Thursday's Children by Nicci French Page A

been replaced with wooden boards, but the grandfather clock was still there, a crack running down itsglass face. There were photographs – of David and Ivan and their families; of Juliet as a younger woman; none of Frieda or her father – on the walls. There was an unopened bottle of red wine in the middle of the floor that Juliet walked around as if it were a permanent fixture.
    ‘Is that my glove you’re holding?’ she asked.
    ‘I found it outside.’
    ‘I wondered where it was.’ She smiled. ‘What do you think? Do we hug each other and weep?’
    ‘Maybe not.’
    ‘That’s probably best. Would you like some coffee?’
    ‘Yes, please.’
    ‘I can’t offer you anything else. I wasn’t expecting you. No freshly baked cake, I’m afraid.’
    They went together into the kitchen. Frieda blinked. Nothing was the same. The old cooker was gone, and the wooden table, the dresser, the rocking chair. Now everything was stainless steel, state-of-the-art, spotlit, bare and gleamingly efficient, like a laboratory for cooking – except Juliet Klein had never liked cooking and wasn’t even very interested in food. Through the window, she saw the long garden. No swing, no plum tree, no bird table. Everything seemed straightened and neatened. The long washing line had been replaced with a circular device from which hung several pairs of socks and nothing else.
    ‘This is all new,’ she said, feeling her mother’s shrewd eyes on her.
    ‘Sorry. Did you want me to keep it the way it was?’
    ‘It was just an observation.’
    Frieda looked at her as she made coffee. She was smaller than she remembered, but still very upright, as if standingto attention, and her dark hair was a peppery grey. Her face was pouchy and sallow; her clever brown eyes slightly hooded. She had toothpaste marks around her mouth and was only wearing one earring. The collar of her crisp white shirt was folded in on itself.
    ‘I don’t know if you take sugar or milk. Help yourself.’
    ‘Thank you.’ They took seats on opposite sides of the metal counter. ‘Are you still working?’
    ‘I retired three years ago.’ Juliet Klein took a small sip of coffee; a few drops rolled down her chin but she seemed not to notice.
    ‘You’re probably wondering why I’m here.’
    ‘You could say so, Frieda. I had made up my mind never to see you again. I certainly wasn’t going to come looking for you.’
    ‘I haven’t come to rake things over,’ said Frieda.
    ‘Why not? You’re a therapist, aren’t you? Why not rake things over? Isn’t that what you do?’
    ‘I wanted to ask you something.’
    Juliet Klein folded her arms, then tapped one hand against her shoulder. She made a sudden violent grimace of disgust, as if she’d put something bitter into her mouth. It was an utterly unfamiliar expression, childish and slightly wild.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Are you all right?’
    ‘All right? Oh, yes. I’m fine. What do you want to ask?’
    ‘The night that I was raped …’
    ‘Oh, not that again.’
    ‘The night that I was raped, I was here. In my bedroom. Do you remember?’ Her mother didn’t reply, so Friedacontinued. ‘I was supposed to be going to a concert but I had a row with Lewis. I came home, told you I wasn’t going out after all but wanted to be left alone, and then I went upstairs and climbed into bed.’
    ‘It’s more than twenty years ago. How would I remember?’
    ‘It’s the kind of thing mothers remember.’
    ‘You’ve suddenly come down from London, burst in here, for what? To say I wasn’t a good enough mother?’
    ‘This isn’t about you as a mother or me as a daughter. I want to clarify a few things.’
    ‘It’s a bit late for that.’
    ‘I’ve been thinking about that evening, trying to remember it. You were here too. Downstairs. I could hear the TV. Later, I came down and I told you. You remember that?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And you didn’t believe me.’
    ‘We had this out twenty years ago.’
    ‘Twenty-three years