Page 183 of One in Three

‘You can. You have it in you. You’ve got what it takes. There’s ice in your heart.’ She laughs mirthlessly. ‘I should know.’ She wheels her chair back and forth, back and forth on the linoleum, the rubber tyres squeaking, until I want to scream. ‘I heard about the cat,’ she adds, her eyes suddenly bright with glee. ‘Poisoned with antifreeze. Louise thinks you did it.’

I look away. ‘The cat was old.’

‘We had a cat,’ my mother says craftily. ‘Pissed on your new jacket, d’you remember? Couldn’t get the stink out. Washed it three times.’ Back and forth, back and forth.Squeak, squeak. ‘Found the cat in the yard a week later, stiff as a broom. Froth on its mouth. Looked like it’d been poisoned.’

‘We’re not talking about a cat,’ I say. ‘This is myhusband. I can’t—’

‘It’s just us now,’ she hisses venomously. ‘No need to pretend in front of me. You could do it. Save the girl. And you could take him away fromherfor good.’

I stare at my mother. She is the portrait of my soul kept in the attic, growing ever more hideous and deformed with my sins, as my youthful skin stays soft and clear. I come here to face the raw truth of who I am, deep beneath the polished veneer. Here, I can admit to myself what I can’t anywhere else.Love him, hate him, hate him, love him.If I can’t have him, no one else can.

He doesn’t deserve to live. After what he’s done to Bella. After what he’s done to me.

I pick up my mother’s blanket, which has fallen on the floor, and tuck it neatly over her knees. I wheel her back to her favourite position beneath the window, locking the brakes into place, and lift the sash a couple of inches to let some fresh air into the stale room. The day my mother tried to kill herself, I got home from school earlier than I told the police. She must have only just kicked the chair away. I stood in the hall for a full minute, watching her struggle, jerking like amarionette. She wet herself as she scrabbled at the tie around her neck; I can still remember the sound of her urine splashing against the tile floor. I waited, and she watched me wait.

I bend and drop a soft kiss on her forehead. ‘I’m glad they cut you down,’ I say. ‘Death would’ve been too good for you.’

Two days before the party

Chapter 39

Louise

I pull up at the entrance to the Burgh Island Hotel car park, and root around in the centre console for the piece of paper on which I wrote down the security code for the metal gate. With a patient sigh, Bella locates it and hands it to me, and I lean out of the window to punch in the numbers. ‘Could you get our bags, while I wake Tolly?’ I ask, as the gate rolls open. ‘And try not to let them drag on the ground. It looks like it rained earlier.’

After parking the car, I get out and stretch my aching back as Bella opens the boot. It’s a four-hour journey from our house to the Devon coast, but there’s no direct train, so I had no option but to drive. I stare across the narrow stretch of water between the mainland and the island itself, inhaling a deep breath of cool, salty air. The sea glitters in the late afternoon sunshine, and gulls swoop and squawk above us. London and Whitefish seem a long way away. It feels good to escape from everything. I’m glad I came down a day earlier than everyone else; I need to hit the reset button and regroup before I’ll be fit company for a party.

As I’m getting my sleepy son out of his car seat, a man hails us from the other side of the car park in a thick Irish brogue. ‘You the Page party?’

‘Mr Connelly?’

‘Everyone calls me Ryan,’ the Irishman says, coming over and taking the bags from Bella. It’s the middle of summer, but he’s wearing wellingtons, corduroy trousers and a thick knitted bobble hat. ‘Tide’s in, so I’ll be taking you over on the sea tractor.’

Tolly’s eyes light up like pinwheels when he sees the sea tractor parked on the sand. It looks like something from a BBC period drama, with a metal staircase leading up to the covered platform resting atop huge tractor wheels. He yanks free from my restraining hand and bounds up the steps, leaning over the platform railing for a better view. ‘We’re driving through the water!’ he cries. ‘Mummy, Mummy! We’re driving through the sea! Will we go underwater?’ he adds, turning to Ryan, who’s taken the wheel in the centre of the sea tractor.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Bella sighs. ‘It’s not a submarine.’

I shoot her a reproachful glance, and she rolls her eyes, but puts her arm around her little brother and points out the hotel as Jack drives us across the sands. The water’s no more than a few feet deep, but at high tide like this, the island is completely cut off, and I can see dangerous currents at play beneath the surface.

The trip takes no more than five minutes, and Ryan helps us down the metal steps once we reach the island, leading the way up a steep path to the hotel. ‘That’s the Pilchard Inn,’ he says, pointing to a small pub huggingthe coast by the tiny quay. ‘It’s haunted by Tom Crocker, the leader of a band of vicious pirates in the fourteenth century.’ He leans down to Tolly, whose eyes are now as wide as dinner plates. ‘Crocker and his men looted and plundered ships for years, till he got caught.’ He points to the top of the hill behind us, and drops his voice to a sepulchral whisper. ‘He was dragged kicking and screaming for his life to the highest point on the island, where he was hanged by his neck until he was declared dead. It is said’ – his eyes rest on each of our faces in turn – ‘that his restless ghost walks again on the anniversary of his death every year. Folks see him, standing in the door of the Pilchard Inn, waiting for his men to return.’

‘Oh, great,’ Bella mutters. ‘Tolly will be up all night now.’

‘You’re safe, young man.’ Ryan grins, straightening up and ruffling Tolly’s hair. ‘Old Tom’s anniversary’s not till August. He won’t be appearing while you’re here.’

I’m slightly relieved when Ryan leaves us in reception. He seems nice enough, but I don’t need him putting any more ideas in Tolly’s head. A porter takes our bags up to our rooms, and I turn to the kids. ‘I thought I might have a cup of tea before we do anything else,’ I say. ‘Either of you two fancy anything?’

‘Ice cream!’ Tolly shouts.

Bella smiles. ‘Ice cream works.’

She leads the way into the spectacular Art Deco Palm Court, with its high, domed glass ceiling, and we settle in some pale blue shell-shaped armchairs with a view of the water. The waiter comes over with a pair ofmenus, and I fight to suppress a grin. The man has long, winkle-picker shoes, a fuchsia-pink embroidered waistcoat, and a shiny bald pate encircled by thick grey ringlets reaching down to his shoulder blades. He looks like an extra fromThe Rocky Horror Picture Show.

The waiter takes our order – high tea for me, and ice cream for the two children – and sidles away. ‘I’m guessing the staff here don’t get off-island much,’ Bella says dryly.

‘Ssssh,’ I reprove, trying not to laugh.

When they’ve finished their ice cream, we go for a long walk around the island, which is bigger than I remembered. A combination of the long journey and fresh sea air has tired us all out, and after a light dinner in the restaurant downstairs, I tuck Tolly up in the double bed he’ll be sharing with me, while Bella and I go outside onto the terrace to watch the sunset.

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