A Dark Dividing (15 page)

The thought of somehow escaping—of getting away from Joe for ever—was the one thing that kept Mel sane, and enabled her to behave normally in Joe’s company, and even to discuss the proposed party.

But all the while ideas and plans and strategies were coiling in and out of her mind, until one morning she saw that that she had shaped a workable plan out of them. OK, so now I know what to do. Now it’s a matter of coming to grips with the practicalities. Furtive phone calls to letting agents. A few questions to be asked, and the answers to be considered. This was all made much harder because most of it had to be done at Isobel’s flat, and all correspondence had to be sent to Isobel’s address so that Joe would not find out what she was doing.

‘This is something you should have done long since,’ said Isobel, who was pretty and lively, with an interesting job in the City and a number of lovers, past, present and potential, and who did not really understand what it was like to marry the wrong person. But Isobel did understand that Joe was spiteful enough to put all kinds of obstacles in Mel’s way if he found out what she was planning, and she knew it was vital that Mel simply vanished, leaving no clues to her whereabouts. She was a good friend and she could be trusted completely.

One of the agents had sent details of a little house in a small Norfolk village, which Mel thought might be what she was looking for. Only a small cottage, only two-up-two-down, said the agent, a touch apologetically, but really quite snug and sound. Oh yes, very peaceful. Quite off the beaten track, if you wanted to be romantic about it. Mel did not care about romance, providing the place was far enough off the beaten track to be invisible.

The area sounded all right, but the cottage itself had to be taken more or less on trust, although in the end Isobel made a quick journey there on Mel’s behalf, phoning to report when Joe was not around. The place was quite old and a bit basic, she said, but it was by no means derelict and she thought it would fit the bill. There was a largeish garden and no near neighbours, and the village, which was half a mile away, consisted of a scattering of cottages, a church, a village hall, and a small general stores. ‘It’s a bit bleak because it’s so near to the coast, but I think it’s as good as you’ll get, in fact I think the situation’s exactly what you want. And the house is perfectly clean inside, although the furniture’s slightly battered, and the kitchen and bathroom are a bit old-fashioned.’

‘I don’t mind old-fashioned,’ said Mel. ‘And I don’t mind bleak or battered, either. It’ll only be for a couple of months until after the operation. After that it doesn’t matter if Joe finds out where we are. But until then I want somewhere that’s sufficiently out-of-the-way to be safe, but not so remote that there aren’t shops and doctors and things within reach.’

Isobel said that Norwich was about eighteen or twenty miles away, and there were odd little market towns dotted around as well. ‘And listen, what about money? I know you said you’d scrape along but will you really manage? You won’t be able to draw on the bank account, will you, because it’ll let Joe know where you are.’

But Mel had a little money from when her parents had died, and she thought that if she was careful there would be enough to live on for three or four months. It had been in a separate account at a building society—her one tiny fragment of independence and she could withdraw it all before leaving, and then open a new bank account in a different name. If you handed cash across a counter people did not worry too much about who you were.

And once in Norfolk she could live very simply; the biggest drain on resources would be the cottage rent. It had been a surprise to find how much people charged for this kind of letting, and she had had to agree to a six-month lease.

‘I suppose that’s all right,’ said Isobel, listening to these plans. ‘But you haven’t allowed for a car, and you’ll need one out there.’

‘Cars are almost as traceable as people. I’ll manage without one. Masses of people have to.’

‘Not on the edge of Norfolk, for goodness’ sake,’ said Isobel. ‘And not with four-month-old conjoined twins to ferry around. Sorry if that sounds a bit brutal, but you’ve got to be practical. I know you’re going to turn into a hermit while you’re there, but you’ll need to go out for food and fresh air now and again.’

‘I’ll work something out.’

‘I’ve already worked it out for you. Take my car. It’s time I got another one anyhow, and the value of secondhand cars is laughable these days.’

‘I can’t possibly take your car—’ Isobel’s car was only three years old.

‘Yes, you can. Call it an extra christening present. I’m Sonia’s godmother anyway. And it’s a hatchback, so you can have one of those collapsible pram things for the twins.’

