Beneath the Shadows (4 page)

The woman came forward and held out a hand. As she got closer, Grace saw that Claire's eyebrow was pierced through with a small hoop, and her nose sported a ruby gem. One ear had two rings through it, whereas the other one had five, becoming gradually smaller as they ascended her ear.

‘Nice to meet you too,' Claire said. ‘And Meredith hasn't got one daughter, there are four of us, for her sins. And she can't get rid of us either – as one moves out, another one moves back in for some reason or other. I'm the latest refugee. Mind you, Mum loves it. She wouldn't know what to do with herself in that big old house if one or other of us wasn't in need of a hand.' Her eyes flickered towards the car. ‘Is that your daughter in there?'

‘Yes.'

Claire glanced through the window at the sleeping child. ‘Ah, she is lovely, Grace, you must be so proud.' She remained still for a moment, as though lost in thought, then bent down to retie the laces of one walking boot. As she straightened
she continued, ‘Anyway, I think Mum has decided to adopt you as one of us now that you're back – so she's sent me here with an invitation to lunch tomorrow. Would you like to join us?'

Grace hesitated for a moment, which Claire took as a sign that she needed encouragement. ‘Please come along, Grace. You'd be very welcome. Mum's had a bit of a rough time lately – I don't know if you heard but our dad passed away a few months ago. It was unexpected, he had a massive stroke and never recovered … and … well, you know …'

Claire trailed off uneasily. Grace understood, as she had grown used to this in the last year. People no longer talked casually of disaster or loss in her presence. Yet she was also set apart by Adam's unexplained disappearance. No one knew quite how to deal with that – including Grace herself.

‘I'm so sorry, Claire,' she replied. ‘I didn't know about your dad.' She remembered Meredith's husband: he had been in the search party for Adam last year. In particular she recalled his sorrowful eyes, which had conveyed such a depth of compassion that it had reached her through the confused fog of that terrible night.

Grace was unsure what to say next. She often thought that after the last year she should be able to tackle difficult subjects with ease, but if anything it had made her hesitation worse. She was too aware of what harm a casual slip of the tongue or a careless remark could do to an injured spirit. She'd lost count of the times she'd fielded insensitive questions about Adam's disappearance from well-meaning family or friends. In the end she smiled. ‘I'd love to come for
lunch … I was only uncertain because my sister will be here this weekend.'

‘Oh, no problem,' Claire replied, ‘bring her along too. Come about midday – we'll see you then.' And she walked away down the hill with a wave.

As Grace watched her go, she felt the first spots of rain sting her face. Then she saw Claire move tight against the side of the lane, as a small red hatchback swung into view, bouncing across the bridge. Claire glared after the car, and Grace grimaced. She could always trust her sister to make an entrance.

The next day, Grace woke up to a weak sunshine pushing its way in through the curtains. For once the other side of the bed was not an empty hollow. Rather, it contained a person snoring softly, dressed in a silky nightie, wearing a pink eye mask and with bright pink earplugs stuffed into her ears. Grace had laughed at Annabel as she'd set about blocking the world out the night before. ‘We're not next to the motorway here, you know. There's nothing out there!'

‘I know, but I can't sleep without them now.'

Sharing a bed reminded Grace of their childhood. The pillow fights; the pinching and tickling; the risqué novels they had read in whispers by torchlight. The last time Annabel had slept in Grace's bed had been a year ago, when Grace had woken to reality with a painful throb in her chest, on the morning after Adam had disappeared.

She jerked back to the present as she heard Millie stirring,
and went to get her. By the time she had made Millie's cereal, Annabel was coming down the stairs. Grace looked around the kitchen doorway to see her sister standing by the window, bleary-eyed.

‘Morning,' Annabel trilled. ‘I was completely disorientated when I woke up.' She glanced out of the window again. ‘It's so dismal, isn't it? I couldn't believe it when I was driving here yesterday. It's one long stretch of mud and dead bracken. I'm not sure this place even qualifies as a hamlet – you just live on the road to somewhere else.'

The unflinching assessment bothered Grace. But before she could work out why, Annabel flung herself into a chair, saying, ‘So, what excitement have you got planned for us today then?'

‘I thought we could take a look in the attic, see if there's anything up there.'

Annabel didn't make any attempt to hide the roll of her eyes.

‘Then we could go for a walk …'

At this, Annabel threw her head back dramatically, sighing at the ceiling.

‘… or not,' Grace continued dryly. ‘Whatever, we'll have to be back in time for lunch at Meredith's. And tonight, we could walk down to the local pub.'

‘That sounds more like it,' Annabel said eagerly. ‘What do we do with Millie, though?'

‘We'll take her with us. If I get her ready for bed then she'll sleep in her pushchair. It's only a short walk from here.'

‘I didn't notice a pub when I drove in.'

‘Then you didn't look hard enough!' Grace replied.
‘Anyway, come on through here, have some breakfast and then we'll make a start on the attic.'

Annabel followed Grace into the kitchen, where Millie was smearing food over the tray of her high chair.

