Chapter 31
SCARLETT
I tap my foot on the dried-out grass, anxiously waiting for the right moment to bring up this other girl.
Hattie fiddles with her pearl clip-on earring beside me on the bench on the far side of the lake, the wooded area beyond stretching across to the edge of the vast grounds.
She’s impeccably dressed as if she’s going to a tea party: yellow A-line dress, blue eyeshadow, red lipstick, straw sunhat.
On her lap sits a neatly ironed yellow handkerchief.
The afternoon sun is hot on the back of my neck. She slaps one side of her face then the other, moaning and groaning like a whining child about the sun cream I insisted she apply before we came out for the walk.
I yawn. I spent the first half of last night feeling as if I needed to keep one eye on the door handle. In the end, I wedged the desk chair up against it, or I’d never have slept at all.
From here the tennis court and house are in view. A movement at the annexe window catches my attention. I sit up straight.
‘What is it, dear?’ Hattie asks.
I could be mistaken, but the slats of the blind moved. I think.
‘Dear?’
‘Nothing, Hattie.’ I study the window, but all appears still.
The beautiful lake ripples in the sunshine.
A fish breaks the water and flops back. On the walk around, the water was clear right down to the bottom, and peering down into it now, it looks so inviting.
I could kill for a swim. Normally, I exercise daily.
But since Daisy died, I can’t find my usual motivation.
I haven’t exercised since that swim in the pool in Cambridge.
Another fish flies into the air. I can just picture myself diving off the jetty into the chilly water.
Perhaps I’ll swim later. It’s too hot to do any other form of exercise.
I have my costume with me as I’d planned to swim in the hotel pool in Edinburgh, but I ended up staying in bed.
‘It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?’ she says.
I nod. She appears to be having a good day today.
I had a coherent conversation with her during breakfast. She was telling me again about her catwalk days and how she met her husband in a bar in Soho.
Then she asked me to read a book to her.
An Agatha Christie, her favourite author.
Beth was hanging around, although I told her to go.
‘I’m fine on my own with her,’ I said, but she loitered, pretending to do jobs that didn’t need doing.
Who polishes cutlery from the dishwasher before putting it away?
Or cleans a sink twice? When I suggested taking Hattie for a walk around the lake, she insisted on coming, much to my annoyance.
When we got outside, she said it was too much for her, but thankfully, Hattie insisted I still take her and Beth went for a lie-down.
‘Hattie, you said yesterday evening at the dinner table that I look like the last girl.’
‘Which girl?’ she says.
‘I don’t know. Do you think you can tell me about her?’
Words tumble from her mouth, but I can’t make sense of what she’s saying.
Her eyes fix onto something in the distance only she can see.
She pauses, turns to me briefly but just as quickly looks away.
‘Harold’s such a wonderful man. My husband, have you met him?
He’s brilliant. Fantastic. There’s nothing that man can’t do, you know. ’
It’s as if my question flicked a switch. I shift my legs sideways until I’m facing her. ‘That’s nice. He sounds like a great man.’ I try to draw her back. ‘What girl were you talking about, Hattie?’
‘Girl?’ She stares at me blankly. Her eyebrows furrow. ‘I don’t know what you mean, dear.’
For a moment, I wonder if she’s winding me up. Playing games this situation doesn’t warrant. But as she asks again what time Harold is coming home, I doubt she is.
Frustrated, I wait in silence, patiently hoping her inconsistent mind will return to her thoughts from last night.
I want to know which girl she meant. Daisy and I look nothing alike.
In my mind anyway. Mum has always said we have similar mannerisms. The way we cock our head when asking an important question.
The way we gesticulate when we’re talking about something we’re passionate about.
So I don’t think Hattie can mean my sister.
But she must’ve meant someone. I try a different tack. ‘How do you get on with Beth, Hattie?’
‘Beth?’ Her head trembles. ‘Who’s she?’
‘Beth, your daughter-in-law.’
‘Oh, Beth. She’s a dear. Lovely woman. Too good for him.’
I fake a laugh. ‘Too good for your son, you mean?’
‘Sorry?’
This is hard work. ‘Yes, Beth is nice,’ I say. ‘She’s been through it.’
