Veins pulsed at Daddy’s temples. He loomed over us while we kneeled with buckets of soapy water and rags to clean and scrub; he watched us sweep and hoover. He made an inventory of the damage, calculating the cost, which he said we’d have to pay back. But when we heard his howl of outraged horror and fury coming from the bowels of the house, I knew at once that someone had broken into his wine cellar. I felt no fear. Nothing could be worse than the secret festering inside me. I was in shock, my limbs oddly leaden, my mind whirling and jerking like a broken machine. I kept my head down, focusing on the sensation of the wooden scrubbing brush in my hands, the bite of detergent on my knuckles, scrape of bristles against stone. I couldn’t look at Henry or Jude. I wanted to find the words to tell Alice what I’d seen, but it was impossible. I was alone with the knowledge. Nobody asked me what the matter was; everyone presumed my stunned silence was down to the party being found out, the trouble we were in.

  When it was my turn to be locked in the priest hole, I huddled inside, crow wings feathering my eyes, hoping for the cavalier or the child to comfort me. But they didn’t come, and I was alone with the memory of my brother and Jude. I moaned and bit my knees, trembling at the sounds of their murmured lovemaking and quickened panting.

  Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.

  My heart sliding shut. But they did know. And they did it anyway.

  Perhaps they laughed about me together: Poor little Cilly. Daddy’s girl. Boring old Cilly fancying Jude. What an idiot.

  How could I ask God to forgive them when I couldn’t forgive them myself?

  PART II

  20

  ALICE

  I’m glad I didn’t leave. I’m proud of Bea. She’s bravely going to school and facing David, Megan and their crowd. The silent watchfulness in the house has gone. Gabriel and I make jokes as we share clearing up duties after a meal. The three of us spend time talking at the kitchen table, and yesterday after supper, we all sat down to play a game of cards – I’m teaching them the games I remember from my childhood.

  This evening, when Bea goes to bed, Gabriel says he’s going to play some piano in the living room and I wander in after him, holding my tea. He keeps his music piled on top of the instrument. I flick through, finding ‘The Well-Tempered Clavier’ by Bach, some Mozart and Chopin, and a book called Jazz Songs to Learn and Play.

  ‘As you know, I’m not an expert,’ he says, flexing his fingers, knuckles cracking. ‘Haven’t practised for ages, so keep your expectations low.’

  I lean against the piano as he strikes some chords, then he looks though a Classics for Piano to find what he wants. He arranges himself more comfortably on the stool, sits up taller, and reading the music with great attention, plays ‘Liebestraum No. 3’ by Liszt. He stumbles over some notes but goes back and corrects himself. I clap when he finishes, and he gives a little bow. ‘Need a bit more time on that one.’

  I wave his songbook for choir. ‘Can you play and sing?’ I ask. ‘I’d be really impressed then.’

  ‘Ha,’ he says, taking the book from me. ‘You’ve thrown down the glove now.’ He skims through the book and settles on something. ‘Should be able to manage this,’ he says, squinting at the music and nodding his head before he presses his fingers on the keys, and I recognise the opening chords to David Bowie’s ‘Heroes.’

  ‘Sing with me?’ he asks. ‘This is your idea.’

  I perch on the stool next to him. He begins the first verse and then digs me in the ribs; feeling self-conscious, I join in, leaning close to read the lyrics. But it’s fun, and after a while, I’m bellowing the chorus. The song ends and his hands rest on the keyboard. He raises one eyebrow as he turns to me, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sing before.’

  ‘Nobody has ever heard me sing before.’ I laugh. ‘And there’s a reason for that.’

  ‘No,’ he disagrees. ‘You can hold a tune.’

  The moment enfolds me in a warm glow. I’m aware of the slight pressure of Gabriel’s leg pressing against the length of my thigh. I look down. The sheen on his worn cords is as familiar to me as the shape of his strong fingers. It’s as if I’ve known him for years. This familiarity makes no sense. I’m confused by my sense of belonging.

  Nothing here is mine.

