If You Knew Her Page 22

He sits opposite me again, and crosses his legs. He’s moving faster than normal; he’s nervous.

  I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Why are you so jumpy?’

  He uncrosses his legs and rubs his hands over his cheeks; he’s smiling. Something’s up, and he’s excited about something. Maybe he’s got a dream client? Maybe we’ve finally got enough in our holiday fund for the long trip we’re always promising ourselves?

  ‘I’ve been thinking, Ali … I’d really like it if we could fill out the forms for the adoption agency.’

  Our eyes meet and I look away again immediately; every cell in my body seems to perform a little jump. David keeps talking.

  ‘I know you couldn’t think about it before, but that was over a year ago now. Remember, they said the process will take quite a while, so I just thought I’d fill out the initial form at least, get it off and see what happens.’

  I picture a row of children before us, David and I pointing to one of them and taking him or her by the hand, to be scanned like at one of those self-check-out machines. We’d bring the child back here to try and make them our child. What if we didn’t bond? What if the child didn’t like me? I try and feel the life inside me, to remind myself that none of that will happen; none of it will need to happen.

  ‘Ali, it’s just the initial paperwork. I promise, we will not adopt a child unless we are both absolutely certain it’s what we want.’ He curls his palm around my hand. ‘But we always agreed it could be an option for us.’

  I nod, smile at him, try to look happy, excited even.

  ‘No, it’s a good idea. We should get the paperwork off, get the ball rolling …’

  David grins at me, and I fold the last of the croissant into my mouth. He kisses me and says, ‘Love you’, as he grabs his keys and leaves for his morning meeting.

  I do some admin during the day, eat a sandwich, and in the afternoon try and nap before my night shift, but I can’t settle; my mind keeps flicking like a faulty switch to Jack’s radio interview. He talked about the close-knit community in Buscombe. I’ve never been, but Buscombe is only sixteen miles from here. I heard they’ve got good walks, and I owe Bob a long walk. I look at my watch; I know I should try to nap again if I’m to have any hope of getting through the night. But I’m far too wired to rest. I work out I’ve got enough time to drive there, back home and on to Kate’s in time for my night shift. I tell myself I’ll just drive through quickly, see the place Cassie called home, and then find a wood or a field for Bob to have a good run. He clatters to his feet as I lift his lead off its hook by the back door.

  Most of the journey is anonymous dual carriageway, fast-food shops and cinemas, but eventually they trickle away. Following signs, I turn off the main road and the world seems to open up, like a large powerful lung taking a deep breath; the earth seems to have more oxygen out here. Early tufts of emerald seedlings in the fields catch the light like fish scales, and daffodils and snowdrops quiver in the grass banks. I wind my window down; the breeze itself smells green out here, cold and new.

  The centre of the village is positioned around an open patch of grass called Buscombe Green; large Georgian houses sit around the green like elders around a meeting table, wisteria buds creep around their doorways like waxy whiskers. I can imagine Charlotte walking out of one of these front doors. I drive all the way around the little rectangle, passing five or six shadowy little lanes that could lead to the cottage. My phone has no reception so I can’t load my maps; I have no idea where to go from here.

  Not wanting to admit to myself I’m lost, I take one of the turnings off the green and am immediately faced by an old 4x4; I’m looking around over my shoulder, wondering how we can pass each other, when its lights flash and I can see that the larger car has already reversed, expertly tucking away into a passing point. I drive up slowly and wind my window down. It’s a woman, about my age, on her own in the car; there are empty booster seats in the back. She already has her window down so it’s easy for me to lean across and ask directions to Steeple Lane. I have to go back to the green, she says, and take the turning just by the pub. She asks where exactly I’m going, but I don’t want her to know, so tell her not to worry, I’ll know my way from there, and I thank her for her help. As I make a clumsy three-point turn, I wonder if this woman knew Cassie, if they were friends.

  Except for the little stream that runs busily along, Steeple Lane looks much like all the other lanes around here. The lane itself is narrow and dark, the hedges thick with branches. It’s like travelling down an artery. The road opens up after a mile or so, wide enough for two cars to pass, slowly, side by side.

