In Her Shadow (23 page)

I couldn’t be sure. I was surmising. The picture of Charlotte and the girls was still pinned to the corkboard on the wall, where it always had been. Charlotte was still smiling down at her husband, with a carefree look in her eyes, just as she always had.

‘Is everything OK, John?’ I asked. ‘You really don’t look right.’

‘It’s Charlotte …’ he said.

‘I thought it must be. Oh John, I should have been there for you this weekend, I’m so sorry!’

He frowned. ‘Why? Why should you have been? Why are you sorry?’

I swallowed. ‘I thought … Didn’t she … Haven’t you … I don’t know.’

John took off his glasses, breathed on them, then cleaned them with the tail of his shirt.

‘She’s staying on at her mother’s for another couple of days.’

‘Oh.’

I made myself nod as if this was good news while the wheels of my mind realigned to make sense of the information. So Charlotte was procrastinating still. Was she using the extra time away to make practical arrangements? Finding temporary accommodation, changing her bank account? Or was she whiling it away with one of her lovers?

John yawned. Then he leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms above his head.

‘I was fed up of being at home on my own and thought I might as well do something constructive,’ he said, ‘so I came in here last night. I only meant to work for an hour or two, but I must have been engrossed because next thing I knew, it was dawn and I had a crease on my cheek from sleeping on the desk.’

‘Oh.’ I smiled as best I could. ‘Poor you. Would you like a coffee?’

‘I think I need one.’

‘White, two sugars?’

‘You’re an angel.’

I turned and went into the kitchenette. While the kettle boiled I saw John, through the open door to his office, standing by the window and combing his hair with his fingers.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

ANOTHER CHRISTMAS CAME
. It was to be the last one at home for any of us, although we didn’t know it. I remember feeling itchy that December, and constrained, like an insect that’s ready to shed its nymph-shell and emerge an adult. Almost everything my parents did irritated me and, rather than conspiring with me, Jago was more remote than ever.

I may have changed, but the rituals did not. Dad fetched the ancient tree down from the loft, just as he did every year, and I helped decorate its spindly, tinsel-and-wire branches with Woolworths’ glass baubles and fairy-lights that tinkled out a medley of festive tunes. Mum made mince pies for the elderly. Trixie walked around the tree, which took up a big part of the living room, knocking it over at least twice a day. Mum, Dad, Jago and I took turns marking off the programmes we wanted to watch over the festive period from the lists in the
Radio Times
and
TV Times
magazines, although I am certain that Jago, at least, had little intention of spending the whole holiday sitting in the living room at number 8 Cross Hands Lane.

On the anniversary of Mrs Brecht’s death, a few days before Christmas, I spent the day with Ellen and her father.
Mr Brecht seemed to be back on form. Planning an outing in memory of his wife gave him a purpose. He wanted us to do something that she would have enjoyed, and that we would enjoy also.

Mr Brecht looked as handsome as ever when I arrived at Thornfield House. He had trimmed his beard, and his hair, although still shoulder-length, was clean and silky. He wore a long coat over his black shirt and trousers. He kissed me on both cheeks, told me I looked beautiful and helped me into the front seat of the car. Ellen was already sitting in the back. The front seat was her gift to me. I turned to smile at her and she reached over and took hold of my hand. Hers was cold and gentle and I knew from her touch that she was in a good mood.

Mr Brecht drove us all the way to St Ives, playing Joan Armatrading on the car stereo and encouraging us to sing along to the words. The heater blasted warm air at my legs. I rested my forehead against the side windowpane and had a little fantasy that I was married to Mr Brecht. It would be possible, perhaps, in another year or two, when he had recovered fully from Anne’s death. Every month that passed, the age difference between us would be less significant. I closed my eyes and imagined myself lying across his bed while he slowly undressed me. In my mind, I hitched up my hips so he could pull off my jeans. I shivered as I felt his lips on my belly. And then he said, ‘What are you thinking about, Hannah?’ and I lurched back into the real world and hid my embarrassment behind a gushing rush of memories of his wife.

