the pictures.
Frederick put on the glasses he wore on a chain around his neck and picked up a framed photograph. Zoe, thirty-three years old, cross-legged on the bonnet of her beloved old MG. She was wearing jeans and a tiny scrap of a T-shirt, head poised on a dancer’s neck. You wouldn’t believe she’d given birth to three children. She was so slim. Thin, actually. I used to fuss about it. Her eyes dominated the picture—those luminous eyes that turned heads in the street. You could almost hear her laughter.
Scarlet was pressing her own soft cheek to her mother’s, while Theo had squashed himself half onto Zoe’s lap. He’d just had an appalling haircut, a black pudding basin, and was scowling at baby Ben, who’d taken prime position in his mother’s arms. Midsummer light glanced off their faces, dappled through the umbrella of the lime tree in their garden. The photograph was taken by Freddie, just days before she died. That was the last time we saw Zoe. She seemed so happy.
Too happy. We knew that.
Frederick stood looking down at the picture of his daughter. I saw him touch his forefinger to his mouth, and to her smiling face. He stood for a moment, head bowed. Then he quietly returned the photograph to its place.
•
By four o’clock my grandsons were home and lolling in various states of scruffiness on beanbags in the sitting room, watching television. I checked that the front door was locked. With Scott prowling around, it was best to be on the safe side. Scarlet had a violin lesson after school on Mondays. She’d be walking home with a very sensible sixth former, so I had no concerns there. I’d begun making a fish pie when I heard her key in the lock.
Freddie heard it too. He put down his Guardian with an expectant smile. ‘Aha. Miss Scarlet.’
‘’Lo?’ That was Scarlet’s voice.
‘Greetings, Scarletta!’ called Freddie.
The front door shut with a bang. Scarlet had always done that, ever since her mother died. Always, always. She never shut the door until she was sure there was somebody in the house. Perhaps she didn’t trust people to be alive. I heard the violin being dumped by the harpsichord in the bay window and waited for my granddaughter to come and share her day with us, warming her shapely hands on the Aga and complaining that the violin teacher was a witch. I could tell she really wanted to say bitch.
This time, she didn’t appear in the kitchen. I heard light footsteps running up the stairs. Freddie levered himself up and stepped out into the hall. ‘Hey! Aren’t you coming to say hello?’
Her voice sounded faint, as though she had a sore throat. ‘In a minute. Just got to do some homework.’
‘There’s chocolate biscuits.’
‘In a minute , Gramps!’ Her door slammed shut, and I flinched. Her bedroom used to be Zoe’s. I knew exactly how that door sounded when it was slammed.
Freddie reappeared, shrugging. ‘Busy, busy,’ he muttered unhappily. ‘Can I help with anything?’
‘You could stir the white sauce. Tedious job.’
He took the wooden spoon out of my hand, stirring distractedly and much too fast.
I touched his arm. ‘Stop, Freddie. Stop fretting.’
‘She slammed her door.’
‘I know.’
He stirred faster still. Sauce slopped out, sizzling and smoking on the hot plate.
‘She isn’t Zoe,’ I said desperately.
‘I dread it.’ He turned around and leaned against the Aga rail.
‘It was at this age, wasn’t it, that it first showed itself?’
Signs. Signs ignored, written off as adolescent hormones. Screams. Mugs smashed, doors slammed. Soft young arms pocked with crescent nail-scissor cuts. An adored face pinched with fury as she swept her arm along the sitting-room mantelpiece, hurling china and vases and an antique clock to the floor.
‘No,’ I said firmly, as I began to lay the table. ‘Scarlet’s her own woman. She has many of her mother’s qualities—talent, for example; brains, looks, a sense of humour and a strong
Frederick put on the glasses he wore on a chain around his neck and picked up a framed photograph. Zoe, thirty-three years old, cross-legged on the bonnet of her beloved old MG. She was wearing jeans and a tiny scrap of a T-shirt, head poised on a dancer’s neck. You wouldn’t believe she’d given birth to three children. She was so slim. Thin, actually. I used to fuss about it. Her eyes dominated the picture—those luminous eyes that turned heads in the street. You could almost hear her laughter.
Scarlet was pressing her own soft cheek to her mother’s, while Theo had squashed himself half onto Zoe’s lap. He’d just had an appalling haircut, a black pudding basin, and was scowling at baby Ben, who’d taken prime position in his mother’s arms. Midsummer light glanced off their faces, dappled through the umbrella of the lime tree in their garden. The photograph was taken by Freddie, just days before she died. That was the last time we saw Zoe. She seemed so happy.
Too happy. We knew that.
Frederick stood looking down at the picture of his daughter. I saw him touch his forefinger to his mouth, and to her smiling face. He stood for a moment, head bowed. Then he quietly returned the photograph to its place.
•
By four o’clock my grandsons were home and lolling in various states of scruffiness on beanbags in the sitting room, watching television. I checked that the front door was locked. With Scott prowling around, it was best to be on the safe side. Scarlet had a violin lesson after school on Mondays. She’d be walking home with a very sensible sixth former, so I had no concerns there. I’d begun making a fish pie when I heard her key in the lock.
Freddie heard it too. He put down his Guardian with an expectant smile. ‘Aha. Miss Scarlet.’
‘’Lo?’ That was Scarlet’s voice.
‘Greetings, Scarletta!’ called Freddie.
The front door shut with a bang. Scarlet had always done that, ever since her mother died. Always, always. She never shut the door until she was sure there was somebody in the house. Perhaps she didn’t trust people to be alive. I heard the violin being dumped by the harpsichord in the bay window and waited for my granddaughter to come and share her day with us, warming her shapely hands on the Aga and complaining that the violin teacher was a witch. I could tell she really wanted to say bitch.
This time, she didn’t appear in the kitchen. I heard light footsteps running up the stairs. Freddie levered himself up and stepped out into the hall. ‘Hey! Aren’t you coming to say hello?’
Her voice sounded faint, as though she had a sore throat. ‘In a minute. Just got to do some homework.’
‘There’s chocolate biscuits.’
‘In a minute , Gramps!’ Her door slammed shut, and I flinched. Her bedroom used to be Zoe’s. I knew exactly how that door sounded when it was slammed.
Freddie reappeared, shrugging. ‘Busy, busy,’ he muttered unhappily. ‘Can I help with anything?’
‘You could stir the white sauce. Tedious job.’
He took the wooden spoon out of my hand, stirring distractedly and much too fast.
I touched his arm. ‘Stop, Freddie. Stop fretting.’
‘She slammed her door.’
‘I know.’
He stirred faster still. Sauce slopped out, sizzling and smoking on the hot plate.
‘She isn’t Zoe,’ I said desperately.
‘I dread it.’ He turned around and leaned against the Aga rail.
‘It was at this age, wasn’t it, that it first showed itself?’
Signs. Signs ignored, written off as adolescent hormones. Screams. Mugs smashed, doors slammed. Soft young arms pocked with crescent nail-scissor cuts. An adored face pinched with fury as she swept her arm along the sitting-room mantelpiece, hurling china and vases and an antique clock to the floor.
‘No,’ I said firmly, as I began to lay the table. ‘Scarlet’s her own woman. She has many of her mother’s qualities—talent, for example; brains, looks, a sense of humour and a strong
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