The Hidden Hours, page 19
She tries to picture them all opening presents together in less than two weeks, but the scene is like watching something on screen: she cannot imagine being part of it. She is not just counting the days but the hours until that moment – as though if they can get to Christmas they will survive this whole storm cloud that has come upon them, because it feels as if something terrible is lurking in the shadows, biding its time. She keeps thinking back to Ian’s confession of his affair – to his scuffle in the churchyard. His vagueness has bothered her lately, but that is nothing compared to Nathan’s blatant aggression. What would have happened if Ian hadn’t been there to rescue her from Nathan’s clutches a few days ago? How long would Susan have stood by and watched?
She tries to imagine what her uncle is doing right now, as he speaks to the police. They had all been caught up so quickly in this toxic situation, but was that only by chance? She has so many questions, but the biggest one of all hovers ever present at her shoulder.
Will Ian tell the police about the ring?
‘Eleanor, Eleanor,’ Naeve is nudging her fiercely. ‘What’s going on?’
It takes Eleanor a moment to reorientate and work out what Naeve means, but when she does she has a renewed flash of fear. They are almost at the house, but a small crowd awaits them, gathered outside with cameras in hands or on tripods.
‘Will you be okay, miss?’ the driver asks, sounding less gruff now.
‘We will be once we get inside,’ she replies with more conviction than she feels.
As he draws up to the kerb, the journalists turn and start to converge on the cab. ‘Hang on a minute,’ the driver tells them. He gets out and opens the door, shouting at the crowd, ‘Let these young girls through to their house, please!’ He has a burly bouncer’s presence and the journalists automatically recede a step or two, but the cameras still click and whirr as the cabbie shepherds the three of them to the door. Eleanor fumbles in her bag for the key, aware of all those eyes watching them just metres away beyond the garden wall. When she finally opens the door the cabbie ushers them inside, and she hurriedly closes the door on everyone with a bang.
Immediately, there’s a sharp knock, and a voice beyond the door shouts, ‘You forgot to pay me, miss!’
Eleanor finds the fifty-pound note in her bag and pushes them through the letterbox, where they are snatched from the other side. ‘Thank you,’ comes his gravelly voice, and the letterbox falls closed again.
Once she has double-checked the door is locked, she turns to see both girls sitting on the expansive staircase, their backpacks at their feet, their gazes firmly on her, waiting. Savvie’s bottom lip quivers; Naeve’s expression is stony.
‘Has something bad happened to Mummy and Daddy now?’ Savvie asks, and a few large fat tears break free and skim her cheeks.
‘I keep telling her you would have told us that already, but she won’t believe me,’ Naeve says crossly, putting her arm around her younger sister.
‘Savvie.’ Eleanor goes and kneels in front of her. ‘I promise you, you don’t need to be scared. Your mum and dad are caught up with work, and those horrible journalists out there are insisting on harassing everyone they can find because they want to know what happened to Arabella. Listen.’ She looks at each of the girls. ‘Let’s go into the kitchen and find something really delicious to eat – something you’re not normally allowed. There must be a stash of chocolate or biscuits somewhere.’
Savvie nods enthusiastically, but Naeve shakes her head. ‘I’m not hungry, I think I’ll just go to my room,’ she says, and sets off up the stairs before Eleanor can reply.
Eleanor’s mind stays with Naeve as she and Savvie hunt through the kitchen for tasty treats. The best they can do is a box of Harrods assorted biscuits, but Savvie seems happy enough with that, and they take the whole tin through to the snug, where, luckily, Savvie knows how to switch the enormous TV on. Eleanor closes all the curtains. Even though the two small windows only lead to the back garden, she wouldn’t be surprised to find that one of those parasites had jumped the fence so they could peer in.
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she tells Savvie. ‘I’m just going to check on your sister.’
‘Okay,’ Savvie replies, spitting crumbs, eyes fixed on the television, her worries forgotten for now.
