The Secrets Between Us (8 page)

I looked down at my feet. I was wearing purple ballet pumps made grey by the quarry dust.

‘You’ll need proper boots,’ Alexander said. ‘It gets muddy here when it rains. I’ll sort some out for you.’

He showed me where the entrance to the school was, a little way up the lane.

‘I’ll drop Jamie off on his first day back on Tuesday morning, and Claudia will pick him up when she fetches her girls,’ Alexander explained. ‘She’ll show you the ropes. After that I need you to be there to meet him every day. He mustn’t come home with anyone else. It’s important.’

‘OK.’

‘And, Sarah, you can’t be late. You have to be at the school gate before three thirty.’

‘I won’t let you down. Who’s Claudia?’

‘Genevieve’s half-sister.’

‘Won’t she mind me being here?’

Alexander shook his head. ‘She knows I need help. She’s been a rock these last few weeks. In fact, she was the one who suggested I get a nanny.’

‘Are her children at this school too?’

He shook his head. ‘They go to St Margaret’s in Montacute.’

‘They have to go to school on Saturday morning,’ said Jamie.

I pulled a face. ‘How awful.’

‘But they have riding lessons and longer holidays.’

‘That’s not so bad then.’

‘Uncle Bill says he has to pay an arm and a leg for them to have longer holidays.’

‘That’s the beauty of independent education,’ said Alexander.

We walked a little further, past the run-down hotel and what was probably once an old ducking-pond, and soon were at the far end of the village.

‘Isn’t there a church?’ I asked.

‘It’s up on top of the hill. Close to where Genevieve’s parents live.’

I smiled at Jamie. ‘Do they have a nice house?’

‘It’s big!’ he said, widening his eyes and holding out his arms in an exaggerated fashion.

Over his head, Alexander nodded. ‘I’ll drive you up,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you.’ After lunch we got back into the Land Rover. Once again, we turned left at the bottom of the drive, drove along the main road for a while and turned right into a narrow lane about a hundred metres before the entrance to the new quarry. In places the lane was little more than a single track, winding upwards between high hedges. We drove through a narrow tunnel formed by the branches of overhanging trees, climbing steeply through twists and turns until we came to a fork.

‘That’s the entrance to the old quarry,’ said Alexander. He slowed the Land Rover. ‘They shut it down thirty years ago.’

The quarry’s gates towered above the lane. They were locked together by a thick chain secured by a padlock. Barbed wire was threaded between the metal bars of the
gates. A gurning skull and crossbones gleamed from the blood-coloured background of a weathered
DANGER, KEEP
OUT sign that hung at an angle from the gates. Another sign said:
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
.

I shivered.

‘Why did they close the quarry?’ I asked.

‘It was inaccessible for big wagons. It was more commercially viable for the Churchills to open the new one at the bottom of the hill where the trucks can get out on to the main road without any problems than it was to build a new road up here.’

‘Why is it all fenced off like that?’

‘Kids kept coming up here in the hot weather to swim in the pit. Teenagers. They ignored the signs and jumped off the cliff. One lad drowned.’

‘That’s awful!’

‘It was years ago,’ said Alexander. ‘Before I met Genevieve, but she remembered him.’

‘He shouldn’t of been in there,’ said Jamie solemnly.

‘No, he shouldn’t,’ said Alexander. He was silent for a moment. Then he said very quietly: ‘Nobody goes there any more. People have forgotten it exists.’

We drove on.

At the top of the hill, the lane opened out. On either side were fields bordered by hedges and fences. I noticed a pair of handsome liver-chestnut horses standing beneath a small clump of trees at the centre of a gently rolling meadow to our left. Alexander nodded his head without taking his eyes from the road.

‘Genevieve’s,’ he confirmed.

The first building we reached was set back from the lane and surrounded by a high fence and electric gates, so all I could see was the roof and a huge, arch-shaped window. It was clearly a large barn that had been beautifully and extensively converted. Laurie and I used to be addicted to
home-buying and restoration television programmes and I could tell that no expense had been spared. Everything was perfect.

‘That’s where my cousins live,’ said Jamie, leaning over me to point.

‘Wow!’

‘Classy, eh? Mixture of Claudia’s old money and Bill’s new,’ Alexander said. I looked at him. Was he being sarcastic? Was that jealousy I’d heard, or resentment perhaps?

