Placing them on the floor, she flicked on the kettle that rested on the huge box containing her range cooker, and then opened the door for Oscar and Belle. They looked comical as their bottoms wiggled down the steps, eager to get onto the grass. They never ventured far and she always adhered to the ten-minute exercise rule and then after, they’d be confined to the house where it was cool. Until they’d had their final vaccinations Frankie was being careful.
Waiting for the kettle to click, she eyed the list of things to do that was stuck to the kitchen wall with masking tape. It seemed endless. The rooms were all bare but she had plans for each of them. Frankie had put a huge amount of effort into how her new home for life would be furnished: a mixture of contemporary and French shabby chic. The contemporary was being provided by IKEA, two sofas and an armchair, three beds, and rather a lot of flat-pack bedroom furniture. Frankie hated the mahogany wardrobes and dresser that had been in the house when she bought it. It gave her the creeps so Henri, her builder, had taken it all to Emmaus, a local charity shop. The shabby chic element would be a long-term labour of love when she trawledbrocantesand flea markets for some antique classics or whatever caught her eye.
She was making her way through the to-do list slowly, in between welcoming her new friends who had rallied round ever since she’d arrived. Frankie was overwhelmed daily by the kindness of her neighbours from across the way.
Cristalle and Luc made a point of shouting hello as they passed by, giving her a friendly wave as they left eggs or garden produce on the top of her wall. Their kids Alma and Sacha came over most days to play with the puppies and the first time brought her a bunch of flowers and chocolates as a welcome gift. They were a world apart from the monstrous Devilchild.
She’d been out to dinner, an invitation from a slowly recovering Henri and his wife, and enjoyed a few excellent lunches in the village bistro. It was so much easier to go there and eat a three-courseplat du jourthan cook for one at home in the evening in a kitchen under construction. Not only that, it was a great place to be seen, to let the locals know there was a new arrival, and she hoped it would help the community accept her. She’d been a bit embarrassed but very touched when Maxence, the owner of the bistro, toasted her arrival in the village and all the diners raised their glasses and cheered. It was a start.
She was on first name terms with Agnès, the owner of theboulangerieand with patience the same would hopefully apply to the jolly chap in thetabac. As she didn’t smoke or want to watch football on the big screen in the little bar at the back of the shop, Frankie made a point of buying a newspaper and a lucky dip each week. She’d not plucked up the courage to ask the stern chap in thecharcuteriewhat he was called, because his even sterner wife kept her eye on him and the customers. Although last time, while Madame Stern’s back was turned, he’d given Frankie a slice of pâté to sample, and what she was sure was a friendly wink, too.
It would probably take a while to be accepted, but Frankie had plenty of time to integrate and as she walked home, nodded and saidbonjourto everyone she passed, heartened when they reciprocated. Village life was literally hundreds of miles away from impersonal city living and with every day that passed, Frankie embraced her new way of life.
Sitting on the step, watching the puppies sniff and gambol, Frankie reaffirmed this as she sipped her coffee and soaked up the solitude, scanning the misty morning scene. Her home was one of two, on a slightly sloping hill, in a private location on a dusty, tree-lined lane that left the main road circling the village. Frankie’s was furthest down, and after her house there was nothing but a cycle track and footpath. This wound its way around fields to the far side of the valley to re-join the road. Later in the day she might see the odd rambler or cyclist, the odd puffed-out jogger, but apart from that Frankie was undisturbed.
The house, brick-built with a new slate roof could be seen, just, from the main road but traffic noise was minimal, more of a hum, even during commuting hours when villagers went off for the day. She had a wonderful view across the valley to her right, and to her left the roof of Christalle and Luc’s huge chicken shed was just about visible, then trees all the way to the road.
Frankie thought the location was perfect, especially after viewing some really isolated properties where absolutely nobody would hear you scream. Hopefully there’d be none of that and so far so good. She still made sure her doors were locked at night but for the first time in such a long while, Frankie felt comfortable leaving her bedroom window open.
She was slowly getting used to countryside sounds too, like Luc closing up the chicken shed, the metal doors slamming, then his dogs barking at odd hours, probably sensing a fox or maybe a wild boar or feral cat. Frankie had reminded herself to expect animal noises and the owl in the large dilapidated barn at the back of her garden hadn’t let her down, calling to his mate each night or screeching when he captured his prey.
But it was the mornings that Frankie loved the most, when the birds woke at 4am. Unlike when she lived in the city, as the sun streamed through the open window she could hear their song loud and clear. Along with the incredibly low crime rate in the area, her neighbours and now her fearless puppies for company, Frankie had slipped easily into a relaxed state of contentment.
She was so lucky, she knew that, because had it not been for her dad’s windfall none of it would’ve been possible. Perhaps she could have scraped together enough for a deposit after ten years; but the EuroMillions win had meant Frankie could fast-track her dreams and live comfortably for the rest of her life.
As soon as she said those words inside her head, Frankie felt the twinge of guilt that always accompanied them. Her conscience never let it drop. It was getting easier, though, living with the guilt and year by year she’d learned to counsel herself through the worst moments, when her mind tormented her heart.
