No Child of Mine (28 page)

Guilt clouded Gabby’s eyes again. ‘Of course, nothing’s going to happen straight away,’ she announced reassuringly. ‘We haven’t even spoken to an estate agent yet. Martin thinks we should put it on with one of the nationals, as well as with Elaine in the village, that way we’ll get
maximum exposure.’ She pulled an anxious face. ‘Obviously, it won’t be very pleasant having strangers traipsing through all the time, poking and prying into cupboards and drawers, but I thought if we gave Elaine a key she could do it while you’re at work. That way, you won’t even have to know that they’ve been.’

Wondering if she’d ever felt the need for Jason more, if only to fill in the spaces she was finding so hard, Alex said, ‘That sounds like a good idea. I probably ought to know when someone’s coming, though, so I can make sure everything’s spick and span.’

Gabby waved a dismissive hand. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about that, I’m sure whoever buys it will gut the place anyway.’ Apparently connecting with the harshness of her own words, tears filled her eyes again. ‘Oh God, it’s awful, isn’t it, to think of them ripping out everything of Mum and Dad. It’s going to be like losing them all over again.’

Unable to think of a suitable response to that, Alex turned away to carry on with the tea. She felt faintly dizzy and as though this was happening at a slight remove, or to someone else and she was simply listening in. If only.

This was her home;
she was about to lose her home
.

‘So when do you think you might start looking for somewhere else?’ Gabby asked, appearing excited. ‘I’ll be more than happy to come with you when I can. I love viewing houses, don’t you? I remember when we were looking for ours, God I’ve lost count now of how many we saw, but it took an age for us to settle on the one we have. And then we almost lost it. What a nightmare that was. I don’t think we’ll be putting ourselves through it again in a hurry, that’s for sure.’ Apparently again making a late connection with her words, she quickly added, ‘It’ll be different for you, of course. You’re much better at making up your mind than I am, and you’re not anywhere near as fussy.’

If she’d had a smile in her then, Alex might have found it, but all she managed was the ghost of one. ‘There you are,’ she said, putting a fresh mug of tea down in front of Gabby. ‘Nice and hot, the way you like it.’

‘Lovely,’ Gabby enthused. ‘You make the best cup of tea, you know. Martin always says that too.’

Somehow affecting a playful tone, Alex said, ‘My ultimate ambition achieved.’

Gabby laughed, and started slightly as she scalded her lip. ‘So did you book us in at the pub for lunch?’ she asked.

Alex nodded. ‘One o’clock.’

‘That’s perfect. I thought maybe we could stop at the church on the way down the hill and go to the graves. I brought some flowers, they’re in the car.’

‘Good idea,’ Alex replied, feeling bad for not going more often than the few times she’d managed since Myra’s death.

‘I’m so pleased everything’s all settled and you’re OK about me wanting to sell,’ Gabby declared later as she linked Alex’s arm on their way down to the church. ‘I hoped you would be, but at the same time, I know it won’t be easy for you letting go of the home where we grew up. I’m going to find it incredibly difficult myself, I can tell you that, but at least I don’t live there any more.’

‘It’ll be OK,’ Alex said quietly. ‘It’ll be fine.’ It would have to be, because there was nothing she could do to change it. All she could do was deal with the blows as they came and hope to God that the next one wasn’t going to be losing her job.

It was the middle of the afternoon now, and after waving Gabby off Alex had got into her car to drive through the countryside and across town to Temple Fields. Not the notorious estate, but the once grander adjacent area that rose in colourful terraces and leafy cul de sacs up over the slopes of Kesterly Mount, where the properties at the top and down the westerly face revelled in spectacular views out to sea. There used once to be a modest detached house sitting in amongst an assortment of fishermen’s cottages and fifties eyesores, but both the house and cottages had long since been torn down. The detached place had been the idyll her grandparents had bought for their retirement. It was also where the terrible events of that long ago summer night had unfolded.

A small complex of luxury executive homes now sprawled over the brink of the hill with a private thoroughfare leading up from the main coast road below, each house having its
own high redbrick wall and set of electric gates. Alex had no idea who lived in them, nor was she especially interested. She was only here to visit St Mark’s, the stoic, unassuming Norman church whose rambling cemetery gardens had, for centuries, claimed several acres of the hillside, allowing its resting occupants an enduring view of the sea.

