Page 29 of Save Us
“Where were you, Tom? I mean, for all those years?” I risk asking him now, which is shitty of me, considering how vulnerable he is. Whenever I’ve quizzed him in the past, he’s always shut down about it, being too worried that Rosalie would pick up on it and panic.
“When your Beth was seven, I helped her to make a sculpture with recycled glass and wood for a competition running in the local paper. They were trying to highlight recycling in general,” he explains as we walk back toward a bench to sit on, no longer able to stare at the open grave that now houses his dead wife. “She wanted to make this model that would capture different shades of light, so we set about collecting old bottles of green, blue, clear, even found a red one. We found an old, smashed mirror and used all the different pieces to make an ‘under the water’ picture. We mounted it onto some old driftwood that had washed up onto the beach. It was beautiful and all designed by the little seven-year-old girl who I had the honor of calling my granddaughter.”
“She won, of course, and our pictures were put inside the newspaper.” He sighs, then looks at me as though telling me this was the turning point. “I never thought a small, insignificant local paper would find itself inside the hands of Carl Steele on the other side of the world. However, it turns out Rosalie’s mother had revealed everything to her husband on her deathbed five years earlier. They had been trying to find us ever since. Luckily, they got to me first.”
“Ah,” I say knowingly.
“Yeah, ah!” he repeats a little bitterly. “I was transported to America and locked away. I couldn’t tell you where, just that it was far away from anyone or anything. I was routinely tortured for information over their whereabouts. Of course, I gave them nothing, which only prolonged my rather unpleasant stay there.”
“How come they never managed to track down Rosalie?” I ask, still confused by the fact that they could have easily swept through that village to find her.
“Because Mal had already moved Rosalie away, into a small home near where he lived. She was starting to need more care for her dementia and could no longer function without help. They knew they were Taylor, but do you know how common the surname ‘Taylor’ is? And fortunately, the paper had never printed Beth’s name because Jen hadn’t wanted it mentioned in such a public place.”
“Bet you all thought she was being over the top at the time?” I laugh with him.
“Yeah,” he grins, “thank God she was!”
It feels like a good ten minutes pass by before either of us talks again. I guess I’m lost over what to say, for I know nothing that I utter is going to make him feel any better.
“I’m glad that little girl found love before she lost her life,” he says sadly. “So many people live to be old without ever having felt it, but at least she got that from you…and your little girl.”
“I hope she knew how much,” I whisper, and close my eyes before I break down on him too. “I’m so sorry, Tom.”
“Yeah,” he sighs as he places his large, wrinkled hand over mine, “me too.”
Chapter 12
Beth
It’s a good week before I feel able to get out of this room with its nineties, chintzy wallpaper, and ugly, green curtains. Although, I have managed to get out of bed each day to look outside the sash windows. It was surprising to see that I’m surrounded by acres and acres of lush, green landscape. Other than that, I haven’t had the energy to travel much further. They’ve been trying to feed me up with all manner of delicious food, but my stomach and depression have declined most of it. Leo has tutted over my weight loss and has been offering to help me downstairs for the last three days, but I’ve only felt able to entertain the idea as of this morning.
As soon as I can reach him, I clutch onto Leo’s arm, doing so without fear of repercussions, for there is no possibility of me being able to walk further than the end of my bed without support. With that in mind, I make the contact knowing he is a perfectly innocent crutch to lean upon. He mutters supportive messages all the way down the corridor while I limp along beside him, smiling every so often over his calming and caring words. It’s a painfully slow amble but he is so patient, I don’t even feel bad about holding him back. Neither does he complain when I grip his arm with a force stronger than a limpet suckered to a rock on the beach. He carries me downstairs like I weigh no heavier than a feather, then puts me onto the floor again. Once I regain my balance, he walks me into what must be the living room. It’s just as chintzy as my bedroom, but so beautifully light, it begins to warm me up from the inside. My aforementioned depression begins to seep away as soon as the light hits my face with the promise of better things to come.
Leo assists me over to a comfortable-looking armchair where I gradually manage to lower myself to sit in it with a satisfying squelching sound. Leo fusses over me a little bit more before moving aside to reveal bunches upon bunches of freshly bought flowers. All of them look to be the expensive kind that would have been delivered from an upmarket florist. It takes me by surprise at first, for who knew my grandfather, a man with one of the vilest reputations around, is romantic enough to buy flowers for his other half. Speaking of which, I only know that she is a woman of a similar age to my grandmother and is called Elsie. I hadn’t believed Leo when he first told me this, for I had him pegged for having some young model-type looking for a sugar daddy.
“Beth!” someone calls out from behind, entering the room with a click-clack of her shoes on the parquet flooring. “How are you, my dear? We haven’t met!”
The voice sounds positively beaming as she eventually rounds the chair to look right at me with a warm smile and a kiss for each of my cheeks. She smells of lavender and reminds me of a Miss Marple type of fictional character. I instantly smile back at her with the same expression I used to give my grandmother whenever we went to visit.
“I’m Elsie, Carl’s wife.”
“Nice to meet you,” I reply politely, “thank you for having me here.”
“Oh, pish-posh,” she giggles, waving her hand this way and that in front of her face. “You’re family, my darling. Wait right there and I’ll get you some tea. Leo?”
She turns toward him, giving him the attention, no other Mayfield member ever gives the ‘rank and file’, and waits for his answer before he politely declines. She then nods back at me before she finally exits altogether.
“She seems…nice?” I say, frowning in confusion and looking to him to clarify. Surely, someone who is willingly married to my grandfather can’t be that nice, can they?
“As far as I can tell,” he replies with a shrug which says he finds it as equally perplexing. “No one knows much about her, other than her charity work and public appearances with him. Seems a little weird that someone like her is with someone like him. No offense, he is your grandfather after all.”
“No, he’s not!” I snap with a venomous hiss to my voice. “He’s DNA; that is all!”
Leo smiles with a slight shoulder chuckle, putting his hands up in defense. He knows when I’m on the edge of a hormonal moment and likes to diffuse the situation as soon as it begins to rear its ugly head. Years of being stuck in the mix of all these evil bastards will do that to a girl. His calm and jovial response has me blushing with embarrassment; I smile sheepishly and look to the floor ashamedly for snapping at the wrong person.
“Don’t worry, Beth, honey, I’ll blame it on your meds,” he smiles with a wink, to which I giggle as I shake my head at him.
Elsie soon returns with a tray of silverware and a matching tea set, all covered in a detailed and decorative floral design. She proceeds to carefully put out cups and saucers, then delicately pours and stirs before handing one over to me. I can tell she’s been trained to do this, much like Oliver explained how young Mayfield men are trained to carve and serve dinner before a potential partner. He no longer does this for me. A ‘servant’ does it for the both of us while he eyes me with a watchdog kind of presence. Elsie offers me a plate of treats, but I decline the fancy-looking cupcakes; I will always be a Rich Tea kind of a girl.