Lost Daughter Read online

  ‘I suppose it’s fair enough to want to look to the future,’ Rachel says. ‘When I had counselling, the therapist was very keen on that. On not dwelling on the past.’

  Viv sighs. ‘I understand that, and it’s wise advice, but sometimes you have to let the past come back to you. You can’t always resist it. It only leads to trouble. Anyway, she says she’s well. I’m sure she’ll be on for meeting up at some point in the future, when she’s a bit less busy. I think there’s a lot of frustrated ambition there; she wants to prove herself with her new business.’

  Suddenly Rachel feels close to tears. ‘Viv… you’re not suddenly going to go cool on me, are you? I don’t think I could bear it. You’re the only person I can really talk to.’

  ‘I’m not planning on going anywhere,’ Viv says, and reaches out and squeezes Rachel’s hand.

  Rachel gestures towards the sponge cake. ‘Good, because I hope to inflict a whole lot more dodgy baking on you, given half a chance.’

  ‘It’s not dodgy. It’s delicious,’ Viv says stoutly. ‘Now, there was something I wanted to ask you. Are you sure you’re still all right with taking me to see Aidan? I know it takes up a lot of your time; it must be a bit of a bind. If you wanted to have a little bit of a rethink, I’m sure I could make other arrangements.’

  ‘It’s not a bind at all,’ Rachel says. ‘I want to keep on taking you. In fact, I insist.’

  Viv beams at her. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. It’s lovely to be chauffeur-driven, of course. But the real treat is having your company on the way. Aidan seems to have taken a shine to you, too. I think he’d miss you.’

  Rachel glances at the pinboard, at the pictures of the three children. If Leona has made her peace with her loss of Bluebell, if she has found some kind of resolution, that should be something to celebrate, surely. She reproaches herself for being so mean-spirited: she should be happy for her, not disappointed.

  She asks, ‘Does Leona want the picture of Bluebell back?’

  ‘She didn’t mention it. Anyway, it’s only a photocopy.’ Viv sighs. ‘If this is the end of our little group, if you and I are just going to carry on meeting as friends… do you want your picture back?’

  ‘Oh, Viv… That seems so final.’

  ‘Well, look, why don’t I hang onto it for now? We can just put it aside and see how we feel, and maybe by and by we could have another go at seeing if anybody else would like to join us. If you don’t mind, I’ll ask you to pop it back in the cupboard for me before you go. My back is still playing up a bit. And while we’re on the subject of me asking you for help, I have another request for you.’

  Viv clears her throat. She looks suddenly apprehensive. Rachel says, ‘Of course. Anything I can do. What is it?’

  ‘Well… I wondered if you might be willing to accompany me and Aidan on a little trip?’

  ‘A trip? What kind of trip?’

  ‘Oh, just to the café down the road from his care home. It’s a big adventure for him, though. I used to take him quite often, but then I lost my nerve. It got to the point where I didn’t think I could catch him if he decided to run away. But you run a lot, don’t you? So you must be pretty fast. Besides, he almost certainly won’t do anything inconvenient. It’s just that very slim possibility that he might, and if he did I’m not sure I could cope.’

  ‘Sure. Let’s give it a go,’ Rachel says, though she’s not at all sure she will be able to cope either. ‘I’ll wear my running shoes.’

  ‘Marvellous. Thank you. He will love it – he doesn’t get to go out much,’ Viv says, brightening, and the effect is magical – it’s as if the wear and tear of the years has melted away, as if she’s Rachel’s age and not her own.

  That seals Rachel’s fate: regardless of any misgivings she might have, there’s no way she can back out. She will just have to manage. And if Viv thinks she can, if Viv trusts her… maybe, in spite of everything, she needs to try to trust herself.

  Thirty-Three

  Rachel

  The day of the loss

  The two discs of sponge that Rachel had baked the night before were pretty sad-looking, even wedged together with plenty of jam. Still, the cake would look better once there were candles on top, and hopefully Becca would appreciate it anyway.

