In Her Shadow Read online

  Each morning, when Jago went to work, I knelt on my bed and pulled aside the curtains to watch him leave the house. He perched his mug of tea on the lid of the water butt while he laced his boots. Steam rose in a thin curl from the surface of the tea. I looked down on Jago and I drew a smiling face on the patch of window glass made misty by my breath. Jago always looked up and waved to me. I held up my hand, and touched the tips of my fingers to the glass, bringing them closer together as he grew smaller as he walked away.

  After he joined the crew of the Eliza Jane, Jago stopped coming to the beach with Ellen and me. He worked long hours and his free time was always taken up with working on the car or helping Dad. He told me he didn’t want to waste time playing with silly little spoiled brats like Ellen Brecht. After a while, I stopped asking.

  Ellen and I still went to Bleached Scarp. It was still our place.

  One day I remember in particular, because it was the day I realized that Ellen’s mother was going to die.

  When I’d called for Ellen, I’d found Mr Brecht pacing the front garden, striding out and smoking, his shirt hanging loose about his hips. His hair was longer and wilder, and he hadn’t shaved for a while; his face was covered in a dark stubble that made him even more beautiful, if such a thing were possible. He was Heathcliff, Mr Rochester, Robert Downey Junior and Kurt Cobain rolled into one.

  ‘Hannah!’ he cried, when he saw me. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes!’

  He put the cigarette in his mouth and held out his arms and, dreamily, I’d gone to him, expecting to be enclosed and enfolded, held to his chest. He only held me by the shoulders. He only kissed the top of my head.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ I asked, and he said: ‘Everything is wrong, Hannah. I am losing her. My Anne is leaving me.’

  I hadn’t known what to say. I looked up at the dark planes of his face. He was staring at the sky, watching the clouds chase one another, and the gulls drifting on the buffeting wind. He seemed noble and heroic, with his hair and his white shirt and the stubble on his chin. I had moved a little closer towards him. Had reached out my hand and touched his forearm with my fingertips. I felt the softness of his skin, its warmth. I felt a clutch in my stomach.

  I wanted to tell him that I was there for him, always, and that I would help him and do whatever he wanted me to do. I would be loyal and true and I would never, never leave him. I would have said something, but Mrs Todd came out and she gave me an odd look so I moved away from Mr Brecht and pretended to do up the lace on my trainer.

  ‘The doctor’s on his way, Pieter,’ Mrs Todd said. ‘He’ll be ten minutes.’ She looked at me. ‘It’s best you don’t go inside, Hannah. I’ll tell Ellen you’re here.’

  I nodded. And Ellen came out and we left to go to Bleached Scarp. The doctor passed us in his Land Rover as we walked along the lane.

  The sun was hot that day, but there was a chill wind. Ellen lay on a striped towel close to the cliff-face where there was some shelter. I sat beside her with a sketch pad balanced against my knees. I was trying to draw the sea for a school art project, but it was proving too difficult a challenge. I shaded my eyes with my hand, to watch the progress of a small boat across the horizon. It rose on the swell of a wave, then disappeared.

  ‘Do you think that’s the Eliza Jane?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ellen mumbled, without looking up. I sighed, and made a bubble with my gum. Ellen’s little transistor radio was balanced on a flat ledge of rock beside us, tinnying out pop tunes. The wind lifted the music, blowing it this way and that. Ellen lay on her front, with her head rested on her folded arms. ‘Put some oil on me, would you?’ she asked in a lazy voice. I popped the bubble and licked the gum back into my mouth, then I put down the pad and my pencil, picked up the bottle of Ambre Solaire, unclipped the lid, sniffed, and squeezed a small pool of the orange oil into the palm of my left hand. I looked down on Ellen’s slim, tapering back. She was wearing a green halter-necked swimsuit, the strings tied in a bow at the nape of her neck.

  I hesitated. I was afraid of touching Ellen’s skin.

  Her back was already tanned a deep honey colour. The tiny hairs that covered it were so fair they were almost invisible. Three moles ran in a straight line from her right shoulder to the tie of the swimsuit.

