Traces of Her

Chapter 8

YOU

Always surrounded by friends – so popular – but then you had a charm, didn’t you? A charisma that drew people in, so much so you could make them do almost anything.

When I was young I imagined, as I watched you from a distance, what it would be like to be part of your network of friends. What did you all do when you went into the woods at night?

Mystery and darkness shrouded you and I suppose that made you all the more intriguing, fascinating – made me want to be a part of your world even more.

You didn’t see me following you everywhere. See me watching you.

I thought about you constantly – wished for the day when you would wrap your arm around my shoulders, pull me close, and kiss me.

But you never did. Well, not at first anyway.

I was so young when I made it my mission to infiltrate your world. You were so beautiful to me – I had to be close to you. But it was later – much later in fact – when you finally noticed me. You glanced over and smiled, and I don’t mind admitting, my stomach flipped. You had such a winning smile – those dimples making you look so innocent. No one could have imagined what was beneath that smile – not even me. Not back then.

Chapter 9

ROSE

Now

I stand in the corner of the staffroom gripping the stem of my wine glass, the sun beaming through the small Georgian windows behind me, bringing on the makings of a migraine. I’m exhausted. It’s been a difficult first year at Mandalay Primary School. Some days I feel like running back to my old school and begging them to take me back. I loved being a teacher. I hate being a head.

And secret-gift swapping with staff is far from my idea of fun. In fact, as I said to Aaron when he picked me up for lunch earlier, the whole thing is quite bizarre.

‘It’s like a Secret Santa, but in the summer,’ the school secretary told me a few weeks back, coming into my office brandishing a too-bright smile. She thrust a tartan cap full of pieces of paper towards me. ‘We’ve been doing it for years,’ she went on. ‘It was John’s idea.’ It was an obvious nod to the previous head who I knew she preferred. ‘We normally give gifts around the ten-pound mark.’

It was one of those many moments when I wanted to say, ‘I think some of these silly traditions need changing.’ But instead I pulled out a name and smiled politely.

I’d studied to be a teacher when Becky was young, after Seb left. I was living with Dad and Eleanor at the time, and I know, without their support, I wouldn’t be where I am. I guess that’s why I’m here, in this role, continually trying to prove their faith in me was worth it.

A shriek of laughter brings me out of my daydream, and I stare at the gift collection box in the middle of the room. It has stood outside my office for the last month, with staff dropping parcels off, and children and parents nosing inside. Even Becky, when she met me last week after work, asked who the gifts were for. ‘Sounds cool,’ she said when I explained. But then at fourteen, it probably did.

I sip red wine and wince. Not one for drinking in the day, I put the glass down, deciding not to touch any more. I’ll be driving soon, so shouldn’t anyway, and I know it won’t help a migraine.

Several members of staff are red-cheeked already, enjoying the fact the children have gone home to their families for six weeks, and chatting and laughing together after a long term.

I’m struggling to fit in here, and I try telling myself that being a headteacher isn’t about making friends. I must accept I will be slightly removed from the staff – on the outside looking in.

Ralph Martin, a trainee teacher who looks young enough to be brought to school by his mum, stands up and claps his hands. My heart sinks as the chatter fades. I hate surprises. They make me feel out of control.

‘It’s pressie time,’ he says, sounding upbeat, clearly enjoying the excitement. ‘Do you want to do the honours, Rose?’

‘No!’ The word shoots from my mouth sharper than intended, and everyone looks at me. ‘You go for it, Ralph,’ I say, trying to smooth the edges from my words.

The presents are distributed quickly. Wrappings are ripped off, flying everywhere, and the room fills with laughter and overexcited ‘oohs’. The gifts range from saucy pink, furry handcuffs to sensible silk scarves.

The teaching assistant who receives my gift doesn’t look too thrilled by a book of poetry, but I didn’t know what to get a man I barely know. And he is attached to literacy after all.

‘Rose,’ Ralph says. ‘This one’s for you.’

I take it with a fake smile, and pull free the gold wrapping paper, like I’m ripping off a plaster. Inside is a set of body oils. ‘Thank you,’ I say, flicking my eyes around the room, wondering who sent me such a thoughtful gift.

