‘Gosh, the woods are quite bleak, aren’t they?’ says Mum. ‘They encompass the whole village. I feel like I’m in Little Red Riding Hood.’
‘They can be, especially on a dull day,’ I say.
‘I’m surprised the cottages don’t have names,’ says Mum. ‘Look at all that beautiful wisteria. And the thatched roof. Nine Skelton Place is so … I don’t know.’ She gives a small shudder. ‘Sinister-sounding.’
I know what she means, even though it niggles me that she’s finding fault with everything. It’s not exactly a pretty name. It doesn’t seem to go with our little property. The cottage isn’t very big, and it wouldn’t have been worth as much as Gran’s house in Bristol, but I’ve never lived anywhere so beautiful, so quaint and postcard perfect. The wisteria is out in full force at the moment and wraps around the front of the house, like a dusky lilac feather boa. And from the driveway you can’t see the massive hole in the back garden.
By rights it should be Mum who’s living here, with whatever toy-boy has taken her fancy this time, not me and Tom. I’d offered to pay Mum some money from our savings. She refused. As far as I’m aware Mum doesn’t own another property. She rented the flat where I grew up in Bromley, Kent. She said she didn’t like being tied down but to me it’s always seemed a little … irresponsible.
We still haven’t got around to transferring the deeds into my and Tom’s names. I’d been meaning to broach the subject with Mum before we started work on the kitchen extension but I haven’t quite managed it yet. Just like I haven’t quite managed to bring up the subject of my pregnancy. I’m aware it’s a running theme.
I step out of the car and stretch. My back aches and I feel nauseous. I take in deep lungfuls of country air as Mum and Tom climb out, Mum giggling as her heel gets tangled in the seatbelt and Tom laughing along as he helps her. Tom is so good with people. So patient. I know he’ll make an excellent father. ‘It’s a bit pongy around here,’ she says as she steps onto the driveway. ‘Is that manure?’
I grimace at Tom. As I walk around the car to join them I see someone hovering by the hedge at the end of our driveway. I freeze. It’s that man again. The one I saw the other day lurking by the cottage, and the one I’m sure I saw driving past Gran’s care home.
‘Tom! That man …’ I begin but Tom has noticed him too. He hands Snowy over to Mum.
‘Bloody journalists,’ he mutters under his breath.
‘Why are they still hanging around when the police have no new information?’ I cry. The police haven’t released the information about the cracked skull yet.
‘Oi,’ he shouts, stepping forward. But the man disappears behind the hedge. I watch as Tom darts down the driveway in pursuit. ‘Hey! Wait!’ When he reaches the entrance he stops, looks back at us and shrugs. ‘He’s gone.’
8
Lorna
Lorna watches as Tom hurries towards them. When he reaches Saffy he drapes an arm protectively around her shoulders, and she feels a pang of envy at the bond they obviously share. It was the same with her and Euan, once. But having a baby when they were both still kids themselves took its toll on their relationship. Saffy looks cute in her oversized dungarees, biting her lip. She was always doing that as a kid. Lorna was forever telling her to stop.
‘That was weird,’ Tom says, sounding out of breath. ‘He must be a journalist but why run away when I confronted him? Why not ask us questions?’
Lorna hands him the dog lead with relief. She’s never had an affinity with animals.
Saffy’s face is pinched with concern. ‘I’ve seen him before. The other day,’ she says. She already knows her daughter will be making more of this. Her imagination running wild. Her little worrier. When she was four she got it into her head that a monster or dragon could get into their flat, and Lorna had sat on the edge of Saffy’s bed, every night for a few months, convincing her it wasn’t possible.