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  Jon swore silently and stopped in his tracks. He turned to face his wife, but her eyes dropped away from him.

  ‘I’d forgotten.’

  She gave a nod, heavy with I-expected-nothing-more, which rankled. He clamped his lips shut to stop himself snapping.

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Ten.’

  Jon looked at the clock on the wall. ‘Half an hour. That’s OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back for him.’

  ‘You won’t.’

  ‘I will. Ten minutes there, ten back. I’ll spend ten minutes with her, make sure she’s OK and then get back for him.’

  ‘Jon,’ she said, looking directly at him, any challenge now gone, her eyes pleading with him. He had to look away.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said.

  ‘Jon . . . I can’t . . .’

  ‘I’ll be back,’ he said, glancing up and catching her injured look square on. ‘I—’ He stopped, interrupted by the memory of his mother crying. ‘What if it’s my father? She couldn’t even speak, Kate.’

  They held each other’s gaze for a few moments. Her eyes searched his face. He knew she was waiting for him to change his mind. He stayed silent and watched her eyes harden to a familiar glaze. She nodded once and turned towards the sink. He watched her roughly put the plug in, turn the taps on, squeeze too much Fairy into the water.

  ‘It’s fine. It doesn’t need both of us.’ She forced the words out of her like a stubborn splinter.

  He hesitated, but again he heard his mother’s crying. ‘I’ll be half an hour. OK?’

  Kate fixed her eyes on the suddy water and didn’t say anything more.

  The Fourth Chair

  Lizzie grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl, went through to the living room and sat in the armchair beside the window to watch the rainy street for her dad’s car. It was three minutes to ten and there was no sign of him. He was usually pretty good at keeping promises, but even she knew he was going to struggle to get to her grandparents’ and back in time, especially if her grandmother was as upset as he’d said. She hoped it wasn’t anything too serious. She was pretty sure it wasn’t her grandpa, not dead anyway; her dad would definitely have called them by now.

  She sighed and took a large bite out of her apple. She didn’t want to be there, but she couldn’t let her mum be alone for the meeting with Dr Howe, even though she couldn’t bear the thought of it.

  ‘Come on, Dad,’ she whispered, craning her neck to look down the road.

  He wasn’t going to make it. She lifted her apple but hesitated before she bit, then decided against it. She put it on the window sill and then pulled her knees up to her chest, listening to the sounds coming from the kitchen – the boiling kettle, clinking crockery, biscuits tipping onto a plate – and tried not to let the living room get to her. She hated the room. So miserably gloomy. It never used to be; just another thing morphed by crippling sadness. Ironic, she thought, that it was called the living room, when it felt like the complete opposite. She was never comfortable in the room now, not even on those rare evenings when the three of them sat and stared at the television make-believing they were spending quality time together. It was that spot on the mantelpiece. The new and hideous heart of the room. Lizzie never looked anywhere near it, terrified in case she saw the urn still there.

  She rested her chin on her knees and felt the rough graze of the large scab she had. She lifted her head and looked down at it, deep and crusted, the surface beginning to crack with healing, new skin beneath literally itching to break free. She was far too old for scabs. This wasn’t even a grown-up version, a graze from tripping in the street or falling up a step, no, this was falling off a swing. She’d tried to jump off when the bell rang for the end of break, and landed right on her knees. It was the most painful thing ever, totally made worse by a couple of Year Sevens who laughed and pointed like idiot hyenas. At least she’d managed not to cry. Now Lizzie picked at the edge of it with a tentative fingernail, which was a welcome distraction from the chill around her.

  ‘Do you want me to get that?’ she called, when the doorbell rang a few minutes later.

  There was no reply, but she heard her mum’s footsteps in the hall, so stayed where she was and looked back out of the window. There was still no dad to be seen, and a heavy weight fell down on top of her.

  When Dr Howe came into the living room she was polite enough to say a brief hello to his, but didn’t engage any further. It felt too weird. It was bad enough that her mum and dad were on first-name terms with the man, without her having to endure his forced chat. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Dr Howe; in fact, she wished she felt warmer towards him, especially given the support he’d been to her parents. She just would have preferred he didn’t constantly pop up in her actual home like some sort of bizarre, besuited jack-in-a-box. Violated was too strong a word, but she definitely felt compromised by his visits.

