“Oh, my love. Yes, I did. I dashed up to Summerbourne as soon as I heard the news. Your poor, poor mother. Dreadful, it was. And you so tiny—well, you were quite a decent size, my dear, but goodness me, your brother was a shrimp of a thing. They sent three ambulances out, and fire engines—you know, because of the—the rocks and everything. And in the end they took little Danny off to the hospital. I offered to help, but your father went with Danny, and your grandmother stayed at the house with you and Edwin. A terrible day.”
I’m listening to her with one part of my brain, but another part is scrabbling around for something—the right question, the key fact.
“And Laura?” I ask. “What happened to her?”
“Laura?” she says blankly. Then, “Oh, Laura, the nanny? Nice girl. A terrible shock, it was, to her too, of course. She left, went off to university, I believe. Edwin loved that girl—might have helped him if she’d been able to stay on for the summer, but I suppose she couldn’t.”
I nod, exhaling. Another thought occurs to me.
“Do you remember a man called Alex, used to visit my parents?”
Pamela’s face lights up.
“Oh, I remember him, all right. Used to see him around the village a fair bit in those days—he bought the Collisons’ oldcottage, although he sold it again after your mother died. I remember him coming in here with the nanny once, and your brother.” She nudges my arm, and I manage not to react. “Ever so handsome, he was. Whatever happened to him?”
I stare at her. “I don’t know,” I say eventually, and she shrugs.
“Shame.”
“Do you mean he came into the doctor’s office here with Laura?”
“Oh yes. Edwin cut himself, and they brought him in, and I put a couple of butterfly stitches on it, if I recall. Nothing major. Such a charming man. Pity he left.”
“Can you remember his surname, Mrs. Larch?” I ask.
She furrows her brow. “An Indian name it was, began with a ‘K.’ Oh, I can’t remember. I can ask Martin for you, if you like. Memory like an elephant, that man.”
“Yes, please, Mrs. Larch,” I say, getting to my feet. “Yes, please do, and let me know as soon as you can. I’ll give you my number.”
I’m jotting it down, and realize she’s looking at me with some bemusement.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help with your mother’s notes, my dear,” she says, and I wave her apology away.
“You’ve been very helpful, honestly. Please do let me know what Martin remembers.”
I hand her my phone number, and she looks at it, nodding.
I feel lighter as I step out of the cool doctor’s office into the bright glare of the village high street. My mother had wanted a peaceful home birth, without excessive medical interference, so she told people she was expecting just one baby even though she knew she was having twins. Laura left because she was going to university; Pamela said she was a nice girl. My mother’s mental disturbance could hardly have been Laura’s fault.
Several people greet me as I stroll out of the village—people who have lived within a couple of miles of me virtually my whole life; who have seen me as a baby, a toddler, a schoolgirl in plaits. People who came to my father’s funeral the week before last, and probably to my mother’s funeral twenty-five years before that. I wave to Helen and Daisy Luckhurst as they pass me in their car, and then I tilt my face to the sky as I leave the houses behind me, concentrating on the birdsong in the trees and hedges.
I will go back to see Laura, I decide. I pull my phone from my pocket as I turn into the lane, and the receptionist who answers my call confirms that Laura will be at her office all day. I’ll drive back to London and speak to her face-to-face this afternoon, and then spend the night at Winterbourne. If I can persuade Laura to tell me the story of my birth, I might finally relax into a proper night’s sleep tonight.
Back at the house, I’m gathering things for my overnight stay when I notice something odd about my handbag. I didn’t take it into the village this morning, so it’s next to the microwave where I left it when I arrived home on Thursday night. I know I’ve taken something out of it since then—the photograph—but the buckle on the flap is done up. I know I wouldn’t have done the buckle back up when it was just sitting on the kitchen countertop.
My pulse quickens. My phone is in my pocket. But my wallet was in my bag, and I curse our laid-back family habit of leaving doors unlocked and windows open. I fumble to undo the buckle, knowing that anyone could have gained access to our house via the back doors over the weekend.
I line up the contents on the countertop. There isn’t much, which is normal. My wallet is here. My driving license. The order of service from Dad’s funeral, the letter confirming mycompassionate leave from work. Lipstick, hairbrush, spare sunglasses—they’re all still here. I stroke my fingertips over each item in turn.
But something is missing. Goose bumps rise on my arms. The receipt that hook-nosed man at the neat little house gave me, with Laura’s work address scribbled on the back. It was in my bag.Wasn’t it?I’m almost sure of it. And now it’s gone.
8
Laura
September 1991
ASUBDUED ATMOSPHEREsettled over Summerbourne after Saturday’s picnic. Ruth’s headache persisted through Sunday, and Dominic went out with the boat-owning neighbor after breakfast and didn’t return for several hours. The joint of beef the village butcher had delivered on Friday sat untouched in the fridge, and when Edwin and I grew hungry around midday, we ate cheese sandwiches at the kitchen table. Afterward, we made banana milkshakes laced with honey, and drank them out in his den.
