‘When the police had gone, and for days afterwards, I kept begging Joan to tell me the truth, but she didn’t change her story. It was almost like she was taking pleasure in implying that I was an unfit mother, that I’d failed to bring my daughter up responsibly, and so was as much to blame for Scarlet’s death as anyone else. But I knew that wasn’t right, and so I kept asking her over and over to tell me the truth.’ As she said the words ‘over and over’， she banged her palm on the table for emphasis, the snaking blue veins twisting over the back of her fragile hand.
‘I had to be careful, though,’ she continued. ‘I knew Joan wouldn’t respond well to being blamed, so even though all I wanted to do was scream at her and slap her until she told me what had really happened, I tried to keep my voice calm. The last thing I needed was for her to clam up, because then I’d never find out how it was that my precious baby had ended up outside the house and alone. I’d been over it constantly in my own head and I couldn’t fit it together in a way that made it hold true. So I kept on and on.
‘In the end, Joan snapped. I had been following her around the house asking my questions and we had come to a stop on the landing at the top of the stairs. She was virtually screaming at me, saying that Scarlet was a contrary little madam, just like I had been, and that I should just accept that.’
Pip noticed that Evelyn’s cheeks were burning from the effort of telling her story. She wanted to reassure her, but it wasn’t her place, not until she had heard it all; maybe not even then. Instead she stayed quiet and let Evelyn continue.
‘So I told her that I couldn’t accept it because I just didn’t believe her. I knew my daughter and I knew she wouldn’t just have wandered off like that. And she was ill that day. All she wanted was to sit on the sofa and have a cuddle with me.’ Evelyn’s eyes glazed over with tears at the thought of her unhappy little girl, wanting her mummy when her mummy wasn’t there. Pip could only imagine the agony of that.
‘I remember what happened next as clearly as if it were yesterday,’ Evelyn said. ‘It was like something out of a film. I was shouting at Joan that I didn’t believe her, and Joan was shouting at me that I hadn’t had to put up with Scarlet’s whingeing and snivelling. I told her she was being ridiculous, that Scarlet was only three, and Joan said that was old enough to know how to behave.’
Evelyn was describing the row so clearly that Pip could imagine the scene. She pictured the two women on the landing outside Scarlet’s bedroom, nose to nose as they screamed at one another.
‘I could see I was getting nowhere,’ continued Evelyn, ‘so I made a huge effort to bring the temperature back down. I asked Joan, as calmly as I could, to just tell me the truth. She didn’t have the stomach for the fight any more than I did. She said Scarlet had been moaning, that she wanted a drink, or something to eat, or was too hot or too cold, and so she had put her outside to play so she could get on with the housework without the constant interruptions, and that was when she had just wandered off into next door’s garden. But, you see, that didn’t make any sense to me. I knew that all Scarlet wanted was to sit quietly with a book because her head cold was making her feel so rotten.’
Pip’s heart was in her throat. She was desperate for Evelyn to reach the story’s resolution, but didn’t dare interrupt. Instead she refilled their cups, even though Evelyn had barely touched her first one.
‘And that’s when it finally dawned on me what had happened,’ Evelyn said, her expression suddenly steely. ‘Joan must have locked her out of the house. The reason why Scarlet didn’t come back inside when she’d had enough, and wandered away into next door’s garden to drown in their pond, was because the door was locked and she couldn’t get in.’
Pip’s mouth fell open. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said, horrified.
If that was what had happened, if Joan really had barred the door against three-year-old Scarlet, then that was unforgivable. And if Evelyn really had killed her sister, surely that would be justification enough. Pip tried to imagine how it would feel to be Joan, knowing you had something like that on your conscience, but she drew a blank. It was, arguably, even worse than the dark shadow on her own conscience.
‘So I confronted Joan with it,’ Evelyn said. ‘I accused her of locking Scarlet out. And as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew I was right. I could see it written all over her face, first regret but then defiance. “Well, you should have been here,” she said, pushing all the blame on to me. “I couldn’t be doing with all her coming and going. She needed to choose a place and stick to it.” She seemed to think this justified what she had done. I didn’t have anything else to say to her then,’ said Evelyn. ‘That was the end of our relationship. There could be no going back from that.’