The kitchen is hot as she flicks the kettle switch downwards. The heating is on, and yet the front room is cold. It is as though the house straddles two continents, rather than about seventeen feet. It’s only eight a.m. It will take a while for the warmth to penetrate. Finn had woken the whole house at five.
Will’s parents, who had ended up staying to help out, are in there, waiting for hot drinks and making small talk about the missing girl.
Just making it small, Jenny thinks.
She can’t think of the phone right now. She can’t believe…
She stares out onto the park where the snow is starting up again, and she feels sick. Another girl lying cold, waiting to be found. With all the suspicion, the questions, it had become about her. What about Becky?
Why is there so much stoic disappointment or such titillation in the wake of yesterday? Why not hot rage? It isn’t a soap opera. It isn’t craic. They’d come rushing at her once she had got up this morning. Felicity admittedly not as fast as Henry. He’d wanted to know the story, what had happened. The details of what she’d seen, why she’d jumped in, what the police had asked her.
Felicity, to be fair, was much more reserved. She’d said how sorry she was that Becky was missing, and how brave it had been of Jenny to try to save her. And still, Jenny had felt picked over, examined, assessed. Had it been sensible? Henry had asked. She’d just stared at him and suggested she make the coffee.
The kettle fizzes. Jenny bangs down the mugs and stirs them vigorously, rattling the spoon hard.
The phone. Her number. It doesn’t make sense.
She’d not thought about the dream. She had deliberately not gone over the memory, the image, of the girl, lying… outstretched. She’d not pondered on the chill she’d felt, how real it had been. She isn’t prepared to think about it. She’s not sure she would even know how to begin.
Her number. Her number on Becky’s phone. What is happening? Could…
‘No news?’ Henry is saying as she re-enters the room.
The local TV news is onscreen. A picture of the girl is staring out at them.
Jenny turns away and glances at Finn, in his bouncer, hitting the dangling toys that dance in an arc over the chair. Bending down, wiping his nose and the dribbles that leak onto his chin, which run almost constantly at the moment, she tries to breathe calmly. She can feel a surge of panic swelling. She taps one of Finn’s swinging bears for him, and as his smell reaches her, and his hand grasps hers, her pulse quietens.
Behind her, Will passes round coffees and the conversation continues.
‘So, tell me again. You thought you’d found the body, eh?’ asks Henry.
Jenny stands up, more in control of herself, and sits near the bouncy chair as Will passes her a cup. To talk of anything else but this.
‘Yes, but let’s hope the police have better luck. There’s still time left… it’s so cold outside, but hopefully they’ll find her…’
‘You know, Felicity once got lost out in the snow, didn’t you, Felicity?’
Felicity eyes Henry without reaction and smiles placidly, turning to Jenny. ‘Yes, dear, I did. And I turned up in the end, so all hope isn’t lost yet.’
‘What do you mean, Mum, you got lost in the snow?’
‘Well, much as it sounds. It was when you were very young.’
‘Your mother found it hard, didn’t you, Felicity, after William was born. Tricky for you to get the hang of nappies. One night, after putting you to bed, William, she went outside in the snow to post a letter, daft at that time of night, and couldn’t find her way back. Bizarre. I had to wake the neighbours in the end. Get some manpower onto it. Found her in a field, lying down. She must have fallen and just couldn’t get up. Bloody well nearly died out there in the cold. The doctor said she was very lucky, as hypothermia hadn’t quite got a grip. Stupid thing to do.’
Henry takes a biscuit and passes them to Felicity. He has looked back at the TV.
Neither Will nor Jenny say anything. Jenny glances at Will, to see what his reaction is. She’s never heard the story before.
‘Mum…’ Will leans forward. ‘I didn’t know… What happened?’
Felicity smiles again, glancing at Finn before speaking. Jenny notices that her hand holding the coffee cup tilts and wobbles, and she leans in to place it back on the table.
‘Well, dear, not everyone swings straight into motherhood like Jenny here.’
‘But were you…?’ Will gazes at her, his question as clear and desperate as if he was three years old, and not thirty-three.
‘No. No, dear, I wasn’t. I was tired. And sometimes the easiest thing in the world is to take a walk away. For a while. There was never any doubt I was coming back. I just lost my way. That’s all.’
The clock ticks ten long seconds and Will places his hand on his mother’s. Jenny doesn’t move.
*
‘Mum’s suggested they stay tonight as well,’ Will says, helping her carry plates through to the kitchen. ‘She wondered if you’d like it, an extra pair of hands. I thought maybe… given what’s been going on… not until Christmas, but until you feel better? You could go back to bed… She’s offered to take Finn out for a walk. Give you a break?’
Piling the plates by the sink, Jenny glances at him. His face doesn’t give much away. She wonders how much was Felicity’s suggestion, and how much Will’s. Normally, she would baulk at the idea. But, well, something has given way a little. Felicity doesn’t feel quite so… far away. Henry is Henry. Some things just need to be endured.
‘Yes, OK,’ she says. ‘But only tonight. I need to get the spare room ready for Dad.’ She relents. ‘But ask them for Christmas. We can all squeeze in.’
‘Oh good.’ Will looks relieved. ‘Look, I know you’ve been struggling, and I’ve been busy at work… But now it’s behind you. Well…’ He shakes his head, looks as if he’s about to say something else. ‘Let’s just move on, shall we?’
He bends over the granite worktop, leaning on his hands, turning his head to look at her.
‘I would have stood by you, you know.’
She looks at him, reaches out and touches his hand. She hasn’t told him about the phone. She hasn’t mentioned her number.
‘It’s over, isn’t it?’ he says. The words press down on her.
‘Yes,’ she says. It has to be.
Turning, he hugs her, and she can feel his arms tightening. She has forgotten how strong he is. ‘Good,’ he whispers, into her hair.
The tap, which she’d turned on to clean the dishes, is still running, and locked in his embrace, she sees the bowl fill and spill over the side. Soapy suds cascade into the butler sink, frothing and swirling. She closes her eyes to it, to the tide, the swell, the water. Nothing will take her from Finn.
Her hands curl into fists and her nails dig deep into her palms. First there’s a sting, and then there’s pain. She uncurls them and glances at her palm over Will’s shoulder. Small lines of blood track across the centre of the soft flesh. War paint.