Connie got up early, but did not go to Ludlow Hall. She sat inside the window of the attic bedroom, not able to see past the thick condensation clogging on the glass. Her phone was full of frantic texts from Amy, pleading with her to come home. What home did she have any more? There was no place in the States. And here, Ludlow was a big old house full of someone else’s history.
Loss streaked through her, making her bend over, the pain clouding her, seeping into her brain, consuming every part of her.
She reached for her phone and texted her sister.
I am fine. Please give me time.
As rapid as a bullet from the chamber, her sister fired back a text.
Won’t you even tell me where exactly you are?
I just need space. I am fine.
Amy, she knew, would overreact if she spoke too much the truth.
Would she tell her that even getting up each morning was difficult, that each day seemed interminable? That her loss was dragging her down at the heels, too huge to quantify? If this was the price of love, then she wanted not to have loved. It was grief tearing, pulling at her heart. She did not deserve it, but since when did only bad things happen to bad people? Two years had passed, the lost years when she could barely function, the years subsumed in a black fog.
Hearing a toilet flush and the whirr of a shower, she knew Hetty was up and about. Quickly, she snatched her jeans and jumper, pulling them on. She stepped into her shoes and grabbed her handbag.
Connie was halfway down the stairs when Hetty, wrapped in a purple fleece dressing gown, stepped out onto the landing.
“I am just about to do a nice full Irish breakfast for you.”
“I have to go out, I won’t be having breakfast. Thank you.”
“But you can’t start the day on nothing.”
Hetty Gorman dithered, worried that her guest did not want to eat in her house. Connie, sensing her disquiet, took the last three steps of the stairs before turning to look at Hetty.
“I am sorry, Mrs Gorman, it must be the excitement or something, but I am not feeling too well. I just need to get some fresh air.”
Hetty bristled, worrying if she should not have turned up the heat in the middle of the night.
“You know where I am if you feel hungry once the cold air has done its bit.”
Connie made for the door, smiling at the older woman, whose brow was furrowed, her eyes full of disappointment.
“I think I shall be at Ludlow, until much later.”
She drove to Ludlow Hall, parking under the expanse of an oak tree and halfway down the front driveway, so nobody could see her.
This house was all she had now, this place where nobody knew her, a comfort blanket against the good intentions of those who knew too much.
She strolled up the driveway, past the rhododendron, its leaves blotted with water from the heavy rain of the night before, past the old posts that had once held heavy iron gates across the avenue, and past the long swathes of paddock overgrown and uncut in three years, the high grass pounded down by the rain, making a thick cake of moss.
Skirting the corner, the dilapidated house, its best days long gone, made her gasp. The hoarding was down, and the windows looked like dull, shadowy forms of what they once were, reflecting an empty, lonely house. It was huge, a magnificent monstrosity in a small town. The building looked uncared for, as if it had been abandoned for more than four years.
Excitement bubbled up in her that she might be able to turn her life around here, but as quickly a hesitation sneaked through her, making her feel afraid. Spotting a bench in a clearing at the side of the avenue, she sat down, hidden among the trees.
A stone bird table, blotches of silver-grey moss in a garish pattern all over, stood tall in a maze of bindweed. The bowl was clogged with damp leaves, dark water edging to a scum.
Had Ed planned to move them here? She did not know. Molly would have loved this spot, sitting quietly, waiting for the birds to drop down to take nuts, grain and bread. For a fleeting moment, she felt the warmth of memories, soaring, then remembering the truth, crashing down, her heart bursting with pain.
Slumping over, all she could do was curl up in a ball on the seat and wait, like she had many times before, for the despondency to pass.
A robin flew down from the rhododendron branch to the bird table, perching on the rim, flicking at a fly trapped in the dank water. Cocking his head to one side, he watched Connie, scrunched small on the seat, before bobbing over her and flying away. A thrush hopped out of the undergrowth, snipping at the earth, but ducked back when Connie stirred.
She sat up, peeping through the foliage, straggles of daffodils wafting on the light breeze ruffling the land in front of the house. The birdsong lifted high in the sky, flooding her with memories of that day.
