My emotions are on lockdown as I prepare to meet Keats to go to Danny’s former house. I woke up in the storeroom with such a feeling of wretched panic, I wasn’t able to leave the haven of the duvet for a long while. I made myself get up and gazed at Philip on the wall. His face unburdened me, gave me the courage I need to walk the next steps along the journey to find the truth.
I pick up speed through the tunnel because the shadows lurking in corners seem to bulge with tongues today that mock and jeer at me. The ground doesn’t feel safe under the grip of my shoes.
Rachel. Rachel. Rachel comes out at me from nowhere. I know it must be in my head. The eerie call of my name floats after me all the way to the bottom of the stairs. Then it’s gone.
I take the steps as never before. Thrust the trap door open. I’m out.
At the touch of natural light, I suck in gushes of air. It’s like menthol clearing a path to my lungs, my head too. My mobile pings. Text message. My brows lift at who my messenger is. Polly, my debt counsellor. Former debt counsellor. Thanks to Dad, I don’t owe the world anymore. I wonder what she could want. I’d already let her know that I was debt free and thanked her for her services. I take out my phone.
I still have your paperwork.
Of course. Paperwork, a nice neutral name for the red letters that had tormented me. She wants me to arrange a time to pick them up. Truth be told, as far as I’m concerned, she can burn the lot. I don’t answer and shove my phone away. Right now the only thing on my mind is getting this visit to Danny’s former home out of the way as quickly as possible.
I find Keats sitting at the wheel of a very racy sporty car, soft top on despite the great weather. It only occurs to me then that as a freelance computer tekkie, a highly lucrative business, she must’ve made a packet over the years.
‘Nice wheels,’ is my greeting as soon as I sit beside her on the soft leather beige seat.
She doesn’t look at me, getting the engine going instead. ‘It isn’t mine.’
‘Oh, that’s nice of one of your friends to let you use it.’
There’s an abrupt noise from the back of her throat. ‘They’re not my mates. I’m borrowing it for the day.’
Borrowing? That’s a strange way of putting it. Hang on a bloody second, does she mean…? A harsh frown digs into my forehead. ‘Did you steal this car?’
Keats doesn’t miss a beat, keeping her focused expression on the road. ‘Like I said, I borrowed it. Mr and Mrs Fenchurch won’t miss it. They’re on holiday, but they do keep an electronic tag on their car. I used some software so that when they check in it will appear to still be in its parking bay.’
My jaw drops. She recounts her tale of stealing someone else’s property as if she’s telling me how she purchased a loaf of bread. ‘Why didn’t we catch the train, call a cab?’
‘A cab will cost too much and during a train ride, your nerves may get the better of you.’
I resent the hell out of her for pointing out the obvious. I’m holding onto my wits by a thread. So, I divert the conversation by turning the spotlight away from me. ‘Why would a woman want to shut herself off from the world by wearing a handkerchief over her mouth, shades and a hoodie?’
I don’t expect Keats to answer. Surprise, surprise, there’s a loaded silence. But I’m proved wrong when she says, ‘I’m not hiding. It’s my way of blending in, being forgotten.’
I gape at her. ‘Blend in? You stick out like a tattoo on someone’s forehead.’
‘Initially, then everyone forgets. This is London after all.’
I consider her words. She’s right to some degree. London can be such an impersonal city filled with people minding their own business. If Coco The Clown rode a bike wearing a kilt, no-one would take a blind bit of notice. Suddenly, one-handed, Keats pulls out her mobile, taps away at its screen, her gaze alternating quickly between it and the road. My upper body jolts slightly back when she throws it at me. It tumbles into my lap.
‘Scroll through the photos.’
Which I do. The first is an old sepia photo of a young woman decked out in cowboy gear – hat, shirt, trousers and boots, looking incredibly confident as she holds a shotgun across her thigh and her leg hitched up on what appears to be an old tin bucket. The second is of the same woman in braces and sporting men’s clothing, again sitting, one leg thrown over the other, on a bed.
Keats notes my confused expression. ‘Her name was Pearl Hart. She was an outlaw back in the Old West. That second picture is of her in prison where she became a bit of a celeb.’ There’s an excitement fizzling off Keats that holds me in awe. ‘Okay, Pearl was a proper bad girl, but look at her. The tilt of her hat. The absolute ooze of badass boldness coming off her like the rarest perfume. Bet she gave the finger to anyone who tried to tell she couldn’t wear clothes that the world said only guys could.’
Keats angles her head, eyes steady on the traffic. ‘I like going about in my hoodie, shades and scarf because I like it. Why shouldn’t I be what I want to be?’ She becomes sombre. Flicks me a dead-serious glance. ‘I don’t know what this story is with you and this Philip character. But, Rachel, wherever your story ends, don’t let it snuff out your light.’
I know she’s right, but it’s not easy to break the shackles that hold me to that life-changing summer. How can I walk in my light when it’s overshadowed by the dark clouds of the past?
Keats draws me from my confused memories with an insistent hushed tone. ‘Are you really being honest with yourself? Is this all about finding out what went on with Philip? Why else are you putting yourself through the wringer over this?’
Because I let my dad down, I yell inside. Let Philip down. Let me down? But my lips remain sealed. I don’t tell her, and for the rest of the journey, we sit in our own silence.
