Chapter 10
Nel put on her dark sunglasses and stepped out onto Manning Street, still shaken by the memory.
She wasn’t sure where she was going, but she stopped outside The Larder, a little cafe a block and a half down the road.
As she read the menu in the window, which included a halloumi burger and a superfood salad, it struck her how much the town had changed in the years she’d been away.
Back then, there was only one cafe in town that made a decent coffee. Now they had four types of milk.
She waited at the counter as a guy with a thick moustache ground coffee beans. She could smell pumpkin soup.
‘Sorry for the wait,’ he said. ‘What can I get you?’
She ordered the soup to go.
‘Name for the order?’
‘Nel,’ she said.
A blonde woman sitting nearby looked up, narrowing her eyes and pausing for a fraction too long. Nel recognised her from school.
‘Haven’t seen you round here,’ the barista said, projecting his voice over the sound of frothing milk. ‘You new in town or just visiting?’
‘I’m … just visiting,’ Nel said, still distracted by the woman who was now leaning forward to whisper something to her friend.
Jen Henry! That was her name. She was older, obviously, and her lipstick was an unflattering shade of pink, but it was definitely her.
The friend looked up at Nel, wide-eyed, then away again quickly.
Nel’s skin prickled with the all-too-familiar feeling of being talked about.
‘What brings you to town?’ the barista said.
‘I’m just …’
She hesitated, unsure how to answer, conscious that Jen and her friend were listening to every word, but then the barista snapped his fingers and pointed at her.
‘Wait, you’re the new doctor!’
‘Oh.’ She laughed nervously. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘Dave,’ he said, putting down the jug and extending his hand. ‘Sorry about your old man, hey.’
‘Thanks.’ She gave him a tight smile. There was a ding from the kitchen. He turned to collect her soup from the window and put it in a paper bag.
‘There you go,’ he said, handing her the bag. ‘Enjoy!’
Jen and her friend watched Nel as she walked out of the cafe. She exhaled with relief when she reached the street and was almost back at the clinic when she remembered that Viv had asked her to pick up tea bags, so she changed course and crossed the road to the supermarket.
As she stepped inside the shop, she stopped, remembering how it was when she was little.
She could picture the checked lino floor, the overstocked shelves, the silver-haired owner who wore his glasses on a chain around his neck and scooped mixed lollies out of large jars that were kept behind the counter.
Now it was spotless and brightly lit, with big vats of fresh produce and perky coloured signs advertising sale prices.
She walked up and down the aisles, trying to make sense of the layout. Pet food, cleaning products, toiletries. No tea bags. She must have missed them in the last aisle. But as she turned to go back, she froze on the spot, heart pounding with recognition.
Faye Marshall stood in front of a wall of cereal boxes, looking at a shopping list. She was smaller than Nel remembered, her shoulders stooped. Her hair still hung in a plait down her back, but now it was wispy and white instead of a thick sun-kissed brown.
Nel thought of Maddie’s funeral and shuddered.
She couldn’t remember a single detail about the service, except the flannel flowers that had covered the white coffin.
It was what happened on the steps afterwards, outside the church, that had been etched in her memory ever since.
And, she suspected, in the memories of plenty of people in Carrinya.
*
Nel ran her finger back and forth over the pleat in her dress, trying to avoid making eye contact with the Marshalls.
Or anyone else for that matter. She knew what people thought.
She’d seen the venomous comments on her Facebook page.
She’d deleted them and changed her settings, but it was too late.
Their hateful words played on a loop in her mind as the funeral happened around her.
Number one suspect. MURDERER. How can you live with yourself?
When the service was over, she averted her eyes as the Marshalls followed the coffin from the church, and she kept them on the burgundy carpet underfoot as she ambled out among the mourners.
Her dad walked beside her, his shoulders back, his head held high.
As they emerged from the darkness of the church, she squinted in the harsh sunlight, then turned around and found herself face to face with Faye.
‘Faye,’ she said, her voice faltering. Maddie’s mum looked thinner, more frail than usual. How was that possible in just a few weeks?
Tears welled in Faye’s grey eyes, her face etched with sadness. Nel put a hand on her arm to comfort her, but Faye flinched, anger displacing her sorrow. ‘Don’t you dare touch me,’ she hissed.
Nel pulled her hand back as people nearby stopped their conversations and turned to watch the interaction. She knew what they were thinking: Number one suspect. MURDERER. How can you live with yourself?
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’
‘Didn’t mean to what?’
Nel’s thoughts stalled. She grasped for words, for something to say that wouldn’t upset Faye more, but found none. She searched for her dad among the onlookers. Where did he go?
‘Didn’t mean to what?’ Faye said again.
There were whispers, murmurs, more eyes glaring: Number one suspect. MURDERER. How can you live with yourself?
‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’
Faye glared at her. ‘If it wasn’t for you, she wouldn’t be dead,’ she said through clenched teeth.
The words burned on Nel’s chest, as though Faye had branded her with a red-hot iron. Nel recoiled, spinning around, looking desperately for her dad, but all she saw were reproachful stares, accusing eyes: Number one suspect. MURDERER. How can you live with yourself?
She pushed through the crowd and ran as fast as she could.
*
Nel put a hand to her chest on the place where Faye’s words had landed. She couldn’t face her. She had to get out of there.
She grabbed a jar of peanut butter and pretended to read the label as she inched towards the end of the aisle.
Faye put a packet of Weetbix in her basket and turned in her direction as Nel scrambled around the corner to the next aisle.
Heart pounding, she dumped the peanut butter in a crate of potatoes on her way out the door.