There was a little hill that blocked the chalets from the pools. As I got to the top of it I saw so much of the funfair reflected in the rippling waters of the pools. I wasn’t sure what was making the ripple; it wasn’t that windy. Maybe it was the reverberations from the late-night funfair rides. At each end of the pool area were the tiered fountains that looked like wedding cakes. Even though it was probably nearly midnight, they were still bubbling with water.

  I heard a sniff to my right. I looked. Some fella was sat on the hill. He had his head in his hands and it looked like he was crying.

  I wasn’t used to seeing fellas cry. My dad certainly never did, and none of the lads at school, except maybe the jessies. But not a proper full-on bloke like this one. He looked old, but in the moonlight I could see a wash of freckles on his muscly arms. And he had sandy hair. I wanted to reach out, stroke it, like he was a dog or something.

  I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to make him feel better.

  ‘Are you all right, mister?’ I said.

  He looked up. And he seemed dead embarrassed to have been caught crying.

  ‘Oh, take no notice of me. Domestic.’

  ‘No woman should make you feel that rubbish, though,’ I said. And I don’t even know why I said it. It made me sound worldly wise, and I can tell you for nothing, I most certainly wasn’t.

  He rolled his eyes. ‘You haven’t met my missus.’

  He had a nice voice. The accent was familiar. Not quite posh but definitely from Down South somewhere.

  ‘Is she a right cow?’ I said. And that made him snigger.

  ‘You’re a tonic, aren’t you?’ he said, impressed.

  ‘Better than being a gin,’ I said, sounding like a minx. It’s the sort of thing our Josie would have said. The sort of thing pretty girls said, the sort of girls who knew they could get away with being saucy or cheeky. It was like the cloak of darkness; the cape of night time had allowed me to pretend to be someone else, as if nobody could properly see the real me.

  It made him chuckle again. The way folk would chuckle at the pretty girls.

  It made me feel all warm and gooey inside. Like a marshmallow on the fire.

  ‘My little girl went missing. It was only for about ten minutes. We got her back. But there’s been hell to pay. And of course, it’s all my fault.’

  I felt a rush of excitement. This man was going to think I was really ace.

  ‘Is her name Abigail?’

  He looked right shocked, he did. ‘How did you know?’

  I sat down next to him. ‘I’m the one what found her.’

  And his eyes lit up.

  ‘You really are a tonic. What’s your name?’

  ‘Shirley.’

  ‘That’s a pretty name. I’m Doug.’

  ‘Hello, Doug.’

  ‘Hello, Shirley. Shirley? Can I buy you a drink? Say thank you?’

  ‘I’d love one,’ I said. And he took me up the Continental Bar.

  I didn’t even need to think it wasn’t like he was ashamed to be seen with me; it was just a fact. He wasn’t. And for the first time in my life I felt powerful. Like I called all the shots. This man owed me a debt of gratitude and it’s like he was the first person on this planet, except maybe our Josie, to see that I was okay, that I was a decent person, that I was capable of doing good things.

  I ordered a Bacardi and Coke coz that’s what I knew sophisticated girls ordered and even though each sip made me wince, soon I was relaxing and we were chatting away like old buddies. Which was weird as I was only sixteen and he had to be dead old, like, thirty or something. I still had my make-up on from going to the contest, and my catsuit, so I knew I looked older, but he didn’t even ask if I was old enough to drink. He thought I was the bee’s knees, I could tell. But that was okay. Coz I thought he was too.

  The bar was busy but he didn’t seem to care who might clock us. At one end of the huge room there was a stage and a white woman was singing ‘Brown Girl in the Ring’.

  ‘We’ve got a brown girl lives next door to us,’ Doug said.

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘We have.’

  ‘That’s novel,’ I said, ever the sophisticate.

  ‘Really nice tits on her,’ he said.

  ‘You mucky pup,’ I said.

  ‘What?!’ He sounded all offended. ‘I’m a red-blooded male, we notice these sorts of things.’

