‘I know you’ve been through a lot, love—’ Aunt Jackie begins.
‘Look, let me look for a plaster or something. I’m so happy to see you both. I’ve been feeling so much better recently – I’ve taught myself how to build a fire, I’ve been taking walks on the beach. You and Doctor Wilson were right, Marco. I needed the break. I needed the silence.’
‘I feel like I’ve been neglecting you. It must be so lonely down here.’ He puts his large hand on my head and turns me so I am facing him. ‘Things will be different soon, I promise. I just need to tie up a few loose ends.’
‘You haven’t caught the sun.’
‘What?’
‘On the phone, you said it was hot. When you were at the airport.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘I thought you’d be tanned.’
‘I was indoors most of the time, Stell. It was a business trip. Are you sure you’re all right?’
I see the look that passes between him and Jackie and twist the rag so hard my fingers turn white.
‘Stella – what have you been doing to yourself?’ Aunt Jackie says, pointing at the back of my hand, the one the chicken scratched, my skin there stippled with cuts. I withdraw my hand slowly beneath the table.
‘I am fine,’ I tell them both carefully. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. Not anymore.’
‘You still sleepwalking?’
Marco has pulled out an old first-aid kit from beneath the sink and is clumsily taping gauze over the wound. I look from him to Jackie, my smile as brittle as frost. I ignore the question.
‘You want to know something weird? I found some old Marigold! tapes.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘The strangest thing. There was a pile of them in the woodshed. Can you imagine?’
‘The day we first arrived here, do you remember what I told you?’ Marco asks me. ‘This is my parents’ holiday home. We’ve been coming here for Easter and Whitsun holidays since I was ten years old. I’ve no doubt they held on to everything. I was thirteen when Marigold! came out. They recorded every episode for me. They also recorded every episode of the Antiques Roadshow and you’ll probably find those tapes in there too. They never threw anything away.’
I think of the old records slipping to the floor and nod. Jackie is looking at me over the rim of her glass.
‘Marco thought it would be nice for us all to be together,’ she says. ‘Maybe we can talk about the wedding?’
‘Of course. I’d love that.’
Marco smiles at me. Then he says, ‘I know how hurt you must be about those pictures in the paper. For the record, I’m furious.’
‘He wants to sue,’ Jackie says, not without a small thrill of excitement.
‘Sue who? Carmel? She doesn’t have anything. Besides, you can’t sue her.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because—’ She’s my friend, I want to say, but somehow the words get lost.
‘Oh, I meant to tell you – Doctor Wilson gave me two more bottles of your pills. They’re in the bag.’
And my heart lifts. No, it soars. Thank God. More pills, more numbness, more lovely, lovely, oblivion. I give him a genuine smile, rich and warm. I am saved.
‘Can I have them now?’
He laughs and finishes his drink.
‘Sure.’
I seek them out, careful not to look too keen, too greedy. My chest and heart hurt with the longing for them. It is a physical pain, a needle in the chest. I wonder if this is how my dad felt as he heard the thundering hoof beats, the roar of victory. I no longer care. I lovingly cradle the bottle as I walk to the bathroom and tip two pills into my hand. I am greedy for them. Just as I am about to take them I think of Frankie taking off his wedding ring, the way the exposed skin had been pale against his summer tan. A white circle about his finger, a ghost band. Like wedding rings encased in ice, slipping from fingers. That image, it stays with me past eleven, past half past, my back pressed against the wall and the pills in my hand.
Marco knocks on the door. ‘Are you all right in there?’ I tell him fine, and still I don’t move. I stare at the wall and I think of Carmel at four fifteen on a Sunday morning sitting by my bed in A&E. The way her face had been gaunt and haunted, asking me, ‘Do you want to die, Stella?’ I wonder what she would say to me if she saw me now.
I tip the pills carefully back into the bottle and put the bottle into the drawer. Not tonight. I lie back on the bed with my hands folded over my chest. I think I will never sleep but suddenly I’m gone, and I don’t wake up until morning when I notice two things. The sunlight is thick and golden and Marco is not beside me.
I find him downstairs on the couch, beneath one of the blankets kept for storage in the airing cupboard. His arm is folded outside the cover and there is that white bandage wrapped round it, spotted slightly with blood. I shake him awake and he looks at me groggily. Down here it smells of red wine and cigarettes, the butts crushed out into a cereal bowl. I shake him gently awake.
‘What are you doing down here?’
‘I thought it would be best,’ he says shortly, his eyes still closed. ‘I got a knife in the arm last night, Stella, in case you’d forgotten.’
I kiss his forehead. ‘I’m so sorry, baby.’
‘I need you to be well, Stella. I need you to show Jackie that you can manage, so she stops worrying about you. All of this – it’s hard for me too, Stella. It really is. You’re not the only one suffering.’
‘It would help if you were here more.’
‘I’m working on it. You want to get in with me?’
He lifts the covers and I consider it, just for a second. Then an idea comes to me, as simple and sudden as an exclamation mark. ‘Actually I was going to go into town and get breakfast for us all.’
I kiss him gently on the temple, sweeping his hair away from his face to do so. He murmurs ‘You’re so good to me’, but already his eyes are closing and he is turning over.
As I stand I reach out and grab his phone from the table, quickly carrying it into the kitchen. I’m expecting it to be locked, but as I slide my finger across, it opens easily. I go straight to the phone book without hesitating, staring at the doorway to the front room as I do so, expecting any minute for Marco to walk through asking me what the hell I think I’m doing. I find the number on the second attempt (nothing under caretaker, so I looked under ‘Kennecker’) and write it on a tiny scrap of paper, which I fold and fold to the size of a postage stamp and tuck into my bra.
Chapter 22
I walk down to Tyrlaze, the sun warm and soft in the morning light. It is too early yet to call Mr Kennecker, but I have resolved to do so later today, and that buoys me a little. I am Taking Action. I am Normal. Overhead, a cornflower-blue sky laced with white clouds. I stop to take a picture of it and only as I am about to walk on do I realise where I am. I’m outside the chicken house, the one which looks as though it is about to collapse any minute. The woman, Penelope, is outside in the yard, watching me. She is wearing pearls and a red lace shawl and wellies thick with mud. She does not smile.
‘That of interest, is it? The sky?’