Читать книгу Traces of Her - Amanda Brittany, Amanda Brittany - Страница 10

‘Willow! Thank God,’ I say, my mobile pressed to my ear. She’s disappeared before. In fact, her ability to take off without explanation is something we’ve learned to live with over the last few years.

‘Rose,’ she says. ‘Rose I’m …’ Her voice is apprehensive, and I imagine her twirling a strand of her long blonde hair around her finger, something she’s done since childhood. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t called before.’

‘Well, you’re calling now. That’s what’s important,’ I say, always aware how fragile she is. ‘And it’s good to hear your voice, Willow.’ It’s only been a month, but I’ve missed her.

I drop down onto the edge of the sofa, my eyes flicking to the photograph above my open fireplace: me at fifteen – lanky, with lifeless hair and acne; Willow, a beautiful child of three sitting on my knee, her expression blank, bewildered. It was the day I met her.

‘We had no idea if you were OK,’ I say, although there was nothing new there. In fairness, she put a couple of generic updates on Facebook about a week ago. ‘Where are you?’

‘Cornwall.’

‘Cornwall?’

‘I’m staying at a cottage in Bostagel near Newquay …’ She breaks off, and I sense she has more to say, but a silence falls between us.

‘Why didn’t you call or text?’ I ask.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘The signal’s erratic down here. And, if I’m honest, I needed to get my head straight before I spoke to any of you about …’ She stops.

‘About what, Willow?’ I clear my throat. ‘About what?’

‘It’s … well … the thing is, someone paid for me to stay here until August.’

‘Someone?’

‘I don’t know who, Rose. I got a message on Facebook and—’

‘You just took off?’ I can’t hide the irritation at her naivety. ‘Someone paid for you to stay in Cornwall, and you’ve no idea who?’

‘No, but, hear me out, Rose. There’s so much you don’t know,’ she says in a rush. ‘But I can’t tell you over the phone. You never know who’s listening.’

‘Who would be listening?’ I say. My voice cracks. I love her so much, but she has no self-awareness – no sense of self-preservation. ‘Listen come home. We can talk here.’

‘I can’t. I’m so close.’

‘Close to what?’ My anxiety is rising. ‘Is everything OK?’

‘Yes. I’m fine. Gareth is here.’

‘Who’s Gareth?’

‘He’s been helping me.’ A pause. ‘Please come to Cornwall, Rose. Please. I’ll explain absolutely everything once you’re here.’

A lump rises in my throat, blocking my efforts to say no, and a sudden strangling fear she could be in some sort of danger grabs me. I rise and pace the lounge, raking my fingers through my hair. The sun beating on the windowpane hurts my eyes. I drag the curtains hard across the glass, and the room plunges into a depressive grey haze.

‘Rose?’

‘Yes. I’m still here.’

‘Well? Will you come?’ There’s a tremor in her voice. ‘I need you right now. Please.’

‘Come back home then,’ I try once more, but I know I’m losing.

‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘I just can’t, Rose. And I know I don’t deserve you – that I drive you all crazy. But I can barely sleep at night for all the stuff going on in my head.’

‘I’ve Becky to think of.’

‘Becky,’ she says, a whimsical ring to her voice at the mention of my teenage daughter. ‘Bring her too.’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Please, Rose,’ she says again. ‘Come. I’m begging you.’ I hear tears in her words and feel myself weakening. She has a childlike quality, often seeming younger than Becky. I’ve felt protective of her from the day I arrived at Darlington House eighteen years ago, when she was all curls and big eyes. She needed me then, and she needs me now.

It’s over five hours from Old Stevenage to Cornwall, but I love driving. It won’t be a problem. And I know I could battle with her for ages, tell her ‘no’ over and over, but, in spite of myself, I will go. It’s impossible to ignore her cry for help – she’s always had that power over me. ‘OK, I’ll come,’ I say.

She sighs with relief. ‘Thanks. You’re amazing, Rose. I’ll explain everything when you get here. There’s so much to tell you.’

‘I can’t come until Saturday, Willow. I don’t break up for the summer until Friday. Will you be OK until then?’

‘Yes. That’s fine … brilliant. I’m so grateful. I can show you the note.’

‘What note?’

There’s a loud knock in the background. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she says, and drags in a breath. ‘I’ll email you my address, and see you at the weekend, yeah? I can’t wait. Love you, Rose.’

The phone goes dead before I can reply.

‘Love you too,’ I whisper, flopping back down on the sofa, and throwing my phone onto the coffee table.

After some moments, my eyes drift to the photo of Willow and me again, and I can almost feel her in my arms, smell the freshness of her golden hair.

*

Dad met Eleanor Winter in the August of 2002 at a conference about the destruction of the rainforest – something they both care about deeply, and bonded over.

I was pleased for Dad, really I was. When Mum died three years before, the weight dropped from his body like a jolly snowman facing the sun. I lost count of the times I caught him crying. He was a shadow of the strong dad who’d brought me up – and all that time I was grieving her loss too.

I liked Eleanor from the off. Softly spoken, tall with bobbed highlighted hair and small grey eyes, she was nothing like my chubby, tiny, fun-loving mum. It was as though Dad had gone out of his way to find Mum’s opposite.

I admit unwanted feelings reached into my head at first – ‘I want my dad to myself’; ‘What would Mum think?’ – that kind of thing. But mainly I was happy for him. At fifteen I was often out with friends, leaving him to wander lonely around our semi in Hitchin – the house I grew up in – feeling guilty I wasn’t there for him 24/7.

That day, the day of the photo, was the first time I’d visited Darlington House in Old Welwyn, an amazing detached house built in the eighteenth century, set in picturesque grounds. I remember it looked even more beautiful that day because of the sprinkling of snow we’d had. I knew it would be a culture shock when we moved in with Eleanor and Willow; that it would never feel like home. But I was prepared to do anything to bring my old dad back.

Dad put down the camera, and Willow shuffled from my knee, and trotted towards her Duplo scattered over the carpet near the French windows. She dropped down onto her bottom, her curls bouncing.

‘That’s a smashing picture of you two girls,’ Dad said, looking at the camera screen and smiling. ‘Take one of me and Eleanor, will you, Rose?’ he went on, handing me the camera. I felt awkward. Forced into another world I’d rather not be in. But still I rose and did as he asked.

As they leaned into each other, his arm around her waist, I knew they were in love. Dad had been through hell, and Eleanor was recently widowed; they deserved a second chance at happiness. I had to support them.

They headed into the kitchen to prepare lunch, and I padded over to Willow, and knelt next to her on the floor. ‘What are you building?’ I asked.

She looked up at me, her blue eyes seeming too big for her face. She’d lost her father six months before, and looked so fragile, as though she might break. She didn’t answer, and I found myself playing with her curls, twirling them around my fingers. ‘You’re so pretty,’ I said.

She looked up at me. ‘Uncle Peter lets me stand on his shoes when we dance.’ Her lips turned upwards.

‘Does he?’ I said, realising I knew nothing about Eleanor’s family. ‘That’s nice.’

‘Mummy’s gone now,’ she said. ‘Uncle Peter’s gone too.’

I glanced over my shoulder, to where laughter leaked from the kitchen. ‘Mummy’s here, she’s making lunch, sweetie,’ I said, stroking a wayward curl from her cheek.

‘No.’ She picked up two yellow bricks and stared at me through watery eyes. ‘Mummy’s an angel,’ she went on, clicking the bricks together.