As She Left It (32 page)

“No!” Norah said. “I didn’t. I didn’t scribble in my special boo—”

“No, no, no,” Opal said. “I know you didn’t scribble. I don’t mean scribbling. Did you write your name inside the cover?”

“Yes,” Norah said. “Sorry?”

Opal shook her head. “No, you’re a good girl, Norah. You wrote a lovely thing inside your prayer book, didn’t you?” But just like when she had been looking at it something about that little dedication bothered her again now. She shook the thought away. “Okay. Now. Do you remember writing a note? Four notes? North, south, east, and west?” Norah was watching her closely, but she said nothing. “I thought at first you hid them in your bed. But you didn’t, did you? You hid them … ” she waited “ … in Martin’s bed, didn’t you?” Norah put her head down and started in her smallest, quietest voice to say sorry.

“Did you sleep in Martin’s bed, Norah?” Opal said. She couldn’t see the crumpled little face, but she watched two tears drip down onto Norah’s lap. “Poor little love,” she said. “Did you write notes and hide them when you slept in Martin’s bed?”

“I never,” Norah said. “I didn’t. I didn’t want a brother and I never had a brother and I didn’t. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Opal said. “I’m sorry too. But you’ll forget all about it in a minute again. So I’m going to ask you. Norah? Norah, listen to me. Where is Martin now? I need to know if he can hurt anyone or if he’s—”

“St. Michael’s and All Angels,” Norah said. Her voice had dropped to a whisper.

“He’s dead?” said Opal. And when Norah said the next thing it was more like a snake’s hiss.

“
Safe in the arms of Jesus, where you will never be
.”

“Eh?” said Opal. Norah looked up and blinked.

“Mother told me,” she said. “Safe in the arms of Jesus, where I will never be.”

“Fu—Blimey,” said Opal. For a moment they sat looking at one another, one blinking, one staring without blinking until her eyes were dry.

Then Opal roused herself. “I’m going to make sure someone hears about all of this, Norah my love.”

“Can I watch my circus tape?” Norah said.

FORTY

A
ND SO HE WAS
ten minutes’ walk from Opal’s own house, was he? St. Michael’s and All Angels Church was just down the road and Opal knew it well, or knew its name anyway, loved its name, had spent hours saying it over to herself when she was a little girl. Not that she had ever been inside the place—Nicola didn’t go much for churches—but it was right opposite the Skyrack, and Nicola certainly went for pubs, even student pubs—
especially
student pubs in September when they all had lots of money and no sense and could be flattered and embarrassed into buying a drink for anyone who asked them. So she used to leave Opal sitting on the steps of the monument halfway between the church gate and the pub door, sitting there with her bag of crisps and bottle of pop, and Opal used to read the name on the board and imagine that St. Michael and all the angels too might be in the pub as well as her mum and the students, or else why was it called the
Sky
rack? Which she thought of as a kind of tiered arrangement of seats where the angels could all sit for a good view of Michael himself. She wished she was old enough to go inside the pub and sit on the rack beside them, get a look at him.

Inside the churchyard, it was clear right from the off that Martin must have been dead a fair while; all the gravestones were old mossy lumps, the writing nearly worn away on some of them.
Good
, Opal thought. Maybe he died before Sarah Fossett was born, certainly before her daughter was. Maybe he had never hurt anyone ever again after Norah, especially if his own child was a boy—which he had to be if Sarah’s maiden name was Fossett, actually.

“Can I help you with something?” The voice just behind her made Opal jump, and she turned to see an elderly woman, tall and broad, standing with her feet planted wide apart on the path behind her.

“Oh God!” said Opal. “What a fright. Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“Well?” said the woman.

“What?” said Opal.

“What are you doing in here?” Opal blinked.

“Is it private?” she said. “The gate was open. Who are you?”

“I’m a member of the congregation and the chairman of the committee on—”

“And
is
it private?” Opal said.

“It’s … ” to give the old woman her due she didn’t come right out and say it.

So Opal said it for her. “It’s not for taking drugs or having a cuddle, yeah. Actually I’m looking for a gravestone. I’m looking for someone who might be buried here.”

