The Lost Child (3 page)

The walk back had been a hairy experience, it hadn’t occurred to her that rural areas weren’t overburdened with street lighting. The combination of descending darkness, rough terrain and inappropriate footwear had resulted in a sore ankle and not a little embarrassment. She hadn’t anticipated showing herself up as such a rube. Fortunately her only witnesses had been a herd of unimpressed cows. In falling she had managed to dent the tin of soup, which made the prospect of eating it even more unappealing.

The truth was that she hadn’t really thought this trip through. The whole thing had been motivated by a desperate need to get away and be anywhere else but at home surrounded by reminders of Jean. Dan, her philosophical builder, had suggested she might be having a delayed grief reaction. It was possible she supposed, but didn’t quite explain the sense of guilt-ridden relief she’d felt at her mother’s demise. Not that she hadn’t loved her mother – if the loyalty she had shown was love, she had. Jean had been a loving, attentive, caring, cloying, claustrophobic, hovering, demanding, frightened, needy…

‘STOP Elaine’ she told herself. ‘Just stop, it’s gone. Breathe.’ But the feelings clutched at her, forcing her to pull at the scarf around her neck to make room for more air. As she pulled, her fingers brushed against the ragged scar that ran halfway round her throat. Instinctively she left the garment in place, patting it down to make sure it hid the ugliness beneath.

‘Get a grip Elaine, for God’s sake!’ she chided out loud, deliberately turning her attention to the soup which had started to burble and slop in the pan.

It was a pretty disgusting meal, but she was hungry and ate the grey tinged soup for the sake of filling the hollow in her belly. Time was passing very slowly in the cottage, so much so that she was almost tempted to release the clock from its hidey-hole. But she knew that its insistent clamour would do nothing but transport her straight back where she didn’t want to be.

The first thing she had done after Jean’s funeral was to walk into the lounge and smash the mantel clock. Dropping it repeatedly onto the floor until it was nothing but a pile of steampunk paraphernalia and splintered wood. Yet even after that, at night particularly, she could hear it ticking in the background. As if the accursed thing had acquired a spirit and had come back to haunt her.

Dan had been shocked at the destruction and had told her that the clock was antique and worth a substantial amount of money. Elaine had responded by telling him that it was a shame it had fallen off the mantel the way it had, but never mind, it was probably insured… As if any intrinsic value could offset its role as her warder. It had been that single point of reference which drew long suffering and disappointed glances from her mother each time Elaine was late, or wanted to go out. Or wanted to just be alone.

