No, no, that won’t work. I must put all thoughts of violence aside. There is too much at stake, too much to lose. I have to pretend to make friends with the ghastly Bob and Barbara and banish all suspicions from their minds. A cake will do it. Muffins, perhaps. Blueberry or chocolate chip. I’ve never made a cake in my life, but I’m sure I can whip up something edible. Besides, it’s the gesture that counts rather than the quality of the baking. Sunday is the perfect day for acts of kindness. Nobody will suspect me if I come bearing gifts.
Resolved, I drag Mabel’s bouncy chair into the kitchen, parking her by the back door while I search for suitable equipment. She watches me curiously as I rummage through Great-Aunt Dolly’s cupboards, pulling out a large biscuit-coloured mixing bowl, a plastic sieve and a metal patty tin with spaces for twelve little fairy cakes.
‘Pity I can’t look up a recipe online,’ I moan, reaching for the most battered-looking cookery book on the shelf. Motes of ancient dust are stuck to its greasy cover, the spine is in tatters, and several pages fall out as I open it up. I turn to the baking section. ‘Here we go … Hmm … butter, caster sugar, eggs, self-raising flour … none of which we’ve got.’ I sigh loudly. ‘What a nuisance. We’ll have to make a trip to the shops.’
Taking Mabel out is a risk, but it’ll be worth it. Anything to get Bob and Barbara off my back. I make a quick list and put some cash in my pocket, then dress my darling in her pink snowsuit. She’s not very impressed by the idea of an outing and fights me as I buckle her into the car seat.
The weather is miserable – leaden skies and a biting wind. Deciding to avoid the nearest village, where I might bump into the locals, I drive northwards. Ideally I need to find a large out-of-town supermarket where everyone is busy doing their own shopping and won’t give us a second look. I won’t be able to leave Mabel in the car; I’ll have to push her around in the buggy. I’ll drape a little blanket over the hood so that nobody can see her face. Parents do that all the time when a baby’s sleeping. Nobody will think it out of the ordinary. We’ll be fine. Just a quick nip in and out, pick up the stuff, pay in cash …
I drive along the twisty lanes, negotiating a series of bends, hugging the hedgerows where the road narrows, shifting gear to climb the hills, swerving to avoid ruts and puddles. Mabel falls asleep and thoughts of the past skitter through my mind.
This was the route we took when we first visited Midsummer Cottage, although we were travelling in the opposite direction. It was a Friday evening; we’d both left work early, hoping to miss the weekend exodus from London. The car was packed with food and booze and there was love in the air. After some rocky times, we were going through a settled phase and I was feeling more confident. We hadn’t had an argument for weeks.
I insisted on being at the wheel for the last bit of the journey. It made me feel more in control of the situation. This was my cottage, my inheritance. I was more than happy to share my good fortune but I needed it to be understood that for once, I was in charge. Stupid, really. I never was in the driving seat of that relationship. Not that I care any more. When we’re back together, I’ll be content to play second fiddle.
I glance across at the empty seat next to me and make a silent plea to the ghost sitting there. Please come and find us. You know where we are. Don’t make me wait much longer. Mabel needs you. I need you. It’s time to be a family.
After a few miles, the road widens and straightens, and we reach a roundabout. Following a promising sign, I eventually reach a small retail park on the outskirts of the next town. The place is heaving with Sunday shoppers. Perfect, I think, pulling into a space.
As soon as the engine stops, Mabel annoyingly starts to stir. I get out of the car and open the boot, removing the buggy I bought in anticipation of many happy outings. I haven’t had the chance to use it yet. I