‘I confronted them at the dinner, and that’s when Giles told me they were in love. So I set fire to the dining table by accident after throwing a breadstick at his head but since I don’t believe in accidents and coincidences, I probably meant them to all burn in hell, and so I left with my container and haven’t spoken to either of them again.’
Henry started to laugh and so did she. ‘So, Naomi’s ashes are now in the container that you once filled with cottage pie that then uncovered an affair? Oh, that’s perfect.’
‘Yes, sorry, I can try and find another container but that’s all I had at hand.’
‘That’s okay, she would love it.’
They sat at the kitchen table and drank tea and talked late into the night. Clara was whip-smart and Henry was entertained by her humour and dreams for her future, which included chickens, a dog and an open fire and a Welsh dresser just like Tassie’s.
But later when the lights were out and he was trying to sleep, half on Pansy’s mattress and half on the cold wooden floor, he wondered if there was such a thing as Naomi’s having a premonition, and her insisting he say yes. But to what? When they were first together, she would create elaborate treasure hunts with such obscure clues that even she would forget what they meant and they would have to work them out together, which he loved doing. But she had left him for three years wondering what he was supposed to be saying yes to and now she was in the container that had undone Clara’s relationship and had brought her here, lying in the next room.
It was so ridiculous it was funny, but somehow it almost made sense. Almost.
27
Clara walked into the large and impersonal hospital, finding the floor and room where Mrs Brown was recuperating.
She knocked on the open door, put her head around and saw Mrs Brown lying in bed.
Gone was her tanned face and bouffant hair. She looked paler and older and without makeup, somewhat vulnerable. Clara nearly felt sorry for her.
She put a bag of grapes on the table next to the bed.
‘Hello, Mrs Brown, I’m Clara Maxwell. I’m a friend of Rachel’s.’
Mrs Brown glared at Clara. ‘She doesn’t have any friends, so who are you? A social worker?’
‘She does have me as a friend. A new friend but she is a wonderful girl.’ Considering your abuse, she’s bloody amazing, Clara thought but didn’t say.
Mrs Brown scoffed, ‘For an idiot, she does okay. Why hasn’t she come to see me? I need things from home.’
Clara pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed.
‘I think Rachel is afraid of you,’ she said and watched Mrs Brown’s face, which gave nothing away.
‘She is an ignorant child who would be living in a house for retarded women if it weren’t for me giving her a job.’
Clara held her tongue at the poison coming from the woman’s mouth. ‘You shouldn’t say that word.’
‘I don’t care, I say it as I see it, and she’s not right.’
‘How can you say that about your own child?’ Clara could not understand how this woman could be so cruel.
Moira Brown looked nonplussed.
‘Mrs Brown, did you ever think that your continual criticism and abuse made her so anxious she couldn’t function properly?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, I didn’t abuse her.’
‘You did! You hit her – I saw the bruise and according to others, this was a common occurrence.’
‘When she can’t take instruction, I do it to help it sink in.’
Clara could not believe this woman wasn’t even denying her abuse to Rachel. God, now she wanted to push her down the stairs.
‘You can’t keep abusing her and holding her back. She’s doing wonderfully at the bakery; it’s never been busier.’
Mrs Brown laughed. It was a thin, brittle laugh that sounded like a glass splintering.
‘I am selling the bakery and the tearooms. I’m heading to Costa del Sol to live. Rachel can come to be my housekeeper. God knows she wouldn’t get a job here.’
‘Are you serious? That’s how you speak about your own daughter?’ Clara failed at keeping the venom from her own voice.
‘She’s not my daughter,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘She was my useless husband’s child. The wife died and I had to take her on as well, and then Alfie died and left me with his lump. I started the bakery to try and make a living but she can’t cook very well and all I do is work.’
Clara stood up and picked up the grapes. ‘You are a truly awful person. Really, and I knew someone who was awful, but this sort of abuse – and it is abuse – is not ever going to be allowed as long as I know Rachel. Goodbye, Mrs Brown, and I hope you break your other leg.’
She walked out of the room, her eyes stinging with tears in the face of such hate and loathing.
She remembered the words her father used to say to her mother.
You’re an idiot. You can’t do anything right. What is this slop you’ve cooked? Why didn’t you die when you had Clara? Would have saved me having to care for you and for her.
Clara leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. It’s okay, she reminded herself. He’s gone. You are safe. But Rachel wasn’t safe. There was no way she would let that bitch take Rachel to Spain and ruin what chances she had of having a life with joy and purpose and perhaps love.
She would do whatever it took to save Rachel from that woman and Clara thought she might have a plan.
*
After Clara had gone to see Mrs Brown and bought two single beds and bedding for the spare room, to be delivered that day, she drove back to Merryknowe and called in to the bakery.
‘Hey,’ she said to Rachel who was plating pies in the