We had lunch in a lovely little restaurant, shared a fresh seafood platter and drank white wine. I felt elegant, adult, sophisticated. Mr Brecht showed me how to take the shell off a prawn, he taught me to use the cracker to reach the crab meat but I refused to drink an oyster from its shell, no matter
how he tried to persuade me. We washed our fingers in a bowl of lemony water. After that, we walked the steep narrow streets of the town together, browsing the art and craftwork in the shop windows, wrapped in coats and hats against the wind and the three of us linked by our arms.

In the evening Mr Brecht took us to a candlelight concert in a big house set high on the hill, not piano but a string quartet. At the reception afterwards, he talked to people he knew from the classical music business and Ellen and I ate canapés and drank glass after glass of champagne as we drifted amongst the guests. The rooms were decorated with tiny, sparkling lights and everything was clean and open and spacious. I loved the colours of the pictures hung on the walls, I loved how the building had been designed to make the most of every gleam of light and every shadow. My country accent, my rosy, Cornish cheeks were not a disadvantage in that environment; instead they made me appear different to the people who had come from the city to spend Christmas by the sea. Everyone seemed interested in me, everyone laughed and asked questions, and touched my arm and told me I was ‘sweet’ and ‘charming’ and ‘real’. I wondered if some of them thought I
was
Mr Brecht’s girlfriend. My head was light, my mind fizzed, it was all so pretty and lovely and so different from my normal life.

It was cold outside, but I stood on the balcony and gazed out across the harbour to the hill where a little chapel stood, illuminated. Mr Brecht followed. He stood behind me, so close that I could feel the heat of him. He blew smoke around my face and I leaned my hands on the railing.

He put his hands inside my coat, on my waist. I breathed in to make myself slimmer.

‘Hannah,’ he said, his voice in my ear. ‘Have you enjoyed yourself today?’

I nodded.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘I knew you’d like it here. I love St Ives and there’s something in you that reminds me of me.’

And I thought that was a signal, I thought he meant it as a sign that he was ready for me, so I turned to him and reached up to kiss him, but as I pressed towards him, he pulled backwards, away.

‘Oh Hannah!’ he said, and he laughed, and held me firmly around the waist. ‘You are wonderful.’ And he leaned down and kissed my cheek, just beside my ear. Then he gently moved my hair out of my eyes and said, ‘Don’t ever change.’

He only kissed me once, and it was a chaste kiss, an honourable kiss; nobody could have said that he took advantage of me – in fact, it was the opposite. I would have been happy to give him far more than he took, but the kiss marked me for life.

At the time, I played the scene over and over in my mind. I elaborated and adorned it, imbued it with significance and romance until thinking about Mr Brecht and what he had said consumed me. He thought I was perfect the way I was, so he must have been thinking about me just as I thought about him. Had he been waiting for an opportunity to kiss me and tell me that he loved me? Because that had been what he meant to say, I was certain of it.

Now I’m not so sure what happened. I was drunk. I was giddy on life. I had been fantasizing about Mr Brecht all day. I thought about that evening so often, tweaking the memory, making little changes here and there until it was as perfect as it could be, that I can no longer be sure of the exact sequence of events, or what they meant. All I know is that even now, Mr Brecht’s kiss feels like one of the most precious things that ever happened to me.

Back at home, afterwards, the clutter of our cottage irritated me more than ever. Everything was old and shabby and fussy, the patterns on the carpets and curtains clashing
and fighting one another, the knick-knacks on the shelves and in the cabinets crowding every little space. It made me want to scream and break things. It made me desperate to get away.

Every day, during Christmas week, I found an excuse to walk up to Thornfield House. I sat with Ellen and Mrs Todd, while Mr Brecht drank and told us stories about him and Anne. In my mind, I substituted myself for Anne in every scene. I was certain Mr Brecht was looking at me in a different way. I thought he was preparing me.

On New Year’s Eve, the pubs were licensed to stay open until midnight and there was to be a firework display at Polrack. My parents could not be doing with the noise, and anyway, they said, they needed to stay in to look after Trixie. Jago said he was spending the night at the Williamses’ farm. Ellen badgered her father into taking us into town.