‘And here’s the church,’ he said in an ordinary voice. ‘If you’re interested, there’s loads of Churchill family history inside and in the graveyard.’

‘Oh, OK.’

‘And just over there,’ Alexander continued, nodding his head to the other side of the lane, ‘you’ll see the roof-tops of Eleonora House.’

‘They live here? Almost on top of the old quarry?’

‘The original Mr Churchill wanted to build his house as close as he could to the source of his wealth,’ Alexander said. ‘I suppose it made him feel proud; connected. Plus, he could keep a close eye on things.’

‘It must’ve been tough on the workers,’ I said quietly. ‘They wouldn’t have been able to get away with anything.’

Alexander smiled.

He pulled the Land Rover up at the entrance to the drive to Eleonora House, and left its engine running.

The house was bigger and grander than anything I could have imagined. It was a real old-fashioned country pile, with wisteria curling up a façade that was set a good way back from the lane at the end of a straight drive lined with topiary bushes shaped abstractly like clouds and waves. A life-size statue stood on an ornate pedestal just outside the gates at the entrance to the drive. It was a Victorian-style child-angel, with a lovely face and downcast eyes. One hand held a rose
to her breast, the other was extended, as if to draw visitors into the drive.

‘That’s Eleonora,’ Alexander said. ‘She was the original Mr Churchill’s youngest daughter and the one he loved best.’

‘She died young?’ I asked quietly.

Alexander nodded. ‘Some kind of masonry accident while they were building the house. The sculptor used her death mask as a model for the statue.’

‘How morbid!’

‘Gen thought it was romantic. She was the image of the statue when she was a child.’

I would have liked to know more, but at that moment Jamie, who was sitting behind me, shouted: ‘There’s Grandpa!’ and I was distracted.

The Land Rover’s window was open. I could see, quite clearly, the figure of a tall, aged man in a hat just outside the house. He was stooped over a cane and was examining something, a rose bush perhaps.

‘Can we go and see him? Can we go and say hello?’ Jamie asked.

Alexander glanced at me.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it would be better if we waited.’

‘Too late,’ Alexander said. A thin woman had come to stand beside the man. She was shading her eyes with one hand and, with the other, she beckoned us down the drive.

‘Virginia,’ Alexander said, almost under his breath.

‘Couldn’t you pretend you didn’t see her?’ I asked.

‘That would be lying,’ said Jamie.

‘Come on,’ said Alexander. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

WE SAT ON
comfortable, solid garden furniture on a circular terrace beside a perfectly manicured lawn in what Virginia Churchill called the ‘family’ garden. The lawn was square, surrounded by flower beds, and each bed contained a profusion of different plants. I was no gardener, but I recognized the skill that had gone into the planting; the tumble of contrasting colours was not accidental but designed so that each patch of flowers complemented the next, and behind the flowers were hedges that acted as a perfect backdrop. The centrepiece was a huge old pond, its stoneware overgrown with trailing plants and the dark green water heavy with pale, waxy lilies. Dragonflies black as jet buzzed amongst the water plants. The overall effect reminded me of a romantic painting and, if I had not been so nervous, I would have enjoyed simply sitting and looking.

As it was, Alexander and I were carefully avoiding one another’s eyes while we were served tea by a middle-aged woman called Mrs Lipton. Mr Churchill – I could never imagine calling him Philip – sat awkwardly on his chair, with one leg stretched out in front of him. He wore worn brown corduroys and a cotton shirt with a cravat. The rim of his hat covered his eyes, but I could see a wide jaw and a chin that was faintly stubbled. His skin was weather-beaten. Veins
bulged on the back of huge, bony hands that were spotted with age.

When the tea was poured, Mrs Churchill asked Mrs Lipton to fetch some toys for Jamie, and she returned with a child’s archery set. She set the target up at the far end of the garden and, after making sure we had everything we needed, joined the boy to help him put the arrows in his bow, and to retrieve them when they fell short. Within a few moments of Jamie leaving the group, Mr Churchill’s jaw relaxed and his mouth fell open. He began to snore rhythmically.

The whole situation made me feel awkward and tongue-tied. I could think of nothing to say, so was quiet apart from thanking Mrs Lipton for the refreshments and complimenting the Churchills on their beautiful home and garden.

