Chapter 19

Thursday, 28th October

‘I’ll be frank, Kate.’

A tractor roars down the high street spewing claggy mud across the road. I press my mobile to my ear and pull my scarf up to my chin. River fog crept through the village overnight, blurring buildings and smothering the horizon.

‘Sorry, Amy. Come again. That was a bit of rural life butting in there.’

‘A court is likely to order a medical if Mark presses for one, but that won’t be an issue, not if you’re okay now. It’s not like you’ll be ill again, and a GP’s letter will clear that up. You’ve got your hands full so I’ll let you go, but come back to me if you need anything more. Don’t worry though, you’re the twins’ primary carer, always have been. Mark’s got to prove good reason to remove them from their mum.’

I thank her for contacting me so quickly and end the call. Sophie and Shirley sit on the bench outside Lovett and Lyles, Riley lying at their feet. I hurry to join them.

‘Sorry guys, all done. Let’s go.’

Sophie sets off towards the river, tugged along by a willful Riley.

‘Everything alright, love?’

Shirley claps her hands together, her breath mingling with the mist.

‘I think so.’

I don’t want to go into all the trouble between Mark and me, but she must have guessed some of it. Shirley’s antenna won’t fail to pick up the vibes.

‘Just over an hour before we need to head off to get Tom,’ I say.

‘Time for a stomp by the river, get us all warmed up a bit. Riley’ll snooze then while you’re out. How did you get on last night?’

Shirley doesn’t look at me as she speaks, just keeps staring straight ahead along the narrow lane sloping towards the river.

‘Someone else got there first,’ I say.

Shirley’s smile is flat, a short nod. ‘I did a quick google search after Sophie went to bed. It brought up old bits of local gossip, stuff my parents spoke about. You know how it is when you’re a child, you pick up things, but don’t pay full attention.’

‘You knew though about Richard Denning, being put on trial for the murder at Haverscroft?’

‘Oh, yes, that’s no secret. He apparently found Helena Havers badly injured, and was wrongly accused of her murder. He was acquitted but only because they say there wasn’t enough evidence. Mrs Havers would never speak about it other than to say he was entirely innocent.’

‘She must have been convinced, otherwise he’d be the last person she’d have anything to do with, surely?’

‘You’d think so,’ Shirley says. ‘They go back a long way. They were childhood friends; their families knew one another.’

‘And he was ill? Did he have some kind of breakdown?’

‘He ended up in the old asylum on the London Road after he was acquitted. It’s closed now. Once Mrs Havers lost her boys and her husband, she visited regular. She got Richard treatment and eventually he came out. He’s worked at Haverscroft ever since.’

Shirley walks on, eyes fixed on the muddy path.

‘Helena’s murder sounded horrible – brutal,’ I say.

‘No one local thought Richard was guilty; he doesn’t have a malicious bone in his body. He’s a quiet one for sure, he doesn’t pour out chatter and nonsense. Sometimes, when folk have been ill like he was, they’re not ever quite the same, are they?’

Am I somehow different since I was ill? Perhaps I am and can’t see it. Maybe it’s why Mark is so constantly anxious I take medication, or do his motives lie elsewhere? Shirley looks at me and I smile at her.

‘After all he did yesterday for Tom, I’m not going to argue with you.’

‘No-one else was ever charged over the killing. It’s only gossip and rumour, you understand, love, but they say it was Edward Havers.’

‘That seems unlikely, doesn’t it? Surely Mrs Havers wouldn’t have anything to do with someone if she thought they had something to do with her sister’s death, let alone marry the man?’

‘You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you? Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe it wasn’t Edward Havers. Just because he was disliked doesn’t make him a murderer, does it now?’

‘What has any of it to do with Haverscroft now? I don’t see how it all fits together.’

‘There’s something, you feel it don’t you? Something not right. It gives me a right bad feeling. Some say it’s her spirit trapped there on account of how she died, others say it’s the pair of them trapped together for all eternity.’ She shivers, her smile flat, humourless, ‘That’s the village talk, anyway.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me about any of this?’

‘For the same reason you don’t talk about what’s happened to you. Folk who haven’t felt it think you’re a bit daft, a bit soft in the head, don’t they?’

Mark would. Even knowing the facts, the history of the house, there’s no way I could convince my husband there’s something at Haverscroft. He’d assume I was just like Mum.

‘I didn’t want to worry you, love. What can you do about it?’

I should tell Shirley about Mum’s voices, she’d understand how I worry it might be the same thing, nothing else at this horrible house. Sophie is waiting with Mr Whittle where the lane joins the towpath. The estate agent is trying to make conversation. From Sophie’s stiff body language it’s not going well. They glance repeatedly towards us. I must speak more with Shirley, pick a good moment when we have more time.

‘I swear that man is everywhere!’ I say laughing, glancing at Shirley.

She’s watching Sophie and Mr Whittle, her hands deep in her coat pockets, a small furrow crinkles between her brows.