The same crisp air, the flowers dipping their heads as she walked past them to the car that morning. Connie, her hair still damp, pulled her jacket around her, the cool nip in the air making her shiver. Mr Singh, out early, waved to her and she smiled.
Connie threw her kit bag on the passenger’s seat and got into the car, her steel travel cup steaming on the dashboard beside her, a tiny sticky-note drawing Molly had made the night before half falling off, curling at the corners in the heat.
“Love you Mommy,” scrawled in two different coloured markers, two pink glittery hearts stuck at one corner.
She must remember to drop into the mall and get some more glitter glue and puffy stickers to surprise her later. When she kissed her goodbye, Molly had not stirred, and when she had stuffed Cuddly Cat under the warm glow of the duvet, Molly hooked her arm contentedly around its neck, pushing deeper into her pink pillow. She heard Ed shifting around upstairs, but she continued out the door, calling goodbye softly as she went.
Connie had the car in reverse and was eyeing the mirrors to get out of the driveway when she realised she had forgotten her dance schedule for the day. Unwilling to go through the rigmarole of tiptoeing through the house, she shrugged her shoulders. She had most of the dance classes highlighted on her phone.
She drove around the long way, wanting to see the sunlight salsa across the sea, a chorus of gold surfing across the water. At one point she stopped the car and wound down the window, pulling in the fresh air, making her cheeks bristle with the chill of the bright morning. Hearing the sound of the water dragging the pebbles, she closed her eyes, letting herself drift into a half snooze.
When she got to the centre for her first lesson of the day, only three of her ten students were there. “So dancing in the morning is losing its lustre,” she joked.
“Traffic is backed up, some accident,” one man said as he entered the room, slightly out of breath.
“Let’s warm up,” she said, not noticing two men in suits with the building administrator loitering in the doorway.
The administrator nervously pointed at her. The dance students hung back. Sensing a shuffling behind her, she turned around. Startled, one of the men let his head flop down, pushing one of his hands in his pocket. The other man took a step forward.
“Connie Carter?”
The tone of his voice was urgent. Cold seeped up through the soles of her feet. She noticed that none of her students were warming up. One of them clicked the music off. The taller of the two men asked if they could go somewhere private. She nodded and led the way, her joints aching, her walk rigid, her brain flashing out danger signals.
The small office was cold, the light coming in the window watery grey, dancing in a pattern across the surface of the white table. Words swept past her in a whispered blur. She caught Ed’s name.
“Did you talk to your husband this morning, Mrs Carter?”
When she did not answer, the detective gently touched her shoulder, pointing to a chair for her to sit down on.
“No, he was just about to get up when I was going out the door. I called goodbye.”
“Sit down, Mrs Carter.”
“I want to know what is going on. Why are you asking me about my husband?”
The short detective moved away to answer a call. The other man pulled out a tubular chair for her.
“We came across Ed’s car. Was he going to take a trip today?”
“What do you mean?”
“Connie, Ed’s car has been in an accident.” The word seemed elongated on his tongue, tripping towards her, whipping her across the face.
“There is some mistake. I left my husband and daughter at home.”
“You have a daughter?”
“Molly. Is Molly okay?”
Connie jumped up, barging past the detective to the door. Panic coursed through her, pain gushing up her body.
“Molly, where is she?” She was shouting, angry, afraid.
The tall detective reached out and put his arms on her shoulders. “Didn’t you drop her at kindergarten?”
She flopped down, her voice a whisper, her throat tight. “She isn’t in today, she has a dental check-up later. My God, what if he left her on her own? She’s only five, anything could happen.”
The short one left the room, and she heard him talk quickly into his phone. She saw her students gathering up their belongings to leave the studio, casting anxious glances towards the office as they went.
Her stomach felt sick, a pain was seeping up her arm, a chill creeping through her. She thought she was screaming, roaring at the tall detective, but it was only in her head. His lips were moving, but she did not hear his voice. He reached out and pushed her gently back in the chair.
