‘It’s stunning here,’ Jackson continued, looking through the window, forcing Ruth from her memory. She couldn’t help staring at him. There was something about him that drew her in.
‘Aye, it is. A beautiful part of the country,’ she said.
‘He’s been on TV and on the Broadway stage.’ It was Caroline. ‘He did really well in the US.’
‘Sorry?’ Ruth moved her eyes from Jackson to Caroline. The woman was much older than he was, twenty years, probably, and wearing faded blue jeans, a thick jumper, and a powder-blue scarf around her head. Ruth didn’t need to be told this woman had cancer. Her cheeks were slightly bloated from steroids, and chemo had stolen her eyelashes, her eyebrows, the colour from her cheeks.
‘I thought you must have recognised him. You were staring.’
‘No, no, I don’t think so.’ Ruth felt wrong-footed – her cheeks burned.
‘Don’t worry,’ Caroline continued with a small laugh. ‘He’s a bit of a head-turner. I’m used to it.’
Ruth held her smile, but desperately wanted to hide her face. She certainly couldn’t recall seeing Jackson on TV, but there was no doubting he had the kind of look people noticed, the kind of eyes – green with flecks of hazel – that could ignite a fire inside you – something that hadn’t happened to Ruth in a very long while.
Caroline picked up a pen. ‘So where do I sign?’ she said, her eyes fixed on Ruth, as though taking her in.
‘If you could write your name in the register please, and the names of your party, and their relationship to you.’ Ruth didn’t need all that information, but it helped her get to know her guests better. She unbuttoned and rebuttoned her cardigan as she watched Caroline write, her handwriting distinctive, flamboyant swirling and curling on the page:
Caroline Taylor
Jackson Cromwell (partner)
Robert Taylor (ex-husband)
Amelia Taylor (daughter)
Lark Taylor (daughter)
Thomas Taylor (son)
Maddie Jenkins (son’s carer)
Ruth couldn’t help but notice what a complicated setup it was, with Caroline’s ex-husband being with them, and a fizz of excitement ran through her. This could get interesting.
Caroline placed the pen on the register, and straightened her back, letting out a little gasp, as though the job had exhausted her.
‘Thank you.’ Ruth picked up the pen, put it in a wooden pot, and closed the register. ‘You have the weather on your side. Eighteen degrees in late November is almost unheard of around these parts. We normally have snow by now.’
‘Yes, it’s beautiful out there,’ Jackson agreed, as Ruth reached behind her and unhooked two sets of keys from a small rack. ‘It’s so peaceful too. I’m sure we’ll have a relaxing stay.’
‘I’m sure you will.’ Ruth glanced at Caroline, who had moved towards the window, and now had her back to her.
‘Bluebell Cottage, the largest dwelling, is next to the ruins,’ Ruth continued. ‘Honeysuckle Cottage is on the far side, backing onto the forest. There are some lovely walks down to the sea, with stunning views you’ll love.’ She placed the keys in Jackson’s outstretched hand and smiled. ‘But do be careful if you go into the woods after dark. It’s easy to get lost and end up on the cliff edge.’
‘Thanks,’ Jackson said, once Ruth had told him dinner would be served in the conservatory at seven, and breakfast at eight the following morning.
‘The electric gates are the only way in or out of the site. They open automatically if you want to leave, and there’s a wee code on the key ring to get you back in again after dark.’
‘Great. We saw a quaint little pub about ten miles down the road, didn’t we, Caroline? We might head there one evening.’
‘It all sounds lovely, Ruth,’ Caroline said, turning from the window. ‘I can’t think of a better place to be.’
‘Have a good day,’ Jackson said, and Caroline gripped hold of his arm as they made their way through the door and out into the bright afternoon.
‘Shall I get your wheelchair from the car, darling?’ he asked her.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, as the door closed behind them.
Through the window, Ruth watched as the family met up again. And as they chattered, she studied their faces, wondering who they all were. She suspected the tall man in his fifties was probably the ex-husband as he looked moody and out of place. The young man in the wheelchair was perhaps the son, Thomas Taylor, and the pretty woman with shiny black hair pushing him, was perhaps his carer, Maddie. She studied the pretty teenage girl dressed in black – unsmiling – her arms wrapped around herself, as though if she let go she would fall apart. She reminded Ruth of Kyla, and she wanted to take the girl in her arms and squeeze.
The door leading to the back of the cottage opened, and Ruth startled. She spun round. ‘Finn.’