  A little wooden sign in the hedge reads ‘Warning, deep ditch’. On my left there’s an ancient-looking farmhouse, black beams criss-crossing the house, contrasting with white walls, a couple of scraggly trees in the garden. A sign outside says ‘Steeple Farm’. I remember that Charlotte said Jonny rents one of the farm cottages. I keep going. I don’t want to look too closely; he could be there now. I keep going for another mile or so, eventually crossing over the little stream, until the road starts to narrow again and I see a sign on my right: Steeple Cottage. I’m here. This was Cassie and Jack’s home.

  I can’t see the cottage at the end of the drive from here; I have to park my car somewhere on the lane. I pull in close to the side of the lane and tell myself I’ll just have a quick look. I just want to see it for a moment, that’s all. I wind the window down for Bob and ignore his outraged bark as I lock the door behind me.

  The drive to the cottage is surrounded by trees; it’s gravelled and bends sharply to the left, before opening up in a small circle in front of a light-coloured stone cottage. I called the hospital on the drive. Jack, I know, is with Cassie, but I still don’t want to be out in the open, so I lean my back against one of the trees that seems to huddle around the cottage as if trying to keep it away from the world.

  The cottage is older than I’d imagined and perfectly symmetrical. Two large rectangular windows dominate the ground floor, either side of the stone porch. Two more windows are directly above, where I imagine the bedrooms must be. At the top of the cottage, a round window peers out of the attic, like a Cyclops. Delicate daffodils prettily punctuate the front flower beds, I picture Cassie on her knees planting the bulbs, her hands in the earth. I don’t know why, but the image makes me feel lonely for her.

  Angry clouds gather overhead, sucking away the light. Sparrows dip and soar and a lone bat dive-bombs for invisible insects. I move towards the house; moss under my feet muffles my steps until I get to the path. Immediately, a security light flashes on and I’m bathed in brightness. Blinded, I forget I’m not doing anything wrong. Suddenly I’m an intruder. The house doesn’t want me here. It’s spotted me, and its warmth has cooled. I turn away from it, back down the path, my feet too loud on the gravel. The security light is strong on my back, like the presence of the cottage behind me, pushing me away. The trees have changed too, almost black in the approaching night. Their branches look painful, like arthritic hands. Their leaves, disturbed by wind, shake the gossip of my visit to each other. A rabbit leaps across the path a few feet in front of me, flushed out of its hiding place. It looks startled, and I think I do too. I want to run but I’m worried running would expose my fear, and that’d make it worse. I round the end of the cottage path towards my car.

  It’s not until the car door has clicked shut that I breathe out. Bob’s crept onto the passenger seat, and his tail wags. I feel my heart pecking inside my chest; I’m safe now. I pull Bob closer towards me, kiss his head and laugh a little at myself. I’ve always been good at freaking myself out As a girl I’d imagine sharks in a swimming pool or zombies in the wardrobe. Thank God David and I didn’t move out here; I’d hear the wind calling my name in no time. I wonder if Cassie ever thought she heard hers whispered through the silver birch trees, if she ever felt loneliness cover her like a cold blanket. I look in my rear-view mirror. The cottage is still lit up, like searchlights in a prison.
How long do the security lights stay on? Surely they must click off soon.

  Bob whines next to me and presses his paws up and down on the front seat, reminding me I promised him a walk. I put the keys in the ignition and drive slowly up the lane, away from the cottage. I pull in after a few hundred yards. It’s started to rain a little. I remember the weather forecast said it’d only get worse towards dusk. I’ll let Bob out now, just for a quick run, and then dash home to get to Kate’s for my shift. Bob bounds straight over me, and leaps down onto the lane as I open my door. I think of Maisie running away and call his name to keep him close but he ignores me. I follow him and call his name again, picking up my pace as I turn a corner.

  Bob’s spotted someone. He’s trotting towards a man in a dark waxy-looking jacket, standing on his own by the side of the lane, next to a small mound of what looks like rubbish. The man turns towards Bob as Bob parks himself, sitting on his hind legs right in front of the man, chest puffed like a centurion, his tail wiping back and forth against the tarmac. He’s straining towards the man, sniffing, led by his nose.

  ‘Oh god! Sorry,’ I exclaim, breaking into a slow jog to pull Bob away. ‘Bob!’

  But the man’s smiling down at him. He’s got longish white hair poking out from under his hat, and the nurse in me spots a failing hip in the way he favours his left side. I’ve seen him before. He was the man who caught my eye in the car park. Then he turns his face towards me and I stop, my stomach lurching, because the man is Marcus Garrett and he’s smiling at me. He has no idea who I am, and why should he? He strokes Bob’s silky head.