They were wrong about her, all of those bitter, cruel people who said such awful things because for so long, a day didn’t pass when Frankie wouldn’t go over and over that night. She still cried herself to sleep over it from time to time. It had plagued her, ruined every joyous event, pouring cold water on her achievements, like she was serving a sentence, taking her punishment willingly and in silence.
Frankie had deserved her A-level results because she’d worked so damn hard for them. They were her escape route. What she didn’t deserve was to feel happy because they meant she could get on with her life. Frankie was constantly conflicted and her heart and mind suffered as a result.
Because of her actions that night Abby Mills didn’t have a future and for that reason Frankie wasn’t able to embrace hers. She had no right to be excited about living in halls, making new friends, watching a band at the student union bar. In her moments of great happiness, when she laughed at a joke or felt pride when she received the grade for an assignment, a faint voice in her head would whisper that she was lucky to be doing these things. Guilt and blame had her in their grasp and wouldn’t let go.
Her parents had no idea that she’d undergone therapy whilst at uni. They’d already suffered from her inactions, so she kept the panic attacks and anxiety to herself and staved off full-blown depression with the help of her wonderful counsellor and a doctor’s prescription.
It was once she’d emerged from the fog that Frankie was able to function better. She’d been given the tools and used them well. One hour, day, week, month at a time, avoiding places and people that triggered an attack, circumnavigating the past. It worked and Frankie moved forward, tentatively, but there was one thing that lingered, a feeling or thought that she couldn’t shake. It was the need to atone. While Frankie accepted she couldn’t alter the past, if there was a way she could alleviate the burden of guilt through some gesture, then she would act.
Which was why when Frankie’s dad won the lottery and deposited a hefty sum into his only child’s bank account, her thoughts turned to another: Abby Mills’ daughter. It was a kind of epiphany. Frankie was going to help the little girl who everyone knew had been adopted because none of her family members were capable or suitable, interested even. In her imagination the little orphan would be in need of an anonymous benefactor. A donation for her education was Frankie’s initial thought but first she had to track the child down. It didn’t take long, not when you had enough money to hire a private investigator.
When Frankie was made aware of Chelsea’s circumstances it became immediately clear that her financial requirements were well met and a donation of any kind wasn’t necessary and after consideration, would have looked crass. Determined not to be thwarted, Frankie changed tack, wracked her brains and came up with another idea. A memorial to Abby.
This was easy to arrange and the bench with a gold plaque now stood on the path a few metres from her grave. And for the past two years, on the date of her death a bouquet of flowers had been delivered to the vicarage with a note saying ‘For Abby Mills’. Mindful not to intrude on birthdays and Mother’s Day, Frankie was determined to commemorate that fateful night and a terrible error of judgement in some way, for as long as she could.
Nobody knew she felt this way, apart from her mum; and she didn’t know the whole truth. Frankie wanted to make sure the flowers were put on the grave and the only person she could trust to keep the secret was her mum. Frankie had sold the idea as a casual gesture, a mark of respect and her mum seemed to buy it, going up there to check, taking a stroll past on her way to her parents’ grave.
As for the little orphan, Frankie hoped that she was well and her new parents had provided her with a good and happy life. It certainly looked like it from the photos the detective had sent and they’d settled her mind, lifted her heavy heart. So apart from a reminder in her diary each year, Frankie had 364 days to smother the past and look to the future. It was there, stretching out in front of her like the fields of wheat and maize that met the sky on the mist-soaked horizon.
Every day was brand new, be it filled with blue skies and sunshine or cloudy with a hint of rain, whatever brings on the storms and westerly wind from theAtlantique, Frankie was determined, hungry for happiness. Watching the swallows swoop and dive, and Oscar and Belle snuffle in the grass, Frankie allowed herself a smile because she really was doing this; she really believed that good things were coming, she could feel it. Breathing in the scent of summer, wildflowers on the lane, a hint of mint and rosemary from the bushes that were dotted around the border, the unmistakable aroma of dewy grass disturbed by gambolling puppy paws, Frankie smiled. This was home, her home, her perfect place.
16
The buzz of her phone forced Frankie’s eyes from the view and as she raced inside to pick it up, knew exactly who it would be: Jed. Another reason to be cheerful. Without being a pest, more a long-distance check-in service, he’d been in touch since she left. They chatted every day, FaceTimed when the signal permitted and he religiously rang last thing at night. This was her favourite call of the day and their parting words assured one another of their feelings.
She’d sent him loads of photos and videos of random stuff, the puppies mostly, along with scenery shots, each course of herplat du jourwhen she ate at the bistro, cakes in theboulangeriewindow, a rabbit that was so far away he said she’d imagined it, and the piles of boxes that were waiting to be transformed into her spanking new kitchen.
Truth be known, as much as she was loving her new-found independence, Frankie was also counting the days until Jed arrived. She missed him, simple as that. She missed him badly, more than she expected and this had taken her by surprise. Hook, line and sinker, he had her, even though he was miles away and their romance was the worst case of bad timing, ever.
Swiping her phone and smiling as she saw his photo on the screen, Frankie answered his call. ‘Good morning, and how’s my favourite Mancunian?’ Frankie wedged the phone under her ear as she prepared another cup of coffee, one eye on the puppies who had skittered into the kitchen, looking for their breakfast.
