July 1990
‘Happy birthday, Rachel,’ Laura said, heading into the lounge with a pile of presents. She’d ordered most of the gifts from catalogues, and bought a few from the village shop. She knew she was overcompensating.
She put the gifts on the floor beside her daughter. ‘Open them, Rachel. Find out what’s inside,’ she said with a fixed smile. ‘They’re all for you. And this is for you too.’ She handed Rachel a card. One card. A three-year-old with one solitary card – how had she let that happen?
Rachel stared at the card for over five minutes. It was clear she wasn’t going to open it, or her gifts, so Laura tore away the paper, showing Rachel a doll, a teddy, a book of nursery rhymes, Mr Chimney Pot. But Rachel seemed more interested in rubbing a piece of silk ribbon between her fingers.
‘And this is Mr Snookum,’ Laura said, ripping the paper from a stuffed rabbit with a waistcoat. Rachel turned, widening her eyes, and reached out. ‘Do you like Mr Snookum?’
‘Yes,’ Rachel said, taking him and cuddling him close.
Once all the gifts were open, and the floor was littered with wrapping paper, Laura brought a cake from the kitchen, and sang happy birthday to her daughter. A flicker of a smile crossed Rachel’s lips as she watched the flames dance on the candles. Were they bonding?
‘Would you like me to read to you?’ Laura said, picking up the nursery rhyme book, and moving closer to her daughter.
And as Laura sang the rhymes, Rachel leaned her head on her mother’s lap, and for once there were no tears as she slowly drifted off to sleep.
Eventually Laura edged away, put a cushion under her daughter’s head, stroked her hair from her face, and covered her with a throw.
For some time she watched her daughter’s chest rise and fall, thinking for the first time in a while about Jude. If he hadn’t let her down, Rachel would be different. She would be different. It was his fault.
She stood up and opened the heavy sideboard, and rummaged through her photo box until she found a picture of her and Jude. She went into the kitchen and found a box of matches. With one strike, she watched Jude go up in flames, and with every flicker he was purged from her life. When his face and body had curled and melted away, she turned on the tap and extinguished the flames. Tears filled her eyes, but she didn’t sob – she’d done too much of that. She knew now it would always be her and their strange little girl, fighting to survive.
Back in the lounge, she turned on the TV, and flicked through channels mindlessly. BBC News was covering an earthquake in the Philippines where at least four hundred had tragically died. She glanced again at Rachel who was snuffling in her sleep – life could be worse, she tried to tell herself.
***
Mid-afternoon, after wrestling Rachel into her coat, Laura and her daughter set out for a walk through the woods, Laura snapping photographs as they went. She’d taken to doing paintings straight from photographs lately, enjoying putting a brush to canvas, after rarely painting for so long.
She captured a picture of a rabbit, a pied wagtail, a sand martin, and snapped studies of Rachel sitting on a log hugging Mr Snookum. Rachel had even raised another smile, seeming to enjoy the attention.
Laura had walked the woods many times now. She knew every trail, so it wasn’t accidental she ended up at Lough End Farm. And it wasn’t the first time she’d been there in the last two years, never wanting to quite let go of Dillon – always worrying about the children.
She peered through the trees, to see Dillon playing with the girls – they seemed happy, laughing as he chased them. Imogen stood at the kitchen window, but there was no sign of Tierney.
‘Mummy.’ It was Rachel.
‘Just a minute, darling,’ Laura said, flapping her hand behind her back at her daughter, not turning. ‘I just want to make sure Bridie and Caitlin are OK.’
‘There’s a squirrel,’ Rachel went on, but Laura didn’t reply, her eyes fixed on the children. ‘Yucky squirrel,’ the child continued.
Laura finally turned. ‘Rachel? Rachel, where are you?’ she called, looking about her, but Rachel had gone.
‘Laura?’ It was Dillon, appearing through a gap in the trees. ‘Can I talk to you? It’s about Imogen.’
‘Not right now, Dillon,’ she said, taking off into the woods, bashing back the hedgerow.
He raced to her side, taller and thinner than when she last saw him, mild acne covering his cheeks, a woolly hat over his curls. He was leaving the boy he once was behind. Chasing the man he would soon become. ‘Imogen’s ill, Laura,’ he said, his tone deeper now his voice had broken.
‘I can’t do anything, Dillon. You know that. You’ve all made it perfectly clear I’m not welcome. Now leave me alone – I need to find my daughter.’
‘Rachel’s missing?’
‘She can’t have gone far. She was here a moment ago. Rachel!’ she yelled.
‘Rachel!’ Dillon joined in, his eyes darting the trees as they hurried onwards.
‘What if someone’s taken her?’ Laura cried, tears filling her eyes.
‘Why would you think that? Did you see someone?’
She shook her head, wondering why her brain had taken her to such a dreadful thought. Was it the complete isolation? ‘No,’ she said, ‘but anyone could hide in these woods. We should call the Guards.’
‘Let’s look for a bit first, Laura,’ he said, reaching out and touching her arm, as she raced through brambles – cutting her leg. ‘She could be hiding. You know she’s a bit …’
‘Troubled?’
As they reached the back of Laura’s house, they saw Rachel sitting on the patio, legs outstretched, singing a nursery rhyme.
‘Thank God!’ Laura screamed, racing towards her and picking her up. Hugging her close. For once, Rachel didn’t protest. ‘Thank God, you’re OK,’ she said, kissing her hair.
‘I was hiding,’ Rachel said.
‘You shouldn’t hide. I was worried.’ She put her daughter down.
‘It’s my birthday,’ Rachel said, taking hold of Dillon’s hand.
‘Well, happy birthday,’ he said, staring deep into her eyes. He looked at Laura. ‘I reckon Rachel has the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen,’ he said with a smile.
Laura was still in shock, her body trembling. ‘Has she?’ she said, ashamed she’d never really noticed.
Inside the house, Laura plonked Rachel in the lounge with her new toys, and poured herself a brandy. ‘Want one?’ she asked Dillon. ‘You must be old enough, by now.’
‘Not quite,’ he said, pulling open the fridge, and grabbing a can of cola.
‘I sometimes think I’m losing my mind, Dillon.’ She knocked back the brandy in one go, and poured another.
‘Have you thought about selling up? Starting again somewhere else?’
It was a question she’d asked herself a thousand times. And there were so many reasons why she never had.
‘Often,’ she said. ‘But I haven’t got the strength. What if Rachel doesn’t fit in? What if I can’t cope with the real world any longer?’ A pause as she watched him flick open the can, and take a gulp. ‘You were telling me about Imogen,’ she said. ‘That she’s ill?’
He nodded. ‘She’s throwing up every morning, but she won’t go to the doctor’s – says she knows what the problem is, but it ain’t right.’
Laura suspected another baby was coming into the O’Brian family, and it filled her with dread. ‘She could be pregnant,’ she said, her glass halfway to her lips.
‘Christ. I dunno. Maybe.’
‘I can’t be sure, but it sounds like she could be. Make sure she eats right, help her the best you can, and try to coax her into going to the doctor’s.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’ll try, but she seems determined not to,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I guess I’d better go to her.’ He thudded the can onto the table. ‘I just hope she listens.’