by Emma Rous
“I’ll be back for lunch. Do you want me to pick you anything up in town?” she asked.
“No, thanks, I’m fine,” I said.
The phone in the hall rang just after she’d left. I peered through the window: she was in her car, pulling the sun visor down and rummaging through her bag on the passenger seat. I picked up the receiver.
“Hello, Summerbourne?”
“Hi, Laura, it’s Alex. How are you?”
The receiver slipped in my hand, and I fumbled to bring it back to my ear.
“Hi. I’m fine. Thanks.”
“Glad to hear it. Is Ruth there?”
I checked: the car was gliding out of the drive.
“She’s just gone out,” I said.
“Ah. Do you know when she’ll be back? I wanted to drop something round—I’m at the cottage, but I’ve got to stay in this afternoon for the electrician.”
“She won’t be long. But I’m here if you want to come now. If you want to leave it here for her, I mean.”
“Um, okay, I might do that actually. Thanks, Laura. I’ll see you in a bit.”
He hung up. Edwin stood in front of me, one sandal on, a bucket in his hand.
“Who’s coming?”
“That was Uncle Alex. He wants to bring something round for your mummy.”
Edwin beamed. “I’ll show him my crocodile pictures.” He lolloped away to the day nursery to find them.
I stood in the hall a moment longer, studying my flushed cheeks in the mirror. I resisted attempting to tidy my hair, and went through to the kitchen to boil the kettle, drumming my fingers on the countertop while I waited.
It was another forty minutes before Alex arrived, by which time Edwin had grown bored and gone to play in his sandpit. He must have heard the crunch of wheels on gravel though, as he came tearing through the house when Alex’s car pulled up.
“Whoa there! You get stronger every day, young man,” Alex said. Edwin bounced up and down as Alex opened the sports car’s little trunk. “Sorry, nothing for you today, my friend. This is for your beautiful mama.” He lifted out a bouquet of luscious pink roses, tweaking a few to disguise the flattening from their journey.
“They’re lovely,” I said, my hands feeling suddenly awkward at my sides.
“Just to thank her for the picnic. It’s really nice of you to let me drop them off. Can I put them in the kitchen?” He hesitated, and I remembered that I was the responsible adult of the house and gestured for him to follow me in.
“We’re going to pick blackberries, but we waited for you, Uncle Alex,” Edwin said, and I frowned.
“Oh, that was very kind of you,” Alex said. “And where has your mother gone?”
Edwin shrugged elaborately. “To see the quacks, most probably.”
Alex raised his eyebrows at me.
I mimicked Edwin’s shrug. “Reflexology?” I felt a flicker of disloyalty to Ruth after her comment about me being discreet, but surely she wouldn’t mind me telling Alex. Alex laughed.
“Is that what your daddy calls them?” he said to Edwin.
“Are you coming with us, then?” Edwin asked him. “To pick blackberries?” He swung one leg as he looked from Alex’s face to mine.
Alex checked his watch. “Where are you going—to the folly?”
I nodded. I was acutely aware of his sunglasses on the windowsill, that I ought to give them back to him. But I held my breath, waiting, willing him to come with us.
“How about I come for a bit?” he said, directing the question at Edwin but glancing at me to check. I released my breath and smiled.
“Sure,” I said, and Edwin cheered and ran to fetch his bucket.
I grabbed keys, but hesitated. “Shall I lock up or—will you need to get through to your car if you come back first?”
He chuckled. “Ah, I see we feel the same way—these country folk leaving their houses unlocked all the time—it’s unsettling. No, don’t worry—you lock up, and if I come back before you, I can always jump the wall by the stables.”
I turned the keys with a smile. We felt the same way.
“So how long are you here for?” he asked as we set off down the garden. “Au pairing, I mean. Is it a long-term thing?”
“For a year,” I said. I watched Edwin skip toward the trees ahead of us. “I missed my A levels. I was in hospital. We—I decided it’d be good to take a year out before retaking them.”