‘Just one left,’ Ralph says, lifting out another parcel. I see the tag is torn. ‘Another one for you, Rose,’ he says, arching his eyebrow.

‘That can’t be right, can it?’ I look at everyone in turn. ‘Wasn’t it one for each of us?’ I take it from him, feeling too warm in my short-sleeved polo neck top. The room’s too noisy. Too crowded.

In my hand is a green box, tied with a yellow silk ribbon. I feel a slight dizziness, a need for air. ‘Betsy,’ I whisper.

‘Sorry?’ Ralph says.

‘Listen, I’m just going outside for a moment,’ I say, turning to head for the door, unsure what’s wrong with me. Is it the stress of the long term? The worry I’m not cut out for a leadership role? Thoughts of Willow?

‘Aren’t you going to open it first?’ someone says, and an echo of ‘Go on,’ follows.

‘OK,’ I say. My fingers tremble as I run them over the lid. I’m being ridiculous.

Ralph takes the box from me. ‘Shall I open it for you?’

‘OK,’ I say. I have no choice. Everyone’s eyes are on me.

‘Chocolate biscuits,’ he says, lifting the lid, and handing it back to me. ‘They look delicious.’

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. ‘Biscuits,’ I whisper, placing the box on the table next to my barely touched glass of wine. ‘Just biscuits.’ But who sent them? I’ve already received my gift.

I go to leave, and as I head for the door I glance over my shoulder just once. Why did I react so stupidly? Am I on high alert? Fight or flight mode because I’m in a situation I’d rather not be in?

‘Help yourselves, everyone,’ I say, raising my hand and fluttering my fingers. ‘And enjoy the holidays.’

A chorus of goodbyes follow me from the staffroom as I dash down the corridor, the walls stripped of the children’s colourful paintings, making the school feel a little sad.

I fling open the door and breathe in fresh air, before heading for my car. Once inside, with the doors central-locked, I stare through the front window at the school, my mind drifting to the day we buried Betsy.

*

Willow had been five when she gripped my hand and looked up at me with sad eyes. The rain had poured down earlier, and the grass squelched under our feet as we walked down the garden, the moisture still in the air formed tiny bubbles on Willow’s curls.

‘Will Mummy look after Betsy when she gets to heaven?’ she asked me.

I’d known her for two years now, and over that time she had mentioned her mummy being an angel a few times, but it was always put down to her over-active imagination. Willow would make up the most outlandish stories even then. ‘My daddy is a bad man,’ she told me once, and I’d wondered if she was talking about Eleanor’s first husband – she certainly couldn’t have meant my dad.

We’d put Betsy the guinea pig in a green box tied with a yellow ribbon, and now Dad was saying a few words, as Eleanor lowered the little coffin into the ground.

‘We all loved Betsy,’ he said. ‘She lived a long and happy life with Willow caring for her so well.’

I swallowed down tears, as Eleanor sprinkled soil over the box, and Willow squeezed my hand. She looked up at me bewildered, and within moments released my hand and ran into the house. She cried in her room for hours.

I slip the key into the ignition and start the engine. I’m about to put the car into gear when a knock on the window startles me. It’s Ralph dangling a torn gift tag close to the glass.

From Jasmine Year 3 x

I buzz down the window and stare at it for some moments, before taking it from him, and turning it over in my hands. It’s the other half of the tag that was on the biscuits.

‘It was in the bottom of the box,’ he says. ‘Jasmine must have put your end of term gift in there by mistake.’ He pauses. ‘Are you OK, Rose? You seem a little—’

‘I’m fine,’ I cut in, snapping to my senses and smiling. ‘Just glad to be breaking up from school for a while, that’s all. It’s been a long term.’

‘Yes. Yes, it has.’ He scratches his head. ‘It’s just you seemed bothered by the biscuits.’

I shake my head, putting the tag down on the passenger seat. ‘I’m fine,’ I repeat. ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind, that’s all.’

‘Of course, you’re off to Cornwall tomorrow, aren’t you? Have a wonderful time.’ He raises his hand in a wave and steps backwards.

‘Thanks. Enjoy the rest of the afternoon.’ The site manager is locking up later than usual because I want to get home, and don’t want to spoil the end of term fun.

