Day of the Accident

by Nuala Ellwood

  ‘That he’d what?’

  ‘That he’d abandoned her.’

  Grayling nods her head and writes something in her notebook.

  ‘After that she was scared of being in the car,’ I continue. ‘It took years for her to get over it. So there is no way I would have locked that door.’

  ‘And Sean?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He never locked her in the car again after that incident?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I reply. ‘He knew how scared she’d been.’

  ‘Well, that leads me on to my next set of questions,’ she says, looking down at her notepad. ‘And these are regarding your husband.’

  ‘Sean,’ I say. ‘Have you found him?’

  ‘No,’ says Grayling. ‘Though to be honest, he’s not officially missing. Our investigations have pointed to him leaving of his own accord. We just wanted to get your side of the story. Can you think of any reason why he would leave? Were you having problems?’

  I think back to that last conversation, the anger in his voice. Things were not good between us, no. But it’s none of her business.

  ‘Maggie?’

  I can’t. Instead I shake my head.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘There were no problems. We were just … normal.’

  Grayling narrows her eyes.

  ‘That’s quite rare, don’t you think?’ she presses. ‘To be married all those years and have no arguments? And with a young child as well?’

  ‘I’m not saying we didn’t argue,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘Of course we did. But it was just over silly things. Nothing that would give him grounds for leaving.’

  She nods her head but I can tell she doesn’t believe me.

  ‘Claire said he left just after … after the funeral,’ I say, my voice trembling. ‘And I have no idea why. The police must have spoken to him after the accident. Did he give any hint that he was going to do this?’

  ‘I did meet Mr Allan,’ says Grayling. ‘I spoke to him in the immediate aftermath and then he came to the station to collect your phone which we’d recovered from the riverbank.’

  My phone. It’s the first time I’ve given it a thought.

  ‘Your husband was in a very bad state,’ continues Grayling. ‘He was grieving for his child. But, no, he didn’t mention leaving, not at that point.’

  ‘He will come back, won’t he?’ I say, searching her face for some element of reassurance. ‘He can’t have just left for good?’

  ‘I can’t give you an answer to that, Maggie,’ says Grayling. ‘Though what we know so far doesn’t point to any kind of foul play. If what you say is true and you weren’t having any marital problems then it’s most likely that the shock of your daughter’s death may have prompted him to leave. Grief does strange things to people.’

  She stops and stares at me with an odd look on her face. Almost as though there’s something else she wants to say.

  ‘Anyway, I’ll leave you to get some rest now,’ she says, with a sudden smile. ‘Thanks for answering my questions.’

  She stands up and slips the notepad into her pocket.

  ‘Is that it?’ I say, watching as she walks to the door. ‘My husband is missing. You need to try and find him.’

  ‘As I said, Maggie, the results of our investigation point to your husband leaving of his own free will,’ she says, with the same strange expression on her face. ‘There’s not much more we can do. But if you do remember anything, however small, that you think might be important, get in touch, yeah? I’ll leave my details with Dr Elms.’

  She opens the door then, letting in a scent of overcooked food from the corridor. When she closes it I lie there for a moment, trying to take it all in. Sure, things were fraught between us, but Sean would never leave me, knowing that I would wake up and have to face the horror of Elspeth’s death alone.

  And then I remember that last conversation, the thinly veiled anger in his voice. I can’t take much more of this, Maggie.

  I lie back on the pillow and as I close my eyes a deep sense of unease ripples down my spine.

  8

  Dear Mummy,

  Why have I been sent to this place? I’m trying my best to understand but all I can think is that I did something terrible, something I need to be punished for.

