The Turn of the Key(25)

Sandra caught my eye and saw my predicament, and gave a little rueful smile that said, Yup.

“Well, yes, Maddie really! Rhiannon is staying at school this weekend for end-of-term celebrations. She’ll be coming home next week, and I’ve sorted out her lift and everything so you’ve nothing to worry about there. What else . . . what else . . .”

“I don’t think we completely sorted out when you’re leaving,” I said tentatively. “I know you said in your email that you had the trade show coming up next week—when does it start, exactly? Is it next Saturday?”

“Oh.” Sandra looked taken aback. “Did I not say? Gosh, that was a bit of an oversight. That’s the . . . um . . . well, that’s the only issue really. It is Saturday, but not next Saturday, this one. We leave tomorrow.”

“What?” For a moment I thought I hadn’t heard properly. “Did you say you’re leaving tomorrow?”

“Yeess . . . ,” Sandra said, her face suddenly uncertain. “We’re on the twelve thirty train, so we’ll be leaving just before lunch. I . . . is that a problem? If you’re not confident about coping straight out of the box, I can try to reschedule my early meetings . . .”

She trailed off, and I swallowed.

“It’s fine,” I said, with a confidence I didn’t completely feel. “I mean, I’d have to hit the ground sometime; I really don’t think it’ll make much difference whether it’s this weekend or next.”

Are you mad? a voice was screaming inside my head. Are you crazy? You barely know these children.

But another part of me was whispering something very different—Good. Because in a way, this made things considerably easier.

“We can play it by ear,” Sandra was saying. “I’ll keep in touch by phone—if the children are too unsettled, then I can fly back midweek perhaps? You’ll only have the little ones for the first few days, so hopefully that’ll make the transition a little bit easier . . .”

She stopped again, a little awkwardly this time, but I was nodding. I was actually nodding, my face stiff with the effort of holding in my real feelings.

“Well,” Sandra said at last. She put down her coffee cup. “Petra’s already in bed, but the girls are through in the TV room watching Peppa Pig. I don’t want to delegate my last bedtime with them to you completely, but shall we do it together, so you can get a feel for their routine?”

I nodded and followed her as she led the way through the darkened glass cathedral towards the concealed door to the TV room.

Inside the blinds were drawn, the floor was still carpeted with scattered Duplo and battered dolls, and two little girls were curled up together on the sofa, wearing flannel pajamas and clutching soft, worn teddy bears. Maddie was sucking her thumb, though she took it swiftly out of her mouth as her mother came in, with a slightly guilty jump. I resolved to look that one up in the binder.

We perched on the arms of the sofa, Sandra fondly ruffling her fingers through Ellie’s silky curls while the episode wound its way to the close, and then she picked up the remote control and shut down the screen.

“Oh, Mummeeeee!” The chorus was immediate, though slightly half-hearted, as if they didn’t really expect Sandra to acquiesce. “Just one more!”

“No, darlings,” Sandra said. She scooped up Ellie, who wrapped her legs around her waist and buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. “It’s super late. Come on, let’s go up. If you’re very lucky, Rowan will read you a story tonight!”

“I don’t want Rowan,” Ellie whispered into the crook of her mother’s neck. “I want you.”

“Well . . . we’ll see when we get up there,” Sandra said. She hitched Ellie into a more comfortable position and held out her hand to Maddie. “Come on, sweetie. Up we go.”

“I want you,” Ellie said doggedly as Sandra began to climb the stairs, me trailing after her. Sandra gave me a little eye roll and a smile over her shoulder.

“I tell you what,” she whispered to Ellie, though deliberately loud enough for me to hear. “Maybe you’ll get a story from me and a story from Rowan. How does that sound?”

Ellie made no reply to this, only dug her face further into Sandra’s shoulder.

Upstairs the curtains on the landing were drawn, and I could see the dim pink light of Petra’s night-light filtering across the carpet. Sandra supervised tooth brushing and the loo while I made my way down the softly carpeted hallway to Maddie and Ellie’s doorway.

There they were—two little beds, each bathed in the soft glow of a bedside light—one pink, the other a kind of dusky peach. Above each one was a collection of framed prints—a baby footprint, a scribble just recognizable as a cat, a butterfly made out of two chubby handprints—and tangled around the frames were strings of fairy lights, giving off their gentle illumination.

It was picture-perfect—like an illustration from a nursery catalog.

I sat gingerly on the foot of one of the little beds, and at last I heard feet and whining voices, swiftly hushed by Sandra.

“Shh, Maddie, you’ll wake Petra. Come on now, dressing gowns off and into bed.”

Ellie jumped into hers, but Maddie stood stonily for a moment, regarding me, and I realized it must be her bed I was sitting on.