The Au Pair

by Emma Rous

  Martin takes Vera by the arm and leads her toward the end of the drive, but she appears to have second thoughts.

  “Actually, I’ll stay here, thank you, Martin. You can take the weed burner, but I’ll stay here.”

  “Mrs. Blackwood, we need to ask you a few questions,” Martin says.

  Vera draws herself up. “There’s no need, Martin. Everything’s fine.”

  “Can you tell me why you asked Ralph Luckhurst to collect you from King’s Lynn station and drop you off at the boatyard yesterday morning, Mrs. Blackwood?” There’s a sharpness in Martin’s tone that wasn’t there a moment ago. “And then asked him to collect you from the boatyard again a couple of hours later?”

  I give my head a small shake. What’s Martin going on about?

  “That’s none of your business,” Vera says, her chin high.

  “Can you explain why there are traces of gunpowder on the passenger seat of Mr. Luckhurst’s van, Mrs. Blackwood? The same type of gunpowder we found on the block of stone that was loosened from the wall of the folly parapet and dropped onto Ms. Silveira’s head yesterday? I imagine it’d be pretty hard to climb up so close to that cannon without getting some of the old gunpowder on your hands.”

  I can’t take this in; I feel like I’m two steps behind. Ralph Luckhurst. My grandmother’s greatest fan, her loyal ally. A link between Laura’s attacker and Ralph’s van. Is this all his doing?

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Vera tells Martin, but her face pales.

  “Can you explain why a letter requesting Miss Silveira’s presence at the folly yesterday matches a letter found in Mr. Luckhurst’s van concerning his sister Daisy’s interview at the bakery? Same paper, same ink, same font. The note in the van was signed by you, Mrs. Blackwood. Will we find your fingerprints on both letters, do you think?”

  The remaining color drains from Vera’s face. I sway backward, and Joel catches me under my elbows. Vera sags, slowly crumpling into a shrunken version of herself, her head bowed. I see Edwin flinch, but he stays where he is; he doesn’t go to her.

  “Gran?” Edwin says. “You didn’t write that note?”

  Vera shivers briefly. She doesn’t raise her eyes.

  “I just wanted to talk to her,” she says eventually. “To persuade her not to get involved. I might have—leaned against a loose stone while I was waiting for her. It wasn’t deliberate.”

  Laura raises trembling fingers to the bandage around her head, staring at Vera with an expression of disbelief.

  Martin makes a sound in his throat. “Another question for you, Mrs. Blackwood. When I spoke with you after your son-in-law Dominic’s accident—” He articulates the word with careful emphasis: acc-i-dent. “When I asked you where you were that morning—why did you fail to mention that Mr. Luckhurst had driven you here, to Summerbourne, from the station? Mr. Luckhurst tells me that when he came back to collect you, you were exchanging cross words with Dominic here on the driveway. You sent Mr. Luckhurst away again, and later called him to pick you up from the boatyard.”

  Martin’s words rattle inside my head, louder and louder. Ralph drove Vera here. Vera and Dad had an argument. Before Dad’s accident.

  “No,” Edwin says. “Gran? No.”

  Vera’s voice is small, distant.

  “I knew it would look bad. That’s why I didn’t tell you . . .” Her head sinks as she talks, and she doesn’t seem to notice Laura straightening up and stepping forward. A bubble of noise, halfway between a laugh and a cry, escapes from Laura’s throat.

  “And you tried to make out that I was the threat!” Laura says.

  Vera’s head jerks up. The two women stare at each other, and then Vera deliberately turns her head away, her expression tight with contempt.

  “I can assure you, Martin,” Vera says, “Dominic was fine when I left him.”

  My mind is still scrambling to catch up. Martin takes a deep breath.

  “Vera Blackwood,” Martin says, “I am arresting you on suspicion of the attempted murder of Laura Silveira.”

  I sway backward. The sunlight is so bright I can barely see him.

  “And also on suspicion of the murder of Dominic Mayes,” Martin continues.

