Letters To My Daughter's Killer - [58]

I get in touch with Jan before I have time to hesitate and we agree that Florence and I will spend four weeks of the summer holidays in their cottage.

I work extra hours and swap shifts to accrue the leave.

The journey is exhausting. We leave at six in the morning and arrive at one. The cottage is a mix of old seaside charm and modern conveniences. Whitewashed stone walls and wooden beams, tiny windows everywhere apart from the large patio doors at the front with a small garden and a view of the sea beyond. Equipped with the Internet and a power shower.

After reading the instructions from Jan and Frank, we walk down the lane to the beach. The air smells so fresh, brine on the breeze, and the water is a dense slate blue, capped with curls of white. The fine shingle scrunches underfoot.

With the instincts of a small child, Florence begins to dig a hole, and I sit down beside her. I feel unsteady, as though I might be blown away. I’m glad the beach is big enough not to feel crowded. The space itself is already overwhelming without hordes of people. When did Florence last get to paddle in the sea? Can she recollect her last trip to the beach with Lizzie and Jack? I’ve no idea. She was so very young when Lizzie died and I imagine she must have very few concrete memories to cherish. Tony and I have put together a scrapbook for her, photos off Lizzie’s computer when we got it back from the police, some of our own snaps, cards and notes.

We wander back when Florence gets thirsty, and after drinks and the last of our sandwiches I make an inventory of supplies. Because Jan and Frank live in the cottage it hasn’t got the usual inconveniences of a holiday let. No need to head out for cooking oil or salt or washing-up liquid.

Florence takes Matilda out to the garden while I unpack. The mattress protector is a priority. The village is quite big, spreading up into the farmland behind, but we are near the centre, with its small high street and parade of shops. Half of them are aimed at the holiday set: lilos and buckets and spades hung at the doorways, racks of postcards cluttering the pavement.

We fall into a routine. Woken early by the raucous clamour of seagulls, we have a lazy breakfast then go down to the beach in the morning. Florence plays and I… what do I do? I obsess, I suppose. The books I’ve brought remain unread. I’ve tried countless times but I still cannot read. No concentration. It’s something else Jack has robbed me of. Close to lunchtime, we have a splash-about. The water is freezing, and when we emerge we go home for lunch and to warm up.

It’s a lovely place and the sun shines, but it feels unreal. As the week goes on and the second brings rain, I feel more and more uneasy. It takes me a while to realize that I’m homesick. Fish out of water. This place feels clean and full of space and simple natural things, but it is not me. I miss Manchester, its grime and hustle and cheer, the hubbub of it all. The connections that bind me to the people and places, the buildings, the fond familiarity of its skyline. I feel I have abandoned Lizzie. Maybe it is too soon, is all; the time will come when I can leave the place without a sense of leaving her, of not keeping vigil.

Florence plays with another girl one day. And I wonder if she is healing.

We go home a week early.

Friday 23 September 2011

A notice goes out to all city council workers. Offers of voluntary early retirement and redundancy. Work has become unmanageable; Stella still supervises me, every breath I take.

‘I’m thinking of taking voluntary retirement,’ I tell Bea.

‘Could you manage?’ Bea says.

‘Not on the pension alone, it’s peanuts. But my mortgage is paid off, so I’d just need living costs.’

‘Just,’ she says drily.

‘I could start with lodgers again,’ I say. ‘That would help.’

She nods. ‘Might be good to have the company.’

‘Imagine the gossip, though. It’s a small world, the acting business. This’ll be the house where Jack Tennyson holed up after killing his wife.’

‘There must be other people who need short-term lets in Manchester,’ Bea says. ‘Or you could take someone on for an academic year, a student or postgrad. Someone wanting family life instead of grunge.’

The redundancy pay-off would give me some breathing space, a few months to find some other way of making a living, so I go for it. I’m not the only one to take the offer. Morale is low and people like me who’ve been in the service for years miss the vision and excitement of those early days. It sometimes feels like death by a thousand cuts. I’m still proud of the service, but I know it could be so much better. How long can it last with resources shrinking and provision undermined?

I can’t imagine my future. All I see is day following night and the struggle to keep on, to keep on breathing, to keep on getting up and putting one foot in front of the other.

CHAPTER THREE

17 Brinks Avenue

Manchester

M19 6FX

The allotment has gone to seed. Melissa and Mags have kept up with two of the beds and some sections are covered with old carpet, but the remainder is choked with weeds and spinach that has bolted. I’ve not come here today to plant or dig, but to sit in the soft sunshine and consider what to do. Across the allotment bees drowse and a robin is busy finding worms.