‘How I love an English accent,’ she’d said when they first met. ‘You sound just like Mary Poppins.’ Her eyes had lit up when Erin told her why she’d come to Lansford. ‘What a marvellous thing, helping young girls in need. I’ve always wondered what went on over there, behind that great big yew hedge. Though I still remember when it was a private home, back in my schooldays. Some bigwig from the city would spend summers here with his family. Oh, the parties they held out on the lawns… I would lie in bed and listen to the band play into the wee hours.’ She passed her hand over her eyes. ‘What was their name? Harkness, Hartford. Something like that. I’m afraid my memory’s not what it was.’
Easy enough for Erin to imagine what the house was like as a wealthy man’s summer retreat. The gloss and the glamour. ‘It’s been a private clinic for nearly ten years now,’ she’d said.
‘Well, all I can say is, it’s nice to know the old manor is being put to good use. So many of those homes from the glory days of the robber barons have fallen into ruin. Have you driven by the old Bennett estate up the river? Such a lovely place that was. A family home from way back, and then a girls’ college in the fifties. But the only thing it’s fit for now is the wrecking ball.’
*
Under the mournful gaze of her landlady’s cocker spaniel, Erin checked the letter box on the front porch, though there was never any post. Except for the phone company, no one had her home address, and she preferred it that way. In her first few weeks back in the country, reeling with culture shock and tinged with an uneasy dread, she’d lost confidence in her ability to pull off her pose as an Englishwoman. Though her accent came naturally after twenty years in Britain, ever since moving to Lansford, the cadence and vocabulary of American speech threatened to return. Though no one had doubted her story so far, she instinctively kept her distance. How shocked the Meadows’ staff would be if they discovered she was American as apple pie, born and raised in a small town not three hours’ drive away.
Before passing through the narrow strip of dirty snow that led to the entrance to her flat, she glanced back at the street. No shadows lurked in the shrubbery, no car idled at the kerb. Safe to scurry to the door and unlock the deadbolt she’d installed on the day she moved in.
As she climbed the stairs, her thoughts shifted from the day’s worries to the pleasures of a hot bath and an early night.
Once through the double-locked door, Erin set her bag down and shut the curtains, before turning on the lights. Only after a quick peek in the closets and under the bed was she able to relax. That she sometimes felt compelled to check the flat twice or three times before going to bed was bothersome, but not enough to do anything about. Long ago she’d sworn off anti-anxiety drugs of any kind. The furred tongue and foggy brain. Never again.
In the kitchen, the cupboards were bare. A box of crackers, a handful of black olives, and a wedge of cheese too small to satisfy a mouse were all she had to eat. She’d meant to shop yesterday but had stayed late at the clinic to comfort one of her patients.
Running out of food was a bad sign. She usually kept the pantry well-stocked. A holdover from childhood, where locked kitchen cupboards were the norm, and her portions strictly monitored. At least there was a bottle of Cabernet in the fridge, still half-full. She poured out a glass and carried it to the window. Through a gap in the blinds, she scrutinised the darkened house across the alley. Her neighbour, a large man with a penchant for plaid shirts and tracksuit bottoms, kept odd hours. On nights she couldn’t sleep, she liked to stand by the window, waiting for a sign of life. The blue glow of the television or the flare of a match.
Stuffed into her shoulder bag, the two items she’d been avoiding all day called out to her. The Greenlake file and a thick envelope from Julian that arrived in yesterday’s post. Which was the lesser evil? She placed them side by side on the heavy oak table. Door number one or door number two?
Physician, heal thyself.
Hannah’s voice. Wise counsellor, fairy godmother. It was Hannah who’d pulled her back from the ledge when Erin, a university student in Bristol, was still reeling from the demons that had chased her across the Atlantic. When had they last spoken? Tomorrow, without fail, she would send a detailed missive to her friend.
With Hannah’s voice urging her on, she pulled the tab off the bulky envelope from London. A cascade of glossy reprints spilled out onto the table. Copies of her latest publication. Always a thrill to receive them. But what was this? At the sight of Julian’s name listed as first author, a flicker of rage spread through her chest. Once again, he’d given himself top billing for her work. Did the man have no shame? One of the many reasons she’d been more than ready to put the Thornbury Clinic behind her. A piece of paper, torn from a yellow notepad, fluttered to the floor.
Hello E. – I hope you’re settled in by now and are happy in your new role. How do you find life in America? I do hope they’re treating you well over there. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you again how sorry I was to see you go, but it’s good to know you’re continuing our work on the other side of the pond. I’ve no doubt the Board of Directors at