“Not retaking exactly, is it? If you didn’t get to sit them in the first place?”
“No, well . . .” I pushed away the memory of turning up at the first exam, against doctors’ orders, stumbling out again before the proctor could tell me to turn over my paper.
Alex filled his lungs and gestured at the vibrant garden around us, the cloudless sky. “Well, you certainly picked a great place for a year out. I wish I’d stepped off the conveyor belt for a year at your age. It’s all exams, interviews, work, work.”
I glanced at his expression, hesitating to ask him what it was he did for work, but a whoop from Edwin as he disappeared into the little woods made Alex grin suddenly.
“I might take a year off myself, actually. I think I’d make a pretty good au pair. What do you do all day—pick blackberries, play on the beach? Easy stuff.”
“Hey!” I shook my head, but I couldn’t help laughing. He asked me about my university plans then, and he gave me his full attention while I told him about my passion for science and my desire to one day run my own research lab. His gaze remained on my face rather than on the path ahead. I felt as though I walked taller and my limbs moved more gracefully, as if he had high expectations of me and I was rising to meet them.
A piercing scream burst the illusion. My chest constricted. We sprinted through the last section of woodland and found Edwin lying on the ground by the gate, one side of his face streaked with blood.
“Let me look, let me look,” I said, trying to keep his head still as he thrashed around in Alex’s arms.
“I fell off,” Edwin wailed.
His blood made my hands slippery. “We’ll have to get him back to the house—I can’t see.”
Alex carried Edwin back at a gentle jog, and by the time we had him sitting up on the kitchen table he was hiccupping between sobs and managed to keep still enough to be cleaned up. There was a one-centimeter gash near the top of his right ear. So much blood from such a tiny wound.
Alex and I looked at each other over the top of his head.
“I think I’d better take him to the doctor,” I said. “He might need stitches.”
“I’ll drive you down there,” he said.
“But there’s no room in your car.”
“It’ll take two minutes. He can sit on your knee.”
The receptionist when we walked in was displeased, but the nurse who called us through couldn’t have been kinder. She cleaned the wound and closed it with tiny strips of sticking plaster, and gave Edwin a lollipop and a sticker for his bravery.
“Can I have one too?” Alex asked, and she actually nudged his chest as she chuckled at him. I gritted my teeth.
We sat for a few minutes on the bench on the village green, giving Edwin time to finish his lollipop. Alex stretched his arm along the back of the bench, behind Edwin’s head, and if I’d leaned in a tiny bit, his fingertips would have touched my bare shoulder. Helen, Ruth’s pregnant friend, waddled past and smiled at us. Alex ruffled Edwin’s hair and then grimaced at me over his head.
“You okay?” I asked.
“I’m just so relieved it wasn’t any worse,” he said. I nodded.
A screech of brakes on the high street made us both turn to look, and my heart jolted at the sight of Ruth sprinting across the grass toward us, her car door gaping open behind. A van tooted. Alex stood up.
“My God! What happened?” She dropped to her knees in fro
nt of Edwin, who pulled his shrunken lollipop out of his mouth with a pop and giggled at the sound. She looked from Alex to me, and back to Alex.
“What happened?” she asked again, and her voice had dropped an octave; the consonants exaggerated in a way that made my skin tingle.
“He tried to climb the gate and he slipped,” Alex said. “We were going to pick some blackberries.” He pulled Ruth upright to face him, placed a hand on her shoulder, and then put his other hand gently on her cheek. “He’s fine, Ruth. It was a little cut, but the nurse cleaned it up and he’s completely fine.”
She twisted away from him and dropped back down in front of Edwin.
“Tell me what happened, darling?”
“Missus Pamela Larch gave me a lolly,” Edwin answered, waving it at her and then poking it back in.
“Before that, Edwin. How did you hurt yourself?”
Alex and I exchanged a glance. His forehead was crumpled, and I wanted to squeeze his hand and say, It wasn’t our fault.
Edwin swung his legs back and forth, avoiding his mother’s eyes.
