He hears Snowdrop running around from the rear of the car to join him, her feet made elegantly clunky buy big rainbow-patterned Doc Martens. She’s paired them with polka-dot tights and a pair of dungarees. Her brown charity-shop Duffel coat gives off the slight aroma of moist canine but Rowan finds it quite a warm, comforting scent. He feels Serendipity press against him as they troop across the driveway towards the bright lights of the big front door. She smells good; all home baking and cherry tobacco. He leans towards her, rubbing her head with his own. The hessian of her chunky coat is tickly against his cheek. He’s overcome with a sudden gratitude for her; her presence in her life, her enduring affection for him despite his countless failings and absences. He wants to say something kind but can’t seem to find the words. He’s always been better written down.
“You look nice, Dippy,” he manages. “Thanks for coming.”
She looks pleased and makes a show of tossing the tassels of her woolly hat, offering a glance at the purple-grey dreadlocks that snake down into the hood of her denim jacket. Serendipity is always fun to look at. Tonight, she’s wearing a pleated tartan skirt and mismatched knee-socks: her pink toddler knees turning white in the teeth of the rain. Her make-up, phone, purse and snacks are stuffed into a bag-pack that bears the legend ‘So Geek – So Chic’. She’ll be 45 on her next birthday.
Rowan looks up as two glowing white headlamps rake through the darkness, illuminating high walls and pointed black spikes. Rowan thinks of searchlights. He looks at the rain-slicked vehicles lining on the grand driveway. Range Rovers cheek-by-jowl with tatty farm vehicles and utilitarian hatchbacks. The new arrival is a boxy people-carrier. Rowan glimpses a dint in the bonnet on the offside. He catches sight of the passenger: a small, pale-faced woman with glasses and frizzy hair. The tall, angular-looking man at the wheel gives a little flick of a salute by way of greeting. Rowan is aghast to see he’s also wearing driving gloves.
“That’s Catherine,” says Serendipity, leaning over. “You’re in luck”
Despite her initial reservations, Serendipity has embraced Snowdrop’s foray into Rowan’s world and is now keen to see where their little investigation might go. She doesn’t seem to be able to conceive of it as an actual marketable story – something for the page or the screen. But she’d like to find out what happened to the three girls thirty years ago and whether it prompted Violet to seek out the services of her shamanic practitioner friend. She’s on nodding terms with Catherine Marlish, and has managed to flesh out her knowledge of the vicar’s daughter through a few conversations with the most indiscreet of the local gossips. She seems eager to fill in the gaps for Rowan, despite his repeated assurance that he just wants to get this evening over with, then sink onto the sofa with a warm whisky and a cold compress.
“That must be her man, driving,” says Serendipity. “Terence. One ‘R’, which tells you all you need to know.”
“Dippy, I’m trying to concentrate …,”
“Works at the power station. Some kind of engineer. They’ve been together a couple of years. He’s got a daughter from a first marriage but Catherine’s never had kids. She’s still tied to the apron strings by the sound of it – lives in Mum and Dad’s pocket. She’s got her own place – Terence lives there now too – but she’s home at the vicarage in Seascale most of her time, so I’m told… oh look out, here’s trouble …,”
The security light above the arch spurts into life as the front door opens, eclipsing the warm sepia lamplight which bleeds out through the stained glass. A broad-shouldered, thick-set woman stalks onto the porch like a ship’s captain demanding a closer view of the approaching icebergs. She’s all pleated skirt and comfortable, wide-fitting shoes. Her brown jacket is fastened over a soft plum-coloured jumper and even from this distance, Rowan can tell that the jewel which sparkles on the surface of the locket around her neck, is very real. Two cats streak out from the open doorway behind her. Rowan would like to think of them as pets seeking a breath of fresh air, but the speed with which they move suggests they’ve been held captive for some terrible purpose.
“You must be the writer,” she says, over the sound of rain hitting stone. “I’m Marjorie. Anybody who knows me will vouch for the fact I’m an easy-going individual but it had been hinted during the last meeting that perhaps tonight I would be giving the address. Goodness knows I’ve waited long enough.” She waves a hand airily. “This is my house, by the way. It’s Glebe. A lot of people say Globe, which suggests either an epidemic of myopia, or that nobody has the common sense to concentrate any more. I have a granddaughter who simply will not sit still! Can’t concentrate – always has to have something going bibbety-bip in her hands. I’ve banned it from the house.” She frowns, a deep groove in her forehead, like a coin-hole in a slot machine. “Everybody seems late tonight so it’s not really a problem. Still, one does think that perhaps Moses miscounted. Thou Shalt Be Punctual would have made such a difference.”
Despite the rain, rowan, Dippy and Snowdrop stand still, shoulders hunched, each seemingly disinclined to walk up the steps to receive their less than enthusiastic greeting. Rowan detected Surrey in the accent. He has a feeling he isn’t far from a kitchen with an authentic Italian barista machine and fancies that the residents of this lavish pad have their courgettes and hummus delivered in wicker baskets.
“Well, don’t dither. They’re waiting for you.” She glares at the newcomers with eyes that make Rowan think of the cheap nylon bears won at the fair. Her mouth is a glossy smear of red jam and the corners dip further down in tandem with each noticeable augmenting of her nostrils. Her gimnlet gaze sweeps left and the nostrils flare like an exhausted horse. “Oh, how delightful. I see Ms Marlish has deigned to bring another infant. How nice that will be for everybody”. She looks a hole in Snowdrop. “I suppose you will have somebody to talk to at least. But don’t touch the piano if you’re eating sticky sweets – it’s just been French polished.”
Rowan turns to look at where Catherine and a doughy, bowl-haired girl of seven or eight are removing a treasure-trove of items from the rear of the people-carrier. Catherine is gathering up water-bottles and food wrappers. A fistful of discarded paper and a white carrier-bag flutter out of the door and are whipped away on the wind, tangling in the branches of a dark, spiky tree. In the driving seat, the man Rowan assumes to be Terence is smoothing his hair in the little vanity mirror. As Rowan watches, Catherine straightens up, arms full of assorted detritus. The girl – a vague outline in a school uniform and an anorak – stands mutely beside her. Catherine moves to the driver’s seat, perhaps intending to say goodbye. She has to dart backwards as Terence slams into reverse and screeches back across the gravel. He could easily have crushed both Catherine’s toes, and the girls. Rowan glares a hole in the side of his head as he drives past, giving the same cheery salute.
“Well,” mutters Rowan. “What a fucking knob.” He puts his hand out for Snowdrop, who has the sense to take it softly. “Go see if she needs a friend,” he says, leaning down to her ear. “Not for the story – just because she might really need it.” He stands up again to find Serendipity smiling at him.
“You’re not such a bad sort, Rowan.”
Mrs Hawkins leads them into a lavish, high-ceilinged entrance hall. Beneath deep, Arabic rugs, the floor is flagged with rough, local stone; a checkerboard of dark greys and boggy greens. The walls, a toned-down teal, form a gallery space for huge, gold-framed landscapes, interspersed with fine lithographs and a handful of blocky, inexpert oil paintings; portraits that appear to have been done using the back of a spoon as both paintbrush and mirror.