What Lies Between Us(25)

I slice through the plastic strips binding the patio furniture boxes, then cut the cardboard into sizes that will fit the recycling bin. The set needs no assembling so after arranging it on the decking, I test the seats out one by one, taking in different views of the garden. Then I pour myself a glass of sparkling white wine and enjoy the late spring Saturday afternoon by myself.

Next door, I hear Elsie tunelessly singing along to her kitchen radio. It sounds like a Michael Bublé song or some other middle-of-the-road crooner who makes women of a certain age weak at the arthritic knees. I snicker when I hear her back door unlock, as I know what’s coming next. Through the gaps in the wooden fence panels, I catch glimpses of her as she struggles to negotiate the doorstep with her frame to reach the garden. She wears one of those red plastic pendants around her neck which, once pressed, alerts a switchboard that you need help. Mum used to be one of her crisis calls, but when she ‘moved to Devon’ I asked Elsie to take our number off the list. I’m not going to any trouble for a woman I don’t particularly like.

I sit very still and hope that she doesn’t look over the fence, but of course she does. ‘Oh hello,’ she begins, spying me with my feet up on the table. ‘I haven’t seen you in a while.’ She regards me, as ever, with suspicion. She has never completely believed my story about Mum’s illness.

‘How are you, Elsie?’ I ask politely.

‘Not bad, despite my ailments. But Barbara comes over every morning and evening to help. I’m lucky to have such a good daughter. Some mothers aren’t so fortunate.’

It’s not hard to read her disdain for me.

‘Been splashing out, have we?’ she continues, and points to the furniture.

I ignore her. ‘Send Barbara my love,’ I say and turn my head, indicating the conversation is over. But Elsie doesn’t take the hint. Or if she does, she chooses not to acknowledge it.

‘How’s your mum?’ she continues.

‘Not great at the moment.’

‘Do you visit her very much? Most weekends you seem to be here.’

Nothing escapes you, does it? Apart from your best friend locked away in the attic. ‘Once a month I take the train down there,’ I say. ‘But it’s quite expensive.’

‘You can’t put a price on family.’

‘You can when a train ticket costs close to a week’s wages. Besides, Mum doesn’t remember who I am now.’

‘Perhaps she might if you saw her more often or hadn’t sent her so far away.’

‘As I’ve explained many times before, Elsie, it was Mum’s decision to be with her sister. She wanted to return to Devon where she grew up. And there are some lovely views of the coast from where she’s living now. It’s very private, not like here.’

Elsie pulls slices of bread from a plastic bag and scatters them across the lawn for the birds. ‘I still don’t understand how quickly it came on,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘She was always sharp as a pin.’

‘That’s the brain for you. Everything can change in a heartbeat.’

‘So you say.’

For a moment, our cold stares mirror one another’s. She has always regarded me with mistrust, even when I was a teenager, and I’ve never known why. Eventually she offers me an insincere wave goodbye as she makes the slow walk back to her kitchen door. I promise myself that when winter comes, I’ll throw water at that doorstep until it freezes. Then we’ll see how much use she gets out of the emergency alarm when she’s lying on her back with a broken hip and hypothermia.

Alone again, I survey the garden. Like all the others on this estate, the proportions are much more generous than you’ll find in a modern equivalent, because space wasn’t at such a premium in the 1930s. By covering the borders with a weed-proof membrane and woodchip, I’ve kept it low maintenance so that in the summer months, I only have to mow the lawn and trim the edges fortnightly.

A path of concrete paving slabs runs from the back door further up the garden and disappears behind a row of crab-apple trees. Out of view is Dad’s shed. The roof now leaks and the door must be yanked hard before it will open. Inside are his cobweb-covered tools and the cardboard-like remains of a hornets’ nest from last spring. The seven-foot fence at the very back has a row of conifers growing around it that are so tall, no one living behind or next door to us can peer into that part of our garden, and vice versa.

I take my glass of wine with me as I walk to that secluded area, and then sit on the grass by the only flower bed in the garden. I often find myself spending time there, recalling all that I’ve lost and what’s to come, as the hours pass. I love the privacy this corner offers and I understand why Maggie chose it. It’s the one blind spot – and perfect for a grave.





CHAPTER 19





MAGGIE


Do I know you? I think as I stare from the window at the man standing outside our house. I’m aware that spending so much time in here alone means I’ve started to become a little confused about past events out there. And while I’m usually good with faces, I’m struggling to remember why his is resonating with me. I rack my brains but I just can’t place him.

From this distance, he doesn’t look very old. His clothes appear modern and he’s standing with his hands on his hips, surveying my home like an estate agent might. For a split second I wonder if Nina has put the house up for sale. But of course she hasn’t. Imagine the agent’s surprise when he looks around to measure up and discovers it comes with its own ghost in the loft. I pinch the back of my hands just to remind myself I’m not actually a ghoul. It stings, so that’s a good sign.