  Wednesday morning comes around. Grudgingly, I flick through the notebook and find ‘Flower Arranging Duties’ underlined near the back. She’s given me the name and address of the church, where to access the key, and the name of the priest. I suppose I’ll have to buy flowers, as there aren’t any spare plants in the tiny garden. I think of the riot of blooms and greenery available all year round at Hawksmoor, and how our mother picked armfuls to place in the Chinese vases: lilacs and hyacinths in the spring, roses in the summer, springs of holly with red berries in the winter.

  I revisit Blooming Lovely in the high street and take four bunches of daffodils out of a bucket of water and choose a larger bouquet of purple anemones and alliums, adding cheaper leaves to bulk it out. I walk for fifteen minutes, my arms overspilling with blooms, stopping twice to consult the hand-drawn map Cecily left for me. The scrap of paper is hard to read over the heads of flowers, and the ink is soon blurred with drops of water from the stems, but I find The Church of the Sacred Heart at the end of a street, a large grey stone building with a bell tower like Rapunzel’s turret. I squint at the address of the key holder. Ambrose Stone lives three houses down.

  He opens before I can knock, giving me the unnerving idea that he must have been waiting behind the door. Ambrose is a middle-aged man, tall and thin with a concave chest. He’s wearing tailored grey trousers with creases down the front and a plain white shirt like an overgrown schoolboy. His dark hair is combed flat around a balding crown. He looks at me with an earnest expression through oddly bulbous eyes, colourless as seawater in cupped palms.

  ‘I was worried you were ill,’ he says in a nasal voice. ‘You never miss church. Have you been sick?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say quickly. ‘Terrible flu.’

  ‘But you are quite recovered?’

  I nod over the profusion of petals, glad that they make a natural barrier between us.

  ‘Thanks be to God,’ he says, breathing brown breath over me. ‘You’ve been missed at the Sacred Heart. But I’ll see you later?’

  ‘Later?’ I frown.

  ‘This afternoon,’ he says. ‘At the Exposition and Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament.’

  ‘Oh,’ I step back. ‘Maybe. If I can get away.’

  ‘Is there something wrong, Cecily?’ He peers at me. ‘Are you still not quite yourself?’

  ‘Maybe not…’ I agree. ‘I do have a headache.’

  ‘Would you like me to pray for you now?’ He reaches out a bony hand as if to touch my forehead. His fingers hover close to my skin. He’s shut his eyes and is muttering things I can’t catch.

  ‘No.’ I shrink away. ‘No, thank you,’ I say. ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

  His eyelids snap open, revealing the disconcerting irises. ‘I’ve missed our praying together,’ he says, and his voice drops a fraction. He leans closer towards me, his nostrils flaring slightly. ‘But I prayed for you, in your absence. I prayed for your health and your speedy return so that you could continue to serve our Lord, Jesus Christ, with all your strength.’

  ‘I’d better get on.’ I move my arms in a helpless gesture, shifting the flowers up and down.

  Ambrose has tilted his head to one side like a dog intently listening, and I can feel his scrutiny burning my skin, searching deeper, hunting for my soul. He knows something is off. I turn and walk away as fast as I can, without breaking into a jog.

  ‘The church key?’ he calls.

  Damn. I turn slowly and go back, dragging my feet over the pavement. I know he’s studying me. He presses the key into my palm with clammy fingers, his touch remaining too long. Then, grasping my hand, he’s muttering again, with his eyes closed, ‘Lord, my friend is struggling with a difficult trial. I can see her strength is faltering⁠—’

  I tug away from him. ‘I really have to go,’ I say, hurrying towards the church, petals drifting over my shoulder, wet stems crushed against my chest.

  I fit the large key into the lock of the heavy door and push into the empty church. My heart is thumping after my encounter with Ambrose Stone. A narrow red carpet leads through pews to the altar, above it a stained-glass window depicts Christ surrounded by angels. I keep my mind firmly on my task of finding the vases, then emptying and refilling them and arranging my bunches of fresh flowers as quickly as possible. Being in the church is making my pulse erratic. My palms are damp as I snip stems and cram them into water. I complete my duty with a sigh of relief, but as I turn to leave, the priest enters.