  ‘And what have you noticed about me?’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yeah, me.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t possibly say, could I? Because you strike me as a lady.’

  ‘Someone once told me I had very nice ears,’ I offered. Which was true. And I saw him having a good look at them.

  ‘And they were right,’ he agreed. ‘They can be very sensuous things, ears.’

  ‘Can they now?!’ I chuckled.

  The singer started to sing ‘By the Rivers of Babylon’.

  ‘Must be a Boney M. medley,’ I said.

  ‘You know your music, then.’ He winked.

  ‘Aye. I love me top-twenty countdown.’

  ‘I bet you do.’ And he gave me this dirty wink that I didn’t quite know what to make of.

  After the one drink though he looked at his watch and then winked again. Less dirty now.

  ‘Won’t your boyfriend be wondering where you’ve got to?’

  ‘I haven’t got one.’

  ‘Thought they’d’ve been queuing round the block for you, Princess.’

  ‘I’ve not looked.’ Nonchalant, that’s what I was being. That’s what they told you to be in Jackie.

  He nodded. ‘Well. My missus’ll be sending out the dogs.’

  ‘Best you walk me home, then.’

  ‘Well I’m a gentleman, so I’ll have to.’

  When we got to my row of chalets we started to walk dead slow. Conversation became intermittent. And then we got to my door.

  ‘Gonna invite me in for coffee?’ he said, quietly, jokily.

  ‘Our Josie’ll be in bed. And we haven’t got any coffee,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll just have to settle for a kiss, then,’ he said.

  I shrugged as if to say ‘if you like’. And he leaned in and cupped one cool hand behind my neck and then drew me in for this kiss. He slipped his warm tongue into my mouth and as he did he made this kind of whimpering sound, bit like the dog used to do when he had all the cysts and you patted him on the back. It was a weird feeling, someone else’s tongue inside your mouth, but I quite liked it actually. He pushed me up against the chalet door and I could feel something warm and hard press between my legs. Well. I knew immediately what that monstrosity was, and there’d be no funny business. Not tonight, thank you. Not all over our Josie’s catsuit, thank you. Oh yes, and not with a married man.

  He moved his hand round and started caressing my left ear lobe. It really tickled, but in a nice way. And I felt a funny feeling between my legs.

  Oh no, this would not do.

  This catsuit was dry-clean only.

  Eventually I pushed him away with a quiet, ‘That’s your lot, Doug.’

  ‘Spoilsport,’ he said, but all teasing, like.

  ‘I need my beauty sleep.’ I didn’t. But that’s what the girls said on the telly.

  ‘Can I see you again?’ he whispered. ‘You’ve got to let me see you again. I have to say a proper thank you for finding our Abigail.’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Same time same place.’

  ‘Shall I bring some johnnies?’

  ‘If you want.’

  ‘Not that I’m assuming anything.’

  ‘No, neither am I.’

  ‘And you won’t tell my missus?’

  ‘I think she’s a bit of a cow.’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Okay then. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘By the pool. Half eleven.’

  ‘Okay then.’

  ‘Bye, Princess.’

  ‘Bye then, Doug.’

  I let myself into the chalet. It was dark and I went and sat on my bed. I was shaking. I was scared. I was excited. I was all sorts of things rolled into one.

  Oh Christ, Shirley. What have you gone and done?

  RACHEL

  2017

  Chapter Six

  ‘Jane Veronica Taylor was a kind woman. A solitary woman, but a kind one, who led a very quiet existence in this wonderful forest that we all in some way or other call home.’

  Jamie’s here. He doesn’t call it home. He used to call it The Land That Time Forgot. Mostly on account of the fact that everywhere, bar the pubs, winds down and closes at about 4 p.m.

  I can’t blame him. He’s absolutely right.

  ‘Jane . . . was a happy woman.’

  As happy as you can be when you’re clinically depressed.

  Ah yes, you see I’ve diagnosed her, incidentally. Here I am, all these years a high-end travel agent, when clearly all along I should have been a mental health practitioner. Oh well. You win some, you lose some.

