Then She Was Gone(66)

Laurel sighs. ‘Look,’ she says, ‘I don’t really know why I’m calling, except that my daughter disappeared shortly after she finished her tutoring with Noelle. And she disappeared right next to Noelle’s house. And then Noelle herself also disappeared, a few years later.’

‘And?’

‘I suppose I just wanted to ask you about Noelle, about what you think happened to her.’

Breda Donnelly sighs. ‘Are you sure you’re not from the papers?’

‘Honestly. I swear. You can google me if you like. Laurel Mack. Or google my daughter. Ellie Mack. It’s all there. I promise.’

‘She was supposed to be coming home.’

Laurel blinks. ‘What?’

‘Noelle. That week. She was coming home. With her little girl.’

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘I didn’t realise. Floyd just said that she disappeared. He didn’t mention that she was supposed to be going back to Ireland.’

‘Well, maybe she didn’t tell him that. But she was. And the papers barely cared. The police barely cared. A middle-aged woman. A bit of a loner. An ex-partner who said she was mentally unstable. I told them she was coming home but they didn’t think it was relevant. And maybe it wasn’t.’

‘And she said she was coming with her daughter?’

‘Yes. She was coming with her daughter. With Poppy. And they would be staying here. At the house. And we were all ready for her, we were. Beds all made up. We’d bought the child a big bear. Yogurts and juices. Then suddenly she’s given the child to the father, packed a bag and disappeared. I suppose we weren’t surprised. It always did strike us as faintly unbelievable that she’d had a baby in the first place, let alone that she was able to raise it on her own.’

‘So you think she changed her mind? That she was going to start a new life, with you and Poppy, and then freaked out at the last minute?’

‘Well, yes, it certainly seemed that way.’

‘And where do you think she is, Mrs Donnelly? If you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Oh, God, I suppose, if I’m honest, I would say she’s dead.’

Laurel pauses to absorb the impact of Breda’s words.

‘When did you last see Noelle, Mrs Donnelly?’

‘Nineteen eighty-four.’

Laurel falls silent again.

‘She came home for a few weeks after her PhD. Then she went to London. That was the last time we saw her. Her brothers tried to visit when they came to London but she always kept them at arm’s length. Always made excuses. We had no Christmas cards from her, no birthday cards. We’d send news on to her: new nephews and nieces, degrees and what have you. But there was never a reply. She genuinely, genuinely didn’t care about us. Not about any of us. And in the end I’d say we’d stopped caring about her too.’





Forty-seven


I first brought the baby to see you when she was about six months old. I dressed her up in the most spectacular outfit: a cardigan with a fur collar of all the things. It was in the sales at Monsoon. And a tutu. And shoes! For a baby! Quite ridiculous. But this baby was the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen and I wanted her to really dazzle the life out of you.

The day I brought her to meet you I had the butterflies. I’d called you to warn you that I was coming. I wanted us to be made welcome, for a friendly cup of tea to be poured for me, for you to be ready.

It was a sunny morning, a hopeful day, I felt. You answered the door in a horrible jumper. I’m sorry, but it really was. You never were the snappiest dresser, we had that much in common, but really, this was off the scale. A Christmas present from your horrible daughter, no doubt.

You didn’t look at me. Your eyes went straight to the baby in the car seat that I was holding. I watched your face, I saw you absorb her, this fat-limbed, tawny-skinned, dark-haired plum of a child, so different to that scrawny, miserable thing your wife had made you. You smiled. And then, God bless that bonny child, she smiled right back at you. She kicked her little satin-shod feet. She gurgled at you. It was almost as though she knew. As though she knew that everything hinged on this one moment.

You ushered us in. I put the car seat down on the floor in your lovely kitchen and looked around, enveloped immediately by the sanctity and niceness of being back in your personal space. And strangely I felt more like I belonged there in that moment than I ever had when I was your girlfriend. You made me the cup of tea that I’d dreamed of you making for me. You passed it to me and then you crouched down by the car seat, looked up at me and said, ‘May I?’

I said, ‘Please, go ahead. She’s your daughter, after all.’

You unclipped her straps and she kicked those little feet of hers and held her arms aloft for you. You plucked her out softly but securely and you brought her to your shoulder. I think maybe you thought she was younger than she was, because you hadn’t seen her when she was a newborn. But she showed you that she was a bigger girl than that and turned herself around in your arms, held her hand against your cheek, tugged at the straggles of beard on your face. You made faces at her. She laughed.

‘Wow,’ you said. ‘She’s lovely, isn’t she?’

‘Well, I’m a bit biased of course …’

‘And she’s six months, yes?’