Shatter

16

‘What happened to you?’

‘I knelt down in the mud.’

‘Oh.’

Darcy is in the doorway, regarding me with a brief, disarming concern. I take off my shoes and leave them on the back step. Sugar and cinnamon scent the air. Emma is standing on a chair in the kitchen with a wooden spoon in her hand and a chocolate goatee.

‘Don’t play in the mud, Daddy. You’ll get dirty,’ she says seriously, before announcing, ‘I’m making biscuits.’

‘I can see that.’

She’s wearing an oversized apron that reaches her ankles. A pyramid of unwashed dishes sits in the sink.

Darcy brushes past me and joins Emma. There is a bond between them. I almost feel like I’m intruding.

‘Where’s Charlie?’

‘Upstairs doing her homework.’

‘I’m sorry I took so long. Have you all eaten?’

‘I cooked spaghetti.’

Emma nods, pronouncing it ‘pagetti’.

‘You had a few phone calls,’ says Darcy. ‘I took messages. Mr Hamilton the kitchen fitter said he could come next Tuesday. And they’re going to deliver your firewood on Monday.’

I sit down at the kitchen table and, with great ceremony, sample one of Emma’s biscuits, which are proclaimed to be the best ever baked. The cottage should be a mess but it’s not. Apart from the kitchen, the place is spotless. Darcy has cleaned up. She even straightened the office and replaced a light bulb in the utilities room that hasn’t worked since we moved in.

I ask her to sit down.

‘The police are going to investigate your mother’s death.’

Her eyes cloud momentarily.

‘They believe me.’

‘Yes. I need to ask you some more questions about your mother. What sort of person was she? What were her routines? Was she open and trusting, or careful and reserved? If someone threatened her would she react aggressively or be shocked into silence?’

‘Why do you need to know that?’

‘When I know her, I know more about him.’

‘Him?’

‘The last person to speak to her.’

‘The person who killed her.’

Her own statement seems to shrink her. A tiny speck of flour clings to her brow above her right eyebrow.

‘You mentioned an argument with your mother: what was it about?’

Darcy shrugs. ‘I wanted to go to the National Ballet School. I wasn’t supposed to audition but I forged Mum’s signature on the application and caught a train to London by myself. I thought that if I could win a place she’d change her mind.’

‘What happened?’

‘Only twenty-five dancers are chosen every year. Hundreds apply. When the letter came confirming my place, Mum read it and threw it in the bin. She went to her bedroom and locked the door.’

‘Why?’

‘The fees are twelve thousand pounds a year. We couldn’t afford them.’

‘But she was already paying school fees…’

‘I’m on an academic scholarship. If I leave the school, I lose the money.’ Darcy picks at her fingernails, scratching flour from the cuticles. ‘Mum’s business wasn’t doing so well. She borrowed a lot of money and couldn’t pay it back. I wasn’t supposed to know but I heard her arguing with Sylvia. That’s why I wanted to leave school, to get a job and save money. I thought I could go to ballet school next year.’ She drops her voice to a whisper. ‘That’s what we argued about. When Mum sent me the pointe shoes, I thought she must have changed her mind.’

‘The pointe shoes? I don’t understand.’

‘They’re for ballet.’

‘I know what they are.’

‘Someone sent me a pair. A package came. The caretaker found it at the school gates on Saturday morning. It was addressed to me. Inside were pointe shoes- Gaynor Mindens. They’re really expensive.’

‘How expensive?’

‘Eighty quid a pair.’

Her hands are bunched in the pocket of the apron. ‘I thought Mum had sent them. I tried to call her, but couldn’t get through.’

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

‘I wish she were here.’

‘I know.’

‘I hate her for it.’

‘Don’t do that.’

She turns her face away and brushes past me as she stands. I can hear her on the stairs. Closing the bedroom door. Falling on the bed. The rest is imagined.