‘Thanks, Rose.’ He takes another step away from the car, as I pull away.

Chapter 10

AVA

2001

Peter stood at the foot of the stairs, his holdall at his feet, looking at Ava through round-rimmed glasses. The siblings weren’t close in age, and he’d taken off for Brisbane when he was eighteen, almost ten years ago. The void between them was that of strangers.

His dark, tangled hair rested on his shoulders, his colourful striped trousers were creased, the fur collar of his purple jacket matted. She felt sure he hadn’t looked so dishevelled when he left home. In fact, the photos of him on the dresser in the lounge, that Mum had put out just before he arrived, showed a cute kid, and a good-looking teenager.

Peter lifted his holdall and climbed the stairs, knocking pictures as he went. He was almost at the top when he glanced over his shoulder. ‘Grab my rucksack, will you, Ava, and bring it up?’ he said, disappearing from view. She looked about her, spotting a tatty rucksack covered in sewn-on badges, by the front door. She picked it up and headed up the stairs.

Peter stood in the doorway of his old room, which was rammed with junk – his old guitar, a music centre, massive speakers. In fact, it was just as he’d left it: posters of wrestlers pinned to the wall, and dust-covered models of horror movie villains lining the shelves.

He threw his holdall on the bed and Ava dropped his rucksack to the floor.

‘Ta,’ he said, looking about him. ‘It hasn’t changed at all, has it?’ he added, and she picked up his Aussie twang for the first time.

‘Mum keeps the door shut, mostly,’ she said, her eyes flicking over the dusty surfaces, vague memories of Peter spending most of his time alone here, floating in. There had been arguments too between her mum and her brother – lots of arguments.

He took off his jacket and threw it on the bed next to his holdall. He gave the room one last scan, and left. She followed, closing the door behind her.

‘So tell me, little sis,’ he said, lumbering down the stairs, knocking another picture with his shoulder. ‘What have you been up to since I’ve been away? Gail told me you got pregnant. Bit careless of you. Never heard of condoms?’

She followed him into the lounge. ‘Her name is Willow.’

‘You what?’ he said, dropping into the armchair.

‘My daughter – your niece – her name is Willow. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.’

‘Whatever you say,’ he said, tipping a cigarette from a box and lighting it. He dragged hard on it, and blew smoke towards her. ‘Want a ciggie?’ he said, offering the packet.

‘I don’t smoke anymore,’ she said. She’d given up when she found out she was pregnant with Willow. ‘And Mum doesn’t allow smoking in the house. You should stand on the doorstep, or in the back garden.’

‘Mum’s not here though, is she?’ He jokingly glanced under the chair. ‘Take it easy, Ava, you’re like a wound-up spring. It’s just the one. I need it after that bloody long flight.’

‘So what made you travel all this way for Gail’s wedding?’

‘Rory paid for the trip. Gail wants me to give her away. So I thought I’d make a long break of it. Nothing much keeping me in Australia.’ He took another drag on his cigarette. ‘Rory seems like a great bloke.’

‘Yeah, I suppose.’

‘You don’t like him?’

She coiled her hair around her finger. Sometimes, in her darkest moments, she thought she might like him too much – hated that he could get inside her head like that. ‘He’s OK. Seems to make Gail happy.’

‘You don’t sound convinced.’ He took another long drag on the cigarette, eyeing Ava. ‘So, are you pleased to see me?’

‘I barely remember you,’ she said, her voice void of emotion. ‘You pissed off when I was a kid.’

‘Cheers for that,’ he said with a sarcastic tone. ‘I remember you. You were always bawling as a toddler.’

‘I was not.’

‘Yeah you were.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Christ, I’m knackered,’ he said, his cigarette burning between his fingers. ‘Bloody jet lag.’

‘So what have you been up to in Australia?’ she said, sitting down on the sofa.

His eyes sprung open. ‘This and that.’ He stubbed his cigarette out on one of Jeannette’s ornamental dishes, and Ava cringed. ‘I was married for a bit. Still am legally, I guess.’

‘What? You never let us know.’

‘It only lasted six months, Ava. I wanted kids. She wanted to wait a few years. That was that.’