“I fell off the gate, Mummy. I was just trying to climb it. It had the bolt on.”
“It’s supposed to have the bolt on, darling. To keep you safe.” She stood up again, without looking at either of us. “We’re going home, Edwin. Put your stick in the bin, please.”
“Ruth—” Alex said, but she shook off his hand.
“He’s all I have left, Alex,” she hissed, as Edwin skipped over to the trash bin and then sauntered back to take her hand. They set off toward her car.
I looked from Alex to the retreating figure of my employer.
“Go,” he said. I jogged after them. While Ruth fastened Edwin into his car seat on one side, I went round and eased myself into the back seat from the other side. She didn’t comment, and didn’t speak to either of us on the short drive home.
Something held me back from apologizing as we entered the hall, but I touched her gently on her arm.
“Why don’t you go and sit down, and I’ll bring you a cup of tea?” I said.
After a moment’s pause her shoulders sagged, and she met my eyes briefly.
“Okay,” she said. “Come on, darling—let’s see what’s on the TV and have a cuddle.” She led Edwin off to the sitting room.
I hurried into the kitchen and scooped the wads of bloodstained kitchen paper from the table, bundling them into a carrier bag which I stuffed underneath the top layer of rubbish in the bin. Then I dashed through to the annex and changed into a clean T-shirt, leaving my bloodstained top soaking in cold water in my bathroom sink. I returned to the kitchen just as the kettle finished boiling, and I picked the dried blood from under my fingernails while the tea brewed in the pot.
9
Seraphine
I’M PARKED OUTSIDE Laura’s office again, preparing to ring her, to ask her to come down and meet me. Across the pavement and through the glass doors, I can see the receptionist stapling sheets of paper together. A young woman who looks like she might still be a teenager collects a pile of letters from the desk and disappears into the elevator.
My phone vibrates, and an unknown number flashes up. The words Dear Seraphine, Martin says that man make me smile, as I picture Pamela nipping home on her lunch break and collaring her elephant-memoried husband. She’s a kind woman.
Dear Seraphine, Martin says that man’s name was Alex Jay Kaimal. Lived in Leeds. He sold the Collisons’ cottage about a year after your mother RIP passed away. Young Billy Bradshaw handled the sale. Martin spoke to Alex on the phone after the accident, but he had nothing to add to the investigation. Warmest regards. Pamela Larch.
I send a quick response—Mrs. Larch, Thank you so much, I really appreciate your help. Seraphine.
Then I type Alex Jay Kaimal Leeds into my web browser.
There’s a senior executive for an engineering company in Leeds with that name. He’s also associated with a private company registered in India, a running club in Roundhay, and as a donor at a charity ball for diabetes research. I can’t find a Facebook account for him, but I tap on a thumbnail picture on the engineering company website, and an image of a middle-aged man in a jacket and tie springs up.
He is broad shouldered with a blend of Asian and Caucasian features; his skin a mid brown, his hair dark. His posture exudes confidence, and his serious expression is warmed by the hint of a smile around his eyes. If he was the same age as my parents, he’d be in his mid-fifties now, but he looks younger here—no trace of gray in his short hair. Perhaps it’s an old photo, or perhaps he’s lucky, or perhaps he’s vain. I think of Pamela saying “ever so handsome,” and even on my little screen, I see that he might possess a certain charisma.
I scrutinize his face. Who are you, Alex Kaimal? What was your relationship with Laura? Why did you disappear after my mother died?
I sigh and tap away, calling the insurance company in front of me before I can change my mind. The phone rings twice.
“Good afternoon, Crowford Insurance. How may I help?”
“I’d like to speak to Laura Silveira, please,” I say.
“One moment. I’m putting you through.”
The ringtone sounds six times, seven, eight. No answer. The receptionist comes back on the line after the ninth ring.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Silveira doesn’t appear to be at her desk at the moment. Would you like me to try someone else?”
I curl forward, bumping my forehead against the steering wheel.