  I try to draw a breath, but the air’s too thick, my throat too narrow.

  “And also, based on old evidence reviewed last night,” Martin says, “on suspicion of the murder of your daughter, Ruth Mayes, in 1992.”

  A voice says, “No.” I think it must be Edwin.

  Joel holds on to me. The world sways around us.

  “You do not have to say anything,” Martin says, “but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  My knees buckle, and I lean against Joel, peering through the unbearable light toward Vera. She opens her mouth and draws in a deep breath, and then she exhales in a long sigh that rolls toward me like an icy wave crashing over my skin.

  Edwin’s face is gray. Danny’s eyes meet mine for a moment, and then he bends over and retches repeatedly. For a long moment, there is no other sound. No other movement. Laura’s eyes are fixed on the gravel at her feet.

  “Let’s get you down to the station, Mrs. Blackwood,” Martin says then, his voice remarkably gentle, and we watch as the blue light flashes along the lane toward us. The gravel sprays in impressive arcs. Martin eases Vera gently into the rear seat, protecting her head from the doorframe with his large hand.

  The sun scorches my retinas and hollows out my skull.

  In the silence that blooms behind the police car’s fading growl, a gull takes off from the garage roof with a great flapping of wings, and I watch it fly away until it’s a speck in the sky, somewhere out over the sea. Then the front door opens and my attention is tugged back to the land: to the broad-shouldered man and the tall young woman with the pink streak in her hair; the two strangers who stand on the doorstep of Summerbourne as if they belong there.

  Laura gazes at Alex and Kiara, and her hand rises to the locket around her neck. She clears her throat before glancing at the rest of us.

  “Shall we go inside?” she says. “I think I’d better tell you everything.”

  26

  Laura

  July 1992

  RUTH TOLD EVERYONE her baby was due toward the end of August. Privately, I knew the end of July was more likely. Dominic continued to come home on a Friday night and return to London on a Monday morning, and Vera visited for lunch on Tuesdays or Wednesdays. The rest of the week, we suited ourselves.

  On the Monday following Alex’s unwelcome visit—the twentieth of July—Ruth asked me to take him a note.

  “Make sure you put it straight into his hands,” she told me. “If he’s not in, don’t post it through the letter box—bring it back.”

  I glimpsed an anonymous list of demands: paternity claim to be renounced, visits to be of appropriate duration and frequency for a family friend, no hints ever to be made to “the father.”

  “Do you really think this is a good idea?” I asked.

  She scowled. “He has no choice. It’s my decision.”

  “I just can’t see him accepting his own child calling him Uncle Alex.”

  “Just give him the note, Laura. Whose side are you on?”

  The water from the taps had developed a rusty brown coloring that day, so Ruth and Edwin waited in for the plumber while I plodded into the village in the early afternoon heat. I passed Helen Luckhurst outside the shop.

  “How’s Ruth? Any better?” she asked.

  “She’s great,” I said. “Thanks. I’d better get on.”

  At Alex’s cottage, the yellow sports car was nowhere to be seen. A stranger opened the front door: a woman in her fifties, looking me up and down with hostile eyes.

  “Are you Ruth?”
she asked.

  “No!” I bit back an incredulous laugh. “Where’s Alex?”

  He appeared from around the side of the cottage, tugging a pair of gardening gloves off his hands.

  “Laura. Hi.”

  The woman folded her arms and continued to stare at me. I pressed my bag more tightly to my side.

  “Can we talk? In private?” I asked him.

  The flash of hope in his eyes made my stomach turn over. I followed him into the low-ceilinged cottage, through a small living room to an even tinier room at the back. It smelled of new paint, and there was a cot in the corner, made up with fresh white bedding and a brightly colored crib bumper. A baby bath and changing mat sat on the floor next to it, alongside packets of nappies and a soft toy rabbit. My mouth fell open, but no words came out. He closed the door.

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  I swallowed. “It’s . . . I wasn’t expecting . . .”

