worries,’ I say to Karen, taking a sip of caffeine – it’s too hot, it burns my tongue. Burning off the wine from last night. I feel it again: the impact of the glass, the hideous sadness when I saw the bruise this morning. Purple, the colour of heather. It’ll be green soon.
Karen tuts. ‘It was Beth again, calling from school. She didn’t want to leave the house this morning – well, who can blame her! After the news. She’s in the same year as Clare Edwards. That poor girl. It’s just so awful. It feels like the whole town is in shock.’ She frowns, rubs a hand across her eyes. I feel a stab of empathy, make a sympathetic noise in my throat. Beth is her daughter at the secondary school, sixteen last week. I helped decorate the birthday cake at work that afternoon, stabbing the little candles into the thick white icing.
‘Actually,’ I say, ‘they live next door to us.’
The reaction is immediate. Karen gasps, her hands flying to her mouth, the silver band on her wedding finger glinting in the light.
‘No! Jane! I didn’t realise. I’m so sorry. I—’
I wave my hand in the air. ‘No,’ I say, ‘really, it’s fine, well, it isn’t, but…’ I pause. ‘Obviously it’s horrible, having it happen so close to home.’
Karen shudders; I can actually see the shiver going up her spine, snaking its way through her thin stripy shirt, across her narrow shoulder blades. ‘I just can’t believe it Jane, next door to you! In our town! Right after Christmas, too, who would do a thing like that? Beth says she was a pretty girl, was she? One of the popular crowd. Well, you can tell that from the photo. I expect it won’t be long before it makes the nationals.’
She nods towards the town paper, splayed on the desk. Schoolgirl found dead in Ashdon field. Clare Edwards’ blonde hair shines like a halo, her white teeth grin out at us, frozen in a smile. My eyes fill, and I look back at my screen.
‘It’s terrible,’ I say, ‘it’s the very worst thing.’
I buy a paper of my own from Walker’s corner shop on the way to get the children from school. I don’t know why, but I want to read the details, pore over it all in my own home. I need to be alert, prepared – my children are the most important thing on the planet. I have to keep them safe. My heart thuds as I stare at the headlines – I can’t believe it, I can’t believe she’s dead. One of our own. It fills me with horror. Ruby Walker smiles grimly at me from behind the counter. Leader of the local girl guides, most miserable woman on the planet. I’ve seen her lips move in prayer before, when she thinks no one’s watching.
‘Anything else?’ she says, her face one of permanent despondency, and I grab two KitKats for Sophie and Finn, a Twix for Harry, and a bottle of wine for us. Jack likes Merlot; I like Sauvignon. The paper folds between my hands, hot with ink.
‘Dreadful,’ Ruby says, shaking her head at the figure on the front, and I nod, look away from her to the row of bright sweet wrappers. It is dreadful. We all know it is.
‘You knew her, didn’t you?’ she says, staring at me. ‘You and your husband. You must have.’
I clear my throat. There’s something weird about the way she says ‘husband’, or am I imagining it? Half the mothers in this town are in love with Jack. I don’t want to have to add miserable Ruby to the list. Although I suppose she’s not exactly competition.
‘Not very well,’ I say, ‘the Edwards family kept themselves to themselves.’ I’m exhausted with saying the same thing.
‘How was Ray-of-Ruby?’ Jack will say to me later, and I’ll smile in spite of myself. It’s been our name for her since we moved to the town; in all this time she’s been nothing but a misery. Sophie will be going to Brownies soon, but I’ve told her she’s exempt from Guides. Karen says Beth used to hate it – endless knot tying, constant prayers about the end of the world. Some people thrive on disaster. Ruby is loving all of this drama.
At the school gates, I stand with the other mums on the verge of grass between the primary and the secondary. Harry doesn’t get out until ten past four, but I pick Finn and Sophie up at three thirty. I love seeing their little faces as they toddle towards me, love the moment I can envelop them in my arms again. Especially now, when tragedy is so close.
Both the schools are Church of England, of course. There’s a noticeboard pinned to the gates, and a new poster flaps in the wind. I lean forward, stare at the black font. The priest is doing a special service tomorrow night, in memory of Clare. Please join us, it says, as Ashdon comes together in the face of adversity. It must be the most excitement Pastor Michael’s had for ages.
Normally, the mums and I would grin at each other at a missive from the church, but today, you can almost sense the nerves, feel the shockwaves radiating around us all. Nothing like this has ever happened before. Not in Ashdon. Not next door. Briefly, I close my eyes, think back to that morning, the very last time I saw Clare. I watched as she left for school, slamming the front door behind her, or did I imagine the slam? Harry wasn’t down yet, Finn and Sophie were still brushing their teeth. Clare was early, earlier than normal. Her blonde hair shone in the February sun, the ends catching the light. Jack appeared behind me at the window, and I moved away. I wonder if her stepdad was watching her too. Whether she was aware of how men looked at her. Whether she looked at anyone in the same way.
I crouch down when I see Finn coming towards me, jolting me back to the sharp February afternoon. I open my arms for his warm little body, eager to have him back. He’s always at his most loving just after school. A reassuring trait. Sophie bobbles towards us and Sandra appears as if by magic at my side, smiling at me. I’ve only had a few hours respite. This is how it is in this town. She’s gripping her own daughter Natasha tightly by the hand.
‘Oof. Think the wine from last night is catching up on me, I feel a bit dreadful now. Thanks for coming though. How was work?’ She doesn’t pause for breath. ‘The girls are best friends this week!’ she mutters to me, and I nod in response. Sophie and Natasha have a love–hate relationship, it seems. As much as seven-year-olds can, anyway. I can see Tricia heading this way but I pretend not to notice, in case she remembers my promise to bake for getting-a-divorce-Lindsay. Quickly, I hustle the children towards me, grabbing reading folders and lunch boxes between my fingers. Nobody is sticking around much to talk today, all of us wanting to get home, wrap our children up in cotton wool, protect them from whatever horrible fate met poor Clare.
There’s a gaggle of us who usually walk down the main street, but we’re the ones who can veer off first. Our house is only ten minutes from the school, set back just slightly from the road, alongside the Edwards’. It’s pink in contrast to their cream, your typical cottage pink, with a neat black roundel on the front denoting the name. Badger Sett. Horribly, achingly, twee. Sometimes, I wonder what on earth I was thinking coming here. Especially now this has happened. Not that Jack would want to leave; his practice is here. This is, after all, our fresh start.
Finn’s little hand is clutched in mine as we trot away from the school. My heart is bumping in my chest, worrying about the pile of flowers and tributes building up on the Edwards’ lawn, how I’m going to shield it all from my children. Sandra walks beside us, Sophie and Natasha up ahead. My eyes remain fixed on Sophie’s purple backpack as Sandra lowers her voice.
‘Have you heard anything more today?’ she asks me. ‘Tricia was telling me that the police think someone hit her on the back of her head, must have come up to her from behind. Can you imagine?’ I shiver, and clutch Finn’s hand a little tighter. The buttons on my blouse feel tight around my neck. I always dress conservatively
