Dark Place to Hide (14 page)

Lucinda grunts through gritted teeth. ‘Diane, Ted – your daughter, Diane.’

He nods looking at his slippers, but I know he’s lost sight of you. But then, for once he’s not alone, because we all have.

As I return briskly to the station, I have had two missed calls on my mobile. One is from Tara saying the police have spoken to her and asked lots of questions about you. The other is Sgt Howis asking me to call, but making it clear it’s not urgent.

I walk along to the far end of the platform away from other passengers to make the call. As the line connects, I’m staring at a poster for the West End drama,
War Horse
. You’ve
mentioned it several times, but we’ve never seen it. Under different circumstances, I would book two tickets right now.

The sergeant has no news, instead he asks about our finances. Do we have a lot of money? Do we have rich parents? Had you or I upset anyone recently? He doesn’t say it, but I know where he’s coming from. He’s considering an abduction and a possible ransom demand. I’ve thought of this too, of course, but it seems so unlikely that I’ve more or less dismissed it. I explain that your parents are pretty well off, but there’s nothing new about it. Why would someone abduct you
now
? I tell him that my mother has just got remarried to a loan shark. He sounds more interested in this.

‘When was that?’

‘Um…last year…August. He runs his own business – it’s a payday loan company called Loansafe – based in Enfield.’

Sgt Howis informs me flatly that it will be a line of enquiry. My train rumbles in and I don’t hear him end the call.

6 August

The oncology department has become Marion’s second home. She knows every crack in the plaster on the magnolia-coloured walls from the lift to the waiting room, knows how many footsteps it takes to get from the lift to Mr Guha’s room, knows it will be the fifth strip light that flickers.

Room number three. Clara’s favourite number.

Marion takes a seat outside, alongside her daughter. There was no one who could childmind this morning. Marion wonders how much Clara has taken in about her illness. She doesn’t want to terrorise her daughter with talk of leaving her, but Clara needs to understand, as far as her scattered little brain will allow, that she’s dying. Marion needs to tread a fine line that prepares her without panicking her and she doesn’t know where to start. She can barely look to the future herself. When the cancer finally gets the better of her, Clara will become an orphan. Marion cannot bear to use the word. She knows that whilst her mother would adopt her, she’s ill herself, with Parkinson’s. Granny is coping now, but for how long? Other relatives are thin on the ground; she can’t think of anyone she’d entrust her daughter with.

The nurse who is going to look after Clara while Marion is having her consultation, arrives. Marion prefers it this way, otherwise Clara keeps asking questions and interrupting and she can see Mr Guha getting annoyed. Clara will go to the play area in the children’s department instead.

As the nurse reaches out her hand, Clara bends down to untangle her laces. ‘I don’t like wearing shoes, because the strings always get locked,’ she explains.

‘That’s right – then you trip up,’ replies the nurse who, according to her badge, is called Sheila.

‘Mummy says my eyes are in the wrong place, because I want to see things from too high up or too low down. She says I should have been born a cat or a rat, because it’s normal for them to climb trees or squeeze into small holes. She says people aren’t supposed to do that so much. But it’s normal for me.’

This is the first series of statements that Marion has heard in the last two days that belong in the real world. Otherwise, when she’s been coaxed from her room at meal times, Clara has said nothing other than quotes from nursery rhymes or fairy tales. Marion has heard the floorboards sighing in their own regular rhythm as Clara walks backwards and forwards, immersed in solo activities in her bedroom, playing in turn the roles of Cinderella, Rapunzel and Mowgli, from the
Jungle Book
. At times she’s heard Clara ranting at various invisible characters in the stories. ‘My what big ears you have’ and ‘Don’t you dare go into the woods on your own again, little girl.’ In fact, Marion is recognising more and more scenes from
Little Red Riding Hood.
She has tried to join in, suggested watching musicals and animated films, but Clara has been too distracted by her own little world. She didn’t want to go shopping with Granny yesterday or to feed the ducks at the park. It wasn’t like her at all.

This newfound introversion worries Marion and she hopes Dr Pike is going to be able to sort it out. They’ve had another session, but the specialist didn’t seem to have anything to add to her initial diagnosis: Clara has retreated into the world of fairy tales following her traumatic experience and only time and gentle encouragement will bring her back again.