She guessed it was the time spent with Gabby at Myra’s and Douglas’s graveside earlier that had prompted her to come here today. That, and a feeling of being slowly, irrevocably cut adrift from everything and everyone she loved. Not that visiting the graves of her real family was likely to provide an anchor to some sense of normalcy or constancy, but maybe it would remind her that she had once belonged to people who’d loved and wanted her, even if her mother had changed her mind later.

As she picked her way amongst rows of crumbling and shiny headstones, noticing how many young men had lost their lives at sea, and the tragic number of children who’d died long before their time, the salty tang of the sea blew around her on the breeze while the sun made an occasional break through the clouds. In spite of the five or more years that had passed since she’d last been here she recognised the old memorial bench with a broken arm that sat crouched into a hedgerow. It was only feet from the four marble steps and single headstone that marked the grave her grandparents shared with their daughter and grandson – Alex’s aunt and brother.

She knew that her Great-Aunt Helen had arranged it all, from the rosy hue of the stone, to the simple inscription of names, dates of birth and year of death, to the yearly donation to the church to help keep down the weeds and grass. Alex had no idea if her great-aunt ever visited the grave, but apparently someone had, and quite recently, if the fragrant bunch of sweet peas on the highest step was anything to go by.

Though she could easily have felt intrigued by the flowers and allowed herself to speculate about how they might have got there, having grown up with a rector for a father she knew that the most likely benefactor was either a friend of the church, or a relative of someone who took
pleasure in brightening neglected graves. So, reining in her imagination before it could conjure all sorts of fantasies, she stood for a moment, as still as the monuments around her, gazing out at the breathtaking view below. In the far distance hazy bands of sunlight were fanning over the steel-grey sea, and a massive cargo ship was slipping soundlessly across the horizon. A dozen or more sailboats were skimming about the bay, while seagulls soared and plunged and hardy surfers rode the waves. Everything around her was so peaceful and still. Hardly anyone was about, just an elderly couple making their way towards the newer graves further down the hill, while any number of songbirds chirruped in the trees.

She was never sure if she felt any real sense of connection to her family while she was here, she only knew that the first time she’d come she’d found it strangely calming, and it had never felt wrong to be there. Fanciful though it was, she wondered if her grandparents were watching her, or her aunt, or her brother. It was thinking of her brother, Hugo, that she usually found the hardest: the brave, frightened little five-year-old who’d left her shut up in a cupboard while he went to try and save his mother. How dearly she’d love to know him, to be a part of his life.
A brother. She should have a brother
. He’d have been thirty-one in a few weeks if he’d lived, he might even be married with children of his own and have an important career. Unlike her, he’d borne a strong resemblance to their father, with his dark complexion and thin face. She wondered what kind of relationship they’d had before it had come to such an appalling end.

All it said on the gravestone was Hugo, aged 5. There was no mention of their father’s name, Albescu, and she had always felt thankful for that, since it rarely failed to send chills down her spine. It did now as she recalled the images she’d found of him in old newspaper stories online. Darkly handsome with close-set, penetrating eyes and a small, unsmiling mouth that should have looked cruel, but somehow didn’t. She’d never delved deeply into his side of the family, she was afraid to, in case her interest acted like some kind of magnet that might bring him back to her.

I’m part Romanian
, she told herself, and just like all the other times she’d said it she waited for something to resonate in a way that might connect with her roots. It never did. She knew from her Internet searches that her father had been born in a remote mountain village whose name she could never pronounce, the youngest of four children – three boys and a girl.

In her searches she’d found mention of him working as a janitor at the University of Bucharest, also as a tour guide in Hamburg, and as a long-distance lorry driver based out of Prague. (A good cover, she supposed, for what had turned out to be his actual career.) She’d never been able to find any mention of him living in England, though she imagined he must have for a while at least, even if illegally, since she’d never turned up anything about her mother living abroad. She wondered how they’d met. She knew her mother had won a place at UCL to read English (so she was bright, but apparently not bright enough to avoid getting involved with the wrong man – though Alex doubted many women were capable of that). For her mother it had presumably happened during her gap year, while she’d been travelling around Europe with a friend whose name Alex had never been able to find.