  Now for the bit that took a steady hand: the writing. She needed to get it done before Becca came down – not that it was all that likely that Becca would be up before Rachel left the house, even on her birthday. Having been an early riser all through childhood, Becca had recently developed the adolescent ability to sleep away the entire morning.

  HAPPY 13TH BIRTHDAY, BECCA! They had agreed that Rachel wouldn’t wake her to wish her many happy returns; they had also agreed that Becca could open her presents in Rachel’s absence, but that they would hang on until she got home for the cake. Rachel had arranged to leave work a couple of hours early, so hopefully it wouldn’t be too long for Becca to wait.

  In any case, Rachel wanted to have the birthday cake ready to serve. She also wanted it to be a surprise. Usually Becca had shop-bought cakes, but she had dropped one or two plaintive comments lately about how nice it would be to have home-made, and this was Rachel’s rather unsuccessful attempt to show that she could do the baking mother thing along with the best of them.

  Except it wouldn’t be unsuccessful if it made Becca happy.

  The prospect of Becca’s happiness was a kind of glimmering on the surface, something that reminded her where the light was. But day-to-day life remained dark and opaque in the Deep, as it had been more or less since her mother’s funeral.

  Then there had been that awful moment in the pub with the other parents in the summer, when she’d seen Mitch with Mary Chadstone and convinced herself they were having an affair. Despite all Mitch’s reassurances, and despite her best efforts, she had found herself brooding about that moment, and tormenting herself about whether he really had been telling her the truth. She’d brought the subject up again more than once, and Mitch had completely run out of patience with her; he’d accused her of being paranoid, obsessive… controlling. The last thing she wanted to be.

  ‘You need help,’ Mitch had said, and she couldn’t disagree.

  She’d booked another appointment with the doctor – the surgery was so busy, it had been three weeks before they had a suitable slot – and had managed to get time off work to attend. This time she’d been put on the six-month waiting list for counselling. There was also the possibility of going for group treatment, but the meeting times didn’t fit with her working day and commute, and she was nervous about asking Elizabeth Mannering for flexible hours so she could attend. She’d made a few too many mistakes lately; she had to watch her step. She felt as if she was on probation with Elizabeth, and she didn’t want to seem unreliable, or admit that she was struggling.

  Her spirits rose at the prospect of being able to put a smile on Becca’s face. This should be a special and memorable day for all of them – the beginning of Becca’s teenage years.

  She found a box to put the cake in, tucked it away out of sight, and let herself out of the house to drive to the station.

  It would be a relief to be home early; the atmosphere at work had been strange lately. Unsettling, with meetings taking place between high-ups and certain members of staff in odd places at odd times. As if change might be on the way, and not necessarily for the better.

  But the whole country seemed to be in the exact same state; businesses were going under, employees were boxing up their belongings, insolvency teams were moving in. It was a nervous time. She told herself it was easy to get things out of proportion, especially when you were already feeling down.

  Soon after nine a message from Elizabeth dropped into her inbox. Titled ‘Meeting’, it was an instruction masquerading as a request, though it was slightly friendlier than usual; it started with Hello and ended with a sign-off, both niceties that Elizabeth usually didn’t bother with.

&n
bsp; All Elizabeth wanted to know was, Are you free at noon? Rachel supposed she had better be, though she wasn’t keen on pre-lunch meetings – Elizabeth followed such a carefully controlled diet, that was always when she was most uptight. Rachel preferred her in what people called the graveyard slot, the post-lunch slump, much as one might prefer a predator with a full stomach to one without.

  She replied promptly: Yes, of course. Elizabeth was one of those people who always expected responses to be almost instantaneous.

  Another message from Elizabeth pinged back: Great! I’ve booked meeting room three.

  That was unnerving, too. Meeting room three was tucked away out of sight; it was exactly the room you’d choose if you were planning an ambush, and didn’t want to attract the attention of the rest of the office.

  Or it could just be that it was the only meeting room that was available at such short notice.