  I have an overwhelming desire to eat an apple. I could quite easily do this; I have one in my coat pocket. The problem at the moment is that I have a craving for them most of the day long. It would be so easy to pull it out of my pocket and bite into its crisp green goodness, but I can’t. I can’t sit and eat an apple during my mother’s funeral. It would give the impression that I wasn’t interested.

  But all I can keep thinking about is that bloody apple. It’s a Granny Smith. God, how I wish I could look at its rich green loveliness. I love the crunch, the texture, the sharp taste, the way the core seems to spit at me when I put it into my mouth. It fills so many cravings all in one.

  I used to think women saying they had craved coal in pregnancy was just an old wives’ tale. But I seriously think if I lived in a world where I had coal delivered, I would have sampled at least a mouthful of it by now.

  Oh well. At least apples are healthy. It could be a lot worse.

  I try to imagine the smell of coal. It comforts me.

  I put my hand in my pocket and rub my apple slowly. That too comforts me.

  I need to focus on something else.

  I distract myself with the view.

  Father Tom O’Neill is looking more handsome than ever in his cassock and dog collar and freshly gelled hair as he stands at the front of the quaint chocolate-box parish church, a few villages away from Beaulieu. Tom – and I have to say that as he is prone to exclaiming, ‘Don’t call me Father, call me Tom!’ – felt this more intimate venue was better suited to my mother’s service than any of the other churches in his team ministry, probably because he could tell there wouldn’t be many people coming. I’d joked that catering-wise all I’d need would be a flask of coffee and three Penguin biscuits, which had really made him laugh. As he threw his head back and guffawed I’d spotted a gold tooth.

  What sort of vicar was this?

  Hardly the sackcloth and ashes type.

  Anyway, I’m glad the service is here. I feel like I’m in an episode of The Vicar of Dibley, and the fact that there are only a dozen people in attendance doesn’t feel so desperate in these cosier surroundings.

  My mind wanders and my eyes drift, from Father Tom to the altar where three candles burn proudly. But all I can think is, has Tom recently been to the loo and these are his holy version of air freshener?

  ‘. . . Close to her daughter Rachel. Of whom of course she was immensely proud.’

  And what, I wonder, of her other daughter?

  For I have cracked the code.

  The secret that Mother was taking to her grave. The reason she seemed to spend my childhood floating around in a cloud of denial. Denial of her feelings, of happiness, everything. She was depressed. She was depressed because she had lost a child. My older sister, Diana. I had it all worked out. I didn’t even have to check the details with Pam, I was so sure. It was like everything had slipped into place.

  And today at her funeral I don’t just mourn my mother, I mourn Diana too, poor little mite.

  Diana. My sister. The one I never met.

  ‘And she loved Hetty Wainthropp Investigates, of course. And owned every single episode on DVD. In fact we will pause now to listen to the theme music from that particular show, Jane’s favourite, and take stock. And meditate on . . . our memories of Jane.’

  Heaven help us. I really hope I don’t get a fit of the giggles. Every time I’ve thought about this moment in the past week I’ve done a roll of eyes heavenwards and bitten my bottom lip, as if trying to stop myself from crying. I suppose you could look at it as Mum’s little gift to me that when she was gone I wouldn’t always be wallowing and bleary-eyed.

  Tom nods to the back of the church and the music starts to play. Quivering strings and then a genteel trumpet trip along the ceiling of the church and bounce off the kind of stone walls that folk in Shoreditch would pay a small fortune to emulate. It conjures up a feeling of warm familiarity and I want to cloak myself in its dulcet tones. It also conjures up an image of Mum, in front of the telly as ever, eyes misty in the semi-light, watching her favourite northern detective crack those domestic crimes in Clitheroe. Did she always look so sad because she was thinking about Diana?

  Of course she did.

  She must have given birth to Diana and then she had a cot death or something and so she had me as some sort of Band-Aid baby to help herself get over the pain, only I never ever did. I never made her happy. She always missed Diana.