  Dr Howe was tall, very tall, and his tallness made their living room feel even smaller than it was. There was just enough room for the two-seater sofa, the armchair, TV and the small circular table with four chairs, but not really enough for the glass coffee table squished into its middle or the sideboard that held the CD player and a vase of immortal silk sweet peas, and with Dr Howe looming in the doorway the room felt like Lilliput. He was also broad, with the air of a retired Olympic rower. His eyes were Swedish-blue, his teeth too white and too straight, and his dark hair was grey only at the sideburns. He always wore a navy suit, which that day went over an open-necked shirt that looked uncomfortably casual. Lots of the girls at school said they fancied him. She’d even heard Anna call him kinda hot. But they were talking in tongues. He was their headmaster; he couldn’t be any sort of hot, and he shouldn’t be in her living room.

  ‘Goodness me,’ he said, brushing rain off his shoulders. ‘Cats and dogs out there!’ He smiled at them both.

  ‘I’m afraid Jon can’t join us,’ said her mum. ‘There’s been an emergency.’

  His eyes hooded with concern and he stopped brushing off the rain. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

  Her mum ignored his probe. ‘Lizzie’s going to join us instead. She had a bit of a shock this morning.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Lizzie mumbled, wishing her mum hadn’t mentioned her.

  ‘Delighted for her to sit in.’

  Dr Howe gave Lizzie a wide smile showing all of his teeth. She felt her cheeks flush.

  Her mum sat down at the small table with the four chairs where they used to eat their meals. Lizzie couldn’t remember the last time they had. Eating was mostly a routineless mixture of standing in the kitchen or on laps in front of the television. The problem was the fourth chair. As soon as they sat it screamed loud as a klaxon, far too loud for them to enjoy a conversation. Or even eat. The fourth chair made swallowing difficult, which left over-chewed food in her mouth like lead. Of course, it wasn’t just the fourth chair. There were stacks of reminders: the ever-closed door of her bedroom, their old and rusted swing in the garden that creaked with the memories of childhood games, her name carved into the damp plaster on the garage wall, and the spot behind the compost (two steps to the north, one to the west) where a box was buried with some Jelly Tots, a pair of tiny Barbie shoes, a cotton hankie and a book of matches from Bertolli’s down the road, all waiting patiently for a lucky prospector from the future. It was an endless list of foghorns all shrieking: ‘She’s gone! She’s gone! She’s gone!’

  Dr Howe sat on the fourth chair and Lizzie closed her eyes as the two of them began to engage in empty small talk, with Dr Howe asking inane questions and her mum delivering clipped one-word answers. Then the discussion appeared to run out of steam. Lizzie opened her eyes and turned to look at them. Dr Howe was watching her mum, waiting for a reply, it seemed. He cleared his throat, but her mum just stared through him, her eyes glazed. Dr Howe glanced downwards at the open file in front of him.

  ‘So,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘I think we’re almost there. There’s ju
st a few final—’

  ‘Actually, Stephen,’ interrupted her mum quietly. ‘There’s something I need to say.’

  He rested his hand on the open file. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well . . . it’s . . .’ Lizzie looked up in alarm; her mum was about to cry. ‘I . . .’ Her voice trailed off to nothing.

  ‘Is everything OK, Kate?’ Dr Howe’s voice was creamy with concern.

  Her mum looked up at him. Her mouth opened then closed a couple of times.

  ‘Mum?’

  Her mum turned towards her and seemed surprised to see her there. Lizzie smiled. Her mum looked down at her lap. ‘Nothing,’ she whispered. ‘Carry on.’

  They started talking again, their voices low, his laced with efficiency, her mother’s muttered syllables distinctly reticent.

  Lizzie started to pick at her scab again and tried to think of her sister, tried to magic up a gorgeous memory of the two of them together. Maybe it was being in the ghastly living room, or her mum and Dr Howe’s soft, serious voices, but there were no gorgeous memories at all. All Lizzie could think of was her lack of Anna, the lack of her that sat in the fourth chair, that creaked the swing, that made her mum cry and her dad look shattered. The lack of her that set those strangers whispering whenever Lizzie walked past.

  ‘That’s her,’ the strangers whispered.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That girl’s sister.’