  ‘Go on,’ Ellen said. ‘My shoulders are burning.’

  I turned over my palm, and let it fall onto her back. Her skin was shockingly hot. I spread the oil over Ellen, feeling the nub of her bones, the parallel lines of her ribs.

  Ellen inhaled deeply, and then exhaled with contentment.

  With my clean hand, I gently lifted her hair and moved it aside while I oiled her shoulders and the tops of her arms. Then I tapped her in the hollow of her back to let her know I’d finished.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ellen said. She smile-squinted up at me. I smiled back.

  I could see the shape of her bottom through the tight fabric of the swimsuit. There was something about Ellen’s thighs, the long sweep down to the knee, the slope on the inside, that made me want to bite them like I used to bite the plastic hands of my dolls when I was small. Instead, I wiped my hands on my own thighs and lay down beside my friend. Our faces were very close together.

  ‘How is your Mama?’ I asked. ‘Why did Mrs Todd call for the doctor?’

  Ellen wrinkled her nose. ‘She was bad today. Worse than normal. She’s in pain all the time. All that makes her happy is the garden, but Papa won’t let her out there.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Ellen shrugged. ‘He worries she’ll fall. I think she prefers it when Papa is away and she can spend all her time outside. Adam lets her do what she wants, but Papa gets on her nerves. He fusses too much.’

  ‘She’s not really ill, is she?’ I asked.

  ‘You mean is she going to die?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant at all,’ I said quickly, although it was, of course.

  ‘I don’t know. Sometimes she goes sort of … weird.’

  I moved a little yellow pebble around with the tip of my finger. ‘How weird?’

  ‘Far away. Like she’s already left and gone somewhere else.’

  I looked at Ellen. Her eyes were glassy.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Ellen said, ‘sometimes I think she …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think she thinks she would be better off dead.’

  ‘You shouldn’t say things like that, Ellen.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘No, it’s not! You’re always saying things like that, making things dramatic, making things up.’

  ‘I’m not! I don’t want her to die!’

  ‘And I bet she doesn’t either! You can’t be happy when you’re dead. You can’t be anything except more dead, so don’t say things like that.’

  Ellen went quiet then. I thought it was because she knew she had gone too far.

  After an awkward few moments, she said, ‘You have thousands of freckles. They’re very pretty.’ She grinned and tickled my nose with a samphire stem. I smiled back and pushed it away. ‘Almost as many as Jago,’ she went on. ‘You really are like brother and sister. You’re like twins. Maybe you were separated at birth.’

  ‘He’s two years older than me.’

  ‘The hospital made a mistake. They gave him to the wrong family. Or you.’

  ‘We’re nothing like one another!’

  ‘You are too.’

  ‘Shut up,’ I said, laughing. I propped myself up on my elbows. My shadow fell over Ellen’s face.

  ‘You’re so lucky,’ Ellen said. Then she smiled in the way she sometimes did when she was in a thoughtful mood. Her teeth were very white in her tanned face. Dark strands of hair blew across her blue-grey eyes. I could see myself reflected in the pupils. I liked it that my face was in Ellen’s eyes. Suddenly I loved her. I would have liked to put my arms around her and hold her tight. I loved her so much that my eyes became hot and I had to bite the inside of my lip hard to keep myself from crying.
r />   Ellen didn’t notice. ‘What time is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Nearly five.’

  ‘I have to go home. I promised I’d help get Mama ready. We have visitors this evening.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘People she used to perform with. Russians. A conductor.’

  ‘From an orchestra?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Ellen rolled over, kneeled up and brushed sand from the front of her legs and her stomach. She began to collect her things together.

  ‘Mama used to be famous,’ she said.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Playing the piano, of course.’

  Ellen spoke in a voice that implied I should have known this fact, but since the time we’d argued at school years earlier, neither of us had mentioned the piano and I hadn’t heard her play again.

  ‘She used to travel all over the world before she got ill,’ Ellen said. ‘You know the painting in the front room? That’s her in New York.’