  I don’t like it here. The people are so mean. They tell me to toughen up and stop crying but I can’t. I cry all the time, particularly when we have to sit round the table and have dinner. Last night we had lamb chops. They were a weird purple colour and had lumps of fat all round them. I almost threw up just looking at them but the woman said if I didn’t eat them I’d be sent outside. So I tried and they actually tasted better than they smelled but I’ve got this sadness lump in my throat and the food won’t get past it; nothing will. I started to cough then and all the other kids were looking at me and laughing. The woman rolled her eyes then gave me a glass of water. She’s so horrible. Her face is all pointy and sharp, like a weasel, and she never smiles. I make myself better by imagining she’s a real weasel, like the ones in the Wind in the Willows.

  I’m sharing a bedroom with a girl called Zoe. She’s much older than me, about fourteen. She’s got black hair that’s cut really short and her eyes have purple circles under them, like she hasn’t slept in months. She spends most of the time just sitting on her bed listening to music on her headphones. We’ve got bunk beds. I’m on the bottom bunk, she’s on the top. The bed is really uncomfortable and the sheets make me itch. Last night Zoe told me to ‘shut the fuck up’ because I was crying in my sleep. (Sorry for that word, but that is what she said.) The next morning she said I’d kept her awake and if I carried on crying she’d give me a slap. So now, I’m training myself to stop crying and if I do I make sure I do it silently.

  I don’t belong here Mummy. There’s been some terrible mistake, I know there has. You and Daddy wouldn’t just leave me here.

  Please come and find me Mummy.

  I miss you.

  I love you.

  Your lovely daughter xxx

  9

  Monday 31 July

  I sit in the corner of the hospital day room, an item of lost property waiting to be claimed. From the newspapers and magazines that are scattered across the coffee table beside me I see that it is July 2017. Two weeks ago I woke up in a hospital bed with no memory of how or why I had got there. Today I will be discharged. I look down at the wedge of prescriptions that Dr Elms gave me this morning: four weeks’ worth of strong painkillers, enough to numb the physical and mental pain, if only for a few hours at a time; antiseptic skin cream that I must rub into my hands twice a day to encourage my nails to grow back; and finally, two sets of inhalers, one to strengthen my lungs, the other to help when I’m breathless. It seems I have everything I need to set me on the road to recovery – everything except my husband and child.

  The door opens with a creak. An old woman walks in. She looks around the room, her face etched with confusion. Then she notices me and flinches, almost imperceptibly. She had thought the room was empty. And she might have been right. After all, I am no more than a ghost.

  According to Claire, Elspeth’s funeral took place three weeks after the accident, once the coroner’s report had been returned. At that point they didn’t think I was going to come through and if I did they were certain that I would be in a permanent vegetative state. Elspeth’s body was released and then Sean organized a service at St Peter’s Church in Rodmell. Her friends from school attended. Everyone wore violet, Elspeth’s favourite colour. It was a beautiful sight, the vicar told Claire when he came to sit by my bed. A very fitting send-off.

  But I never got the chance to say goodbye.

  Elspeth was buried in the churchyard, in a peaceful spot away from the road. I know this detail because, according to Claire, after the funeral Sean returned to my bedside and told me all about it.

  Then he left and never came back.

  I try to imagine what was going throug
h his head that night. Did he feel like I do now? Raw, exposed, sick with grief and pain? I still can’t remember anything, though I’ve tried and tried. I just have these recurring nightmares of water and Elspeth crying. I must find Sean. It’s the only thing keeping me going, the only thing stopping me from taking the pills they have given me all in one go and ending it. I have to find him. I have to find out what happened that night and whether I am to blame.

  They asked me yesterday if there was anybody they could call to come and help me. Did I have any friends or family members? And the answer was no. My parents died before Elspeth was born, and as for friends, well, I’ve never needed anybody but Sean and Elspeth. As I said to Grayling, they were my life.

  And now they’re gone.

  The elderly woman has chosen a comfy armchair on the other side of the room. I watch as she fiddles with her handbag. She reminds me of my mother, neat and solid. A woman who had a fresh handkerchief every day though she would rather have died than use it to dry her tears. Emotions were troublesome, according to my mother, they ought to be controlled or else everything fell apart. The woman catches me looking at her and smiles awkwardly. I look away, saving her from the embarrassment of having to initiate small talk. Though my speech has improved, I still find it hard to get my words out properly. The doctors have told me that this is normal and will improve with time and therapy but it still unnerves me.