“Ahhhh,” said the old woman. She let go of the strap of her handbag, which she had been gripping as hard as she could with her gnarled old knuckles. “Genealogy, eh? Family tree?”

“Yeah, well, no. The tree’s been done already. I’m just following up sort of thing. Interested. It’s someone called Fossett. Martin Fossett.”

At the sound of the name, the woman’s eyes flashed and, firmly planted as her feet were, she took a steadying step to one side.

“What’s your interest in
that
family?” she said.

“They’re an interesting family,” said Opal. The woman gave her a hard look but then nodded and beckoned her to follow.

It was at the shadowy side of the church, quite far from the path, a tall block of grey stone with a cross shape on the top.
Martin William Fossett
, it said,
1931–1943
.
Beloved son of William and Anna Fossett
.
Also William Fossett 1899–1945, beloved husband of Anna and father of the late Martin
. And at the bottom
Safe in the arms of Jesus
. Just like Norah had said.

“So you know about the scandal,” the woman said to Opal. She was whispering, even though there was no one else around and the sound of the traffic out on the road would have covered their voices anyway.

“I do,” said Opal.

“I don’t know the whole story,” said the woman. “I was just a girl, and it was all hushed up.”

“So I see,” said Opal. “Beloved son. Blimey.”

“They’d never get away with it now, of course, but who’s to say it wasn’t better that way?”

Opal said nothing for a moment, although she was thinking plenty. She read the inscription again.

“Is Anna in there too?” she said. “Why’s she not on the stone as well?”

“Oh no,” said the woman. “Mrs. Fossett only died a few years back. Well, gosh, it must be twenty! But there haven’t been burials in the church grounds for a lot longer than that. There wasn’t even a ceremony here, as I remember. Just the crematorium. She wouldn’t have liked it, but there was no one to say different. No one to make sure things were done nicely for her.”

“What about Norah?” Opal said. “In fact … ” she turned round and read the names on the headstone again. It had only just struck her.

“Well, the daughter …” said the woman. “She’s hardly …” Opal turned to look at her and saw that her face was screwed up as if she had smelled something nasty.

“You know what?” Opal said. “There
is
something wrong with taking care of it all in the family. All hush-hush. He’s got a headstone, and she’s like some dirty little secret.”

“Oh, you young ones,” said the woman, flapping a hand at Opal.

“Yeah, but Martin’s own children and grandchildren didn’t even know about Norah until someone did the family tree. She had relations all these years and she didn’t even meet them.”

“Martin’s children?” said the woman. She frowned. “Martin Fossett didn’t have any children. How could he?” She held her hand out, inviting Opal to read the headstone again. And it was only then that Opal looked properly at the numbers.
1931–1943
. Martin Fossett was only twelve when he died.

“So who’s Sarah?” said Opal, stupidly. How was this woman supposed to know? “Oh my God. Who the hell
is
Sarah?”

“Please!” said the woman. “Language.”

“She’s wiggled her way in and she’s stripping the place. I bet she’s got Norah to change her will. And no bloody wonder—”

“Please!”

“—she didn’t go apeshit when she saw me in there. She couldn’t risk starting a pissing contest about who had the right to be pals with Norah. It was Shelley who was normal—all suspicious and that. Nicey-nicey Sarah should have set my alarms bells ringing, but I was so chuffed not to get chucked out I never wondered why. I’ve been a bloody fool. Bugger it. Look, I’ve got to go.”

“Yes,” said the woman faintly. “Please. Go.”

“Sorry,” said Opal. She looked up into the canopy of the trees and said it again—“Sorry”—to St. Michael and all the angels, whose ears must be stinging.

Shelley. Shelley, who Opal thought was her enemy, would be her ally now. But all she knew was that Shelley was a neighbor. And she didn’t even know whether she was a neighbor from one of the other eight house on the cul-de-sac or if she lived somewhere out the back near the garages. Probably at the back, since that was the way she’d come in both times Opal had seen her, but there was no way of knowing which house, and Opal couldn’t remember her surname (if she had ever heard it). And there was no point in trying to explain to Norah. So she just let herself in to Norah’s kitchen, read Shelley’s number off the sign tacked up there, and called her.

