The House of Secrets Page 5

  It hasn’t always been like this – between Joe and Duncan and me. I remember Joe when he was about seven. He was just coming out of that baby stage, when all he really wanted was to be with his mum. Suddenly, he was discovering there was a world beyond my domain and asserting himself as a little boy. I’d felt an odd mixture of grateful relief and regret as he began following his dad around instead, like a mini helper.

  There was a day when Duncan was chopping logs up from a fallen tree. We’d not long moved into the Barn and there were still piles of builders’ rubble scattered across the drive with a skip taking up the corner by the stone walls. There had been a big storm the night before. Leaves and branches littered the turf. The old oak tree in the top field had finally keeled over and Duncan had set up a workstation beside it and lit a small bonfire.

  Curls of blue smoke drifted over our heads. I was breaking up twigs for kindling for the house and I thought Joe could help – boys and sticks are made to go together like bread and jam. But Joe was far more interested in what Duncan was doing. He was fascinated by the blade of the axe. Duncan stood there, sleeves rolled up, lean and fit. He’d swing the axe high over his head and then down to split the log end on. My heart was in my mouth. I was torn between admiration for my husband and a fear that Joe would step forwards into the blade at exactly the wrong moment. But Joe held back, re-enacting the arc of Duncan’s arms with his own as the pair of them swung in unison, Duncan with his real axe and Joe with his imaginary. It seemed to be one of those gentle outdoorsy afternoons, all of us in our own way working at the same task.

  Until I realised that Duncan was in a world of his own, quite unaware of his son behind him. There was a grim expression of determination on Duncan’s face and each log was being split with ever more physical exertion, as if Duncan were taking out some inner fury on the wood. The last log bounced apart with such energy that one half exploded into narrow shards that almost flew up against Joe’s face.

  I dropped my bundle of twigs and leapt forwards to pull Joe back.

  ‘Careful, Duncan – he’s right behind you!’

  Duncan turned round to look, scowling at my interruption.

  ‘Then keep him out of the way. You need to look after him, Claire!’

  Like it was my fault. I stared at him, willing him to understand. For once he seemed to realise. He lowered his axe, filled with remorse. He reached out to sweep Joe into his arms. Joe folded his limbs about his father’s body, one hand trying to grab at the axe.

  Duncan set him down again, this time by the log. He pulled out one of the smaller pieces of wood and balanced it end up on the block. Finding a lighter splitting axe, he held it up to Joe’s hands and grasped the handle with him. He demonstrated the lift and blow, then stood back and let Joe take it. Joe pursed his lips, straddled his feet just like his father and raised his arms. Down came the axe. To his amazement, and I think Duncan’s too, it split perfectly in two. The grin on Joe’s face was one of those family moments.

  I grieve for them both – Duncan, the husband, and Duncan, the father – it was always a bit hit and miss. He never quite got the hang of being a father. It was as if he was holding something back, like he didn’t quite believe he could be any good at it. Those were the good days, relatively speaking. It’s not like that now. I think of Duncan’s attitude earlier in the kitchen. It hasn’t been for a very long time.

  I come up for air. The water swishes over the side of the bath, flooding the tiles beneath, soaking the pile of dirty clothes on the bath mat. I want to cry. But I won’t. Instead, I close my eyes and will it all to be over. For me to be already at the new house, Joe beside me, all my stuff moved without any arguments or upsets. Except I know it won’t be like that. It’s not like Duncan wants me, loves me anymore. God knows, he’s made that clear. But there will be consequences to our split. Financial consequences. The mortgage, the Barn, the pension – Duncan’s – our investment in the business, all of it will be at stake. Duncan’s reaction will be … The weight of all that fills me with trepidation and I feel the tension in me increase.

  I push back into the water. I need to chill out, to calm down and get everything in perspective. I have to face it, unless I’m going to give up now and stay like this, trapped for the rest of my life. This move is for me. I’ve waited long enough. I’m not giving up or running away, I’m making a fresh start.

