The Au Pair

by Emma Rous

  “I was hoping I could ask you some questions,” I say, stepping forward as she eases herself through the door, rotating her body so that she’s still facing me but is now inside her flat.

  “I can’t help you, Seraphine. Please go away.”

  She starts to close the door, to shut me out, but I put my hand against it, pushing lightly, and she hesitates.

  “Please,” I say. “I just want to ask you about Summerbourne.”

  She presses her lips together and shakes her head slightly. I search her face. It must have been traumatic for her, my mother dying the way she did. But still, twenty-five years on, shouldn’t she be happy to meet me—one of the babies she helped deliver?

  “You were there when we were born?” I ask. “Danny and I?”

  She turns her face further into the shadows of the dark hallway, and I have to increase my push against the door to counteract hers. If she puts her whole weight behind it, I won’t be able to stop her closing it against me, and I desperately try to find words to stall her.

  “The photo,” I say. “Did you take it? On the patio. With only one of us in it?”

  Her eyes widen, and I can see that they’re brown, like mine; not blue like my brothers’. She twitches the door away from me, and I lurch sideways, unbalanced, knowing any second now she’s going to slam it, and any chance I have of hearing the truth will be over. I blurt out the question before I can change my mind.

  “Are you my mother?”

  And suddenly, her face softens, and I read sympathy in her eyes as her grip on the door relaxes and she exhales heavily. I press my lips together, trying to calm my breathing so that I can concentrate on every detail of her reply.

  “No, I’m not your mother, Seraphine. How funny you’d think that.” She pauses, and I watch the flicker of expressions on her face. “I was with your mother when you were born.” She still blocks the doorway, but she reaches out with her free hand and touches me gently on my forearm. I hold my breath. “Your mother said you were the most beautiful baby she had ever seen. Like an angel.”

  I am aware of tears on my cheeks, but I focus harder than ever on her face, on her fleeting sad smile as she mentions my mother, on the steadiness of her gaze as she says these precious words. Words I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear. Words I should have been able to turn over and examine every day of my life until they were as smooth as glass pebbles from the sea. Instead, I am lacerated by the glittering surprise of them as I clutch them to me now.

  She opens the door a tiny bit, and I remove my hand from it and take a small step back.

  “I can’t talk to you anymore, Seraphine,” she says. “I’m sorry about your father. I only just heard. Please don’t come here again.” The door bangs shut in my face, and I hear the grate of locking mechanisms on the inside.

  I wander back out to the pavement, dazed. At some point on her road, I stop to lean against somebody’s gatepost, taking deep breaths and trying to clear my head. Eventually, I have the presence of mind to go back and make a note of her house number, and then the street name. I feel empty as I retrace my steps to the park: I came for an explanation, a resolution, but I’m leaving with a sense that Laura was protecting secrets in that dark hall, pushing them into the shadows behind her to keep them from my view. Just inside the park gate, a child drops a Popsicle stick on the path in front of me, and suddenly, my swelling resentment is punctured by the thrill of an idea.

  I jog over to the trash bin by the bandstand, keeping my feet clear of the mess on the ground as I reach my hand tentatively through the slot on one side, feeling for scrunched-up paper. I’m lucky. I pull out several wadded sections, slightly damp, keeping my face turned away from the smell. On my last attempt to feel for more, the drone of a wasp rises from the mass of rubbish, and I withdraw my arm sharply. I hold the pieces of paper away from my body, and a solitary child watches me with his mouth open as I hurry toward the gate.

  Back in my car, I quickly abandon an attempt to piece together the shreds of the letter, and check my phone to find a reply from Edwin saying, Course you can. I’ll be home around 8.

  Winterbourne is the opposite to Summerbourne in many ways. It’s formal on the outside, and sparsely furnished on the inside, with none of the clutter that our childhood country home has accumulated over generations. Nevertheless, it has a welcoming calmness that always soothes me as soon as I step inside. When Edwin moved in four years ago, he replaced the old gas burners in the kitchen with a sleek induction cooktop, but changed little else. Danny is staying here at the moment, but I’ve no idea where he goes during the day. His motorbike is parked under cover to the side of the house, but when I call his name from the entrance hall, there’s no reply.