Sheila pats Marion’s shoulder. ‘He’s ready to see you now,’ she whispers in an aside to her. ‘Come and find us when you’re done.’

When her mother starts to walk away, Clara’s face clouds over. She nips her chin and lets out a little moan. At times like this Marion has to stand her ground and let Clara go. She has to make herself strong with the familiarity of it and teach Clara to do the same. One day, it will be forever.

‘We’ll have a great time,’ Sheila insists. ‘We can do afternoon tea or play doctors and nurses.’

Clara baulks at the idea. ‘Pah…’ she says.

‘Okay, then, what about
The Carnation
– the story where the queen is imprisoned inside the castle by the king…’

Marion stops in her tracks and spins around. It’s not Sheila’s fault. She isn’t to know. Marion waits to see if the mention of being trapped in the castle brings about a scream, tears or leaves Clara cowering behind the chairs.

‘Oh, yes,’ says Clara, giving a little skip. ‘That’s a
good
story. I’ve even been the queen in real life, haven’t I, Mummy? I had all the stories to myself in the dark for hours and hours in a proper castle. I saw owls and foxes and dragons and I’d love to go and do it again.’

‘You are a proper little adventurer, Miss Clara Delderfield,’ Sheila says, leading her away.

Marion watches, more perplexed than ever.

Marion is walking towards the play area as Mr Guha’s words pitter-patter inside her head. The period of remission is over, he tells her. The patch she’s just gone through was a
good
stretch,
apparently. Now things are likely to get tougher. She’s anaemic for a start and her paraprotein levels are too high. Mr Guha recommends another blood infusion and more chemo.

Marion reaches the right place. Seven or eight children are making trains with rows of plastic chairs, rolling balls, tractors, trucks across the floor and pouring invisible tea into cups, but Clara doesn’t appear to be one of them. Marion glances at every child. Sheila isn’t there either. Maybe she’s taken her to the toilet. Marion takes a seat and smiles at an Asian woman who is holding a young baby. She looks at her watch. After a second glance, she gets up and walks round to the nearest toilet, but the door is wide open. A familiar fizz kicks her in the stomach.
No, no, Clara, please – not today…

Marion goes back to the play area and stands at the reception. A nurse comes to the desk to check something on a list and Marion speaks to her, even though she can see the woman is in a hurry. ‘Sheila is with my daughter – do you know where she is?’

‘Sheila – er…’ the nurse backs off, opening her hands wide with a shrug. ‘Sorry – I’ve got a haemorrhage…’ She turns and paces out of sight.

Marion senses movement behind her and turns.

‘Clara!’ She shifts her gaze, pointedly, from her daughter to Sheila, drawing out the words. ‘Where’ve you been?’

Sheila looks flustered and out of breath – it looks like Clara has sent her chasing all over the place. ‘I found her outside,’ Sheila admits. ‘She must have slipped out when I took a phone call.’ The nurse doesn’t apologise.

Marion wants to roll her eyes and tut, but she manages to restrain herself. ‘Time to go,’ she says, taking Clara’s hand. She says a curt
thank you
to the nurse and pulls Clara away.

It’s only when they are outside that she notices Clara’s cardigan is buttoned up wrongly.
Did she leave home like that?
She also sees that her knees are scraped.

‘You’re bleeding. You’ve hurt yourself.’ She drops a blob of spittle on a tissue and dabs at Clara’s wounds. ‘What happened, honey?’

Clara sniffs, tugging at her sleeve, trying not to cry. Marion folds her into her body. ‘Sweetheart, did you fall over?’ She bobs down to her level.

‘With silver bells and puppy dogs’ tails and little maids all in a row,’ Clara chants in a whisper.

‘Talk properly, now. What happened? How did you hurt yourself?’

‘I don’t want to go back there ever again,’ she says, folding her arms with a pout.

‘Why, what happened?’ Marion repeats.

‘You’re a big, bad wolf,’ shouts Clara, ‘and you’re not going to get your supper.’

Marion straightens up. She doesn’t know what’s going on. It’s another few days before they’ll see Dr Pike again and she’s tired and feeling faint and she doesn’t know how to deal with this.

‘Let’s go home, shall we? We can tell Dr Pike all about this when we see her.’