  I sit upright, smoothing my hands over my wet hair. I reach out for the taps to top up with hot water. I feel the energy washing through my torso, my fingers buzzing, my toes wriggling, the skin on my face clean and bright. No tears, not today. Come on, Claire. I feel better, rational, in control. It’s a good feeling. And I should stop worrying about my son. He’s not a little boy anymore; he has to stand on his own two feet. I should trust him to be the adult he now is. I need to live in the present.

  Can’t I do that?

  I suck the steam into my lungs and relish in my vitality. I don’t want to let the negative thoughts crush me. I’m going to push them from my head. I want to be the person I was before Duncan, before everything that followed meeting him. The person I should have been. I’m not going to let any of it get to me. Not Duncan, not our past, not his girlfriend, whoever she may be … My buoyant mood falters.

  It shouldn’t matter, but it does. I still want to know who she is, his girlfriend, the woman who’s sleeping with my husband.

  CHAPTER 11

  DUNCAN – AFTER

  The surgery was full again, dogs barking, cats yowling, owners shuffling on their seats. An elderly man was berating Sally on reception and Duncan could see she was struggling to keep a pleasant expression on her face. He clocked her beseeching glance.

  ‘Mr Garfield,’ he said. ‘I do believe you and Betsy are next?’

  Duncan reached out a hand and nodded briskly towards his consulting room door.

  The man gave an impatient tug on his dog’s lead. A long-suffering greyhound followed them into the room, its thin, stiff tail tucked firmly between its legs. The man sat down and Duncan crouched on his heels and ran his hand over the dog’s head.

  ‘So, what can we do for this old girl?’

  His voice was light, but his jaw was set. The dog looked back at him, its eyes deep pools of warm brown.

  ‘Lost control of her bladder, ’asn’t she. Keeps pissing on the floor all times of day. Can’t be ’aving that. Reckon it’s time to say goodbye.’

  Duncan felt his fingers clench, then he smoothed his hand over the dog’s ears and down its neck. The animal wriggled its haunches and turned its head away, skittering on its rear legs. It seemed to have understood what was being said.

  ‘I don’t think we should jump to any conclusion about that. Let’s have a look at her.’

  Duncan drew his hand down the dog’s body, feeling her underside, reaching for the area over her bladder, then moving on to inspect under her tail. The area looked raw and uncomfortable, the effect of urine scorching her skin. A pungent, dark-coloured puddle had already appeared at her feet.

  ‘See what I mean?’ The old man gave the dog a rough tug.

  ‘There’s no need for that!’ Duncan said, unable to contain the sharpness in his voice.

  It was the kind of appointment he abhorred. When a client had had enough of his animal’s problems and wanted the cheap, easy way out. The man wasn’t worthy of owning a dog. He eyed the colour of that puddle on the floor.

  ‘There’s nothing here we can’t fix. Incontinence is not unusual in an elderly female dog. Is she relieving herself normally outside?’

  There was a hesitation, then the man nodded.

  ‘Aye. Tak’ her out most days.’

  Duncan frowned. The dog was panting and she’d dipped her head as if it were too heavy to hold up. Duncan gritted his teeth. What had Garfield been doing to her this time?

  ‘Is she drinking plenty?’

  Another hesitation. Duncan’s suspicion increased.

  ‘You are giving her plenty of water?’r />
  The man still didn’t answer.

  ‘Jesus Christ, man – if you don’t give her enough water, you’ll make things even worse. Is that what you’d do to yourself?’

  The man dropped his eyes. Duncan took the dog’s head gently in his hands, observing her face and nose, then carefully pushing on each side of her mouth to inspect the gums.

  ‘She’s clearly dehydrated. What are you playing at, eh? Did you think reducing her water would mean less mess? You need to give her plenty!’

  It could be an infection, Duncan mused. The water would help flush it out. Or it could be loss of control of the sphincter muscle. That wasn’t uncommon for a dog her age.

  ‘The more concentrated the urine, the more uncomfortable it’s going to be.’ Duncan leaned back and the man grunted. ‘See that rawness under the tail? How would you feel if that were you?’