  I’d seen the picture – it would be impossible to miss it. It was set in an enormous, ornate gold frame, flanked by lights, and it dominated the room. It portrayed a young woman with slender shoulders and a straight spine sitting at a grand piano, her long fingers flexed over the keys. Dark hair tumbled down her bare back; she was wearing a sunshine-coloured silk dress that reflected the lights of the concert hall, its reds, yellows and golds, and the audience, in darkness, were beyond. The pianist had been painted in semi-profile, so her face was not clear, only the curl of one pale ear, a pearl drop earring, the yellow rosebuds woven through her hair, and a ringlet at the jawline. Now I knew, it was obvious the woman in the picture was Anne Brecht, but I’d never made the connection between the healthy young woman at the piano and the real-life one with her poor claw-fingers and her pain.

  ‘That’s why Papa started teaching me to play,’ Ellen continued as she packed her bag. ‘Because it makes Mama happy. It helps her remember what her life used to be like.’

  She shook her towel carefully, so the sand didn’t blow towards me, and folded it. The love I’d felt for Ellen earlier returned. Now I understood why she did not like to talk about her music. I was filled with a rush of happiness that at last she trusted me enough to confide these things to me.

  ‘When did your mother get ill?’ I asked.

  Ellen stuffed the towel in her bag. ‘When she had me. It’s my fault. If I hadn’t been born, Mama would be fine. She’d probably be the most famous piano-player in the world by now.’

  ‘That’s not your fault. You couldn’t help being born.’

  ‘I know.’ Ellen leaned over and fastened the straps of the bag. ‘But I feel bad about it. You would too, if you were me.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE MORNING AT the museum passed without any problems, but I was tired and spaced-out. I needed some fresh air during my lunch-break. I decided to walk up towards Clifton, where there was a shop that sold excellent home-made pasties. As I passed the university’s grand Wills Memorial Building, two women came out of the doors in front of me. They were so engrossed in their conversation, their arms linked at the elbows, that they almost bumped into me and I had to step into the kerb to avoid them. They had their backs to me but I recognized the slimmer and prettier of the two by her voice and her brittle laughter. It was Charlotte Lansdown, John’s wife. The pavement was busy with students and shoppers and tourists and I had no option but to stay close to the pair of them. I followed them into the pasty shop. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop – I couldn’t help it. They were right in front of me and they weren’t talking quietly. The plumper woman, the one who wasn’t Charlotte, took hold of Charlotte’s arm to draw her closer.

  ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do?’ she asked.

  Charlotte tilted her head towards the other woman. ‘I’m taking the girls to my parents’ this weekend. I need to have space, to – you know – put things in perspective.’

  ‘Hasn’t John noticed something’s going on?’

  Charlotte laughed. ‘Him – notice me? You are joking, aren’t you? He never pays me any attention. He has no idea how I feel.’

  ‘You have to make up your mind, love. Either tell him it’s over or stop carrying on like you are and try to make a go of your marriage. You can’t continue like this.’

  ‘Oh, but I want to leave. You have no idea how much I want to leave him.’

  ‘Then do it.’

  ‘But how, Becky? How can I possibly make him understand? He’s such a cold fish.’ She shuddered for emphasis.

  The other woman, the one called Becky, laughed. I was angry, but worse, I felt humiliated for John. How could Charlotte talk about him in that way? How could she?

  ‘It’s not like it’s all your fault,’ said Becky. ‘If he made you happy, you wouldn’t feel the need to go looking for your fun elsewhere.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Charlotte said in a voice loaded with self-pity.

  ‘I think you’d be better off apart.’

  ‘But it’s not just about me, is it?’ Charlotte whined. ‘What about the house? The car? The horses?’

  Becky sighed. ‘Well, you can’t have it both ways, can you? You’ll have to decide what’s more important to you. Your lifestyle or your happiness.’ She let go of Charlotte, rummaged in her handbag and took out her purse. ‘My treat,’ she said. ‘What are you having?’