‘Morning, Millie,' Annabel said, ruffling her niece's hair gently.

Millie's head swung up in alarm, then she looked at Grace, her face beginning to crumple. Grace was astonished as Millie usually loved her Auntie Annabel. However, after a reassuring glance from her mother, Millie forgot her fears, snatched up her spoon and began her favourite pastime of beating her breakfast into submission.

Annabel stared long and hard at Millie, then at Grace. As her mouth opened, Grace held her hands up. ‘I know what you're going to say. She is a serious little thing. I'm working on it.' She tried to sound as casual as she could, even though Millie's sombre little face regularly plagued her thoughts. She had begun to observe other children of a similar age, and those kids always appeared to be babbling and laughing – or, if upset, they were more animated about it. They seemed to demand that the world bowed before them, whereas Millie was often troubled by anything new – strangers, places, toys, you name it. Grace's mother had reassured her that it was probably a phase, but despite this, Grace had noticed her talking to Millie with extra care and precision, watching as she played quietly, and she knew her mother was questioning her own diagnosis. And Grace couldn't help but wonder if Millie's nervousness might be related to her daddy's disappearance. What had Millie seen? Again, her mother had consoled her. ‘She was only a few weeks old.
She'd hardly be aware of it.' Grace prayed she was right.

‘Hey, daydreamer,' Annabel said, bringing Grace back to the room. ‘I wasn't going to say that actually, I was going to ask if she ever eats anything – every time I see her there's food in front of her that's going anywhere but her mouth.'

Grace smiled as she handed a plate of toast to Annabel, then gently took the spoon from Millie, dipped it in the Weetabix and pushed a dollop into Millie's mouth before she could object. Millie looked taken aback and duly swallowed it, then opened her mouth for more.

‘She's not great at feeding herself yet,' Grace explained, taking a seat at the table and continuing to offer cereal to Millie.

Annabel studied Millie for a moment then cast a long, appraising look in Grace's direction. ‘I can't believe you live here,' she said, gesturing around her. ‘It's so …' Grace watched her search for the right words ‘… not you!'

Grace smiled, remembering the enthusiasm with which she'd decorated the London flat she'd shared with Adam – keeping most of the walls neutral, and applying careful splashes of colour to each room. Now, looking at the intricate floral patterns of the faded wallpaper and carpet, and the mismatched furniture, she had to agree with Annabel.

‘Well, this place will be having a makeover soon enough,' she replied. ‘I've got someone coming round tomorrow to give me a quote on renovations.' She began to explain what she was hoping to do with the cottage, but could tell that Annabel was only half listening.

‘Am I boring you?' she asked after a while.

‘Sorry, no,' Annabel replied. ‘I was thinking about work.
It's been manic lately. It's good to get away, even if it's only for the weekend. I love it, but sometimes I wonder what the hell I'm doing. I can't wait for Christmas, I haven't had a week off in a year.'

‘That's what you get for being a high-living, cut-throat journalist,' Grace said, rising from her seat and collecting their plates. She had a flashback to her own former busy life: how purposefully she'd marched through the tube tunnels every day clutching Styrofoam cups of coffee; her lunchtimes a breathless assortment of exercise classes; then the rush to get across town to meet friends for dinner, always somewhere new to try. The days seemed to stretch ahead of her now, endless voids of time.

‘Well, actually, I'm applying for a change,' Annabel announced. ‘Hoping to move into features soon, instead of news – slightly less pressured, though not much.'

Before Grace could reply, the grandfather clock began to chime.

‘Bloody hell!' Annabel pressed a hand to her chest. ‘That thing keeps making me jump. Can you stop it?'

‘I don't know.' Grace walked into the hallway and stood for a moment watching the pendulum on its steady arc from side to side. As Annabel joined her, she twisted the key on the casing, and the front panel swung open. They had a brief look inside. ‘I don't really want to touch it in case I damage it. Adam thought it might be worth something. But I think it should stop itself in a few days – it needs winding every week. Meredith must have kept it going while I was gone.'

‘It does look old.' Annabel ran her fingers along the heavy oak casing. ‘Are those pictures of places round here?'

Grace followed Annabel's gaze towards the clock face. The circle of roman numerals was set into a wider square, and the space in each corner had been filled by pastel paintings of rustic scenes: a bridge, a lake, a barn and a stream.

‘No idea,' Grace said. It was the first time she'd paid proper attention to the motifs. There was a small figure on the bridge, looking over the side into unseen water, the face indiscernible. She didn't know why the presence of the clock unnerved her so much, but as she regarded the pictures she shivered. ‘I'll get it valued and shipped off in the New Year,' she told Annabel, turning away.

 

After breakfast, they settled Millie into her high chair on the landing from where she could safely view proceedings. Then, as Annabel looked on, Grace lugged the stepladder through the cottage and up the stairs. She folded it open, squeezing it into the small landing space, then took the steps slowly until she could push up the attic cover.