Eleanor heads quickly up the stairs to Naeve’s room, half-expecting to find the door closed. However, it’s wide open, and Naeve is sitting on the bed, her sketchbook in front of her. She carries on drawing a small flock of birds as Eleanor comes closer. Eleanor marvels at the way Naeve can add the smallest details to their body to lend them life and movement in flight.
‘What do you want?’ Naeve asks abruptly.
‘I came to check on you.’
Naeve shrugs and continues sketching. ‘You don’t have to babysit me.’
‘I’m not. Anyway, I’m sure your parents won’t be too long,’ Eleanor assures her, hoping she sounds convincing.
‘I know they’re not at work.’ As she speaks, Naeve’s pencil scratches out bird after bird.
Eleanor has no idea what to say. After an eternity of silence, she changes tack. ‘I love watching you draw, you’re so talented.’
Naeve looks up and meets her eye. ‘I’m not the only one. I’ve seen your sketches too, you know.’
Eleanor suddenly becomes still. ‘What do you mean?’
Behind her glasses, Naeve’s eyes narrow. ‘Do Mum and Dad know you have a habit of drawing people with their heads in nooses?’
Eleanor’s heart begins to drum loudly in her ears. She allows the wave of fury to wash over her, steadying herself so she doesn’t say something she might regret about snooping and privacy.
Naeve waits, chin tilted high, challenge written in every inch of her posture. Then her whole body sags abruptly. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. It’s none of my business.’
Eleanor’s anger softens as her heart goes out to her cousin. She sits on the bed.
‘How much have your mum and dad told you about what happened to my family?’
Naeve frowns. ‘Hardly anything. We barely knew about you until you came to stay.’
Eleanor feels a stab of pain at this. ‘Well, it’s a long story,’ she says to Naeve. ‘And I will try to tell it to you – but now is not the time, because your mum and dad could be back at any moment.’ She doesn’t add that she doesn’t yet know how she’ll summon the words.
Naeve’s eyes fill with tears. ‘Is every family so full of secrets and all this shit?’ she asks, her gaze imploring Eleanor for answers. ‘At the moment I feel like I don’t know Mum or Dad at all. I’m so scared that something really bad is about to happen to us all.’
Eleanor pulls her cousin into an embrace, feeling Naeve’s shoulders heave. How she wishes she could tell Naeve that it is going to be all right. But she will not add to her cousin’s distress with those awful adult platitudes, when everything is so clearly wrong. And yet she also wants to say, I know what you’re going through; I know how it feels to lose faith in your own parents. But she doesn’t say it, because as Naeve begins to recover, she stiffens in Eleanor’s arms. ‘I’m okay,’ she mutters, pushing Eleanor away, and Eleanor can almost see the shutters going down in front of her, one by one.
Nevertheless, her fury is building towards her aunt and uncle. Why are they behaving like this, causing their eldest child such distress? Can’t they see what’s happening around them, or are they too blinkered to think about anyone but themselves?
As she gets up to leave Naeve in peace, Eleanor glances at the drawing Naeve has been working on. Earlier, Naeve had shielded a portion of it with her hands, but she’s forgotten about that now. The birds she has sketched are not just flying, they are attacking. They are diving and smothering and pecking the body of a woman in water. Obliterating the woman’s face.
35.
THE FARMHOUSE
May 2005
At the door to the farmhouse, Solomon doesn’t use a key, just opens the front door, and Charlie bounds in ahead of them. ‘Used to be an outside dog,’ Solomon mutters, ‘lives in the lap of luxury now, since Lily died.’
As they had trekked through the field of abandoned farm equipment, Eleanor had begun to have second thoughts about this idea. Solomon had said little on the way except to tell her of his previous encounters with snakes around the house – once even in their kitchen – talking as he threw a few sticks for Charlie. Meanwhile, Eleanor’s feet had grown increasingly reluctant to step forward, urging her to turn around, but she couldn’t – because that wouldn’t be polite, especially after Solomon had saved her back there. So, now she waits behind Solomon while he slowly removes his shoes and puts on a pair of slippers.