Dan had offered to source a replacement for her, saying he had a friend in the antique trade. Elaine had been hard pressed to keep the look of horror off her face at the suggestion. Thinking of the incident now reminded her that she needed to ring him, check on progress. The new kitchen and bathroom he was installing were intended to make the house a lot easier to sell, something she was eager to accomplish as soon as she could. Checking her phone she was relieved to find it had almost full signal. A pleasant surprise in a location that didn’t believe in protecting pedestrian safety by having street lights. She hesitated before making the call. She had known Dan for a long time, since school. Since he had been one of the cool lads who had hung around outside the gate of the Girls’ High School waiting for the cool girls to come out. Elaine had not been a cool girl. She had been shy and awkward, and usually the butt of jokes and bullying. Most of it centred on the scar, her nickname had been Scaramouche (she still couldn’t listen to Bohemian Rhapsody without cringing). She had always been too intimidated to tell her tormentors that Scaramouche didn’t mean ‘scar face’. Had she decided to tell them that Scaramouche meant ‘skirmisher’ and that he was a character from Punch and Judy and was portrayed as a cowardly clown, she might have compounded her reputation as a snooty little know-it-all. Or worse, found out that they knew already and were being deliberate in endowing her with the epithet. The rest of the animosity focused on the fact that she had been a complete dork with her regulation uniform and knee high socks. Not to mention having a mother who insisted on picking her up from school until the age of fifteen. Childhood had not been a joy for Elaine. Dan, however, had been the single bright spot in her non-existent teenage social life. She’d had a crush on him since she was thirteen when he had smiled at her as she’d waited for her mother. That any boy had noticed her was a bonus, that it was Dan – who’d she’d thought of as an Adonis – was unbelievable to her shy, adolescent mind. When she was fifteen she’d been allowed to go to a school disco, where the staff had played chaperone and the only drinks available had been weak orange squash and flat coke. Had Jean known it was a joint affair with the boys’ school she would never have allowed it, but Elaine had lied. She’d felt awkward in her unfashionable clothes and flat, sensible shoes and had wished she hadn’t agreed to go, especially when a group of girls from her year had requested Bohemian Rhapsody three times in a row from the DJ and were busy singing it at her with great emphasis. She had been about to make a run for it and take herself home when Dan had appeared like a knight in shining armour (actually on seeing him she had tripped over a chair in her rush to leave, launched a cup of orange squash all down his shirt and had run from the school hall in tears of humiliation). He’d chased after her and she had hidden in an alley, snivelling with shame. He’d found her, told her she owed him a new shirt and had walked her home. Halfway, he’d held her hand and she remembered feeling as though her heart would burst out of her chest at the excitement. It hadn’t, but she had felt sick with anticipation. When they reached the end of the drive where she lived he had kissed her (she had been so shocked she had forgotten to breath and almost passed out). He’d asked her out, and she had nearly died of happiness – until Jean stormed out of the front door yelling and screaming at him, calling him a pervert and a stalker. Elaine didn’t think there was a moment when she had hated her mother more. What she had liked about Dan most after that was that he hadn’t given up, he had been the one person who had defied Jean. Their relationship had been a tentative and furtive thing, squeezed into lunch hours and walks home where she’d had to say her goodbyes in an alleyway away from the sight of neighbours. They had dated for a year, if dating was the correct term for a bunch of clandestine fumblings. It had ended for two reasons – a girl who disliked Elaine but liked Dan had taken it upon herself to tell Jean what her daughter had been up to, which resulted in Jean grounding Elaine and picking her up from school at lunchtimes and at the end of the day just to add insult to the injury. Then Dan’s father had died and Elaine hadn’t seen much of him after that, not until after Jean had died and the solicitor had recommended him as a decent builder. Stupidly she hadn’t connected the name on the card with her teenage crush and had suffered a great degree of mortification when she had opened the door to find ‘D. Collier, Builder’ was
that
D. Collier. Oh how they’d laughed…

Elaine wasn’t sure she would ever get past the abject humiliation of that puppy love. A frisson of vintage embarrassment rippled through her every time she thought of Dan. It was difficult to equate the memory of the louche teenage Dan with the contained, mature man who was currently tearing her house apart. He’d kept his looks, though his features had been fine-tuned by time. A neighbour, who had been loitering at the end of the drive when Elaine had shown Dan out, had commented as they had watched him pull away ‘I wouldn’t kick him out of bed in a hurry’. Mrs Cooper had to be seventy if she was a day and Elaine hadn’t been sure who the comment had embarrassed more, the elderly Mrs Cooper, or herself for silently agreeing.

Back in the moment Elaine looked down at her phone and dialled Dan’s number, squashing down the shy teenager and forcing herself to be the confident, mature woman she ought to be. It was a constant struggle.

He answered on the third ring.

‘Dan? It’s Elaine, just checking the tiles arrived today,’ she said in response to his cheerful hello.

‘Yep, no problem, arrived this morning. Old ones are off but we won’t be able to start tiling until everything else is in. We hit a snag though, I don’t suppose you knew that you still had lead piping, did you?’

Elaine wasn’t sure that she would recognise a lead pipe if she were hit over the head with one. Pipes were pipes. But lead didn’t sound good. ‘No, I didn’t, is it dangerous?’

‘Not as such, not in the bathroom anyway, the lime scale build-up makes it mostly safe, but we’re obliged to replace it with copper. I kind of went ahead, I hope that’s OK?’

Elaine sighed, it would be extra money, but the job couldn’t be done otherwise. ‘That’s OK Dan, do what you’ve got to do, hang the expense!’ She was rather enjoying the warm chuckle that her words had elicited from him, but was glad that he couldn’t see the flush on her cheeks.

‘Well, it is going to be expensive, there’s a lot to strip out, and it looks like you might need a re-wiring job too. Most of the electrics are pre-war by the look of them.’

‘Doesn’t surprise me, she never did like spending money, it was like living in the basement of the science museum, living history and all that. Good job she stuffed it in the bank instead. Do what you’ve got to do, I can’t sell it as it is.’

