Angus never found out, not of his own volition: I ended the perfunctory affair, and simply told my husband, because the guilt was too much, and, probably, because I wanted to punish my husband. See how lonely I have been. And the irony is that my hurtful confession saved us, it refueled our sex life.
Because, after that confession, his perception of me reverted: now I wasn’t just a boring, bone-weary, conversation-less new mother anymore; I was once again a prize, a sexual possession, a body carnally desired by a rival. Angus took me back; he seized me and recaptured me. He forgave me by fucking me. Then we had our marital therapy; and we got our show back on the road. Because we still loved each other.
But I will always wonder what permanent damage I did. Perhaps we simply hid the damage away, all those years. As a couple, we are good at hiding.
And now here I am: back in the attic, staring at all the hidden boxes that contain the chattels of our dead daughter. But at least I have decided something: storage. That’s what we will do with all this stuff.
It is a cowardly way out, neither one thing nor the other, but I cannot bear to haul Lydia’s toys to far northern Scotland—why would I do that? To indulge the passing strangeness of Kirstie? Yet consigning them to oblivion is cruel and impossible.
One day I will do this, but not yet.
So storage it is.
Enlivened by this decision I get to work. For three hours I box and tape and unpack and box things up again, then I grab a quick meal of soup and yesterday’s bread, and I pick up my mobile. I am pleased by my own efficiency. I have one more duty to do, just one more doubt to erase. Then all this silliness is finished.
“Miss Emerson?”
“Hello?”
“Um, hi, it’s Sarah. Sarah Moorcroft?”
“Sorry. Sarah. Yes, of course. And call me Nuala, please!”
“OK…” I hesitate. Miss Emerson is Kirstie’s teacher: a bright, keen, diligent twenty-something. A source of solace in the last horrible year. But she has always been “Miss Emerson” to the kids—and now to Kirstie—so it always seems dislocating to use her first name. I find it persistently awkward. But I need to try. “Nuala.”
“Yes.”
Her voice is brisk; it is 5 p.m. Kirstie is in after-school club, but her teacher will still have work to do.
“Uhm. Can you spare a minute? It’s just that I have a couple of questions, about Kirstie.”
“I can spare five, it’s no problem. What is it?”
“You know we are moving very soon.”
“To Skye? Yes. And you have another school placement?”
“Yes, the new school is called Kylerdale, I’ve checked all the Ofsted reports, it’s bilingual, in English and Gaelic. Of course it won’t be anything like St. Luke’s, but…”
“Sarah. You had a question?”
Her tone is not impatient. But it expresses busyness. She could be doing something else.
“Uh, yes. Sorry, yes, I did.”
I stare out of the living-room window, which is half-open.
The rain has stopped. The tangy, breezy darkness of an autumn evening encroaches. The trees across the street are being robbed of their leaves, one by one. Clutching the phone a little harder, I go on,
“Nuala, what I wanted to ask was…” I tense myself, as if I am about to dive into very cold water. “Have you noticed anything odd about Kirstie recently?”
A moment passes.
“Odd?”
“You know, er, odd. Er…”
This is pitiful. But what else can I say? Oh, hey, Miss Emerson, has Kirstie started claiming she is her dead sister?
“No, I’ve seen nothing odd.” Miss Emerson’s reply is gentle. Dealing with bereaved parents. “Of course Kirstie still misses her sister, anyone can see that, but in the very challenging circumstances I’d say your daughter is coping quite well. As well as can be expected.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I have just one last question.”
“OK.”
I steel myself, once again. I have to ask about Kirstie’s reading. Her rapid improvement. That too has been bugging me.
“So, Nuala, what about Kirstie’s skill levels, her development. Have you noticed anything different, any recent changes? Changes in her abilities? In class?”
This time there is silence. A long silence.
Nuala murmurs, “Well…”
“Yes?”
“It’s not dramatic. But there is, I think—I think there’s one thing I could mention.”
The trees bend and suffer in the wind.
“What is it?”
“Recently I’ve noticed that Kirstie has got a lot better at reading. In a short space of time. It’s a fairly surprising leap. And yet she used to be very good at maths, and now she is… not quite so good at that.” I can envisage Nuala shrugging, awkwardly, at her end of the line. She goes on, “And I suppose you could say that is unexpected?”
I say, perhaps, what we are both thinking: “Her sister used to be good at reading and not so good at maths.”
Nuala says, quietly, “Yes, yes, that is possibly true.”
“OK. OK. Anything else? Anything else like this?”
Another painful pause, then Nuala says: “Yes, perhaps. Just the last few weeks, I’ve noticed Kirstie has become much more friendly with Rory and Adelie.”
The falling leaves flutter. I repeat the names. “Rory. And. Adelie.”
“That’s right, and they were”—Nuala hesitates, then continues—“well, they were Lydia’s friends, really, as you no doubt know. And Kirstie has rather dropped her own friends.”
“Zola? Theo?”
“Zola and Theo. And it was pretty abrupt. But really, these things happen all the time, she’s only seven, your daughter, fairly young for her year.”
“OK.”
My throat is numbed. “OK,” I repeat. “OK. I see.”
“So please don’t worry. I wouldn’t have mentioned this if you hadn’t asked about Kirstie’s development.”
“No.”
“For what it’s worth, Sarah, my professional guess is that Kirstie is, in some way, compensating for the absence of her sister, almost trying to be her sister, so as to replace her, to moderate the grief. Thus, for instance, she has worked to become a better reader, to fill that gap. I’m not a child psychologist—but, as I understand it, this might not be unusual.”
“No. No. Yes.”
“And all children grieve in their own way. This is probably just part of the healing process. So, when are you leaving? It’s very soon, yes?”
“Yes,” I say. “This weekend.”
The phone feels heavy in my hand.
I gaze at the elegant houses across the street; the parked cars glinting under the streetlights. The twilight is now complete. The sky is clear. I can see all the many plane lights circling London, like little red sparks: rising from a vast and invisible fire.
Chapter 4
Angus Moorcroft parked outside the Selkie Hotel, climbed from his cheap, tinny rental car—hired last night at Inverness Airport—and gazed across the mudflats, and the placid waters, to Torran. The sky was clean of cloud, giving a rare glimpse of northern sun: on a cold November day. Despite the clarity of the air, the cottage was only just visible, peering above the seaweedy rocks, with the white lighthouse behind.
With a hand shielding the sun, Angus squinted at his family’s new home. But a second car disturbed his thoughts—squealing to a stop, and parking. An old blue Renault.