‘Here?’ Clara is back in the land of the living, it appears.

‘Yes. We have an appointment every week and you’ll be able to do drawings and play again.’

‘I don’t want to go back to the lopital. I don’t
want
to.’ Clara twists furiously and stamps her feet.

‘We have to come back, darling. Mummy’s sick and she needs to get help from the doctors. And it’s a good place to see Dr Pike, too.’

Clara goes quiet as they amble towards the bus stop. Marion has no idea what is going on inside her daughter’s head, but whatever it is – it’s not making her happy.

They get off the bus a stop early, because Marion needs to get milk. She has started to feel nauseous during the journey, but they finished the last carton at breakfast and she planned to make scrambled eggs for tea. She has to get to the village shop.

They get as far as the stone cross in the centre of the green and Marion feels her head fill with candyfloss and her knees turn to mush. One minute she’s stumbling across the turf, the next her mouth is down in the grass. She can hear the voice of a little girl, far away, crying out.

The next thing she is aware of is the face of a kind man above her. He is gently tapping her face and calling her name. She recognises him from the village; the good-looking man who teaches at the university. He has a serene wife who always has a kind word and offers to carry her shopping at the supermarket.

‘Mrs Delderfield, can you hear me?’

‘Where’s Clara?’

‘She’s right here.’ He brings her daughter into her line of sight. ‘Are you hurt?’ he asks.

Marion gives this question some thought. She feels queasy, dizzy and has a headache, but nothing seems cut or broken. If anything, she feels stupid, taking a tumble like that in the centre of Nettledon.

He helps her to sit up. ‘I’m Harper Penn. I’ve seen you before. I live at Rosamund Cottage, at the far end of the village.’ He points towards the south.

‘Yes – I remember,’ she says. She stands up holding onto him, because the ground is still tipping away from her. ‘I’m Marion. This is my daughter, Clara.’ She adjusts the scarf that has slid away from her ears. ‘I’ve just come back from the hospital. A bit wobbly.’

Clara takes hold of her mother’s hand.

‘Let me get you home,’ suggests Harper as he picks up her handbag.

‘I need milk,’ she croaks.

‘No worries,’ he tells her. ‘I’ll get you back first then bring it for you.’ His voice is refined and soothing like a lullaby. Mrs Penn is a lucky lady.

The three of them make slow progress to Greenacres Cottage – it’s about seven properties north of the green. The Penns live at the posh end, Marion recalls, where there’s more space and lovely big oak trees. Everyone is more packed in at her end, but it does mean neighbours are close at hand if she needs help.

Harper is at Marion’s elbow, barely touching her, but at the ready as if guiding a blind person. The little wooden gate is difficult to open; Harper has to push against the errant bushes and shrubs that are fighting to keep people out. On the other side is a landscape of tangled weeds; the path buried. Marion sees it through a stranger’s eyes – it doesn’t look like some gardens do, let loose on a happy rampage when left to their own devices. Instead it’s like the plants are fighting for soil, space and water – trampling and choking each other.

‘It’s too much for me,’ explains Marion, although Harper hasn’t said a word. They step over thorny branches and broken terracotta pots to get to the front door.

Marion fumbles in her bag for her keys until Clara hands her mother a solitary one from her pocket. For six months her daughter has been able to come and go as she pleases. Marion falters as she takes it, fearful that Harper will judge her, but he doesn’t appear to notice.

Harper leaves her sitting at the kitchen table and runs out to get milk from the village shop. He makes tea – Marion insists he join her – and gets a glass of orange for Clara, who hasn’t yet disappeared to her bedroom. She is watching Harper, sizing him up.

‘Did you save Mummy’s life?’ she asks him, earnestly.

‘I don’t think so,’ he replies. ‘Mummy felt faint, that’s all. She’s fine now.’

‘What big eyes you have…’ Clara says in a theatrical voice. Marion cringes. Here’s when everything starts to go pear-shaped.

‘All the better to see you with,’ Harper replies with ease, drawing his eyes wide.

‘You know it,’ Clara says, impressed. She clambers onto the wooden chair, getting a little closer, her feet tucked underneath her.

There’s a fly in the room; Marion can hear it. It stops somewhere, then takes off again. Blasted thing. She hasn’t got the energy to chase and swipe at it with a wet cloth.