Darkest Place (11 page)

Carly nodded, interested in more than just letting her talk now. ‘Was she like that? One of those people who collects friends?'
Who was casual about who she gave her key to?

‘God, no. She was quiet, not shy, happy most of the time to watch everyone else having a good time. We were an odd match, really. She'd moved in the day before, I was the first person she met here so maybe it was that, I don't know. She had a few friends at the Conservatorium but mostly it was about the music, not her, you know?'

Carly nodded. ‘No boyfriend?'

‘No. Not in the time I knew her. I never saw anyone else in her apartment. It was her practice space and her cello was worth a fortune. She was always a bit anxious about it getting damaged so we usually met at my place.'

‘Sounds like she was lucky to meet you.'

Brooke shrugged. ‘We would never have crossed paths back home. Her family is rich, her idea of a big night out was tickets to the symphony. I went to the local public school and a music festival is as cultural as I get.' She pinned Carly with her eyes. ‘I was the lucky one. Talia found the smaller apartment I eventually moved into, encouraged me to freelance and taught me about classical music. I had the best deal. She got depression and drove into a tree.'

Carly laid a hand on Brooke's arm, lowered her voice. ‘On purpose?'

‘No.' She said it quickly, then shook her head as though thinking about it some more. ‘No, I don't think so.
Her parents asked me that too. A blood test after the accident showed she'd taken sleeping pills. Not enough for an overdose but she shouldn't have been driving.' Brooke pulled in a sudden breath, hands to her face. ‘I feel bad about that. I could have driven her that morning. I don't understand why she didn't ask. She was only going to the Conservatorium and she was always careful about the drugs. She hated being on antidepressants and the sleeping pills made her too groggy for her morning practice. She only took them when she had to. Even then it was, like, half a tablet, and she'd do this whole time calculation so she wouldn't oversleep.'

‘Does Talia remember taking them?'

‘She can't remember what happened. The day before or the accident. She only remembers waking up in agony in hospital and being told she'll never play again.' A tear worked its way down Brooke's cheek. ‘I didn't see her the night before. I wish we'd had our usual drink and Indian takeaway and I knew what she was thinking. And I wish she'd knocked on my door and asked for a lift.'

Carly knew all about wishing she'd done things differently.

‘Carly, lovely. Come in.' Elizabeth Jennings stood back to let Carly through the door. She'd left an invitation for afternoon tea in Carly's letterbox two days ago. The eggshell blue stationery and formal wording had made Carly smile, then spend an hour drafting a reply that didn't sound like an RSVP from a Jane Austen novel.

Carly followed Elizabeth into the apartment, awed again by the shelves and their contents. ‘So many beautiful things.'

They faced the wall together as though they were admiring a mural. ‘Entirely self-indulgent, of course,' Elizabeth said. ‘But it's my home and while I still can, I want to remember everything.'

It wasn't a vanity wall, there were no awards or brag photos. But there were photographs – some of people, others of exotic settings. And books, carved pieces, a tiny painting, three rocks, a bronzed shoe. ‘You must have done a lot.'

‘It's been a full life.'

‘May I?' Carly asked, not wanting to assume that because they were on display they were open for close inspection.

‘Please do. Take your time while I get the tea started. Or would you prefer coffee?' Elizabeth was already moving towards the kitchen with her walking stick.

‘Whatever is easiest.'

Elizabeth's voice was firm. ‘No, no, there'll be none of that. I'm prepared for both and a woman should make her preferences clear.'

Okay, then. Told again by the feisty older woman. There were several tea canisters on the kitchen counter, pretty tins that looked like something from an English TV drama. ‘I'll have tea, thank you.'

‘And tell me, Carly, are you adventurous with your tea?'

Did the occasional bag of Earl Grey count? ‘What are you suggesting?' A slug of whiskey?

‘As you are interested in my collections, I thought it an excuse to use a Turkish tea set I bought in Istanbul about thirty years ago. If we choose that path, we should do as the Turks do and drink it black and strong.' She flicked on the kettle with a flourish.

‘I'm game,' Carly said. ‘Is there something I can do to help?'

‘You may stand on the other side of the counter and tell me about yourself. I'm interested in your name. Is it Carly with a C or a K?'

If that was all she wanted to know, Carly was happy to oblige. ‘C.'

