who's this?' her father said.
He sounded more like his old self than the last time she had called. 'It's Liz,' she said.
'Well, that's always good news. How are you?'
'More to the point, how are you?'
'Oh, pretty well. You'd never know the old machine had been in for repairs. Just a bit sick of sitting around at home, that's all.'
'Would you like a little visitor to cheer you up?'
'She's always welcome, you know that.' But there was a slight hesitation in his voice, as if he regretted having made light of his condition quite so much. 'It's just that your mother has rather a lot to do while I'm convalescing.'
'She won't be any trouble. Will you?' She glanced sharply at Anna; she didn't mind if the child was scared, so long as she did as she was told. 'I really think she needs a change, and to be honest, so do I.'
'Well, let's see how things are in a couple of weeks.'
'I was wondering if she might be able to come sooner.' The darkness was closer, the prickling was worse. Why hadn't she thought out what to say before she phoned? 'You see,' she said desperately, 'something very tragic happened to one of our friends. It's affecting us both rather badly. Our friend killed her baby, you see. I've got to do what I can for her, and with Alan away, there's nobody to look after Anna.'
She'd turned away from the child; Anna must know she was lying. Or had Anna been affected by the news of Georgie's death? It was difficult to tell when she was so withdrawn. Liz closed her eyes; at least the dark in there was less unnatural, though it seemed darker in there than it ought to be.
'Well,' her father said eventually, 'that is a bad situation. Very bad.' He must be tapping the mouthpiece of the phone; the scrape of fingernails on plastic was very loud. 'I don't see how we can refuse. When would you want us to have her?'
'Would tomorrow be too soon?'
'Tomorrow?' He sounded taken aback. 'Just hold on while I have a word with your mother.'
She held onto the prickly receiver. Of course the plastic was smooth as ever; the prickling was in her, and so was the dark. She must have been mistaken about the sound of fingernails; it was continuing even now that her father had put down the phone. Apart from that sound there was a prolonged silence, until she heard his footsteps returning. Were they so slow because of his illness, or because he was about to disappoint her? She closed her eyes again, on prickly darkness.
'Are you there?' he said. 'Under the circumstances, we don't mind if she comes tomorrow.'
'Oh, fine. Great. Thanks ever so much.' She opened her eyes; she could stand the hovering darkness now. 'I'll run her to London and put her on the early train,' she said. As soon as they'd agreed on arrangements for meeting Anna at his end, Liz rang off. 'That'll be nice, won't it? Perhaps you can stay with them until daddy comes home.'
Certainly Anna seemed happier – relieved to be escaping, perhaps, but Liz couldn't brood about that just now. 'Shouldn't we pack?' Anna said, as if she needed to see that before she could believe her good luck.
'Yes, we should.' Packing might tire them both enough to sleep and by then Anna would have forgotten all her nonsense about there being someone upstairs. Perhaps not, however: for once they reached her bedroom she kept glancing nervously toward the wall. There was nothing beyond the posters – giant enlargements of flowers with a bee the size of Liz's head emerging from a rose – except Liz's workroom with its telephone extension. The darkness was lingering, but Liz could stand it now. As the huge flowers glowed through it, she was reminded of a jungle. Would Alan ever phone?
Anna fell asleep before she did. No doubt that showed how glad she was to be leaving. Liz lay and wondered about Joanna Marlowe. Was the woman crazy because of her husband's suicide? There were too many things Liz didn't understand, and trying to think about them made her prickly all over. Once Anna was out of the way, she'd be able to think.
She hushed the babel of her thoughts and tried to sleep. She still felt she was being watched in the dark. She could stand it for one more night – she knew she'd be rid of it once she was rid of Anna – but what on earth made her think that? It must be one of those thoughts that float on the edge of sleep, less thoughts than dreams. Soon she was asleep.
