What You Left Behind (3 page)

“And I knew you were visiting soon anyway, so thought I’d tell you in person,” she added.

They went inside the hallway of Glebe House. The cool, slightly musty air immediately transported Lorraine back to her childhood. The smell of the place never changed. She wouldn’t have been in the least surprised if her mother had come through from the kitchen to greet her, wiping flour-covered hands on a faded floral apron, her hair twisted behind her head in a tight gray knot, a handmade skirt over the dark tights she always wore, winter or summer.

Lorraine shook the memory of her mother from her head. This was Jo’s house now, and she was glad.

She gazed around and gave a little shiver, realizing she’d left her cardigan in the car. It was cooler inside. The thick-walled house remained a constant temperature all year round. Only once all three fires had been blazing for at least half a day during the winter months did the pervading chill lift, allowing them to stretch out of all but the essential layers of clothing.

“Oh, come here,” Jo said as they dumped the bags on the uneven flagstones.

It was then that they hugged properly. Lorraine felt her sister’s slightly leaner body pressed against hers, felt her ribs and slim waist beneath the cotton of her white blouse. She suddenly felt ashamed of the two rounds of bacon sandwiches and chips she’d consumed on the journey. But Jo’s bucolic lifestyle was more conducive to keeping healthy than her own frantic, grab-any-food-going, busy-working-mum routine as a detective inspector.

“Are you OK for money?” It had to be asked. Jo hadn’t had a paying job in years.

They were in the kitchen now. Nothing much had changed in here since her last visit either. In fact, you wouldn’t even know that
Malc had left, Lorraine thought, noticing a pair of man’s sunglasses on the dresser and a tweed cap hooked over the peg beside the back door.

She’d never thought of Malc as a cap man. He worked in the City, commuting some days, but more often than not he’d be holed up in his Docklands studio flat, returning to Radcote at weekends.

Lorraine would never have guessed he’d give up the country life so easily. But if she was honest, she thought Jo looked better for being single. Her skin seemed healthier and brighter, and her eyes had a mischievous sparkle to them.

“Malc’s being generous. Giving me what I need.”

Stella dragged a wooden chair from under the table, making a terrible noise on the quarry tiles. She slumped down, earphone wires winding out from within the unbrushed tangle of her hair. She rested her head on the table and made an overstated yawn.

“Oh, poor little Stell,” Jo said. “Didn’t you get all your beauty sleep last night?” She rubbed her back playfully. She had always doted on her nieces.

Stella made a grumbling sound from within the nest of her arms.

“You can do me a favor if you like and wake Freddie up. He’s still in bed. A couple of bombs and an earthquake should do the trick.”

Another indignant moan and squirm from Stella made Jo stop teasing.

“Shall I make some tea?”

Lorraine nodded, trying not to show her irritation with her sister’s news. Whatever she felt about Malcolm and the way he’d so speedily stepped into Jo’s life eight years ago (although that was almost certainly due to Jo’s impulsiveness at work) and now his sudden retreat, he was the man her sister had chosen to marry, the man who had adopted her son, the man who’d looked after her and supported her financially. And knowing Jo as she did, that was no mean feat.

But she still thought he was a complete shit for deserting his wife.

No doubt, she thought as the kettle boiled, he’d found something younger, something less tarnished by the nagging drudgery of running a large house and bringing up a teenage boy mostly alone while he was living it up in London.

They sat outside in the midmorning sun, the tray set down on the white-painted iron table that she remembered her father sanding and lacquering every couple of years. It was clear to Lorraine that Jo had kept up their mother’s high standards around the place since she’d moved in five years ago. It looked as if she’d worked her fingers to the bone weeding and maintaining the acre of garden. It was immaculate, and the crammed-in shrubs and herbaceous plants were in full bloom. The thick scent of the overhead jasmine winding around the pergola and the nearby thicket of roses made Lorraine feel almost dizzy. She marveled at the patchwork of colored borders that she knew had taken years to mature.

