“You’ve had a lot of dealings, have you?” asks Rowan, glancing up to see another of the enthusiastic writers promising to get in touch on Facebook. Behind her is well-built blonde woman in a waist-length Harrington jacket and bike leathers, who he hadn’t noticed during the talk. She looks back as she follows the older woman out the door. There’s a toughness to her, as if she’s been hit plenty without ever tiring of hitting back. She gives the older woman a squeeze on the shoulders, congratulating her for something.
“All swine?” he asks, looking back to Catherine.
“Not you, I’m sure.”
“Oh yes. Worst of the lot. Don’t talk to me, I have the integrity of a particularly sneaky gutter rat. I mean the sort of rat that other rats are disappointed in – like they ask him how he could stoop so low. That’s where I’m at.”
“You’re very clever,” says Catherine, and a tiny alarm sounds, way back in some distant bell-tower in his mind. Just for a second, she’d sounded like she was mocking him. He swills the thought around like mouthwash and spits it back out. He’s thought the worst of people before and it has always cost him dear. He wants to get tonight over with. A drink and a joint by the open fire and brief bit of basking in an okay day.
“Am I boring you?” asks Catherine, ducking into his line of sight. “Oh God, I am, I know I am. Terence is always telling me that I’m such a bore. I’m sure you must talk to so many interesting people, must just be such a snooze-fest. You drifted off right in front of me …,”
“That is unforgivable of me,” stuttered Rowan, genuine in his remorse. “I was thinking of what you were saying, actually and my brain just followed it because it was interesting…,” he realises he is recovering splendidly, “…that happens to me sometimes – I’ll follow a good idea like I’m a butterfly collector and it’s a High Brown Fritalarry …,”
“A what?” laughs Catherine.
“Oh it’s quite rare, I assure you. You’re not a butterfly catcher, are you? I literally only have one point of reference for butterflies. No further technical tames. I’d be denounced as a fraud by any lepidopterist..,”
“You do make me laugh,” smiles Catherine. She glances at Imogen, distracted. “I really do have to get Imogen home,” she says, squirming. “Terence will want supper. It’s Thursday, you see. He has his meetings on Thursdays.”
Beside her, Imogen looks up, eyes full of scorn. “Yeah, whatever.”
“They were supposed to the pictures tonight,” whispers Catherine, mouthing each word. “She was a bit disappointed. This was a poor second.”
Imogen nudges her stepmum’s leg. Gives her a look of mild interest then slowly turns to look at Rowan. “It was all right. He’s not that funny, but I liked it when you talked about the dead people.”
Catherine cringes. “I’m sorry …,”
“She’s a sweetie, she really is.” He drops his gaze, suddenly bashful. “I’d like to talk to you again. How do I get in touch with you?”
“Oh I don’t think Terence would …,”
“I promise, no funny business. I’ve a book project on the go and I need some respite.”
“Really, there’s no way …,”
Feeling her fading from him, he makes an impulsive lunge. “Did I hear your dad’s a vicar? I’m sure somebody said that while I was doing the signing. It’s just, well, a character I’m struggling to get to grips with, she has a similar back-story to you and I really think you could help me find her voice.”
She cocks her head as if somebody has tugged her hair. She looks frightened. “I don’t think Terence would like that.”
“It could be a secret,” he whispers, trying to be charming.
“No,” she shakes her head, mouth a tight line. “No, I can’t do secrets.|”
Rowan backs off, hands raised. He can feel the opportunity fading from his grasp. “It’s okay, I won’t push. I just need some company that’s all and you seem like you might be good to talk to.”
“I’, really not sure …,”
“Let’s not get into that again.” He starts to reach into his pocket for his cards and realises that to do so would be to take the skin off his hands. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, “Could you reach into this pocket and grab it …,” He nods at his pocket and replays how everything that he’s just said and done must have seemed to somebody who doesn’t know that their opposite number has badly injured hands.
Imogen is sniggering and Catherine doesn’t seem to know what to make her face do. “I don’t think Terence would like …,”
“He said!” snorts Imogen, and something high in saturated fats blasts out of her nostril. “He asked you to put your hand in his pocket! Oh my God, dad’s gonna do one …,”
“Please,” hisses Catherine. “Please don’t …,”
Rowan runs his teeth along the back of his teeth. “I only wanted to give you my card,” he says, deflating.
“I know,” she says, meeting his eyes. “I read about your hands.”
“I thought you didn’t know about me before tonight?” he asks, and immediately wonders if he was wrong to catch her in the lie.
Unexpectedly, Catherine reaches into his pocket and retrieves the card. She twirls it in her fingers, her manner suddenly less mumsy and mouse-like. She grins at him, impish and considerably more attractive. “Thanks for tonight. You’ve inspired me.”
“Sorry?” he asks, confused.
“I’m going to hand it in,” she says, proudly. “My story. Violet’s not here to object, is she? Had to go running off looking into things nobody wants to remember. I want people to hear the truth – or the way I remember it, at least. ”
On the drive home, Snowdrop reaches into Rowan’s pocket and stops the recording device. He feels her do it but doesn’t comment or move. He’s hugging himself, cold in the passenger seat, icy wind whistling through the blowers and condensation streaking the windows. Driving, Serendipity stares into nothingness, her thoughts seemingly lost in the churning black sky and the brooding mass of the fells. She doesn’t see Snowdrop slip the folded wedge of paper into her uncle’s coat. Four pages, double-spaced, A4. Printed black on white and folded lengthwise. Snowdrop is still tucking it in when her mum spins around to ask her if she is okay, and telling her it would be straight to bed when they get home. Snowdrop smiles back madly, wide eyes and a too-wide grin. Immediately she directs her mum’s attention back skywards, pointing to some invisible kestrel hovering above a tar-black tree. Quickly, Snowdrop tucks the gleaming white fold of paper inside the dark folds of the coat. Rowan squeezes her fingers through the fabric. She breathes out, relieved. The last thing she wants is for her mum to spot the words ‘by Catherine Marlish’ on the title page. She doesn’t want to get caught before Rowan has a chance to read it. She doesn’t want to have stolen it from the pile of papers for nothing.
29
Sunday, November 3, 1991
Allerdale Private Hospital, Kendal
10.04am
Eve wakes up like a switch has been flicked. A moment before there had been bright lights and screeches and the desperate, rushing noise of tyres on wet gravel. There had been words; prayers and pleas, but they were just background chatter; a smudge of blurred pencil strokes, bisected clean by that one, inescapable voice. He’d told her to stay. To stay, in the place between the darkness and the light.