The Wife Before Me(32)

They were placed there by Billy to remember Amelia’s father. Was Nicholas’s relationship with his father-in-law so difficult that he cannot bear to see these floral reminders of him? So many questions – but Elena knows the punishment she will receive for demanding information Nicholas doesn’t want to give her.

When she looks up from the bin, alerted by the silence from the patio, she can see no sign of Grace. She hasn’t wandered into the living room where Joel is still sleeping, and the side gates are bolted. Elena’s knees weaken with relief when she hears a cry from between the trees at the bottom of the garden. A trail, partially obscured by weeds, wends between these trees and Woodbine’s boundary wall. She is still unable to see Grace, but her plaintive cry sounds closer.

She calls Grace’s name as she runs under the leafy canopy, then spots her sitting under a tree, her legs sprawled out in front of her. Once her daughter is safely in her arms, Elena continues walking, curious to see where the trail leads. It’s obvious that no attempt has been made for years to cut back the foliage and it becomes more and more difficult to press ahead. She reaches a wire fence that separates their garden from Billy’s land. The fence is broken and allows her access into a meadow where a swathe of bright yellow rapeseed is in bloom. The hedgerow bordering the top of the field is overgrown with elderberry trees and blackberry bushes whose fruits have yet to ripen. She notices a stone arch that she takes to be the brow of a bridge. Dead wood snaps underfoot as she moves closer, expecting to hear the murmur of water but unable to see where it could possibly flow. The red-brick structure, partially hidden in a stranglehold of briar and ivy, turns out to be a small building with a low, arched doorway.

The door is bolted, the padlock rusted. She hurries back the way she came. She has been away from the house longer than she planned and Grace is heavy in her arms. Joel will soon be awake. She runs through the French doors into the living room, where Yvonne is walking up and down with Joel in her arms. He has been crying, his flushed face wet with tears.

‘I can’t believe you left him alone,’ she says as Elena lowers Grace to the floor and tries to catch her breath. ‘How irresponsible is that?’

‘I was in the garden for a few minutes.’ Elena doesn’t want to sound defensive, yet there it is again, that high, self-justifying tone she adopts whenever Yvonne calls. How did that happen? How can it be stopped? She takes Joel from the older woman and opens her blouse. Outside in the garden the butterflies, minus one, hang motionless.



* * *



‘You should have asked my permission before you vandalised my garden,’ says Nicholas. ‘I cleared the house of Amelia’s possessions but you’re still not satisfied. What will be next? The sculptures, the trees and flowers she planted?’

Did he stand beneath the apple tree and count the butterflies or find the broken one hidden at the bottom of the wheelie bin? His obsessive need to be in control is destroying her.

‘It’s only one butterfly,’ she says. Explaining is a robotic process, yet she continues to justify her actions. He silences her with his fist. She will wear long sleeves in the days to come.



* * *



‘Anyone home?’ Yvonne sings out as she slams the front door and breezes into the kitchen. Joel cries, as if on cue, while Grace, who had been playing happily in the playpen, knocks her bricks over with a petulant swipe and drums her heels off the floor.

‘My poor eardrums.’ Yvonne dumps a bag of groceries on the table and covers her ears in mock-alarm. ‘Am I interrupting those temper tantrums again? Nicholas says you’ve been feeling poorly so I decided you could do with a break. I’ll put the kettle on. Nothing like a cup of tea for mending shattered nerves.’ Still talking, she switches on the kettle, tidies the toys from the floor and sits Grace in her high chair. ‘Have you had breakfast yet, Elena? I thought not. You sit right here and I’ll make scrambled eggs and toast. You know what they say about breakfast being the most important meal of the day. Oh, my dear, you’re not still feeding Joel. He’ll be opening your buttons soon. That’s why you look so exhausted.’ She averts her eyes to the wall behind Elena, a blank space being preferable to the sight of Joel’s greedy suck.

‘So, tell me what’s wrong?’ She sets a cup of tea at Elena’s elbow and butters toast. ‘Nicholas sounded quite worried when he rang.’

‘Nothing’s wrong,’ Elena replies. ‘I’ve no idea what he’s told you.’

‘Just that you’re down in the dumps again. I reminded him it’s no joke having two small babies and any mother is entitled to her off days. Anyway, I decided there’s only one thing to do and that’s to take this pair off your hands for a few hours. Give you a break from all that feeding and teething. Why not go to the hairdressers? Your roots are growing out again. A new hairstyle will cheer you up and make you look more like your old self again.’

Elena holds her temper with an effort. She needs time on her own and if that means enduring Yvonne’s implied criticisms, she will smile gratefully as she hands her children over. She pumps milk and fills a bottle. Yvonne’s expression, when she takes it from her, suggests that she has in fact been handed a grenade.

As soon as she is alone, Elena removes a slasher and a jemmy from the garden shed. She cuts feverishly through the undergrowth, venting her anger on the snapping branches until she uncovers the wooden door. She forces the bolt with the jemmy and after a few minutes it splinters apart. The mouldering smell of trapped earth rushes at her when she enters. Her suspicions are right. She has uncovered an old ice house that had been built into an embankment of earth. The beam from her torch sweeps over steps leading downwards, an arched ceiling above, a flagged floor and craggy walls. How old is this ice house? How long since it functioned? Eighty, ninety years, maybe more, and since then abandoned and forgotten— no, not forgotten. Candles have burned here; their stalactite remains are still clinging to their glass jars. Mouldering cushions lie scattered on the floor and a pair of old curtains hang from the wall.