Why hadn’t Adam told her about the cellar? Was this an indication that he had something to hide? Her father was convinced that if Adam had been about to vanish, there would have been warning signs, but Grace had always been adamant there weren’t. Adam had been his usual self on that last morning, joking around, his face glowing with pride each time his glance fell on Millie. It was a new look in his eyes, one that Grace was still getting used to, but it was already among her favourites. He was minding Millie for the afternoon, while Grace did some shopping in town. It was the first time she had left Millie for so long, and she was both excited to be going and reluctant to leave.
By the time she got home, laden with bags, Adam had taken Millie out, leaving her that strange, serious note. And she had never seen him again.
He wouldn’t leave Millie like that, Grace knew it. But after the police had combed the area looking for him and found nothing, they began to suggest he might have run away. It wouldn’t be the first time, they said. New fathers sometimes couldn’t cope with the responsibility. And he’d withdrawn a thousand pounds from their account the day before he vanished.
Adam had told Grace about the money – he’d said he intended to keep it at the cottage, because they were so isolated – but she had never found it. The police thought he might have used the cash to do a bunk. He’d left the baby where he knew she’d be found, and disappeared.
But Grace had so many questions. Why not leave Millie in the cottage? Why run away without telling her, cutting off all contact? And if he was ready to vanish into the night, then why on earth would he have moved Grace all the way out into the country before he did so? Not to mention the fact that her last memory of Adam before she left for the shops was of him sitting on the floor in front of the television, half paying attention to a morning chat show, his legs crossed and his baby girl cradled within them, her mouth clamped around a bottle. He had appeared so relaxed as he tilted his head up to kiss his wife goodbye. He’d said, ‘Go on, enjoy the break … we’ll be fine.’ No, he was not a man about to run off – whatever he’d been doing the day before, and no matter that he hadn’t told her about the cellar.
Grace tried to guide her mind away from these never-ending loops of questions. She needed to stop getting caught up with thoughts of what might have happened. The questions had crippled her for the past year, and she wanted to go forwards now. She was here to sort out the cottage, not rake over the past. This was a hiatus between the past and future, a necessary stopgap, that was all.
She took Millie up for her bath, then got her ready for bed. After Millie was settled, Grace headed downstairs and switched on the TV. She avoided the inevitable horror stories on the night’s news, grateful to come across an old film until she realised it was Rear Window. Even though she’d seen it before, tonight she needed something safe, so eventually she settled for a few old episodes of Friends. After they finished, she switched the TV off and was left looking at her reflection in the blank screen. She was slouched on the sofa, a blanket over her legs. She looked like an old lady, slumped there alone.
She made her way up to bed, got undressed and settled down under the duvet. She flicked the light off, then waited for sleep to come and claim her. But, as she feared, nothing happened. So she switched the light back on and read some more of Rebecca, imagining the second Mrs de Winter sitting under a chestnut tree, contemplating the fickleness of time. For a while, Grace was there too, breathing in the scent of fresh-cut grass, hearing a bee buzzing close to her ear, the sea murmuring in the distance. She grew drowsy, so put the book to one side, switched off the lamp and closed her eyes. Against her will, her ears attuned to the noises in the cottage. Every now and then an unexpected creak would startle her. She could also hear a faint scratching, and feared she really did have a mouse. She didn’t know if she could bring herself to set traps, and decided to ignore it, concentrating instead on the ticking of the grandfather clock. Its steady rhythm slowly infiltrated her mind, lulling her into a slumber.
And then the clock stopped.
She opened her eyes to the darkness. Listened more intently. But all stayed silent.
It had just wound down, she told herself. But somehow the hush was disorientating. She closed her eyes again, but she couldn’t relax. After a while, her ears began to ring from the effort of straining when there was nothing to hear.
My grandfather used to call it the heartbeat of the cottage.
She rolled over and snapped on the light. For a second her vision quavered, the walls shifting slightly before settling. Then the room was there before her, just as it always was … why had she expected it to be different somehow? She peered round from behind the covers, but nothing moved, yet the atmosphere felt full of energy, a living current swirling around her, willing her to get up and go downstairs.
She opened the door to the landing. She snapped the light on and edged along to the next bedroom, to see Millie soundly asleep, face to the wall.
She looked down the stairs, thought fleetingly of the cellar two storeys below her. She decided she would go and turn the television on again, find some company that way, and so she made her way down to the lounge and switched on both the fire and the TV. Then she went and closed the curtains so that not a tiny crack of darkness could peek through. She needed to fortify her surroundings, to make believe that she was in a different room, somewhere else. London at night sprang into her mind. The brilliant neon glow of it, the electrifying bustle. People always passing by. Sometimes she felt that this place was the dream, and soon she would wake up and find herself in their old flat, listening to the distant thumps of music, the regular rumble of traffic, and she would only need to turn over to see Adam asleep beside her.
There it was – the familiar spasm of pain at the thought of him. She shook off the fantasy and flicked through the channels until she came across a late-night music programme. She tried to concentrate on the soothing rhythm and blues, but found that she kept turning the sound down on the remote, checking to see if she could hear anything. Finally, she stomped back into the hallway in frustration, and stood before the grandfather clock, their faces level, its pendulum still. The air around her was so chilly she could see her breath. It hadn’t been that cold before, surely?
She had imagined that it would be a blessing once the clock stopped, but now she knew what Adam’s grandfather had meant. Without the incessant ticking, the cottage was too quiet; too still. She sighed. And as though in reply, the pendulum suddenly moved and the clock gave a loud tock.
She jumped backwards in shock, disbelieving, holding her breath. But when the noise came a second time, she fled upstairs, crawling rapidly under the bedclothes and clamping a pillow over her head.
The next morning, when Grace looked out the window she saw snatches of blue beyond the sheet of bright white cloud. Instead of frost, the hedgerow was covered with shimmering crystals of fresh dew. A robin perched on the garden gate. It bounced this way and that, flicking its tail, before it sensed her watching, was frozen for a moment and then took flight.
Despite the fact her sleep had come in stolen, shallow snatches, nothing looked terrifying today. Rather, the small garden, with its trellis arch and flagstones, sundial and pond, was a picture-postcard image of country life.