Читать книгу: «Traces of Her»

To Liam, Daniel, Luke, Lucy & Janni.

Prologue
2001

She lies on the sand dressed in yellow satin, a ring of sodden flowers clinging to her blonde hair like seaweed. The pendant around her slim neck says ‘Mummy’ – a gift from Willow.

Grasses stir in the howling wind and a mist rolls in from the Celtic Sea, moving over her lifeless body – ghosts waiting to take her hand and lead her away from this lonely place where seagulls cry.

A man will come soon. He walks his border collie at the same time each morning along the same sandy path that edges the sea in Bostagel, and today will be no different.

He will stride with the aid of his stick; grey hair flapping in the wind, calling after his dog. Content with his lot.

Then he will see her body, and her sister’s wedding dress folded neatly on the rocks. The shock will stay with him forever.

He will call the police.

Sirens will pierce the silent air.

The youngest Millar girl is dead. Stabbed repeatedly.

‘Rest in peace, young Millar girls,’ they will say.

Chapter 1
ROSE
Now

‘Willow! Thank God,’ I say, my mobile pressed to my ear. She’s disappeared before. In fact, her ability to take off without explanation is something we’ve learned to live with over the last few years.

‘Rose,’ she says. ‘Rose I’m …’ Her voice is apprehensive, and I imagine her twirling a strand of her long blonde hair around her finger, something she’s done since childhood. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t called before.’

‘Well, you’re calling now. That’s what’s important,’ I say, always aware how fragile she is. ‘And it’s good to hear your voice, Willow.’ It’s only been a month, but I’ve missed her.

I drop down onto the edge of the sofa, my eyes flicking to the photograph above my open fireplace: me at fifteen – lanky, with lifeless hair and acne; Willow, a beautiful child of three sitting on my knee, her expression blank, bewildered. It was the day I met her.

‘We had no idea if you were OK,’ I say, although there was nothing new there. In fairness, she put a couple of generic updates on Facebook about a week ago. ‘Where are you?’

‘Cornwall.’

‘Cornwall?’

‘I’m staying at a cottage in Bostagel near Newquay …’ She breaks off, and I sense she has more to say, but a silence falls between us.

‘Why didn’t you call or text?’ I ask.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘The signal’s erratic down here. And, if I’m honest, I needed to get my head straight before I spoke to any of you about …’ She stops.

‘About what, Willow?’ I clear my throat. ‘About what?’

‘It’s … well … the thing is, someone paid for me to stay here until August.’

‘Someone?’

‘I don’t know who, Rose. I got a message on Facebook and—’

‘You just took off?’ I can’t hide the irritation at her naivety. ‘Someone paid for you to stay in Cornwall, and you’ve no idea who?’

‘No, but, hear me out, Rose. There’s so much you don’t know,’ she says in a rush. ‘But I can’t tell you over the phone. You never know who’s listening.’

‘Who would be listening?’ I say. My voice cracks. I love her so much, but she has no self-awareness – no sense of self-preservation. ‘Listen come home. We can talk here.’

‘I can’t. I’m so close.’

‘Close to what?’ My anxiety is rising. ‘Is everything OK?’

‘Yes. I’m fine. Gareth is here.’

‘Who’s Gareth?’

‘He’s been helping me.’ A pause. ‘Please come to Cornwall, Rose. Please. I’ll explain absolutely everything once you’re here.’

A lump rises in my throat, blocking my efforts to say no, and a sudden strangling fear she could be in some sort of danger grabs me. I rise and pace the lounge, raking my fingers through my hair. The sun beating on the windowpane hurts my eyes. I drag the curtains hard across the glass, and the room plunges into a depressive grey haze.

‘Rose?’

‘Yes. I’m still here.’

‘Well? Will you come?’ There’s a tremor in her voice. ‘I need you right now. Please.’

‘Come back home then,’ I try once more, but I know I’m losing.

‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘I just can’t, Rose. And I know I don’t deserve you – that I drive you all crazy. But I can barely sleep at night for all the stuff going on in my head.’

‘I’ve Becky to think of.’

‘Becky,’ she says, a whimsical ring to her voice at the mention of my teenage daughter. ‘Bring her too.’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Please, Rose,’ she says again. ‘Come. I’m begging you.’ I hear tears in her words and feel myself weakening. She has a childlike quality, often seeming younger than Becky. I’ve felt protective of her from the day I arrived at Darlington House eighteen years ago, when she was all curls and big eyes. She needed me then, and she needs me now.

It’s over five hours from Old Stevenage to Cornwall, but I love driving. It won’t be a problem. And I know I could battle with her for ages, tell her ‘no’ over and over, but, in spite of myself, I will go. It’s impossible to ignore her cry for help – she’s always had that power over me. ‘OK, I’ll come,’ I say.