His light brown hair, parted in the middle, hung limply to his shoulders. His grey tracksuit bottoms were misshapen at the knees, and his black AC/DC sweatshirt stretched too tightly across his chest. She had to admit he’d lost his looks since he returned home. But he was better off without her. Better at home with his mother. Better away from his wicked wife. And now Ruth was dependent on his company again – she could turn to him when black moods invaded – when memories flooded in. It was good to have him home where he belonged.
She glanced back at the window. Jackson and his group were walking across the grass towards the cottages – she wished they would use the path.
‘The big group has just checked in,’ she told Finn. ‘Three more guests are arriving tomorrow from the same party.’ She placed her hands flat on the counter – hands she felt gave her age away. Despite her ritual of applying hand cream night and morning, these hands – her hands – told the world she was in her late fifties. That she’d had a difficult life. Maybe if she kept them tucked in her cardigan pockets she could pass for fifty. She took a deep breath. It didn’t matter how old she was, not really. She could never get back what she’d lost. ‘We’ll meet them all at dinner,’ she said.
Finn opened the door to the back of the house once more, and the aroma of the pork joint sizzling in the oven hit Ruth’s senses. There was only one vegetarian this time, and Ruth had prepared a small broccoli and tomato quiche for her that morning. ‘Talking of dinner,’ she went on, following Finn through the door, ‘let’s peel the veg together, shall we?’
Chapter 7
A Year Ago
Amelia
‘Caroline and I will grab Bluebell Cottage,’ Jackson said, waving the keys above his head like a tour guide, the sun glinting on his hair, making it shine like gold. He flashed Lark a smile, and added, ‘Lark, you can share with us.’
‘I’d rather not,’ she said. Her tone was calm and even, but there was something in the way her sister looked at him that Amelia couldn’t quite put her finger on.
‘Oh please stay with us, darling,’ Caroline said, gripping Lark’s hand. ‘We can have some mother and daughter quality time.’
Jackson placed a set of keys in Amelia’s hand. ‘The rest of you can take Honeysuckle Cottage.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Amelia muttered, and as she turned to head away, first checking her mum wasn’t watching, she saluted him. She knew it was childish, that she should, for her mum’s sake, stop acting the fool.
As they walked away, Maddie was suddenly in step beside Amelia. She linked her arm through her elbow. There was no doubting she was stunning, with glossy raven hair, a clear, olive complexion, and deep brown eyes. She had come over from America and was staying with family when she’d spotted the advertisement for a carer for Thomas a year ago. It was after some awkward interviews, including one with a man in his eighties with arthritis who Robert was certain needed a carer more than Thomas, and one with a woman who insisted she would have to bring her three Labradoodles with her because they couldn’t possibly cross their legs for the four hours she would be away, that twenty-two-year-old Maddie Jenkins turned up, brightening the room.
Thomas liked her from the off, and although he’d never admitted to anyone the emotional pain he’d been under since his accident, closing himself off completely when he returned from the States, the family knew Maddie had pulled him back from the edge.
‘Do you like him?’ Maddie whispered to Amelia now, as they made their way towards Honeysuckle Cottage. It was one of two cottages that backed onto part of the forest that formed a semi-circle around a large expanse of grass.
‘Who?’
‘Jackson.’ She kept darting him looks over her shoulder, a cigarette dangling from her free hand.
‘I barely know him.’ It was true. Amelia had seen him on the odd occasion she visited, and her observations were conflicted. On the one hand, he seemed fond of her mother, but he was also vain and cocksure of himself. She certainly wasn’t his biggest fan. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter whether I like him or not, Maddie,’ she said. ‘As long as my mum’s happy, I’m happy.’
‘He’s great-looking though, don’t you think?’ She almost swooned as they continued across the plush green grass.
Amelia glanced over her shoulder, watching as he headed into the cottage, his arm around her mum’s shoulders, Lark a few steps behind. As though sensing her stare, he bolted her a look, and smiled. Yes, he was good-looking – too good-looking – tall, slender yet muscular. She narrowed her eyes. Didn’t return his smile. What had attracted him to her mother? As lovely as her mum was, Jackson, with his charms and good looks, could have had his pick of women of his own age.
‘Not my type,’ Amelia said, looking forward once more. He wasn’t. She preferred her men a little rough around the edges – and Jackson was a priceless jewel that positively gleamed. She shrugged, unhappy discussing his appearance – or him at all for that matter. Apart from anything else, her dad was only a few steps in front of them pushing Thomas in his wheelchair.
