‘Thank you,’ I say, moving away from him. ‘You’ve been really kind.’
‘Once a taxi driver, eh?’ he says, raising his newspaper in farewell. ‘Anyway, dear, I’ll go and wait for my bus. I’m off to Haywards Heath to see my daughter. Cheerio now. Safe journey.’
He walks over to the bench by the station cafe, sits down and opens his newspaper, leaving me to wait for the 123 alone. The station is pretty grim and hasn’t altered much since Ben and I used to come here to get the bus to Brighton when we were kids.
As the bus pulls up I catch a glimpse of myself in the window and think about the beautiful, carefree fourteen-year-old I had once been, before the dark thing happened. Now I look like a hollowed-out shell, a ghost woman trapped between worlds.
When the bus pulls up I wait while two schoolboys clamber on. Once they’ve got their tickets I climb the steps.
‘Yes, love?’ says the driver, a young man with a goatee beard.
I open my mouth to say the name of the village, the name I’ve just spent the last few minutes reciting under my breath, but I can’t remember it.
‘Where would you like to go?’ says the driver, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, laughing nervously. ‘I’ve completely forgotten the name of the village. I think it begins with “D”.’
The driver shakes his head then presses some buttons on his machine.
‘I’ll do you a day return,’ he says as a long white ticket snakes towards me. ‘You can get off at any stop along this route with this ticket then back again.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ I say, pulling the ticket out of the machine. ‘That’s great.’
I go to walk away but the driver calls me back.
‘Hey, you haven’t paid.’
In a panic I pat my pockets. I left the B & B in such a rush and I can’t remember picking up my purse. I can hear the two young schoolboys laughing behind me as I make my way back to the driver.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say as I feel the reassuring bulk of my purse in the back pocket of my jeans. ‘I wasn’t thinking.’
‘Four pounds,’ says the driver, his voice impatient now.
I unzip my purse. There are two five-pound notes and a ten.
‘There you go,’ I say, thrusting a fiver into the driver’s hand.
He nods then pushes a button on his machine and hands me my change.
‘Thanks,’ I say, taking the coin and putting it into my back pocket.
As the engine starts I go to find a seat. The two teenage boys snigger again as I trip over a folded pushchair that’s been left in the aisle. I curse under my breath, then, steadying myself, head for the back of the bus, away from them and the crying baby who is sitting up front with its mother.
I look out of the window as we leave Lewes. A small white building comes into view: Elspeth’s school. I crane my neck to see if I can spot any of her friends but it’s still early, another few hours yet until the morning bell. I imagine the children sitting at their desks later, all safe and sound. All safe and sound, except Elspeth. Then a thought comes into my head unbidden: if only it was one of them instead.
As we leave the school behind and head out into open countryside I try to think clearly. Surely seeing her school and travelling through this landscape should trigger something but there is nothing.
I look out of the window as a familiar road sign looms into view. Ketton House Farm: Ben’s house. My chest tightens as I recall the evening of Barbara’s party all those years ago; the night that changed my life for ever. I see myself, fourteen years old, all dolled up in a tight black dress, walking down that narrow lane with my parents. I see the playhouse and Ben standing at the door. I can hear the loud music, smell the sickly scent of dope in the air and the sweat of hot bodies. Then I remember Barbara’s words, ‘Dangerous people should be locked up,’ and I start to tremble. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I should just turn back.
But I’ve come this far. I can’t lose my nerve now. The bus starts to slow. We must be getting close. I look out of the window and see the village. This is it. I’m home. I stand up and make my way down the aisle, my head fizzing with a mixture of adrenaline and fear.
‘Thank you,’ I say to the driver when I get to the doors.
‘No bother,’ he says. ‘Oh and just so you know. The name of this place is Rodmell. Is that what you were wanting?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘Here,’ he says, handing me a leaflet. ‘Have this. It’s got all the return times on.’
It’s a timetable with every village name clearly printed. I am so grateful it’s like he’s just handed me a million pounds.
