Chapter 13

I sit on Mum’s sofa with my feet curled beneath me, my sketch pad on my knees. Mark piles dinner plates into the dishwasher.

‘You’re taking your meds, right?’

‘Of course.’

The little white lie trips off my tongue with a smile.

‘It was just a panic attack then. An isolated thing?’

I nod and smile at Mark’s stony face as he stands hands on hips with his back to the stove, Riley at his feet.

‘I must have gone through the box, dozed off and had a nightmare.’

We’ve been through this already. If I stick to the story, hopefully this will blow over. I can’t blame Mark. To come home and find your wife screaming another man’s name at the top of her voice needs some explaining. Thank goodness I wasn’t shouting Stephen. The ‘nightmare’ was the only logical explanation I could come up with. I overheard Shirley recounting to Mark my blurting out about the Havers’ children’s deaths. No doubt Mark will have spoken to the twins, probably when he collected them from school this afternoon. What will they have to say about their mother’s behaviour?

‘The botanical sketches are very good,’ I say, changing the subject. I pick up the broken journal beside me on the sofa and turn a loose page. The cramped writing in faded blue ink rendered the notes in the margins difficult to make out. ‘It would be interesting to know who the people in the photos and sketches are. Maybe they lived here.’

‘Old Lady Havers will probably know, won’t she?’ says Mark. He pushes himself away from the stove and comes to sit beside me on the sofa.

‘You look knackered,’ I tell him, shifting my feet and journal out of his way.

‘We were at A&E for hours. Mother was her usual demanding self. I’ve forgotten what sleep is.’ He puts his arm round my shoulders. I try to relax and lean against him.

‘I was worried when no one could reach you.’

‘I guess you would’ve been. It wasn’t a great time for my mobile to die, but it pretty much sums up the whole situation.’

His voice sounds flat, exhausted. It’s been one thing then another here, but it’s been as bad for Mark too. I believe him about his phone, Jennifer and her demands at A&E. The story has a ring of truth about it. But then, I desperately want his absence to be nothing more.

‘And she’s, okay?’

‘She’s back home. Low blood pressure. She doesn’t eat properly, plus her age doesn’t help. They’ve sorted it now.’

Jennifer doesn’t eat at all. I’ve lost count of the times she’s told me she’s the same dress size now as she was in her twenties.

‘It would make sense if she came and stayed here for a few days,’ says Mark.

I try to keep my face neutral, but the thought of Jennifer staying here, presumably with Mark in London, doesn’t appeal one bit. It must be obvious from my expression.

‘She helped out loads when you were ill, Kate. She’d be able to help out now so you wouldn’t need Mrs Cooper about all the time.’

I don’t want Jennifer here analysing, criticising everything I say and do. I can manage the twins perfectly well on my own.

‘She’s one morning a week. She was extra today because of the chimney and all the mess.’

‘I’m not saying you can’t cope. It’s just that it’s been hard for her on her own, since Dad.’

A knock on the kitchen door. It opens, George Cooper pokes his head around the door jamb.

‘I’ve done all I can for today. The spare room’s clear and the carpet’s skipped. I’ve put bolts top and bottom on the door like you asked for, Kate.’

‘Thanks for doing it all so quickly, George,’ I say. I’ll feel better tonight knowing it’s sorted.

‘I’ll be back in the morning, just to pick-up the last of the rubble.’ He nods and smiles a farewell. My smile feels tight. The bathroom mirror earlier told me I look washed out and strained.

‘Your girl’s about on the landing. Just so you know.’

The door closes and I look at my husband as we listen to hobnail boots retreating across the tiles, the front door banging.

‘I’ll go and sort out Sophie,’ says Mark, hauling himself from the sofa.

 

Mark’s shouting at the children, footsteps running along the landing. Tom evidently is out of bed too. Mark had been confident when he’d finished stories earlier that they would stay put in their own beds. If he was here more, he’d know how unsettled the children are at night.

What had I seen in the mirror? I turn the pages of the journal, Helena’s journal, her name neatly written on the flyleaf. It’s possible I just dozed off. It seemed so real, though. I can’t bear to think I’m going backwards. How would I tell the difference between something real or imagined?

The last third of the journal is blank. Never used. I flick through the empty pages and notice notes scribbled towards the end of the book, upside down, going back to front. I turn over the journal. The same hand, the same faded blue ink, but no drawings. Just short notes.

Edward cried out again last night, his words slurred by sleep and whisky. The fear, the horror in his voice chills me. How to help? How to reach him?

There are no dates. No way to know when these notes were written or the length of time between them.

Edward went utterly berserk, smashing the dinner service across the hall, kicking several spindles out of the staircase.

My eyes run down the page, turn to the next. Rages and outbursts of temper.

‘Trapped in the bedroom. Hammered his cane against the door, threatening to smash it down. Freddie wet my bed again, the child’s terrified.