  I place my handbag on the polished wood of the dining table and begin to peel the layers of damp paper apart and lay them out; the words are machine printed, and form a narrow band across the middle of the page. There’s a section missing, but it belongs to the upper right corner of the paper, and I imagine it would have been just blank space anyway.

  I hold my breath as I look at the two sentences I have re-created, and then a surge of nausea makes me dash to the cloakroom. The stench from the park trash bin still clings to my hands, and I scrub repeatedly with antibacterial hand wash. I need a hot shower and clean clothes.

  I creep back into the dining room and read the note again.

  Dominic Mayes is dead. If you discuss Summerbourne with anyone, your daughter will be next.

  I leave the room and close the door softly behind me. My mother said I looked like an angel when I was born, I remind myself. The most beautiful baby she had ever seen. I won’t think about the letter until Edwin gets home.

  An hour later, I am heading downstairs in fresh clothes, running my hands along the smooth oak banister, stroking the heavy brocade curtains as I pass them on the landing. As I make the last turn on the staircase, a complete stranger—a slim young woman with long white-blond hair—steps out of the cloakroom, sees me, and screams.

  Danny appears in the kitchen doorway, a tea towel over one shoulder.

  “Brooke?” He turns to gaze up at me, and then pads across to her with an apologetic grimace. “I’m so sorry. Meet my sister, Seraphine. She is pretty scary, I know. I had no idea she was here, actually.” He shoots me a dark look. “Seraphine, this is Brooke from next door.”

  I come down two steps. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” Her eyes are pale blue, like a washed-out sky, and she doesn’t smile.

  “Did the grumpy couple move out then?” I ask Danny. He closes his eyes.

  “No,” Brooke says. “I’m their daughter.”

  “Oh. God, I’m so sorry—”

  “What are you doing here, Seph?” Danny asks me, his tone cool. “Does Edwin know you’ve come?”

  “Of course he does.” I take another step down, glancing at Brooke and back to Danny. “I need to talk to you, actually.” Brooke directs her gaze toward the grandfather clock rather than at either of us.

  “Well, Brooke’s here for dinner,” Danny says. “I invited her.”

  I carve my thumbnail into the wax on the banister. I wonder whether this is the first time Danny has invited this woman for dinner; he never mentioned her name in all the days he stayed at Summerbourne before and after Dad’s funeral. I wonder how well they know each other, and how she’ll react to sharing the dining table with a threatening letter that smells like the contents of a warm park trash bin.

  “I went to see Laura today,” I say. Danny stares at me. “She’s being threatened.”

  Brooke looks at me directly then. I’m expecting a hint of annoyance, but her expression is strangely serene. She glides over to Danny and kisses him lightly on the cheek, and then picks up a bunch of keys from the hall table.

  “We can do dinner some other time,” she tells him, and then switches her calm gaze to me. “It�
�s nice to meet you, Seraphine. I’m sorry about your father. I’ll let myself out.” She leaves without glancing back.

  Danny glares at me, and then stalks off into the kitchen where he crashes pans around on the cooktop. I follow and sink down on a kitchen chair, rubbing my eyes.

  “This had better be good,” he says eventually.

  “I’ll tell you when Edwin gets here.”

  He keeps his back to me for a while, but eventually says, “I miss him too, you know.”

  “Oh, Danny.” He turns, and I stretch my arms out toward him. “I know.”

  When Edwin arrives he finds us holding hands at the kitchen table, a mound of tissues between us, our faces streaked with tears. Edwin bends to hug me, pats Danny on the back, and then leaps to rescue the stew which is starting to burn at the base of the pan.