‘Thank you,’ I say, tears prickling my eyes. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘No worries,’ he says, with a laugh. ‘It’s only a timetable.’
Then he presses a button and the bus doors open. I turn and walk down the steps, like a hesitant child. I hear the doors close then the bus pulls away.
I stand for a moment taking it all in. Everything is as it was three months ago: the pretty flint cottages, the narrow country lane and the pub where Sean and I used to take Elspeth for Sunday lunch. She loved their ice cream sundaes and the fact they had a resident cat, a fat ginger tom called Archie. The last time we were there the landlord told us that Archie had got into a fight with a fox and had needed stitches. He’d pointed to a bench on the far side of the bar where the poor old cat was curled up asleep. He was wearing one of those plastic ruffs round his neck to stop him picking at the stitches. Elspeth was distraught and asked if she could take her meal over to where Archie was. She spent the entire afternoon cuddled up next to him, feeding him bits of fish finger.
I turn away from the pub and start to walk, the ground bumpy and uneven under my feet, and then I see it up ahead: the church. As I draw closer I see the gate to the churchyard. Someone has left it open and it swings back and forth in the breeze. I walk towards it in a daze, my eyes stinging with dried tears, but when I get to the gate I pause. There, on the other side, conspicuous amongst the lichen-covered stones, is a fresh grave. The stone is white and though I can’t see the lettering I know from the mounds of purple flowers, teddy bears and balloons who it belongs to.
‘No,’ I cry, clasping my hand to my mouth. ‘Oh God, no.’
I turn from the gate and stumble back towards the main road, tears blurring my vision. I can’t do it. I can’t go and stand at that grave. I can’t say goodbye to my beautiful child without knowing what happened that night. I have to get home – if I go home then I can think straight and maybe the fog in my head will clear.
It’s just a few hundred metres from here yet every step I take feels leaden, like my body is trying to stop me from getting there.
At the top of the hill the Downs spread out across the horizon and I force myself onwards until I reach the dip in the road and turn left into an expanse of ash trees. I can’t see the river yet but I can sense it. The air changes the closer you get to the water, it becomes damp and ripe. As I walk through the wooded copse I hear voices behind me, whispering, but when I turn round there is no one there, just the trees swaying in the breeze.
I quicken my pace and head towards the stones, Elspeth’s stones. I can see them up ahead, the final resting place of Sir Edwin Chatto, gallant Knight of Sussex, and his beautiful Lady Vivien. At least, that was what Elspeth said they were. In reality the stones were just the remains of old millstones from the nineteenth century but Elspeth wasn’t satisfied with that. The stones had to be special, they had to have a deeper meaning, and so the story of Sir Edwin and Lady Vivien was born.
When I reach the stones I stop for a moment to catch my breath, remembering the days when I would stand here for hours waiting for Elspeth to finish talking to her long-dead friends. Sometimes she would bring flowers and place them on the stones for Lady Vivien’s birthday or the anniversary of her death. Other times we’d bring a picnic and she’d leave
an offering of cake or fruit. It would seem strange to most people, but Elspeth had always been that way.
I carry on walking and then, after a few moments, I see it, peeking out from between the trees. A Gothic lodge house with a sloping roof and long diamond-shaped windows that only ever let in a fraction of light. As I follow the curve of the lane the house is momentarily hidden from view. The hawthorn bushes that line the path seem to get higher and higher so that it feels like I’m stepping into the centre of a maze. My breath grows shallow. I stop, take the inhaler out of my bag and take two long drags. As my lungs ease I carry on walking. This path is so familiar I could walk it blindfold and yet it feels strangely altered, like it’s become another, more complex, version of itself. A hundred yards further the lane opens up and I find myself standing at the edge of the sweeping sycamore-lined driveway looking at a rickety wooden sign nailed to the gate. In spidery metal letters it spells out a name:
LARKFIELDS.
