16 July 1952
Rosamund Scott-Pym felt a strange wet sensation on her hand. Was she dreaming? Her brain steadied, the real world slowly becoming more solid. The wet sensation became rhythmic. A lick. Then another. And another.
She thought about opening an eye. Gingerly. Barely. Through a fuzzy slit she saw Gladstone, her English Setter. Her arm had fallen off the sofa and was dangling, ripe for licking.
She must have nodded off.
She was lying on the sofa with the Listener magazine across her chest. How long had she been asleep? She swung her legs onto the floor and sat up. One thing was certain. She needed a tea.
In the kitchen she looked out through the French windows expecting to see Caroline and Flora reclining on their deckchairs, taking the afternoon sun. The terrace, though, was empty, and even the annoying tinny hammering of the wireless had ended. They must be cleaning Edward’s car in the garage, she remembered. That was good of them. Maybe there was hope for her recalcitrant daughter after all.
As she waited for the kettle to boil, she readied two pots – one for her, one for the girls – and laid out a tray with cups, saucers and plenty of cake. She poured the boiling water into both pots then stood for a moment, stretching her arms up into the air, trying to wake herself up.
*
The sun outside was still hot and, as she carried the heavy tray across the lawn to the garage, Rosamund felt tiny beads of sweat appear on her skin. The main garage doors were closed, but, anyway, the small side door was much easier to manoeuvre through with the tray. She balanced the tray in one hand, turned the door handle with the other and nudged the door open with her hip.
Edward’s car was just inside. Pushed up inside the car’s backseat window was a large expanse of flesh. The flesh, a blotchy map of white and pink, was magnified slightly by the glass, its features strange but somehow still familiar.
A young girl’s back.
She dropped the tray.
An enormous clatter and smash splintered round the garage.
In the car, the squashed back shot to one side, revealing her daughter’s impassioned face behind it. Mother and daughter stared, frozen, each appalled in her own way. There was silence for a second, then Flora screamed and Caroline, pushing both hands back through her sticky, moist hair, cocked her head back and mouthed a single word.
‘Fuck.’