  I confess everything to my brothers over dinner: following Laura to the park, watching her read the letter and throw up, confronting her on her doorstep, what she said about our mother. We sit around one end of the dining table, picking at our food, while the pieced-together letter lurks at the other end like an uninvited guest.

  I’m feeling increasingly uncomfortable with the route the conversation is taking.

  “We should go to the police,” Edwin says. “Whatever this is about—we should report it.”

  “Oh, and what will I say?” I ask him. “I stalked this woman. I pulled a ripped-up note out of a trash bin in the park and stuck it together?” I try to imagine pressing the soggy, taped-together letter into Martin Larch’s large hands.

  “I’m worried, Seraphine,” Edwin says. “It mentions Dad, and Summerbourne. Going to Laura’s house today—you might have put yourself in danger.”

  I shove my plate away. “I’m not her daughter!”

  “I know, I know.” He takes my hand, squeezes it. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just that you were there, asking questions about Summerbourne.”

  “Plus the small fact,” Danny says quietly, “that whoever wrote this seems to be implying they caused Dad’s death.”

  Edwin and I stare at him, and then our eyes are drawn back to the note.

  “That’s one interpretation,” Edwin says eventually.

  “A hollow threat,” I say.

  “Yeah, using Dad’s accident to try to frighten her,” Edwin says.

  “Because we know it was an accident,” I say. “Don’t we?”

  Danny turns his stew over and over with his fork. The air in the dining room seems to squeeze inward and then recede, as if Winterbourne itself is listening, considering.

  “Of course,” Danny says. “We know that.”

  Edwin sits back.

  “Well then,” I say. “All this tells us is Laura knows something about Summerbourne, and someone wants to stop her talking about it.”

  Edwin groans. “But not necessarily anything to do with us. Who knows what happened that year—it might be something to do with a friend, a boyfriend—nothing to do with our family, just something that happened while she was living in our house.”

  “So why mention Dad then?” Danny asks.

  “Exactly,” I say. “She knows something about us.”

  Edwin gives me a sharp look. “No. If you won’t go to the police, then you have to drop this, Seraphine. I mean it. You mustn’t approach Laura again.”

  I grind my teeth, and glance at Danny for backup, but Danny looks just as concerned as Edwin.

  “I agree,” Danny says. “She told you herself to stay away from her. You’ve got to drop it, sis. Promise.”

  I close my eyes and think about my father. Dominic Mayes is dead. And my mother. Your mother said you were the most beautiful baby she had ever seen.

  When I blink them open, both my brothers are watching me with a familiar wariness. I sigh.

  “I won’t approach Laura again—I promise.” I stand and grab my plate. “I’m shattered. Thanks for dinner. And Danny”—I scrunch up my face—“I’m sorry about spoiling your plans with Brooke. I’m going to bed.”

  I scrape my uneaten stew into the waste disposal sink and slide my plate into the dishwasher before making my way up to the bedroom I always use at Winterbourne. Something continues to niggle at me. The stolen scrap of paper with Laura’s work address; the threatening letter sent to Laura’s work address—is the same person responsible for both?

  The weight of the bedspread on my body comforts me despite the heat of the evening, and my breathing deepens and slows as I gaze at the faint cracks in the ceiling, familiar from my childhood stays here. I promised my brothers I wouldn’t approach Laura again. A moth batters at the bedside lamp, and I reach out for the switch. But my fingers rest on my phone, and before I turn out the light, I do a quick Internet search to find out how long it will take me to drive up to Leeds tomorrow. I promised my brothers I wouldn’t approach Laura again, but I didn’t say anything about Alex Kaimal.

  10

  Laura

  September/October 1991

  IT WASN’T MY fault. I tidied toys and washed dishes while Ruth got Edwin ready for bed that evening. Each time I heard a noise that might have been Dominic’s car approaching along the lane, my stomach lurched. It wasn’t our fault. But if I hadn’t let Edwin run ahead out of sight, if I hadn’t been so wrapped up in Alex’s company . . .

  It was an accident. Dominic would understand that. I checked my watch again, and a familiar gravel crunch reached my ears.

