At least they’ve apologised. Sort of.
I close the garden gate behind me and shove my hands in my pockets, ignoring a WhatsApp from Lauren asking if I’ve done our English homework. She’ll be panicking, she always does, but I’ll just let her copy mine. I pull my hat down over my long blonde hair, hoping it won’t look too flattened by the time I get there, then set off down Ash Road towards school. It’s only a ten-minute walk. I can never decide whether I like the claustrophobia of this town – I’ve lived here ever since I can remember, since Mum and Dad left London for somewhere smaller, quieter, safer. You’ll love it here, Dad said. They certainly got what they wanted – nothing dangerous has ever happened in the history of this place. Other than what went on within the four walls of our house, of course, but no one talks about that. Especially not my mum.
Jane
Wednesday 6th February
‘Can we have porridge the way Dad makes it next time?’ Sophie, my daughter, is pouting, her spoon halfway to her mouth like Goldilocks caught in the act. The bowl I’ve made her for breakfast is almost untouched – I make it with water, Jack makes it with full-fat milk. You’d think a doctor would know the dangers of cholesterol, but there you go.
‘Next time,’ I say, using a damp J-cloth to blot the orange juice that Finn has spilled on the table. My eyes prick from tiredness, my mouth feels dry from last night’s wine with the PTA girls. I checked my phone every time I woke up in the night, shading it from Jack’s eyes, wanting to see if they’d made any arrests for Clare Edwards. The news is sparse, the details vague. I’ve set an alert for it on my phone, so that if anything new comes in I’ll see it straight away. I can’t bear the thought of being separated from my children today. Not when this has happened next door. I want to lock the front door, tuck them up in their beds and throw away the key.
I can’t stop myself from glancing at the window, at the painted cream walls of the Edwards house. When I had a shower this morning, I wiped the steam from the glass and looked across the gap that separates our houses. Their bedroom curtains were open, but neither of them were in bed. As I watched, I saw Ian enter the room, go over to the wardrobe. I shifted slightly, making sure he couldn’t see me. I only had a towel on. Water was dripping down my neck. He bent down, took something out and slipped it into his pocket. Then he left the room. I waited a few seconds, but he didn’t come back.
Downstairs, everything is silent. The family liaison officer is still there, or at least her car is. Their kitchen curtains are open too and I notice there are wine bottles on the windowsill. An oddly neat row of them, three empty, one half full. The recycling men come on Wednesdays. Theresa ought to have put them outside, really.
Behind me, I hear my husband coming down the stairs. I turn back to the hob, where the remainder of the porridge is bubbling over, waiting for Harry. He’s going to be late for school.
‘What’s that I hear about the best porridge in the world?’ Jack says, entering the room dressed for work: blue shirt, the cufflinks I bought him last Christmas. Little crossed ribbons; the silver glints in the light filtering through the kitchen window. He’s doing the false voice he uses for the kids. I look behind him for Harry, but there’s no sign of my elder son.
Jack kisses me on the cheek, takes a sip from the cup of coffee I proffer. The mug says: ‘Best hubby in the world.’ A cruel joke, courtesy of Hallmark. Sophie is beaming, and I reach out to touch her hair, feel the soft brown curls of it underneath my palm. The curls were a surprise when they came; my own hair hangs straight down my back, or it used to when I was younger. Now it sits on my shoulders, trimmed once a month at Trudie’s Salon in the town. The name makes me shudder every time I go in; the epitome of parochial.
The toaster pings and I flip the bread onto a plate for my husband, watch as he spreads it with too much butter. He won’t put on weight, he never does.
‘What are you up to today?’ Jack asks me, pulling a silly face at Finn, and I take a deep breath, steel myself.
‘The usual, Jack. You don’t need to worry.’
He doesn’t reply. We both know that second sentence is a lie. The only person who needs to worry is me, as long as I’m married to him.
‘Where’s Harry?’ I ask, and Jack shrugs.
‘Coming down, I guess.’
I go to the foot of the stairs, place my hand on the bannister. ‘Harry!’ As I stand there I think of how many times I have done this, the familiarity of it. Rachel will never call for Clare again, never feel the frustration that comes with having a teenager in the house, never sigh and look at her watch as the breakfast goes cold.
‘Harry!’
‘Coming, I’m coming.’ I hear him before I see him, and then he is there; my boy, his black hair hanging scruffily down towards his shirt collar, the smell of Lynx Africa emanating towards me. His school bag trails behind him, bumping on each stair until he’s in front of me. His skin is pale, his eyes look a little bloodshot.
‘Darling,’ I say, reaching out before I can stop myself, running my hand along his jaw and straightening his collar, ‘how are you feeling today?’ I can see the expression hidden beneath his features; I saw the way he used to look at Clare. He shifts away from me, just a little, the movement as hurtful as it always is. It’s not that we don’t get along, Harry and I, it’s that we’ve stopped knowing each other, somewhere along the way. But he’s my firstborn, my surprise baby, born years before the others, when Jack and I were young.
Tying us together.
‘I’m fine,’ he mutters, not meeting my eye.
‘Breakfast is ready,’ I say, for want of anything else, and he finally looks at me, nods.
‘Thanks, Mum.’ I watch as his school bag drops to the floor and he lopes into the kitchen, hear the squeal of Sophie as she sees him. He’s good with her, and with Finn. It’s us he’s grown distant from, me and Jack.
As he pulls out a chair at the table, I see his eyes flicker to the window, to where the Edwards house stands silently in the cold February light. He stares for one second, two, then his gaze moves away.
After breakfast, Harry leaves, headphones in as always, bag slung across his right shoulder. On the doorstep, I catch him, my hand on the sleeve of his blazer.
‘Harry,’ I say, ‘be careful, won’t you?’
My eyes lock onto his. The moment hangs between us, and suddenly I feel foolish. He is seventeen – but then I remind myself that Clare was sixteen, on the cusp of adulthood too. Age isn’t always a protection.
‘Of course,’ he says, ‘I’m always careful, Mum.’ A half smile, blink and you’d miss it. ‘Don’t worry.’
He closes the front door behind him and I watch him cross the street through the window, his cheeks immediately beginning to redden in the cold air. The sky is grey, giving nothing away. As I watch, a car pulls up beside him, then swings left, coming to a stop outside next door.
‘Mummy!’ Finn calls behind me, pulling my attention away, ‘I can’t find my shoes.’
Ten minutes later, and we are finally ready to