  He comes straight over and clasps my hands in his. ‘A beautiful job with the flowers as usual, Cecily,’ he says, without looking at the arrangements. ‘But I was concerned that you were absent from Mass. We missed you. We were short on ushers last week. And you were not here for the Sacrament of Reconciliation?’

  ‘I was ill. Flu,’ I tell him, my hands lying limply inside his.

  ‘I have some time now, my child,’ he says. ‘I can hear your confession if you wish?’

  ‘No.’ I snatch my fingers back, and take a step away. An iron band circles my chest. It squeezes tighter. ‘No. I have to… get home.’

  He indicates the screen. ‘Are you sure?’

  I grab the pew nearest to me for support. The atmosphere of the church is seeping inside me, the smells of dust and stale incense dragging me back to a place I can’t think about.

  Darkness closes around me, and I blink, struggling to stay upright.

  My father presses his face close to mine as I shrink from the entrance of the priest hole. His mouth trembles. It’s your duty, he tells me, Your Holy duty, and he slams his hand on the wall next to me.

  I turn on my heels and stagger up the aisle, using the ends of pews as support as I lurch from one side to the other. I can’t do this. I can’t let myself go back to that place.

  I see my father as he nods towards the hole. ‘Get in.’

  The threat of damnation hung over us; stories of devils and whippings and ever-burning pits of fire. You are going to hell, Alice.

  The priest is watching me, and I know there’s a similar puzzled expression on his face as the one Ambrose wore. I might have fooled Gabriel and Bea, but the church recognises me as a fake. My father beckons me. We will pray together, Alice, pray for your sins.

  When the church tower is out of sight, I stop and place a shaky hand over my heart. I decided a long time ago that my soul isn’t connected to an institution where men in robes decide if I’m forgiven or not. My soul is my own business.

  After meeting Ambrose and the priest, I change my mind about staying. I can’t live a life where I’m expected to belong to a church. I can’t pretend to be a devout Catholic. But Cecily and I have yet to agree a change-over plan. In her note, she’d asked for a couple more days. I wish I knew what she was planning – what this whole charade is for.

  Pacing around her small kitchen, my body thrums with adrenaline, a riot inside my veins. I push my hands through my hair, press the heels of my hands against my eyes. Her disappearing act has made me as helpless as a flipped-over beetle.

  I need to get out. I grab Gabriel’s woollen jacket and leave. The rain has cleared, leaving the world rinsed, smells of wet earth and fox pee evaporating into the air. I walk along the street, and my feet take me down to the river, where I pace the bank, watching the boats, watching the freedom of others, as gulls circle above.

  Perhaps I should come clean and tell Gabriel who I really am? He wouldn’t believe me at first. When he eventually did, the thought of seeing the confusion and pain in his eyes, is unbearable. What would he do? He’d be angry, of course, and he’d turn away from me, and I wouldn’t blame him. And Bea? How would the truth affect her, especially after confiding in me about David? She’s vulnerable. It could damage her forever, making her lose all trust in the world. I must stay true to the plan, for their sake. Maybe Cecily will call or put another note through the door. If she doesn’t contact me in the next couple of days, I’ll have to do something, but what? I could go to the police – but she wouldn’t qualify as a missing person, not after she’s sent me two notes, and has been spotted alive and well, even if drunk, by the blonde woman.

  Gabriel comes home early, saying choir rehearsal has been cancelled. After Bea goes up to do her homework, he refills our glasses of Burgundy and sits at the table with me. He shuffles his chair closer to the table, anticipation twitching the corners of his mouth. ‘I wanted to tell you.’ He’s watching my face. ‘I’ve found a marriage counsellor.’ He pauses, looking more uncertain as he catches my expression. ‘I made some inquiries in my department – don’t worry, I didn’t say it was for us – and someone recommended her…’ he trails off.

  I take a gulp of wine. ‘That’s, that’s good.’

  ‘Is it too soon?’ Disappointment dulls his voice.

  ‘Sorry. Maybe.’ I squeeze the stem of my glass. ‘Maybe I’m not ready, yet.’