Because she’d always wanted her mother to be different (to Myra, she supposed) and glamorous (which Myra wasn’t, very), she remembered how one of her favourite fantasies, aged fifteen or sixteen, had cast her parents as the glittering stars of an exotic European circus – her mother fearless and exultant as she flew from the trapeze into her lover’s manly arms. Or pinned to a revolving board in sequins and feathers, laughing playfully as he demonstrated his breathtaking marksmanship skills. Or draped deliciously over a table as he flipped back his Zorro cloak and sawed her in half.

Maybe they’d been clowns. Ha, ha, ha.

Turning to the gravestone where her grandparents’ names were engraved above the other two, Andy and Peggy Nicholls, she began tracing the lettering with one finger. It was as though the shaping of their names was somehow creating them in person, or perhaps securing
them in her heart. Her grandfather had worked for most of his life as a crane driver at Mersey docks. According to his friends he’d been a larger-than-life character who’d boosted his wages by singing in working men’s clubs and pubs. Apparently it was how he’d managed to save for their retirement in Kesterly, the south-westerly seaside town that they’d brought their girls to most years for a holiday. Her grandmother, Peggy, had been a midwife who’d delivered many of the local community into the world. She was lively, and always laughing, one newspaper had said, with a kind word for everyone. Apparently she’d been a bit of a dab hand with a sewing machine, because a few of her friends had remarked on the ‘loveliest curtains and cushions’ always being found at Peggy’s house.

The photographs of her aunt, Yvonne – her mother’s younger sister by two years – had shown a tousle-haired blonde with large blue eyes and such a clear, happy face it was almost impossible to believe in the fate she had met. She’d been a flighty little miss, someone had said about her, but in the sweetest way. ‘She could never stay still for a minute, not even to finish a meal.’ During the months leading up to her untimely death she’d been staying with her parents at their new home in Kesterly, and working at a local Co-op on the checkout. This was apparently, someone had presumed, where she’d met her boyfriend, Nigel Carrington. According to one friend, Yvonne and Nigel had been talking about getting married during the weeks before the attack, but Alex guessed she’d never know now if that were true.

Of course Nigel wasn’t in this grave, but she’d read about him during her searches too, so she knew that he’d been a gifted carpenter with a workshop in a converted barn on Exmoor, and a client list that had boasted some celebrities of the day. Several of the celebrities had spoken of him fondly, saying how well liked he had been, lively and humorous, and what a tragic loss he was for his family and friends. Had they secretly commented amongst themselves that he’d still be alive if he’d kept to his own sort, Alex occasionally wondered. Certainly he seemed to have come from a more landed kind of background than Yvonne
could boast. Perhaps this was why she, Alex, had never tried to track any of Nigel’s relatives down. Why on earth would they want to be reminded of his murderer, much less have anything to do with the child who’d got away – blameless though that child might be?

Sitting on the bottom step of the grave, she picked up the sweet peas and inhaled the pleasure of their heady perfume. It was starting to get cold now and the sky was darkening overhead, but she didn’t feel quite ready to leave yet. She knew that once she did she’d have to start coping with the awfulness of missing Jason again, and the dread of having to find somewhere else to live. She wasn’t going to allow herself to think about the insecurity surrounding her job, she just had to trust to the fact that if redundancies were in the offing she wouldn’t be amongst them. If she was, there would be nothing left to hold her to Kesterly or Mulgrove, apart from memories and the many friends she’d made over the years. Of course there were the children too, the precious little souls whose welfare and happiness meant so much to her: how could she possibly leave them?

It won’t come to that
, she told herself firmly as she got to her feet. And even if it did there would always be someone to take care of them; after all, Myra had been there for her when her mother had gone. It was small comfort, in fact almost no comfort at all, because she knew very well that the chances of her little charges finding as good a home as she had were so slim as to be almost non-existent. However, she must be careful not to make them even more important to her now that she was in such a vulnerable state herself, because her job was to take care of their needs, not the other way around.