The Midnight Child Page 5

  We don’t hug as we part. Kim has never been particularly tactile. She loves me, I do know that, but am also aware of her ways: her abrupt manner; her need to be overprotective towards me; and, dare I say it, her contempt for anybody who questions her methods. Instead, we wave goodbye, me watching from my driver’s seat as she swings out of the car park with a screech leaving the smell of burning rubber in her wake.

  * * *

  My God, she has changed. The pale thin girl I remember from so long ago has transformed into an exquisitely graceful creature. No sagging skin, no midriff that hangs over the top of her waistband. I look down at my own middle and pinch a handful of loose flesh, then stare in the mirror at the jowls that cling to the lower half of my jaw and the crow’s feet that appear as I smile. Carrie has none of those things. We are the same age, give or take a couple of years, and yet here she is, looking like somebody who has just stepped off the catwalk. She is a grandmother and yet looks half my age.

  I refuse to go down the route of thinking that it isn’t fair. Such thoughts are childish, maudlin. Instead, I console myself with the fact that despite having a tough few months since losing Warren, and despite spending many years as a child desperate to find out what happened to my brother whilst trying to get over the death of our father, I don’t look too bad. I could look a whole lot worse, the years of worry, the sleepless nights and torment showing in my face. I am average even though I have led a less than average life.

  I step out of the door and try to catch Carrie’s eye as she lifts the toddler out of the car seat and heads up the path to her dad’s house. Her attention is fully focused on the little one in her arms until I shout over, stopping her in her tracks.

  ‘Hi, Carrie. Good to see you after so long.’

  She falters, her mouth slack until her reflexes take over and she grins at me, revealing a row of pearly white, perfectly straight teeth. ‘Grace! Lovely to see you. It’s been such a long time, hasn’t it?’

  I move towards her, anxiety and excitement at seeing her after so long flushing around in my gut. Up close, I can see how the years haven’t left her completely untouched. I can see that Carrie, too, has succumbed to the ravages of time. A small amount of relief washes over me. She is dressed in expensive clothes, has a perfectly made-up face and is full of poise and confidence – no more that timid little child – but underneath it all, she, like me, is a middle-aged woman trying to delay the inevitable trek towards becoming a senior member of society.

  Shame for thinking such thoughts grows in my chest. It is only my own lack of confidence that makes me think the way I do. Kim would never feel this way, constantly doubting herself and her abilities. She would sail through occasions like this one, thinking little of her own appearance, knowing that she is attractive enough, self-assured enough, to carry it off.

  ‘It really has! Too long. And I see you’ve got a little grandson. How did that happen? It was only yesterday we were playing together in your garden.’

  She laughs, her eyes suddenly full of love as she turns and snuggles the little boy into her chest. His white bobble hat contrasts sharply against her red woollen coat.

  ‘Yes, scary, isn’t it?’ She attempts to turn his small body around to face me, twisting her arms as she holds his chunky little shape to her breast. ‘This is Ted. He’s eighteen months old and is visiting Granddad with me to give his mummy and daddy a break.’ She takes a step closer to me. He wriggles in her arms and for one awful moment, I fear she is going to drop him. ‘It’s their wedding anniversary so I thought I’d bring him with me, let them have some time on their own.’

  ‘What a lovely thing to do. So thoughtful.’ My thoughts turn to my own two children and whether or not they will ever give me the gift of grandchildren, allowing me the luxury of babysitting, spending time on my own with them. With Lucy working at Oxford University and still single, and Gavin living on the other side of the world in Perth, Australia, it seems unlikely.

  ‘Well, we have to do what we can for our families, don’t we?’ She stops speaking, her eyes suddenly dipping, the moment fractured as she considers her phrasing. This happens a lot, people who remember Simon and his disappearance, picking over their words, considering each sentence, every single thing they say, in order to preserve my feelings. I’m accustomed to it and although I would like to say it doesn’t bother me, it really does. Nobody should have to overthink things to such a degree before speaking to me. It makes me embarrassed and awkward, as if Simon’s absence, his sudden disappearance all those years ago, is somehow their fault, which it isn’t. This is the problem with being stuck in the past, trapped by my own family history – I attribute everything to Simon even when there is nothing there worth speaking of.