No answer. Opal left a message, trying to make it sound as calm and reasonable as she could get it.
Not very calm at all
, she thought; the more she spoke, the more paranoid she seemed. So she said goodbye and hung up, leaving her number. Then she wrote down the details of the social service contacts that were printed out on the other signs, because she wasn’t going to rely
just
on Shelley. She would phone in the morning as soon as the offices opened, maybe even phone Citizen’s Advice, get a lawyer on it. Sarah wasn’t going to get away with it anymore.

And she had another idea too—it came to her on the way home. She was on fire now, fuelled by an anger she couldn’t explain but that was burning inside her with a fierce power, making her feel more alive than she had been for weeks, for all of these long, sweltering weeks of remembering no matter how hard she tried to forget.

It was Martin Fossett’s headstone that did it; the way the bare facts were written there, chiselled there, literally written in stone. Fishbo wouldn’t have kept a newspaper in his wardrobe for nothing. That
Evening Post
from 1990 that she couldn’t account for? It had a death notice in it. It must have. There used to be two Gordon brothers and now there was only one. And Cleora had said she’d last seen her husband twenty years ago. And 1990 was twenty years ago. What Opal didn’t know was whether it would be George or Eugene whose death was reported there. It would make sense to think that Eugene Gordon died and that was when his wife stopped hearing from him. But Eugene was Fishbo. But Eugene hated Leeds, and Fishbo still lived there. But if it was George who died, why would Eugene never contact his wife again?

She knocked on Pep’s door but got no answer. He must be at the hospital visiting Fishbo. So she tried Margaret, who always used to have all the keys when Opal was little. She was like the street janitor back then.

“Mother of God,” said Margaret when she opened the door. “What’s happened.”

“Nothing,” said Opal. “Eh?”

“You look—I thought you’d had bad news about Fishbo.”

“No,” said Opal.

“So what’s upset you?” said Margaret. Opal thought about it.
Nobody is what they seem and someone is after me and something terrible happened in that place I will not think about in my own backyard, and I’m trying so hard not to remember, but it’s coming, it’s coming, the memory’s coming back and I can’t stop it. Like when you go from feeling sick to starting to heave and there’s no way back and here it comes and …

“I’m just hot,” she said. “Can I borrow Mr. Kendal’s door key?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m just going to finish off cleaning,” Opal said.

“Ah, right enough we might have left a present for the pixies in the music room,” said Margaret. “I can’t remember clearing up anyway. Do you want a hand?”

“I’ll manage on my own.”

“Good,” said Margaret. “I have a head on me today like a bag of bent nails.” She looked behind the door to where Opal assumed Denny was sitting. “What was that muck Sunil was pouring down us by the end, Dennis my soul? Some Indian firewater like you never imagined, Opal.”

“Polish honey liqueur,” said Denny’s voice. “And you
asked
him to open it.”

Margaret unhooked a key from the board by the door and Opal left them to their hangovers. They were enjoying them anyway in that way people do, knowing that they’d get another good sleep that night and be back to normal in the morning. Not like Nicola’s daily cycle from the shaking, sweating, retching, coffee, and ciggies to the first drink and the long haul up to the plateau that lasted an hour or two or maybe all afternoon but never beyond; then the skittering off away to the wilds of the night again, schemes and plans and parties with whoever was there, laughing and kissing, dancing, cackling, screeching, shouting, giving back as good as she got, crying, shoving, slapping; the reeling out into the night, the threats, the phone calls, the gulping, streaked with makeup, trying to get to a basin in time, the promises, stories, confessions, the lists longer every time of what had gone wrong and who it was and why it wasn’t, slower and dryer silences stretching, until she was sleeping again.

Opal unlocked the front door and went in, ignored the music room, went up to Fishbo’s bedroom, and opened the wardrobe.

She was wrong about the death notice. There was no Gordon there. She checked the births and marriages too—nothing. But she couldn’t believe that this one paper was here for no reason. She took it and spread it open on the bed, sat down prepared to read every word on every page until she found it.

And find it she did. There it was, page twelve, two paragraphs, no pictures. No wonder she had missed it before. “Two Die in Leeds Cab Crash,” the headline said.