There’s no sign of the cat today, and inside the place isn’t quite what she had expected. Once past the small porch they are straight into the front lounge, which contains two brown sofas covered with colourful crocheted rugs, and a television that looks like it should belong in a museum. There are numerous pieces of old-fashioned furniture and every available space is covered with an assortment of knick-knacks: china animals, small vases, unidentifiable objects made of brass, trophies, glass jars, a few picture frames with cross stitch or dried flowers in them, and others with photos that Eleanor longs to look at more closely.
‘Would you like a drink of water or a cup of tea?’ Solomon asks as he heads through another door. She ambles behind, trying to take it all in – she’s never seen a house like this before, so crammed full of stuff. Her nose wrinkles at the lingering scent of tobacco.
Shyness engulfs her. What is she doing here? She should never have come without telling her mum and dad.
‘Just water, please.’
Solomon runs the tap and fills her glass, and when he hands it to her he catches her eye. He looks even more unkempt than she remembers. White whiskers sprout over his chin and neckline, and he’s wearing a pair of sweatpants. Perhaps he only makes an effort when he goes out.
It’s uncomfortable standing so close together, and she casts around self-consciously with the drink clamped to her lips, desperately thinking of something to say or do that will make her feel less awkward.
‘My wife did all this,’ he says, following her gaze. ‘My Lily. She’s been gone nearly five years now, but I haven’t moved a single thing. Still doesn’t feel right.’ He stops and glances towards the window as though he might see someone familiar out there. Then he shakes his head and gestures towards the lounge. ‘Well, sit down, sit down,’ he says, ushering her back into his cramped living room, and she almost trips on a solid iron door stopper shaped like a large gecko. He carefully puts a coaster on the little coffee table in front of them, but Eleanor keeps her water clutched in her hands, unable to relax.
‘When you’ve finished your drink, I’ll show you why I brought you here,’ he says.
She nods. ‘Okay.’
‘I won’t try to explain. Better you see for yourself.’
He doesn’t say anything more, so Eleanor downs her drink as quickly as she can, unsure whether she’s keeping him waiting. When she puts down the empty glass he says, ‘Right then,’ and pats his knees then folds himself over to get up, going very slowly, as stiff as old dough. ‘Follow me.’
They head back through the kitchen and turn another corner, into a darker recess of the house. Eleanor has a moment of acute fear, wondering if she should run while she can, but again her manners win out, because Solomon is saying something about his wife, about how she loved to sit in this room and paint, and then he says, ‘And here it is.’
He throws open the door, and both the darkness and fusty air are banished instantly as they enter a small glass conservatory, beautifully lit by the meek autumn sunshine. The view beyond the windows looks right across fields towards the sparsely wooded hills in the distance. There’s a huge old wicker chair in one corner, a little cabinet with over a dozen drawers on another side, and in the centre, an old, paint-spattered easel.
‘Lily would spend hours in here,’ he says, ‘working on these.’ And he gestures to a pile of canvases stacked up against one wall.
Entranced, Eleanor goes over and squats down in front of the first one. It’s a painting of a blue wren – a watercolour, exquisite in its detail – as it perches on the end of a bird table, surrounded by flowers.
‘Take a look through,’ Solomon says, and gingerly Eleanor reaches out and pulls the first canvas forward so she can see the next one. It’s the profile of a magnificent brown horse, standing alone in a paddock, staring off into the distance at something beyond the frame. She keeps on rifling through the stack of paintings. There’s a sunset field spattered with the silhouettes of kangaroos. The stare of a tawny frogmouth owl, its feathers fading into the background of black night. And right at the back, a portrait of Solomon, as he must have been twenty years ago, his face wizened but still full of life, not the dishevelled ghost of a man who stands next to her, waiting.
‘She painted our lives, and she painted the animals and land we loved. She exhibited locally, often won awards at the shows, but she rarely sold one. They meant too much to her. We ran out of space to put them up, so she just stacked them here when they were done. The joy of it was never about the finished product, not for Lily – it was the act of making them that she loved.’
