They aren’t, of course. Nothing else interesting is happening in Lower Tew.
This is about me. And their faces confirm it when I reach them. A few have the decency to look embarrassed and turn away, but others make eye contact defiantly. Julia is among them. For a horrifying moment I think I’ve lost her support too, but then her face softens, and she steps away from the group.
‘Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry to hear the awful news,’ she says, putting both hands on my shoulders then pulling me into a hug. It takes me a few uncomfortable seconds of this embrace before I move my arms away from my sides and reciprocate. Should I be crying? Will that make them feel differently, I wonder? But tears do not come. My tear ducts have run dry; there are no more in reserve even if I wanted to put on a show.
‘Thanks, Julia,’ I say, gently extricating myself from her arms. ‘What a mess, eh?’
‘Yes, yes. So shocking,’ she says, turning back to the others. ‘We were just saying that, weren’t we ladies? What a terrible shock it must’ve been for you, poor thing.’
That’s not what they were saying, but I have to go with it. Julia’s disingenuous concern is what I expected, really. I’m still classed as a newcomer – I haven’t immersed myself in village life beyond chatting to people at the café and offering limited support to local events – and they barely know Tom. For two years I’ve been focused on my family and business, and now that’s going to come back to bite me. So, despite knowing their reasons aren’t entirely genuine, I need these women. I need their support, however superficial. I can still build a real friendship if I try hard enough, even in these grim circumstances.
My mind wanders to Adam. He always drops Jess off at nursery early – mainly, he confided in me, to avoid ‘Mumsgate’. I don’t blame him one bit. Will he have heard about Tom by now too? He might be the only person I can turn to for genuine support. Part of me wants to call him, but I’m afraid of his response. I want to think he’d be okay; that he’d treat me as before. I’m not the one who’s going to be on trial.
But maybe that’s not true. Given the murmurings of the mums at the gate, it’s possible I already am.
Chapter 34
BETH
Now
It feels wrong, somehow, to be at work today. I’m not firing on all cylinders – I’ve already messed up a customer’s order and knocked into the kiln, causing an immediate bruise to form on my upper arm. Maybe I should shut up shop and go home to contemplate the future before I do any real damage. I need to contact Maxwell anyway to ask him what comes next.
What’s the process when someone is charged with murder and held in custody until a court appearance? I should ask him what part I have to play in the aftermath: whether I’m going to be questioned again. After his phone call on Saturday night, I couldn’t cope with the detail. I didn’t feel I could call him yesterday – everyone needs a day off. That was the excuse I gave myself, anyway. But now, I know I must face it. I can’t bury my head in the sand and pretend it hasn’t happened.
I let out a huge sigh. Decision made. No one is currently painting any pottery, so when the few customers who are having a morning cuppa and a cookie finish, I’ll call it a day. I’ll pay Lucy for the full shift, regardless. She’ll no doubt be relieved to be getting away from me: she’s been noticeably awkward around me since I came in; her reaction to my news that Tom has been charged with murder was one of horror – although I’m not sure if it was entirely authentic or put on for my benefit. She’d already mentioned how she didn’t want Lower Tew to become ‘a circus’ and now, with the official charge, I imagine she fears that it’ll become just that. She’s probably right. She’s currently out back, brushing off the shelves in the kiln. I won’t disturb her – she’s obviously doing what she can to avoid me.
I start aimlessly wiping down clean tables to pass the time.
‘Are you still planning to start the book club, then?’ I leap at the voice behind me – I’d been so lost in thought I hadn’t heard Shirley sneak up.
‘Oh,’ I say, my hand flying to my chest. ‘Sorry, Mrs Irish, I didn’t realise you were there.’
She furrows her brow and continues without waiting for me to answer. ‘Only, given the current circumstances, I imagine you’ve enough on your plate?’
Heat rushes to my face. ‘Er … I haven’t given it much thought, to be truthful, Mrs Irish.’
‘I really wish you’d call me Shirley – there’s no need for such formality. I’m not a teacher.’
‘Sorry,’ I say, a snippet of annoyance taking the warmth from my cheeks. ‘Habit, I suppose, as we don’t know each other well. I only mean to be polite.’
She gives a humph and opens her eyes wider. ‘So?’
‘It’s not due to begin for two weeks, Shirley, so I’ll wait and see. Don’t worry, I’ll update the posters if there’s any alteration,’ I say, heading back to the counter. Thankfully she doesn’t follow. I should expect some frostiness – maybe even straight-up rudeness – because of Tom’s charge. I swallow painfully as the thought hits me: what if I receive more than that? There could be animosity, even hate, levelled at me. My husband has been charged with murder. The weight of this reality is beginning to sink in. People might well target their disgust, their abhorrence, at me. The words I overheard at the nursery gates play over in my head.
She must’ve known.
I press both hands to my stomach as the griping pain