So Mel had accepted the car, privately resolving to one day find a way to reimburse Isobel, and had gone ahead with the rest of her plans. If by some freak chance Joe did pick up a clue she had overlooked and light on this eastern corner of England, there were so many little villages, and so many odd clusters of houses and cottages along little winding lanes, that it would take him ages to actually find her. Especially with a false name.

A false name. Using Charlotte Quinton’s name on the rental agreement sent to Isobel’s house and opening the building society account in the name of Mrs C. Quinton had made Mel feel oddly close to Charlotte, and to Viola and Sorrel, who had seemed to slip out of the writers’ and the social historians’ sights.

There was a sense of adventure at getting into Isobel’s car after Joe went off to his office one morning, putting hastily packed cases in the back, strapping the twins’ carry-cot carefully in.

As Mel drove away she could not believe how easily she had managed to deceive Joe.

R
OSAMUND RAFFAN HAD thought that she and Melissa Anderson had become really good friends while Melissa was in the clinic having her babies. Roz had worked hard at the friendship and she had been pleased with what she had achieved.

But clearly she had not achieved as much as she had believed, because when the twins were four months old Melissa vanished without so much as a word; going off into the blue, taking the babies with her, and not telling Roz where she had gone. This was disappointing and frustrating until it turned out that she had not even told her husband where she had gone.

Roz was horrified; she could not imagine anyone treating a husband like that. The elderly aunt who had brought her up had always said that if you were lucky enough to get a husband, you should treat him with respect. This was a hopelessly old-fashioned outlook, of course, but even so Roz could not believe that Melissa could be so dismissive and so cruel to Mr Anderson, that kind, selfless man. What a bitch. And Mr Anderson was absolutely distraught over her disappearance. Of course he was. He phoned Roz at her house, telling her what had happened (it was very gratifying to be the repository of his confidence, although Roz did not let him guess this), and then saying he had a request to make of her.

Roz asked what kind of request, and Mr Anderson said it was private and a bit delicate. It would be better if they could meet. He did not want to burden her with his troubles, but—

Roz, unsure what he was expecting of her, thought for a moment, and then rather hesitantly asked if he would like to come to her house. They would be completely private there because she lived on her own. No, it would be no trouble in the least. Any evening he liked. That very evening? Yes, she was off-duty tonight. Yes, seven o’clock would be convenient. Here was the address. No, it was not imposing at all, and she quite understood that he did not like to ask her to come out to his house because you never knew who might be watching.

There was a pleasant and rather flattering flavour of importance about this. It reminded Roz that Joseph Anderson might, before the year was out, be sitting in the House of Commons, shouldering vast and awesome responsibilities, on nodding or even hob-nobbing terms with Cabinet Ministers and Secretaries of State. She remembered that she had been going to have cheese on toast for her supper tonight but in the light of Mr Anderson’s visit she called at the supermarket on the way home. He would not expect to be given supper and Roz was not going to be wide-eyed and naïve over this Member of Parliament stuff. But there had better be something a bit more upmarket than cheese on toast to offer if the occasion arose.

She bought fresh chicken and mushrooms in the supermarket, and added a bottle of wine. She was not very knowledgeable about wine: her aunt had not approved of ladies drinking, and although Roz had had a couple of rather half-hearted, lukewarm boyfriends they had both drunk lager so wine was fairly unknown territory. There was a bewildering array in the supermarket, with an astonishing variation in prices, but in the end she bought something called Chianti Classico, because everyone knew about Chianti, and Classico had a reassuring sound. She added a bottle of whisky and some soda, because most men liked a whisky and soda, and bought fresh flowers on the way home as well; flowers always looked nice in a room. The house was a bit old-fashioned because there had not been any particular reason to change anything after her aunt died. But the furniture was nicely polished, and anyway Joseph Anderson was not coming to conduct a Homes and Gardens survey.

She poured him a large measure of whisky when he arrived, and by way of diluting any slight awkwardness, said, ‘D’you know, Mr Anderson, until you phoned I truly didn’t know your wife had run away. I thought—we all thought—she was staying with her family.’

‘That was the official version,’ he said sadly. ‘And listen, do call me Joe, won’t you. Everyone does.’