‘Righto, will do. I’ll get the sparky in tomorrow to give it a once over. By the way, when Bob was in the loft clearing out he found a box of stuff, it looks like personal stuff, papers and that, so we didn’t skip it. I’ve left it in the garage.’

‘OK, I’ll go through it when I get back. Thanks Dan.’ More junk to dispose of, and she’d thought she’d got rid of it all. Jean had hoarded junk like a squirrel hoards its winter meals.

‘So’ he said, his tone softer, ‘you coming out for that drink with me when you get home or what?’

Elaine could feel the blush creeping up her neck and flooding her cheeks. ‘Do you ask all the old maids that employ you out on dates?’

‘Only the good looking rich ones’ he quipped. She could hear his smile in his voice.

‘Well, it looks like I’m going to be penniless by the time you lot are finished, but you’ll be rich. Perhaps you could spend some of your ill-gotten gains on a decent pair of specs.’ she parried in return.

‘Ha ha very funny, I mean it though, we’re going out.’

‘We’ll see, I’m going now.’

‘I mean it – you and me, dinner, wine…’

‘Bye Dan.’

‘Candlelight, music…’

‘Goodbye Dan,’ she said less firmly than she should have. Even then she hung on, waiting to hear that comforting chuckle before finally ending the call. She was too embarrassed to admit to herself how much she was enjoying the light-hearted flirtation. And much too frightened to admit how much his invitation terrified her. The gawky, frightened teenager was still inside, holding on with a grip of iron.

*

Elaine woke abruptly from a tangled and tormented dream. Blessedly brought to wakefulness by a rapid hammering on the cottage door. Bleary and harassed she fought the cloying sheets and once free stumbled across the bedroom to the window. Below her stood the sulky kid, Brodie. Elaine squinted at her phone, which lay on the bedside table. It was only nine. She wondered, with ill temper, if all the guests were so rudely awoken here.

The hammering started again. By the time she had reached the bottom of the narrow stairs, her feet squirming on the cold wood, the girl had started her third demand for attention. She was persistent, Elaine would give her that. Almost on the point of shouting, she hauled the heavy door open. The terse response she had planned stifled by the fact that the girl was holding something out to her. A basket, lined with gingham and containing homemade bread and fresh eggs. So fresh that they were still feathery and warm.

‘Miriam said to bring you this for your breakfast, sorry if I got you up’ the girl said. She ran her eyes over Elaine, appraising her from her tousled head and crumpled pyjamas to her cold, bare feet. Her eyes rose and settled just below Elaine’s chin.

Instinctively Elaine reached for her neck, covering the naked scar with her hand. ‘Brodie, isn’t it? Come in.’ she said, swallowing down her embarrassment. As the girl passed her, Elaine grabbed a woollen scarf from the coat pegs and covered her neck quickly, despite the fact that the day promised to be lush and warm with fat yellow sunshine. She would rather be uncomfortable than show off the scar.

Brodie hovered in the kitchen doorway, ‘Should I put this in here?’ she asked, holding up the basket and appearing nonchalant. She was clearly pretending not to notice the incongruous addition of the scarf. It made Elaine look like a woebegone snowman.

‘Yeah, anywhere.’ Elaine said, waving her hand. ‘Look, I’m just going to go and find my dressing gown, why don’t you put the kettle on?’ She felt bad that she’d been so offhand. The child clearly felt awkward.

Back in the kitchen, more comfortable now that she was swathed in thick fabric that covered her modesty, Elaine contemplated her young guest. Brodie was busily making coffee unaware that she was being observed so closely.

A thick curtain of dyed black hair swung out from underneath a black hoodie – both, Elaine assumed, intended to shade the pale, intense little face. There was a thinness about the girl, despite the bulk of baggy clothes that hung as a sullen statement from her small frame. Rapid hands with red rimmed, bitten nails moved deftly as she filled the cups with instant coffee before presenting the finished article for approval. With her pale skin and dark hair she looked like a shy geisha compelled to please her host. Her efforts made Elaine feel like smiling. An urge that was rare.

‘Thank you, that looks perfect.’

‘I always make the drinks at home, I’m used to it. Miriam and Esther only drink tea, I’m lousy at tea and they use that bitty stuff, not teabags, so I leave them to it.’ Brodie said it with a shudder that implied that loose-leaf tea was the stuff of the devil.