The Apartment - K. L. Slater Page 0,15

screen from the openness of the main garden.

A slight breeze carries the wonderful calming scents of the potted herbs up to my face.

‘What a lovely space you’ve made here,’ I sweep my hand over the area. ‘It’s like a little peaceful retreat.’

‘I call it my memorial garden.’

I feel a squeeze in my heart.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I say softly. ‘And I love your chimes.’

‘One for each child,’ she says faintly and flicks the silver wind chime next to her, causing a harp-like flurry of notes to ripple through the air. It’s captivating and a little eerie.

‘What’s that?’ The noise has attracted Skye, who runs up, bumping into my side. ‘Oh!’ She sees Susan tucked behind the large bush.

‘Hello, Skye, I’m Susan.’ The briefest sparkle flickers in her eyes before it’s gone again.

‘Hello,’ Skye says shyly, screwing the toe of her training shoe into the grass.

‘I live at Adder House, too.’ Susan smiles at Skye’s obvious preoccupation with her garden. ‘Would you like to tinkle my wind chimes?’

Skye nods and tiptoes around the plant pots on the little patio, reaching towards the silver chime. The flurry of notes dances around us and a wide smile spreads across Skye’s face.

‘She’s called Clare, and this one’ – Susan points to a bamboo chime with a long middle pendulum – ‘is Clara.’

Skye wiggles the pendulum and a deeper sound resonates.

‘What’s this one called?’ Skye reaches towards an intricate chime consisting entirely of beads and coloured shells. A delicate tinkle scatters the stillness of the air.

‘Ahh, she’s called Clarice.’ Susan smiles.

‘Why do the names all sound nearly the exact same?’ Skye frowns. Susan stares into the middle distance but doesn’t answer.

Goosebumps prickle my arms and I give them a rub as I address Skye.

‘Right, come on then, scamp. Let’s head for the swing, we’ve lots of unpacking waiting for us to do upstairs.’ As Skye picks her way around the pots, I turn back and smile. ‘It’s really lovely to meet you, Susan, we’ll no doubt see you around the place.’

‘I could look after her,’ Susan suddenly blurts out, clasping her small, pale hands together. ‘While you get your unpacking done, I mean. Or if you need a babysitter one night, perhaps.’

She looks longingly at Skye, who’s already skipping back towards the swing.

‘Oh! That’s very kind of you, but—’

‘She could bring her dolls. I have lots of tiny baby clothes that would fit.’

Her face is so full of hope and yearning, I could cry. I rack my brains for a sensitive reply.

‘That’s really kind of you, Susan, but I’ve given her a bit of responsibility in unpacking and placing her own stuff in her bedroom. So she better understands how things are organised, if you see what I mean.’

‘Of course!’ Susan says a little too brightly. ‘It’s a good idea, Freya. You seem like a really good mother.’

‘Mummyyy!’ Skye shrieks and I breathe a silent sigh of relief at the distraction.

‘Oh dear, better go.’ I set off walking before hesitating and turning back again. Susan is staring at her hands. ‘When we’re properly settled in, it would be lovely if you could pop up for a cup of tea with us. Skye is into soft toys more than dolls, but I know she’d be delighted to show you each and every one of them . . . if you have the time.’

A smile brightens her face. ‘Thank you, Freya,’ she says. ‘I’d really love that.’ Then she walks back inside, her shoulders sagging.

9

I push Skye for ten minutes or so on the swing.

Susan Woodings is right; the swing is in good repair and I wonder if Dr Marsden keeps it maintained because other residents here have grandchildren who visit Adder House on occasion. Skye would love to make a few new friends, if so.

Again, my mind wanders back to Skye saying she thought another little girl used to live here. Maybe part of her wishes there were other children to play with.

When we get back inside, Dr Marsden surprises me by meeting us at the door.

‘I hope you’ve had a nice time out there in the garden.’ He smiles at Skye as we move into the foyer. ‘I saw you high up on the swing.’

I remember the Marsdens’ French doors overlook the garden.

‘Do other children play on the swing?’ Skye asks in a forthright manner.

‘No . . . at least not any more,’ Dr Marsden murmurs.

What does he mean by that? When I asked him about a child living here, he didn’t say one used to, he