Haven't They Grown(11)

‘You’ve searched online?’

‘Extensively.’

So he hasn’t been working all evening.

‘The good news is, nobody’s dead. They’re still in Delray Beach, Florida.’

‘If you’re waiting for me to say I didn’t see what I saw …’

‘All I’m saying is, they live in America.’

‘That doesn’t mean they’re there right now, today.’

Dom frowns. ‘True,’ he concedes.

‘Maybe they never sold the Hemingford Abbots house. Rich people don’t have to sell a house in order to buy a house. They might divide their time between England and Florida.’

‘You’re right. Although …’ He breaks off with a yawn.

Although, even if the Braids still own the Wyddial Lane house, you didn’t see what you think you saw – because that’s not possible.

‘You should go to bed. Can I …?’ I point at his computer. My laptop’s in the car. I can’t be bothered to go and get it.

‘Sure.’ He stands up. ‘Look at the search history and you’ll find everything I found. It’ll make you feel better.’

‘Only if realising that I’m having psychotic delusions is a good thing,’ I mutter, sliding into his chair.

‘Well, no one’s dead – that’s a good thing. And I wouldn’t call it a psychotic delusion. More of a—’

‘I saw Flora, Dom. And Thomas and Emily, as they were twelve years ago. I saw and heard it all, everything I described.’

He squeezes my shoulder. ‘I’m knackered, Beth. We’ll talk about it again tomorrow. Okay? Want me to bring you up some reheated cannelloni before I go to sleep?’

‘No, thanks. I’ll get some later.’ I still don’t feel remotely hungry. ‘Oh – guess what they’ve called their house.’

‘Who?’

‘The Braids.’

‘You mean the people living in the house in Hemingford Abbots that used to be the Braids’,’ Dom corrects me.

‘It was named by them for sure, whether they live there now or not. It’s called Newnham House. Typical Lewis. They lived in Newnham in Cambridge, so when they left Cambridge, they called their new house Newnham House, thinking it’s a nice way to remember where they used to live.’

‘And … it isn’t?’

‘No. It’s silly. It’s clinging on to the past in an artificial way – trying to pretend your new place is your old place.’ When Dom doesn’t look convinced, I say, ‘We also moved out of Newnham. If I’d suggested calling this house Newnham House, would you have agreed?’

I never told Dominic why I wanted to leave Cambridge. Or rather, I told him, but my explanation was a lie. It had nothing to do with wanting to live closer to my mum, though that’s where we’ve ended up – in Little Holling in the Culver Valley. Mum’s about fifteen minutes away by car, in Great Holling. Every time one of her friends pops in while I’m there, she says – and her wording of the line never varies – ‘What with me living in Great Holling and Beth living in Little Holling, it’s like Goldilocks and the three bears!’

I’ve tried to tell her that it’s nothing like that, and that nobody knows what she means. ‘Of course they do!’ Mum insists. Once, Zannah heard this exchange and said to me later, ‘You’re ruder to Gran than I am to you,’ which made me feel awful.

Mum also doesn’t know why I was determined to leave Newnham, having once thought I’d live there all my life. It was because of the Braids. Once they’d left, I couldn’t bear the thought of staying there like something they’d discarded, of being the left-behind friends while they moved on to something bigger and better. If they were going to have a new start, then so were we.

‘I’d happily swap the name Crossways Cottage for Newnham House,’ says Dom. ‘Or for anything less twee. Remember, I suggested getting rid of the name and making do with 10, The Green, but you—’

‘Forget it.’ I wave his words away.

‘Beth, I don’t see anything wrong about the house name. Sorry. Can I go to bed now?’

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

‘Night,’ I call after him.

Once he’s gone, I look at his computer’s search history: LinkedIn, Instagram, Twitter. He’s been busy. No Facebook, though. Why didn’t he check if the Braids were on Facebook? I haven’t either, not once in twelve years. I assumed I knew everything I needed to know about Flora and her family. I knew they’d moved to Wyddial Lane because they sent us a ‘new address’ postcard – nothing personal written on it, just the address, minus the house’s name. They must have added that later.

I remember thinking it odd that we’d be on their list; Flora must have known, just as I did, that our friendship was over. Why would she want me to know where she was moving to? Perhaps she thought a complete cut-off would be too stark and obvious; easier to shift to a Christmas-cards-only friendship, allowing us both to pretend nothing was wrong, that we were simply too busy ever to meet.

I go to the bottom of the list of Dom’s search results and click on the one he went to first. Might as well follow the same chronological order. I feel more alert than I have for a long time.