  Garfield didn’t reply.

  ‘How long have you had her?’ Duncan stroked the dog’s head.

  He already knew the answer; Garfield had been coming to the practice for years. The question was more to make a point.

  ‘Since she were a puppy,’ said Garfield reluctantly.

  ‘So you do care about her, don’t you?’

  ‘Course I do!’ The man ground his teeth.

  ‘Well, she’s definitely not ready to meet her Maker.’ Duncan’s tone hardened. ‘I suggest you make sure there’s plenty of padding in her bed, that she has a clean, full bowl of water every morning. Take her for walks, every day. Especially first and last thing – and as many extra ones as you can both manage. You need to wash her backside with clean, warm water on a regular basis and we’ll start her on this.’

  Duncan tapped out a prescription on his PC and the printer began to chug.

  ‘Quite often, it’s the result of a hormonal imbalance, so I’m hoping this will help. There’s lots we can do, Mr Garfield, before …’

  Duncan snorted. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words. He turned his back on the man, reaching out to grasp the prescription from the printer tray.

  ‘Humph.’ Garfield took the piece of paper and stood up.

  The dog was still looking at Duncan, as if to say: Don’t make me go with him.

  ‘If it’s causing you a problem, keep her in the kitchen – and remember that absorbent padding on her bed.’

  Another grunt.

  ‘I want to see her again in a week’s time.’

  You’d better bloody turn up, thought Duncan.

  The man and his dog left.

  CHAPTER 12

  DUNCAN – AFTER

  The emergency exit door of the veterinary stockroom slammed open, bouncing against the brick wall. Duncan stepped out into the cold air. His fists were closed tight and a fierce expression creased his face.

  The door pushed open again and Paula appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Fucking idiot!’ said Duncan.

  He pushed a hand into his trouser pocket, searching for a new stick of chewing gum. He knew Paula was there but didn’t turn round.

  ‘How can anyone claim to love their animal,’ he said. ‘Then demand it be put down just because it’s incontinent!’

  But this was Garfield, so he wasn’t that surprised. Paula didn’t reply, standing on the doorstep as if waiting for him to vent his fury. She was still relatively new to the practice, but she already seemed to have the measure of Duncan.

  ‘He wanted me to put the dog down!’ he carried on. ‘Garfield doesn’t deserve any animal! It’s all very well when they’re cute and cuddly and doing what they’re told, but when they grow elderly and actually need a bit of time and attention, funny how the love dries up!’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that. It never is,’ said Paula. She stepped away from the door.

  ‘Isn’t it? Then how should it be?’ Duncan swung round.

  He was caught up again by her red hair; it had been hard to ignore it when he’d interviewed her – a bright, lustrous natural red. Her academic credentials had been impeccable.

  ‘It’s hard looking after a dog when you get to Garfield’s age,’ she said.

  ‘So why have one?’ he snapped back.

  ‘Company, affection – he clearly lives on his own.’

  ‘Then he should be more loving towards his animal. Don’t be fooled by Garfield’s doddery old man routine! That man’s been coming here for years. He knows exactly what he’s doing.’

  Garfield had always liked to play a part. Just because you were old and apparently fragile, thought Duncan, didn’t make you a nice person.

  ‘Jeez – you’ve really got it in for him, haven’t you?’

  ‘Aye, and I’ve good reason to. He couldn’t care tuppence for his dog!’

  ‘He must do or he wouldn’t come down here like he does – particularly given how you treat him!’

  ‘And how would you know, Paula?’

  Duncan’s fingers closed into a fist. Paula’s eyes dropped to his hands and then back to his face and there was an imperceptible tightening of her expression. Duncan felt a twinge of guilt. She didn’t know Garfield came here because the treatment was free, how could she? She’d barely been at the practice six months. Duncan had kept it quiet. It wouldn’t do if everyone thought he was a soft touch. Not that it was an act of generosity, but the whole story was complicated, and only Sally and Frances knew. The man still pressed his buttons, though – now even more so.