  ‘I think he can smell the pastry I got in the village.’ He chuckles, pointing towards a brown paper bag that pokes out of one of his large pockets.

  I stare at him, and Marcus looks up at me again, brow raised, waiting for my answer. I walk closer and grab Bob’s collar with one hand, and clear my throat to try and shake the surprise from my voice.

  ‘Oh, pastries are his favourite. My husband and I have a joke that Bob’s more pig than dog, don’t we, Bobby?’ Bob doesn’t take his eyes off Marcus’s hand as it goes towards the bag in his pocket, breaking off and taking out what looks like half the pastry.

  ‘Mind if I give him a bit?’ Marcus asks.

  I shake my head and let go of Bob’s collar and he lunges greedily, as though he’s never been fed, towards the sizeable chunk of beige, glistening pastry.

  Marcus keeps smiling as he bends to pat Bob’s shoulder, saying, ‘There’s a good lad.’

  I see that what I thought was rubbish is actually a small shrine by the side of the road, this unremarkable little patch of lane, with the stream gurgling and hissing like something injured. This is where she fell. The flowers aren’t flowers any more; most have turned to soggy brown mulch. I imagine no one has the heart to put them in the bin. Marcus follows my gaze and I realise that I’m not in my uniform. To Marcus I’m just a woman walking her dog. I’m free to ask things I normally couldn’t.

  ‘That’s why you found me here, I’m afraid,’ he says heavily as though the words themselves have weight as he nods towards the pile of dying flowers.

  I steel myself; I can do this. I remind myself I’m lying for Cassie’s sake, not for my own benefit.

  ‘Oh god, was there an accident? Someone you knew?’

  Marcus shakes his head, as though he wants to shift the thoughts that have settled there. When he talks I recognise the same relief I’ve seen in hundreds of shocked, wide-eyed relatives I’ve met at Kate’s, longing for comfort, even from a nurse they’ve never met. Marcus is so desperate; he’ll talk to a stranger walking her dog.

  ‘A young woman, a beautiful young woman, my stepdaughter, so yes, I knew her,’ he says. ‘I knew her,’ he repeats, as though he needs to confirm the fact to himself.

  ‘Is she going to be OK?’

  Marcus shrugs. ‘I don’t know, I really don’t know.’ His voice cracks like a shell.

  I let the silence ask my question for me.

  ‘Her husband doesn’t let me see her.’ He turns slightly towards me and looks at me. ‘I never liked him. He’s got a temper, a real temper, on him. They never should have married. He pretended he loves her but he never really knew her, not like me.’

  The rain makes a pat-pat sound against my coat. I think of Jack, how certain he was that it was Marcus who told the press about Cassie. Hearing Marcus talk so freely, as though he’s saying his jumbled thoughts out loud unedited to me, a stranger, I now understand now why Jack was suspicious of him.

  Marcus breathes out, slowly, by my side.

  ‘So I come here instead to think about her, to feel close to her. You see, I promised my April I’d look after her.’

  He’s staring down into the stream, like he’s lost something in the water. I follow his gaze, to where Cassie fell. Raindrops fall fatly into the stream, making perfect circles dance on the glass surface of the dark water.

  ‘I used to do this before, you know … before the accident. Just kept an eye on her every now and then, just to make sure she was doing OK.’ Marcus looks up at me quickly.

  I ask, ‘And do you think she was? Doing OK, I mean, before the accident?’

  Marcus drops his eyes back towards the lane, and his head droops as if in sympathy with the flowers and I realise he’s turning away from me because he’s crying.

  ‘She wasn’t happy. I remember now. I knew she wasn’t happy. I wanted her to know I was there for her, that I’d help her when she realised her mistake.’

  ‘What mistake?’

  Marcus lifts his head to me, but doesn’t wipe the tears from his cheeks as he says, ‘Marrying that man.’

  I tense. I don’t know why Marcus can’t say Jack’s name.

  ‘Marcus, who do you think hit her?’

  I realise my mistake as soon as I’ve said his name but Marcus is too emotional, too confused to realise. Instead he turns to me, his eyes darkening.

  The raindrops are even heavier now, striking down from the sky like tiny fists as rain turns to ice.

