Chac’s words spun back…
FOUR
‘Is there nothing else we can do?’ Elena pressed.
‘Not at this stage, I’m afraid.’ Nadine Moore let out a tired breath at the other end of the phone. ‘I’ve been in touch with Lorena’s school and GP, told them to let me know if anything appears untoward with Lorena. Physical indications obviously from her doctor, but from the school all they can look out for are mood swings or problems with her work.’
‘And they didn’t tell you of anything they’d noticed already?’
‘No. I’d have phoned you straightaway if there was any news. I know how anxious you are.’ With the silence from the other end, Nadine added. ‘As you said, it was just a momentary look. You could well be wrong — it could be nothing shy; shy;.’
‘No.’ Elena shook her head. ‘I know Lorena too well. There’s something wrong.’
‘Maybe it was just concern about the fuss caused by our visit. She started to think about what might be said to her after we left.’
‘I don’t know.’ Elena felt herself swaying, but only for a second. She reminded herself that she’d only seen that look on Lorena’s face twice before: once recalling some nights in the sewer waking up with rats crawling over her, then the threat of the second orphanage closing and her dread of possibly having to go back to the streets again. Elena knew the difference between fear and concern with Lorena. She was aware of a presence behind her, and glanced back. Gordon hovered by the door to his study. With a taut half smile he turned back in, and she pulled her attention back to Nadine. More emphatically: ‘No. It’s more than that, I know.’
Nadine exhaled heavily. Practically a replay of their conversation after leaving the Ryalls yesterday, and now painfully evident that she wasn’t easily going to dispel Elena’s worries, imagined or otherwise. But there was little else she could do. As it was, she’d stretched as far as she dare go: telling Ryall that he should avoid visits to Lorena’s room late at night had been like tip-toeing through broken glass. Cushioning the reproach — ‘ It’s just one of those things with girls at her age. They become very secretive and self-conscious. You weren’t to know’ — had done little to ease Ryall’s pained, incredulous expression.
‘With Ryall not visiting her room any more, hopefully that should put pay to any problems.
‘Yes, hopefully.’ Elena didn’t sound convinced. Doubt still nagged heavily at her. But she sensed that Nadine’s position was starting to become entrenched; little would be gained by pressing. She elicited a promise from Nadine to let her know the moment anything knew came up, and signed off.
Yet it wasn’t just Nadine that was doubtful. When she’d recounted everything to Gordon the night before, he’d questioned whether she might be reading too much into it all. Now that tight smile when he’d heard her pressing Nadine.
She pondered whether to broach the issue — she’d hoped at least for support from Gordon, if nothing else so as to not feel so isolated with her concerns — but from his voice trailing through from his office, she could tell that he was on the phone.
She went back to her upstairs studio to do more painting. Time to allow her mood to settle, her thoughts to focus. Her painting helped with that. Brushstroke therapy.
She’d spent much of the last month painting version three of the chine — the steep wooded ravine leading to the sea — which their house overlooked. Version one had been a standard landscape view which she wasn’t happy with. Gordon had prompted her: What is it that you most like about the chine, that you find magical? She’d admitted that it was the feeling of secrecy and being protected once deep inside it, with the open sea at its end representing freedom. Yet as she would move closer to the sea and hear its rushing surge, that also came to represent all the volatility and madness out there; what she was perhaps hiding away from. ‘In the chine I feel safe, as if it’s a haven.’ ‘Then paint that,’ Gordon had suggested.
Good, solid, dependable Gordon, sometimes infuriatingly laid-back with his slow, pedantic deliberations — but always intuitive. The voice of reason in a storm. Probably why now his support was so important to her.
Her second attempt had too much contrast between the darkness of the chine and the harsh light of the sea horizon beyond — this time she was trying to capture some warmth and texture; some detail and depth to the trees and foliage, the faint chinks of light reflecting off the brook trickling through. She’d taken three photos in the summer as a guide, but she knew the chine so well she could practically paint it blindfold.
Her style of painting was conventional landscape with a hint of impressionist, but became unconventional through its use of layering — the habit of building the oils in layers employed by the Old Masters. It had derived originally due to the expense of canvass, so therefore the need to re-paint over old paintings or the false starts of works in progress. For Elena, she enjoyed the luxury of being able to paint over her errors until she reached perfection. She considered herself not that good an artist — despite now two local exhibitions and one at a small Notting Hill gallery when they were in London — and so for her the layering became in part a device behind which she could shield her lack of ability. Nobody would ever know.
The one thing she shared with the Old Masters was the rich texture and depth gained through the many layers. But as now she carefully dabbed and stroked, she found herself becoming increasingly agitated rather than relaxed. Her hand started to shake on the brush. The therapy this time wasn’t working.
Elena could only catch a glimpse of sea beyond the far ridge of the chine, a heavy grey-blue almost merging with the mist and cloud. Far different to the Ryall’s broad sea panorama seven miles up the coast — but Elena couldn’t help contemplating if Lorena was looking from her bedroom window at the same dull, brooding sea, wondering if anything was happening or whether she’d been left alone and forgotten.
‘You don’t think I should pursue it, do you?’ Elena looked at Gordon directly as she toyed with the last of her dessert.
She’d tried to broach the subject twice earlier: the first time Shelley McGurran, her boss at the agency, had phoned; the second time her daughter, Katine, walked into the kitchen halfway through them talking while preparing dinner.
They’d let the children leave the table early to watch TV with their desserts; they were now out of earshot in the adjoining lounge.
‘It’s not that I think you’re wrong. Your suspicions may very well be right — something
Elena held Gordon’s gaze for a second. Obviously her two false starts earlier had given him time to prepare: he’d chosen the route of lesser confrontation, not wanting a heated debate over whether or not her suspicions might be right.
‘But if Social Services can’t or won’t help her — who else is there to help her? Who else does she know in this town?’
‘I know, I know.’ Gordon held one hand up, sighing, as if exasperated that despite his efforts he’d still hit a confrontational wall. ‘I think you’re right to try. But unless you budge Social Services to your way of thinking, how far are you going to get? Even if you convince them something is happening — regardless that it’s based only on a hunch over a worried look from Lorena — they’ll still need something concrete to be able to pursue it.’
As always, the voice of reason. But as much as she knew that, annoyingly, Gordon was probably right — what hit her strongest, like the many times he’d been right before, was his smug, know-it-all overtone, which would usually draw out her instinctive rebelliousness. Though through twelve years of marriage she’d learnt to curb her worst traits, so all that resulted now was her lightly chewing her bottom lip as she looked back down at her dessert.
Sudden awkwardness with the silence; when she lifted her head she glanced through the open archway to