  He wound a dial on the cot mobile, and a tinkly lullaby tune filled the room as the teddy bears on the hanging frame rotated.

  “I’ve done the same at home in Leeds,” he said over the music. “A bigger room there, of course. And I’ve bought a family-friendly car. But we’ll play it by ear. If the child is safe at Summerbourne, then he or she can just come here for short visits at first.”

  He finally read the shock in my expression.

  “What’s wrong?” he said. “The woman out there—she’s a private midwife. She’s going to help me in the early days. I’m not leaving anything to chance.”

  I handed him Ruth’s note, and stood by the window as he read it. A scruffy blackbird darted out from the undergrowth and snatched a worm from the freshly turned earth of a flower bed. A noise of contempt accompanied the scrunching of paper behind me.

  “She still thinks I might back down?” he said.

  I turned slowly. “She hopes you will.”

  “How can I?”

  I shook my head, but his hand shot out suddenly and grabbed me by the wrist, pulling me closer until his face was only inches from mine.

  “You’ve got to help me, Laura. She’s not rational. I’m afraid she’s going to hurt the baby.”

  I tried to jerk my arm from his grasp, recognizing in his expression the same wild desperation I had seen in Ruth’s when she read his letters.

  “You’ve got to tell me,” he said. “The moment it’s born. Do you understand? I need to know as soon as it happens.”

  “Let go of me!”

  He blinked, and released his grip. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But promise you’ll tell me.”

  I backed toward the door, rubbing my wrist. He was just as deluded, just as irrational as she was. All this time I had imagined a compromise could be reached—that I could help them reach it, even, and they would both be grateful. How naive I was; how immature and useless.

  “I’m going home, Alex.”

  His forehead creased. “Okay.”

  “I mean I’m resigning. Going back to London. Dominic’s on annual leave next week, and then there’ll be his paternity leave. They don’t need me anymore.”

  His eyes widened. “You can’t. You can’t leave. I need your help.”

  For a split second I was tempted to close the gap between us; to take hold of his hand and promise to help him; to tell him we could do this together. We could look after this baby together. Me and him.

  I shook my head. “I’ve got to go.”

  The midwife frowned over a crossword in the living room, ignoring me as I hurried past her to the front door. Alex put his hand on my arm as I stepped outside, and I swung back to him, assuming he was going to say good-bye.

  “Do you think I should ring Dominic?” he asked.

  I gave an involuntary laugh and turned my back on him, stumbling on the uneven path. I crossed to the shady side of the lane and began the long trudge back to Summerbourne. My eyes stung, my throat hurt, and my whole body ached. I would probably never see Alex again, and he didn’t even care.

  The taps were running clear when I eventually got back, despite the plumber not finding a cause for the earlier discoloration. Edwin and Joel were playing an elaborate game involving the sandpit and the paddling pool, and Ruth beckoned me to join her in the shade on the patio. The apricot tree by the kitchen window was heavy with fruit, and a freshly picked bowlful lay on the table between us.

  “Well? What did he say?”

  I sank my teeth into a sun-warmed apricot and wiped juice from my chin before replying. “Nothing really.”

  “Is he going to do it? Agree to my terms?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She huffed. “I thought you’d have some kind of answer for me, Laura.”

  “I gave him the letter. I tried . . . If you want to know what he thinks, you’ll have to talk to him yourself. I’m sorry.”

  I threw my fruit stone into a flower bed and stalked off to the annex. Inside the top drawer of my desk, tucked between sheets of notes for studying, was the resignation letter I had so carefully written and not yet dated. I decided I would wait until Dominic arrived home on Friday evening at the start of his annual leave, tell them both then, and leave on Saturday morning. It would be less painful than a protracted good-bye, as far as Edwin was concerned. Deep down, I knew that I had to get home. No matter how displeased Mum and Beaky were going to be, I needed that sanctuary away from the people here.

  When Ruth knocked lightly on my door that evening, I hurried to open it, not wanting her to step inside and notice that I’d already packed the books from my shelves.