She sighs with relief. ‘Thanks. You’re amazing, Rose. I’ll explain everything when you get here. There’s so much to tell you.’

‘I can’t come until Saturday, Willow. I don’t break up for the summer until Friday. Will you be OK until then?’

‘Yes. That’s fine … brilliant. I’m so grateful. I can show you the note.’

‘What note?’

There’s a loud knock in the background. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she says, and drags in a breath. ‘I’ll email you my address, and see you at the weekend, yeah? I can’t wait. Love you, Rose.’

The phone goes dead before I can reply.

‘Love you too,’ I whisper, flopping back down on the sofa, and throwing my phone onto the coffee table.

After some moments, my eyes drift to the photo of Willow and me again, and I can almost feel her in my arms, smell the freshness of her golden hair.

*

Dad met Eleanor Winter in the August of 2002 at a conference about the destruction of the rainforest – something they both care about deeply, and bonded over.

I was pleased for Dad, really I was. When Mum died three years before, the weight dropped from his body like a jolly snowman facing the sun. I lost count of the times I caught him crying. He was a shadow of the strong dad who’d brought me up – and all that time I was grieving her loss too.

I liked Eleanor from the off. Softly spoken, tall with bobbed highlighted hair and small grey eyes, she was nothing like my chubby, tiny, fun-loving mum. It was as though Dad had gone out of his way to find Mum’s opposite.

I admit unwanted feelings reached into my head at first – ‘I want my dad to myself’; ‘What would Mum think?’ – that kind of thing. But mainly I was happy for him. At fifteen I was often out with friends, leaving him to wander lonely around our semi in Hitchin – the house I grew up in – feeling guilty I wasn’t there for him 24/7.

That day, the day of the photo, was the first time I’d visited Darlington House in Old Welwyn, an amazing detached house built in the eighteenth century, set in picturesque grounds. I remember it looked even more beautiful that day because of the sprinkling of snow we’d had. I knew it would be a culture shock when we moved in with Eleanor and Willow; that it would never feel like home. But I was prepared to do anything to bring my old dad back.

Dad put down the camera, and Willow shuffled from my knee, and trotted towards her Duplo scattered over the carpet near the French windows. She dropped down onto her bottom, her curls bouncing.

‘That’s a smashing picture of you two girls,’ Dad said, looking at the camera screen and smiling. ‘Take one of me and Eleanor, will you, Rose?’ he went on, handing me the camera. I felt awkward. Forced into another world I’d rather not be in. But still I rose and did as he asked.

As they leaned into each other, his arm around her waist, I knew they were in love. Dad had been through hell, and Eleanor was recently widowed; they deserved a second chance at happiness. I had to support them.

They headed into the kitchen to prepare lunch, and I padded over to Willow, and knelt next to her on the floor. ‘What are you building?’ I asked.

She looked up at me, her blue eyes seeming too big for her face. She’d lost her father six months before, and looked so fragile, as though she might break. She didn’t answer, and I found myself playing with her curls, twirling them around my fingers. ‘You’re so pretty,’ I said.

She looked up at me. ‘Uncle Peter lets me stand on his shoes when we dance.’ Her lips turned upwards.

‘Does he?’ I said, realising I knew nothing about Eleanor’s family. ‘That’s nice.’

‘Mummy’s gone now,’ she said. ‘Uncle Peter’s gone too.’

I glanced over my shoulder, to where laughter leaked from the kitchen. ‘Mummy’s here, she’s making lunch, sweetie,’ I said, stroking a wayward curl from her cheek.

‘No.’ She picked up two yellow bricks and stared at me through watery eyes. ‘Mummy’s an angel,’ she went on, clicking the bricks together.

Chapter 2
AVA
1996

‘You can’t come with us, Ava.’ Gail laughed, and her two friends, all three dressed in skimpy tops and shorts, joined in. ‘Get the bus home.’ With a flick of her blonde ponytail, Gail linked arms with her friends, and in perfect step they made their way through the tourists towards the arcades, the sun beaming down on them.

‘Mum said …’ Ava began, but her sister was out of earshot. And what was the point, anyway? Gail never listened to her.

Mum always said they should meet up after school each day and catch the bus together. And they used to. They used to chat about their school day, as the bus weaved its way towards Bostagel. But their two-year age gap seemed to have grown bigger lately. Since Gail turned sixteen she hadn’t wanted Ava hanging on like a dead leaf on a beautiful oak.

Ava made her way into Kathy’s Café, the aroma of freshly cooked chips bombarding her senses. She couldn’t afford food, so grabbed a drink from the fridge and paid for it.

From a window seat she people-watched. To her, Newquay was just a nearby seaside town – to holidaymakers jostling on the pavement in their sun hats and beachwear, faces scorched from the sun, it was clearly magical.

