She looked up, and looked straight up at the window where I sat. She raised a hand and waved.
Not to me.
I knew it. I knew she wasn’t waving to me. There was someone else in the room. Standing just over to my right, just out of my line of sight. I could feel it in my flesh. A young woman, younger than me, needing to be noticed. If I just turned my head a fraction, she’d be there.
I glanced around.
Sun blared through the far window. The door on to the landing stood ajar, and a dim strip of space beyond. No one. I got up from the bed. The mattress creaked, eased itself back into shape. I stood there in the sunshine, breath held. Listened. Nothing.
I moved over to the bookcase, set a hand on the upright. I had an image of myself as a child, clinging to the side of a swimming pool, children’s shouts bouncing off the surface of the water, water glittering, and Mum in up to her chest, hair in soaking ringlets, smiling encouragement, outstretched fingertips just out of reach.
The room was filled with empty, dusty sunshine. Prickling silence.
I drew a breath; I could have sworn to it: the silence shifted. As if another breath had been drawn, as if someone anticipated me and was about to speak. My body fizzed with adrenaline. I let go of the bookcase, took a step into the sunshine. I don’t quite know how, but the air seemed to change, to soften, to lose its charge. There really was nothing. I pressed my eyes with the heels of my hands, ground at them. I glanced back out of the window. The street was empty: the old woman had gone and the suds had trickled away. I had to know what she had seen. If she had seen what I had felt.
I ran down the stairs and walked straight out of the house, letting the door slam behind me. I crossed the street to the cottage. The door knocker was a curled brass fist, cold and smooth and solid in my hand. I knocked and stepped back off the doorstep. I had left footprints behind in the damp.
I heard footsteps approaching and fixed a smile on my face. The door opened. I didn’t know what I was going to say. It was stupid coming over: I should have thought it through. How could I ask? The old woman opened the door, smiling. Then her expression faltered. She looked at me, studying my features, her brows pinching.
‘Hi,’ I said uneasily. ‘I’m Rachel; I’m the Clarkes’ daughter.’
‘Is your mum with you?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘It must have been you then,’ she pulled a self-deprecating face. ‘My eyes aren’t so good any more. I’m Jean, Jean Davies. Come on in. I’ll make some tea.’
She turned away, expecting me to follow. I went in across the blue- and blood-coloured lino tiles, into the dark hall. I’d have to face it, again. The telling.
WILLIAM STEPHEN WORE THE FAMILY CHRISTENING GOWN, and howled when the water dripped on to his head, a sure sign of the Devil leaving him. I stood as godmother, and swore to renounce the Devil and all his works. There was a jar of bluebells on the windowsill above the font. The Reverend was solemn, handled the baby with uneasy care, and when I took the hot squalling bundle from him, he smiled at me, relieved, and for that moment, it seemed almost as if all distinction of rank had disappeared and we were not master and servant, nor pastor and parishioner, but God’s children, standing together and equal before our Father to welcome this new, howling Christian child into His family. I smiled back at the Reverend, and took the baby in the crook of my arm, the white gown dangling in soft folds, his little body struggling, his face red and furious. I dipped my head to talk to the child, to comfort him.
Agnes had her head covered with a light lace scarf, which had been her grandmother’s. She looked pretty, though still pale and tired.
‘He’s a fine strong lad. He’ll be a credit to you,’ the Reverend said, when the service was over. Agnes’s cheeks flushed dog-rose pink. It was a pleasure to see it; it seemed a
Not to me.
I knew it. I knew she wasn’t waving to me. There was someone else in the room. Standing just over to my right, just out of my line of sight. I could feel it in my flesh. A young woman, younger than me, needing to be noticed. If I just turned my head a fraction, she’d be there.
I glanced around.
Sun blared through the far window. The door on to the landing stood ajar, and a dim strip of space beyond. No one. I got up from the bed. The mattress creaked, eased itself back into shape. I stood there in the sunshine, breath held. Listened. Nothing.
I moved over to the bookcase, set a hand on the upright. I had an image of myself as a child, clinging to the side of a swimming pool, children’s shouts bouncing off the surface of the water, water glittering, and Mum in up to her chest, hair in soaking ringlets, smiling encouragement, outstretched fingertips just out of reach.
The room was filled with empty, dusty sunshine. Prickling silence.
I drew a breath; I could have sworn to it: the silence shifted. As if another breath had been drawn, as if someone anticipated me and was about to speak. My body fizzed with adrenaline. I let go of the bookcase, took a step into the sunshine. I don’t quite know how, but the air seemed to change, to soften, to lose its charge. There really was nothing. I pressed my eyes with the heels of my hands, ground at them. I glanced back out of the window. The street was empty: the old woman had gone and the suds had trickled away. I had to know what she had seen. If she had seen what I had felt.
I ran down the stairs and walked straight out of the house, letting the door slam behind me. I crossed the street to the cottage. The door knocker was a curled brass fist, cold and smooth and solid in my hand. I knocked and stepped back off the doorstep. I had left footprints behind in the damp.
I heard footsteps approaching and fixed a smile on my face. The door opened. I didn’t know what I was going to say. It was stupid coming over: I should have thought it through. How could I ask? The old woman opened the door, smiling. Then her expression faltered. She looked at me, studying my features, her brows pinching.
‘Hi,’ I said uneasily. ‘I’m Rachel; I’m the Clarkes’ daughter.’
‘Is your mum with you?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘It must have been you then,’ she pulled a self-deprecating face. ‘My eyes aren’t so good any more. I’m Jean, Jean Davies. Come on in. I’ll make some tea.’
She turned away, expecting me to follow. I went in across the blue- and blood-coloured lino tiles, into the dark hall. I’d have to face it, again. The telling.
WILLIAM STEPHEN WORE THE FAMILY CHRISTENING GOWN, and howled when the water dripped on to his head, a sure sign of the Devil leaving him. I stood as godmother, and swore to renounce the Devil and all his works. There was a jar of bluebells on the windowsill above the font. The Reverend was solemn, handled the baby with uneasy care, and when I took the hot squalling bundle from him, he smiled at me, relieved, and for that moment, it seemed almost as if all distinction of rank had disappeared and we were not master and servant, nor pastor and parishioner, but God’s children, standing together and equal before our Father to welcome this new, howling Christian child into His family. I smiled back at the Reverend, and took the baby in the crook of my arm, the white gown dangling in soft folds, his little body struggling, his face red and furious. I dipped my head to talk to the child, to comfort him.
Agnes had her head covered with a light lace scarf, which had been her grandmother’s. She looked pretty, though still pale and tired.
‘He’s a fine strong lad. He’ll be a credit to you,’ the Reverend said, when the service was over. Agnes’s cheeks flushed dog-rose pink. It was a pleasure to see it; it seemed a
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