A Dark Dividing (17 page)

‘You’re a star, Rosie. I’ll let you know how the search goes.’

She went to bed that night wondering which day she should take the envelope to his house, and what time of day he would be there. Early evening might be a good time, say around seven o’clock. That was an hour when Joe would probably be home from his office, but it would be a bit early for him to have gone out anywhere. Yes, she would go along around seven tomorrow night.

Drifting into sleep, she wondered what kind of place Melissa Anderson had found for herself, and where exactly she was in Norfolk.

The tiny village was called Castallack, and after the first couple of weeks when every creak of the cottage’s old stairs made Mel start up out of sleep in fear and when she succumbed to panic at the sight of every stranger walking a dog along the lane in front of the house, or bird-watching in fields behind it, she found it remarkably peaceful.

Castallack was almost on the edge of England’s easternmost point, and the cottage was only about half a mile from the start of the coastline. There were several rather intriguing local legends about how this had been one of the ancient sentinel points marked by the Druids, and how the Druids had set guardians—castellans—along the coast in order to guard England from the increasing threats of invasion by Christianity-peddling monks, and from Franks, Romans and assorted Vikings. It might be interesting to read up the place’s history in a bit more detail; Mel almost began to regret that she would probably not be here long enough to make a real study of the area.

She had decided that after one month she would feel sufficiently safe to write to Martin Brannan and ask if they could begin the preparations for the twins’ operation. She would explain that she had left Joe, and ask him to carry out the operation solely on her authority and to keep it all absolutely confidential. She thought he would understand all that and she thought she could trust him. The letter would have to be sent to him at St Luke’s, but if it was firmly marked ‘Private’ that ought to be safe enough.

As Isobel had said, the cottage was a bit basic and quite small. There was a sitting-room with an old-fashioned open fireplace, a kitchen opening off it, and a twisty stairway behind a door in the sitting-room that led up to two minuscule bedrooms—one with another small fireplace—and a bathroom. This, too, was basic, but there was nothing really wrong with it. The hot-water system was a bit antiquated, but workable. I’m coping and I’m surviving, thought Mel. This is all right.

She liked Castallack, and she liked the huge skies and the clean pure eastern light. Which painter had said that there was no light anywhere in the world quite like that of Norfolk? Turner, perhaps. And the cottage was the kind of place that she would have enjoyed renovating: renewing the worn window-frames and restoring the old brickwork which had softened to tawny red with the years, and which, in the glow of the setting sun, looked as if it was washed by fire. It would have been pleasant, as well, to drive around local antique shops, looking for odd bits of really nice old furniture—carved blanket chests or Victorian sewing-tables with silk pouches under the lid. She did not do any of this, of course. The cottage’s condition was the owners’ concern, and there was no money to spare for buying furniture. As well as that, she was still frightened to take the twins out more than absolutely necessary in case someone realized who they were.

So she stayed in the cottage most of the time, working in the small overgrown garden with Simone and Sonia lying on a rug on the grass or in their carry-cot, and she read and sketched, and listened to music and watched the small portable television, although the reception was not very good out here. Occasionally she felt sufficiently brave to take the twins’ pram for a walk along the lanes, but she was always fearful of meeting someone who might, in rural fashion, want to stop and talk. And the twins were getting plenty of fresh air in the garden in the gorgeous late-summer sunshine, and Mel was getting plenty of exercise in tidying it up. Once she pushed their pram out to where the stretches of marshlands began—Marsh Flats they were called locally and they eventually merged with the North Sea—but it was so bleak a place and there were so many notices warning of the treacherous quicksand nature of the Flats themselves, that she came back.

Milk and eggs and cheese were delivered by a nearby farm, and once a week she drove into Norwich to stock up at one of the large supermarkets. She varied the days for these expeditions, going to a different supermarket each week, bundling the twins up as much as possible and transporting them in the wide carry-cot that fitted on to the collapsible pram-wheels. Her purchases were ordinary and unremarkable, and anyone glancing in the pram would only see two babies sleeping closely together, and would not make any connection between the quietly dressed lady with her babies and the recent Anderson twins who had caused so much interest in the press.

She had opened a building society account in Norwich with her parents’ legacy and she had had to use her own name for that but it was a small local building society and unlikely to come to Joe’s notice. She had not dared apply for any kind of credit or debit card, and she drew out cash on the first of each month to cover household expenses, asking for a cheque-withdrawal made payable to the agents for the cottage rent, because the tenancy was in the name of Quinton. Other than the shopping trips and the occasional foray into a library or a book shop, she did not go out.

There was no phone in the cottage and Mel did not dare arrange for a phone to be installed in case Joe could track her down through it. Mobile phones were still mainly used by sharp young business executives, but they were becoming a bit more available although they were still quite expensive. Mel bought the cheapest she could find so that she could summon help in an emergency. Isobel phoned her on this every two or three days; Joe, it seemed, had told people that Mel had gone to stay with her family for a week or two, and as far as Isobel knew, he was not making any inquiries about Mel’s whereabouts. Which means, thought Mel, he’s either accepted my leaving, or he’s being very sly indeed about trying to find me. Well, at least any strangers to Castallack would be conspicuous so if Joe sent out private detectives she would know about it.

