Now it was here, carefully stored beneath Jasmine’s bed, as exquisite and treasured as ever, and it wouldn’t be long, Marcy felt, before Jasmine was ready to play it in public.
Getting up from her chair, Marcy went to put on the kettle. She wasn’t sure she wanted tea, but it was giving her something to do as she tried to decide how to tell Claudia what she’d done. Her daughter and granddaughter had always come first for her, they still did, otherwise she wouldn’t be here – and she truly didn’t regret coming, in spite of the hankering for her old routines. She’d find new ones, immerse herself in charity work, maybe even find a part-time job. However, none of it could happen if the news reports about them didn’t abate.
The search for Marcus Huxley-Browne’s missing wife and stepdaughter, and now his mother-in-law, had begun to stir up so many lurid and outlandish theories that Marcy was losing sleep over them. She’d known for a while that something had to be done, but Claudia wouldn’t discuss it. For her, immersed in her world of decorative pillows and hand-painted shell accessories, it was as though it wasn’t happening. Marcy had no such distraction, and the latest report that the police were preparing to dig up the back garden of the house in Kensington meant that she’d had to act.
‘Hey Nana,’ Jasmine trilled cheerfully as she came in the door, making Marcy jump.
‘Hello darling,’ Marcy responded, turning to watch her granddaughter dump a heavy school bag and battered violin case on the table. ‘You’re early. I wasn’t expecting you until six.’
‘I’ve just popped in to change out of my uniform,’ Jasmine explained, giving her a hug. ‘Are you OK? You looked miles away when I came in.’
Marcy forced a smile. ‘I was, but I’m fine. Do you want anything to eat?’
‘No, I’m cool, thanks. Where’s Mum?’
‘She went to buy some wiring for a lamp she’s making, but she texted just now to say she was popping into the post office to pick up a form for your provisional driver’s licence.’
Jasmine’s eyes lit up. ‘Awesomazing,’ she cheered joyfully. ‘Not only about the licence, but that she’s actually gone somewhere apart from the beach.’ Sobering slightly, she added, ‘Poor Mum. It’s all been so hard for her, hasn’t it, and not even knowing he’s gone to prison for two years seems to have cheered her up.’
‘Because he could be out in as little as eighteen months,’ Marcy reminded her. ‘Two years really isn’t enough. In my opinion he should have got life. But don’t let’s talk about him. Have you booked your first driving lesson yet? You know I’m paying for a course of six as your birthday present.’
‘You are the best, and I will, but it’s not for another three months so what’s the hurry? Oh, I know, you guys want me to be the chauffeur so you can have a drink when you go out.’
‘Rumbled,’ Marcy replied wryly. In truth they were so close to everything that they could walk, unless they were after a major supermarket shop or a browse around the factory outlets over in Somerset. ‘The instructors get pretty booked up,’ she cautioned, ‘so you should look into it soon. Did you ask your friends for some recommendations?’
‘Actually, I did, and apparently there’s a woman who lives out in one of the villages who gets everyone through first time, so I’ll give her a try. Now I need to get changed fast. I don’t want to be late for my lesson.’
Remembering she was seeing Anton, her violin coach, today, Marcy watched her bound off to her room and all over again she felt glad, happy, to see how well she was settling into this comparatively parochial world. That alone made the change, the sacrifice, worthwhile.
A few minutes later Jasmine was gone, violin case in one hand, mobile phone in the other as she chatted to her new BFF, Abby. Her contacts list must be growing by the day, Marcy reflected, and it was certainly about time she was able to live a normal life, if this was indeed what they were living. It didn’t always feel that way, but of course it would take time, and she had to admit that her own contacts list had accumulated a few numbers too. Dentist, doctor, estate agent, landlord, and a few new friends she’d made at the community centre. There was even quite an interesting man amongst them, Henry Matthews. He was a recently retired solicitor, about her age, whose cheery and somewhat dry demeanour seemed to incite goodwill in everyone. She hadn’t mentioned anything about him to Claudia, why would she when there was nothing to tell? He was just someone Marcy had got talking to the last time she was at the centre.
Hearing the front door open and close she experienced a sharp pang of nerves. She would have to explain what she’d done now, and she had no idea how her daughter was going to react.
As Claudia came in from the hall, looking too thin, but now tanned and almost as lovely as she used to be, she put down a shopping bag, a few brochures from an estate agent and the driving licence application form.
‘Everything OK?’ Marcy asked breezily.
Claudia turned to gaze at her, her eyes soft with affection, and yet still shadowed by the fear that continued to haunt her. ‘You don’t have to look like that,’ she said, ‘I already know.’
Marcy frowned. She couldn’t know. It wouldn’t be possible. ‘Know what?’ she countered, feigning surprise.
Claudia smiled wryly. ‘That you’ve spoken to the police in London to tell them we’re alive and well.’
Marcy’s heart skipped a beat. ‘How … But …’
‘I called too,’ Claudia interrupted. ‘I spoke to a Detective Inspector Phillips and he told me he’d already heard from you.’ Uneasy amusement showed in her eyes. ‘God knows what he must think of us, and I’ve no idea yet if we’re going to face charges for wasting police time, but apparently he’s coming to talk to us to verify that we are who we say we are.’
Moving past her astonishment, Marcy said dryly, ‘Well good luck with that.’
Claudia had to smile. ‘So, what exactly did you tell him?’ she asked, pulling out a chair to sit down.
Knowing there was no point trying to pretend she’d held anything back, Marcy sat down too and said, ‘I explained what a monster Marcus turned into after your marriage; about the abuse that’s been going on, and how much worse it became once the investigation into his business affairs started.’
Claudia nodded slowly, trying to imagine what the detective must have thought as he’d listened to the tale of domestic terror that would have been so much easier to describe than it had been to endure. The belittling, the intimidation, the insane jealousy of her dead husband, Joel. It had reached a point where Marcus couldn’t even bear to hear Joel’s name; just thank God he’d never turned his rage on Jasmine – only threatened to. However, Jasmine had somehow found out that he punished her mother for her musical talents, as if she was encouraging them just to spite him.
So Jasmine – Cara as she’d been then – had stopped playing the violin and had gradually broken with her friends to avoid having to invite anyone home.
Why had she, Claudia, allowed it to go on as long as it had? Why hadn’t she found the courage to leave sooner? People only asked those questions when they’d never been in such a situation themselves, trapped, smothered by a bully, bereft of confidence and terrified he’d carry out his threats to harm her daughter if she ever tried to leave.