  “Daddy!” Edwin bounded down the stairs in his pajamas, launching himself into Dominic’s arms. From the kitchen doorway, I could barely make out the crust of blood that edged the plaster strips.

  “What’s all this?”

  “I cut it on the gate, Daddy. I got a lollipop.”

  Ruth leaned against the wall a few steps up from the bottom, her arms crossed.

  “Laura will tell you,” she said.

  Dominic looked from her to me.

  “He tried to climb the gate. We were right behind him. He must have slipped. It’s actually only a little cut.”

  “There was blood everywhere,” Edwin said.

  Dominic kissed the top of his head and set him down. He forced a smile as he stroked Edwin’s cheek. “What sort of lollipop did you get?”

  “A round one, you know. A red one.”

  “Strawberry?”

  Edwin shrugged.

  “Well, don’t climb the gate again, Edwin. It’s not a good idea. Come on, let’s get you back into bed. I’ll read you a story tonight.”

  Dominic squeezed Ruth’s arm briefly as he passed her on the stairs, and she closed her eyes. I retreated to the annex and went straight to bed, listening to the rain on the window for hours, failing to sink into sleep.

  Edwin and I ate breakfast together the next morning, before slipping outside to potter around by the climbing frame. I rubbed my arms while he practiced shooting down the slide headfirst. The grass underfoot was slippery, and a faint hint of bonfire smoke mingled with the earthy scent from the damp borders.

  Dominic joined us, his slippers stained dark with dew, his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. He stood next to me, and we watched Edwin in silence for a while.

  “I’m sorry if Ruth upset you yesterday,” he said eventually.

  I shook my head. “No, not at all. I understand.”

  “She’s feeling particularly fragile at the moment.”

  “She didn’t upset me. I feel terrible about frightening her like that. It must be very hard after—after what happened with your other son.”

  A spasm distorted his face for a moment, and I looked away. He blew out a loud puff of air.

  “It’s not just that. She’s been hoping—we’ve been hoping—for some happier news recently. A new brother or sister for Edwin. But sadly—” He cleared his throat.

  “Daddy, help me on the monkey
bars!” Edwin called.

  Dominic handed me his coffee mug, and leaped to Edwin’s aid. Any anticipation of comfort evaporated as I discovered the liquid inside was stone-cold.

  Vera joined us at Summerbourne the following day; Dominic was preparing a joint of pork and making applesauce, and Ruth felt too unwell to collect her from the station, so she arrived in a taxi.

  “Perhaps we should arrange some driving lessons for you, Laura, while you’re here,” Vera said, checking her hair in the hall mirror. In the sitting room doorway, Ruth rolled her eyes. I smoothed down a spike of hair on Edwin’s head, wary of replying.

  “Perhaps we should arrange some driving lessons for you, Mother,” Ruth said.

  Vera waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, I’m too old for such things.”

  “You’re not even fifty! But don’t worry about it. Everyone loves driving you places, don’t they? It’s a real treat for us.”

  Vera ignored her. “Now, Edwin, what have you been painting this week? You must show me everything.”

  If anything, Edwin’s injury looked more dramatic than it had on the first day, with a thick scab bulging from the contour of his ear. Vera didn’t mention it in front of him though, and I guessed that either Ruth or Dominic had told her about it over the phone. Once Edwin had shown off his latest pictures and models, he settled at the day nursery table to paint a new scene. Vera beckoned me to the other end of the room.

  “How are you getting on?” she asked. “With the job—with everything?”

  “Oh, fine,” I said. “Great. Thank you.”

  She gave me an appraising look. “Are they working you too hard? You shouldn’t be working today at all. Twenty-two hours a week, isn’t it?”

  I spread my hands, indicating the day nursery and the little boy who sat dipping his brush into paint with his tongue poking out.

  “Honestly, it doesn’t feel like work. I’m happy being with Edwin when I’m off duty, and it hardly feels like work when I’m on duty.”