Little One

by Sarah A. Denzil

  “Thank you, that’s so kind.”

  “I have to say, I’ve been looking forward to this all week. A proper roast dinner cooked by an English person.” He grinned. It was impish. “That’s a real treat. Esther has been excited all week, haven’t you?”

  “No,” Esther said.

  Elijah let out a hoot of laughter. “My little contrarian.”

  “Sorry,” Mary mumbled.

  “That’s quite all right! I hated grown-up dinner parties when I was your age. But I did make some chips in case you don’t like the lamb.” Fran regarded Mary. “I know lamb can be a bit strong for little ones.”

  “Oh, she doesn’t mind it,” Mary said.

  “Let me get you some drinks.” Fran weaved her way back through to the kitchen. “I’ve got a bottle of red open if either of you fancy it.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Cole, but we don’t drink alcohol,” Elijah said, his footsteps heavy behind her. “But you go ahead and do what you do. Don’t mind us.”

  “Lemonade? Coke?”

  “Water is fine,” Elijah replied.

  Once in the kitchen, Adrian introduced himself while Fran found glasses to fill from the tap. She took them through to the dining room and laid out the bread next to a knife and some butter.

  “How’s the lamb looking, darling?” she asked, grabbing plates from cupboards, creating a cacophony with the porcelain.

  “Perfection,” he said.

  “Help the lady, Mary.” Elijah gave his wife a little push forward and then laughed. “You must excuse our manners, standing here doing nothing.”

  “Yes, sorry Mrs Cole,” Mary said.

  Fran forced out a smile and said. “You’re the guests. Now go on through to the dining room and sit down. All we need to do is plate up and serve. No arguments. Off you go.”

  She did not like that push. A nervous fluttering started in her stomach as she brought the lamb out of the oven. Behind her, she felt Esther’s eyes watching, her quiet stillness in the room.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Won’t you pardon us for a moment while we say grace?” Elijah gave Fran an easy smile over the plump loaf in the centre of the table. “There’s no need to join in if you’re not comfortable.”

  “Not at all, I’d be happy to join.” Fran returned the smile. Next to her, she sensed Adrian shift in his seat. She knew he was the solitary agnostic in the room.

  “Then we should join hands.” Elijah extended his hand to Fran, at the head of the table, his other going to Mary, who slipped her hand into Esther’s on the other side. She held Adrian’s hand, who took Fran’s with a weary glance. “And perhaps Esther could lead.”

  Fran closed her eyes and bowed her head, the scent of cooked lamb and garlic making her mouth water. She hoped this would be over quickly so she could eat, but she also wanted some insight into this family and their dynamic, which made her intrigued to know what Esther would say.

  “Thank you, Father, for the food and for forgiving the sins in this house.”

  Fran opened her eyes and noticed two things. Esther’s eyes were screwed shut, her head angled towards the table, Elijah’s eyes were wide open and staring right at her. She dropped his hand in shock.

  “Esther!” Mary said. “That was rude!”

  The child turned to her mother. “They drink alcohol whenever they want and they don’t have children. Father James says—”

  “Esther, these are good people and you should be thankful for their company and the spread they’ve laid out today,” Elijah said.

  Fran took a defiant sip of her wine, surprised to find herself rebelling against a child. “Father James?”

  “Our pastor in Arizona.” Elijah laughed. “He was something of a stickler and Esther here liked him a lot.”

  Fran’s eyes drifted across the potatoes to Mary’s pale face.

  “But then our Esther is a stickler, too. Seven going on seventy over here.” He laughed again, a sound that was beginning to annoy Fran. She gulped more of her wine while trying not to focus on the second part of Esther’s prayer. “If she’s offended you in any way we apologise.”

  Adrian waved a hand. “Doesn’t bother us, we’ve heard worse. Isn’t that right, Franny?”

  “Please, help yourself to the food before it goes cold.” Fran gestured to the sliced lamb. “Here, Elijah let me pass you some meat.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Cole.”