Another dark space. She shone her torch around, a little wary of what might be revealed. However, as her eyes followed the hazy cylinder of light, her anxiety turned to weary realisation. More boxes. She gave up counting at a dozen, directing the torch beam into each corner, dust motes dancing wildly as she breathed in the stale musty air.

She climbed back down. ‘I think I'll have to get up there properly.' She quickly tied her hair back.

‘I'll hold the ladder steady,' Annabel said, as Grace began her ascent.

When Grace reached the top, she put her hands on the
bare boards, pushed hard, and managed to pull herself into the space. Annabel handed up a large lamp attached to an extension cord, and Grace set it down beside her. ‘Look out for spiders,' Annabel called.

‘Yeah, thanks for that,' Grace muttered.

Now she could see the space better, she was pleased to realise that there were fewer boxes than she had feared. More than a dozen, sure, but less than twenty. She crawled over the rough wooden beams to the first one. Sure enough, as she tugged at it, a long-legged creature scuttled away into a murky corner. She gritted her teeth, and hefted the box over to the manhole.

‘Ready?' she called down.

There was no answer.

‘Annabel?'

Silence.

‘Annabel!' she yelled. As she listened, she realised she couldn't hear Millie either.

‘For God's sake,' she grumbled, half irritated, half worried. She turned and let her legs dangle down the hole, and was about to put her weight back on the ladder when she felt two hands go tight around her ankles. She let out a cry and clung on to the rim of the manhole.

‘Stop kicking!' Annabel cried. ‘I'm trying to guide you back to the ladder, you idiot.'

‘Where the hell did you go?' Grace demanded, heaving herself back into the attic space.

‘There was a strange noise coming from your bedroom. I was having a look, but it stopped.'

‘What kind of noise?'

‘Sounded like scratching.'

‘Bloody hell, don't tell me I've got a mouse to deal with on top of everything else.' Grace poked her head out of the attic, upside down. ‘Is Millie all right?'

Millie was munching on a biscuit, but stopped, astonished at the sight of her mother's disembodied face. ‘Boo!' Grace said, and her heart soared at Millie's smile, so she did it again, and again, while Annabel looked on, shaking her head. After a few repetitions Millie went back to her snack.

‘You're such an idiot,' Annabel said. ‘Are you coming down or what?'

Grace frowned at her. ‘You don't get off that lightly. I've got boxes to pass to you.'

Annabel ran a hand over her forehead. ‘For God's sake, Grace.' She looked at her perfectly manicured nails and sighed. ‘Come on then.' She held her arms out for the first one.

Grace pushed the box to the hole in the ceiling, and had trouble fitting it through the gap.

‘I can't manage that!' Annabel shrieked.

Grace tried to keep the exasperation from her voice. ‘Yes you can. Just step onto the ladder and balance it on the steps as you pull it down.'

A moment later she heard Annabel cursing and the box bumping hard down the stepladder. She hoped there wasn't some priceless antique in there. She got back across to the rest of the containers and began hauling the next one over.

‘How many of these are there?' she heard Annabel call.

‘Just a few,' Grace lied, but then Annabel's head popped up into the attic space. She looked around and her face fell. ‘Oh Jesus,' she said.

Grace crossed her fingers and hoped her sister wasn't about to bail on her. Annabel glared at her, eyes narrowed, and muttered, ‘There'd better be lots of wine tonight,' as her head disappeared again.

Grace smiled and grabbed the box closest to her. The cardboard that formed the lid had been cut into corners and folded down. As she pulled on it by one of the top flaps, it came open and she found herself looking at a handful of loose photos.

She took them out and shone the torch on them, leafing through, stopping at one of a child sitting alone on a lounge-room floor – in the seventies, judging by the garish décor in the background. It was a young boy, his body almost side on to the camera, but his face looking directly at the lens with a surprised smile, as though someone had called his name. He was only about three or four, but there was no mistaking who it was, and Grace felt a painful stab in her chest.

She put the photo to the back of the group she held, and looked at the next one. It was Adam again, in front of a terraced house, his arms around his mother. She wore a long dress and a headscarf, and you could see from the bony sticks of her wrists and the cavernous spaces of her collarbones that she was frail. The cancer must have been advanced by then, Grace thought. Adam would have been around seventeen. His face and frame were thinner than Grace had known, but other than that his outward appearance hadn't altered much over the next two decades. Her heart went out to the boy in the photograph. Only a year or so after it was taken he had been an orphan to all intents and purposes, living with his grandparents over the summer before he headed off to university.

Her arms felt heavy as she flicked through the rest of the pictures, before she looked back at the photo of Adam and his mother. Rachel had both arms around her son, while Adam had one arm draped casually across his mother's shoulders, his body towards the camera. What had they been feeling back then? It was impossible to tell from one photo. Or was it? For despite Rachel's smile, she held Adam tightly, as though he were a ballast in the middle of a raging storm, and if she gripped on long enough she might secure him to her. She appeared to be a woman who knew exactly what the future held. Whereas Adam looked like an uncertain young teenager posing for a picture.