeness in her story. The hairs on my arms rise. I draw a deep breath in through my nose as unobtrusively as possible.

  “So—she was expecting just one baby?”

  “Well, yes. At least that’s what she told people. They’d have forced her to have hospital monitoring if they’d known you were twins, I suppose, and she just wanted to be left alone to have the home birth she wanted. I expect she knew the private hospital wouldn’t interfere, or wouldn’t even know what went on at this end.”

  I release my breath, my shoulders relaxing.

  “I promised her I’d go over and help with the delivery if she needed me, because she di
dn’t want strangers there.” She darts me a sharp look. “I would have gone, but I’d have called for backup, no hesitation. I wouldn’t have done anything unprofessional.”

  I give her my best reassuring smile.

  “Of course, you two came early in the end,” she continues. “What date was it?”

  “Twenty-first of July,” I say.

  “Ah yes. We weren’t expecting you until the end of August. But as it turned out, you did well for twins, getting that close to your due date, and your dear mama got the home birth she wanted.”

  “And did you see us, on that day? After . . .”

  She goes to pat my hand again, but draws back at the last moment.

  “Oh, my love. Yes, I did. I dashed up to Summerbourne as soon as I heard the news. Your poor, poor mother. Dreadful, it was. And you so tiny—well, you were quite a decent size, my dear, but goodness me, your brother was a shrimp of a thing. They sent three ambulances out, and fire engines—you know, because of the—the rocks and everything. And in the end they took little Danny off to the hospital. I offered to help, but your father went with Danny, and your grandmother stayed at the house with you and Edwin. A terrible day.”

  I’m listening to her with one part of my brain, but another part is scrabbling around for something—the right question, the key fact.

  “And Laura?” I ask. “What happened to her?”

  “Laura?” she says blankly. Then, “Oh, Laura, the nanny? Nice girl. A terrible shock, it was, to her too, of course. She left, went off to university, I believe. Edwin loved that girl—might have helped him if she’d been able to stay on for the summer, but I suppose she couldn’t.”

  I nod, exhaling. Another thought occurs to me.

  “Do you remember a man called Alex, used to visit my parents?”

  Pamela’s face lights up.

  “Oh, I remember him, all right. Used to see him around the village a fair bit in those days—he bought the Collisons’ old cottage, although he sold it again after your mother died. I remember him coming in here with the nanny once, and your brother.” She nudges my arm, and I manage not to react. “Ever so handsome, he was. Whatever happened to him?”

  I stare at her. “I don’t know,” I say eventually, and she shrugs.

  “Shame.”

  “Do you mean he came into the doctor’s office here with Laura?”

  “Oh yes. Edwin cut himself, and they brought him in, and I put a couple of butterfly stitches on it, if I recall. Nothing major. Such a charming man. Pity he left.”

  “Can you remember his surname, Mrs. Larch?” I ask.

  She furrows her brow. “An Indian name it was, began with a ‘K.’ Oh, I can’t remember. I can ask Martin for you, if you like. Memory like an elephant, that man.”

  “Yes, please, Mrs. Larch,” I say, getting to my feet. “Yes, please do, and let me know as soon as you can. I’ll give you my number.”

  I’m jotting it down, and realize she’s looking at me with some bemusement.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t help with your mother’s notes, my dear,” she says, and I wave her apology away.

  “You’ve been very helpful, honestly. Please do let me know what Martin remembers.”

  I hand her my phone number, and she looks at it, nodding.

  I feel lighter as I step out of the cool doctor’s office into the bright glare of the village high street. My mother had wanted a peaceful home birth, without excessive medical interference, so she told people she was expecting just one baby even though she knew she was having twins. Laura left because she was going to university; Pamela said she was a nice girl. My mother’s mental disturbance could hardly have been Laura’s fault.

  Several people greet me as I stroll out of the village—people who have lived within a couple of miles of me virtually my whole life; who have seen me as a baby, a toddler, a schoolgirl in plaits. People who came to my father’s funeral the week before last, and probably to my mother’s funeral twenty-five years before that. I wave to Helen and Daisy Luckhurst as they pass me in their car, and then I tilt my face to the sky as I leave the houses behind me, concentrating on the birdsong in the trees and hedges.

  I will go back to see Laura, I decide. I pull my phone from my pocket as I turn into the lane, and the receptionist who answers my call confirms that Laura will be at her office all day. I’ll drive back to London and speak to her face-to-face this afternoon, and then spend the night at Winterbourne. If I can persuade Laura to tell me the story of my birth, I might finally relax into a proper night’s sleep tonight.