  “Oh, please, it’s Fran.”

  “Fran then.”

  Her eyes lifted to Mary, who had drained half of her water and seemed to have a bit more colour in her cheeks. “How many slices?”

  “One or two. I’m not that hungry.” She checked herself. “But it looks so delicious.”

  Fran busied herself dishing out the food, trying not to resent a child for the hurtful words spoken. But as she passed Esther the lamb, she couldn’t help herself. “You know, Esther, it’s interesting what you said about sin. About how not having children is a sin.” When she put the plate down in front of the girl, it rattled somewhat. “We actually did have children. A child.”

  Adrian turned sharply to her, but she focused on spooning broccoli onto Esther’s plate.

  “Her name was Chloe and she had Adrian’s eyes. She was perfect, but she was taken away from us.” Fran moved on to the potatoes. She sniffed heavily and tossed the serving spoon back into the dish. “Chloe, our baby, died. Don’t you think killing a baby is pretty sinful? Esther?” Fran refused to look at anyone around the dining table. She refused to acknowledge them at all. Her face, her neck, all of her skin was hot from head to toe. She served herself broccoli, piling the florets so high that Adrian had to take the spoon from her hand and put it back in the bowl.

  “I wasn’t talking about God,” Esther said.

  “That’s enough,” Elijah said, in a low voice. “Esther, please apologise to Fran and express your sympathy.”

  “Sorry your baby died.”

  Fran allowed her wet eyes to move from her plate. Mary stared at her, pale again, a tear running down her cheek. Esther’s stern, cherubic face was directed down at her food. Elijah took her hand and squeezed it. She wanted to yank her hand away from him, but it would be rude. And she was ashamed, unbearably ashamed, for snapping at a child in that manner.

  “We’re so sorry for your loss,” Elijah said. “Chloe will be in our prayers tonight.”

  “Franny, are you okay?” Adrian brushed a tear from her cheek and cupped the nape of her neck for a moment. On Fran’s other side, Elijah was still holding her hand. She was vaguely aware of Mary watching the dynamic between her and Adrian.

  Fran forced some cheer into her voice. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” She gently prised herself out of Elijah’s grip. “Esther, I am very sorry for snapping at you. Now, let’s have a good night, shall we?” She took another large drink of wine, hoping for numbness.

  Chapter Fifteen

  As the night went on, Fran saw Adrian succumb to Elijah’s easy charm. He listened enraptured to tales of Arizona ranches and a particularly wince-inducing story about a cactus and a fall from a horse. He talked almost constantly, about the difference in the weather, from the gigantic Arizona haboobs—dust walls hundreds of feet high—in monsoon season, to the banal greyness of a drizzling English day.

  “Now, the thunderstorms that come with the monsoon are like nothing you’ve ever seen here.” Elijah speared a broccoli floret and continued to talk while eating. “It goes cold. You wouldn’t think it, would you, but it does. The thunder rumbles for miles around, like… like God thumping on a drum. But that’s not the worst of it. The worst is the wind. Gusts of wind you wouldn’t believe. Tears off a barn roof like that.” He clicked his fingers.

  “Wow,” Adrian said. “We had a storm here that blew over our shed once.”

  Elijah laughed heartily before turning his attention to his daughter. “Come on, Esther, you can eat more than that. Stop playing with your food now.”

  Fran ma
de eye-contact with Mary, trying to pull her back into a conversation dominated by the men. “Do you miss home, Mary?”

  She paused, and the table went quiet. Fran noticed that Elijah turned to her, as though to gauge her reaction.

  “No,” she said. “I like it here. I don’t miss monsoon season, that’s for sure. Or the summer heat.”

  They were nearing the end of the main course, and there was just Elijah—who had helped himself to an extra serving—and Esther with food left on their plates. Fran started clearing away the plates while Elijah regaled Adrian with another tale of bad weather. To her surprise, Mary stood up to help. She was about to tell her to sit down, but then considered that Mary might want a break from Elijah’s overbearing presence.

