Ann of the nightmares was a terrifying and vengeful figure, with her raised finger and her black eyes. Ann of the Swan at Radcot – Ann as Lily now saw her at the Vaughans – was a different Ann altogether. She was quiet. She did not stare, nor point, nor dart vindictive looks. She gave no appearance of being set on harming anyone, let alone Lily. This Ann who had come back was much more like Ann as she used to be.
For two hours Lily sat on the steps with the darkness of the sky pressing at the window and the rush of the river in her ears. She thought of Ann who came from the river, dripping horror on to the floorboards. She thought of Ann by the fireplace at Buscot Lodge in her blue wool dress. By the time the watermark on the floor had merged with the general gloom, she had not organized her puzzlement into a question, and she was a long way from finding any answers. All she was left with when she rose stiffly and took her coat off to go to bed was a deep and impenetrable mystery.
A Mother’s Eyes
SOMETHING HAPPENS AND then something else happens and then all sorts of other things happen, expected and unexpected, unusual and ordinary. One of the ordinary things that happened as a result of the events at the Swan that night was that Rita came to be the friend of Mrs Vaughan. It began when she heard a knock at her door and found Mr Vaughan on the doorstep.
‘I wanted to thank you for everything you did that night. If it weren’t for you and your excellent care – well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.’ He placed an envelope on the table – ‘A token of our thanks!’ – and asked her to come to Buscot Lodge to check the child’s health again. ‘We took her to the doctor in Oxford – he told us she is none the worse for her ordeal, but still, a weekly examination will do no harm, eh? That’s what my wife wants too – it will be good for our peace of mind, if nothing else.’
Rita fixed a day and time with him and, when he had gone, opened the envelope. It contained a generous payment, large enough to reflect the Vaughans’ wealth and the significance of their daughter’s life, and small enough not to be embarrassing. It was just right.
The agreed day for Rita’s visit to Buscot Lodge was one of blustery rain that excited the surface of the river, turning it into an ever-changing ribbon of pattern and texture. She arrived at the house and was shown into a pleasant drawing room: the yellow wallpaper was bright, comfortable armchairs were arranged agreeably around a welcoming fire, and a large bay window overlooked the garden. On the hearthrug, Mrs Vaughan was lying on her stomach, turning the pages of a book for the child. She rolled over and sprang up in a single agile movement and took both Rita’s hands in hers.
‘How can we thank you? The doctor in Oxford asked all the same questions as you did and carried out all the same tests. I said to my husband, “You know what that tells us, don’t you? Rita is as good as any doctor! We must have her come once a week and check that all is as it should be.” And here you are!’
‘It is natural after everything that has happened that you don’t want to take any chances.’
Helena Vaughan had never had a female friend in her life. Her limited exposure to the company of adult women in drawing rooms had entirely failed to convince her it was a thing to be relished. Decorum and the subdued manners of a lady were lost on the girl who grew up in a boatyard, and that is why Mr Vaughan had been so taken with her – in her exuberance and robust enjoyment of outdoor life, she reminded him of the girls he had grown up with in the mining territory of New Zealand. But in Rita, Helena recognized a woman who had a purpose beyond the drawing room. There were a dozen years between them and much else to make them different, yet Helena felt inclined to like Rita, and the inclination was mutual.
The little girl, who looked rather different now in her blue dress with its white collar and her blue-and-white embroidered shoes, had looked up expectantly on hearing the door open. There was a flare of interest in her eyes that faded on seeing Rita and she returned her attention to the pages. ‘You carry on looking at the book together,’ Rita said, ‘and I’ll check her pulse while she’s distracted. Not that I really need to – it’s so obvious she is healthy.’
That was true. The girl’s hair was now gleaming. She had a faint but distinct rosy glow to her cheeks. Her limbs were sturdy and her movements purposeful and deft. She lay on her stomach, like Mrs Vaughan, propped up on her elbows, and her feet in their embroidered indoor shoes swayed in a criss-cross motion in the air above her bent knees. Without a word, but with every air of understanding, she looked at the pages as Mrs Vaughan guided her attention to this and that in the pictures.
From the nearest armchair Rita leant to take hold of the child’s wrist. The girl glanced up in surprise, then returned her attention to the book. The child’s skin was warm to the touch and her pulse was firm. Rita’s mind was occupied with counting the beats and eyeing the hands of her watch as they ticked around the face, but the undercurrents stirred with the memory of falling asleep in the armchair at the Swan, with the little girl on her lap.
‘Everything entirely as it should be,’ she said, and let the warm wrist go.
‘Don’t leave yet,’ Helena said. ‘Cook will be bringing us eggs and toast in a minute. Can’t you stay?’
Over breakfast they continued to talk about the child and her health. ‘Your husband told me she has not spoken?’
‘Not yet.’ Mrs Vaughan did not sound concerned. ‘The Oxford doctor said her voice will come back. It might take six months, but she will talk again.’
Rita knew better than most that doctors can be reluctant to admit it when they do not have the answer to a question. If no good answer presents itself, some will sooner give a bad answer than no answer at all. She did not tell Mrs Vaughan this.
‘Would you say Amelia’s speech was normal before?’
‘Oh, yes. She babbled the way two-year-olds do. Other people didn’t always understand, but we did, didn’t we, Amelia?’
Helena’s eyes were drawn constantly to the child, and every word she spoke, whatever the subject, came out of a smiling mouth, for it seemed the mere sight of the girl was enough to make her happy. She cut the child’s toast into soldiers and encouraged her to dip them into the egg yolk. The girl set about eating with grave attention. When the yolk was gone, Helena placed the spoon in the child’s hand for the white and she dabbed it ham-fistedly into the eggshell. Helena watched the girl with contented absorption, and whenever she turned to Rita, the same smile played around her mouth. The happiness that had come with the girl was one she shared profligately, but when Rita felt the radiant smile alight on her, its touch filled her with misgivings. Ordinarily it would have been a joy to see a young woman so happy, especially after lengthy sorrow, but Rita could not help feeling fearful. She had no desire to puncture Helena’s joy, but duty bound her to remind Helena that there was a degree of precariousness in the situation.
‘What of Mr Armstrong and his missing child? Is there any news?’
‘Poor Mr Armstrong.’ Helena’s pretty face fell into a frown. ‘I feel for him. There is no news, none at all.’ She sighed in a way that made plain how heartfelt her sympathy was, yet at the same time it seemed to Rita that she made no connection between Mr Armstrong’s pain and her own joy. ‘Do you think a father feels it as a mother does? The loss, I mean? And the not-knowing?’
‘It depends on the father, I should think. And the mother.’