  I can feel the old woman’s eyes on me as I pick up a magazine and pretend to flick through it. Photographs of celebrities blur in front of me along with advertisements for expensive face creams and beach-body diets. I think of Elspeth on our last holiday to Whitstable, delighted because she got to wear her new Hello Kitty sunglasses, and my eyes fill with tears. How is it possible that I will never see her beautiful little face again; feel the warmth of her skin as she presses her face next to mine. ‘Night night, Mummy. Love you all the world and sixpence.’

  That was my father’s old saying, passed down to me and then to Elspeth. All the world and sixpence. Oh, my darling girl, I loved you more than that; I loved you more than you will ever know.

  I put the magazine down and clasp my hands together, trying to hold it all in.

  ‘Hello, Maggie.’

  I look up and see Claire.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ she says, lifting a fleshy arm to usher me out. ‘Dr Elms was just putting together your discharge papers.’

  I stand up and make my way towards her reassuring voice, remembering how it always made me feel better when I heard it in the coma dream. She would talk about the weather, about her two teenage sons and what was happening on her favourite television programme. When I heard her voice I knew that I was safe.

  ‘Oh, and the team from Lewes Social Services have just arrived too.’

  ‘Social Services?’ I say. ‘Why are they here?’

  ‘They’re here to help you with your next steps.’

  ‘Do you mean a carer?’ I say, my chest tightening. ‘You mentioned yesterday that I might need a carer to help me around the house. Is that why they’re here?’

  ‘Why don’t we go and see what they have to say,’ says Claire gently. ‘And then we can take it from there.’

  I nod my head and let her guide me along the corridor. There are children’s paintings pinned to the wall, potato prints in bright primary colours, oversized butterflies and fat, smiling caterpillars. As we walk past them my eyes prickle with tears.

  Elspeth loved to draw. It was how she made sense of the world. If she’d had a new experience or been somewhere unfamiliar she would run upstairs to her desk when she got home and draw it in precise detail. She could sit there for hours, lost in the new worlds she had just experienced – a train journey, a seaside holiday, moving to a different classroom at the beginning of a new term – and try to situate herself into it. That was the hallmark of Elspeth’s drawings: she always placed herself in the middle of them. She was there on that train, on that beach, in that classroom, so therefore those experiences became real to her. Those new things were not scary any more and she felt safe.

  And then my thoughts turn to the riverbank. Why the hell couldn’t I have kept her safe that day? I was her mother, that was my job. And I failed. I failed.

  10

  Dear Mummy,

  I’m trying to be strong and trying not to cry too much, though it’s very very hard.

  I’m writing this in an exercise book that Weasel Face gave me. I told her I wanted it to practise my spelling. She doesn’t know that I’m writing you letters. I think she’d be angry if she knew. Zoe is sitting on the bunk above me smoking a cigarette. The smell is getting into my throat and I really want to cough but I’m trying to keep it in. I’ve realized that the slightest thing annoys Zoe and I don’t want to end up getting slapped.

  I’ve found a way to stop myself crying. Whenever I feel sad I write down my thoughts. It’s a bit like a word soup, out they all pour on to the paper. Yesterday when Weasel Face took me into town I thought I saw you on the street. I always look out for you. I got all sad and panicky and wanted to cry but I stopped myself by thinking happy thoughts. I kept the happy thoughts in my head until I came home then I wrote them down in this notebook. This is what I wrote:

  Mummy and Daddy

  Animals and birds

  Hot buttered toast

  Sweet tea

  Running through snow

  The feel of wool

  C. S. Lewis

  Summer holidays

  Numbers and counting

  Dipping my toes in the sea

  Hugs

  Mint ice cream

  Mummy coming to take me home

  Going to sleep in my own bed

  Mummy’s face

  Mummy’s voice

  Mummy

  Please come soon.

