Darkest (16 page)

The thought is uncomfortable, unwelcome. More guilt to pile on myself in the aching, empty months and years to come, I daresay. For now, I push it away.

I raise my eyes once more to gaze over the rolling moorland beauty, the kaleidoscope of late spring and early summer shades all tumbling together down the distant hillsides. God, I’ve missed this place. Maybe I could still come to live here…

But best not. The chance of running into Nathan or Rosie or even my little Isabella sometime in the future would always be there, haunting me. Even if I never saw any of them again their presence so nearby would taunt and torment me. Perhaps I could settle somewhere similar—the Yorkshire Dales or the Peak District, or the Lakes…

My mind slips away again, my head empties, and I’m staring absently at the horizon. I just can’t be bothered planning for a future I have no interest in, no energy to pursue.

Eventually Isabella’s angry squalling from the back of the car drags me back to reality. She’s fully awake now, bored and hungry. I really shouldn’t have stopped the car, I suppose—she’d have slept the rest of the way there. The next couple of hours will not be easy and I know I’m going to need her to work her own brand of charm offensive to smooth the way. She seems to worm her way effortlessly into every heart but mine, but even so I think it’ll be better not to turn up at Black Combe with a squalling baby. Sunny disposition and pretty dimples are what’s needed so I’ll have to do something about her, see to her immediate wants and needs.

I quickly mix her a feed using warm, sterile water I have in a small Thermos flask and the last remaining sterilised bottle in my bulging baby bag. Whoever knew such a small being would require such a lot of luggage just to make a trip to the shops, let alone a four hour car journey? Still, I came prepared. The boot is full of her paraphernalia—clothes, a pack of disposable nappies, two tins of SMA baby milk, a few favourite toys. And a picture of me, taken last week in one of those DIY passport photo booths. I’ve also rammed in my violin, which is intended as a present for Rosie. It seems the least I can do.

I quickly check the temperature of Isabella’s bottle and sit in the back with her to feed her. I don’t get her out of her seat, but she curls her tiny fingers around mine on the bottle. I can’t even bring myself to smile at her as she gazes up at me, her lovely deep brown eyes full of trust. I know it’s my imagination. She’s only a few weeks old, has no idea what’s happening here, who I am, what trust is, even. I wonder how long it will take for her to forget me completely. Not long, I expect. Soon, I promise her silently, she’ll be surrounded by all the love she will ever need—she’ll be blanketed and cocooned in it as she deserves to be, not picking at the scraps I can offer. One day, she’ll know what I did and why, and she’ll thank me for it. I hope. I do so hope…

Twenty minutes later her belly’s full, her nappy’s clean, she’s got her favourite soft toy with the most incredibly interesting scrunchy ears on her lap. She’s tugging at those ears, giggling to herself and gurgling with contentment. Just the sort of demeanour calculated to make a brilliant first impression at her new home. I glance at my watch. It’s nearly two o’clock. I’ve timed our arrival carefully, to avoid Nathan and Rosie. I can’t bear to actually meet up with either of them. Rosie doesn’t get home from school until after half past three, by which time I’ll be long gone. And Nathan will be in Leeds. It’s Tuesday today. He often works at home on Mondays and Fridays, having a distinct fondness for long weekends, but is always in his office mid-week. I’m sure he won’t be here at Black Combe. I’m so completely confident that he’ll accept Isabella that I don’t feel a need to meet with him, discuss it face to face. No need to ask him in advance.

Even so, my heart is thumping as I make that final right turn into the lane leading up to the massive Black Combe gate. This time, though, I won’t run into it. This time the gate will swing open as I approach, courtesy of the remote control Nathan gave me when I got Miranda back from Jack’s garage all those months ago and which I’ve never taken out of Miranda’s glovebox. Somehow, I’m not sure why, it seems so vitally important to me that I can get in, that I don’t have to wait outside asking to be let onto the property.

I turn the last bend sedately—the same one that Nathan came careering round just before he crashed into Miranda that rainy night almost a year ago. The gate is open, just sliding obediently into its housing at the side of the lane in response to my remote command. I drive straight through along the gravel drive towards the house. My heart twists inside me at my first glimpse of Black Combe as I turn into the forecourt.

I love this place so much, miss it so much. I so wish it was still mine. Could still be mine.