  “He tells good stories, your husband,” Fran said, scraping some leftover lamb into a Tupperware box.

  “He loves talking to people. I think he misses home.”

  “But you don’t?”

  Mary turned on the tap and rinsed plates as Fran boxed up food for the fridge. “Sometimes I do.”

  “Of course, I mean you must have left family and friends behind.”

  Fran noticed a slight shift in her body language. Mary cleared her throat and avoided Fran’s penetrating gaze. “Some.”

  Even though Fran wanted to ask more questions, she sensed the need to back off. Mary was like a flighty deer, likely to run off in the wrong direction at any sudden movement.

  “I’m sorry about what Esther said to you tonight,” Mary said. “It was disrespectful of her and I want you to know that she’ll be punished.”

  Horrified, Fran placed a hand on Mary’s arm. “No, please don’t. There’s no need to punish her. She blurted out something she’d learned. It isn’t her fault.”

  “She needs to learn that there’s a time and a place for lecturing, and when someone invites you into their home, it isn’t the place.” Mary stacked up the rinsed plates, ignoring Fran’s hand.

  “What kind of punishment?” Fran took a step away and bit onto her thumbnail.

  “Well, we usually let her read a book in the evenings to pass the time. She won’t be able to read for a week because of her disobedience.” Mary’s face was unsmiling, and for once Fran saw a passing resemblance to her daughter.

  Fran thought for a moment before she spoke. As she was thinking, she opened the dishwasher and began to fill it. “I don’t want to tell you how to raise your child. It’s something I don’t have much experience in, as you know. But I personally think, and my husband will back me up because he’s a reading addict, that books can open a mind to empathy. Denying her those books might be more of a hindrance.”

  “You think so?”

  “Maybe, yeah.”

  Mary placed her head in her hands. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m just doing it all wrong.”

  A sense of maternal love tugged at Fran’s heart. She placed an arm around Mary’s shoulder. “No, you aren’t. Maybe you could tell Esther she can’t watch TV for a couple of days.”

  “We don’t have a television.”

  “What about music?”

  Mary lifted her face. “Yes, I could do that.”

  “Or maybe, you just talk to her and explain what was wrong,” Fran said. “You’d be surprised by how effective talking can be.” Fran gave her shoulders a squeeze. “My parents emigrated to Australia several years ago now. They aren’t big talkers. They were disciplinarians who always took away a privilege when I misstepped. TV usually. Or seeing my friends. It never stopped me from misbehaving. I still snuck out at night to go to parties. I drank when I was too young. Their punishment was never a deterrent. All it did was stop me from becoming friends with them because they didn’t talk to me. Now, we email back and forth. I visit once a year. That’s the extent of our relationship.” When Chloe had died, her mum had visited for a while and it’d felt particularly strained with her there. Even though she loved and missed her parents, they’d never been close.

  Mary sniffed. “All my family did was talk, but it was about who I should be, what I should believe. They talked and talked so much that I never understood who I was, only what they wanted.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Is there a right way to be a mom?”

  “No,” Fran said with a shrug. “Everyone fucks up their kids.” Mary’s eyes widened and Fran regretted swearing in front of her. But then the young woman’s expression broke into a wide smile. They were both giggling when Adrian walked in.

  “Time for dessert?” he asked. “I see you girls are having fun.”

  “Hungry already, old man?” Fran grabbed the tea towel and directed a good-natured flick at his hip. She glanced across at Mary and saw that her laughter had already faded, as had her smile.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next morning, Fran took a different route for her jog, missing out the green altogether. Instead, she found herself running down the street where the Whitakers lived, slowing her pace for a better view of their semi-detached house, noticing the light on in the upstairs bedroom. It was 5:30 a.m., and she supposed that Elijah was getting up early for work. As Adrian had noted after the dinner party, he seemed to be a hardworking man providing for his family. He’d also come across as an amiable presence and decent storyteller. He was patient with his daughter and good-humoured. But then there’d been the little push in the kitchen. That moment when he put his hand on his wife and shoved her forward. Such an odd thing to do with company there. And those bruises on Mary and Esther… She closed down her thoughts reminding herself not to keep jumping to conclusions.

