The Claw

Twenty-eight

Dear Barbara,

I'm afraid you will think this is a very strange letter, but what else are friends for? Besides, I expect you remember when we agreed that if one of us was ever in trouble she could always count on the other one. Do you think we really thought we would have to? Anyway, you did want to come and stay, so I don't feel quite so awful for making you keep your promise, but I needn't tell you that I wouldn't have if things weren't very serious. Everything seems to be going wrong at once, and the worst of it is that it's making me lose all my patience with Anna. I really need someone to talk to, and there's only you. I'm hoping that when I see you I'll be able to describe

Liz read what she'd written, her pen hovering above the space where the next word should go, then she tore the page jaggedly from the pad. That was just about what it deserved. It was a ridiculous letter, so melodramatic at the outset, so unable to deliver at the end. Surely she was exaggerating. Really, would anyone feel or behave differently under the circumstances?

She stared out of her workroom window. From up here she could see where the village curved round to the Hotel Britannia. On the cliff-top the grass looked ready to burst into flame – one match would do it. Here and there she could see spots of colour: striped balls bouncing on the crowded sand, a green bikini and a purple one, something glistening in the dark of the pillbox entrance. Pam from the dairy was milking the goats. Liz had heard her say that she wished she could take a knife to Joseph, to peel off his skin very slowly. Everyone felt violent sometimes, not just Liz.

All the same, she wanted Barbara to come. If someone else were here, perhaps Anna wouldn't mind staying at home so much. She couldn't go on keeping her caged in the house – but even so, she'd felt a qualm as she'd driven home after leaving her at The Stone Shop. She shouldn't have given in to the child, shouldn't have let her out of her sight if it was going to make her feel this way. Now she was growing resentful, blaming Anna for worrying her. Surely that alone was a good enough reason to want someone to talk to. Perhaps she was too close to the situation; Barbara might see at once what had to be done. She picked her first attempt at a letter out of the waste-basket, from among scraps of cloth.

Dear Barbara,

Yes, it's old scatterbrained Liz, and you're right – having put you off, I now want you to come. At least I remember to fill up the petrol tank these days, so we'll be able to go out sightseeing. I do hope you haven't made other arrangements or can cancel them if you have, because I'd love to see you. Alan's had to go away, so it will be just like old times. We can sit up half the night and tell each other everything. So bring yourself and your world-famous bag…

That was all the false heartiness she'd been able to manage. Even so, she preferred it to her second try. She might have copied it – it was too crumpled to send – but the thought of copying so much jollity made her feel rather sick. She'd have to write another letter, and that reminded her of Alan at his desk, writing and rewriting. She swallowed before the lump in her throat made her start to weep. If she hadn't lost that wretched claw for him he might be here with her now. She could only hope the police brought it back; she'd keep it here until he phoned, until she could tell him to come back. Couldn't he even let her know where he was? Did he think she no longer cared what happened to him? She couldn't blame him for frightening Anna, for losing his temper with the child. She was beginning to know how he'd felt.

Dear Barbara,

I do hope you haven't gone ahead and made arrangements for your holiday, because I'd very much like to have you stay after all. I'll explain why when I see you. Do please come, because I need to talk to you. Give me a call and let me know when you can make it, and I'll meet you from the bus – the train isn't worth much these days. I'm dying to see you! Much love,

Liz

That would have to do. At least it gave her an excuse to drive into the village, to the post office, and go and see Anna while she was there, buy her lunch if she wasn't ready to come home.

Was she making unreasonable demands on Barbara? She was sure that Barbara wouldn't think so, not if she remembered her vow that Liz could always count on her. It dated back to the time Barbara had failed her nursing finals because her doctor fiance had died of malaria in Kenya. Liz had just bought her first car, a rusty cantankerous Mini, and she'd persuaded Barbara away to Cornwall, to help her through the worst of her loss. Once she'd forgotten to fill the tank and they'd ended up stranded in a storm miles from the nearest petrol station, after trying vainly to find lodgings in a town that was locked up for the night. In the end they'd had to sleep in the smelly car, which, for the last three days of their tour, had refused to travel more than fifty miles a day. It had been all they could do to crawl on board a train at Penzance. Liz must have looked as woebegone as she felt when they staggered into the stuffy carriage, because Barbara had burst out laughing. 'Don't look so destroyed, Liz. It's cheered me up no end, really it has. It's the funniest holiday I've ever had.' And then, more seriously, 'Nobody else would have gone to all that trouble for me. If you should ever need me, you've only to let me know.'

Now Liz had – or would have as soon as she reached the post office. She was certain Barbara would come, even if she had to cancel other plans. The thought of Barbara, digging in her bulging bag for yet another photograph or thank-you letter from a patient, or misprint from a newspaper, made Liz feel optimistic. Surely Barbara would cure her of her impatience with Anna? Of course, if Alan came home while Barbara was there, that would be best of all.

She strolled downstairs, swinging her keys. She'd take Anna to lunch in the beer-garden or at the hotel. It made Anna feel proud of herself, and why not? Blue sky shone in all the windows, light filled the house; in the hall the telephone was bright as a ripe tomato. She was almost downstairs when it rang.

She couldn't help starting. She mustn't react as if every call was a threat; it would only make her nerves worse. Anyway, it might be good news. Perhaps it might even be Barbara. She lifted the receiver.

'Mrs Knight? Mrs Alan Knight?' a woman said.

Liz wasn't fond of that usage. 'I'm Alan Knight's wife, yes.'

'He's still away, isn't he?'

'Yes, I'm afraid he is. Who's speaking, please?'

'Don't let him come home.'

Liz must have misheard her. 'I'm sorry, what was that you said?'

'If you love your child, don't let your husband come home.' The woman's voice had already been shrill, but now it was rising. 'Go away – take her far away, and don't let him know where you are. You mustn't stay there, it's too dangerous.'

'Look, I don't know who you are,' Liz said, her throat suddenly so dry that it was threatening her voice, 'but I'm going to put this phone down right now unless you tell me who you are and what you want.'

'It doesn't matter who I am.' The woman's voice came scraping through the earpiece, until Liz felt as though a piece of metal was deep in her ear. 'Don't you understand what I'm saying? Your child is in danger. For God's sake go away.'