‘Through it. What do you mean, dear?’
I let the silence linger. I’m gaining little from this conversation, but I can’t blame her. I think of my granny. This condition is wretched. An indiscriminate disease that has no mercy.
She gives a childlike giggle. ‘I remember when Harold and I went skinny-dipping in that lake.’
‘Hattie, you saucy minx!’ I nudge her, which heightens her amusement. She breaks into hysterical laughter, bending forward and laughing into her lap. I place my hand on her back. ‘Are you OK?’
She sits up abruptly as if she’s found some energy in her laughter. ‘We used to spend most of our summers out here.’
‘Really?’ I thought she moved in with Beth and Justin when the dementia got to a point she could no longer cope living by herself. Is this another delusion, or was this place once hers? ‘So you used to live here, then?’
‘Oh yes, dear.’
I press her. ‘Hattie. You mentioned another girl. A girl you said looked just like me. Who was she?’
‘What girl?’
‘Last night at dinner,’ I say, exasperated. ‘Who did you mean?’
She drops her head and arches her brows.
Why won’t she just tell me? ‘Who do I look like?’ I say gently.
After a pause, she says, ‘I’ve seen some things in my time, I can tell you.’ Her head tilts. ‘All sorts of shenanigans.’
‘Why don’t you tell me all about them?’
Her face crumples, and she appears to lose her train of thought, masking it by tapping her nose. ‘All in good time. Patience is a virtue, my dear. Did your mum never teach you that?’
She didn’t, but Granny did.
I can’t figure out what she’s talking about. This disjointed conversation is exasperating. It’s all nonsense – an offshoot of her awful condition. A wave of sadness overcomes me: for her, for my granny and for all the people who suffer this horrendous disease.
I don’t want to upset her, so I leave it there and peer around the estate.
It’s impressive. But for all its grandeur, the place is too quiet, too neat.
The raised hairs on my arms say I’m being watched.
But Beth told me there’s no CCTV outside, only an alarm system in the house.
I would’ve thought in a place like this, the size and it’s remote location, there’d be cameras up everywhere.
But she said only the postman and delivery drivers ever come here, so apart from security lights at the back of the house and a video doorbell at the front, they never bothered replacing the old CCTV system the previous owners left behind.
I shudder. Perhaps that’s because they don’t want evidence of what really goes on here.
I spot Justin leaving the main house and stomping towards what looks like a newish stable block made of high-quality timber joined to a two-storey outhouse.
The bottom storey houses a well-equipped glass-fronted gym, and the top storey, his office, Beth told me.
I bet it gets hot in that gym. A string of lights runs along the front of the whole building, and colourful containers of summer blossom line the base.
Is he a man on a mission going to his office, or is he angry about something? I can’t quite work it out.
He climbs the staircase to his office two steps at a time.
‘Do they have horses in those stables?’ I ask.
‘Yes. I love horses,’ Hattie replies. ‘I love going riding. Look over there.’ I follow her finger pointing to a dilapidated stable block, mostly hidden in the dense woodland at the far end of the lake. ‘That’s where I used to keep my horse before Justin built the new stables for Beth’s new horse.’
The outhouses look functional, but from where I’m sitting, I can’t see any horses. No remnants of hay. No muck. No horses.
‘I used to ride every day until I broke my back.’
I turn to her. ‘You broke your back! Hattie, that’s dreadful,’ I say, then realise that she’s probably confused. ‘What happened?’
‘Devil of a horse. And Harold!’ She swats away a fly buzzing around her face. ‘Harold is a brilliant horseman. He rode in the Grand National, you know.’
Dementia distorts memory, but this is bad. I saw a photo of Hattie and Harold in the kitchen. He towered over her and looked as if he weighed a good twenty stone – hardly a professional jockey. She continues talking about his days as a jockey.
Movement across the lake catches my attention. Justin runs down the staircase from his office, crosses the grass and disappears into the house. No sooner has he gone than he’s back outside, running up to his office again.
Beth is my next best bet, but I need to tread carefully. She’s obviously a very ill woman.
I look across to the stable block and at the upstairs room to where Justin disappeared. My answers are close. I just need to reach out and grab them.