  ‘We do indeed.’ I am breathless, my anxiety levels rising, a flush taking hold in my face. ‘You should call around for coffee while you’re here. Or wine if that’s your preference.’ I manage a sly wink and she smiles.

  ‘That would be fantastic. I could get this little wriggler to bed and we could maybe spend an hour or so chatting. And drinking.’

  We both laugh. I realise that we have more in common than I first thought. She seems like easy company. Not at all the sullen quiet child I remember from all those years ago, and a pleasant change from Kim’s abrupt manner and curt ways. It will do me good to relax a little, chat about things that might help to take my mind off the obvious. Since Warren’s death, I have lost touch with many of my friends, their contact well-intentioned but too exhausting for me to consider. I just wanted to be left alone, to grieve in the peace and quiet of my own home. And then even that became too much. The thought of moving back here to Woodburn Cottage became a smouldering flame in my mind, growing and burning until it became a furnace, white hot and demanding my full and undivided attention. I relented, unable to ignore it for any longer. We were about to sell Mum’s home and it made sense for me to buy this place, to escape the claustrophobic confines of Lilac Crescent. It suddenly occurs to me that I haven’t sent out any change of address notifications. I shrug away the thought. Plenty of time for that later. For now, I want to get settled, make a few changes and get on with my life.

  ‘How about tonight? If you want to, that is?’ My mouth is in gear before my brain. I hold my breath, wait for her reply, scrutinise her features for any signs of exasperation or disappointment and find none there.

  ‘That sounds great! I’m sure Dad won’t mind watching over this little one for a few hours while I get blind drunk with an old friend.’ She returns the wink, giving me a lopsided grin and I almost melt with relief. It feels good to smile, to talk about things that don’t revolve around Warren and Woodburn Cottage and how I should never have moved here. It feels good to be happy.

  ‘You name the time and I’ll be ready,’ I say a little too animatedly. ‘This little one needs settling first, don’t you?’ I lean closer and take Ted’s hand, loving the warmth of his skin, the softness of his chubby little clenched fist. It is an age since I’ve felt this relaxed, this calm and languorous. ‘I’m not going anywhere so just give me a knock and I’ll be ready with a chilled bottle and a couple of glasses.’

  The light in the cottage is brighter somehow as I say goodbye and step back inside. The air is less oppressive, cooler and lacking in humidity, making it easier to breathe. Even Mum’s outburst earlier doesn’t weigh so heavily on me, her words already relegated to the back of my mind.

  The midday sun filters through the small windows, spreading in a pale-yellow beam across the windowsill, melting down the wall and onto the tiled flooring in a shimmering triangular puddle. I pull back the curtains to allow more in, stopping to revel in its warmth, letting its heat-filled fingers massage my aching skin.

  I close my eyes, happiness growing inside me. If I had known at that point what lay ahead, I would have been more prepared, not allowed myself to loosen and become too soft. Soft things break. They become damaged, scarred beyond recognition. Had I known, I would never have gone ahead with that drink.

  7

  The first glass of Chardonnay disappears in what feels like seconds. The talk flows freely, Carrie’s company easy, the ambience in the room one of joviality as we reminisce about our shared childhood experiences. At no point has the conversation run dry nor has there been any awkward protracted silences where we stare into space, scrabbling for something to fill the void. It has been easy, pleasant and we have laughed plenty.

  ‘Whereabouts are you living now?’ I pour out more wine, my face already flushed after only one drink. I am sitting opposite Carrie who is dressed in casual clothes – jeans and a loose sweater. No more the glamorous woman. Before me is an ordinary, attractive lady who smiles effortlessly, talks softly and laughs tenderly, her voice carrying across the room like early morning birdsong breaking through a storm, the sweet chirrups of swallows and blackbirds suddenly audible after a long cold winter.