Anna woke her as soon as it was light. 'You said I was going to stay with granny and grandpa today.' She sounded afraid that Liz had changed her mind. 'So you are,' Liz said, hugging her and rolling out of bed. After last night's prickly darkness she felt full of sunshine, just like the house. It seemed the kind of day when nothing could go wrong.
At breakfast she grew wistful. 'You'll write to me, won't you? And I'll phone you now and then.' Anna promised to write, mumbling through a mouthful of cereal; she was obviously anxious to get away, and Liz couldn't blame her. She'd make it up to Anna when she came home, make up for the way she'd treated her. She only hoped that Anna would be willing to come back.
She left the dishes in the sink and carried Anna's case downstairs. It was really too small for her now: a toddler's case, plastered with souvenir stickers, its corners scuffed like the toes of a three-year-old's shoes. Liz remembered the first time Anna had carried the case – a sunny Cornish day, Alan squeezing her arm as the pair of them watched Anna trotting proudly ahead. Suddenly she felt her eyes grow moist. She locked the front door quickly and dropped the case outside the garage. She heaved at the garage door, which flew up, rattling. She had to stoop again for the case, and so she caught sight of the pool of brake fluid at once.
As she bent lower to peer under the car, the prickly darkness closed in. She could see at once that the brakes would be useless. She hadn't used the car since Rebecca had told her about Jane, and now she remembered driving furiously home from The Stone Shop, too angry and distressed even to look at Anna. Had she driven over a bump in the road too violently? If so, it was a miracle they hadn't had an accident on the way home.
Anna was gazing at the pool of fluid, and the corners of her mouth began to droop. This was her fault too, Liz thought – not that that was any help. 'Does that mean I can't go?' Anna said miserably.
'Not at all. We'll get you there.' Liz was thinking fast: she'd intended to drive Anna to London and put her on the direct train from Euston; now they'd have to take the train from the village to Norwich, then another from Norwich to Euston. Good God, she'd be away all day. She slammed the garage door into its groove and grabbed the suitcase. 'We'll have to hurry,' she said.
By the time they were halfway to the village, she was panting. Anna kept running ahead to the next curve, glancing back. 'Go on,' Liz cried. The day was already hot; the hedges looked dusty as her throat was becoming; the baking air seemed to cling to her, an additional weight that was imperceptible but enervating. A couple of families passed her on their way to the beach; the adults smiled sympathetically, the children stared. What time was the train? At least she hadn't heard it. Surely that meant it hadn't gone.
The village was crowded. Old folk ambled, fanning themselves with hats or newspapers, slowing down their progress. Birds fluttered back and forth under the roof of the bus shed, cottages blazed like sheets in a detergent ad. At least there was no train at the station. The tiny booking hall was deserted; the ticket window was a frame from which the painting had been removed, glass over brown board; the hall smelled like an attic, dust and old wood. Perhaps you had to pay on the train. If not, they could pay at Norwich.
She sat and watched the crowds and tried not to think how long she'd be away while Alan might be trying to contact her. His faded display had gone from the window of the post office, someone else's bright new books had moved in. Now and then she heard an engine, but it was always a barge on the waterways. Shouldn't she accompany Anna all the way, rather than putting her on the train at Euston? It was a long way for a six-year-old to travel on her own.
Anna was growing restless, marching up and down the platform. 'Isn't it coming yet? How long will it be?' She sounded afraid that Liz would change her mind and take her back home. There was chugging in the distance, along the brownish railway lines – but it must have been another barge, because the sound was drifting away. Liz was growing as fidgety as Anna; she didn't like being away from the phone for so long. She was beginning to wonder if it was such a good idea to send Anna away after all.
Anna was plucking at the long sleeves of her blouse. 'I'm so hot, mummy. Can I go and get a drink?'
'Better not, in case the train comes.' The nearest shop for lemonade was the post office, and all at once she was afraid of losing Anna in the crowd. Passers-by were gazing at her as if she were some kind of tourist