It was nothing like her modest, sun-deprived suburban patch that only ever got used a few times in the summer when they threw a last-minute barbecue for friends or work colleagues, or when she ducked outside for a sneaky cigarette, usually at the end of a long day during an investigation that didn’t allow for any kind of routine. She hadn’t done a scrap of gardening this year, and Adam had only cut the grass a handful of times.

“You’re going to tell me it was an affair, aren’t you,” she probed, but with a casual inflection so it didn’t sound as if she had an issue with the word. Jo wouldn’t respond to an inquisition.

She thought she noticed a small nod.

“You know, if dog-ends grew into flowers, mine would look way better than this,” Lorraine said with a laugh, sweeping her hand out in front of her.

“Yes,” Jo said with a curt nod. “And I mean about the affair, not the dog-ends.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Jo. I hope you kicked him out in a good
and proper village-rousing, suit-slashing display of emasculation, rather than allowing him to slink off with his tail between his legs when no one was looking.”

Jo fished the tea bag out of Lorraine’s mug, added milk, and stirred in some sugar. “He left quietly of his own free will.”

“I bet he bloody did.”

“Lorraine …” Jo sighed. “It’s me having the affair, not him.” She slid the mug toward her sister.

Lorraine took a breath. “I see,” she said, picking up her tea.

The first thing she thought about was the house. It had belonged to their parents. It was their family home—Freddie’s inheritance now. When their father had died ten years ago, their mother, June, had continued to live there for several years. But the place was no good without him, she’d said.
Too big, too empty, too heartbreaking
 …

Too much to cope with, Lorraine suspected but never said.

And then, one day, her mother had packed up a few essentials and, without telling anyone, moved into her trailer on the north Cornish coast. It was a month before they knew where she’d gone. She’d since relocated to a more substantial park home, and had never set foot inside Glebe House again. No one really understood why. It was just the way she was.

In the meantime, she had made arrangements for the property to be signed over entirely to her youngest daughter, as if she were already dead and buried. Lorraine’s theory was that she wanted to leave a family feud in her wake that she could actually witness and enjoy. She gave nothing to Lorraine.

Lorraine had barely finished reeling from the unfairness of this transaction when, without prompting, Jo did the right thing and bought out her stunned sister’s imaginary share—or, rather, Malc bought it out soon after he’d married Jo.

“She’ll have to try harder than that, sis,” Jo had said once the paperwork was finalized.

Lorraine was grateful. There had been no family feud for her mother to enjoy. But the gesture had made her feel indebted to Jo—something she continued to feel uncomfortable about and even, if she was honest, a bit resentful of.

“Tell me he wasn’t … you know, hurting you or anything,” Lorraine said now, taking a sip of tea.

There was silence, interrupted only by the buzzing of insects driven wild by the garden scents. Lorraine had brought this up a couple of Christmases ago, after noticing a pale green bruise around Jo’s upper arm, but had been told in no uncertain terms to let it drop, that she’d bashed herself while hauling the tree inside.

“I just met someone else,” she finally responded. “We clicked. Malc’s job was taking him away all the time. We weren’t really getting on.” She batted a wasp away with her hand, flinching when it returned.

“You were lonely, then?”

“No, I wasn’t lonely.” Jo seemed certain about that.

“Then what?”

“I can’t honestly say,” she replied.

Lorraine wasn’t sure if it was more a case of
won’t
say or that she simply didn’t know. Or, she wondered, was it another of Jo’s manically bad decisions that she would live to regret?

Either way, the moment of finding out had passed because Freddie emerged from the kitchen door, stumbling out onto the terrace wearing pajama bottoms and a tatty blue bathrobe. His feet were bare and huge, Lorraine noted, thinking back to the last time she’d seen him—far too long ago, considering they only lived an hour or so from each other. Every time she saw Jo and Freddie she made a mental promise that she’d come up more often, every month or every couple of months at the very least. But promises soon fell by the wayside when work took over.

