The Daughter (14 page)

“Okay,” he muttered, as though he was talking to himself. “Okay.” He looked up. “I planned to tell you the day after it happened, but it was the night Naomi disappeared and I couldn't.”

In that second the sick nightmare vanished. I knew what he was going to say and I told myself it didn't matter at all. Compared to the torture of thinking he had hurt her, the fact that he was going to tell me he had been unfaithful seemed insignificant.

“Tell me now.”

He looked around the kitchen quickly, as if seeing it for the first time.

“It was just once, that night. I made a stupid mistake. She's young. I mean, she's not married.”

I didn't care. I really didn't care. As I waited for him to continue, I understood in a flash why he had been so muddled about picking Naomi up; everything about home had vanished from his mind that night.

“I was tired. I had missed lunch. My operation was canceled and Nitin took the slot for an emergency. I'd just finished a late round and Beth was coming out of the ward at the same time—­”

“Beth?” Beth in
Little Women
was the sweet one, generous, feminine. Everyone loved her.

“The head nurse on the neurosurgical ward. She saw I was exhausted. She said there was a restaurant near the hospital that was better than the canteen, but when we got there it was closed, so I took her home.”

I thought how Beth would have a peaceful home. There would be no muddy rugby boots by the door, no messy dog jumping up. Together they would go over the shared drama of the day's work. There wouldn't be family questions to tussle with, the kind that had no easy answers, like how much homework the children should be doing or how late they could stay out. Beth would give him a glass of wine, turn on music, and dim the lights. She would sit close and listen to everything he said. She wouldn't be too tired for sex.

“Why?” My voice didn't sound like mine.

There was a long pause, and then he shrugged. “I don't know whether it makes it better or worse, but there's no reason. She was there.” He stopped, obviously wondering whether to continue in the face of my silence. Then, avoiding my eyes, he went on slowly, “You and I, there's never time . . .”

“Say it. Never time for sex?”

“We're tired. We go to sleep . . .”

“Why can't you say what you mean?” But I knew what he meant. He was saying it was my fault.

The phone rang. Ted answered it quickly.

“Hi. Yes, my wife told me. I'm ready now. Ring and I'll come up.” He replaced the phone and turned to me. “Michael's just parking; he's coming to collect me.” He squared his shoulders. “I'm sorry, Jenny. I was going to tell you.” He looked at me and I could see him thinking that something else was needed. “I love you, you know that.”

The bell rang. I sensed the full weight of my anger and hurt holding off for the moment. There but not real yet, like the beating edge of a migraine before the pain starts. He stood staring at me for moments longer. His skin was still brown from his recent trip to California. When we met old friends from medical school, they said he was ridiculously unchanged. Sometimes I thought I did the aging for both of us; I had seen the little wrinkles around my eyes appear and deepen, the blue veins flare around my ankles, but I thought that was a fair exchange for what I had. I thought those kinds of changes didn't matter.

“I'm sorry,” he repeated, as if saying it twice would make it better. “We'll talk when I get back.”

Even then I decided there was no point in talking. Excuses didn't alter anything. I didn't want to hear them anymore. I even let him kiss me good-­bye. When he'd gone, Naomi's face filled my mind again; there was no room for anything else.

 

Chapter 20

DORSET, 2010

THIRTEEN MONTHS LATER

C
hristmas Eve. In the morning there are footsteps, muffled laughter, then silence again. When Ted and I were young and newly together, love in the morning was warm and easy, no battles or bargains. How long ago was that? I hurry downstairs, not wanting to listen or remember. Bertie is curled and still in his basket. Suddenly afraid, my hands hover over him, checking if there is heat from his body but taking care not to startle him awake or he will struggle up quickly and look confused. In Bristol I would clip on his lead when he was asleep, wake him, and take him out. He faithfully kept up as I jogged through the streets. He couldn't do that now. I leave him to sleep.

More snow has fallen in the night; the twigs are outlined with a delicate ribboning of white. I lean my elbows on the windowsill to look at the new garden. Naomi used to long and long for a white Christmas, but I must push that thought away quickly before it fills the day. I have family to look after.

There is a small wrapped parcel on the table. The paper is printed with trees and stars, and it has a brown label. I turn it over and it says: To Jenny, from Sophie. My fingers pause.

“
No, Naomi, wait till Christmas Day, there's a good girl. Go to sleep.”

I unwrap the little parcel, tugging at the tape. Inside is a bundle of charcoal sticks, thick and slightly bumpy, wrapped in tissue tied with red wool. Effort and thought went into this. The framed pictures of Dan's and Mary's hands are leaning against the wall. I pick them up and go out of the cottage quietly.

There is a new holly wreath pinned to Mary's door. She answers my knock quickly and looks relieved.

“Thought it was them lot already.”

She puts the kettle on. Her family is coming later, and she will be cooking for everyone. Almost crossly taking the presents from me, she shoves them under the tree. Presents embarrass her; she doesn't know what to say. She likes giving instead. We have tea at the kitchen table. Her hands rest on the tabby coat of the little cat in her lap.

“Haven't seen any Christmas lights in your window. Where's your tree, then?”