‘Did you love her?’

‘Yeah. Still do. But we’re on different pages. Couldn’t make it work.’

‘Maybe you should have waited for her to catch up. Maybe she needed to know the time was right to have kids.’

‘You know nothing about it,’ he said. ‘You’re just a kid yourself, forced to be a grown-up.’

‘I’m nineteen, and I know marriages are give and take – any good Disney film tells you that much,’ she smiled.

‘Perhaps,’ he answered her smile. ‘I bet you’re a good mum, aren’t you, Ava?’ His tone had softened, his bravado falling away. ‘I remember you playing happy families with your dolls.’

‘And do you remember Gail stabbing them all with a kitchen knife?’ It had scarred Ava for months – perhaps longer. ‘She was never maternal even then.’

‘Yeah, I remember.’ He shook his head. ‘She was pretty feisty at times.’

‘I can think of better words to describe her.’ Ava looked down at the palms of her hands, remembering. ‘I only wanted to play with her – be part of her world. But she rarely let me. Always blamed me for Dad leaving.’ Tears burned behind her eyes. ‘Anyway, enough about the past,’ she said in a rush. ‘How long are you staying?’

‘I’m not sure I’m going back.’

‘You’re staying in Cornwall? Here? With us?’ She couldn’t hide the surprise in her voice.

‘Yeah, for a bit anyway.’

‘What do you do? For a job, I mean? My wages won’t stretch to another person, Peter, and you know Mum hasn’t worked since Willow was born.’

Jeannette had been in a high-powered position in forensics before Ava was born, but when their father left, she never returned to it. Instead she took a part-time job in a factory office, working alone most of the time – which she said she preferred – and rarely socialised out of work. When Willow was born she insisted it was Ava’s turn to work – that she’d done her bit for this family. She would stay home and look after the baby. Ava had tried to argue, wanting desperately to be with Willow. But her mother was firm. ‘You work, or you leave.’

‘Well, I’ve been doing a bit of plumbing,’ Peter said. ‘A bloke over in Australia took me on as an apprentice. I’m pretty good, so once I get a bit of freelance work, it’ll take the pressure off you a bit.’ He broke off for a moment before saying, ‘So you’re going to be Gail’s bridesmaid?’

‘Mmm, only because Rory wants Willow to be their flower girl – apparently he loves kids. Not sure he’s twigged Gail doesn’t,’ she laughed.

‘So where is Willow?’

‘Upstairs asleep … in fact, I’d better check on her.’ She rose, studying her brother once more. As her eyes met his, another memory invaded. She could see herself huddled against the kitchen wall, gripping her knees, and Peter is yelling, his body shaking, his eyes bloodshot, face streaming with tears. ‘I hate you. I hate this house. I’m leaving,’ he spat. ‘And I’m never coming back.’

Chapter 11

ROSE

Now

‘Hi beautiful,’ Aaron calls from the lounge as I lumber through the front door, and dump my briefcase, laptop, and the gift I received onto the table at the foot of the stairs. ‘Bet you’re glad that’s over until September.’

I am, although I know I will be in and out of school working throughout the holiday. I take off my shoes, and slip my feet into my slippers – sighing with relief as I pad through to the kitchen.

Aaron appears from the lounge, and kisses my cheek before sitting down in front of his open laptop.

‘You OK?’ he says, smiling, and I think, as I always do, how handsome he is, never fully shaking the feeling he’s out of my league.

We met a year ago. I was out with friends when he walked into the bar in his pilot’s uniform. Confident, tall, dark-haired – perfect. Us girls were giddy on wine that night, and gave a collective swoon, followed by a flurry of laughter. He looked over and smiled. But it was me he focused on – staring for a long moment. And it was me he chatted to later, when I pushed my way to the bar to order more drinks.

‘Fancy escaping?’ he said, and I looked over at my friends who were now up on the dance floor, giggling – happy.

‘I can’t,’ I said, although I desperately wanted to, despite not knowing him. ‘It’s a friend’s hen night.’

‘Another time?’ he suggested.

We exchanged numbers. A week later he called. He was landing in Luton again.

‘So, tell me about yourself,’ he said, when we met up at a bar on Old Stevenage High Street, and sipped wine.