‘Many years ago, I taught a Carlene, who was called Carly by her friends.' Elizabeth selected tiny tulip-shaped glasses with matching saucers. ‘And there's Carla, of course, with the obvious diminutive Carly. Are you either of those variations or are you simply Carly?'

‘I'm none of the above. My full name is Charlotte.'

Elizabeth lifted her face, eyebrows raised. ‘French and German origins, I believe. Feminine of Charles, meaning strong woman, if my memory serves. Is that you?'

Maybe once, not for the last thirteen years. ‘I'm not sure I'm the one to judge that. It seems like a good thing to wish for your child, though.'

Using the benchtop for support, Elizabeth took a few steps along the counter, reached for a cloth-covered plate. ‘I understand Charlie is the more fashionable shortening of Charlotte these days. I'm intrigued at your reasons for choosing a different contraction.'

The conversation was starting to feel like a visit to the school principal. ‘I didn't choose it, really, and it wasn't short for Charlotte in the beginning. It started as a joke. I had a friend who was into athletics and was mad on the American runner Carl Lewis. I don't know if you've heard of him.'

Elizabeth paused in her preparations to give Carly a stern glance over the top of her glasses. ‘Four Olympic track gold medals. 1984, Los Angeles, if I remember rightly. I was a history teacher and housemistress at a boarding school in my younger days. I used to supervise the resident sports students. History and sport. Sometimes I combine the two. Back to your story … Carl Lewis, go on.'

Carly grinned to herself, no problem imagining Elizabeth rounding up young ladies in checked tunics. ‘Well, Carl Lewis won medals in different events, and I was involved in a lot of different things, and one day my friend called me the Carl Lewis of Burden.' After Jenna gave her the name, she, Debs and Adam had only ever called her Carl. She'd turned it into Carly when she started uni.

‘I assume the reference to the impressive Mr Lewis was because you were doing these things at an exceptional level,' Elizabeth said.

Carly tipped her head from side to side. ‘I suppose.'

Elizabeth gave her another glare over her glasses.

‘Okay, yes, I was doing them well.'

‘And what were these activities?'

‘Tennis, hockey, cricket,' she shrugged. ‘My friends and I used to ride horses and dirt bikes, go waterskiing.' She paused. ‘And canyoning. I wasn't an expert at anything but I picked things up quickly.'

Elizabeth uncovered a plate of bite-sized cakes. ‘And school, did you do well there?'

‘I was a good student.' A's and B's, no problem qualifying for uni.

‘You capitalised on your talents, I hope.'

An unfinished degree, divorced twice, no job, plagued by anxiety. ‘It hasn't really worked out that way.' She folded her arms, preferring to keep to the history of her name. ‘Anyway, Carl became Carly and it stuck.'

 

Carly poured a third round from the silver teapot. She was sitting on the sofa beside Elizabeth, the elegant, carved-legged coffee table in front of them littered now with items from the shelves. Elizabeth had pointed and Carly had fetched.

‘Dreadfully hot but the ruins, the history, more than made up for it.' Elizabeth was back in Turkey after describing the ramshackle shop where she'd bought the tea set. ‘Clifford loved all that as much as I did so we hunted down as many archaeological sites as we could find.'

Clifford was her husband, gone ten years but clearly still present in Elizabeth's thoughts. He'd been in the diplomatic service and, with Elizabeth, had spent years at a time living in different countries. She spoke French,
passable Spanish and a smattering of Japanese. Carly felt like a pumpkin in comparison.

‘I'd love to travel,' Carly told her eventually. ‘Actually, I'd be happy to leave the country and come back just to say I'd done it.'

Elizabeth made a tut-tutting sound. ‘You need to dream bigger than that if you're going to get there.'

‘I think it's likely I won't.'

‘And why not?'

Carly shrugged. ‘It's taken me years to get here.'

‘And tell me, Carly,' Elizabeth placed her tea cup on the table and eyed her critically, ‘are you planning to die before you're forty?'

There was reprimand in her voice, the tone of an older, wiser woman instructing the younger generation. It made heat creep to Carly's cheeks – she'd wanted to die more than once, she almost didn't make thirty-three.

Elizabeth patted Carly's leg. ‘I do hope you're not one of these young people who thinks they have to achieve their life's dreams before middle age.'

Carly huffed. ‘I've left my run too late for that.'