“I didn't think to get a tree,” I say. “I got as far as presents and food. That was enough.”

Mary shakes her head. “Your kids will want a tree.”

“Kids! Mary, they're grown-­ups.”

“Dan's coming by later. He'll find you a tree. He can drop it in.”

I don't mind Mary winning. I don't agree with her, but that doesn't matter. As I leave, I give her a kiss and she scowls.

Ed and Sophie are in the kitchen eating breakfast.

“Wonderful charcoal, Sophie! Thank you.”

She looks pleased. “My friend on the next-­door boat uses an oil drum to make charcoal. He gets this slow fire burning and it takes about two days. There's special willow you can get, from Somerset.”

“It's just the kind I like, really dark and smooth on the paper.”

I run a basin of warm water to wash up, squirt in the dish liquid, and start to collect the plates from the table. Ed hands me his empty mug of coffee; his eyes are unsmiling.

“So art's still the most important thing in your life, Mum?”

“What?” I turn to him as I slip the plates full of crumbs into the soapy water, wondering if this is a joke.

He looks at Sophie as he speaks; there is no laughter in his face. “When Mum went up to paint, we knew not to disturb her, no matter what. Isn't that right, Mum?”

I feel winded with surprise. “You know that's not true.”

“Come on.” He leans against the table, arms tightly folded. He sounds different, angry, very sure of his ground. “It was the same when you went to work. You never answered your cell when I phoned. Never there when we got back from school. Used to drive us bonkers.” He turns to Sophie again, gesturing, pretending to be amused. “No decent food of course.”

Why is he doing this? “I know I used to paint, but it was mostly when you were at school—­”

“Christ.” Ed's voice gets louder. “Can't you even remember that you weren't around? Whenever I was ill, you left a box of pills by my bed and buggered off to work.”

“I let you sleep—­”

“Classic. What about the day you told us about the cottage? You said we could have it, then you changed your mind.”

“It's only that I didn't want it used for parties—­”

“You used to disappear to your ‘studio' without warning,” he interrupted. “No wonder we felt rejected.”

When I went to upstairs to paint, I had been trying to find my own space, not rejecting the children. How could he even think that?

“Ed, art was never, ever the most important thing.”

Sophie glances from Ed to me and back again. She tucks a stray lock of red hair behind her ear and looks down at her hands twisting the little Christmas card I had given her.

“ 'Course it was,” Ed continues, still staring at me. “It was because you could make your pictures into what you wanted.”

He wasn't like this last night. “What can you mean?”

“You painted the pictures, you were in charge. Nice, two-­dimensional art. Not like us, though you tried your best. You thought you were in charge of us as well. You gave us rules. Millions of them.” He is breathing hard and his eyes are bright with anger.

“I don't know where all this has come from, Ed. It's Christmas Eve—­”

“It hasn't ‘come from' anywhere. It's what I've thought all along; being here again has brought it all back.”

“I didn't know . . .”

I put a hand out to touch his sleeve and he jerks his arm away.

“How could you possibly know? You never asked me. You were never there. You probably imagined I was the same as Theo.” He laughs. “Well, perhaps not as perfect as perfect Theo, but basically twins think alike, don't they?”

“Of course not. I know you are completely different.”

“You have no idea about me, any more than you had any idea about Naomi.” His words are coming quickly, angrily. “No wonder she's not here now.”

Ed stops, as if he knows he's gone too far. He makes a small movement toward me, and then abruptly turns toward Sophie. “Come on, Soph. Let's go for a walk.” He takes her hand and pulls her to her feet. She lets him lead her out of the kitchen, but turns at the door to give me a brief unhappy glance.

My hands sting with drying dish liquid and I put them back into the bowl. The hot water covers them, and I stare down at the bubbles that cluster on my fingers by my rings; it occurs to me that I shouldn't still be wearing rings. Silence folds itself back around me, but his words are still inside it. My fingertips are wrinkled by the time I remember there is food to get from the farm shop in Modbury, the next-­door village. I dry my hands, tugging at the rings, but my fingers have swollen in the water and I have to leave them.

I lift Bertie into the car and drive slowly, keeping my mind empty.

Snow has blown into the hedges, and the hills are dusted white. Not many ­people are in the shop. The heaps of vegetables and fruit in the old stone building look like a sixteenth-century Dutch still life. A brace of hanging pheasants drip blood from their beaks; their soft necks are twisted, and the jewel-­bright colors of the male's head glow against the soft brown feathers of the female. Dark-­green sprouts, creamy little potatoes, and shiny clementines spill out of wooden boxes, and there are dates in a sack by the wall. I buy bags of everything and pick up eggs, bacon, and a huge frosted Christmas cake and load them into the car. On the way home I stop at the sea, get out, and breathe in the bitterly cold salt air.

In the open, the silence in my head begins to throb with the words Ed had flung at me. Millions of rules, he said. Is that how it seemed? But surely he knows rules keep you safe. Bertie and I walk along the snowy turf behind the shingle. Our feet leave translucent prints in the thin layer of icy snow; the grass under mine is twisted and yellow.