She had half-expected to be bored, but she was not. She enjoyed returning from the weekly shopping trip, entering the cottage with her own key, putting the carry-cot in a corner of the kitchen, talking or singing to the girls while she stored away the food. They were already responding to her voice, chuckling and waving their little starfish hands. (But it was always Simone’s right hand, and it was always Sonia’s left hand, because they were still locked in that helpless embrace…) They liked the sound of her voice, and they liked it when she sang. Perhaps they were going to be musical.

Each evening, after the twins had been fed and bathed, she cooked herself a meal before curling up on the battered sofa with music on the small cassette player she had smuggled out when she left. After the first couple of weeks the weather turned stormy so that it was rather nice to close the curtains each evening and build up a wood fire from the little log store outside the cottage, and to hear the rain against the windows. She began to relax properly, to feel safe. Even before the self-imposed month was up she even felt safe enough to write the letter to Martin Brannan. She posted it in the little village post-box the same day. It was absurd to discover that the next morning she woke up with a pleasurable feeling of anticipation, because he might be reading her letter that very day. No, allow for country posts; give it a couple of days. And then another couple of days for him to reply. But perhaps by this time next week she would have heard from him. He might even drive up here to see the twins. Was it being naïve and adolescent to think that? Well, she would think it anyway. He could stay at the village pub if he came, and Mel might cook dinner for them one of the evenings.

Roz had decided to cook a meal for Joe and to take it to his house when she delivered the envelope with the Norfolk postmark. The poor man was still on his own in that big place which must be very lonely, and he would appreciate a nice meal. Roz would not push it to stay and share the meal, but it was fairly certain that he would ask her to do so. He would be able to tell her how the search for Mel was getting on: he had promised to do so and she was keen to hear about it.

Flowers had arrived for her the day after she phoned about the envelope. A lavish cellophane-wrapped bouquet of pink and white carnations, with a card written in a rounded, rather childish hand, almost certainly that of the florist. It spelt her name wrongly, and said, ‘To Rossamund. Thank you so much for your kindness. Warmest regards, Joe Anderson.’

Warmest regards. Thank you so much for your kindness. They were not exactly the sentiments you would expect from a man who had said he loved you, and who had undressed you and then himself on your own sofa, and apologized because he had been too far gone in passion to withdraw before reaching a climax. But of course he led such a busy life, and there might have been any number of people in earshot when he had phoned the flower order through. Roz could understand that. She intended to behave discreetly and tactfully, although whispers of the truth might filter outwards from time to time. ‘Joseph Anderson glimpsed with the mysterious lady said to be a close companion.’ That was the kind of thing the more gossipy newspapers printed. It would be romantic.

She enjoyed planning the food to take to his house. She bought pork steaks at the supermarket, secretly pleased by the interested comments from the girls there. ‘Two steaks, Miss Raffan? That’s unusual for you. Are you having a visitor?’ Roz smiled and said, yes, a friend was coming to have supper with her, and had they not any of the puréed apple in stock? Oh yes, there it was on a new shelf. It was nice to think of the supermarket people gossiping after she had gone, telling one another that she was a dark horse, that Miss Raffan, and speculating as to whether the supper guest was a boyfriend.

When she got home she moved happily around her kitchen, cooking the pork in mushroom gravy, and tipping the apple purée into a small container so that it could be heated up. If she did jacket potatoes until they were three-quarters cooked they could be wrapped in foil and finished off in Joe’s own cooker. She wondered about a pudding, and decided to make a treacle tart—all men liked treacle tart. She rolled out the pastry in the old-fashioned way her aunt had taught her, using not a rolling-pin but a lemonade bottle filled with cold water, and grated fresh breadcrumbs for the topping. It all smelled very good in the oven.

It was raining quite heavily by the time the taxi came for her. It would be a bit expensive travelling all that way by taxi, but it was two bus journeys to Joe’s house, and Roz could not take pork and treacle tart on buses.

Even after all these years there was still a guilty nervousness at the extravagance of the taxi. Her aunt had not approved of paying good money out for things like that. For why had God given you feet, she said, if not to walk? She had not really approved of people being out after dark either, unless there might be a church meeting, or an emergency where you were called on to play the Good Samaritan. But normally, once darkness fell curtains were firmly drawn and doors and windows uncompromisingly locked. The power of Satan was everywhere, said Roz’s aunt sternly, but never more so than at night. When night darkened the streets, the sons of Belial wandered forth, flown with insolence; so Rosamund must be very wary of the night. It was not until years later that Roz came across the whole quotation, which was that the sons of Belial wandered forth, flown not just with insolence but also with wine. It was typical of Roz’s aunt that she had not mentioned the wine. She had probably not known the whole line, though.