Cover

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the memory of my dear dad.

Thank you for always being there for us.

We miss you.

Cofion annwylaf.

Caru mawr

xxx

Epigraph

‘What is man? A miserable little pile of secrets’

André Malraux

Prologue

Avoncote, 1964

The writhing baby lay on the hearth rug, its cheeks puce, the screaming intensifying as its scrawny limbs flailed aimlessly.

‘We’ll let him cry it out for a bit,’ she’d said weakly. She looked exhausted. She always did these days. ‘He’s been fed and winded, and I’ve changed him. Does their lungs good anyway, a nice long yell. There’s nothing really wrong with him; I think he’s just overtired.’

His eyes swept the room disapprovingly. Things were in disarray. He hated mess; there was comfort in order. It always used to be orderly. He could hear her now, humming to herself absently as she moved about the kitchen. He glared down at the mewling infant with contempt. Wriggling there open-mouthed on the ground. The tongue quivering in its screwed-up little face reminded him of a maggot crawling through a withered windfall apple. The sight of its hands, the bud of an extra digit trembling at each extremity, made him curl his own into fists of revulsion.

How he had come to despise this pink, bald parasite. Usually clamped to her breast, the thing was like a leech, sucking the life from her, demanding all her time and attention. As he leaned over the child, the sour, sickly smell of her milk rose from its breath. It turned his stomach.

The constant high-pitched wailing was becoming intolerable, seeming to fill his whole head, competing with the shrill whistle from the kettle that was now building to a crescendo.

‘Shut up,’ he hissed, in a low voice. But the incessant din appeared only to amplify. His mouth was close to its ear now. ‘Shut UP!’

She reappeared from the kitchen. He stood up and backed away guiltily. Maybe it was because she was so tired, but she appeared oblivious to his rage.

Letting out a sigh, she squatted down and scooped the now hysterical baby up into her arms. ‘I think I’ll walk him up and down outside a bit. Maybe the fresh air will help him drop off. He must be exhausted, poor lamb.’

He looked on silently as she wrapped the bawling infant in a shawl and, crooning all the while, disappeared into the garden.

The room was mercifully quiet once more. His breathing began to calm and he sat down on the sofa, watching through the window as they went down the path and past the omnipresent line of white towelling nappies flapping in the breeze. The movement seemed to have soothed the child and it had stopped sobbing. But he knew it would happen again. She had spoiled it; that’s what happened when you let a baby get its own way.

The thought came into his head and he knew now with strange clarity what needed to be done.

Next time he would teach it a lesson.

A flutter of excitement began to build from somewhere within and he leaned back, his face breaking into a satisfied smile.

For he knew without a doubt that there would be a next time.

CHAPTER 1

2012

Our move to the sleepy backwater of Avoncote seemed to have been written in the stars. After four years of unwedded bliss with my partner, Jack, I had been shocked, although delighted, to discover that I was pregnant. I was apprehensive about telling Jack, since it wasn’t something we had planned – at least, not at that point in time. After my initial burst of euphoria, I began to worry that he might not share my enthusiasm, or worse still, he might actually hate the idea. What if it spelled the beginning of the end of our relationship? I remember sitting in the tiny kitchen in our flat that afternoon, clutching the fateful plastic wand in my hand as my coffee turned cold, a thousand scenarios playing out in my mind. My – our – whole world had suddenly been turned on its head.

Hearing the door slam as Jack walked in after work, my stomach clenched. Staring at the evidence in my hand, a lump rose in my throat.

He stuck his head round the door, his hair tousled, a smile lighting his whole face.

‘Hey, you. Good day?’ Miserably I lifted my eyes to meet his gaze. His brow creased into a frown.

‘What’s up?’

Tentatively I handed over the pregnancy test, its tell-tale blue line facing upwards.

He looked, open-mouthed, from me to the wand and back again. His blue eyes were wide and unreadable. I felt sick. My hands were bunched into fists, nails digging into my clammy palms.

The wind was knocked from me as, without warning, he lifted me off the stool suddenly, swinging me round until I was giddy. I’d never seen him so excited. I hadn’t anticipated that the prospect of bringing a child into the world would mean so much to him. That I had been worried about nothing.

Two days after I had broken the news, Jack arrived home with an enormous bouquet of roses. I peeled off the cellophane and a small cardboard box fell to the floor. My stomach turned over.

‘What’s this?’ I looked up to see him grinning broadly, his head cocked to one side, watching for my reaction.

‘I’ve no idea. Open it and find out.’