My gaze is blurred again, the emotion of this parody of a homecoming causing me to gulp and swallow. I can hardly see for tears as I drive around the side of the house with the utmost care, finally rolling to a stop a few feet from the kitchen door. I half expect it to be flung open, and someone—Mrs Richardson, I daresay—to come bustling out to meet me. But no. All’s still and quiet. For an awful moment I wonder if I’ve chosen a day when no one’s home. Maybe I should have phoned ahead to check after all?

Then I spot Barney, still as big and woolly and stupidly friendly as ever, ambling towards me, his tail wagging in welcome. If everyone was out, he’d be left safe inside the house, not wandering round out here on his own. Someone must be at home. I get out of the car and wait for him. His welcome is muted but sincere, and I find enormous comfort in tickling his ears and having him nudge my hand for more. At least someone’s pleased to see me.

Barney plonks himself down beside me, watching placidly as I pull the driver’s seat forward, tipping it over the steering wheel. I reach across, into the back to release the seatbelt holding Isabella’s baby seat in place. With some awkward tugging I manage to heave the seat, Isabella still in situ, over the top of the driver’s seat and out of the car. Barney is fascinated by this new little animal I’ve brought to show him, and stands, towering over the baby carrier, his huge head lowered to sniff her from every angle as I place the baby carrier on the ground. I leave them to get acquainted as I close the car doors, locking everything up out of force of habit born and bred in cities. Isabella doesn’t seem to mind Barney’s close inspection in the least, just regards him steadily with those huge, solemn, dark eyes of hers.

It’s time to make my presence known so I pick up the baby carrier by its handle and trudge over to the kitchen door, Barney trotting along amiably beside me.

I knock. And I wait.

I don’t have to wait long. After a few moments I hear stirring inside, the distant tread of feet deep within the bowels of the house, coming closer. And closer. The rattle of the door handle before it swings inward.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Before I can get a word out Mrs Richardson’s curt question and steely expression let me know in no uncertain terms the warmth of my welcome. Frigid. Absolutely bloody arctic. Clearly, I’m as popular as a rat sandwich around here, and I guess with good reason. At least as far as Grace is concerned. I have no illusion that Nathan might have had the decency to acknowledge the part he may have played in our break-up. He probably doesn’t even think he did anything especially reprehensible.

I take a deep breath, square my shoulders. Whatever my sense of injustice, I need to get past the formidable Grace if I’m to implement my plan. I plaster on a watery smile and summon up my best impression of confident courtesy.

“Hello, Mrs Richardson. May I come in, please?”

“I said, what the hell are you doing here? After all this time? I thought we’d seen the back of you. If you think you can just waltz back in here like nothing’s happened, upsetting everyone again…” She starts to close the door on me.

I can’t let her shut me out, I’ve come too far. I try to hide my desperation, but I know it’s there in my voice. I put my palm against the door, trying to stop it swinging shut in my face. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to upset anyone and I won’t stay long. Please, can we come in?”

At the mention of ‘we’ the tirade stops and the door opens again. Mrs Richardson looks around me curiously, noticing at last the baby carrier by my feet. Her face, that mask of implacable outrage, melts instantly. Result!

“Oh my goodness, what’s this? Who have we here?”

The Isabella magic works and the door swings wide open again. I know an opportunity when I see one and I take my chance. I grab the baby carrier and hurry inside before she thinks better of it. Once in, I lift Isabella up onto the table, and, my part in this endeavour done for now, I stand back to let her continue to work her charm. Which she does, with effortless aplomb.

“Oooh, aren’t you pretty, then? And what’s your name?” Mrs Richardson glances up at me expectantly, even as she starts to loosen Isabella’s restraining straps to pick her up. Something I would never do unless I absolutely have to. And this unconsidered, instinctive action on the part of a total stranger towards my daughter just proves to me, again, why I need to do this. Why I need to stick to my plan, however hard it is to let go.

“She’s called Isabella. She’s six weeks old. And she’s Nathan’s.”

Mrs Richardson pulls a clearly delighted Isabella from the confines of the baby carrier and cuddles her, beaming down at the little infant face, her own features softening as Isabella wisely returns her smile. Wind, no doubt, but still a good move.