‘They are incredible,’ Eleanor says when she looks up.
‘I thought you would like them. Your picture of Charlie reminded me of some of Lily’s sketches. And so, I have something for you.’ He holds out a small silver key. ‘This is for that door over there. You can use it whenever you like. I never come in now. There’s too much of her in here. It’s hard for me to be without her anywhere in the house, but it’s the hardest in this room. I think she would like the thought of you coming in here to read or draw or whatever you want to do. I think she would much prefer that to you lying in a cubby with the snakes! It’s not too much further for you, is it?’
Eleanor gives him a brief smile as she takes the key, turning it over in her hand, unsure what to say. Could she really come down here and use this place? The idea of it is strange and thrilling. Her very own hideaway.
‘Just make sure your parents don’t mind,’ Solomon adds, watching her.
‘Okay,’ she replies, thinking about how much her parents have interfered with her life of late. She decides there and then that she wants this place for herself, and that there’s no way she’s going to let them stop her from coming.
36.
CONFESSION
Leyton Sims enjoys his job for the most part, but skulking around the posh front yards of Notting Hill in the rain, trying to keep his camera dry, isn’t his idea of fun. Yet they are on to something here, he can feel it. That fracas in the churchyard had been brilliant. But the house is dark and all locked up – the only thing he can do for now is try to get some kind of picture through a chink in the curtains.
He has been careful enough to put his mobile on silent, but he still feels it buzz in his pocket. He checks the message. Come back to the office. We’ve been called off.
I hope you mean paid off, he types quickly in reply.
When he sees the figure pop up on his screen he can’t help but grin. Thank you, Mr Lane, he says to himself as he climbs out of the garden, beginning to pack his camera away.
*
Eleanor texts her aunt, telling her that she and the girls are home safely, but there is no response. It seems there is nothing to do but wait. After a while, Naeve comes down and curls up in front of the television with Savvie, and Eleanor tries to join them but can’t lose herself in the false gaiety of the Christmas movie they’re watching. She’s glad when her phone rings and she has an excuse to leave.
‘Hi Will,’ she says, hurrying away from the lounge out of earshot.
‘How’s it all going?’
‘I don’t really know, we’re just waiting for Susan and Ian to come back. There were quite a few journalists here already by the time we got home.’ She goes into the kitchen as she speaks, moving the curtain slightly. ‘I think some of them are still outside,’ she whispers, as though they might be able to hear her. Although it’s dark, she can see shadows and the small lights of mobile phones bobbing around behind the wall.
‘Bloody hell, Eleanor, this is crazy!’
‘I know.’ She grimaces. ‘I just want it to be over.’
‘I’m just back from Arabella’s wake, and believe me your uncle and Nathan were all anyone talked about.’
‘There was a wake? I didn’t realise.’
‘Not an official one. Just a group of people from work getting together to talk and raise a glass. Everyone seems to think Nathan did something to her. And it turns out Arabella wasn’t the only one having an affair. The rumour going around is that Caroline Cressman has given Nathan an alibi – although it’s a pretty poor one.’
‘What?’ Eleanor almost chokes on the word. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Yeah, apparently they spent the night together last Thursday.’
‘He was sleeping with someone else while his wife died? That’s terrible.’
‘Yep, I told you he was nasty, didn’t I? Although now it appears that their marriage was pretty toxic from both sides. I’m still having trouble getting my head around your uncle with Arabella. That’s pretty terrible too.’
He sounds so affronted that Eleanor automatically says, ‘Yes.’ And yet she finds she wants to defend Ian and Arabella. It feels wrong to put them in the same category as Nathan after she’s witnessed so much of his aggression.
Will is still talking. ‘Last Thursday a few people saw Nathan go looking for Arabella after she slapped him. And no one saw him come back to the party. So, there’s a convenient gap, but it wouldn’t surprise anyone if he managed to wriggle his way out of it. Especially after today’s performance. Do you think the police seriously suspect your uncle?’