With trembling fingers, I lifted the lid to find an unusual ring, gold, with a large diamond flanked either side by topaz. I gasped. I hadn’t expected this at all.

‘To match your bewitching eyes.’ He smiled, a little uncertain. ‘Well, what d’you reckon, Stina? Will I do?’

I was stunned. ‘Is this … a proposal?’

He nodded. I felt my eyes fill with tears. ‘Yes, of course you’ll bloody do!’

At that precise moment, I think I was happier than I had ever been in my entire life. I still found it hard to believe that someone as intelligent and handsome and caring as Jack could want me – me – to share his life. To raise his child.

Six weeks later, we had tied the knot in a registry office – not because we felt we ought to, but because the time felt, well, right. And as neither of us were religious, a church ceremony seemed hypocritical. We agreed that we wanted it to be low-key, and rather than inviting family and friends for a big ‘do’, pulled in a couple of bemused witnesses from the street. We celebrated afterwards with a meal at the Italian restaurant where we’d had our first proper date. I’d never fantasised about a big white wedding, and it seemed more meaningful somehow that it was just us. I was deliriously happy.

*

The news of my pregnancy had made us both re-evaluate our priorities, and probably owing to a surge in hormones I became suddenly more anxious and obsessive about everything: crime, pollution, the general environment into which we would be bringing our precious child. I had been born and raised in Birmingham, although if the truth be told I had long dreamed of relocating to somewhere quieter and where the pace of life seemed less manic. And of escaping my past. I would have gone anywhere in the world with Jack if he’d asked me to and this was the perfect opportunity to do just that. New house, new baby; isn’t that how the saying goes?

The chance of a more senior role for Jack in a well-established surgery in the Warwickshire countryside was so perfectly timed, it almost felt predestined. Everything seemed to have fallen into place. Jack was raised on a farm and had always had a hankering to return to a more rural way of life, plus neither of us were keen on the idea of raising a child in the city. And on a practical level, our second-floor flat was decidedly poky, plus there was no lift. The thought of dragging a buggy and baby up and down those stairs filled me with dread. I was working freelance from home, making enough money to keep me ticking over writing articles for various magazines, and so location for me wasn’t an issue. We began to scour the local papers and the internet for an ideal area from which Jack could commute.

There were several villages within spitting distance of the practice, which was just outside Stratford-upon-Avon. Jack was enthusiastic about living close to the surgery, declaring that he could even cycle to work in the warmer weather. Eventually we had plumped for picturesque Avoncote, largely because of the house we had discovered there. We fell in love with Wisteria Cottage at first sight. It was one of two semi-detached houses, set apart on a short stretch of road towards the centre of the hamlet. Uneven cobbles winding to a frontage festooned with lilac blooms beneath a thatched roof; endearingly small and perfect for newly-weds expecting their first child. Yes, there was a good deal of work to be done and we were going to have to throw some serious money at the place – something we could ill afford, the mortgage stretching us to the limit – but the location was ideal, and the house had such potential. We moved in at the end of April, the whole summer stretching before us, leaving several months to prepare for our forthcoming arrival.

The chocolate-box village itself, quintessentially English and slightly twee, with its small, close-knit community, seemed like the answer to our prayers. It was like something out of a Miss Marple novel. There was a village green, complete with stocks – thankfully no longer in use. It even boasted a maypole. Next to the green, a large circular duck pond was enclosed by a low wooden barrier. The spire of a beautiful old church pierced the skyline, its immaculately maintained graveyard filled with generations of the village’s former occupants. Beyond the church, a canal passed through the village, the towpath providing a scenic walk towards the centre of Stratford.

The local pub, The Green Man, was an impressively wide sixteenth-century building, constructed in honeyed Cotswold stone and adorned with numerous colourful hanging baskets. A huge swinging sign stood before its doors, bearing the image of a dark green but benign-looking male face, peering through foliage peppered with red berries.

A general-store-cum-post-office and a doctor’s surgery were only a stone’s throw from our front door. There was a little primary school, which looked charmingly old-fashioned, its yard brightly painted with hopscotch grids, and various lines and circles for other traditional playground games.

The whole area felt timeless – a complete contrast to the soulless, crime-ridden city we knew as home. I was brimming with excitement at the prospect of building our future in such idyllic surroundings and of giving our child the best possible start in life. No drug peddling on the doorstep, no worries about leaving the door unlocked for more than a minute in case someone burst in wielding a baseball bat demanding our life’s savings. The stories in the local press before we finally waved goodbye to our former home had become increasingly alarming.