‘Leave the talking to me.’ Keats bristles with confidence, convinced that we can talk our way into Danny Hall’s old country house. Coming from a person who didn’t exercise her right to talk to me for many days, that’s quite a claim. She’s parked the stolen sports car right near the front door as if she owns the place. Scattered around on the drive, nestling near rhododendron bushes, are the current owner’s vehicles. A metallic Merc, a high-end Land Rover and an old saloon that looks like it’s used as a runaround. I can’t look at the house itself. Or the patch of waste land about a hundred yards away where the outline of where walls once stood is still etched into the ground. No scorch marks of what happened remain.
I’ve spent the last ten years trying to erase it from my memory and now it’s looming over me. I’m seized with panic.
‘Keats, let’s go. This is stupid. They’ll think we’re criminals come to do an inventory of their valuables. They’ll call the cops who’ll quickly figure out that this car doesn’t have your name on its driving documents.’
Keats ignores me, keeping her thoughts to herself. She’s out of the driving seat before I can call her back and walks slowly round to the passenger side, which she opens and gently pulls me out.
Keats flicks her fingers through her hair, which I assume is her attempt at looking respectable. ‘Relax. No-one’s calling the feds. We’re two posh gals come to look at the place where I used to live. What could be more natural than that? Just leave the chat attack to me.’
She strides up to the door so I have no alternative but to follow a little behind.
Keats rings the bell and while we wait for an answer, I plead. ‘Please, let’s go.’
‘Shut up.’ The tempo of her voice changes when the door opens. ‘Oh hi.’
For one terrible moment, I expect it to be Danny at the door. Thankfully it’s a middle-aged man who’s obviously a city type of some sort. His casual clothes look like luxury items. He glances at our sports car and then at us. ‘Yes? Can I help?’
Keats sounds like one of those upper-class women who think the royal family is a little vulgar. ‘Darling. I wonder if you can. You see, I resided in this house for a while with my Uncle Danny when I was a little girl – such fond memories…’ She pulls me closer. ‘As my wife and I were in the area, I just wanted to give her a little sneak peak of where I once lived.’
Our guy is confused. ‘Your wife?’
‘Yes, we’re lesbians. I do hope that’s not a problem.’
The poor man is obviously becoming worried we think he’s homophobic, so he answers, ‘No, no, of course not.’
‘Can we come inside?’ Keats pulls what she clearly thinks is a sweet face.
He hesitates. ‘It’s a little inconvenient at the moment. Perhaps another time?’
Keats pouts with disappointment. ‘Oh please. We’ll be no trouble, just a quick whisk round so I can show Harriet where I enjoyed so many happy days and then we’ll be on our way.’
He looks over our shoulders and down the drive, probably worried there’s an armed gang lying in wait while we bluff our way in. ‘Well…’
Keats doesn’t give up. ‘We’re newly married and at that stage where you have to know every little thing about your spouse – sickening really.’ She takes my hand and squeezes.
‘I suppose it’s all right.’
Keats gives a little trill of delight. ‘Oh thanks so much! That’s so super of you! I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Oliver.’
‘Oh, love that name! I’m Lauren and this is Harriet.’
The guy stands aside and Keats leads me in, letting my lame hand drop while she follows our host through a door that leads off the hallway. Keats calls out. ‘Oh! This is the drawing room. I adore what you’ve done with this.’
Oliver is confused again. ‘We haven’t done anything with it actually; we liked it as it was. In fact I’ve lived in the village for a long time and when this house came on the market, I grabbed it.’
‘That’s what I meant. You’ve kept it as it was. Harriet! Darling! Come and see the drawing room where Uncle Danny taught me how to play bridge.’
I haven’t followed them into the drawing room because I’m still in the hallway, inert. My eyes fixed on one place only.
‘Darling? Are you all right?’ Keats’s head is poking around the drawing room door. She comes out and follows my eyeline down the hall to a wooden door. ‘Oh yes. You want to see the… the old servants’ quarters, isn’t it?’
Oliver reappears. ‘No, that’s the cellar. The previous owner used it as a wine cellar but wine’s not really my thing. I say, is your wife all right? She looks a little unwell. Would she like a glass of water?’
Keats is solicitous. ‘Are you all right, darling? You do look a little peaky. Yes, a glass of water would be divine. Could you put a little lemon in it?’
When he leaves the hallway, Keats whispers, ‘Do you want to go into the wine cellar?’
I don’t. I want to get out. Coming here was a terrible mistake. My voice is barely audible. ‘Oliver’s probably calling the police.’
‘Don’t be silly. We’re supposed to be lesbians. Lesbians don’t burgle houses.’
What the hell does that mean? I scowl at her, but Keats isn’t looking at me.
She’s staring down the hallway. ‘Is it important – the wine cellar?’
What will going down there prove or solve except to rub salt into my still-bleeding wounds? But I’ve come this far. Keats puts her arm around my waist and guides me down the hallway to the cellar door. She fiddles with the handle and the door wings open, creaking on its hinges. Inside is complete darkness. My body temperature plummets.
Keats runs her hands along the wall, looking for a light switch. In a hush I inform her, ‘Other side. It’s on the other side.’
When the light comes on, a wooden staircase greets us, leading down to a cavernous cellar. I don’t remember the cellar being so big, but in those days it had row after row of wine racks. Now they’re all gone. There are some bikes leaning against each other and a few items of garden furniture. Nothing else, except the flagstone floor and ancient stone walls. Keats seems uncertain but she guides me down the steps as if I am an old lady, and we stand together in the cool air in the middle of the wine cellar.
As soon as my feet touch the cold hard ground, my hand feels the outline of the funeral programme in my back pocket. That touch has me spinning back in time.