  ‘Which girl?’

  ‘You know . . .’

  Those whispers drove her mad, poisonous hushed tones that groaned beneath the weight of suspicion, judgement and aspersion. They made her want to turn and yell at the strangers, tell them that girl, her sister, had a name. Her name was Anna, and they had no right to whisper. No right to wonder. No right at all. Because she knew what most of them thought. That Anna didn’t fall. It was Lizzie’s worst nightmare, a dark, skulking thought that she banished to the back of her mind where it prowled night and day.

  Lizzie breathed deeply, moved Anna firmly out of her head, and made a concerted effort to concentrate on her mum and headteacher. They were finalizing arrangements for Tuesday. Her mum’s voice cracked a couple of times, the words too heavy for her to carry. She looked so drained, and it yanked at Lizzie’s heart. Her lips were drawn tight over her teeth and recurring tear tracks trailed her sallow cheeks, but even so, pale and unmade-up, with delicate features, blanched skin and fine dark hair tied loosely back, her mother possessed an almost consumptive beauty. If it were possible, Lizzie would have spirited her away to convalesce somewhere remote and safe where Dr Howe and Tuesday and that noisy fourth chair weren’t.

  ‘We’ve chosen a tree,’ Dr Howe said, a note of triumph in his voice. ‘An apple tree. I hope that’s OK.’ He stopped talking and looked at her mum, who was doodling on the empty sheet of paper in front of her.

  ‘Kate?’ he asked. He laid a hand on hers, the one that was drawing, and Lizzie saw her land in the here-and-now with a heavy thud.

  ‘Sorry?’ Her voice was vague and faraway, and mirrored her eyes. She moved her hand from beneath his.

  ‘The tree we’ve bought,’ he said. ‘It’s an apple. We thought it might be nice to grow some fruit. Maybe the home economics club can make some chutney. There’ll be a plaque on it, engraved with Anna’s name.’

  Her mum didn’t say anything. She just kept on with her doodles. Even without looking Lizzie knew what she was doodling. Straight lines. Lots of them. She’d Googled doodles and found a site called Doodling and the Inner You. Apparently, straight lines show a suffocated doodler and shading shows an anxious doodler. Lizzie used to shade, but when she read that shading meant she was anxious she decided it was better to doodle stars. Stars show an optimistic doodler. When Lizzie told her mum about the doodling website, though, she said in no uncertain terms that you doodle what you doodle, and doodling lines and shading doesn’t mean anything more than that you doodle lines and shading. But Lizzie felt she’d missed her point about the Inner You.

  ‘And you’ve thought about music,’ said Dr Howe.

  Her mum didn’t reply and he stared hard at her, making Lizzie’s heart beat a fraction faster, nervous in case he decided to say something sarcastic about the importance of paying attention, which he did all the time in assembly.

  ‘Why don’t we let Mrs Goldman handle it? I know she’s prepared something.’

  No reply.

  Anxiety spiked again and Lizzie stood to go to her mother’s side, but as she did her mum suddenly jammed the biro into the paper and turned her doodling face down.

  ‘I think we’re done, Stephen,’ she said.

  Lizzie looked nervously from her mum to Dr Howe and back again.

  ‘Ah. I see. Well . . .’ Dr Howe looked down at his red file, flicked forward a couple of pages, and then shut it.

  Lizzie caught sight of her sister’s name in bold black capitals across the front of it.

  ANNA.

  She still loved the look and sound of it. She always had. It was fabulous, simple and feminine, and . . . a palindrome! Anna had teased her and called her a geek when she pointed this out.

  ‘It’s not just that it’s a palindrome,’ she’d said to her sister, smarting a little. ‘Elizabeth is so blinking dull. Just queens and stamps and some fancy cruise ship. Anna is romantic. Anna floats. Anna twirls. Anna gets kissed by Prince Charmings. Elizabeth chops people’s heads off and pays for postage.’

  ‘I don’t float and twirl!’

  ‘You get kissed by Prince Charmings.’

  Anna smiled at her. ‘Most of those need their heads chopping off.’

  Then they laughed.

  Lizzie missed her terribly, and seeing her name on Dr Howe’s folder, yet another black reminder, was a punch in the stomach.

