LARGE BLUE BUTTON, FROM WOMAN’S COAT?—
Found, on the pavement of Graydown Street, 11th November . . .
Margaret was wearing her dangerous new knickers. “Ruby silk with sumptuous cream lace” was how the saleswoman had described them, clearly wondering what business Margaret had buying them. They were not even distant cousins of her usual Marks & Spencer utility wear. Downstairs her husband waited expectantly. Twenty-six years they had been married, and he had done his best to let Margaret know how much he loved her for every one of those years. He loved her with his fists and his feet. His love was the color of bruises. The sound of breaking bones. The taste of blood. Of course, no one else knew. No one at the bank where he was assistant manager, no one at the golf club where he was treasurer, and certainly no one at the church, where, in the first year of their marriage, he had been born again a Baptist bedlamite. Beating the crap out of her was God’s will. Apparently. But no one else knew; just him, God, and Margaret. His respectability was like a neatly pressed suit; a uniform he wore to fool the outside world. But at home, in mufti, the monster reappeared. They never had any children. It was probably for the best. He might have loved them too. So why had she stayed? Love, at first. She had truly loved him. Then fear, weakness, desolation? All of the above. Body and spirit crushed by God and Gordon.
“Where the fuck’s my dinner!” a voice bawled from the sitting room. She could picture him, fleshy-faced and florid; rolls of fat seeping over the belt of his trousers, watching the rugby on the television and drinking his tea. Tea that Margaret had made; milk and two sugars. And six Tramadol. Not enough to kill him; not quite. God knows, she had enough. The last time she “tripped” and broke her wrist, that kind doctor in Accident & Emergency had given her a whole box. Not that she wasn’t tempted. Manslaughter with diminished responsibility thrown in seemed like a fair trade. But Margaret wanted him to know. Her left eye was almost swollen shut and the color of the Valpolicella Gordon was expecting to swill with his dinner. Touching it, she winced, but then she felt the whisper of soft silk brushing against her skin and smiled. Downstairs, Gordon wasn’t feeling quite himself. For the first time in years she looked him straight in the eyes.
“I’m leaving you.”
She waited to make sure that he understood. The rage in his eyes was all the confirmation she needed.
“Get back here, you stupid bitch!”
He tried to haul himself from his chair, but Margaret had already left the room. She heard him crash to the floor. She picked up the suitcase in the hall, closed the door behind her, and walked down the drive without looking back. She didn’t know where she was going, and she didn’t care as long as it was away. The bitter November wind stung her bruised face. Margaret put down her suitcase for a moment to fasten the top button of her old, blue coat. The worn-out thread snapped and the button spun through her fingers and onto the pavement. Margaret picked up her suitcase and left the button where it was.
Sod it, she thought. I’ll buy a new coat. Happy birthday, Margaret.
Laura awoke to the sound of knocking. She had fallen asleep slumped over the table, and her cheek now bore the imprint of the blue button it had been resting on. Still befuddled with sleep, she slowly realized that the knocking was coming from the front door. In the hall she passed her suitcase still waiting to be unpacked. She had decided that tonight would be the first night that she would stay at Padua. It had somehow felt right to wait until after the funeral. The knocking began again; insistent but not urgent. Patient. As though the person would wait for as long as it took for someone to answer. Laura opened the door to a young girl with a serious and beautiful moon face, set with almond-shaped eyes the color of chestnuts. She had seen her many times before, sitting on the bench across the green, but never this close. The girl drew herself up to her full height of five feet and one and a quarter inches and then she spoke.
“My name is Sunshine and I can be your new friend.”
CHAPTER 15
“When the sitter comes, shall I make the lovely cup of tea?”
Laura smiled. “Do you know how?”
“No.”
It had been two weeks since Anthony’s funeral and Sunshine had called every day apart from on Sundays when her mum had stopped her.
“Give the poor woman a day off, Sunshine. I’m sure she doesn’t want you pestering her peace and quiet all the time.”