  As the trumpet continues to trill in its increasingly annoying happy-go-lucky, heart-warming Sunday night TV way that smacks of yesteryear, I find myself crying. Not just for the mother I have lost, but for all the life she lost along the way because her daughter was gone. For all the things she might have been, for all the things she might have done, for all the things we might have been and done together, for God’s sake. Diana’s death. The ripples were still reverberating today.

  I’ve had to make my peace with Pam. Not just so I could get her to do the sandwiches afterwards, but I felt it’s what mum would’ve wanted and I don’t really feel any anger towards what she might or might not have done.

  And I wanted her to make the sandwiches afterwards.

  ‘And of course Jane was so excited about her forthcoming grandchild, who she will now sadly never meet.’

  How does he know? How does he know if she was excited or not? I never said she was.

  And I wonder now, was Diana ever born? Was she a baby that Mum lost? Was it hard for her to see me pregnant, reminding her of some awful memories? A curtailed trip to a hospital. A tiny coffin. I just don’t know.

  I decide that over the sandwiches later I will ask Pam what she knows. And she does know. I can tell.

  I feel an arm creep round me and give my shoulder a tender squeeze. Cliona is sitting with me. She looks to die for (handily for a funeral) in a killer combo of grey pencil skirt and ruched black blouse. Heels, of course, like stilts. Little pillbox hat. She makes me feel dowdy in my sensible camel coat and plain black frock. Margaret decided she didn’t want to come. She doesn’t really do funerals, she said, as she feels her own is nigh on imminent. She may pop along later, she’ll see. But Jamie has ventured down from London, bless him, and is crying even louder than me.

  ‘Drama queen,’ Cliona whispers in my ear, which makes me smile.

  I’ve opted for a burial. It’s funny, I would never have dreamed of this a few days ago, but since finding that baby jacket, I’ve felt it’s the right thing to do. I want solemnity today, protocol, tradition. This is no longer just for my mum; it’s for that lost little baby too. Hence the church. Hence no crematorium. It’s all that bit more expensive, but I can afford it at the moment. So why not?

  Finally, to the strains of ‘Moon River’ by Audrey Hepburn, we follow the coffin out to the graveyard. It’s then that I notice the undertaker stood outside the church gates. She has indeed got her hair up in a bun, with a cutesy little top hat perched on top of the bun. Sort of thing that wouldn’t look out of place on a Christmas tree. I wonder if she’s only just put it on as I don’t remember seeing it before the service. She gives me a conspiratorial wink as I pass her and she whispers, ‘It’s going really well, hon. Think she’d love it.’

  Which I just ignore. Because I am a sane, sound human being. I hope.

  What will she do next? Set off some party poppers? Or blow a vuvuzela during the ‘ashes to ashes’ section?

  Fortunately she does neither.

  Pam breaks down at the graveside and I have to hold her in my arms. She sobs uncontrollably for a while and then it’s like she’s caught sight of herself in a mirror and she is embarrassed by how she looks, as she suddenly flips upright and says she has to get to the church hall to get the cling film off the sandwiches. I link her arm to walk her there but she attempts to shrug me off. In the end I let her.

  Before anyone else can get to the church hall I hurry over and watch Pam as she busies herself in the kitchen.

  ‘I know,’ I say.

  She looks up, furtive, like she’s been caught out doing something naughty at school.

  ‘Know what?’ she says, shrugging it off.

  ‘I know what happened.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The secret she’s taken to the grave.’

  She rolls her eyes, disinterested, and pulls a foil tray of vol-au-vents from the fridge. There’s far too much food here for our measly number.

  ‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘About baby Diana.’

  And the blood drains from her face. She freezes. It’s like she’s a statue. But then she takes a huge sniff of air through her nose and looks me square in the face.

  ‘Who’s baby Diana?’

  And I know she’s lying. I know she knows full well who baby Diana is.

  Well, was.

  ‘Mum had a baby who died. Didn’t she?’

  She offers no response.

  ‘I wasn’t her first child. She’d had another, before I was born. I’ve worked it all out.’

 

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