“Lally, what are you talking about?” Kit moved closer, afraid someone would hear them, and caught a faint whiff of her perfume.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, resisting the urge to touch her.
“Look, I know you’re upset about your parents, but I never—”
“What about my parents?” She’d gone quiet again, but her chest rose and fell with the quick rhythm of her breathing and he knew he’d said the wrong thing.
“Nothing. It’s just that—I heard them talking just now, your
mum and Rose—Nana. They said you were going to stay here tonight, and I thought—”
“Here?” Lally stared at him, uncomprehending. “Sam and me?”
“And your mum.” He didn’t want to add that Rosemary seemed worried that Lally’s dad might do something bad to her mother.
Lally didn’t seem to take in the import of what he’d told her. “But I don’t want to stay here,” she said, stubbornly. “I want to go home.
And I promised—”
“Promised what?” Kit pressed when she didn’t go on.
She shook her head, lifting her hand to the door latch as if coming to a decision. “I’m going out. I’m going to walk to Leo’s, if you really want to know. You can come if you want.”
“My dad would kill me,” Kit said. He might as well have tattooed
“wanker” on his forehead.
“So? My dad gets mad at me all the time.” She threw this out as if it were a badge of honor.
His mind flashed back to the afternoon, walking with his dad, talking to the woman with the boat—Annie—and he knew he could never explain that he didn’t want to lose what he’d felt.
Sounds drifted down from upstairs: the deeper rumble of his father’s voice, Gemma’s lighter tone, a laugh. Toby’s bath must be finished. They would be coming down again, Toby allowed to stay up a bit longer in his pajamas.
Lally had heard them, too. “Come on, hurry,” she hissed at him.
“Wait.” Kit reached for her then, his hand finding the thick fl eece of her coat sleeve. He couldn’t go with her, yet if he didn’t, he’d lose all credibility in her eyes. “Don’t go tonight,” he said, struggling to find a delaying tactic. “Wait till tomorrow. Then I’ll go with you.”
Lally hesitated, then the energy seemed to drain from her. She looked suddenly younger than her fourteen years, and frightened.
Her eyes met his in a plea. “Promise?”
“I promise,” Kit said, and wondered just what sort of trouble he’d bound himself to.
Chapter Thirteen
“I’ve left a ready meal by the microwave,” Althea Elsworthy told her sister, Bea. It was just shy of eight o’clock, and she’d said the same thing, at the same time, every morning for as long as she could remember. It was a necessary part of their ritual, however, and any deviation would cause Bea to grow agitated and have to be calmed down before Althea could leave for the hospital.
“My lunch,” said Bea. “Is it mac cheese?” she added querulously, her broad brow furrowed.
“Yes, and I’ve left an apple for you,” Althea answered with a smile.
It was always mac cheese, but Bea never failed to ask. In the evenings, Althea tried to vary her sister’s diet, but it took coaxing, and she’d long ago decided that the repetitive lunch was a small compromise to make for her sister’s continued independence during the day.
Beatrice Elsworthy had been brain damaged since the age of eight, when she suffered a head injury in the car crash that had killed their father. He had been drinking and, against their mother’s wishes, had insisted on taking the two girls out for a Sunday afternoon ice cream.
At the roundabout nearest their house, he had failed to yield right-of-way to an oncoming lorry. It had been Althea’s turn to ride in the
backseat; she had escaped with a broken arm and a chipped tooth.
Her father’s death had not been punishment enough to assuage her mother’s anger. She’d spent the rest of Althea’s childhood nursing her bitterness as well as her injured younger daughter, until she succumbed to cancer the year Althea graduated from medical school.
Althea had cared for Bea ever since.
Now she settled Bea in her favorite armchair, overlooking the cottage’s back garden. Already she had filled the bird feeders and put out nuts for the squirrels on the old tree stump that served as a feeding table. Bea would spend the morning watching the birds and listening to the radio. At noon she would heat her ready meal, and at one she would turn on the telly, already set to BBC.
The intricacies of the human brain never failed to amaze Althea—why was it that her sister, who was incapable of organizing her own lunch, could name every character on The Archers, or describe in great detail who had appeared on the afternoon chat shows on the telly?
Around four, their neighbor, Paul Doyle, would come across for a cup of tea with Bea, and sometimes they would play simple card games for pennies. Nothing made Bea happier than accumulating a pile of gleaming copper coins, and Althea suspected Paul got them new from the bank, although he’d never admitted doing so.
More and more often lately, she found herself rushing to get home before Paul left, to enjoy a drink and a half hour’s visit in front of the fire. She and Bea had known Paul and his late wife for years, but it was only since he’d retired from his teaching position at a local school the previous year that he’d begun visiting on a regular basis.
Althea told herself it was only natural to enjoy a little companionship. She had never shared her personal circumstances with any of her work colleagues, nor had she any intention of doing so. Pity was the one thing she couldn’t bear. Nor was it justified—she needed Bea just as much as Bea needed her—but her reticence made friendship diffi cult.
Calling the dog, who got up from his rug by the Rayburn and stretched with a popping of joints, she’d just switched on Radio
when the doorbell rang. The dog gave one deep woof and trotted towards the door, his claws clicking on the tiled floor.
Althea frowned. The isolated cottage didn’t invite casual visitors, and Paul seldom called round in the mornings. Giving her sister a pat on the shoulder, she said, “I’ll be right back, love.”
“You won’t leave without telling me?”
“No. I promise.” Althea followed the dog into the front hall, pushing aside his head so that she could crack open the door, then stared in surprise at the woman standing on her doorstep. It took her a moment to place the face, older and thinner than when she had last seen it, but the name clicked just as the woman said, “Dr. Elsworthy? Do you remember me? It’s Annie Le—” She paused, then seemed to correct herself. “Annie Constantine. I’m sorry to bother you at home.”
Not sorry enough to refrain from doing it, Althea thought, but her curiosity was aroused. She’d dealt with Constantine professionally on several occasions when Social Services had been involved in investigating a death, but hadn’t seen her in some years.
She felt the dog’s warm breath on her hip and noted the woman’s anxious glance in his direction. “Don’t mind Dan, he’s quite harm-less,” she said, swinging the door wide enough to allow the dog access to the garden.
“Dan?” asked Annie Constantine, drawing her arms close to her body as the dog pushed past her in pursuit of a squirrel.
Althea smiled to herself. The dog was half Irish wolfhound and half mastiff, and everyone assumed he was called something like Boris or Fang. She had named him Danny Boy, and sang his song to him when they were alone in the car, but she had no intention of sharing her little private joke. Nor was she going to ask the woman in. A stranger’s visit would agitate Bea for days.