getting hold of a car and would be there as soon as she could, but had a five-hour road trip from London ahead of her. There had been a sudden flare of hope that they could find Adam via his mobile signal, until she told them that she had already tried the number, and had found the phone ringing in the pocket of Millie’s pram.
When her interrogation had finally ended, Grace had briefly gone out into the pitch-black night and stood with Millie held tight in her arms, surrounded by strobing torchlights, listening to Adam’s name echoing away through different voices, praying that one of them would hear a response. But each call was carried off on the bitter wind to be met with silence. Later she had watched as the search parties returned, shoulders slack, heads bowed. Nothing had explained why Millie had been left alone on the doorstep with no sign of her daddy. Not then, and not since.
Grace’s mother and father had arrived twenty-four hours later, pulling their daughter into their arms and letting her sob her helplessness out on them. Grace had seen the horror and confusion on their faces as they watched the police coming in and out of the cottage. But with her family there, Grace had at least felt anchored to the world again. Her parents had stayed by her side throughout the ensuing fortnight as she faced the media, asking for information, then waited for answers that never came. They had helped her search for Adam’s passport when the police requested it. To Grace’s alarm, none of them could find it, but the police had put out an alert, and there was no record of it being used.
As Christmas grew closer, with no news, Grace’s parents had grown more eager to leave every day. They had insisted upon taking Grace and Millie too; under no circumstances would they leave them by themselves in such a remote part of the world, the antithesis of their beloved, bright and sunny South of France. At the time, Grace had been too upset to do anything but acquiesce, and she was thankful for their steady, guiding hands over the last twelve months. But if she was ever going to get on with her life, she had to take those first wobbly steps back out on her own. So here she was.
Grace jumped as a car flew past them, shattering the silence. Her reverie was broken. The moors lay in front of her, bleak and brown under a heavy grey sky. Stop letting your memories run riot, she chided herself. Just keep busy, get things done. She needed distraction, and was glad that Annabel was coming up this weekend, under the pretext of helping out, even though she knew Annabel was likely to prove useless on that score.
She started the engine again. Halfway down the steep hill that led into the village, they passed an imposing two-storey stone house, perched at a point where it could survey the dwellings below, like a patrician parent hovering over its children. After that there was a patch of bare grass, beyond which the remains of a dilapidated row of terraced cottages could be seen in the distance. At the lowest dip in the road stood the whitewashed pub, after which they crossed a small bridge, making their way up the next incline towards Hawthorn Cottage.
She stopped the car outside her gate, observing the Land Rover parked up ahead of them. Then she spotted someone standing at her front door. As she watched, the woman moved to the front window, cupped her hands around her eyes and peered through.
Grace got slowly out of the car, wondering why she should be the one feeling uncomfortable at catching someone else snooping around her home. This woman looked totally out of place in an area where the dress-code was mostly denim, flannel checks and tweed. She wore baggy fisherman’s trousers and a shapeless stripy jumper, teamed with a beanie in rainbow colours.
As Grace closed the car door, the woman turned, and with absolutely no embarrassment said, ‘Oh, hello! I thought this place looked occupied.’ She noted Grace’s confusion and laughed. ‘Sorry, let me introduce myself. I’m Claire, Meredith’s daughter.’ She pointed back the way Grace had just come, towards the big house sitting on the hillside. ‘Mum saw the car here, and I’ve been sent round to check it out, make sure you’re not a squatter. You must be Grace.’
Grace returned the friendly smile. ‘Yes, I am,’ she replied. ‘Pleased to meet you. I didn’t know Meredith had a daughter. I’m looking forward to seeing her again – to say thank you. She’s done a terrific job of minding the place.’
The woman came forward and held out a hand. As she got closer, Grace saw that Claire’s eyebrow was pierced through with a small hoop, and her nose sported a ruby gem. One ear had two rings through it, whereas the other one had five, becoming gradually smaller as they ascended her ear.
‘Nice to meet you too,’ Claire said. ‘And Meredith hasn’t got one daughter, there are four of us, for her sins. And she can’t get rid of us either – as one moves out, another one moves back in for some reason or other. I’m the latest refugee. Mind you, Mum loves it. She wouldn’t know what to do with herself in that big old house if one or other of us wasn’t in need of a hand.’ Her eyes flickered towards the car. ‘Is that your daughter in there?’
‘Yes.’
Claire glanced through the window at the sleeping child. ‘Ah, she is lovely, Grace, you must be so proud.’ She remained still for a moment, as though lost in thought, then bent down to retie the laces of one walking boot. As she straightened she continued, ‘Anyway, I think Mum has decided to adopt you as one of us now that you’re back – so she’s sent me here with an invitation to lunch tomorrow. Would you like to join us?’
Grace hesitated for a moment, which Claire took as a sign that she needed encouragement. ‘Please come along, Grace. You’d be very welcome. Mum’s had a bit of a rough time lately – I don’t know if you heard but our dad passed away a few months ago. It was unexpected, he had a massive stroke and never recovered… and… well, you know…’
Claire trailed off uneasily. Grace understood, as she had grown used to this in the last year. People no longer talked casually of disaster or loss in her presence. Yet she was also set apart by Adam’s unexplained disappearance. No one knew quite how to deal with that – including Grace herself.
‘I’m so sorry, Claire,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t know about your dad.’ She remembered Meredith’s husband: he had been in the search party for Adam last year. In particular she recalled his sorrowful eyes, which had conveyed such a depth of compassion that it had reached her through the confused fog of that terrible night.
Grace was unsure what to say next. She often thought that after the last year she should be able to tackle difficult subjects with ease, but if anything it had made her hesitation worse. She was too aware of what harm a casual slip of the tongue or a careless remark could do to an injured spirit. She’d lost count of the times she’d fielded insensitive questions about Adam’s disappearance from well-meaning family or friends. In the end she smiled. ‘I’d love to come for lunch… I was only uncertain because my sister will be here this weekend.’
‘Oh, no problem,’ Claire replied, ‘bring her along too. Come about midday – we’ll see you then.’ And she walked away down the hill with a wave.
As Grace watched her go, she felt the first spots of rain sting her face. Then she saw Claire move tight against the side of the lane, as a small red hatchback swung into view, bouncing across the bridge. Claire glared after the car, and Grace grimaced. She could always trust her sister to make an entrance.
5
The next day, Grace woke up to a weak sunshine pushing its way in through the curtains. For once the other side of the bed was not an empty hollow. Rather, it contained a person snoring softly, dressed in a silky nightie, wearing a pink eye mask and with bright pink earplugs stuffed into her ears. Grace had laughed at Annabel as she’d set about blocking the world out the night before. ‘We’re not next to the motorway here, you know. There’s nothing out there!’
‘I know, but I can’t sleep without them now.’
Sharing a bed reminded Grace of their childhood. The pillow fights; the pinching and tickling; the risque novels they had read in whispers by torchlight. The last time Annabel had slept in Grace’s bed had been a year ago, when Grace had woken to reality with a painful throb in her chest, on the morning after Adam had disappeared.
She jerked back to the present as she heard Millie stirring, and went to get her. By the time she had made Millie’s cereal, Annabel was coming down the stairs. Grace looked around the kitchen doorway to see her sister standing by the window, bleary-eyed.
‘Morning,’ Annabel trilled. ‘I was completely disorientated when I woke up.’ She glanced out of the window again. ‘It’s so dismal, isn’t it? I couldn’t believe it when I was driving here yesterday. It’s one long stretch of mud and dead bracken. I’m not sure this place even qualifies as a hamlet – you just live on the road to somewhere