19
I push the gate open and make my way down the drive. When I reach the front door my hands instinctively go to my pockets to retrieve my keys. It’s a natural reflex. I must have stood at this door a thousand times. If I close my eyes I can imagine that I’ve just dropped Elspeth off at school and this is an ordinary day. I’d go inside and load the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher, then make myself a pot of coffee and head upstairs to my study. I’d sit at my desk, secure in the knowledge that Elspeth is safe at school, working in her classroom and playing with her friends. She isn’t lying in the ground in St Peter’s churchyard. She is alive and well and waiting for her mummy to come and collect her at 3.30.
I put my hand on the wooden door frame to steady myself. My lungs feel like they are on fire. I peer through the window. The house looks empty. I turn the handle, praying for it to give, but it is locked. When I was a teenager my mum would leave a spare key underneath the bay tree pot that stood outside the door. I take a look around but there are no pots, no keys. Obviously, the real owners – B-something-or-other from what I remember – are more security conscious than that.
I step back from the door and make my way round to the back of the house. The living-room curtains are closed and there is no light coming from behind them. At the far end of the house there is a stone archway that leads to a small patio. Elspeth and I used to sunbathe out here in the summertime. It was so quiet and peaceful. But now it is overgrown with weeds and dead leaves. I crunch through them as I make my way across the patio to the back of the house.
I gasp when I see the garden. Like the patio, it is a tangle of weeds. The vegetable trenches where Elspeth and I planted carrots and green beans have been ripped out. The roots lie discarded on the path. The air smells of rotten vegetables and something else, a dusty decaying smell that I can’t quite place. It is eerily quiet; the only noise the crunch of my boots on the gravel path. Then I see the greenhouse and my heart sinks. Its windows are filthy and cracked. I walk towards it, aware that something is missing. No, I whisper, surely not. The beautiful wooden summerhouse Sean built for Elspeth when she was three years old has been removed; the only trace left of it a square of scorched dead grass.
I turn on my heels, unable to take it all in. Despite seeing it with my own eyes it still doesn’t seem real. As I make my way round the side of the house to the kitchen I half expect Sean to appear and hand me a mug of tea, tell me this has all been a terrible nightmare. But when I reach the kitchen door there is no Sean, there is just a thick, foreboding silence. I put my hand on the familiar metal latch and click it up. To my surprise, the door yields. I push it open.
I step inside my kitchen. It all looks the same – the Rayburn stove, the black beams, the York stone floor – and yet I can feel a great absence. Everything that was us, the Allan family, has departed. The air is different. It smells stale and oppressive, like the trapped air in the vaults of museums and old churches. Then slowly, as my eyes adjust, I start to see more solid changes. Elspeth’s collage of paintings that hung proudly on the wall by the dresser has been removed and replaced with a white rectangular clock; the kitchen table, where Elspeth and Sean had sat to work on the dream catcher, has gone and a small round one put in its place. The dresser, which once was laden with all our mess and miscellany, now houses a neat collection of blue-and-white-striped chinaware.
I walk over to the dresser and pull out a drawer, expecting to see Elspeth’s craft materials, but it’s empty. I pull out another and another, my body trembling with pain and grief. Who could have done this? Who could have come into my house and swept away all trace of my little girl? Why would Sean let this happen?
And then I hear footsteps on the stone floor behind me, a sharp intake of breath.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
I turn round and see a tall, blonde woman standing with her hands on her hips. She has a round, pale face, the skin almost translucent, and large green eyes that she fixes on me.
‘Are you going to answer me?’
‘I … I was …’
My brain has shut down. I desperately try to scramble some words together but they won’t come.
‘I’m calling the police,’ she says, putting her hand in her pocket and pulling out her phone.
‘No,’ I say, holding my hand out. ‘Please don’t do that. I used to live in this house. The door was open and … look, I’m sorry. I’ll go now.’
I feel her eyes on me as I stagger to the back door.
‘Just because you used to live here doesn’t mean you have the right to bloody break in,’ she calls after me.