She turns to face me, and her expression is hard again, her anger and outrage undiminished. “I can see who her daddy is. She’s the spit of him. What I want to know is how come this is the first any of us know about this little mite?” Then turning back to my baby she’s transformed again, now all motherly smiles and dimples. “Isabella. What a pretty name, for a pretty, pretty little girl, yes it is…”

I stand, awkwardly, already an outsider. This is going much, much more easily than I expected. And it’s a million times harder.

“No, I mean she’s Nathan’s to keep. I want to leave her here. With him. He’s her father, he’ll have to look after her now.”

“What do you mean? Of course he’ll look after her. But he’s not here right now. Where do you think you’re going and when will you be back?”

“I won’t be back. Isabella’s his, Nathan can have her. He can keep her.” Taking advantage of Mrs Richardson’s astonished stare I decide that now’s the time to get matters settled and be away. Before I can change my mind. “I’ll just get her stuff from the car.”

I dive out of the door again, followed once more by the loyal and sympathetic Barney. I fling open the car boot and start piling the contents onto the gravel. Mrs Richardson watches me from the doorway, clutching Isabella tightly, her face frozen in amazement. Grace’s mouth is working but nothing much is coming out.

I bundle Isabella’s bits and pieces into the kitchen, politely skirting around my incredulous audience stationed in the doorway. Within a couple of trips all her stuff is in a pile on the table, and my precious violin is laid neatly alongside.

“The violin is for Rosie. I hope she loves playing it as much as I always have.” And I turn to go.

Mrs Richardson reaches out as I make to pass her, grabs my arm. “Why? How can you just leave her? What sort of a mother are you?”

“I’m a rubbish mother. Isn’t it obvious? She needs to be with people who care about her, who’ll love her. I… I just can’t. I’ve tried, but I just can’t…” Swiping the tears from my eyes I drag my arm free and rush for the door, this time making it outside without further hindrance. I can hear Mrs Richardson’s voice behind me, pleading, calling me back.

“Wait. Eva, wait. Wait for Mr Darke—he’ll know what to do. You can’t just go off like this…” Her tone is worried, frightened now rather than angry, and I feel the weight of yet more guilt. Yet another person worried about me, upset by me.

I drag the car door open and scuttle inside, then slam it behind me. I glance up through my streaming tears to see Mrs Richardson starting towards the car, one arm outstretched, the other still clutching Isabella. I see Grace’s mouth moving, shouting something at me. I turn the key in the ignition and hit the accelerator hard, gravel flying up from under Miranda’s squealing tyres as I swerve around the house and back towards the gate. It’s only halfway opened as Miranda hurtles towards it, and it’s lucky she’s so small as the narrow gap we shoot through only leaves a hair’s width on either side. I burst out and into the lane, heading downhill fast, away from Black Combe as fast as Miranda can manage.

It seems only moments before we reach the bottom of the lane, and I haul the steering wheel hard to make the bend into the main road. I turn right rather than left, intending to avoid any possibility of seeing anyone I might know if I was to pass through Haworth or any of the other familiar little villages and hamlets.

The road runs straight for a couple of hundred metres, then there’s a slight bend to the right. I know I’m going fast, too fast, but I don’t slow down as I approach the bend. The familiar gleaming black Porsche coming towards me, materialising from around the bend, has no option but to brake and swerve sharply. In that split second of recognition two inane thoughts flash through my mind. The first that Nathan and his penis substitute had this coming. And the second that if I’d turned left I’d have escaped him entirely.

Some semblance of reason penetrates my thinking an instant before the head-on collision, which Nathan, grappling with the wheel of the Porsche, is trying so desperately to avoid. Somewhat belatedly I lend my efforts to his and swing on my steering wheel again, this time swerving to my left. I hit the brakes, too hard and much, much too late.

Miranda, bless her, was never built for this sort of nonsense and relinquishes any attempt to hold the tarmac. We slide, out of control, off the road and shoot sideways across the narrow grassy bank before we clip the low dry stone wall running innocently alongside, separating the road from the rippling waters of the tarn. The impact sends Miranda cartwheeling up into the air and I am briefly gripped by the centrifugal force as the little car spins in mid-air before landing on its roof, to sink slowly into the dark, chilly depths of the moorland lake. My last conscious thought before the dark water swallows both Miranda and me is that I’m so glad I didn’t do this in the winter—it would have been so very, very cold.