A young girl is playing with a dog near where the surf is breaking on the beach. I can see her fair hair from here. A man stands nearby, hunched into a black coat. I wait until I can see her move before I carry on walking. She runs with her legs kicking out slightly. Naomi's run was arrowlike.

If there had been more rules or fewer, would she still be here? If there had been more, then she might have been safer. If there had been fewer, she might not have had to break them. But it wasn't just the rules. Ed was right: I hadn't been there enough. Naomi didn't talk to me in the weeks before she disappeared, but if I'd been there, ready for the moment, she just might have. If I had focused on all the little changes instead of pushing them to the back of my mind, I could have helped her. I told Ted the children didn't want me around; had I lied to myself in order to construct the life I wanted?

Snow begins to fall again, thin cold flakes that lie separately on the ground. Alcohol hadn't fit with the schoolgirl who worked hard, so I'd pushed that to the back of my mind and believed her excuses. I even made them for her, so I didn't see the real Naomi, the girl who wore thick makeup and a thong, drank, smoked, and had sex. I pull my jacket tighter around myself as the snow drives into my face. I didn't see Ed either. I had been too busy to answer his calls to the office. I had told myself he was working hard, so the real Ed was left to drift into danger, unseen. Kate said our mother had never had a clue about us, but I was worse than that. I had seen the clues and ignored them.

The white sky has darkened. There are patches of snow on Bertie's coat but he stands still, without shaking them off. There is no one around; the young girl and the man have gone. It's time to go home.

When I go in with my heavy bags, there is a tree in the hall entwined with silver-­sprayed ivy. Its base is buried in a bucket, wedged in with pebbles from the beach. There are lit candles on the windowsill nearby, in little glass holders. Sophie must have brought them.

Ed has left a note on the kitchen table.

Someone called Dan left the tree. Soph decorated it. Gone to pub.

E and S

The glow of candles on ivy is silvery soft. I'm still standing there, breathing in the green Christmas tree smell, when a low car glides quietly past the window on the snowy road, and turns into the driveway. The front door flings open and Theo is there, taller, broader, tanned. I want to weep with relief. As he bends to hug me hard, he smells different, something bitter and expensive. The warmth dissolves some of the hurt from the morning. He pulls back, turning aside.

“Mum, this is Sam.”

Sam looks older than Theo, taller, more wiry. He looks different from his photo; perhaps it's the beard. The brown eyes behind his glasses are watchful.

“Hello, Sam.”

We embrace, awkwardly. Two kisses, one on each cheek, which always catches me out. He gives me a bunch of flowers with a practiced little bow. Theo chats about the journey, his recent exhibition, what it feels like to be here at the cottage. He has acquired a trace of an American accent. I stand close to him, listening to his voice rather than his words, then I pull myself together.

“You must be starving.”

There is the slightest pause.

“Not really.” Theo gives me a quick hug. “Don't be cross. We stopped for lunch at the Beach Hut.”

“But you were so near home.”

“We didn't want to trouble you,” Sam answers smoothly.

Did he need to get up courage before he met me? Does he want to show his power, that he can hold Theo back from us for as long as he wants? My mind touches these thoughts fleetingly.

“Well, you're here now, which is wonderful. You must be tired.”

“I want to show Sam around. Which room?”

“Ed and Sophie are in his old room, but yours is tiny; you could have Dad's and mine?”

“Don't be silly. We'll manage with mine. I don't take up much space.”

I sense Sam's eyes on mine, gauging my reaction.

“Fine by me.”

“Thanks, Mum. Where is Ed?”

“Gone to the pub with Sophie.”

“Sophie. Gosh, all these changes.”

“Good changes,” said Sam.

Bertie appears, disturbed from his sleep by our voices, and runs to Theo, his tail wagging furiously.

“Is this Bertie?” Sam sounds surprised. “He's older than I thought.”

“Bertie!” Theo kneels to hug Bertie. He looks up at Sam. “How dare you, he's not old!”

He is old, though. Theo noticed it too.

“When's Dad home?”

I slip the cell phone out of my pocket, glance at it briefly. Still no text from Ted.

“Tomorrow.”

They go to unpack and then take Bertie with them to look for Ed and Sophie. I put my old blue apron on; there are fish to slice and poach waiting in the fridge with the gleaming gray shells of prawns. I start to chop celery with onions and garlic, then turn on the radio for the carols. The familiar music fills my mind and the guilt and regret recede a little.

There's a knock at the door. I rinse my hands quickly, then walk to open it, my eyes streaming from the onions. It must be Ted, and he's lost his key. I feel slightly sick with anticipation, at the same time annoyed he will see me red-­eyed, smelling of onions. I wipe my hands on the apron and open the door.

For a moment there is nothing to see in the dark, and then Dan steps forward into the semicircle of light. His face looks thinner than usual, sculptural in the shadow of his hood. There are deep hollows around his eyes. Without thinking I step forward and kiss him. He flushes darkly.

“Thank you for the tree. It's lovely.” I try to cover his embarrassment with my words. “Sophie decorated it—­she's Ed's friend. They arrived yesterday.”

“Why are you crying?” he asks abruptly.

“I'm not crying. It's the onions—­I'm cooking supper. Come in. Have it with us.”