  ‘He always seemed angry with her. I don’t think he wanted a wife, I think he wanted freedom. That’s why he …’ Marcus turns to me, his mouth open, as though appalled to see me, listening to him there. ‘You said my name, just now.’ His face clouds. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘No, no, sorry, I … you misheard …’ Shit, shit, shit. But I’ve lost him.

  Marcus shakes his head and starts backing away and he glances up at the sky, as if for guidance to a higher power, as though he thinks his April is there in the clouds. He raises his shoulders to his ears, trying to protect himself from the hail, protect himself from me.

  ‘No, I promise, I’m …’ but Marcus turns sharply away from me, and I watch as he limps as fast as he can down the lane before I turn back to the pile of flowers, my breath leaving me in thin clouds. Alice, you idiot. Despite the balls of ice that fall from the sky, I feel clammy, too hot in my coat suddenly, as if burnt from meeting Marcus. Something isn’t right with Marcus, something more than grief and age.

  Bob whines by my feet. We should go back to the car but I need a moment. I look down at the flowers and bend to pick up a photo propped next to a bunch of browning sunflowers.

  It’s of Cassie, around about the time of the Juice-C advert, her face full with youth, and the red-haired woman I saw on Cassie’s Facebook, Nicky Breton. Nicky’s turned to look at Cassie; she’s smiling at her friend, awed, as though she’s close to something celestial. Cassie seems oblivious to the light she casts; she’s turned fully towards the camera, smiling as though there could never be anything wrong with the world.

  Bob’s whine becomes a bark; he starts turning circles in alarm by my feet, appalled by the hailstorm, urgently wanting to feel safe again. I put the photo back against the flowers, trying to shield it from the weather, but it’s no good; the photo is hit and flicked by tiny balls of ice. I’ve never been religious, but standing there, at the place where Cassie was hit, my hope turns fluidly int
o a prayer and above the hammering of the hailstorm and the swell of my own fear I whisper quickly, ‘Please, please.’ I don’t know if I’m begging for Cassie or for myself.

  I feel my fear creeping again; like eyes on me, it builds up behind me like smoke, and I wonder whether Marcus has left or if he’s still watching me like he used to watch Cassie. I shiver. I glance one more time at Cassie’s flowers, before I call for Bob and start walking back towards my car. The approaching night feels like dark hands, pushing me away. I want to run, the tarmac iridescent and slick, a pathway to safety before me. A car growls, restless behind me. They haven’t turned their lights on. Can they see us? I grab Bob’s collar and press us both hard against the bank on the other side of the lane to the stream. Marcus only flicks his lights on as he drives past us. I stare at him, but he keeps his eyes fixed forward, as though he’s searching for someone else.

  * * *

  The oil cracks and pops in the pan as I add the chicken thighs, skin side down. Bob sits on his hind legs, chest puffed out, eyes fixed on me. Every now and then he works his chops noisily as if to remind me how very, very starving he is. We both know I’ll give in eventually. I move the chicken around in the pan and try and iron out my thoughts.

  Marcus isn’t well and he keeps turning up without warning. He was there before Cassie had her miscarriage. I know he’s been at the hospital, and now, today, again at the place Cassie was hit. My stomach curdles, as I remember what he said, that Jack didn’t want to be married, that he wanted freedom. But Marcus was confused, acting strangely. Can I trust him? The noise of the frying meat gets louder, more urgent. Bob, not a fan of strange noises, even if they smell delicious, retreats to his basket in the utility room.

  I remember Marcus behind the steering wheel, how he forced us against the side of the lane like a bully, his eyes fixed and unseeing.

  My phone starts vibrating on the table, shifting around like an upturned beetle. It’s Jess. I hold it in my hand. I’m not sure if I’m in the mood to speak to her; she always knows when something’s up and I don’t feel like justifying myself. Just as I decide not to answer, a pain like being simultaneously bitten and kicked in the abdomen jolts through me, and I call out, ‘Oh, Jesus!’, as I fall to my knees. The shock sucks the air out of my lungs, my arms fold around my belly, as if all this pain needs is a good, reassuring hug. My right hand, still clutching the phone, mashes the screen. I must press the answer button because I can hear Jess’s voice in miniature, shrunken on the line, asking, ‘Ali? Ali? Are you there?’