Page 39 of Secrets at the Little Music Shop

The welding gear was standing in the centre of Jason’s workspace. I couldn’t see any indications that it might still be connected to a power supply but I switched off the plugs, just in case. It was typical of Jason — a man who could quite happily leave bacon grilling for hours but when it came to professional equipment was a worrier.

I made my way back towards the cottage. As I crossed the lawn, I saw the shadow of a vehicle pull up. It was too far away for me to tell what it was, or where it had come from, but the headlights breezed past my feet momentarily then carried on a little way down the drive, past the cottage. I heard the stealthy sound of a door opening then voices whispering. There was a short break, another whisper, the expensive clunk of a large car door closing and then the engine raced the vehicle away, towards the village.

Rosie came through the gate. She and I caught sight of one another and both clutched at our hearts in mock fright.

‘What the hell are you doing out here?’ she asked. Her voice was a little shaky, maybe I’d genuinely scared her, looming across the grass out of the night. ‘I thought you’d be cosy with Ben by now.’

‘I might almost suspect you of arranging to go out this evening simply to get that to happen.’ I might have sounded a bit shaky, too. ‘I keep telling you, Ben and I — it’s nothing.’

‘That why you’ve got stubble burn that I can even see out here in the DARK, is it?’

‘No, I’m blushing, that’s all.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Then Rosie paused, cocking her head. ‘Is that Harry?’

‘He was fine when I left, fast asleep.’

‘He’s not fast asleep now.’ She increased her pace and thankfully stopped interrogating me. ‘He sounds really upset.’

‘I’m sure Ben will have gone to him,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry.’

But when we got into the cottage Ben was cooking madly, grilling fish with one hand and whisking meringue with the other. A tea towel was draped over his shoulder and his hair had come down over his face.

‘Ah, there you are. Food is just about ready. Good timing, Rosie.’ But Rosie pushed past him without even stopping to exchange pleasantries, heading for the stairs. I followed her, anxious not to be left in those close confines with Ben again.

‘Harry?’ Rosie rounded the corner into her bedroom. ‘What . . .’

I could hardly hear her above the sounds of Harry screaming. He’d somehow managed to flip the carry-cot over on top of himself, trapping his body under its weight. Rosie released him and picked him up. She was trembling all over.

‘Oh, my God,’ she kept saying. ‘Oh, my God.’ Harry’s little red face was streaked with tears and one arm looked slightly blue. ‘Oh, God. Should his arm be that colour? Oh, God, Jem, what am I going to do?’ She hugged the baby tightly against her chest, rocking him until his screams subsided into a more general grizzle. ‘Oh God.’ She carried Harry downstairs and sat on the sofa with a kind of numb expression.

‘Call the doctor. He’ll check Harry over for you but I’m sure he’s fine.’ I dragged the phone to her and left her dialling, whilst still trying to reassure a hiccupping Harry that he was all right.

Ben had stopped cooking and the steam had died from the kitchen. He was peering through into the living room, watching Rosie and the stricken Harry; he looked pale.

‘What kind of sicko leaves a baby to scream like that?’ I launched myself at him. ‘And don’t give me some pathetic story, because you were cooking away and obviously not taking a blind bit of notice. How long had he been crying?’

‘I can’t — ’

‘You bastard!’ And before I even knew I’d done it I’d pulled my arm back and smacked him right across his perfect cheekbones. It was a full-powered, open-handed strike that knocked his head to one side with its force.

Ben froze completely. His whole body seemed to fold in upon itself and his face was made up entirely of eyes. A tear trembled on his eyelashes but the immobility of his expression meant that it couldn’t fall. Something inside me tore apart. ‘Ben?’

A sudden movement as he swiped a hand across his eyes and then he was gone. Out of the door, fleeing through the garden and down to the road. A pause, surely not long enough for key to meet ignition system, and then the noise of a powerful car being driven at reckless speed down the lane.

* * *

Rosie was convinced she was such a bad mother that Social Services would be along any day to take Harry away.

‘I can’t believe I went out! What was I thinking, Jem? Anything could have happened!’ Rosie was so caught up in her own feelings of inadequacy that she hadn’t thought to blame me or Ben. ‘I mean, what if he’d got himself trapped under the wardrobe or got his face stuck in something — he’d have suffocated! And I wouldn’t have been there!’ Another fresh burst of tears. Harry picked up on her misery and began wailing again, despite the fact that the doctor had looked him over and pronounced him to be ‘one of the healthiest specimens I’ve seen in a while.’

‘You weren’t to know. And we’ll make sure it never happens again, so stop fretting.’ Half my mind was trying to follow Ben’s actions in all of this, wondering what had been going through his head. ‘Harry, there’s nothing wrong with you and that’s official.’

I could feel my own lip trembling in sympathy with the weeping pair. Why hadn’t Ben stayed and explained himself? Was all this tied up with his fear of — yes, exactly what was Ben so scared of? Physical contact? He hadn’t felt scared, not for those few moments holding me in the kitchen. Turned on, yes. Desperate, yes. But not afraid, not until afterwards. I tried to think back over those moments when I’d seen that look of panic appear in his eyes but it all seemed so unrelated. He’d been frightened of going to Saskia’s opening, when I’d found out about his being in Willow Down, when I’d asked him to come for dinner — perhaps he was just plain weird.

I picked at the melon Ben had left and put the rest away in the fridge. Neither of us had much appetite, although Harry gulped down his bottle and then fell asleep. ‘Honestly, Harry, you’re such a bloke,’ I said, watching him settle drunkenly in Rosie’s arms. ‘No sympathy with emotional turmoil at all.’

I left her cuddling her son and went up to my room. Most of my gear was bagged; shirts oozed over the lip of my rucksack and my toiletries scattered like a puzzle over the jutting window ledge. I stared at it all. I’d never hung anything up or made use of the tiny cupboard. Even though I’d thought I was settled, my subconscious had known and told me not to bother, not to unpack.

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