As if recalling something unpleasant, the neighbour’s expression stiffens. She stares until Jess feels uncomfortable enough to lower her eyes. And then the neighbour speaks. ‘You spend so much time with her. More than anyone else. You’re all Flo has left now. I suppose it’s only fair you know.’ The elderly woman slips her pruning shears inside a pocket, then nods at Nerthus House. ‘Phillip. He was at boarding school when his dear sister was lost. He joined the air force later, after school. Followed in the footsteps of his dashing father. But he never came home. Not once to my knowledge. Flew away, just like Algy.’

‘Flo’s husband. He passed away?’

‘Not precisely. He left them and couldn’t be traced. Flo had no choice but to declare him dead.’ The gardener sighs. ‘Devilishly handsome man. I think we all fell for him when they first moved here. But what do we know of anyone? A charmer, Algy. But cruel. A controlling man. Hateful to dear Flo. And a brute to his daughter.’

‘That’s awful.’

‘Oh, Flo kept up appearances as he tormented her and the little girl he despised. Ever the dutiful wife. But it all came out later.’

‘How did she die, Charlotte?’

‘Swallowed a great deal of her mother’s medication. Ate them like sweets. And she didn’t die easily. Was ghastly. I’ll never forget that day.’

‘Suicide.’

‘Accident, they claimed. Inconceivable then that a young girl from such a good family would take her own life.’

‘Jesus.’

‘It was all too late by the time Flo found her. And Flo had a concussion at the time.’

The two women exchange glances in silence until the gardener stoops over to raise a hawthorn branch. She takes her little shears from her pocket, the steel glinting, surgical in its brightness as she severs the end of the stick. The snap echoes through the silent, beautiful village.

Jess nods and offers the neighbour a pained smile. ‘I better get on. But thank you. All makes a lot more sense now.’ Jess pads away, humbled as she goes.

The neighbour watches her return to the vicarage. ‘No matter how difficult she is to manage . . . even if she forgets herself and what she’s doing . . . the past is always with her.’

31

Jess stiffens when the call is answered. She stops chewing her bottom lip. ‘Phillip? Is that Phillip Gardner?’

‘Who is calling, please?’

‘I’m sorry to bother you, sir. My name’s Jess McMachen. Your mum’s new carer.’

A thick silence immediately ensues that she tries to end. ‘I just started—’

‘Who told you to contact me?’

Jess paces the kitchen. ‘I know I’m not supposed to call. But your mum needs better support. She’s depressed, Mr Gardner. Having delusions. I think it’s PTSD. You need another GP to make an assessment.’

‘Please don’t ever contact me again.’