  ‘Don’t take it out on me!’ said Paula. ‘I deal with these people every day, remember!’ She was flushed with anger.

  Duncan let out a deep breath. Paula was right to push back. Perhaps he should tell her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Paula; really I am. He comes here because we give him free treatment – I don’t normally do that and it’s a long story. And I’d be grateful if you didn’t say anything to the others. Trust me, the man’s a dick.’

  He let his fingers relax, reaching up to push them over his head.

  ‘I just can’t stand it some days.’

  Today, he meant. And yesterday. And the day before that. What was he doing? This wasn’t about Garfield, was it? He couldn’t say her name. Claire’s name. He couldn’t put it into words. The feelings that simmered each day. Battened down, as if nothing had happened.

  He rummaged in his pocket. He couldn’t find his chewing gum and he was desperate for a smoke, despite having given up years ago. Or maybe what he really needed was a drink. He took another long breath, trying to will the blood pumping through his body to slow. His hands opened and closed, thinking of the club he’d gone to in Derby the other night. He refused to look at Paula now. No, what he really wanted was a shag, a quick, sharp shag like when he and Claire had first got together – the thrill of fumbling, youthful, irresponsible student sex … A million miles and years ago from now.

  He could never actually put it into words, but he missed her.

  ‘Duncan …’

  It was Frances. She was standing behind Paula, looking anxiously at her boss. She gave a small gesture to Paula, who nodded and left.

  Frances waited until Paula had gone.

  ‘You need to be careful, Duncan,’ she said. ‘I know you have every reason to be upset, we all do, but … are you sure you should be here? Why don’t you take a few days off? We’ll cope. It’s—’

  ‘No!’ he said. ‘I’m not taking a fucking holiday.’

  He could see Frances wince at the language. He turned to face her.

  ‘I can’t, not now, there’s too much going on. There are operations lined up, procedures that Tim and Paula aren’t qualified to do. I can’t take time out like that.’

  Tim was the other vet, more senior than Paula. Duncan scowled. Did he sound arrogant? Probably, but it was true, they didn’t have the knowledge yet that he had and the whole business was predicated on his expertise. Work, the surgery, it had been his life’s ambition, opening up his own practice. Claire had done a lot to help make that possible. No, he wasn’t having it. Frances had said enough, had
n’t she? She thought she had the right.

  He pushed away from the wall and walked towards the road. Frances sighed and turned back to the door to leave. Then at the last minute she swung round.

  ‘Claire’s gone!’

  Her voice carried across the staff car park, louder but sympathetic. Frances had a knack of getting to the crux of a matter regardless of what was being said.

  ‘She’s not coming back,’ she continued. ‘You need to accept it and let go.’

  Duncan didn’t know how to reply. To anyone else, her words would have seemed harsh. Only Frances could get away with saying that. Older and wiser, she’d always been direct. It was one of the reasons Duncan liked working with her.

  ‘It’s not like that …’ He paused mid-stride. He wasn’t sure that he believed his own words. ‘She’s … she … is still my wife.’ He pushed his hands into his pockets, scrabbling again for the gum.

  ‘Not anymore,’ she said. There was a bitterness in her words. ‘And then there’s Joe …’

  Duncan’s head jerked up. Frances had her hand on the back door again in readiness to leave. Her eyes held his gaze. He didn’t reply. It was the one bone of contention between them. Him and Claire and Joe and … Frances had always taken him to task over Claire and Joe. And he’d let her, hadn’t he? But she didn’t know all of it.

  Once more the stockroom door bounced back against the brick wall, the sound reverberating across the car park.

  CHAPTER 13

  CLAIRE – BEFORE

  I have often seen them in the fields, further along the valley, slowly pacing the ground. Sometimes one of them drags a spade behind him whilst another holds a spade over one shoulder. Always there are at least two or three of them at a time, leaning forwards over the turf. They hold out their detectors, silhouetted against the trees or frost-blue sky or the morning fog, stalking the field together like a pack of black crows.