'I'm sure you understand that I can't do that. I was told it in confidence. In fact, I can't remember who it was. Anyway, that's rather beside the point. You won't deny that the child came crying to you at the hotel?'
'No,' Liz said dangerously, 'I won't deny that.'
'Then you can appreciate why people are talking. They're worried about you.'
'Worried how?*
'Really, dear, you force me to say these things. They're worried about your behaviour lately.'
Liz remembered the night that Alan had virtually accused her of wanting to ill-treat Anna – the night before he'd left her. 'Let me make something clear to you. Alan was still here the night she came running to the hotel. Here with her, do you understand that? That's why she came running to me. Maybe you should start worrying about his behaviour.'
Isobel held up one hand. 'I really think that's rather cheap, accusing him in order to defend yourself. I should have expected better of you. He would never harm the child. At least, he wouldn't have when I knew him,' she said with a kind of bitter triumph, 'when he lived with me.'
'But he wouldn't have been able to have a child then, would he? That would have been taking things a bit too far.'
'I don't know what you mean, and I don't want to know. You can be very coarse sometimes.' She shook off her disgust. 'In any case, dear, we shouldn't be quarrelling. Don't feel that you have to defend yourself to me. I know how much of a strain it can be to bring up a child single-handed. That's really all I came to say. I'll take the child off your hands for a while whenever you need a rest from her.'
Just now, despite all that had been said, it seemed a tempting offer. 'All right, Isobel, I'll tell her you've invited her.'
'I hope you'll allow her to decide for herself whether she wants to come.'
'Of course I will. What are you trying to say? I don't keep her locked up, you know.' She was tired of the argument; she wanted to be alone to think, if she could. At least, she thought she wanted to be alone, but now she wasn't even sure of that; her head was pounding. 'I'd like to be quiet now, Isobel. I'll be in touch if I need you.'
At the front door – rather grotesquely under the circumstances, Liz thought – Isobel said, 'I hope you'll both still come for dinner,' and wouldn't leave until they'd agreed a date. Liz stood gazing at the flat landscape long after Isobel had driven away. Who was spreading stories about her? How dare they suggest that she wasn't looking after the child as well as she possibly could, considering all that she had to put up with?
But there was another problem, more immediate and perhaps more disturbing. How had Isobel got into the house? The more she thought about it, the more Liz was convinced that she hadn't left the door open at all.
Twenty-six
By lunchtime on Monday, Anna was intolerable. Sunday had been an unforecasted rainy day, and she'd hardly left Liz alone for a moment, pestering her to read her latest story every time she finished a paragraph, refusing to watch television unless Liz watched it too, constantly complaining that she had nothing to read, and asking Liz to find her things to do. The house had become overrun with her toys that had strayed out of the playroom: bears in armchairs, dolls on the carpets, even her bicycle in the hall.
Eventually Liz had lost patience. 'You know perfectly well not to ride in the house. How old are you supposed to be? I thought you were a big girl.' But then Anna had started whining – she didn't like living here any more, she had nobody to play with, when was daddy coming home – and that had been more than Liz could stand. She'd made a hasty dinner and had sent Anna to bed early, despite her protests. She'd restrained herself from going up to look until she was sure that the child was asleep. Had Anna cried herself to sleep? Liz had thought for a while that she heard snuffling upstairs.
Eventually she'd gone to check. Anna had been peacefully asleep, though her eyelids looked sticky with dried tears. Downstairs, Liz had fetched her story from the playroom to re-read; something about it was nagging her, something she'd almost noticed.
After two more readings she still couldn't define the cause of her unease, the story was just what it seemed to be, a series of harmless anecdotes about a family of goats who lived in a field. Liz had watched television to take her mind off Alan and the rumours that someone was spreading about her, only to wake up to the doodling of light after the programmes had ended. It had made her feel utterly alone, that and the sound of the sea and the snuffling of the moist wind around the house. She'd gone to bed and dreamed that she was watching goats, staring at them for hours or perhaps for days before she gave up and wandered away. She'd woken up before she knew where she was going.
On Monday she was determined to be kinder to the child. She let her make prawn cocktails for tonight's first course, and tried to conceal her growing despondency at the thought of an evening with Derek and Jane. Perhaps they could tell her who was spreading the rumours -perhaps she could rid herself of at least that problem. She'd thought that once Alan had gone away there'd be less tension around the home, but instead it was worsening. She felt very much as if she were lying in bed at four in the morning, restless and jaggedly nervous, incapable of peace.
After finishing making the prawn cocktails, Anna wandered away, but soon came back. 'I don't know what to do,' she complained.
'Why don't you take your bike out now that it's stopped raining?'
'I don't want to go out. I don't like it.'
'What don't you like?'
'Someone keeps looking at me over the cliff.'
'Now that's silly, Anna. Why would anyone do that?' Liz ignored her own leaping pulse. 'Where did you think you saw something?'
'I don't have to see him. I know he's there.' To Liz, she sounded more obstinate than nervous. 'Just out there. Beyond the hedge.'
'Well, you can see there's nothing. Here, I'll lift you up.' She did so, for as long as she could manage it; slim though she was, Anna was no lightweight. The hedge had broken out in diamonds, the parched grass looked drowned in cider. 'There couldn't have been anyone,' Liz said. 'There's nowhere they could stand.'
'I don't care. He's still there. He's hiding.'
'Oh, Anna, for heaven's sake. I'm too busy to take you out to show you there's nothing. All right – don't go out if you don't want to. Since you've got such an imagination, why don't you get on with writing your story.'
'I don't want to.'
Liz remembered her undertaking to be kinder. What was she thinking of, mocking the child's story? You'd think she was jealous of Anna for taking after her father. 'I'm sorry, darling,' she said. 'I know I wasn't very encouraging yesterday, but I read it properly after you went to bed, and I really like it. I'm anxious to find out what happens next.'
'I still don't want to. I don't like it any more.'
'Good God, Anna, is there anything you do like?' She felt helplessly frustrated, desperate to vent her rage on something. Just as she was setting out ingredients for this evening's main course she found the perfect excuse. 'Oh, skit!'
Anna started giggling at that, but stopped when she saw Liz's face. 'What's wrong?'
'I've got no sherry for the bloody marinade. Now I'll have to go into the village.'
'I'll go if you like.'
'Would you mind?' It seemed odd that she was proposing to go out now, but perhaps the village was far enough from the cliff. 'All right, I'll make the sweet while I'm waiting. Just be careful, and hurry back.'
As Anna cycled away, Liz called, 'Remember, ask for the dryest sherry they have,' and watched until Anna was out of sight, long brown legs pumping easily, red hair streaming like inexhaustible fire. Suddenly she felt intensely proud of her. Of course she was irritating at times, but so were all children. For a moment she seemed too precious to let go, but Liz couldn't cling to her for ever.
In the kitchen she switched on the mixer and made the meringue topping, then on an impulse she went out
