‘Why would we care about a brat that, as far as you’re concerned, won’t exist in a few months?’
‘Are you not going to let me into the garden?’
He looked at her. ‘I’m not letting you flaunt that Hunter spawn anywhere. It’s bad enough the doctor knows.’
‘How is anyone going to see me in the garden? I just want some cabbage and parsley to go with our fish pie.’
He smiled, scanning the page of his newspaper. ‘You seem to forget that I no longer believe anything you say.’
She would have panicked about meeting Aidan, but Hattie had been climbing trees since she could walk. A baby bump wouldn’t stop her escaping through a window.
Eventually, the fourth day came. She waited until the sun had long since sunk behind the wan April skyline of the forest she loved, and Leonard’s snores drifted through the office door.
Using a blanket to muffle the sound, she smashed the largest pane of glass in the dining-room window with a rolling pin, then pushed out a rucksack and a smaller suitcase before climbing on a chair and squeezing through herself.
It was eleven forty-five when she arrived at their spot on the riverbank. Hattie immediately went to the biggest tree, tucked her bags behind it and then sat on the rucksack to wait.
A long, dark, ice-cold age later, she was startled by a hand on her shoulder. She’d never intended to fall asleep, but in the past few weeks, she’d increasingly been overcome by exhaustion, and the gentle burble of the river had been a lullaby her frazzled body couldn’t resist.
Before she was fully awake, the same hand grabbed her under the armpit and yanked her to her feet.
‘Stupid, stupid bitch.’ Leonard ignored her bags, jerking Hattie forwards despite her feet still scrabbling for purchase in the muddy ground. Pushing and shoving her back towards the house. ‘I told you, he’s not coming. You take that scum’s word over mine?’
‘I just went for a walk.’ She wept, stumbling over a tree root. ‘You can’t keep me prisoner inside forever. I waited until it was dark so no one would see me.’
‘Oh, so nothing to do with your plan to meet at midnight by the river, then?’
Her heart plummeted. He must have seen Aidan mouth the words, and decided to wait and see if her repentance was genuine.
He put her in her mother’s old room in the attic. It still had a solid lock on the door from when Verity had been alive, a ‘safety measure’ her father had insisted upon. Twice a day, the door was unlocked and a bowl of soup or a sloppily made sandwich was dumped on the chest of drawers. After finding a pad of paper and pen in the bedside cabinet she began leaving notes on the dirty plates for the other things she needed. More toilet paper, clean underwear or another blanket. Sometimes he responded, other requests were ignored.
After a couple of weeks, Leonard instructed her to get dressed and brush her hair (she had to ask him for a brush). He then drove her to the doctor’s surgery, explaining with a charming smile to the midwife that he’d be accompanying her during the examination as she was scared of all things medical since her mother’s tragic passing.
‘Shall we talk about a home birth, then, sweetie, if you’re afraid of hospitals?’ the kind-looking midwife asked after recording the baby’s heartrate.
‘Yes, please.’ She could hardly request a hospital birth when she lived behind a locked door. At least this way, she could hope for some professionals to be present, rather than face giving birth alone on her mother’s bed.
As the weeks dragged by, she couldn’t help hoping for Aidan. Like in the films, he’d sneak into the house in the middle of the night and rescue her. She spent hours watching out of the attic windows, straining for a glimpse of him, praying he’d catch a glimpse of her.
But still he didn’t come.
Had her father been right? Was Aidan also languishing in a prison somewhere? Or had Leonard scared him away, after all?
Still, she waited, and wished, and wondered if she could reach the branches of the chestnut tree if she jumped out of the window. She’d have happily risked it if it hadn’t meant risking her baby, too.
And then, one night, when all that was left were swollen ankles and numb emotions, the pain started.
Her father must have read the note that morning, because a few hours later, he dragged her down the stairs and into her old bedroom.
‘Here.’ He handed her a clean nightdress and waited for her to swap it for the grubby, oversized T-shirt she’d been living in for the past few weeks, scrubbing it in the attic bathroom sink when the stench of sweat became too much.
By the time the on-call community midwives arrived, Hattie was on all fours in front of the fireplace, readying herself to die as another pain clamped itself around her middle.
‘Not long to go now, my love,’ the older one murmured in her ear. Hattie vaguely registered a warm hand pressing against the base of her back, the cool cloth wiping her brow. There was nothing but the relentless earthquake consuming her, and all she wanted was for someone to make it stop.
Only, when it did stop. When the groaning and sweating and uncontrollable pushing all stopped. When the briefest, faintest wail had disappeared behind a closed door, and the bloody mess of new life had been deftly replaced with clean sheets, two neat stitches and paracetamol washed down with a mug of sweet tea.
That was when the other pain began.
