clay and grabbing whole handfuls of new pencils. Mum had been trained in fine arts at the college where she and Dad had met: there had been a portfolio of sketches in a drawer that Esme and Joe used to sneak a look at, marvelling at the things their mother could do. Had once been able to do. Dad had once told them she’d stopped drawing when they were born and then looked as if he regretted it, seeing their puzzled faces fall.
There’d been no job for Kate Grace in Saltleigh, nor in the nearest town. She’d looked, once the twins were in nursery, but there’d been nothing. Dad had held on to some of his old contacts, building firms, private clients, but one after the other they evaporated, settling for someone closer, more available. More sober.
Because his drinking was why they’d come away, that much had always been clear, if unspoken. In the year before they moved she remembered him odd, distant, morose, remembered giving up waiting for the bedtime kiss. There’d been a night she’d been woken by a terrible clatter and Mum gasping, then she’d appeared in the bedroom door telling Esme it was all right, to go back to sleep. But it wasn’t all right: he’d fallendown the stairs drunk. He’d come to breakfast with a black eye. They’d moved no more than a few months after, and for a time the drinking receded, became an uncomfortable memory. A blip.
So it seemed to have worked, and if the house wasn’t noticeably bigger than the old one there were other reasons to be here, better reasons, if you asked Joe and Esme. There was the grey sea, Power Station Beach and the paths through the marsh and the big empty sky; they were more space, all right.
But then it stopped working.
Behind the wheel of the strange car Alison slowed. Here was where it went wrong – and she stared, as if the front gardens, the net curtains and empty pavements might have an answer. A small row of council houses appeared, she recognised them. They must have been built in the 1970s, dull beige brick boxes with double glazing. They looked as though, against the odds, they were still council houses, each front door painted the same red. On impulse Alison pulled up and parked.
This was where she’d lived, the local girl who’d had cancer. Alison groped for the name but it was evading her. She remembered seeing the girl climbing out of a taxi with her mother. The hood of her coat was up but that didn’t disguise the hairless forehead, the face smooth as an egg, no eyebrows or lashes.
A name bobbed up out of the dark waters.
Kyra Price
.
The house she identified as the sick girl’s had net curtains that looked like they hadn’t been moved in some time, and windows filmed with dust. Suddenly it seemed important to Alison to know if Kyra Price had lived. She’d had leukaemia, which could be survived – at least children could survive it, if you believed the magazines and their feel-good stories, their campaigns. The dirty windows offered nothing in the way of hope. Could she get out, ring the bell, ask, did your child live? No.
Leaninga little to turn the key in the ignition, in a sudden hurry to leave, in the wing mirror she saw a figure approaching along the pavement. It was a woman pushing a buggy. Still crouched over the ignition, Alison watched her approach. Hair pulled back, broad-shouldered, she shoved the buggy along with one hand, careless, a cigarette in the other. The dishevelled woman from the pub last night, thought Alison with sudden certainty. But there was more, there was something about her, the heavy breasts, the way she brushed the hair back from her face with the flat of her cigarette hand. Alison sat up in the driver’s seat, waiting for her to draw nearer, to be sure. The child was asleep, slumped a little in the flimsy stroller. Eight or so, too big for a buggy.
They disappeared from the mirror, in the car’s blindspot, then suddenly the woman was there at the window, leaning in with aggressive curiosity. Their
There’d been no job for Kate Grace in Saltleigh, nor in the nearest town. She’d looked, once the twins were in nursery, but there’d been nothing. Dad had held on to some of his old contacts, building firms, private clients, but one after the other they evaporated, settling for someone closer, more available. More sober.
Because his drinking was why they’d come away, that much had always been clear, if unspoken. In the year before they moved she remembered him odd, distant, morose, remembered giving up waiting for the bedtime kiss. There’d been a night she’d been woken by a terrible clatter and Mum gasping, then she’d appeared in the bedroom door telling Esme it was all right, to go back to sleep. But it wasn’t all right: he’d fallendown the stairs drunk. He’d come to breakfast with a black eye. They’d moved no more than a few months after, and for a time the drinking receded, became an uncomfortable memory. A blip.
So it seemed to have worked, and if the house wasn’t noticeably bigger than the old one there were other reasons to be here, better reasons, if you asked Joe and Esme. There was the grey sea, Power Station Beach and the paths through the marsh and the big empty sky; they were more space, all right.
But then it stopped working.
Behind the wheel of the strange car Alison slowed. Here was where it went wrong – and she stared, as if the front gardens, the net curtains and empty pavements might have an answer. A small row of council houses appeared, she recognised them. They must have been built in the 1970s, dull beige brick boxes with double glazing. They looked as though, against the odds, they were still council houses, each front door painted the same red. On impulse Alison pulled up and parked.
This was where she’d lived, the local girl who’d had cancer. Alison groped for the name but it was evading her. She remembered seeing the girl climbing out of a taxi with her mother. The hood of her coat was up but that didn’t disguise the hairless forehead, the face smooth as an egg, no eyebrows or lashes.
A name bobbed up out of the dark waters.
Kyra Price
.
The house she identified as the sick girl’s had net curtains that looked like they hadn’t been moved in some time, and windows filmed with dust. Suddenly it seemed important to Alison to know if Kyra Price had lived. She’d had leukaemia, which could be survived – at least children could survive it, if you believed the magazines and their feel-good stories, their campaigns. The dirty windows offered nothing in the way of hope. Could she get out, ring the bell, ask, did your child live? No.
Leaninga little to turn the key in the ignition, in a sudden hurry to leave, in the wing mirror she saw a figure approaching along the pavement. It was a woman pushing a buggy. Still crouched over the ignition, Alison watched her approach. Hair pulled back, broad-shouldered, she shoved the buggy along with one hand, careless, a cigarette in the other. The dishevelled woman from the pub last night, thought Alison with sudden certainty. But there was more, there was something about her, the heavy breasts, the way she brushed the hair back from her face with the flat of her cigarette hand. Alison sat up in the driver’s seat, waiting for her to draw nearer, to be sure. The child was asleep, slumped a little in the flimsy stroller. Eight or so, too big for a buggy.
They disappeared from the mirror, in the car’s blindspot, then suddenly the woman was there at the window, leaning in with aggressive curiosity. Their
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