‘Mrs Havers isn’t keen on him, but I rather like him, don’t you?’ I say.

Shirley looks away across the fields, flooded since the storm, they merge with the fog and sky. ‘The man’s a menace, always hanging around.’

‘Morning, morning ladies! I was just on my way over to yours, Shirley.’

‘Oh, whatever for?’

Mr Whittle grabs the glasses perched on the front of his forehead and puts them in his top jacket pocket.

‘Just to say,’ he looks at me, then back at Shirley, ‘well, to see if you’re alright, all of you.’

He pats the pocket. Is he going to take his glasses out? He runs his hand over his bald head, all the time looking at Shirley to respond. I guess the incident yesterday is all around the village. Just the ambulance alone would be enough to feed the grapevine.

‘We’re perfectly fine, as you can see. We’re just out walking the dog.’

Shirley’s tone is short and snappy.

‘You could come too,’ pipes up Sophie, ‘and show us the water voles, Mr Whittle.’

‘Well, yes, I could do that. I was just telling Sophie here about them.’

He looks at Shirley and offers her a smile as my phone buzzes in my pocket.

‘Let me get this,’ I say and step back into the narrow road. The screen flashes, at last, with Mark’s number.

‘Where the hell are you? I’ve been trying to get hold of you; as always, nothing,’ he says.

‘There have been no missed calls on my phone. I’m with Sophie and Shirley taking Riley for his walk. We’ve just bumped into Mr Whittle. Did you get my messages?’

I don’t want to row about who has tried hardest to contact the other. We both know the phone situation.

‘I’ve picked up Tom.’

I’m astonished. So much so, for a moment, I say nothing.

‘Is he alright? What did the hospital say?’

‘He’s totally fine. He’s wondering where his mother is.’

‘The hospital said to collect him after 11am, are you sure it was alright to bring him home now?’

‘Of course I’m sure! He had a good night, the consultant was happy to let him come with me. Keep him warm, let him rest, he’ll be fine.’

Mark’s tone is so cold, condescending, and I’m on very thin ice to make an issue after yesterday. Shirley and Mr Whittle stand together watching me, Sophie looks worried. I smile at her but she’s not silly, she knows we’re arguing.

‘Where are you?’

‘Standing in the road outside Haverscroft.’

‘You’re in Weldon? Are you locked out? George Cooper should be there to let you in.’

There’s a pause before he replies. Sophie and the rest of the little party are clearly keen to get off to the river.

‘I’m not locked out, I just couldn’t get a damned signal in the house.’

I’m not sure if it’s resignation or faint humour in Mark’s tone. Sophie beckons me to hurry.

‘We stayed over at Shirley’s last night. After all that happened yesterday I didn’t want to stay at the house. We’re out walking the dog by the river. Why don’t you and Tom come too? We can wait while you drive up here.’

I’m dreading going back to the house, even for a short time, even with Mark here.

‘Are you listening, Kate? How can you suggest taking Tom for a walk when he’s just out of hospital?’

‘I’ll sit with him in the car.’

‘What? Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve not taken a day out of chambers to go dog-walking with the cleaner and an estate agent. We need to get a few things straight. How long will you be?’

I’ve never heard him sound so like his mother. Has he skipped the Southampton conference? My grip on the mobile tightens.

‘Five minutes.’ I cut the connection and walk towards where the little party waits for me. How dare Mark speak to me like that?

‘Everything alright, love?’

I nod and try to show a relaxed smile as I push the mobile back in my pocket.

‘Daddy’s at Haverscroft wondering where we all are. He doesn’t fancy a walk, I’m afraid. You all go though.’

‘Don’t go back, Mummy.’ Sophie’s voice is a whisper.

‘It’ll be fine,’ I say, putting my arm about her shoulders, pulling her close. ‘Dad collected Tom from the hospital on the way over.’

Sophie’s shoulders tense, her eyes, widen. ‘Tom’s at the house now?’

‘George Cooper’s there as well and we need to pick up our things anyway, don’t we?’

My voice is too bright, fools no one, but Sophie nods.

‘On no account go near the river unless Shirley and Mr Whittle are with you.’ Images of Sophie toppling over the bank in enthusiastic search of voles rush through my mind.

‘We’ll be fine, Kate,’ Shirley says. ‘You go and sort things out. We’ll be back with you by lunchtime.’

 

I turn off before the high street, run along the lane towards Haverscroft and pass the church. My husband marches towards me, no sign of Tom. I instinctively smile but let it drop, the annoyance in Mark’s long strides is clear. He’s smartly dressed in a striped pink and blue casual shirt, dark jeans and the brown brogues I bought him last Christmas. He’s good with clothes, with colours, not scared of them like many men. It was one of the things I’d liked about him when we met. I still do. He must have driven this morning from London, picked up Tom and then come straight here.

‘Where’s Tom?’

‘Like I said, at the house. Where’s Sophie?’

Mark stops dead in his tracks. I walk towards where he stands, taking in his stony expression, purple-blue patches hang beneath his eyes, lines at the corners of his mouth. He flicks a cigarette butt into the grass verge.