Panic tickles the pit of my stomach. Had I been dreaming earlier or wide awake? The writing is deteriorating. Scribbles difficult to decipher. Who was this woman, was she writing in secret? In haste?

‘Denies I’m his wife, Freddie a bastard.’

‘Kate?’

I look up. Mark handing me a mug of steaming liquid. I hadn’t heard him come back into the kitchen and pour our coffees.

‘Thanks,’ I say, taking the mug. My hand shakes, Mark can’t fail to notice.

‘You, okay? Something interesting in there?’ He’s looking at the journal open on my knees. ‘You were pretty engrossed.’

My mouth is dry, my heart is beating too fast. I try to smile and hope I look calmer than I feel.

‘It’s just tricky to read. The writing’s faded and old-fashioned.’

I blow on the coffee, play for time as I gather my thoughts. I can’t explain any of this to Mark just yet. He’ll most likely dismiss it all as ancient old nonsense or worse, think I’m unhinged. I’ll speak to Mrs Havers. Find out the history of the place then see what I’ve got. I must have imagined it, dreamt it, surely? Maybe I should check with the GP, ask if it’s a side effect of coming off the medication? But then I’ll have to explain about dropping the dose, coming off faster than he’d advised.

‘Sorry, it’s such a flying visit, Kate.’ Mark still stands watching me. I close the journal.

‘Six hours or so is better than nothing. At least you’ve been able to see what’s gone on with the chimney. I wasn’t looking forward to explaining all that over the phone.’

He heads to the kitchen table. His holdall gapes, clothes piled beside it along with a half-dozen battered LPs, which Mark had given to me as Shirley bustled about making tea and chatter. More charity shop booty, he explained. Late 70s disco and punk. Not Mum’s style, way after her time. By then she hardly went out and I’d no spare cash for extras like records.

Mark stuffs the clothes into the bag, the holdall straining as he swings it off the kitchen table and onto the floor. More stuff, casual things too. Is he intending to spend longer periods away?

‘You spoke to Blackstone yesterday.’

The statement takes me by surprise. Mark knows I call the clerks when I need to, but not his colleagues. Not Blackstone. Did he get a rollicking when he finally turned up to chambers?

‘He spoke to me actually,’ I say, hoping to explain the conversation.

‘He didn’t mention Southampton then?’

‘Southampton?’

‘The Southampton fraud trial. It came into chambers a couple of weeks back. It’s a big case, six defendants, and it’s likely to become a high-profile thing.’

A sinking feeling rolls over me. I know what’s coming next.

‘Blackstone’s asked me to junior for him. A case like this could really help my career and the fee’s obviously good. You know we could do with the money, what with the chimney and everything.’ . Mark strides to the stove and looks back at me across the length of the kitchen. ‘I’ll have to take it, Kate.’

Weeks in court. Six, eight, ten weeks staying away most nights in Southampton.

‘Charles is one of the other juniors, along with Cassandra Lewis-Brown. You remember her? You met at the summer drinks thing.’

Cassie. Do I remember? I remember far more these days than my husband realises.

‘When’s it listed for?’ I ask, my tone flat.

‘Pretty much all of March and a few days into April.’

‘You’re kidding?’ I stand up, put my mug on the table and brush dust from my jeans. ‘That’s five, six months away.’

I take a breath, hold it in, bite back the words sticking in my throat. I just don’t get it. If he isn’t planning to work locally, what was the point of moving here? If he’s playing around I’d rather know. Know what I’m dealing with. But now’s not the time, better to wait till the weekend. Mark picks up dirty glasses from the table and brings them across to where I stand.

‘Let’s finish tidying here and then we’ll go up and say goodnight to the twins. I’ve ten minutes before I have to leave.’

I pick up a plate and begin stacking the dishwasher.

‘I’m back Friday night. We can talk about Southampton then.’

‘Is Friday a definite?’ I say, looking at him.

‘Absolutely. I’ve got a guy coming over on Saturday morning to look over the Armstrong Siddeley to see what kind of a state she’s in and what we need to do to get her moving.’

Has he failed to notice one of the chimneys has taken out half the roof?

‘Till then, though, Kate, take your pills. Perhaps speak to the GP, see if you need the dose increased, or maybe your old counsellor, okay?’

I nod. What else can I do, for now? I wish I could tell him I dropped the meds weeks ago and have been doing just fine but I can’t. No way will he see today as a blip in an otherwise stable period.

‘Is Mummy ill again, Daddy?’

The startled surprise and horror I feel is reflected back at me in Mark’s face. I look around his shoulder as he spins to face the hall. Our daughter stands in the doorway, dark hair sleep-ruffled about her shoulders, skinny arms clutching tight the greying blanket she has loved since babyhood. Her eyes, huge in her pale face, glisten brightly.

‘Hey,’ says Mark, hurrying towards her, ‘Mummy’s just fine . . .’

‘Mummy!’

The shout, high pitched and scared, is from upstairs.