Julia was a bundle of nerves. Sick with fear and dread, she had been unable to eat any breakfast. In the dining room, and at the other end of the table, hidden by that morning’sTimes, Arthur was calmly drinking his third cup of coffee after eating devilled kidneys, followed by several pieces of toast and marmalade.
All night she had lain awake in bed, reliving what had happened when they’d been driving home yesterday evening. Again and again she heard and felt the awful thump when the car had made contact with what Arthur maintained was a deer in the road. Julia had been sure it was no such thing, but when she’d voiced her belief and urged him to go back and see if she was right, he’d told her not to be so stupid, that she was imagining things. ‘I’m the one who’s behind the steering wheel,’ he’d said, driving even faster now, ‘and I know exactly what I saw and hit, so keep your highly impressionable imagination under control.’
‘But it would do no harm to turn around and check,’ she’d pleaded.
‘Please do not contradict me,’ he’d said, ‘it doesn’t become you.’
‘But darling, I’m sure I wasn’t imagining—’
‘Don’tbut-darling me anything. Now put it out of your mind; it was just a deer. Count yourself lucky it didn’t cause us to drive off the road and crash.’
Julia had tried to do as he said, but she couldn’t stop picturing what she was sure she’d seen in the light of the headlamps: a woman in a headscarf. To put her mind at rest, she planned to go for a walk later that morning. She wanted to go to that spot in the road where Arthur was so sure he’d hit a deer. It stood to reason that if he had, the body of the animal would still be there. Unless, of course, it had only been hurt and managed to get away.
As if reading her thoughts, Arthur said, ‘What plans do you have for the day?’
‘Erm ... I thought ... if you didn’t need me for anything, I thought I’d—’
He lowered his newspaper with a display of annoyance. ‘Don’t dither, Julia, you know how it irritates me. Get to the point. What did you think you would do?’
‘Sorry,’ she said weakly. ‘I thought I might write to Charles and then go ... go for a walk.’
‘Your inventory of the kitchen is overdue, so perhaps you should concentrate on that. And then I’d like you to redo the shirt you mended for me last week; the stitching wasn’t up to your usual standard.’
‘Yes, of course, darling,’ she said as he raised the newspaper and disappeared behind it once more. Thereby ending the exchange. It was one of his rules that when he was reading the paper he wasn’t to be disturbed.
In the silence of the dining room, Julia listened to the ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece and stared out of the window. The storm last night had wreaked havoc in the garden. The lawn was strewn with twigs and branches, along with the last of the leaves that had clung on so tenaciously.
November was her least favourite month. It brought back too many painful memories. Of being a child and walking in the local park with her mother. She could see them now, hand in hand, the path covered with slippery wet leaves beneath their feet, the air dense with the earthy smell of decomposing vegetation. Julia knew that her mother was not well as they lingered in the park that cold afternoon, but she didn’t realise just how ill. That was the last walk they ever took together. The next day the doctor was summoned and a week later, after being confined to bed, her mother died.
To this day Julia never knew what her mother died from. Her father refused to tell her, refused even to talk about her mother ever again. Overnight, life became very different. Her father couldn’t bear any noise. Laughter, in particular, was banned. Not that Julia had anything to laugh about then. There were no more happy walks to the park, no more bedtime stories, and no more treats. She tiptoed round the house, afraid of upsetting her father. She did all that she could to please him, in the way that her mother had. She was a poor substitute, she knew. But she did her best. She did her duty, just as her father said her mother would have wanted ...
A knock at the door made her blink and sit up straight.
‘Enter!’ Arthur responded without lowering his newspaper.
It was Miss Casey. The housekeeper looked as formidable as ever and without so much as glancing at Julia she addressed Arthur. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but the delivery boy from the butcher’s has called and—’
‘I’m sure I couldn’t care less whether the butcher’s boy has called or not,’ interrupted Arthur.
‘Yes, sir, of course. But he told me something I thought you might like to know. There was an accident last night.’
The newspaper lowered a few inches and Arthur peered over the top of it. ‘What sort of accident?’
‘It’s your sister, sir. She’s in the cottage hospital in Chelstead. It seems she was hit by a car on the Melstead Road last night.’
Julia gasped. Arthur shot her a look. ‘Did the boy tell you how badly hurt my sister is?’ he demanded.
‘No, sir. Those are all the details I have. Would you like me to organise for some flowers to be sent to the hospital?’
‘No. My wife can see to that.’
‘Very well, sir.’
Miss Casey quietly closed the door behind her and not caring if the woman was standing the other side of it, Julia said: ‘I told you it wasn’t a deer you hit.’
‘Don’t be so absurd. It’s a coincidence.’
‘How can it be? It’s the same road. We should tell the police what happened. That you thought you’d hit a deer. It could have happened to anyone in that dreadful weather. They’ll understand. I’m sure they will.’