  Charlotte turned to look at the chalkboard that hung on the wall beside me. She caught me staring at her; she looked me right in the eye and I looked right back. The colour drained from her face.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, struggling to dredge up a smile. ‘Hannah. Hello.’

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  Charlotte played with the bracelet on her wrist.

  ‘Becky,’ she said, ‘this is Hannah who works with John at the museum.’

  Becky turned and we nodded at one another.

  ‘It’s a great little shop this, isn’t it?’ Charlotte babbled. ‘I just adore the spicy spinach and feta pie. Have you tried that, Hannah? You really should.’

  I couldn’t muster a smile, I was so angry with her. Charlotte blinked nervously. The shock remained on her face. She knew I had overheard the conversation; I knew she knew.

  There was only one young man serving behind the counter and several people still in front of us in the queue. The prospect of standing and making small talk with Charlotte for another five minutes or more was unbearable.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ I said.

  I turned to leave and, as I did so, Charlotte reached out and held onto my arm. ‘Hannah …?’

  ‘It’s none of my business,’ I said, shaking her off.

  I squeezed and apologized my way out of the little shop and at the door I turned back and walked down the hill, my face burning, wishing I had not overheard the exchange because now I knew John was being deceived, and my complicity made me feel almost as disloyal and culpable as his lying, adulterous wife.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  AS MRS BRECHT’S condition worsened, I spent less time at Thornfield House. She needed peace and quiet, and Mrs Todd encouraged Ellen and me to find alternative ways to amuse ourselves during weekends and holidays. I spent as much time as I could with Ellen, but I hardly saw Mr Brecht any more. I didn’t stop thinking about him, though; the enforced separation served only to make him consume my daydreams even more. He was never far from my thoughts, and always, when I thought of him, I saw him as he had been when he stood in the garden looking up at the sky, his long hair drifting across his deep, dark eyes, my hand extended, his skin warm beneath my fingertips … and the memory re kindled the delicious pang I had felt in my belly.

  I pledged always to be there for him.

  He would be able to count on me until the end of time.

  Ellen and I acted on Mrs Todd’s advice and found work in Polrack, a large village close to Trethene that tumbled down the side of a hill to its harbour. It was the closest thing to a town we had in our part of Cornwall. Ellen was employed
by an Italian family who made their own Cornish ice cream and sold it from a large kiosk overlooking the ornamental gardens, and I worked as a chambermaid-cum-waitress-cum-kitchen-hand in the town’s Seagull Hotel.

  Trade came and went with the seasons. During the winter months, the kiosk opened only at weekends and I was needed to help out on the rare occasions when there was a do at the hotel, a birthday party, a wedding or a funeral wake. So it was by chance that Ellen and Jago met in the café at Polrack one winter’s day. They hadn’t seen one another for a while and we had all changed. We were no longer children.

  Ellen and I were in the café eating blisteringly hot cheese and onion pasties and drinking Coke. It was a fierce day. Low, threatening clouds glowered over the peninsula and the waves were smashing into the sea wall, throwing gallons of bitter-cold water onto the walkway. All but the most hardy holiday makers were long gone; only the coastal-path walkers and the introspective people who came alone to spend hours staring out to sea remained. Ellen and I had been helping to clean holiday cottages as a favour to a friend of my mum’s. We’d stripped the linen, emptied the cupboards, washed and brushed and tidied and put the cottages to bed for the winter. We’d been paid cash and decided to eat while we waited for the bus back to Trethene because we hadn’t had anything except tapwater since breakfast. Our anoraks were hooked over the backs of our chairs to dry off. I had burned my tongue on the hot cheese and was puffing, wafting air into my mouth with my fingers and feeling my cheeks glow. The café windows were misted with condensation, music was playing on the radio, there was a spit and a sizzle to the place, a smell of cigarette smoke and coffee. Ellen was laughing at me and trying to push an ice cube into my mouth, so I didn’t see Jago come into the café, although I heard the bell ping. Ellen was sitting facing the door. The expression on her face changed from one of amusement to one of surprise. I turned to see what she was looking at, and there was Jago.