We had recently acquired a beautiful two-year-old border collie, Jobie, shortly after Jack started his new post. Jack had always been desperate to have a dog, but our flat wasn’t the ideal environment. One of the other vets was emigrating to New Zealand, and although heartbroken at having to part with him, thought it unfair to drag the animal halfway round the world. Jobie was as mad as a box of frogs but a complete delight, and took to us like a duck to water – as we did to him.

Our whole existence had been turned delightfully on its head: a peaceful rural location, a dream job for Jack, a new baby on the way. It had all happened so quickly, but I was adjusting well to this change in lifestyle. It was everything I’d ever dreamed of, and I was riding high on the euphoria of it all. It felt almost too good to be true.

*

Rose Cottage, the building adjoining our new home, was beautifully maintained, which only accentuated the fact that our rusting front gate was hanging on by the skin of its teeth and the peeling window frames crying out for a lick of fresh paint.

Our neighbour, an elderly widow named Mrs Barley, lived alone, with only two caged lovebirds for company. We had met her briefly when she came out to introduce herself the day we moved in and she seemed pleasant enough. She was a small, frail-looking creature, with short, wispy white hair. There was a quiet sadness about her, which I attributed to the premature loss of her husband some years earlier, something alluded to in hushed tones by the estate agent who had first shown us round.

The rear gardens of our respective cottages nestled side by side, separated by a low picket fence. The outer edge of each garden was enclosed by a tall privet hedge, ours embarrassingly unkempt and interwoven with brambles; Mrs Barley’s, in contrast, neatly clipped and bevelled. Our back gates opened onto an entry that in turn opened out onto a lane populated by a handful of quaint detached cottages, beyond which were verdant views of open, rolling fields, stretching for miles. How I coveted the little summer house at the bottom of Mrs Barley’s lawn. Hexagonal in shape and painted pale mint green, it was a robust structure, with a proper slate roof, its varnished wooden fascia creating a sort of portico, windows to the sides and double doors at the front. It finished the garden off perfectly.

Mrs Barley’s pristine flowerbeds put ours to shame. Wisteria Cottage had been a rental property for several years before the owners finally decided to sell, and the previous occupants had clearly been averse to horticulture, preferring their borders ‘au naturel’, leaving a forest of weeds and waist-high grass concealing any amount of wildlife. We resolved that our priority was to arm ourselves with shovels and shears and set about creating some sort of order.

The heat that first Saturday was unseasonably oppressive, making our task even more wearisome. Jobie hindered our efforts further by leaping on us playfully. He snapped relentlessly at the butterflies heading for the glorious raspberry-pink refuge of next door’s buddleia.

‘I’m beginning to think we should have hired a digger,’ groaned Jack. ‘Maybe we ought to just lay slabs over the whole bloody lot. This isn’t my idea of fun.’

I prodded him playfully. ‘Don’t be such a misery. We want a nice garden for when the baby comes – it’ll be lovely for him or her to have somewhere to play. Keep going – it’ll all be worth it in the end!’

Damp with sweat, and skin prickling from the brambles and coarse ryegrass, we’d been hacking away for a gruelling couple of hours. Although still only thirteen weeks into my pregnancy, the heat was taking its toll on me and I was starting to flag. Mrs Barley appeared, balancing a tray of home-made biscuits and fresh lemonade on the fence.

‘Some refreshments?’ She spoke softly, with a subtle West Country burr. ‘Gardening’s thirsty work, I know.’

Gratefully accepting the tray, we paused to gulp down the cool liquid. I couldn’t help noticing the fingerless gloves she was wearing, and the old woman obviously realised. She smiled, explaining, ‘I have arthritis, my dear. Even when the weather’s as warm as this, my old hands often still throb and ache. The gloves help a little with the stiffness.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.’

‘That’s quite all right. I know it must look a bit odd, especially in this heat, but it’s comfort over style for me these days, I’m afraid!’ She seemed unperturbed, and I was glad that I hadn’t offended her.

Jack raised a thumb. ‘Mmm – these are excellent,’ he said, through a mouthful of crumbs.

Mrs Barley looked pleased. ‘It’s nice to have someone to bake for. I rarely bother these days – no point, now there’s only me. Since Frank’s passing, I don’t do half the things I used to …’ She tailed off wistfully. Her eyes had misted with tears. There was an awkward silence and Jack shot me a discomfited look.