“But I rang this morning.” I struggle to keep my tone calm. “You told me—was it you I spoke to? You told me she’d be here all day.” I keep my gaze fixed on my knees, not wanting to look across and catch her smiling, although when she speaks again I can hear it in her voice.
“She may have gone out to an external meeting. Perhaps you could try again later?”
I hang up.
If she’s gone out to a meeting, she might not come back to the office. But what if she’s still in the building? What if she’s avoiding answering her phone after she was lured down for a nonexistent delivery last week? My forehead leaves a damp patch on the steering wheel when I sit up.
I call Edwin’s number, but he doesn’t answer. Busy at work. I call the Winterbourne landline in case Danny is hanging out there today—he’s been cagey about his plans since he got back from working in Kenya last month, shrugging off questions even before Dad’s accident. My twin brother is still looking for his place in life. In a different way to me. I hang up when the Winterbourne answer machine kicks in, and I try Danny’s mobile, but again, no answer.
My thumb hovers over Vera’s number, but I flick past and in the end choose to send Edwin a text. Can I stay with you tonight? Unlike Summerbourne, Winterbourne House is protected with sophisticated locks and a burglar alarm, but I have my own key and I know the code. I’m asking out of politeness.
A reflected glint from the sliding glass doors catches my eye, and it takes me a full second to register that the tall figure striding down the steps in front of me is Laura. It’s midafternoon, and she has no bag with her, just a white envelope clutched in one hand. She turns sharply to the left, knocking shoulders with a burly man in a suit as she passes, causing him to mutter something crossly to her back. I shove my phone into my trouser pocket and leap out of the car, dodging around other pedestrians to keep her hunched figure within sight as far as the park gate, where she turns in.
I sprint ahead, sweat soaking into my top. I can’t lose her again. When I swing through the gate, I spot her instantly, veering away from the main path, hurrying over toward the empty bandstand. I jog along the inner line of the boundary hedge, not following her directly but closing the gap between us. As she reaches the bandstand, she skirts its perimeter and approaches a bench and a trash bin. I keep my face turned away, toward the hedge, as I jog past, but there are some trees up
ahead, and when I reach them, I circle around to get as close to her as I can without being seen.
She doesn’t sit on the bench. She tears the envelope open, and her hands are shaking. She tugs out a folded sheet of paper, opens it, and looks at it for a few seconds, and then she turns to bend over, one outstretched arm supported by the top of the trash bin, and she vomits onto the ground.
I draw a deep breath in, my stomach clenching. What on earth is this? Has she brought this letter out of the office to open away from prying eyes? What does it say?
I creep forward in the undergrowth to get a better view.
She’s wiping her mouth on the back of her hand now, and she takes the sheet of paper in its refolded state and rips it in half, and half again, and again. She scrunches the pieces up and shoves them into the trash bin. Then she does the same with the envelope. She straightens and looks around, not directly toward me, and then she pats the pocket of her trousers and sets off toward the main path that bisects the park. I wait until she’s on the path, heading for the far end of the green, before I emerge from my hiding place and start to follow her.
There are family groups playing football and Frisbee, and others sitting around on the grass. I concentrate on keeping Laura in sight, getting steadily closer as she leaves through a gate on the far side. I follow her along residential streets, crossing over once, turning right at the next junction. These are narrow roads with cars parked all the way along each side, and I’m expecting her to notice me at any moment, but she tugs keys out of her pocket as she swings jerkily into the front garden of a narrow end-of-terrace house, ignoring the broad steps up to the front door and instead disappearing down the side alley toward the door of the basement flat.
“Excuse me!” I shout, and I dive through the gate and around the corner of the building. Laura is frozen in position, her hand on the key in the lock, her head turned toward me. I stop with a jolt, and we look at each other for a long moment. She’s breathing through her mouth, and there’s a sheen of sweat on her face.
“I’m Seraphine Mayes,” I say.
“I know who you are.” Her tone is flat, but her hand trembles as she turns the key and starts to push her front door open, keeping her eyes on me.