  Back at the house, I’m gathering things for my overnight stay when I notice something odd about my handbag. I didn’t take it into the village this morning, so it’s next to the microwave where I left it when I arrived home on Thursday night. I know I’ve taken something out of it since then—the photograph—but the buckle on the flap is done up. I know I wouldn’t have done the buckle back up when it was just sitting on the kitchen countertop.

  My pulse quickens. My phone is in my pocket. But my wallet was in my bag, and I curse our laid-back family habit of leaving doors unlocked and windows open. I fumble to undo the buckle, knowing that anyone could have gained access to our house via the back doors over the weekend.

  I line up the contents on the countertop. There isn’t much, which is normal. My wallet is here. My driving license. The order of service from Dad’s funeral, the letter confirming my compassionate leave from work. Lipstick, hairbrush, spare sunglasses—they’re all still here. I stroke my fingertips over each item in turn.

  But something is missing. Goose bumps rise on my arms. The receipt that hook-nosed man at the neat little house gave me, with Laura’s work address scribbled on the back. It was in my bag. Wasn’t it? I’m almost sure of it. And now it’s gone.

  8

  Laura

  September 1991

  A SUBDUED ATMOSPHERE settled over Summerbourne after Saturday’s picnic. Ruth’s headache persisted through Sunday, and Dominic went out with the boat-owning neighbor after breakfast and didn’t return for several hours. The joint of beef the village butcher had delivered on Friday sat untouched in the fridge, and when Edwin and I grew hungry around midday, we ate cheese sandwiches at the kitchen table. Afterward, we made banana milkshakes laced with honey, and drank them out in his den.

  Clouds loomed ever darker as the afternoon wore on, eventually driving us back indoors. Raindrops spattered against the day nursery windows, and Edwin and I rummaged to find jumpers to pull on.

  “Summer’s over,” Ruth muttered as she padded into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

  Each time I caught sight of Alex’s sunglasses on the kitchen windowsill, I remembered the warmth of his skin against mine, and the intensity of his gaze, and the way his smile lingered when he stopped speaking. How close he must have been to me, to have caught me when I stumbled on the cliff steps. I wondered whether he had thought about me at all since the picnic, and then I grew certain that he must see me as a naive, awkward schoolgirl. I had felt so grown-up last year, dating a man six years older than me, but I didn’t want to think about that now, and I knew I should stop thinking about Alex too.

  I longed to talk to my friends—to giggle with them about ridiculous crushes, and be reminded of our promise that we’d always be there for one another. They’d been there for me when my boyfriend kicked me out of his flat at midnight, and my mum’s partner, Beaky, refused to pick me up. They’d been there for me when I was in hospital, when I missed my exams, when I felt like I’d ruined my entire life. But I was living in a different world now, and my friends had moved on too. Even if I’d known their new phone numbers at their new addresses, the prospect of a telephone conversation in the Summerbourne hall within earshot of Ruth and Dominic was unappealing.

  By the time I got up on Monday morning, Dominic had left for London and Ruth’s headache had disap
peared.

  “Let’s walk into the village,” she said. “I need stamps. We could get ice creams from the shop—if it doesn’t rain.”

  Edwin hopped up and down. “Even if it does rain, Mummy.”

  “I suppose we could sit under the bus shelter to eat them,” she said, smiling.

  Our luck held, and we savored our ice cream cones on a bench on the village green in the watery sunshine, sprinkling chocolate crumbs down ourselves and competing to poke the ice cream all the way down to the end of our cornets with our tongues. Two elderly ladies stopped to greet Ruth, and made reference to Theo. Edwin remained unruffled while Ruth thanked them for their concern. I wanted to ask her whether Theo was buried in the churchyard beyond the green, but bit my tongue. Ruth’s praise of my discretion lingered in my memory.

  The threat of autumn receded as the week wore on. I swam in the pool with Edwin and Joel, and Michael taught us the Norfolk words for creepy crawlies.

  “Charleypig, erriwiggle, bishy barney bee,” the boys chanted. Edwin had a particular throaty chuckle that I only ever heard when he was around Joel.

  When they grew tired of playing outside, we made dragons out of Play-Doh or drew pirate maps, which Edwin stashed in his treasure box. Ruth took Edwin to gymnastics on the Wednesday, and I made a respectable start on my chemistry studying.

  The calendar in the kitchen showed R—reflexology 10 a.m. for Friday—particularly intriguing since most of the boxes for the month were blank. When I flipped back through the year, there was a similar note once or twice each month. Ruth didn’t refer to it at breakfast, but when Edwin and I were gathering containers to go foraging for blackberries, she told us she was popping out.