  ‘In a village on the outskirts of Edinburgh. Innes, my husband, is Scottish and his job is in the city so it made sense to settle up there, really.’ She catches my eye and takes a sip of her wine. ‘And here you are, living back at Woodburn Cottage. I think it’s terrific what you’ve done, buying your mum’s home and keeping it in the family.’ I don’t have time to reply before she speaks again. ‘I’ve thought of you a lot over the years you know, Grace. You’ve never been far from my thoughts. I wished I’d bumped into you more when I visited Dad and your mum still lived here.’ Her voice is a murmur, her expression wistful.

  I swallow, try to suppress the butterflies that flutter about in my belly at the mention of Mum. I recall what she said earlier, those words, that cryptic message. ‘Well at least we managed it in the end. And look at us both now,’ I say, my voice rising a full decibel. ‘Two grown women
with families of our own.’

  She nods and persuades me to show her some photographs of Gavin and Lucy. I scroll through the full collection, suddenly overcome with a combination of longing and pride, swallowing down the feelings of loneliness and solitude. It feels like a hundred years since I’ve seen them even though it’s only been months.

  ‘They both look like you, especially Gavin. He’s got your eyes.’

  I place my phone down on the arm of the sofa, wondering what they are both currently doing, whether or not they give much thought to me. I shake it away, that shadowy grey notion, and take a long slug of my wine. Too much self-pity. It’s not an attractive trait. I need to stop it. They are adults with lives of their own. I expect too much of them.

  ‘What about your children?’ I say, genuinely curious about Carrie’s life and family. Her transition from wallflower to English rose has me intrigued. Such a stark contrast to the introverted child that she once was.

  ‘One daughter – Beth. She’s an only child and an only child is a lonely child as she was so fond of telling me when she was little.’ She laughs, her teeth clinking against the crystal as she takes another long slug of wine. ‘I had to have a hysterectomy after Beth was born. I suffered from a ruptured uterus during labour after having a myomectomy a few years before.’ Her mouth twitches. I feel sad for her, want to reach over and touch her hand but we are not well enough acquainted for that level of intimacy. ‘But I’ve got Beth and now we have Ted. We’re lucky in so many ways. Some people don’t have any children and then there are those poor souls who have them and–’ She stops, claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes rapidly filling with tears. ‘Oh God, I am so sorry. That was horribly clumsy of me.’ Her hands shake, her fingers trembling like small petals on a flower being torn asunder during a hurricane. She closes her eyes in a bid, I suspect, to stop the tears from falling. Or perhaps to avoid looking directly at me.

  I follow my instincts and shuffle closer to her, placing my arm around her shoulder. I want to reassure her. I want to talk. About everything. ‘Please don’t be sorry. You have no idea how much I long to speak about my family. Even the bad times. It can build up inside, the memories and the trauma and it feels good to let it all out, to hear their names being spoken. My children live away and didn’t know Dad and Simon. Before Mum got dementia, she used to get too upset to speak about it; and Kim – well Kim likes to pretend none of it ever happened. Warren was my only sounding board and now he’s gone so their names never get mentioned apart from in my head.’

  I stop, my breath coming out in small spurts, a tiny but solid pulse tapping away in my temple. ‘Whatever you’ve got to say about it would actually be very welcome. I hadn’t realised that moving back here would unlock so much stuff in my head. I bought the place because I couldn’t bear the thought of strangers traipsing through here. It’s Simon’s home. Was Dad’s home, and I’d like to keep it that way for as long as I can.’ I exhale loudly, unsure if Carrie can comprehend what it is I’m trying to say. It makes sense to me but I don’t expect it to resonate with someone I haven’t seen for many decades.

  I can see the relief in her expression. ‘And anyway,’ I say, smiling, ‘it would be pretty difficult to sit here with me in this house and avoid the subject, wouldn’t it? Let’s invite this elephant in the room to join in with our conversation. He’s far too big to ignore, don’t you think?’

  We giggle, a light tinkling sound at first that rapidly descends into full-blown hysteria, the effects of the wine kicking in, relief at being liberated from the shackles of the past fuelling our laughter.