  Your lovely daughter xxx

  11

  I sit trembling in the front seat of Amanda’s Nissan Micra. Though we’ve only been driving for a few minutes it feels like an eternity.

  Amanda is my social worker; a stranger in whose hands my future now lies.

  I close my eyes and recall the events of this morning. When I got to Dr Elms’s office I was met by Amanda and her colleague, a thin, bug-eyed young man called Mike Saunders. As I sat there, half listening to them discussing my care plan and discharge forms, all I could think about was getting back to Larkfields, lying down in the big iron bed, pulling the covers over my head and blocking out the world. But then Mike Saunders said something that made me sit up rigid in my seat: ‘The priority is to get Mrs Allan into emergency accommodation.’ At first I thought I’d misheard him but then Amanda had intercepted and explained that she had found a place for me at a nice bed and breakfast in Lewes. I had no idea what they were talking about. Why would I need to be placed in emergency accommodation? Why wasn’t I going home?

  I know the answer to that question now but I still can’t comprehend it. As I sat in the office with Claire’s hand on my shoulder I was told that when Sean left he terminated his tenancy agreement on the house. I told them there must be some mistake; we owned Larkfields and had done for ten years. Then came the first bombshell. Mike Saunders, reading from a piece of paper, leaned forward and calmly told me that Sean had sold the house seven years ago to a property company called BH2 Properties. He had rented Larkfields from them ever since.

  None of it made any sense. If Sean had sold the house I would have known. Of course I would have known. But then came the next bombshell: after terminating the contract Sean had emptied his bank account. He was the main breadwinner, this money was our sole income source. As I tried to take in the deluge of information I could hear them asking me questions: ‘Do you have any other source of income, Mrs Allan?’ ‘Do you have any savings, pension, ISAs?’ ‘How about inheritance?’ I knew the answer to all of these and it was ‘No, no, no.’ I have nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  ‘Okay, Maggie,’ says Amanda as she stops the car and takes off her seat bel
t. ‘Here we are.’

  I look out of the window. I recognize this street. It’s a few blocks from the leisure centre. My heart hurts as I remember little Elspeth standing outside waiting for me to collect her after Sophie Bailey’s birthday party. It was a few weeks before the accident. She didn’t normally like big noisy events, but she always loved going to Sophie’s parties. They were best friends and they both loved music. Elspeth had been so excited because this was a disco-themed party with a DJ and glitterball. I had been excited too because the party meant that I would have a couple of hours to myself once I’d dropped her off. It was the anniversary of my mother’s death, and I knew that the only thing that would make me feel better would be to sit at my desk and lose myself in words.

  I’d been writing a novel for years, and never thought anything would come of it, but this year, high on New Year’s resolutions, I had got it into my head that I would finish it. Most people would have said it was a waste of time, particularly as I don’t have a qualification to my name. But once I started taking it seriously, I found I couldn’t stop. Writing was the only way I could keep the dark feelings at bay. The novel was a fictionalized account of Virginia Woolf’s time in Rodmell. It explored her hopes, dreams and fears which, strangely enough, were similar to my own. I found that pouring the emotions I’d always kept hidden into the novel made me feel better; lighter even. And soon, getting to my desk and writing the next chapter became an addiction. If I couldn’t do it I became irritable and depressed.

  So on the day of the party I told myself that I’d only write for a couple of hours. But, as usual, I got too caught up in the story and before I knew it the clock was telling me it was 4.30. The party had finished at 4.00. I jumped in the car and drove like a maniac all the way to Lewes. When I got there Elspeth was standing on the steps with Sophie’s mum. Her face was swollen with tears and she was clutching her party bag to her chest. I’d apologized profusely to Sophie’s mum and when we got in the car I promised Elspeth that I would make it up to her, that we’d have fish and chips in town or go and see a movie, but she just sat beside me in silence, gulping down her tears, all the excitement of the party evaporated.