Caroline Bond - The Forgotten Sister

First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright Caroline Bond, 2019

The moral right of Caroline Bond to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

Atlantic Books Ltd considers the quotes included within this text to be covered by the Fair Dealing definition under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, and as subsequently amended. For more information, please contact Atlantic Books Ltd.

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Trade Paperback ISBN: 978 1 78649 368 2

E-book ISBN: 978 1 78649 369 9

Printed in Great Britain.

Corvus

An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

Ormond House

2627 Boswell Street

London

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www.corvus-books.co.uk

To Chris, because its about time he got a mention!

A newborn baby is a vulnerable thing: soft-skulled, thin-skinned, best watched over, for fear of damage.

But this little girl is alone.

She sleeps peacefully on the floor, in front of the fire, covered by a slightly grubby shawl. The shawl rises and falls gently in time with her breathing. Theres a thud in the room above, something dropped and cursed over. Footsteps pattern the ceiling. Her eyes flutter open, revealing glossy black pupils that can see very little, only a blur of light and dark. Shadows pass over her like birds across an open sky.

Shes awake now.

In the tiny, coral whorls of her ears the sounds upstairs are muffled, soft-edged as if shes still in a world of water. Her arms and her legs wave, but she no longer floats; dry land is so much harder to navigate. Her feet get caught in the fine mesh of the shawl. She kicks and manages to free them, but she cannot move, she cannot roll over, cannot even turn her head. She is where she is; in a safe place or in harms way? She cannot know.

All she can do is feel.

She feels the rub of the babygrow against her skin and the pinch of the wound on her belly. She feels the soft nap of the blanket beneath her head and the heat of the fire. And she feels the loss, the absence, the sudden, violent removal from the warm flesh that once folded her in.

And so she cries.

Her small, shocked lungs expand as she forces out one startling cry, then another; high, hard, angry yelps that fill the room, pierce the walls and ricochet up the stairs. They proclaim her presence, her needs, her wants, her demands.

Perhaps she is not so helpless after all.

But no one comes.

She stops. Her eyelids squeeze shut. She waits, learning anticipation or disappointment. Then she takes three short, desperate gulps, drawing in the unfamiliar air.

She tries again, louder this time, more desperate.

Comfort comes out of nowhere.

Fingertips brush her cheek. Soothing, tentative, but real enough to break the spiral. She listens to their message. The touch tells her that she is safe and not alone.

It is enough.

THE HOUSE phone was ringing, which was unusual. Grace ignored it. She carried on stacking the dishwasher. The people she knew the people she loved rang her mobile. It would be a sales call. They had a cheek. Friday nights should be sacrosanct. The answerphone kicked in, mercifully cutting off the noise. She set the dishwasher running.

Through the kitchen window she could see Tom ambling round the garden, hands in his pockets, head bowed, inspecting his precious lawn. He looked at ease, relaxed happy even. Grace felt her own shoulders loosen in response. It was still a lovely evening. They should make the most of it. She fetched a bottle of wine and some glasses and slipped on her flip-flops, intending to join her husband. They could sit out, enjoy the warmth, maybe talk things through again, see if they couldnt come up with a different tack; their current approach plainly wasnt working. Or perhaps not perhaps not talking about Cassie was what they needed.

Grace heard the answerphone stop and reset.

She pushed open the back door and was about to step out into the fading light when the phone began ringing again. It sounded louder, more insistent. A chill rippled through her. She shouldnt have ignored it the first time around. It was tempting fate to ignore a ringing phone. She crashed the wine and the glasses down onto the counter and hurried across the kitchen, stumbled and lost a flip-flop. She kicked off the other in frustration. The soles of her feet slapped across the unforgiving hardwood floor. It suddenly felt very important that she reach the phone before the caller gave up. She snatched at the receiver, nearly dropping it in her haste. Hello.

Mrs Haines?

She could tell, instantly, that it wasnt a call centre. Yes? Her breathing echoed back at her through the handset.

Ah, good. I was having problems leaving a message. I think theres something wrong with your answerphone. Grace wasnt interested. The woman carried on. Could you confirm your home address and date of birth for me, please?

Sorry, but whats this about? Her question came out more sharply than shed intended, worry taking precedence over politeness.

If you could just confirm your address and date of birth, please, then Ill be able to explain.

Grace relented and gave her personal details. Balanced on the edge of panic, she looked round their hall, taking in its reassuring ordinariness. Tom appeared at the kitchen door.

The voice came back on the line. Thank you. Im sorry to inform you that your daughters been brought into A&E at the General Infirmary.

Grace took a shallow breath. Shed imagined this phone call often enough over the years, endless nightmarish permutations of dreadful accidents and life-changing injuries, conjured up out of the overwhelming instinct to protect her children. But the reality was different. The reality was worse.

Mrs Haines? Did you hear me?

Grace managed to respond calmly. Yes. Sorry. Whats happened? Is she all right? Of course she wasnt she was in hospital. I mean, how badly hurt is she? Tom raised his hand to his face, obscuring his expression.

The woman said, I dont have that information, Im afraid. Im just the booking clerk. Ive been given your contact details and asked to request that you come in. There was a pause. The remote soundtrack of other peoples traumas reached down the line and insinuated itself into their home: a child crying, a raised voice, the muted but urgent peal of a siren. Mrs Haines? Are you able to attend? There was a touch of impatience in the clerks voice now.

Of course. Yes. Well be there as soon as we can.

Thank you. The line went dead.