I don’t answer but unclick the latch on the door and step out as quickly as I can. She is right. What the hell was I thinking? The pain in my chest intensifies as I hurry round the side of the house. All I can think about is my little Elspeth and those empty drawers in the kitchen. Every trace of her has been scraped away; it’s like she never existed, like our whole family life was just a figment of my imagination.
As I reach the driveway I see the woman’s car parked outside the house. It is a red sporty one with a soft-top roof. She mustn’t have children, I think to myself, those kind of cars are not made for families. And as I look at the car I hear Elspeth crying. I feel the softness of her dressing gown on my fingertips as I push her into the seat. ‘I don’t want to, Mummy, please can we just stay at home?’ I can smell the toothpaste on her breath and the soft lavender scent of her shampoo. She’s had a bath and is ready for bed and I am forcing her into the car. I hear her screaming: No, Mummy, no.
20
Dear Mummy,
I’ve cried so much tonight it hurts.
I don’t want to be here.
I started at the new school today and it was just horrid. I kept on getting lost because it’s a big building with lots of winding corridors and stairs.
When I got to the classroom the teacher told me to go and sit on a table with three other girls. They were all really neat and pretty with glittery hairbands and expensive shoes. When I sat down one of them said, ‘Yuk, what’s that smell?’ The other girls started laughing then the rest of the class started sniffing and pulling faces. This boy, who is much taller than all the others, got out of his seat and came over to me. He put his face right next to mine and said, in a really mean, hissy voice, ‘Skank.’ Then the teacher came over and told him to go back to his desk but for the rest of the morning I could hear him muttering it under his breath: ‘Skank. Skank.’ I tried to focus on the lesson, which luckily was maths, which I love, but my eyes were so full of tears it made the numbers dance across the page and I couldn’t catch them.
At break I walked around by myself for a bit. I thought about all my friends at my old school and what they would be doing. Probably playing dragons and fairies. I was always the dragon because I liked dragons best. The others would be fairies and I would chase them and cast spells. I wonder who’ll be the dragon now. The girls at the new school don’t play games like that. They just stand in groups, plaiting
each other’s hair and doing handstands against the wall. I stood for a bit watching them but they just ignored me so I went and sat at the edge of the playground. There was a ladybird on the ground. I put my hand right next to it and it crawled on to my finger. It tickled but I got to see her beautiful spotty skin. It was glossy and smooth. And then I remembered the song we learned at nursery, ‘Ladybird, Ladybird, fly away home. Your house is on fire and your children all gone.’ I started to sing it. Then something hit me in the head. I looked up and saw the tall boy from my class. He was standing there staring at me. ‘Look,’ he said to his friends. ‘The skank’s talking to herself.’ I was scared he was going to throw another pebble at me but then the bell went and I jumped up and ran inside.
At home time all the mums were standing round the school gate and for a second I imagined you standing there with them. But you weren’t. Then I heard someone call my name and saw Zoe. Weasel Face must have told her to walk me home. She didn’t speak, just nodded her head then lit up a cigarette. As we walked I could feel tears in my eyes. I didn’t want Zoe to see me cry so I stared down at the ground and thought about my happy things.
I love you.
Your lovely daughter xxx
21
Elspeth’s voice burns in my ears as I walk out of the gate and make my way down the narrow lane that runs by the side of the house. The memory had been brief but brutal. She was begging me to stop. She was scared. Her hair was wet and she was wearing her dressing gown. As I walk I try to imagine what kind of circumstances, what major emergency could have made me bundle my half-dressed daughter into the car and head for a pub at that time of night. I try to piece together the information I have: my phone buzzing on the desk; Sean and Elspeth sitting at the kitchen table making a dream catcher and Elspeth telling me not to strap her into the car, begging me not to make her go out. Are these memories linked? Do they all stem from the day of the accident? I don’t know and it’s killing me that I can’t remember.
Day of the Accident Page 8