‘Joe.’

He drained the whisky in his glass and set it down, and Roz wondered if she was expected to refill it. Whisky was awfully expensive, but it would not do to appear mean. She poured another, smaller one for him.

Mr Anderson—Joe—was talking about Mel and the twins, and saying he could not leave any stone unturned to find them. So what he had wondered was, whether there might be anything—any clue?—that Rosamund might be able to pick up for him at the clinic? He knew he was probably overstepping medical or ethical boundaries in asking it, but he was at the end of his sanity, he really was. He understood, of course, that Melissa had succumbed to some form of panic and had run away to be on her own for a time, he said. He understood that it was most likely a hormonal thing, as well, following the birth. This was said without any of the embarrassment that men so often displayed when they talked about things like this. Even the so-called New Men could become curdled with awkwardness. So Roz admired Joe for not being embarrassed, and was quite flattered that he felt able to be so open with her.

The most immediate worry, said Joe, was that he did not think Mel had very much money. Certainly she had not withdrawn anything from the joint bank account, so he had no idea what she was living on. He had been torturing himself with visions of her struggling to feed herself and the babies—perhaps not able to afford enough food, or proper heating, cold and miserable and hungry somewhere… He supposed he was just a silly old-fashioned romantic with a too-vivid imagination, but he simply could not bear to contemplate it. Roz saw that he had to choke down a sob when he said this.

Anyway, said Joseph, sitting up a bit straighter, and speaking in the brisk voice of a man determinedly pulling himself together, he had been wondering if Martin Brannan’s office might have been in touch with Melissa over some sort of medical check, and if they might have an address or a phone number on record for her. Well, no, he did not like to bother Brannan himself. But he knew Rosamund had been a good friend to Mel, and he had thought she might take a look in the hospital’s files. Just discreetly and unofficially. Would it be too much to ask? He looked at her very intently when he said this, and Roz saw that ‘discreetly and unofficially’ meant secretly and furtively. Looking through patients’ records to find an address or a phone number that had probably been given in confidence.

She said, carefully, that it sounded a bit risky. And of course there were quite strict rules about disclosing patients’ details.

‘I’m asking too much,’ said Joe at once. ‘I should have realized—’ He paused, frowning, and Roz understood that he was trying to master his feelings. He had been seated in the armchair nearest the fire, but he got up and came to sit next to her on the sofa, reaching for her hands. His skin felt hot and his hands were a bit pudgy, but they were still hands that might one day be signing State papers, which was an awesome thought. Roz let him go on holding her hands.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, seriously. ‘I’ve overstepped the mark, I see that. It’s just that I’m so upset I’m not thinking very clearly. And I’ve always found you so easy to talk to. As a matter of fact I’ve always thought of you as a rather good friend.’ His voice sounded different. Warmer. ‘I’ve always thought of you as someone I could come to in trouble, Rosie.’

Rosie. It came out on a sudden note of intimacy and it startled Roz very much. No one had ever called her Rosie before. She had been Rosamund to her aunt, who did not approve of abbreviating names, and she had been Rosamund at school and also to Sister Tutor in the nurses’ school, as well. More recently, she was Roz, which was friendly and casual and modern. But she had never been Rosie, not to anyone, not even the half-hearted boyfriends. It almost made her feel like a different person. Someone whom men—even important men like Joe Anderson—might find attractive.

He was still holding her hands in both of his. Roz found she did not mind about this at all. After a moment she said, ‘How about the police? Have you thought of asking them to trace Mel—?’ But clearly this was the wrong thing to say, because his eyes snapped with sudden anger.

‘Oh no, the police mustn’t come into this. Not on any account. The publicity could be so damaging.’

‘Would that matter?’

‘I mean damaging to Mel and the twins,’ he said quickly. ‘You’ll understand that, of course.’

Roz did not understand it at all and she could not see why Joe could not call in the police but she could not very well say this. After a moment she said, ‘I’ll see what I can find at St Luke’s. There might be a clue somewhere. I can certainly look through Mel’s records without anyone knowing, and I could talk to Mr Brannan’s secretary—I know her quite well.’