‘Well, I’m a teacher. I have a thirteen-year-old daughter.’ I took a gulp of wine. It seemed funny to sum up my identity with two short sentences. But that was my life. Still is. Although now I’m with a man I love – who loves me back.

I went on to tell him about Willow, and waffled on about how wonderful Eleanor was. How I loved my dad more than the world.

‘I’m a tiny bit OCD,’ I continued after another sip of wine, straightening some beermats into a neat row for effect, and he laughed. ‘I’m kind to animals, and hate surprises.’ It was nerves causing my inability to shut up. Nerves because somehow, in less than an hour, I knew I was falling for him.

‘I’ll keep that in mind when I want to send you surprise roses,’ he said. ‘Or want to whisk you off to Paris.’

I laughed. ‘Well, there are exceptions to every rule.’ I felt myself blushing, my stomach tipping. ‘So tell me about you,’ I said, and drained my glass.

‘Well, I’ve travelled a lot,’ he said. ‘I’ve lived in Paris, Stockholm, Naples, Sydney, New York – the list goes on and on.’ He paused and with a smile added, ‘I’m presently living in Luton.’

I laughed at the contrast, as he got to his feet and took my glass. ‘Let me get you another one of those,’ he said. ‘You’ll need it when you hear more of my life story.’

Once back at the table, he told me how his father died when he was young. That he was close with his mum. That he hadn’t had any serious relationships ‘because of my job’. That his favourite film was, and still is It’s a Wonderful Life. ‘Oh, and I can’t get enough of Frank Sinatra, and enjoy a bit of classical if the mood is right,’ he concluded.

Now he closes down his laptop, rises and takes me in his arms.

‘I’m glad I got to see you before you take off again,’ I say, laying my head against his chest.

‘Me too.’ He lifts my chin and kisses me tenderly, before releasing his grip. ‘This is so bloody hard,’ he says, not for the first time.

‘Well, I knew what I was getting into when I met you. I don’t know what your excuse is.’ I laugh, and he laughs too.

‘I just wish … well … you know what I wish.’

I head for the kettle. ‘Coffee?’ I ask, picking it up and filling it, but when I glance over my shoulder he’s shoving his laptop into his bag.

‘I haven’t got time,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’

My heart sinks. ‘You’re going already?’ It’s a daft question. I know his schedule. Planes don’t fly themselves.

‘Sorry,’ he says, putting on his jacket. He’s always sorry. ‘I’ll call you when I get there, like always,’ he continues, approaching, and his lips brush against mine once more. ‘I hope all goes well with Willow.’

He moves towards the door, grabbing the handle of his pull-along case.

‘I’ll give her your love, shall I?’ I call after him.

‘Yes, please do.’ His tone is upbeat, as he looks back again before leaving. ‘Bye, Becky,’ he yells up the stairs to no answer.

As he closes the front door behind him, a sudden sadness creeps in. I head for the window and wave until his car disappears around the corner. Am I kidding myself that I’m used to this life?

Once I’ve made some coffee, I sit down at the kitchen table, and blow on the steaming mug before taking a sip. I need a caffeine jolt before I finish packing. I’m unsure how long we will stay with Willow, but I need to be prepared for a week, just in case. I look beyond the windowpane into the back garden, where washing blows in a light breeze.

I walk to the bottom of the stairs. It’s silent above me, no music blaring out. Perhaps Becky is out. I grab my laptop and head back into the kitchen to print off a map of the area. I’ll use my satnav to get to Cornwall, but I want to get an idea where Willow’s staying.

I key the address into Google maps. It’s about twenty miles north of Newquay, near the sea, and one of a handful of cottages just outside the village of Bostagel.

‘Hey, Mum.’ I jump, not hearing Becky’s approach. She sits down, opens a bottle of black nail varnish, and begins painting her nails. It hardly seems worth it. Her nails are almost bitten away. ‘I’ve been packing a few things,’ she says. ‘Will I need stuff for America too?’

‘No, we’ll be back before then. Take enough for about a week, and we’ll see how things go. We may only stay overnight.’ I close Google maps, and nod towards the garden. ‘Thanks for hanging out the washing.’