  At any rate, she wouldn’t have long to wait to find out.

  When she went into meeting room three at noon Frances O’Halloran, the head of HR, was sitting at one end of the table with a sheaf of documents in front of her. Elizabeth was also already in place, and their expressions were serious and focused, as if they had something to do that needed doing, and were ready to get on with it. As if it wouldn’t have been appropriate to joke.

  She slid into place opposite Elizabeth and next to Frances, and Elizabeth started talking, with Frances occasionally chipping in as back-up.

  It didn’t make any sense. She couldn’t really follow it, though she nodded along to show she understood. She could barely make out the words. There was a buzzing in her head that drowned everything else out, not so much a sound in itself as a weird, high-frequency vibration.

  But she did hear redundancy. Also considered. And only your role.

  And she could tell from their faces and from the way they were speaking that they’d already made up their minds. She might be able to resist it, to make it awkward for them, but she wouldn’t be able to force a change of heart. As far as they were concerned, it was a fait accompli.

  Numbers were mentioned. The payout she’d be entitled to. A once-in-a-lifetime sum of money. Enough to pay off their outstanding mortgage. The kind of coincidence that could fool you into thinking something was meant to be, and that you should therefore be philosophical about it.

  And that was what made it possible for her to carry on sitting there, apparently listening, and behaving, even if she hadn’t always quite managed to do so in recent months, like a model employee.

  They said she could work from home that afternoon if she wanted to. Yes, she did want to. She had her daughter’s birthday to get back for. At one o’clock she left the building with her head held high.

  People would wonder why she wasn’t in the planning meeting, taking notes as usual; well, let them – let Elizabeth say whatever she wanted, maybe even the truth. It was a fine September day, a beautiful day, and Becca was thirteen. Damn it, if she had half a chance to be there early then she was going to be.

  She should get the chance to tell Mitch what was going on before Becca got back from school and choir – best not to tell Becca, not yet, she’d only worry, it would spoil the day for her. She picked up too much of the tensions around money as it was.

  Anyway, it wasn’t too bad. They wouldn’t starve. They’d keep a roof over their heads. She’d get another job. Maybe she could go back to Frank, ask him for a reference – he’d be willing to help, wouldn’t he? She’d worked for him so much longer than she’d worked for Elizabeth. Nine to five-thirty, all those years…

  All those years. All those missed bedtimes, the parent-teacher catch-ups that Mitch had gone to instead of her, the sports days and appointments at the dentist and the trips to buy new shoes… Taking Becca to school, picking her up again. She hadn’t been there. She’d been in the car or on the train or at her desk, working.

  And now her employer was getting rid of her as if she was something unpleasant stuck to the sole of a shoe.

  It was bad… It was bad because the whole of the life they’d built, her and Mitch and Becca at Rose Cottage, was dependent on her salary, and she was barely in a fit state to just keep things ticking over, let alone to have to start applying for jobs and selling herself in interviews and getting to grips with somewhere new.

  But she could do it. She’d have to do it.

  It was bad, but it could be worse. She could fix it. It wasn’t anywhere close to the worst that could happen… like Becca being hurt or sick or going missing, the sort of things that happened in her nightmares.

  The sun was shining, and life was going on all around her: cycle couriers, red buses, black cabs, men and women in suits, a crocodile of children on a school day out, all obediently holding hands with their partners.

  When Becca got home she’d change into the new outfit Rachel had picked out as part of her present and they’d gather round the kitchen table to sing ‘Happy Birthday’. Rachel would light the candles on the cake, then stand back to take a picture: Becca’s face would be bright with the glow of thirteen tiny flames. And then Becca would take a deep breath and blow them all out, and Mitch and Rachel would applaud her and nothing else would matter.

  Thirty-Four

  Rachel resolves not to dwell on all the things that could go wrong on her little expedition with Viv and Aidan. She takes her lead from Viv, who appears as sanguine and serene as if there were nothing to fear.