  ‘Yes,’ Dr Howe said, roughly interrupting Lizzie’s sadness. ‘I think we can leave it there. If there’s anything else,’ he continued. ‘I’ll telephone.’

  Her mum nodded and then, without even a mumbled goodbye, she walked out of the room, leaving Lizzie and Dr Howe in an awkward, sticky silence.

  ‘Um . . . she’s . . . um . . . pretty tired,’ Lizzie mumbled. ‘You know . . . not been sleeping well . . .’

  She turned towards the front door, praying he wouldn’t try and talk to her. They almost made it, but then she heard him clear his throat to speak. Her stomach clenched.

  ‘So, Lizzie, tell me,’ he said, sounding a lot like the kind but useless bereavement lady she was sent to after Anna fell. ‘How are you feeling about Tuesday?’

  Lizzie reached to open the latch. ‘Er . . . fine,’ she mumbled.

  This seemed to be the wrong answer, as he didn’t smile but gave her one of those teachery looks that said there was a far better answer floating about in the ether somewhere. Lizzie stared at the empty patch of space above his head and searched for it.

  ‘I mean, well, I’m sure it’ll be hard.’

  She shot him a look to see if this was closer to what he’d wanted. It appeared so. His frown softened, and the corners of his mouth curled into a smile.

  ‘Yes, it will be hard. But, I think, once it’s over we’ll all feel so much . . . better.’

  Then he nodded.

  Lizzie nodded too, even though she knew full well that planting an apple tree for the home economics group and singing some songs chosen by her unstable music teacher wouldn’t make losing Anna any better at all.

  They stood in silence for a moment or two. He stared at her so hard she felt as if she were standing on a metal sheet heated up as hot as it could go. She avoided his eyes and shifted her weight from foot to foot like one of those dancing desert lizards.

  ‘You know you can always talk to me if you need to,’ he said. ‘My door at school is always open.’

  Lizzie breathed a massive sigh when she was finally able to close the door behind him. She wandered back to the living room and sat in the armchair to pick her knee and wait for her mum to come back down.

  With the scab finally gon
e, flicked in tiny bits onto the carpet and her knee all pink and bloody, there was still no sign of her mum. She went to the bottom of the stairs and leant against the banister and waited a few minutes. Twice she nearly called her, but didn’t. If she was in her studio, the room in the loft with dusty Velux windows and cork tiles that lay unglued across ply, she wouldn’t disturb her, because, even though her mum never said so aloud, Lizzie knew that this was where she was happiest.

  The Wrong Type of Tree

  An apple tree?

  Kate closed the door of her bedroom and rested her forehead against it. Why on earth didn’t she tell him they couldn’t possibly plant Anna an apple tree? Anna didn’t eat apples. Not unless Kate peeled and cored them and cut them into eighths, and she’d stopped doing that for her when she turned twelve.

  ‘You can peel your own apples,’ she’d said to her. ‘Honestly, you’re the fussiest child I’ve ever met. Lizzie doesn’t need them peeled and she’s younger than you.’

  Kate hadn’t said this nicely.

  She’d been tired. It was one of those days when nothing had gone right. She was hormonal. She and Jon had argued about who should have remembered to put the bins out. She got a parking ticket because she stopped to help a frazzled new mum whose carrier bag split on a zebra crossing. The warden was writing it out as she ran back to the car, and while she tried to explain he pretended she wasn’t there. When she got home and unpacked the shopping she realized she’d forgotten the milk. Then Anna had asked for an apple and Kate had told her to get one herself.

  ‘Can you peel it for me?’

  You can peel your own apples.

  The words tumbled out, hard, unbending, exhausted. Just a peeled apple. What would it have taken to peel that apple for Anna? Thirty seconds, tops. Instead she spoke unkindly. And then a little over three years later, maybe, what, a thousand days at the most, Anna was snatched away from her. A thousand days. It sounds a lot. It’s not; not if that paltry number of days is all a mother has left with her child. If only she had known. If she had, she never would have snapped. Or told her to peel her own. She would have smiled and kissed her. Taken the apple and peeled it, careful to take off every bit of skin. Then she would have cut it into the neatest eighths and arranged them on a plate to look like a flower. And she would have given her the plate and smiled and maybe kissed her forehead gently.