  Fran puffed as she began an uphill climb, remembering why she usually ran across the flat green. She saw early risers watering their hanging baskets, a woman in pyjamas taking the bin out, quaint displays of spring flowers in repurposed wooden barrels, the daffodils standing proud. A typical morning in Leacroft. Air scented by dewy grass. A scene perfect for relaxation.

  Like many of the residents of Leacroft, the village had a pretty surface covering over cracks of inner turmoil. The escalation in house prices, the lack of young people in the area, the struggling small businesses bleeding cash. Every house was manicured, but beneath there were problems: bad marriages, infidelity, childhood trauma, debts, unrealised dreams. Fran knew her house hid secrets, too.

  Her nightmares had recently returned after a long absence. Sweat-soaked terrors she’d told no one, not even Adrian or the grief counsellor she saw for a year. Fran pushed into the run, determined to chase those images away, the ones of Chloe that she could never speak about. Instead she fell painfully onto one ankle, slapping the pavement with the palm of her hand, the momentum propelling her into a roll that ended with her on her back. She lay there winded until someone came running out of their house.

  “Are you all right?”

  Embarrassed, Fran forced herself back on her feet before she was quite ready, her left ankle throbbing. “I’m okay.”

  “Can I call someone for you?”

  “No, no. I live around the corner. I can hobble there just fine.”

  The woman was older than her, about fifty-odd, dressed in a pale pink nightie beneath a flimsy dressing gown. Fluffy slippers on her feet. “Let me walk with you.”

  “No, go on, you go back to bed.” Fran demonstrated her ability to walk by suppressing a grimace as she took a few steps.

  “Okay, well if you insist,” the woman called after her.

  Fran struggled to the end of the street before she had a rest. She was sure she’d at least bruised the small of her back as she’d hit the ground. She leaned against a wall and examined her hands and knees. All grazed. She was no more than ten minutes away from the house, but it felt like a marathon. She briefly considered calling Adrian, but knew he’d still be asleep and miss the call.

  “This is your own fault,” she said to herself as she struggled on, determined to make it home. Without this obsession with the Whitakers, she’d be jogging happily around the park right now. Instead, she’d ignited fresh
grief about Chloe, developed an unhealthy attachment to both Mary and her daughter, and injured herself while she was distracted. It had to stop.

  As she limped along the main road, a Volvo pulled across to her and slowed down to a crawl. “Can I offer you a lift?”

  To Fran’s surprise, she saw Elijah’s rounded face peeking out through the window. She thought of the way he monopolised conversations and the little shove he’d given Mary. She wanted nothing less than to get in his car. But of course, she also wanted nothing more because her ankle hurt like hell, and because his family was her addiction.

  “Taken a tumble?” he asked as she clambered into his car in an ungainly fashion.

  “Arse over tit, as they say.”

  He laughed heartily and pulled away from the kerb. “I like that. You Brits sure do have a way with words.”

  “Is swearing allowed in your religion?”

  “It’s frowned upon.”

  “Something Father James wouldn’t appreciate?”

  He chuckled. “No, I suppose not.”

  “Are you Catholics, then? With the ‘Father’ thing, I assumed you were.”

  Elijah took a right past the village green towards Fran’s home. “No, we’re not. But we use the word Father to describe our relationship with our pastor. We’re all brothers and sisters, you see.”

  “Right. But Christians?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Sorry, am I prying?”

  “Not at all. We’re Presbyterians officially, but in a sense, we follow our own way,” he replied.

  They were one street away from Fran’s home now. She was both relieved and disappointed at the realisation. “Did you manage to find a Presbyterian church nearby?”