‘So, how are things with you, Maddie?’ It was an attempt to change the subject.
‘Great.’ Maddie released Amelia’s arm, and ran towards the cottage, her floral dress flapping her calves.
Amelia followed and, once they were congregated around the red-painted door of the cottage where they would spend the next few days, she suddenly felt unnerved. The area was too quiet – just the rustle of trees swaying in a light breeze, the caw of a crow. She turned, taking in the ruins, shuddering at the sight of the crumbling walls, the broken statues. Why had her mum picked here and not Spain or Greece? But then she wasn’t fit enough to travel, and Amelia quickly chastised herself for being selfish.
This was where her mum had spent wonderful holidays as a child and as a teenager. It held happy memories for her. This break was all about her mum and nothing about Amelia. Supressing a sense of foreboding, she stepped inside the cottage and closed the door.
Chapter 8
Present Day
Amelia
Dad drives with care, snow crunching under tyres as he heads towards Honeysuckle Cottage, where we’d stayed a year ago.
Together we carry in our luggage, and close the door against the weather.
Ruth has lit the wood burner and the cottage feels warm and cosy, after the freezing conditions outside. We stand for some moments in the semi-darkness, both lost in thought, and I know, like me, the memories of last year are flooding Dad’s thoughts.
I feel that familiar sensation of tears rising. I would give anything to have everyone here with me, for the sun to beam down – for the sky to be clear and blue. ‘What are we doing here, Dad?’ I drop my rucksack to the floor with a thud, and flick on the light, hope of finding anything that could lead to Lark falling away.
‘I’m already wondering that myself, love.’ He runs his fingers through his damp hair. ‘I suppose I thought … well like I said before … that something might come to me. But now we’re here it feels such a ridiculous idea.’
I tug off my boots and coat, and pad towards the window. It’s bright out there, the snow reflecting light, and a full moon hovers above the ruin. It’s beautiful – peaceful yet haunting.
After staring out for some time, I pull the curtains across the window. ‘Was there something specific that drew you back here, Dad?’ I turn to see him perched on the edge of the sofa, tears in his eyes.
‘Only Lark,’ he says, rubbing his face with his hands. And talking through his fingers, adds, ‘I hoped to find Lark.’
I race to his side, drop down next to him, and wrap my arms around him. ‘Oh, Dad.’
‘Where is she, Amelia?’ His tears turn to sobs, and I’m struggling. Yes, I’ve seen him cry – when Lark went missing, and after Mum’s funeral, but it never gets easier seeing your father cry. ‘Where’s my little girl?’
‘I wish I knew.’ I’m crying too, fat tears streaming down my face – not only for his little girl, but for mine too. We’re a mess – a tragic bloody mess.
We finally release each other, and he dries his eyes on his sleeve. ‘Do you still think he took her?’
‘Jackson?’
He nods. ‘What did your mum really know about him? What did any of us know about him?’
It’s true. Mum had known very little. He told her his parents had recently died, and it was only by accident she’d found out they’d been travellers. When he disappeared, she never spoke about him again.
I lean my head on Dad’s shoulder, my eyes growing heavy, and before long the journey catches up with us both, and we drift off to sleep.
*
Someone is knocking at the door. My eyes spring open, and I glance at my watch. It’s almost seven.
‘Dad,’ I say, pulling myself upright, and he stirs. The hammering grows louder. ‘It’s probably Maddie needing help getting Thomas over to the conservatory for dinner.’
I jump up and hurry to open the door. Maddie stubs out a cigarette on the porch, and dashes past me, bringing a flurry of snow and the smell of tobacco with her. She’s togged up against the weather in a furry deerstalker hat and a navy ski suit that I can’t believe she’s had the sense to bring with her.
‘Hey, Robert, are you ready to eat?’ She aims her question at Dad, acts as though I’m not here. ‘I think you’ll need to carry Thomas. We’ll never get his wheelchair through all this white stuff.’
‘Yes, yes of course. I’ll carry him,’ Dad says, his earlier sadness masked with a smile.
‘It’s a good thing you’re strong, Robert,’ she says.
Dad rises and flexes his muscles, and she laughs. He likes her. Mum did too. ‘She makes Thomas happy,’ Mum would say, when I tried to suggest Maddie shouldn’t vlog about us; that I didn’t want a breakdown of our lives online for everyone to hear about.