‘She’s gone for a walk. Shirley’s dropping her back for lunch.’

‘Since when has the cleaner looked after the kids? You seem to be getting a bit casual about things, Kate.’

I stop just a couple of feet from him. How dare he say that?

‘Who’s with Tom then?’

The shirt is new, at least not one I remember. His hair is cut shorter at the back, a more modern version of his usual style. It suits him.

‘The house is just there!’ He points across the hedges towards Haverscroft. ‘I came to meet you, it’s not the same thing and you know it, Kate.’

He runs a hand through the front of his hair and turns away from me. Panic flutters in my chest. He starts to walk back towards the house, but I don’t immediately follow. Just stand and watch him stride away. His accusation hangs between us. I can’t let it go.

‘What did you mean, a bit casual?’ I start to follow my husband. My voice is only slightly less than a shout. I need to keep calm and under control, the last thing I need to appear is irrational. He keeps striding towards the house.

‘Nothing. I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m tired. I have a lot on in chambers at the moment, as you know, so don’t go overreacting.’

I’m following him, breaking into a jog to keep pace. Haverscroft’s roof, the tarpaulin, comes into view above the front hedge. Mark swerves into the drive. I slow and let some distance pull out between us. The gravel scrunches with each step he takes as he heads down the incline towards the house. George Cooper’s van is parked out front, its tailgate open.

Mark shoulders the front door and vanishes into the gloom of the house without a backwards glance. I let my pace slow further, reluctant to go inside and with a row brewing too. But Tom is in there and I’m desperate to see he’s okay.

I climb the steps to the front door and walk to the middle of the hall, sunlight streaming across the tiles. When we moved into our London house, just us two, little furniture or money, we’d sink into Mum’s old sofa with the Sunday papers, warm croissants and strong bitter coffee and stay there until lunchtime. When did we last do anything, just the two of us: a film, curry, as we used to on Thursday nights, before Stephen, before the breakdown? The kitchen door is ajar, the kettle beginning to boil, the fridge door sucks open and closes. The morning room door is open, George Cooper on his knees, a stack of glass beside him, putty knife in hand.

‘Taking me longer than I thought,’ he says, sitting back on his heels. ‘Got Tom here for company,’ he says, grinning.

‘Tom?’ I say, rushing into the room. Behind the door, pushed against the wall and opposite the fireplace, is Mum’s sofa. Sitting on it is my son and beside him, my mother-in-law.

‘Hello, Katherine.’

I must look astonished. I smile, try to cover my surprise.

‘I do hope Mark let you know I’ll be staying for a few days?’

Tom looks up, pulls a face, beams a smile. ‘Dad got me an iPad!’

‘So I see,’ I say, moving towards the sofa. Jennifer shifts forwards and stands. She brushes down coffee-coloured trousers she calls slacks as if they are infected with something. A cream scarf, Hermes or similar, is tied at the neck of a brown polo neck. She adjusts the scarf and pulls the hem of a fitted fawn jacket over narrow hips. I sit next to Tom and put my arm around his shoulders. He leans into me, warm and so alive. My eyes well and I blink furiously, how differently things could have turned out.

‘Are you okay?’

He nods, eyes glued to the screen. ‘It’s got games on already. Dad says we’ll have the internet on Tuesday.’

‘Have you had breakfast?’

‘Mark treated us in Costa,’ says Jennifer with a smile. If I did that, fed the kids fast-food, she’d have something to say about it.

I watch Tom’s face, the slight curl of his lips, the crinkle of concentration, the same snub nose as Sophie. My throat tightens.

‘Where’s Sophie?’

‘She’ll be back shortly with Riley,’ I say.

‘Is she okay?’

Tom snuggles closer, tucks himself under my arm, rests his head against my chest. I smooth my hand across his hair.

‘She’s fine. She might actually be pleased to have you back,’ I say, my voice jolly and bright.

‘Are you staying now?’

‘What do you mean, Tom?’

He glances towards his grandmother. Jennifer is standing beside the hearth facing the room, watching Tom and me.

‘Of course I’m staying, we all are. You need to rest a bit and if you’re okay we’ll go to the cinema tomorrow, like we planned.’

‘I like what you’ve done with the room, although I didn’t see what was here before.’ Jennifer looks about the walls and ceiling. George Cooper grins, winks at me through French windows smeared by putty fingers.

‘It hadn’t been decorated in decades, so we couldn’t do too much damage,’ I say.

‘I prefer white paintwork. Don’t you find the grey a little dark?’ She directs her question towards Mark. He crosses over to the sofa, hands a tablet-charger to Tom. I try to catch my husband’s eye as he turns away and heads back towards the hall.

‘Mark chose the dove grey,’ I say. ‘I rather like it. It’s softer than a white gloss.’

Mark stops in the doorway and looks at me.

‘A word in the kitchen,’ he says as he turns and walks out of the room.