Polrack was packed full of revellers, drinking on the streets, despite the cold, and sustaining themselves with hot dogs and doughnuts. Mr Brecht gave Ellen a ten-pound note, said he’d meet us on the harbour at midnight and disappeared off to the pub. Ellen and I bought cartons of warm cider and made our way down to the harbour. We sat on the wall, dangling our legs over the black water, waiting for the fireworks. Within moments, Jago appeared, and he sat beside Ellen – and I realized they had arranged it, the two of them. They wanted to spend New Year’s Eve together so they’d devised a plan. Once again, I was an alibi. They spoke quietly together for a few moments, then Jago reached around Ellen to tug at my sleeve.

‘Go and keep an eye on the Baudelaire, Han,’ he said to me. ‘Watch the door and come and tell us if Psycho comes out.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m staying here. I want to watch the fireworks.’

‘You can watch the fireworks from outside the pub.’

‘Oh yeah? On my own? It’s my New Year too, you know.’

‘Oh Hannah, don’t be so selfish,’ said Ellen.

I felt like pushing her into the water. Really I would have liked to have shoved her in, hard, and listened to her screams because it would have been absolutely freezing.

Instead, I climbed to my feet and walked slowly through the crowd, my hands in my pockets, my shoulders hunched. People were grouped noisily around the pub, pressed together for warmth and companionship. The atmosphere was convivial. There was plenty of laughter and music and cigarette smoke and the smells of beer and fried onion and the fish smell that always pervaded Polrack, but the jollity only made me feel more lonely. I was the only person on her own. Everywhere else, people were holding hands, or they had their arms around one another, or they were in groups or couples. They were all laughing and hugging and having a happy time. They would always look back on this New Year with pleasure, and all I would remember was being on my own amongst the crowds.

I shuffled around for an hour or so, spending the last of my money on hot cider, feeling tearful and lonely. I kept checking the church clock, but time was moving painfully slowly. I was cold. I wished I was at home with Mum and Dad and Trixie. At least they wouldn’t use me. At least they wanted me for myself. I toyed with the idea of going into the pub to seduce Mr Brecht, but I didn’t dare go quite that far.

Eventually, after for ever, there was a sound like gunshot. Everyone looked towards the illuminated clock on the church-tower. The minute hand showed a fraction before midnight and somebody with a loudspeaker counted us back from ten to one. At midnight, the clock chimed and everyone embraced everyone else. I was by myself, beside the entrance
to the Baudelaire, when Mr Brecht came out. He was wearing his hat, and his long coat, and was tucking his scarf in at the neck. He paused, put a cigarette between his lips, and cupped his hands around it to light it. Then he began to excuse his way through the crowds, looking for Ellen.

I could have reached Ellen and Jago before he did.

I could have done, but I did not. Instead I followed behind, walking in the space created by his wake.

I was standing almost at Mr Brecht’s shoulder when he saw them, Jago and Ellen, together, he holding her head between both his big hands, her arms inside his coat, wrapped around his waist, and the two of them kissing, their bodies so close you could not have put a cigarette paper between them. The boats that bobbed in the harbour were blowing their horns to welcome in the New Year, the church was ringing its bells, the harbourside rang out with the sound of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and the sky was lit up by fireworks. Everyone was cheering except me and Mr Brecht.

We just stood still and watched.

I thought he would do something at once to humiliate Ellen and Jago in front of all those people, but he did nothing. After a few moments, he dropped his cigarette onto the ground, then turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowds.

This frightened me more than if he had exploded with anger immediately. I knew he would neither forgive nor forget. Sooner or later, he would punish Ellen and Jago. He would find a way.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

THE NEXT DAY
, in Bristol, everything went wrong.

Everything.

It had started going wrong during the night.

I had another nightmare, one that began as a glorious, technicolour dream. Jago and I were children again, and he loved me again, and I was so happy that we were together that I could hardly contain my joy. It was Ellen’s birthday, we were taking presents to her, and somehow I knew Thornfield House would be festooned with balloons and bunting. The lane was pink and white with blossom-laden trees; the birds were singing and rabbits were hopping about on the verges – it was like some surreal Disney-esque version of childhood. In my dream, I realized that all the bad things that had happened – Ellen dying, Jago leaving – were lies. I held Jago’s hand, and he smiled at me as we walked through the sunlight … and then a mirror-image version of me jumped out in front of us. She was wearing a mauve frilly dress and matching ankle socks, and she was holding a shotgun.