‘Are you ready, love?’ Dad says to me.
I move across the room to the mirror above the wood burner and comb my fingers through my hair, catching a tangle and yelping. I look a right state, but I don’t care.
‘Yep,’ I say, pulling on my padded jacket, and bending to pull on my fur-lined boots.
We trudge through the snow, and, as promised, Dad carries Thomas. Maddie walks along beside them. I dawdle behind, kicking snow like a sulky child.
Ruth is by the conservatory door, patting warmth into her arms. Her hair, pulled back in a ponytail, looks greyer than it did this time last year, though I’m sure she’s wearing the same button-through knee-length dress and cardigan.
‘He looks heavy,’ she says, with a smile, as Dad carries Thomas through the door and lowers him down gently onto a chair. Maddie and I file in behind them.
‘Cheers, Dad,’ Thomas says, looking dishevelled, and I wonder if he’s in any pain. He shuffles free of his jacket. ‘Although for the record, next time I’ll get a taxi.’
Dad laughs as he takes his jacket from him and hangs it up.
Once we’re free of our coats the rest of us sit down. The smell of dinner cooking tingles my taste buds, and I realise I’m hungry. But as I sit, surrounded by empty chairs where Mum, Lark, and Jackson sat one short year ago, a painful lump rises in my throat, and I lose my appetite.
Ruth approaches with her notebook and pen. ‘Can I get anyone a wee drink?’ she says. ‘Tap water is included; anything else is extra.’
‘A large white wine, please,’ I say as a sense of déjà vu settles heavily on my shoulders.
Once we’ve received our drinks, and Ruth has vanished to the back of the house, the silence between the four of us is awkward and painful, and I’m almost relieved when the door springs opens. Until I see who it is.
‘Rosamund,’ I whisper. As elegant as ever, she’s wearing the same orange coat she wore a year ago, topped off with a flamboyant fur hat and gloves. I feel a pang of envy when I notice she’s pregnant.
Her eyes meet with Dad’s. And without speaking she takes a seat.
I look over at Dad for an explanation, but he looks as bewildered as I feel, and is blinking rapidly. My body fizzes with adrenalin. Not once did she visit Mum after Lark went missing. Not once did she call to see how Mum was. She never even came to her funeral.
I desperately want to know what she’s doing here. It can’t be a coincidence, surely. I open my mouth, about to fire questions at her, tell her she was nothing more than a fake friend to Mum, but Maddie beats me to it.
‘Hey, Rosamund, how are you?’ she says, fiddling with the stem of her wine glass.
‘I should be asking you that question,’ Rosamund says, her tone soft and caring. She is stroking her stomach as though gaining comfort from her unborn child. I know that feeling. ‘You must have had a dreadful year,’ she goes on. ‘I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch.’
‘It’s been awful,’ Maddie says. ‘But we’re coming to terms with it all.’
‘Are we?’ I bristle. Maddie is not part of our family. How could she possibly know how we feel? Whether we are coming to terms with things? Which I’m not.
‘When … when did you lose Caroline?’ Rosamund’s voice cracks, her watery eyes glancing at the empty chair where Mum sat a year ago.
‘Five months ago,’ Dad says.
‘I’m so sorry, Robert.’ She leans across the table, and places her gloved hand on his. He snatches his hand away as though burned, leaving hers redundant on the table.
‘It’s not like we didn’t know,’ he says.
‘It doesn’t make it any easier.’ She withdraws her hand too, and removes her gloves, tucking them into her coat pocket, and sits down.
The door from the kitchen opens. It’s Finn. He looks different – slimmer, healthier, his hair short. ‘Can I get you a drink, Rosamund?’ he says, and then smiles at each of us in turn. It’s good to see him.
‘Please,’ she says, removing her coat and hanging it up. ‘An orange juice will go down a treat.’
‘How were the roads?’ Finn asks, as he pours juice into a crystal-glass tumbler.
‘Horrendous. I skidded twice. Elise got quite panicked and feels a bit sick from the journey. But we got here in one piece, that’s the main thing.’ She glances at the window. ‘I can’t believe the rate it was falling earlier. Thank goodness it’s stopped for now.’ She smiles. ‘Elise wants to build a snowman in the morning. I’m sure there is still a small girl in there somewhere, even though she’s taller than me now.’ She’s babbling. Perhaps it’s us being here. Maybe we make her feel awkward – nervous. Well, she can’t feel any more uncomfortable than I do.
