The Husband's Secret(87)
A thought occurred to Tess. “Will Polly need her sports shoes straightaway? Should I rush back to the school with them?”
Cecilia startled. “I forgot about Polly’s shoes again! I completely forgot.”
Tess smiled at how appalled Cecilia looked. It was like she was forgetting things for the first time in her whole life.
Cecilia said slowly, “They don’t go up to the oval until ten.”
“In that case I’ll have a cup of tea with you,” said Tess. She helped herself to an unopened packet of expensive-looking chocolate biscuits from Cecilia’s extraordinary pantry, somewhat thrilled by her temerity. Oh, this was living life on the edge, all right. “And a biscuit?”
TWENTY-SIX
Cecilia watched Tess lift her cup of tea to her mouth (she’d used the wrong mugs—Cecilia never used those mugs for guests) and smile at her over the rim, unaware of the monologue running silently through Cecilia’s head.
Want to know what I found out last night, Tess? My husband murdered Janie Crowley. I know! Wow, hey. Yep, Rachel Crowley’s daughter, that’s right, the nice white-haired lady with the sad eyes, the one who walked past us this morning and looked me right in the eyes and smiled. So! I’m in a bit of a pickle to be honest, Tess, as my mother would say. A real pickle.
What would Tess say if Cecilia actually spoke any of those words out loud? Cecilia had thought Tess was one of those mysterious, self-assured types who didn’t need to fill silent gaps with conversation, but it occurred to her now that perhaps she was shy. There was something brave about the way she met Cecilia’s eyes and sat with careful, straight-backed posture, as if she were a child behaving well at someone else’s house.
She was really being very nice to Cecilia, driving her home after that terrible incident in the gutter. Was Cecilia going to throw up every time she saw Rachel Crowley from now on? Because that could be complicated.
Tess tilted her head at the Berlin Wall books. “I always like reading about the escape attempts.”
“Me too,” said Cecilia. “The successful ones, that is.” She opened one of the books to the section of photos in the middle. “See this family?” She pointed at a black-and-white photo of a young man and woman and their four small, scruffy children. “This man hijacked a train. Cannonball Harry, they called him. He drove the train at full speed through these barriers. The conductor was saying, ‘Are you crazy, comrade?’ They all had to get down under the seats so they wouldn’t get shot. Can you imagine? Not being him, being her. The mother. I keep thinking about it. Four children lying on the floor of a train. Bullets flying over their heads. She made up a fairy tale to keep them distracted. She said she’d never made up a story for them before. Actually, I never made up stories for my children either. I’m not creative. I bet you make up stories for your children, don’t you?”
Tess seemed startled. “Sometimes, I guess.”
I’m talking too much, thought Cecilia, and then she realized she’d said “your children” when Tess had only the one child, and she wondered if she should correct herself, but what if Tess desperately wanted more children but couldn’t have them for some reason?
Tess turned the book around to face her and looked at the photo. “I guess it shows what you’ll do for freedom. We just take it for granted.”
“But I think if I’d been his wife, I would have said no,” said Cecilia. She sounded too agitated, as if she really were faced with this choice. She made a conscious effort to calm her voice down. “I don’t think I would have been brave enough. I would have said, It’s not worth it. Who cares if we’re stuck behind this wall? At least we’re alive. At least our children are alive. Death is too high a price for freedom.”