abating and I think I can see weak sunshine pushing at its edges. The feeling I had that he was alive before is back and growing in strength, even though it might mean the unthinkable. Perhaps it’s all in my head, wishful thinking that he’s alive, and this letter is just the product of a terrible, cruel, twisted person intent on hurting me and Simon. But what I can’t do is dismiss it, ignore it. I owe it to my boy to follow it up, even if it all comes to nothing in the end.
‘I promise I’ll find out what happened to your brother, little one. No matter how hard it is and no matter how long it takes.’ My whisper sounds strong, full of conviction in the peaceful quiet. I like the idea of strength. I need to prove I can stand on my own two feet. For too long I’ve relied on others, been a victim. The poor damaged butterfly, as Simon once called me, the damsel in need of rescuing. I’m damned if I’ll allow it to continue.
The rocking chair takes my weight and, as I wait for my daughter to wake fully, I close my eyes and relax into the forward and back. Inside my head, the sky is blue now and storm-washed thoughts begin to order themselves into logical rows.
I think I’ve found a place to start my quest.
If I ever work again in the future, I think I’ll become an actress. My ‘good wife’ act over the past two days has been perfect, so much so that Simon commented that he thought I had turned a corner. Little does he know that’s exactly what I have been doing all the time he’s been at work all day. Iona and I have been walking the streets, turning corners, revisiting places I have been recently to try and track down the man who delivered the letter. So far, the supermarket, post office, baker’s, park, swimming pool and baby clinic have all come to nothing. But I do know I saw the man fairly recently, and more than once.
It had to be more than once, didn’t it? I mean, unless you’re someone with a photographic memory, faces don’t stick so readily. At least I don’t think they do. It had to have been more than just seeing him pass me in the street, surely? Cornwall is out too. He is a city man. Not that he dressed in a sharp suit or anything; no, he wore jeans and a light jacket. But his shoes were dusty. Brown, dusty brogues with a layer of London dust living in the pores of the leather and covering the round of the laces. Cornwall has dust, of course, but not city dust. I just know he lives here.
So today’s visit is the last resort and one I’m not looking forward to making. Because if I’m spotted there, I’ll have to dredge up an Academy Award-winning performance from somewhere and there’s not much energy left in the tank for that. I’m tired from tossing and turning all night worrying about Ruan. If he’s alive, where is he? Are the people who have him looking after him properly? How did they take him from the clinic without anyone knowing? Will I ever be able to track him down? If he is dead – my gut tells me that’s increasingly unlikely – who wrote that letter and why? These thoughts exhaust me, and alongside all that, there’s the early morning feeds with Iona too. But needs must, and the need is great.
Iona looks at me from under her ‘bunny ears’ hat with an expression that says she’d rather be on her play mat than waiting for me to fiddle with the car seat. Tiredness has turned my fingers to lumps of wood. An idea kicks me in the head – perhaps it’s not a good idea to be driving if you’re that tired? It will be an hour’s walk, but so what? The pram is in the boot and I lift the car seat out and fix it on to the frame.
Ten minutes later and the warm sunshine and slight breeze reward me for my sensible decision. The overwhelming tiredness has been confined to a slight tension behind my eyes and the exercise is doing wonders for my positive outlook. Must be the endorphins. When I think of the word ‘endorphins’, I always picture dolphins. I say it out loud to Iona. She yawns.
*
‘No, my husband isn’t expecting me. I just want to get a feel for where he works, you know? He’s here so much; I’d love to just be here on my own for an hour – have a wander. In that way I can try to understand, albeit it in a small way, the huge part of his life that is separate from mine.’ I give her a broad smile and hope it isn’t erring on the manic.
The receptionist tries a smile back, but her eyes tell a different story. ‘I see. I could get someone to show you around?’
I remember vaguely chatting to her at the Christmas party here, but her name escapes me. I peer at her name badge. ‘No thanks, Brittany. I want to just be a fly on the wall… if that makes sense?’
Brittany makes a noise in her throat that sounds like she’s trying to stifle a giggle and shuffles some files to disguise it. She makes her face straight and says to the small garden through the picture window. ‘So you don’t want me to page Mr West?’
Is this woman dense? I just said I wanted to be alone. ‘No thanks. If I bump into him then that’ll be a nice surprise.’ It’ll be a surprise, all right.
Brittany twirls a long blonde curl around her fingers and stares at a computer screen. ‘Let’s see… Ah, he’s in surgery, so I doubt that.’
Hallelujah! ‘Righty ho. I’ll just get my daughter into her sling and then I’ll go for a wander. Can I park the pram behind reception?’
The wide blue eyes grow rounder as if the request was for her to strip naked and do a tap dance on the countertop. ‘Well, we’re not supposed to store anything behind here really…’ Brittany begins. And then she looks at my face, respect in her eyes. ‘But as you’re married to Mr West and I know you from the party last year…’ She slips from her stool, takes the pram and hands me a visitor’s badge to clip on my clothes. ‘And may I say… I am so sorry for the loss of your little one.’
I want to say he’s not dead, so no need, but of course I can’t. ‘Thanks, that’s very kind.’ I give a brief smile and then hurry off down the corridor.
Half an hour later we have covered everything the small clinic has to offer and the little garden, twice. Of course we’re not permitted into the operating theatre or the private patients’ rooms, so I am considering going into the plush little coffee area for some much-needed caffeine and then heading off home. Iona needs a feed, so two birds and all that.
I drink my coffee and talk to Iona as she’s the only person here. I realise I spend hours of my life alone now, apart from her, of course. It feels good to talk, even though Iona can’t reply, and I tell her all about her grandfather and how much he would have loved her, and about how happy Demi is with her new boyfriend, Alex. He came to Cornwall to stay for good last week and she’s told me she’s as happy as she can ever remember. Well, apart from when I spoke to her about the man and the letter the other day. She wasn’t happy then.
Iona is on my lap and reaches out a hand for my hair. I lean forward, and she gives it a yank. Strong grip for a tiny baby. I untangle it and kiss her little fingers.
‘Your Auntie Demi thinks I’ve lost my marbles, made the whole thing up. Or at least that I’m imagining it. Oh, she’d say that wasn’t true, but I think it is. She thinks I’m depressed, falling apart because your brother is missing…’ I take a mouthful of coffee. Yes, missing sounds much better than dead. Not only does it sound better, I know it’s true.
My daughter shapes her mouth into a grimace and gives a wail. It’s her hungry cry and I take a bottle from my bag. ‘But I’m not making it up or imagining it, even though, so far, we haven’t found the letter man. You know Mummy’s not crackers, don’t you, sweet pea?’ Iona doesn’t comment, of course; she’s too busy feeding.
The lady behind the counter in the coffee area keeps smiling at me. Now she’s rearranging the cookie shelf. A few minutes later she smiles again and wipes the countertop. Perhaps she knows something? Perhaps she can’t pluck up the courage to come forward and spill the beans on where Ruan is. Or then again, perhaps she’s just smiling at me because I have a cute baby, I’m the only one here and she’s bored stupid. Just as I’m thinking this, a young couple come in. The woman is hugely pregnant and frowny and he looks anxious. I’m guessing