  ‘Oh God, Grace. Thank you so much for being you, for not letting me sit here getting myself into a complete pickle.’

  I wipe at my eyes, noticing that our glasses are empty. Before she can refuse, I refill them to the brim, determined to go through both the bottles that I had chilling. I rarely drink alone. This is an opportunity to talk freely, forget about everything and simply get drunk without the usual solitude nudging its way in. I have a new friend and we are talking openly and laughing and reminiscing and it feels good. It’s long overdue.

  ‘You know,’ she says, her composure returning as she tucks her feet up under her bottom and shuffles into a more comfortable position, ‘I was always in awe of you and your family, how you just got on with everything after it happened. You came across as so strong, so determined to keep going despite what you had all been through.’

  I try to think back to that time but my memories are dim. It happened such a long time ago. I was only six years old. Simon was eight. I want to remember more about it, to reignite that period of my life and put all the pieces together in my brain but it’s so difficult, swathes of dark clouds obscuring everything.

  ‘I suppose we just had to get on with it, really. No other option. What do you remember about Simon?’ I also rearrange myself into a more comfortable spot, ready to hear Carrie’s thoughts and recollections. Anything she says might help me to remember. Because I do want to. Unlike Kim, I’m not prepared to shut it all away. I’m here, living in the place where it all happened. I need to know.

  ‘He was a cute kid. I loved it when you used to come and play in our garden. Not that I joined in that much. I was unbelievably shy and if I’m being honest, a bit jealous of you all.’

  The wine almost chokes me, a cold trail of it landing in the base of my stomach. ‘Jealous? Of what?’

  Carrie laughs, a smudge of pink spreading over her face, down her neck, settling on her breastbone. ‘The fact that you had each other. Like my own daughter, I was an only child, nobody to play with, nobody to share things with. I always swore that when I grew up, I would have a houseful of kids, but of course that never happened.’

  This time I do squeeze her hand, the barriers that only seconds ago kept us apart, now dissolving.

  ‘And Simon, what do I remember about him? Oh, gosh. Some memories are more vivid than others, and of course he was in my class at school, wasn’t he?’

  It’s my turn to feel a flush creep up my face. I wasn’t aware they were in the same class as each other but of course that makes sense. Carrie is a year or so older than me, the same age as Simon. The same age he would have been. I can say that to myself now because it’s obvious that he is dead. If not, then where has he been for the last forty-odd years? I repeat the phrase over and over in my head. Simon is dead. Simon is dead. If I allow myself to think that, then everything seems so much easier to handle. It’s the unknown, the what ifs, the entire mystery that surrounds his disappearance that makes me ill at ease. Sometimes, it’s as if I am waiting for him to walk back in the room, to smile and greet me as if nothing has happened. No passing of time.

  ‘He was a sweet boy, very gentle. Withdrawn on occasions as I recall. Am I okay saying that?’ She catches my eye, her head dipped slightly.

  I nod and smile, willing her to go on. I want to know everything about him. Everything.

  ‘It’s weird actually,’ she says, her voice suddenly energetic, as if she has been waiting a long time to speak about it to somebody who will understand, ‘because there was one particular memory that didn’t come to me until quite a few years ago, a good while after he went missing. I never really believed in repressed memories but it happened when Beth was younger and suffered with night terrors. It sprang into my mind and has never left me since.’

  I suck in my breath, waiting, hoping she will reveal something about Simon that will help me restore the full version of him in my head, the brother I am struggling to remember. I don’t speak for fear of losing the moment. Instead, I sit and wait, my heartbeat a steady solid metronome in my chest, my flesh prickling with anticipation.

  ‘I’m not exactly sure of the timeline but I think it happened a few months or maybe a few weeks before he disappeared. We were in class writing about what we liked and didn’t like, or something along those lines. I can’t really remember the exact lesson obviously, but what I do remember was what Simon said as he read his out to the rest of the class.’ She takes a drink, unaware of how on edge I am, of how every muscle, every fibre and sinew in my body is tensed, stretched like cat gut while I wait for her to continue. This may be something, it may be nothing, but what I do know for sure is that I need to hear it.