*
‘I’m going to head back to my cottage,’ Dad says as he finishes his last mouthful, and puts down his cutlery. Throughout the meal, the tension was tangible, and I realise now I’ve drunk too much wine.
‘I won’t be long,’ I say, picking up on a slight slur in my voice. ‘I’ll be up at the crack of dawn, I expect, so will need a few hours’ beauty sleep.’ Truth is though: I barely sleep at all anymore.
‘You’re an early riser too, are you?’ Finn says, smiling my way from where he’s propped against the bar, long legs splayed out in front of him. ‘I get up for a run around six – maybe you could join me.’
‘Not if you paid me a million pounds,’ I say with a laugh, and he laughs too.
Dad gets up, and puts on his coat.
‘Well it looks as though that’s my lift,’ Thomas says, smiling. And once Maddie has wrestled into her ski suit, and Thomas has put on his fur-collared jacket, Dad heaves him up, and carries him through the door, Maddie following behind.
I don’t move. Truth is, I’m not ready to leave quite yet. I hope to get more out of Rosamund before the evening is over. Ask her why she never contacted Mum before she died. Why she didn’t come to her funeral. Why she is here now.
‘I normally close the dining room by nine,’ Ruth says coming through the door from the back of the house, her tone spiky. She’s been popping back and forth clearing the table for the last ten minutes, huffing – making it clear we’ve outstayed our welcome. ‘Can’t you take your chatter to one of your cottages?’
‘Or,’ I say, ‘you and Finn could join us.’ I beckon them, take a gulp of my fourth glass of wine, knowing I shouldn’t drink any more.
Finn looks at his mum as though for approval.
‘For Christ’s sake, Finn, you must be in your thirties. Surely you don’t have to ask your mum for permission.’
Ruth narrows her grey eyes.
‘I’m so sorry, we’re holding you up,’ Rosamund says, smiling at Ruth, and goes to rise. I need to strike now. I lean across the table with a jolt, grab the sleeve of her jumper, and stare into her eyes. ‘Why exactly are you here?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Here at Drummondale House on the anniversary of Lark’s disappearance? It’s no coincidence. It can’t be.’
She lowers her head. ‘No, you’re right, Amelia.’
The door that leads to the back of the house slams shut, and I look up to see Finn and Ruth have left.
‘Well?’ I say, eyes back on Rosamund.
‘If you let go of my jumper, I’ll tell you.’
I realise my knuckles have turned white, and unclench my fingers.
‘I heard on Maddie’s vlog that you were all coming here. I wanted to see you. Put things right.’
‘But you never once contacted my mum after Lark vanished. She needed a friend, and you weren’t there for her.’
‘No, and I’m sorry. The truth is I couldn’t cope with watching her die.’ Her eyes fill with tears. ‘I know I was selfish then, and I’m selfish now, but … well … I need closure. Her loss haunts me.’ She dashes a tear from the corner of her eye with her finger. ‘I thought if I was to see you all, ask you to forgive me, it would help. I wasn’t there for her, and I can’t forgive myself.’ She looks at her watch. ‘Oh God, I should get back to Elise,’ she says, grabbing her coat, and putting it on. She fumbles in her pocket and brings out her gloves. She’s about to put them on when I pick up on the low ring of her phone. She pulls it from her pocket, and presses the screen.
‘Hello, darling,’ she says, pinning the phone to her ear. ‘Calm down, sweetheart, talk slowly, the line’s dreadful.’ Another pause, longer this time. ‘Oh, Elise, please, not this again, you know what your father said. You have to stop—’
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ I say.
Rosamund raises her eyes as though in desperation. ‘OK. Keep the door locked,’ she continues into the phone. ‘I’m on my way.’ She ends the call, and I stare, my curiosity piqued, waiting for her to explain. ‘It’s Elise,’ she says. ‘I need to go.’
‘Is she OK?’ I ask, rising. ‘Is Neil with her?’
‘No, he’s not with us. He’s working in Wales.’ She races towards the door, her coat flapping open. Stops. Glances back. ‘Elise said she saw someone looking in the window.’ She takes a breath. ‘Someone wearing a mask.’
‘Oh God,’ I say, my heartbeat picking up speed.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing; you know what she can be like.’
I nod, recalling Elise – the way she told stories.
