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Authors: Samantha Hayes
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sudden as the phone came out of her bag again in response to the bleep of an incoming text. ‘It would liven this place up a bit if he did. It looks dead boring.’
‘There’s another straight road not far from here called the Fosse Way,’ Lorraine continued.
She’d been going to explain about the Roman road’s route but slowed at the sight of a dozen or so wilted bunches of flowers laid at the base of a tree to their left. There were a couple of notes and cards pinned to the trunk, drooping and soggy from all the recent rain. Lorraine hated seeing these temporary shrines to lost loved ones. Usually these cases were tragic accidents rather than anything sinister, but occasionally she’d have to deal with the clean-up, the painful aftermath of assessing what had happened when Traffic, the first officers on the scene, called her in. She’d worked a number of times with the Serious Collision Investigation Unit when initial findings weren’t entirely clear-cut and a more disturbing outcome was suspected.
She glanced in the rear-view mirror at the faded floral tribute as they passed and wondered if it was anyone local.
‘Very sad,’ she said.
‘What is?’
‘Those flowers. Someone must have died in an accident.’
Lorraine flicked the indicator again and turned down the final lane that would take them to Radcote.
‘Maybe the Devil killed someone,’ Stella said, pulling open another bag of crisps and stuffing a handful into her mouth.
‘I can’t believe you didn’t bloody tell me,’ Lorraine said, easing out of the sisterly embrace. ‘It’s pretty up there as family crises go.’
They’d barely got out of the car before Jo had emerged from the front door, picking her way across the gravel with bare feet, cotton skirt swishing at her ankles. She was at her sister’s side, unperturbed by Stella’s indifference to their arrival, and had simply stated, calm as anything, ‘Malc’s buggered off.’
‘When?’ Lorraine beeped the car locked, thrust a bag at Stella to carry, and walked across the drive with Jo.
‘Two months ago.’
‘Two months? And it didn’t occur to you to pick up the phone and tell me?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you. You’re always so busy.’
Lorraine felt a surge of familiar guilt. Her work spilled into family time, into
everything.
It was the way it was, always had been. Yet Jo was making it sound as though the break-up was somehow her fault.
‘And I knew you were visiting soon anyway, so thought I’d tell you in person,’ she added.
They went inside the hallway of Glebe House. The cool, slightly musty air immediately transported Lorraine back to her childhood. The smell of the place never changed. She wouldn’t have been in the least surprised if her mother had come through from the kitchen to greet her, wiping flour-covered hands on a faded floral apron, her hair twisted behind her head in a tight grey knot, a handmade skirt over the dark tights she always wore, winter or summer.
Lorraine shook the memory of her mother from her head. This was Jo’s house now, and she was glad.
She gazed around and gave a little shiver, realising she’d left her cardigan in the car. It was cooler inside. The thick-walled house remained a constant temperature all year round. Only once all three fires had been blazing for at least half a day during the winter months did the pervading chill lift, allowing them to stretch out of all but the essential layers of clothing.
‘Oh, come here,’ Jo said as they dumped the bags on the uneven flagstones.
It was then that they hugged properly. Lorraine felt her sister’s slightly leaner body pressed against hers, felt her ribs and slim waist beneath the cotton of her white blouse. She suddenly felt ashamed of the two rounds of bacon sandwiches and crisps she’d consumed on the journey. But Jo’s bucolic lifestyle was more conducive to keeping healthy than her own frantic, grab-any-food-going, busy-working-mum routine as a
‘There’s another straight road not far from here called the Fosse Way,’ Lorraine continued.
She’d been going to explain about the Roman road’s route but slowed at the sight of a dozen or so wilted bunches of flowers laid at the base of a tree to their left. There were a couple of notes and cards pinned to the trunk, drooping and soggy from all the recent rain. Lorraine hated seeing these temporary shrines to lost loved ones. Usually these cases were tragic accidents rather than anything sinister, but occasionally she’d have to deal with the clean-up, the painful aftermath of assessing what had happened when Traffic, the first officers on the scene, called her in. She’d worked a number of times with the Serious Collision Investigation Unit when initial findings weren’t entirely clear-cut and a more disturbing outcome was suspected.
She glanced in the rear-view mirror at the faded floral tribute as they passed and wondered if it was anyone local.
‘Very sad,’ she said.
‘What is?’
‘Those flowers. Someone must have died in an accident.’
Lorraine flicked the indicator again and turned down the final lane that would take them to Radcote.
‘Maybe the Devil killed someone,’ Stella said, pulling open another bag of crisps and stuffing a handful into her mouth.
‘I can’t believe you didn’t bloody tell me,’ Lorraine said, easing out of the sisterly embrace. ‘It’s pretty up there as family crises go.’
They’d barely got out of the car before Jo had emerged from the front door, picking her way across the gravel with bare feet, cotton skirt swishing at her ankles. She was at her sister’s side, unperturbed by Stella’s indifference to their arrival, and had simply stated, calm as anything, ‘Malc’s buggered off.’
‘When?’ Lorraine beeped the car locked, thrust a bag at Stella to carry, and walked across the drive with Jo.
‘Two months ago.’
‘Two months? And it didn’t occur to you to pick up the phone and tell me?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you. You’re always so busy.’
Lorraine felt a surge of familiar guilt. Her work spilled into family time, into
everything.
It was the way it was, always had been. Yet Jo was making it sound as though the break-up was somehow her fault.
‘And I knew you were visiting soon anyway, so thought I’d tell you in person,’ she added.
They went inside the hallway of Glebe House. The cool, slightly musty air immediately transported Lorraine back to her childhood. The smell of the place never changed. She wouldn’t have been in the least surprised if her mother had come through from the kitchen to greet her, wiping flour-covered hands on a faded floral apron, her hair twisted behind her head in a tight grey knot, a handmade skirt over the dark tights she always wore, winter or summer.
Lorraine shook the memory of her mother from her head. This was Jo’s house now, and she was glad.
She gazed around and gave a little shiver, realising she’d left her cardigan in the car. It was cooler inside. The thick-walled house remained a constant temperature all year round. Only once all three fires had been blazing for at least half a day during the winter months did the pervading chill lift, allowing them to stretch out of all but the essential layers of clothing.
‘Oh, come here,’ Jo said as they dumped the bags on the uneven flagstones.
It was then that they hugged properly. Lorraine felt her sister’s slightly leaner body pressed against hers, felt her ribs and slim waist beneath the cotton of her white blouse. She suddenly felt ashamed of the two rounds of bacon sandwiches and crisps she’d consumed on the journey. But Jo’s bucolic lifestyle was more conducive to keeping healthy than her own frantic, grab-any-food-going, busy-working-mum routine as a
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