‘I see so many young people in such a hurry to get everything done, but life is a long time, Carly.' Elizabeth clasped her hands on her lap, her story-time pose. ‘I had a disastrous love affair when I was at university. Shocking to others and almost ruinous to me. I spent twenty years as a history teacher at a private girls' school in the country, relegated, I assumed – and I expect to the assumption of most others who knew me – to spinsterhood. I met Clifford when I was forty-two. I skied on snow for the first time at forty-five, went whitewater rafting in Africa at fifty. I celebrated my sixtieth birthday on the Camino de Santiago in Spain and I was still at archaeological digs in my early
seventies.' She reached out, gave Carly's leg a firm rap this time. ‘It doesn't matter how slowly you start, Carly. Life is a long time. Remember that.'

Elizabeth's pale, watery irises hung on Carly's face for a moment, as though making sure her message had been received. Carly nodded, something warm seeping into her chest and threatening to fill her eyes.

‘And now,' Elizabeth said, clapping her hands together, subject finished, ‘perhaps you can carry the tray to the kitchen for me.'

Carly did more than that, stacking the dishwasher, wrapping the four little cakes they hadn't eaten, returning bits and pieces to shelves. Carly expected Elizabeth to complain about the assistance, but instead she leaned on her walking stick and gave instructions, her back still straight but her limp more pronounced. She pushed the leftovers into Carly's hand as she was leaving.

‘I have to watch my weight with this hip,' Elizabeth told her.

‘Are you in much pain?'

She made a scoffing sound. ‘The doctor has increased my medication but I'm refusing to take it until I need to.'

Opening the door, Carly turned back. ‘Let me know if there's anything I can do.' The refusal on Elizabeth's face made her add, ‘You know, a bit of shopping, if something crops up. I'm in and out every day.'

Her face softened. ‘That's very kind of you.'

‘Thank you for afternoon tea. I really enjoyed it.'

‘And I.'

‘Take care, Elizabeth,' Carly said, torn between giving her a hug and scampering off before she got detention.

‘You also, my dear.' She reached for Carly's hand and gave it a resolute squeeze before she went back in.

Carly stood for a moment outside Elizabeth's apartment, her throat growing thick. Along the corridor and up the stairs, the smell of Elizabeth's powdery perfume seemed to come with her, the sensation of the older woman's bony hand on hers lingering as though she hadn't quite let go.

Letting herself in, checking the lock and chain, Carly thought about lessons-in-life conversations she'd had with her mother and the edge of impatience in Marilyn's words:
Why can't you be grateful you didn't die too? It's time you thought about something else. You might never have children, you need to come to terms with that.

Carly set the little package of cakes on the kitchen counter and burst into tears. It surprised her. The whole afternoon-tea episode had surprised her. Possibly Elizabeth was like that with everyone, telling any newcomer she could hold in her apartment about her shocking love affair and whitewater rafting and life being a long time. Maybe the other members of the book club had heard it a hundred times and were quietly chuckling among themselves that it was Carly's turn. But it didn't feel like that. It felt like Elizabeth Jennings had looked at her and understood. She hadn't asked why Carly didn't capitalise on her talents, hadn't told her what she should be doing with her life. She'd just gripped her hand, closing the distance of years and experiences, and passed a message of hope.

Carly went to the loft, pulled a cardboard box from the wardrobe, shuffled through its contents until she found the photo she'd kept safe but out of sight for years. She took it downstairs, glanced around for somewhere to prop it, eventually sticking it to the fridge with a magnet and standing back to look at it.

Four smiling faces, young and eager, dishevelled, with a touch of sunburn. It was before mobile phones and selfies,
someone from the Rural Fire Service snapping it after a training session.

The sight of it made Carly's heart thump and her eyes burn. That day had been the best. Fun and funny, hot and sweaty and dirty. Damn hard work that'd filled Carly with satisfaction and achievement, made her feel part of a community, let her think she had something to offer in return. She'd been frightened to remember the four of them like that because of how it made her feel. Because of how she felt now, grief and shame welling hot in her limbs. But there was something else there, too. Happiness. The memory of it. Feeling the essence of that moment without being dragged down by everything that followed. Without her heart reminding her that six months later, Debs, Jenna and Adam were dead and Carly had become Charlotte: alone, anxious and lost.