“Freddie, my God, you’ve grown another six feet!” Lorraine stood
up. She opened her arms wide, trying to ignore the pained expression that spread across her nephew’s face.

Freddie absorbed the hug as best he could. Lorraine was grateful for that. She released his limp body and held him at arm’s length. She thought he looked a little pale, washed out, and he smelled of sleep.

“You look well,” she said tentatively, with a forced grin and a wink at Jo. “What’s your mum been feeding you?”

Freddie laughed pleasantly, humoring his aunt. He’d always been a good-mannered boy, brought up properly by his mum and stepdad. By
Jo
, Lorraine thought to herself, not wanting to give Malc too much credit. She hoped by the end of the week’s stay she would know more about what had gone wrong, but for now she wasn’t entirely prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. There must be a good reason for Jo to have acted this way, she told herself.

“You look well too, Aunty Lorraine,” he said, pulling the bathrobe tightly around his chest. He folded his arms, wrapping himself up as if it were winter rather than the seventy or so degrees it must already be.

“What’s the plan before we go to the theater this afternoon, then?” Jo said to her son in an expectant way.

Lorraine knew that tone of voice well, having used it on her girls many times. It contained the vague hope that the morning might consist of something other than lounging around watching TV, and military maneuvers on the fridge every half hour.

Freddie shrugged. His hand paddled through his hair, as if sweeping away the idea that he might be required to do something useful. “Dunno. Not sure I’m coming. I haven’t woken up yet.” He shifted from one foot to the other and his eyes narrowed to slits in the sunlight. He was clearly wishing that he hadn’t come outside.

“Did you say hello to Stella?” Jo asked him.

At the mention of his young cousin, Freddie allowed a slight grin.
“Yeah, but she’s asleep at the kitchen table. Sensible girl.” That endearing laugh again, followed by another ruffle of his unruly blond hair. There was nothing short back and sides about it.

“Why don’t you take her up to the Manor?”

Lorraine immediately noticed the change in her sister’s voice. It was lighter, expectant.

“What for?” Freddie said.

Jo hesitated. “You know,” she said, looking across the garden, shielding her eyes with her hand. “Take Stella to see the horses or something. Maybe you’ll bump into Lana. It’s such a nice morning. There’s no point spending it indoors.”

Freddie made a noise—a cross between a laugh and a snort. He stared at the ground and shook his head a couple of times. “Yeah, OK, I’ll take Stella out. But you wake her up.” He turned and disappeared through the French doors into the darkness of the kitchen.

Once he was out of earshot, Jo frowned. “How do you think he seemed?” she asked.

“Tall,” Lorraine replied flippantly. “Why?”

Jo wrapped her fingers around her mug. She brought it to her mouth and took a long sip, taking a moment to gaze around the garden again. Lorraine could see she wasn’t admiring the flowers, rather trying to figure out how to say what was on her mind.

“I’ve been worried about him, that’s all.”

“How come?”

“He’s just not been himself recently. He’s quiet, sullen, rude even. Some days he doesn’t even get out of bed. And he’s stopped seeing his mates.”

“Sounds like a normal eighteen-year-old. Girl troubles, perhaps?”

“I wish,” Jo said. “That would mean he’d actually made an effort, bothered to go out, meet friends, socialize, be normal. He’s just spent all his time in his room on his computer the last few months.”

“Probably just a phase.” Lorraine looked at her sister, admired her deep blue eyes and glossy blond hair, and sighed. “But maybe he’s
taken your separation harder than you thought. He is really close to Malc.”

Jo shifted uncomfortably. “I wondered about that too, but he was like that before Malc left.” She rubbed her eyes, and when she looked at Lorraine again, there was real fear in her face. “I often hear him crying,” she said. “Up in his room. Not just normal crying, but a deep, soul-ripping, aching crying.” There was a pause. “It scares me.” She paused again. “You know, after everything, I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to him.”

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