  They progress slowly from the home to the gates: wrought iron, six feet high, firmly shut. Viv presses the buzzer mounted on the adjacent wall, says a few words, waves at the security camera. Aidan, who is busy looking around at everything – the clouds overhead, the composition of the driveway and the lawn, the view of the house from here – snaps to attention as, with a mechanical creak and a groan, the gates begin to open.

  Abracadabra.

  Viv’s face is shining. It’s that last-day-of-school exhilaration, the thrill of being released from the scrutiny of the powers-that-be. Whatever might lie on the other side of this moment, right here and now it is possible to breathe.

  They pass through. Almost instantly, the gates begin to close behind them. The pavement is narrow and Aidan and Viv go ahead, hand-in-hand, with Rachel hurrying along behind. Passers-by don’t stop and stare, exactly – after all, that would be rude – but Rachel can’t help but be aware that they’re being noticed.

  They make a conspicuous trio. Viv is as chic as ever in a jacket patterned with tiny wildflowers, wide-legged trousers and high-heeled shoes; Aidan is dressed in the blue T-shirt he wears every time Viv visits – he couldn’t be persuaded to put on any additional layers – and walks with an odd, rolling gait, as if he is at sea while everybody around him is on dry land.

  Behind them, Rachel feels that she’s attracting attention by association: a tall, lanky, dark-haired woman in jeans and an anorak, who looks neither like a carer nor a relative – what is she doing with them? If asked, she would say she is Viv’s friend, but given the discrepancy in their ages, people would probably find that strange. How could she explain that she feels more comfortable – safer – with Viv than with any other woman she has ever known?

  They don’t have far to go: past the municipal park, over the road and into the café. Aidan clearly remembers it, which maybe explains the single-mindedness with which he is heading towards their destination. So it catches Rachel completely by surprise when he stops dead and crouches down on the pavement.

  She almost walks into him. Under other circumstances, and if she wasn’t already on edge, she might be exasperated; as it is, she’s alarmed. Then she sees that he is looking at something and stoops so that she can see it, too. Other people make their way around them, more or less puzzled and annoyed by the spectacle of a man who has decided to crouch down on the pavement and the two women who seem to think it’s all right to add to the obstruction he is causing.

  Viv appears to take Aidan’s sudden pit stop in her stride. She smiles encouragi
ngly and says, ‘What is it, Aidan?’

  He looks up at her. There’s some kind of tentative hope there, as if he has long been starved of praise or reward and is responding to the faint prospect of it. His eyes latch on to Viv’s. ‘Dead bee,’ he says.

  ‘Yes,’ Viv agrees, nodding. ‘Dead bee, on the ground. Is it sad?’

  Aidan looks nonplussed, as if this could be a trick question or is, alternatively, just his mother being incredibly dense. He drops his gaze and studies the bee again, as if it’s possible that it might start moving. It’s a bumble bee, lying flat on its back; it’s strange to be able to observe the hairiness of its fat little body, and to see a creature that is so defined by its movement suddenly still.

  ‘It isn’t sad,’ he explains carefully. ‘It’s dead.’

  ‘Does it make you feel sad?’ Viv asks.

  Aidan considers this and mournfully shakes his head. He straightens up and looks up at Viv again, more searchingly this time. He lifts his hands and presses his thumbs together and flaps his fingers in an imitation of flight, and says, ‘Where did it go?’

  Viv points at the small body on the pavement. ‘It’s right there, Aidan.’

  But Aidan shakes his head, and Rachel thinks she sees his point: the small residue of the bee bears little resemblance to the quick, loud force of nature it would have been in life. It’s a legitimate, if unanswerable, question: Where did all that energy disappear to?

  Viv asks, ‘Should we move it?’ and that’s when Rachel gets her first glimpse of Aidan’s temper. Temper isn’t the right word: it’s a shocking transition – the Aidan standing in front of them is no longer a sweet, overgrown child, troubled by a dead bee, but a menacing thug who scowls at them and thumps his thigh with his fist and bellows out, ‘No! No, don’t move it.’