  “Would you be a darling and put Edwin to bed for me?” she asked. “I’m getting lots of Braxton Hicks. I’d like to lie down and see if they’ll ease off.”

  “Sure. I’ll be up in five minutes.”

  Edwin wore his new pale blue pajamas, given to him by Vera the previous week. He had managed to do all the buttons up without help and was pleased with himself. He knelt on his duvet and wrapped his arms around my neck, burying his face into my hair, and we had a long cuddle without saying anything. I sat by his side after his story, stroking his hand until he fell asleep.

  In all the time I’d lived at Summerbourne, I’d never locked my annex door, and this was the first night anyone ever came in and woke me up.

  “Laura.”

  I dragged my mind up out of a deep sleep. Ruth was shaking my shoulder, her face looming round and pale above me.

  “Laura. I need you. It’s started.”

  My whole body trembled. I dragged my dressing gown on and stuffed my feet into my slippers, frightened thoughts rattling through my mind. I was astonished when I realized that Ruth’s mood was one of suppressed excitement. She turned lamps on in the day nursery and laid towels on one of the sofas, pausing to close her eyes and breathe through a contraction every couple of minutes. My feelings about Ruth had ranged from admiration to frustration over the preceding eleven months, but in the early hours of that morning, I was awestruck by her composure.

  Her self-assurance calmed the buzzing of my nerves, and after a while I fell into a rhythm to match hers. Between her contractions we chatted about inconsequential matters, sometimes exchanging stories of funny things Edwin had said, making each other smile. As each new muscle spasm began to build, she turned her focus inward, and I breathed along with her, my own abdomen tightening in sympathy.

  The night sky was shading into pink when she announced she needed to push. The atmosphere in the room slid into something urgent I wanted to escape from.

  “Let me call someone,” I said. “I can’t do this.”

  She buried her nails into my arm. “You have to,” she hissed. “It’s coming.”

  It was the last coherent thing she said for a while. She knelt on the sofa, holding on to the back of it, and I paced up and down behind her, fighting the urge to open the
door and run. As her vocalizations grew louder, I picked up a towel. There was nobody else. I had to do this.

  The head came first, and after another push the rest of the baby followed: pink and long and lean, all slimy and slippery. I caught it with my towel and fumbled, laying the bundle on the floor while Ruth sagged down onto the sofa. She held her arms out wordlessly, and I scooped the towel and its contents up and placed them in her arms.

  “It’s a girl,” she breathed. She wiped the little face, and a single tear slid down her cheek. “She’s the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen.”

  The baby’s eyes were open, her chest rising and falling gently. I could see nothing of Alex in her round face, her rosy skin. Her tiny lips parted repeatedly, but no sound emerged.

  “Are you hungry, baby?” Ruth said.

  She rewrapped the little body in the towel and settled back in the corner of the sofa to latch her on to her breast.

  “Pass me the bag,” she said, barely glancing at me. “The placenta will come in a minute. I’ll need to cut the cord.”

  I squeezed my hands together. “Do you want me to ring Dominic?”

  The briefest flicker of a frown was replaced with a smile. “Yes. Go.”

  In the dim light of the hall, I pushed the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. Don’t cry, I told myself. Get a grip.

  I ran my fingertip down the worn tabs of the address book on the hall table, pausing on the “K.” I gritted my teeth. The number for Dominic’s London flat was scrawled on the inside front cover, and I dialed that.

  “I’m on my way,” Dominic said. “Three hours tops.”

  By the time I carried tea and toast back through to Ruth, the baby was asleep, the umbilical cord tied off, and Ruth was stroking the tiny face with one finger.

  “I’m going to call her Seraphine,” she said. “She looks like an angel.”

  Edwin came downstairs shortly afterward and padded through from the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and looking at the scene with surprise.

  “Come and meet your summerborn sister, darling,” Ruth said, smiling at him. He stuck his thumb in his mouth and scowled. I led him back to the kitchen and made him some porridge, but he refused to eat it.