The Couple at No. 9(65)

Saffy grabs a holey old towel from a peg and uses it to wipe Snowy’s paws. He has mud splattered up his legs but he licks Saffy’s face affectionately, happy to be home.

Tom strides back in with his toolbox. ‘I’ll get on with this,’ he says, taking out his electric drill.

‘We’ll have Brenda over in a minute to complain about the noise,’ says Saffy.

‘If she turns up, I’ll give her a piece of my mind,’ says Lorna.

‘What if he comes back and kicks it in again?’ Saffy asks. ‘I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep, knowing someone’s been here, rifling through our things. I feel so … violated.’

‘I doubt he’ll be back tonight,’ says Tom, a screw between his teeth.

‘That’s right.’ Lorna hopes she sounds more confident than she feels. ‘Come on, honey, you need to get some sleep. We’ll sort everything out in the morning.’

Saffy nods, carrying Snowy upstairs with her. Lorna stands in the kitchen watching Tom as he replaces the lock, a knot of worry in her stomach. When he’s finished he yawns. ‘God, I’m exhausted.’

She tells him to go on up, saying she’ll turn the downstairs lights out. She watches him go, then makes herself a decaf tea. She sits on the uncomfortable sofa in the living room in the half-dark, surrounded by mess.

She gets to her knees and reaches for a photograph that’s been thrown near the fireplace, the one of her mother and the mysterious Daphne Hartall, who might really be Sheila Watts, standing in the back garden. It looks cold – they’re wrapped up in scarves and coats, their smiles broad. She wonders who took the photo. Had she taken it?

‘What am I missing?’ she says, under her breath, to the two women in the photograph. ‘What did you do?’





36


Lorna





Lorna’s awake early the next morning. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa, still in her tweed jacket, Saffy’s Puffa coat acting as a duvet, the photograph of Daphne and her mother pressing against her cheek.

Sunshine spills into the living room through the badly fitted curtains, spooling onto the floor and highlighting the dust motes that float in the air. Lorna glances at the watch on her wrist. It’s gone nine. She sits up and stretches. Every muscle in her body aches. There is no movement from upstairs. She doesn’t want to wake them. They need the sleep. She’s thankful it’s a Saturday and they don’t have to get up for work. Her heart plummets when she notices the mess on the floor, and everything that happened yesterday comes rushing back. This won’t do. She needs to take action.

She gets up and pads into the kitchen. The slate tiles are freezing under her bare feet. She’s relieved to see the chair is still in place, tucked under the door handle.

Lorna opens the fridge. There’s no milk. She’ll walk down to the village and get in some supplies. That’s one thing she can do. For Saffy and Tom. Practical things to take the burden off them.

Lorna throws on fresh clothes, then grabs her bag and quietly lets herself out of the cottage. As she does so she meets the postman, an elderly man in Royal Mail’s regulation shorts. He smiles kindly at her as he hands her a padded envelope. Her phone. She’s been lost without it. She takes it with thanks, turning it on. There’s hardly any charge left. She notices ten missed calls from Saffy. She shoves it into her bag.

The clear blue skies are deceiving: the breeze has a chill to it. She’s careful to keep to the middle of the road as she navigates her way down the hill, so as not to be dragged into any bushes. Every time a twig snaps behind her the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, but it’s only a dog-walker, or a couple on a morning stroll. She’s letting her imagination run away with her. She can’t do that. She has to be strong, for her daughter. At the bottom of the hill she passes the Stag and Pheasant. A young couple are sitting at one of the bistro tables outside drinking frothy coffees and they nod to her as she passes. They look all loved up, like they’ve come away for the weekend, and she thinks of Alberto. She loves the idea of him more than she actually loves him. She finds that she doesn’t care that he’s probably moving his stuff out of the apartment right now.

As she walks through the square she notices the church: it stands opposite the market cross and behind a tall iron gate that’s ajar. It’s a beautiful old one, with a spire, stained-glass windows and a small cemetery with elaborate old tombstones at the front. She hovers by the railings, looking in. She feels the sudden thud of familiarity. A memory surfacing. Of walking with her mum. And she’s upset. There are tears on her cheeks. The memory fades, like an apparition, and Lorna stands at the gates for a while, trying to summon it back. But there’s nothing, only a heavy feeling that settles inside her, a deep sadness. Had they been at a funeral? Had somebody they knew died? Lorna fights back tears while telling herself she’s being ridiculous. It’s just a feeling – she has no idea why she feels so grief-stricken all of a sudden.

She takes a deep breath and moves to the little café across the square where she orders a latte, pleased to see that Seth is serving. She tries to quell the melancholy that’s descended over her, instead asking him anodyne questions to take her mind off it. An older woman is at the counter with him today. She must be eighty at least, with a plump face, three chins and rosy cheeks. She’s stocky and sprightly despite the walking stick she’s leaning on while watching Seth. She is wearing little gold spectacles and her thick grey hair is gathered up in a clip. She smiles a greeting at Lorna.