She cracked open the can of cola and poured the fizzy liquid into a glass, her mind drifting back to Gail. She would start studying for her A-levels in September, and there was no doubting she would sail through them. She’d always been clever, and popular too. Mum’s favourite.

‘Is she your sister?’ The Welsh male voice came from the table behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see a boy of about sixteen. His light brown hair was parted in the middle, hanging like curtains about his pale face, as he played on his Game Boy.

‘Who?’ she asked, but she guessed he meant Gail. Had he watched them from the window?

He didn’t look up from his screen, his thumbs moving fast over the controls. ‘The girl who dumped you.’

‘She didn’t dump me.’

‘If you say so.’

But the boy was right, Gail had dumped her – she was always dumping her. Ava turned back to the window and sipped her drink, aware of the boy’s chair scraping across the floor. He was suddenly beside her, tall and thin, shoving the Game Boy into his jacket pocket. ‘She’s beautiful, your sister,’ he said, thumping down on the chair next to her. ‘My mate fancies her.’

‘Everyone does.’

‘Are you jealous?’

Ava shook her head, avoiding eye contact.

‘You’re pretty too, you know. She just makes more effort. How old are you?’

‘Fourteen.’

‘I bet you’re sick of living in her shadow.’

She felt herself flush. She always did when boys talked to her. ‘That’s complete bollocks.’ She gulped back the rest of her drink, slammed the glass on the table, and rose to her feet. ‘You don’t even know me. Move.’ She thumped his arm. ‘I need to catch my bus.’ She squeezed past him and grabbed her rucksack.

‘What’s your name?’ he said.

She tugged at the hem of her school skirt, as she flung open the café door, the heat of the day warming her face. ‘None of your business,’ she said.

‘Well, I’m Maxen. And if you want my advice, don’t let your sister ruin your life,’ he called after her. ‘Don’t give her that power. Once she has it, you’ll never escape.’

*

A bus drew up at the shelter and Ava jumped onto it. It was empty, apart from an old lady talking to a cat in a crate. ‘We’re nearly there, sweetie,’ she was saying to the mewing feline, her voice too loud as if the cat was deaf. ‘We’ll soon be home.’

As the bus pulled away, Ava slid down in the seat. Perhaps Maxen was right. She needed to find herself – her own life – to move out from under her sister’s shadow. Grow up and get as far away from Bostagel as she could.

She was the youngest of three children, and often felt like the runt of the litter. Never quite belonging. Wishing she’d been born into another family – a family who cared about each other and didn’t spend most of their time arguing.

When she was ten, she’d dreamed of having a brand new mum who baked lemon drizzle cake, and a dad who made everyone laugh, and a golden retriever called Butler, that they walked every day. Ava’s life was a long way from her fantasy. Her mum was cold and unreachable, and her father had taken off just after Ava was born. Gail told her once that it was her fault they no longer had their dad with them – that she was the reason their mum was miserable most of the time.

The bus rocked and jolted on its way, and she looked through the window at the sea spreading endlessly. A flock of oystercatchers had gathered on the rocks and beach, wading through the shallow waves, dipping orange beaks into the sand for food.

Unexpected rain speckled the window like tears, blurring the view. That wouldn’t please the holidaymakers. Ava rested her head on the glass and closed her eyes, imagining the fun Gail and her friends would be having in the arcades, wishing she was there too.

Chapter 3
ROSE
Now

I get up from the sofa and straighten the cushions and tartan throw. Willow’s call has unsettled me, and as I go over her words, trying to make sense of them, a shiver runs through my body.

I pad towards the window and pull back the curtains to let the sun fill the room once more. The small square of grass looks patchy. It hasn’t rained for some time and the plants are wilting. Our house is a new-build, and like most new-builds we haven’t got much garden to worry about. I feel guilty that I’ve neglected such a small area, but I never seem to have the time.

In fact, I’d been looking forward to the days stretched ahead of me once school closed for the summer. I’m fully aware it won’t be a complete break, as there are still lots of things to do that involve the school, but I’d seen it as time out; time to breathe and make up my mind if my school headship is exactly what I want from life.

I’d hoped for plenty of time to work on the garden too, time to paint the staircase, and buy curtains for Becky’s room. I’d hoped to go swimming, read more, and get in touch with old friends. But now my head is consumed with thoughts of going to Cornwall. A strange little laugh escapes me at the absurdity of driving all that way to see Willow, when she should come straight home.

Sudden memories of Willow storming out of Darlington House a month ago, without looking back, fill my head. The raised voices that day. Willow’s pale face as she opened the study door and ran out in tears, leaving Eleanor alone, her shoulders rising and falling in sobs.

Later, I tried talking to Eleanor, to Dad too, but they said together, as though they’d rehearsed it, that it was something and nothing. You know Willow.

I pick up my mobile, and head into the hallway where I pull on my black, low-heeled shoes I’d worn all day at the school and grab my keys.