‘I love your summer house,’ I said, attempting to divert her. ‘And the garden’s just beautiful …’

‘Yes. Not my doing, though. It was Frank’s hobby. I can’t bend, you see, so I pay someone to tidy up now. I like to keep it nice – Frank was so proud of his garden.’

Pensively, she gazed at the profusion of pinks, reds, whites and mauves, each flower and shrub labelled meticulously.

‘I love sitting in our summer house. Frank built it himself, you know. It’s where I feel closest to him. We’d take tea there in summer and sit until sundown, just looking out at all the flowers.’ She paused, lost in the memory.

‘Frank always used to say you’re closest to God in a garden,’ she almost whispered.

*

Our day had been exhausting but ultimately rewarding. After a dinner of takeaway pizza, which meant a six-mile round trip for Jack, as the sun started to wane, we sat admiring the fruits of our labour through the open French doors. The living room was bathed in a pool of rosy light, the heat of the afternoon having given way to a beautifully temperate evening. The sky was streaked pink, and a soft, warm breeze wafted through the house. There was still a long way to go, but everything now looked tidy, at least. The weeds had been cleared, the soil dug over, the lawn trimmed. I pictured the borders filled with roses in bloom, hazy purple lavender; maybe a flowering cherry, a bubbling water feature. It might not be able to compete with Mrs Barley’s showpiece yet, but it was a start.

Jack went to make a pot of tea while I sat, daydreaming, Jobie at my feet. A sudden movement at the bottom of Mrs Barley’s garden made me shift my gaze. Startled, I realised that a tall, dark-haired man had walked through the back gate. He wore muddy working boots, and braces over a white collarless shirt, its sleeves rolled up. He strolled slowly up the path and paused, his head bent as though carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. I jumped to my feet and ran to the window. He didn’t appear to have noticed me; he seemed to be lost in thought, staring down at the ground where our fence met our neighbour’s. I felt a peculiar sensation, like an electric current passing through me. There was something inexplicably unnerving about him: his plodding, deliberate gait; his sombre demeanour.

‘Jack! There’s a bloke in Mrs Barley’s garden.’

‘What did you say? I can’t hear you above the kettle.’ He appeared in the doorway, tea towel in hand.

‘A man – in next door’s garden. Look.’

I waved frantically, turning back to the window, but the intruder had vanished. Jack darted outside through the French doors. Followed by an excitable Jobie, he hurried down to the bottom of the garden and out into the entry, looking from left to right. He turned back to me and shrugged.

‘Well, he must have shifted bloody quickly. I can’t see anyone out there.’

I rushed to the front door and went out into the lane, looking up and down the road in case the man had gone in the other direction, but there was no one in evidence. Puzzled, I went back into the house.

‘Will you go and knock on Mrs Barley’s door – check if she’s all right? I can’t imagine he could’ve made it to her back door that quickly, but just in case …’

Jack rolled his eyes, but humoured me by going round to see the old lady. He was back in no time.

‘She’s fine – didn’t seem at all concerned. Said it was probably her gardener. He pops in and out quite regularly, apparently. Nothing to worry about.’

‘Oh. But I still don’t see how he could have cleared off that quickly … Well, at least she’s okay – that’s the main thing.’

I looked back into the garden, but a shiver rippled through me. I would be keeping an eye out for the gardener, just to make sure it was him. I felt uneasy about a man being able to wander unhindered into a garden so close to our own. Having moved from an urban area where break-ins were rife, it concerned me now that maybe this wasn’t going to be the bucolic haven I’d hoped for.

That night I sat up in bed, trying to read. But I felt restless, and kept going over the same paragraph time and again without absorbing a thing. Eventually, I put down my book and nudged Jack.

‘Are you asleep?’

He sighed. ‘Not any more. What’s up?’

‘I keep thinking … about that man in the garden.’

He rolled over and pulled me towards him.

‘Stop fretting,’ he soothed. ‘Listen; we’ve had a great day, made good progress. I’m earning more, we’re in our dream cottage and we’ve got a new baby to look forward to. Life feels … I don’t know, full of hope. I know you’re a born worrier but I’m sure that bloke out there was just the gardener or something. This is sleepy rural Warwickshire, not an inner-city den of iniquity.’

‘I know. It’s left me a bit unsettled, that’s all.’ I snuggled down beside him and he kissed my shoulder.

‘Try to get some sleep. You’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow.’

*

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

Enjoyed this preview? ❤️ Do not stop here!

Read the complete book free online → 🔗

Continue reading now on BooksBarbecue and discover every page!

Love reading? Bookmark BooksBarbecue.com for more amazing books!

Happy Reading!