The woman smiles as she approaches. A broad, easy smile. Her red hair is dark from the rain. She’s wearing a fleece and cream-coloured jodhpur trousers, the kind horse-riders wear. He’ll intercept her soon, he’ll swoop by on his quad and escort her away.
But he doesn’t.
He’s not here.
‘Glad you’re in,’ she says.
Chapter 4
I nod and turn slightly so my bad foot is hidden behind the door.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ she says, smiling and frowning. ‘I couldn’t drive all the way up so I parked my Beetle in your yard up there, by the gate, I hope that’s all right.’
Help me.
‘Damp day, isn’t it?’ She pauses. Focusses her eyes. ‘Is everything OK?’
Help me.
‘It’s just that, sorry,’ she holds out her hand, ‘how rude, my name’s Cynthia, Cynthia Townsend, nice to meet you.’
I shake her hand.
‘My name is Jane.’
My name is not Jane. My name is Thanh Dao.
‘Nice to meet you, Jane, lovely spot you’ve got here. I just moved into one of the old council houses in the next village, you know the ones, with the triangular windows above the doors?’
I nod.
I do not know the ones.
I have never been to the next village. The one with ex-council houses with triangular windows above the doors.
‘Anyway, I just moved up here and I’m thinking of getting a horse, just for hacks, you know, a tired old thing, nothing too frisky, just to walk around, and for company, really.’
I nod.
‘I just wondered if you might know anyone who’d rent me a paddock with water and a stable, nothing fancy, only I’d rather it wasn’t too far from the village.’
Help me.
The voice screams fiercely inside me. Deep inside. But on the surface I’m composed. For Kim-Ly. I must stay strong for her.
‘Or if you might have some land, just a small field. I’d be no bother.’
He’ll be back any second, taking her away and smiling and walking her back to her car at the locked halfway gate and suggesting that maybe Frank Trussock’s farm up near the bridge might have a paddock and they’ve got some decent stables up there, they used to have a livery yard back in the day.
But he doesn’t come.
I start to sweat.
‘Have a think about it if you would,’ she says.
I think I want her to take me away from this flatland hell but then Kim-Ly will be sent back, disgraced, with the full debt to repay, with threats made to my family, threats that would be made real. We each had eighteen thousand pounds to pay back to the men that brought us over. Kim-Ly’s almost paid hers off, almost. Another two years and one month. She has to pay the flat owner and the car driver and interest and other living fees, but she’ll be away from it all soon. Free. Two more years.
I shake my head.
‘No you don’t know anyone?’ she says. ‘Or no you don’t have a paddock?’
I almost want him to come back now, to end this charade, this failed rescue, this lifeline dangled right in front of my face that I’m forced to ignore; this woman, this kind-faced red-haired woman called Cynthia who I need to tell nothing to for the sake of my baby sister, for her life.
‘You’ll have to ask my husband, Lenn.’ He’s not my husband. He’s nothing. ‘Lenn will know.’
‘Is he around? Can I speak with him today?’
I shake my head.
She peers past me into the one downstairs room with its Rayburn stove and table for two and locked TV cabinet and old desktop PC.
‘Are you sure everything’s OK?’ she asks.
I am torn inside. I crave to tell her but I bite down on my tongue.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Everything’s fine. Come back when Lenn’s around and he’ll help you.’
She smiles with her face and her eyes and her cheeks, all lines and freckles, and I think she’s beautiful in a gentle, slightly messy way.
‘OK then. Thanks, Jane, have a nice weekend, won’t you? See you around the area I expect.’
And with that she turns and smiles and her red hair shines in the shallow fen light and she walks away, normal pace, nothing like me yesterday, no scrapes on the right-hand side of the track. And she’s gone.
My heart’s punching out at my ribcage from within.
The sensation of tears but none come.
I close the door.
But what more could I have done?
I want more pills to dull my life, but then I’ll never get out of this place and he’ll do whatever he wants. Whenever he wants. It’s a horrific balance. Numb enough to carry on but not too numb that I lose all control. I have to tell her, this Cynthia. I can’t let this opportunity pass. I bite my lip and open the front door.
Cold air.
She’s there. Her back. Her red hair.
I open my mouth.
I scream, but it’s just a whine, an empty silent whine. My leg aches, my hip aches, my right side, all the bones completely misaligned, it all aches. But also my heart and my mind and my guts. My soul. I sense my shoulders droop as I close the door and look up at the camera on the wall. Lenn’ll be happy with how I handled this, how I got her away from his farm so fast. My sister will be OK because I did the right thing. She’ll be one fraction closer to living a normal life. Today I obeyed his rules and now she will be safe.
In the past five nights, all except for last night, because of the horse pill, the whole horse pill, I’ve reread her letters. My sister writes the most wonderful letters. They’re always two sides of A4, folded into three. Lenn insists we write in English. She asks me questions even though I never answer, it’s against the rules, and I love her for that. She cares. It’s the closest thing I get to a proper conversation. She asks me if I talk to our parents much and if I’d heard that our brother won a prize at school. She asks me if I’m seeing anyone. If I’m in love. She tells me about the work she does at the nail bar, the repeat customers, the unkind women who ignore her completely, the kind women who remember her name, her English name, the name given to her by her boss. My sister’s name is not Sue.
And I’ll reread the letters in three weeks’ time when I get to sleep in my own room again, not mine, his, but my air, at least when he’s not barging in to watch me undress for bed or watch me sleep or watch me brush my hair with his mother’s brush.
Cynthia.
I think her name is perfect for her. She has Cynthia freckles and Cynthia horsey jodhpur trousers and Cynthia wellies and Cynthia lipstick and a Cynthia fleece. She could never be called anything else. The way her name rolls around on my tongue. The image I have of the word, and of her. To say her name suits her is an understatement. Her name fits like a key in a lock. I need to think about what to say if she does come back, what to do. I need to plan. Can I ask her to get a message to Kim-Ly somehow? Without him finding out? Without Cynthia trying to be a hero and ruining everything for my little sister?
‘Plough’s all mucked up,’ says Lenn as he opens the door, breaking the spell. ‘Muck gets everywhere, don’t it?’
He hangs up his jacket and pulls off his boots. I can see tiny flecks of winter wheat seed speckling the mud stuck to the rubber treads. Each seed shines. The hard outer shell of each grain reflects what little dull light exists in this room and I see each one of them.