‘I’m heading out, Becky,’ I call up the stairs, trying to make myself heard above my daughter’s music. ‘Back soon.’

She appears on the landing in black straight-leg jeans and a baggy, grey T-shirt. Her tightly curled black hair hangs to her shoulders. In some ways she reminds me of myself at almost fifteen. Thin and tall, a little awkward in her own skin. But she hasn’t inherited my youthful acne, or my lank, lifeless hair that still needs far too much product to make it even remotely bouncy. Her smooth, unblemished dark complexion and hair are like her father’s, her eyes as brown and appealing as his. There’s no doubt she’s inherited my ex-husband’s looks.

‘Where are you going?’ she says, nibbling her nails. She does that when she’s bored or anxious or just trying to annoy me.

I fiddle with my keys. I want to tell her about Willow later, when my partner Aaron gets home. I intend to call a family meeting, like the day the hamster looked to be on his last legs, or when I got the headship at Mandalay Primary. There will be a small window before Aaron flies out again, and that’s when I’m aiming for.

‘I’m popping over to see Grandpa and Eleanor. I thought we might grab a takeaway later, when Aaron gets home.’

‘Chinese?’ she says with a smile, the glint of her braces telling me she will soon have perfectly shaped teeth.

‘If you like.’ I turn and reach for the door latch, but her heavy footfalls on the stairs behind me tell me I’m going to have company.

‘Wait up!’ she calls. ‘I’m coming with you.’ I sigh as she thumps down on her bottom at the foot of the stairs and pulls her Doc Martens over mismatched socks. I have to turn away. Socks that don’t match unnerve me. ‘I haven’t seen Grandpa and Eleanor for ages,’ she goes on, getting to her feet with the aid of the banister.

She opens the door and I follow her onto the cobbled drive, slipping on my sunglasses.

We’re halfway to Darlington House when I say, ‘Can you look up from your phone for a second, sweetheart?’ I glance at her out of the corner of my eye.

‘Let me answer Tamsyn first, Mum,’ she says. She’s slumped in the passenger seat, thumbs racing over the screen. ‘George dumped her, and she’s thinking of eating her bodyweight in salted caramel ice cream.’ She looks up at me, and with a serious tone says, ‘I can’t let her do it. I don’t want her to get as fat as me.’

‘Why would you even say that? You’re perfect, darling.’ She is. Too thin if anything, and I worry about how she sees herself. Worry that Willow has been her role model for too long.

Moments later she drops her phone into her lap. ‘So, what’s up, Mother?’

‘It’s just, well … Willow called,’ I say, deciding to come straight to the point.

‘Oh my God. Is she OK?’

‘I think so, but—’

‘That’s amazing,’ she cuts in. ‘Is she coming home? Can we see her? Oh, please say we can see her.’ She presses her palms together as though praying. She adores Willow. ‘Please.’

I note how accepting she is. No questions about why Willow hasn’t been in touch for a month. But then she’s like the rest of us. We all know Willow.

‘She’s staying in Cornwall. I’m going down to see her at the weekend.’

‘O-M-G! That’s the best news ever. I can’t wait to see her. It will make the time go quicker until America.’

I still have doubts about her going to the US alone in a few weeks’ time. Her dad is directing a film out there and has invited her over. At first my motherly instincts kicked in. I wanted her to stay at home where she’s safe, and I know Aaron has doubts too. But then he can be a bit overprotective at times. Eventually I agreed she could go, knowing how much she adores her dad. And he’s a good man. He’ll take care of her.

‘The thing is, Becky,’ I say as we make our way down the motorway, ‘I thought I’d go and see Willow alone. Maybe you could stay with Grandpa and Eleanor.’

‘What? Why?’ She folds her arms across her chest, and her glare burns my cheek.

‘Because it will be easier, that’s all.’

‘How? How will it be easier? I can’t believe you would just dump me.’

‘I’m not dumping you.’ I glance at her, but she’s flicked her gaze to the front window, her face set in a scowl.

‘Then let me come,’ she says. ‘Or give me one good reason why not.’

I can’t. My head spins as I indicate and turn left.

‘Stop!’ Becky yells, and I slam my foot on the brake, almost hitting the car in front.

‘Jeez, Mother, it looks as if you pretty much need me to come to keep an eye on you.’

I’m losing the battle. And the truth is I want to spend time with her. ‘OK,’ I say.

‘OK?’

‘You can come.’

‘Fab!’

‘Hang on though, there’s something you need to know first.’ I think out my next words carefully. ‘The thing is, Willow sounded worried about something. I don’t know how she’ll be when we get there.’

Her phone pings, and she picks it up, and reads the screen. ‘For God’s sake, has Tamsyn any idea how many calories there are in three tubs of ice cream?’

I’ve lost her once more.