‘It’s very good of you to come and introduce yourself,’ Mrs Churchill said to me. Her voice was clipped and there was more than a hint of sarcasm or perhaps irritation. She passed me a cup of tea. The china was pretty if a little fussy.

‘Virginia, I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to turn up unannounced like this,’ Alexander said.

She made a swatting motion with her hand.

‘No, I’m glad you came. You know how anxious I was to find out who this person was you’d engaged to look after our grandson.’

I smiled and shuffled a little in my seat.

‘Well, here she is,’ said Alexander.

‘Here I am,’ I said like an idiot.

‘You’re not what I imagined,’ Mrs Churchill said.

‘What did you imagine, Virginia?’ Alexander asked.

Virginia ignored him. In a pleasant but loaded voice she said: ‘I know my daughter would never have dreamed of leaving her son in the care of a stranger.’

Alexander started to object but Mrs Churchill held her hand up to stop him.

‘Things being as they are, perhaps, Sarah, you’d be
kind enough to tell me what exactly are your childcare qualifications?’

‘I …’

‘The main thing is that Jamie likes her. And I trust her,’ Alexander said.

Mrs Churchill leaned forward. Her eyes were blue, pale blue like ice, and her face, although etched with the anxiety and distress she’d endured over the past few weeks, was still strong and determined. It was so close to mine that I could detect a staleness of breath amongst the late-summer warmth of the air. She must have had a bad tooth in her mouth or an infection.

‘Do you have
any
relevant qualifications?’ she asked me.

‘Not exactly.’

‘Have you worked as a nanny or an au pair before?’

I glanced at Alexander but he was staring up at the ornate chimneypots on the roof of the house.

‘No.’

‘And you don’t have any children of your own?’

The quiet, still face of my son came into my mind. His perfect little lips. His eyelids. His tiny fingers that closed around my little finger, not gripping like a normal baby, but touching; his fingernails delicate as cowslip petals; the unique design of his fingerprint that would always be a secret.

‘No,’ I said.

‘In other words, you have no valid professional reason to be here!’

‘Virginia, please …’ said Alexander.

‘What were you thinking?’ Virginia asked him calmly, but in a voice that was so cold it made me ache inside.

‘Sarah’s only looking after Jamie while I’m at work, a couple of hours a day at most. If there are any problems she’s perfectly capable of asking for help. When I come home, I’ll take over again.’

‘And what’s she going to do with herself while Jamie’s at school and you’re at work?’

‘She’ll be acting as housekeeper.’

‘Acting?’

‘You know what I mean.’

Virginia put her cup delicately on her saucer and turned back to me.

‘Alexander told us he met you in Sicily,’ she said.

‘That’s right.’

‘And that your relationship is purely a business one.’

‘Yes.’

‘Sarah,’ she said, ‘can you look me in the eye and assure me there is nothing going on between you and Alexander?’

I hesitated. Alexander stepped in. He did his best. He insisted to Virginia that there was nothing untoward between the two of us. He argued that, in Genevieve’s absence, he was best placed to decide what, and who, was best for Jamie and himself. Virginia said that, in Genevieve’s absence, his position was debatable. There was some undercurrent going on, something I didn’t understand. The two of them argued politely, bitterly and coldly, without once raising their voices, until Philip from beneath his hat and without opening his eyes growled: ‘That’s enough.’

I apologized to Alexander for my lack of quick-wittedness as we drove back to Avalon. He had the window open, and rested one elbow on it. He drove with his left hand, and gnawed at the knuckle on the forefinger of his other one.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘Virginia can think what she wants.’

I did not know how to respond to that.

He turned his head slightly and smiled at me in a resigned fashion.

‘Let her do her worst,’ he said. ‘We’ll survive.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I DON’T RECALL
dreaming that night. I don’t remember anything about it until something disturbed me in the early hours.

I lay for a moment with my eyes closed. My heart was thumping, but I didn’t know what it was that had woken me. Gently I eased myself up on one elbow and with shaky fingers and my breath catching in my throat I drew back the edge of the curtain. A weak light was seeping into the field. There was nothing there. I tried to calm myself; it was just nerves. I exhaled and relaxed. I closed my eyes. And then I heard a distinct noise, and it wasn’t coming from the window, but from the wall, just behind my head.