Time ticked on. She waited. The detective in the room stayed silent. A woman walked in and left a glass of water on a table beside Connie, who braced herself for bad news when she saw the woman’s sympathetic smile.
The short detective came back into the room, his face grey, his eyes blank, his fingers twiddling his phone, as if he was trying to pump up some courage. She took his face in and her body crumpled like a puppet, the strings cut. Tears coursed down her face, wetting her neck. Her head thumped.
“I must go to Molly. Where is she?”
The short detective put his hands out to stop her. She thought he shouted, but later realised he had not.
“Connie, is there family we can ring for you?”
“Ed, Molly . . .”
He put his two hands on her shoulders. “It is bad news, Connie. We found Molly in the house. She is dead, Connie.”
The grey walls of the room spun around her, the light overhead flashing down spears of silver. In the corner, a discarded gym bag half open. The tall detective walked to the window and looked out, running his fingers through his hair. The short detective stood close, tapping her shoulder as if to comfort her. If he was talking, she could not hear him.
She could only hear Molly:
“Mommy. Mommy. Mommy.”
She wanted to run to her, but could not; she stretched, but could not reach her. Molly was not there.
“Where was Molly?”
An older detective, his shirt barely tucked into his waistband, came into the room. He took her by the hand, winding her into a tight hug, and she leaned against him, this man in an ill-fitting suit.
“Let’s get you away somewhere more private, before the TV crews start crowding round,” he whispered. She let him lead her out of the room and the building. The security guard, wiping tears from his face, looked away as she approached. One of her students grabbed her hand and muttered something. Others looked at her, their eyes reflecting the pain in her heart, and she was glad she was being taken away.
Outside, the sun dazzled against the glass building, mocking her as she was guided on both sides to the police car. Reaching out, she grabbed the older detective by the collar.
“Why Molly? Who would do that to Molly?”
She sat in the rear, her head flung back. The car was pulling away when she shouted she did not have her travel mug. The driver braked hard. The older detective listened carefully to her garbled words before quickly getting out of the car and running across to the office building. Five minutes later, he emerged, gripping the travel mug, his thumb keeping the sticker in place as he marched quickly past a film crew setting up at the entrance.
The mug was still warm. She sat, tracing the childish writing. ‘Love you Mommy.’ Connie slowly pulled the note with the little shaky writing down her cheek, as if the innocence of that final expression of love could comfort her. If she died now, it could only be a good thing.
Opening her eyes, the sun was still shining around Ludlow Hall. A chaffinch flitted between the fuchsia bushes at the front. Deliberately, she turned away back down the avenue, not exactly sure any more where she was going.
Date: March 24, 2013
Subject: THE LUDLOW LADIES’ SOCIETY
*****SPECIAL NOTICE*****
Ludlow ladies,
It is very important there is a full house for the next meeting of the Ludlow Ladies’ Society.
I have, with great difficulty, managed to wrestle an invitation from the Rosdaniel Festival Committee for the Ludlow Ladies’ Society to exhibit in the Town Hall as part of the upcoming festival.
Ladies, I am not supposed to reveal this to anyone, so please keep it under your hats. The first and second prizes at the Rosdaniel Festival exhibition will be included in a special event and exhibition in Glendalough to be visited by none other than the First Lady of the United States, Michelle Obama.
Ladies, I can say with certainty we want to be there, to have the great Michelle Obama throw her eye over our patchwork.
We are in luck too, ladies: Mr Davoren is not on the panel of judges. He is, however, an exhibitor and I am sure hoping to go to Glendalough.
Now is our time to kill two birds with one stone: crush Davoren and his dreams, and bring glory to the Ludlow Ladies’ Society.
Ladies, we can do it. The first step is to attend the Tuesday meeting at Hetty Gorman’s house. This is our IN, ladies, and not even Davoren can get in our way if we win a prize.
In other news, we note the new owner of Ludlow Hall is to take up residence. We in the Ludlow Ladies’ Society wish the new owner well and think back with pride on our association with Ludlow Hall.
Kathryn Rodgers,
Chairwoman