I listen for a response but I hear nothing. Flora’s probably on the phone.
I’ve never heard her sound like that before.
I can’t not look. I have to risk it. If the worst happens and she spots me and I decide I can’t face talking to her, I can just drive away, fast. That’d give her twenty-mile-an-hour-zone neighbours something to talk about. They could lobby to have Wyddial Lane sealed at both ends so that no one who doesn’t live here can enter in future.
The gates of Newnham House are still wide open. And there’s Flora: twelve years older, but it’s definitely her. Her hair hasn’t changed a bit: same dark brown with no hint of grey, same style. She’s wearing white lace-up pumps, a pale grey hoody and jeans.
‘Home,’ she says, holding her phone half an inch away from her ear. ‘I’m at home.’
I tried to push it away but it’s back again: the strong sense that what I’m seeing isn’t an ordinary conversation. There’s something wrong.
A short silence follows. Then she says, ‘Hey, Chimp.’ She stops, raises her voice slightly and says, ‘Hey, Chimpyyy!’
Strange. The words don’t match the expression on her face at all. She looks upset and worried, not in relaxed greeting mode.
Is she talking to a new person now? Did the person she told she was ready put a child on the phone? It must be a child, surely. Who else would allow themselves to be called Chimpy? Her change of tone, too, from normal to deliberate, slower, louder …
Suddenly, she turns away and stretches out her arm, holding her phone as far away from herself as possible. Then, a few seconds later, she brings it back to her ear and wipes her eyes with her other hand.
She started to cry and didn’t want Chimpy to hear.
‘Peterborough,’ she says in a more normal tone of voice. ‘Lucky. I’m very lucky.’
Tears have filled my eyes. I can’t blink. They’d spill over and then I’d be officially crying, which would be insane. This woman has been no part of my life for twelve years. Why should I care that something about this phone conversation has upset her?
‘Yes. Tomorrow,’ she says. ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’ I watch as she puts her phone back in her bag. For a few seconds she stands still, looking tired and defeated, relieved that the conversation is over.
She opens the back door of the Range Rover, sticks her head in and says, ‘We’re he-ere!’ The deliberate jolly tone is unconvincing. Then she stands back. Nothing happens.
No surprises there. When the destination they’ve arrived at is their own home, teenagers don’t get out of the car unless nagged extensively. If you’re dropping them at a friend’s house, it’s a different story.
I hear Flora sigh. ‘Thomas! Emily!’ she says in a sing-song voice. ‘Come on, out you get!’
‘Why are you speaking to them like they’re still toddlers?’ I mutter. ‘No wonder they’re ignoring you.’
Even when her kids were little, Flora’s speaking-to-babies-and-children tone annoyed me. Thanks to her, I made sure I always addressed Zannah and Ben as if they were proper people.
Flora stands back as if someone’s about to get out of the car. ‘That’s it!’ she says encouragingly.
Quit it, woman, unless you want them to run off and join a cult. They ought to be able to get out of a car without a pep talk from their mother.
A small, bright blue rucksack tumbles from the car to the ground. I see a leg emerge, then a boy.
A very young boy.
What the hell?
‘Come on, Emily,’ says Flora. ‘Thomas, pick up your bag.’
A little girl rolls out of the car. She picks up the blue bag and hands it to the boy.
‘Oh, well done, Emily,’ says Flora. ‘That’s kind. Say thank you, Thomas.’
This cannot be happening.
I touch the skin of my face with my right hand. Both feel equally cold. All of me feels frozen apart from my heart, which beats in my ears like something trapped in a tunnel.
I lean back in my seat, close my eyes for a few seconds, then open them and look again.
Nothing has changed. The little girl turns and, for a second, looks straight at me.
It’s her. That T-shirt with the fluffy sheep on it … Le petit mouton.
The girl I’m looking at is Emily Braid, except she’s not fifteen, as she should be – as she must be and is, unless the world has stopped making sense