  ‘But…’ he swallows, and I see his struggle for patience in the spasm of nerves at his jaw, the clench of his teeth. ‘We’ve been in limbo for a long time, Cecily.’ He leans towards me. ‘And we’re doing better, aren’t we? Talking really helped. But we need someone professional now. I think there’s a lot still hidden between us. Things that maybe… maybe you find hard to express to me.’

  I glance at him, but his expression is earnest, uncomplicated by irony or suspicion. When I think of the things Cecily wrote in her sketchbooks, my guts cramp and knot. What does she want from him? From their marriage? I chew my lip, frowning.

  ‘I’ll do what it takes to make it work between us,’ he’s saying. ‘Please think about counselling. We can have a one-off session to see if we like it.’ He sits back and takes a swallow of wine, his eyes on mine, meltwater clear.

  I nod, unable to speak. Events are hurtling towards me, to keep me here in this house, in the wrong life. Most of all, this is not fair on Gabriel. I glance at him from behind my hair, through the bulb of my glass, and feel a rush of anger towards her.

  We go up to bed at the same time, and when I turn at the top of the stairs to say goodnight, I find him inches away, close enough to make out the strands of grey in the russet of his hair. The sudden proximity of his sturdy, solid chest, takes my breath away. His eyes are full of a question I can’t answer. I step back. Disappointment flickers across his features, hurt following it. He rocks forward, plants a chaste kiss on my cheek. My skin burns, the impression of his lips branding me a liar. I step away with a gasp, muttering, ‘Night,’ as I hurry into Cecily’s bedroom and close the door.

  Later, when I think the coast should be clear, I slip out of the house, creeping past the cat who watches me from under the privet hedge. There’s an hour before closing time. I hurry back to The Royal Oak. It’s not as busy as last time, but after scouting around the place and looking in the ladies, I realise she’s not here. I stay for a drink, perched on a stool by the bar, watching the door.

  I leave at closing time, aware of someone close behind me. There are heavy footsteps following on my heels, the sound of a body in motion, the rub and rustle of fabric. I walk faster, my head down, only relaxing when I think they’ve gone in a different direction, but as I turn the corner into a deserted street, someone grabs me from behind, yanking me to a halt. I yelp, twisting around, trying to free my wrist. A man towers above me, and I crane my neck, staring up into a puffy, pale face. Small, dark eyes look back. I’ve never seen him before. ‘Let me go.’ My heart rattles in my chest.

  His grip is an iron band. He’s smiling. ‘Hey, hey, easy,’ he’s saying in a Scottish accent. ‘It’s only me. We had fun the other night, didn’t we? I’ve been thinking of you ever since.’ A blast of sour, beery breath envelops me.

  ‘Let go.’ My throat tightens. ‘I don’t know you.’ I strike at him with my other hand, hitting out at an impassive block of muscle. Straining to get away, I twist and jerk, tendons burning as if they’re going to break. ‘Leave me alone,’ I pant.

  His broad shoulders shake as he laughs. ‘Playing hard to get?’ His other hand has slipped around my waist and gropes my bottom. ‘You know how to turn a man on.’ His voice thickens, and he stoops, pressing his lips over mine. The world shrinks to the horror of his bruising teeth, the wet push of his insistent tongue.

  I bring my knee up sharply into his groin. With a grunt, he releases me. I turn and run. My feet fly along the pavement, as I sprint past sleeping houses and parked cars, not looking back. I hear angry shouts behind, but there’s no sound of him giving chase.

  I stop outside Hollyhocks Cottage, leaning over, trying to recover my breath, supporting myself with palms braced against my trembling legs. When I straighten, I wipe the slime of his mouth away with the back of my hand. He thought I was Cecily. And I remember the winking man from the other night. His fear that his wife would see. The knowledge of what she’s been doing fills my throat with bile.

  I can’t stay in her house any longer. I can’t be her. I smell disaster coming like thunder over the horizon, a cordite stink swarming closer, a shock wave about to strike. Things are out of balance. Pressure building inside my head. I need her to come home, whatever she’s doing, she needs to stop.

  21

  CECILY