Ramsay 06 - The Baby-Snatcher Read Free

It was not at all the sort of house, Emma thought, where you could bring up children. But Sheena had never wanted that even before the illness. She had wanted a quiet place to work, her books and her pictures. Emma had always supposed that was what Mark had wanted too.
    People expected the Taverners to live somewhere grand because Sheena had been a writer. But although her novels had been well reviewed they were hardly best-sellers. Certainly they weren’t Emma’s idea of a good read. She had ploughed through one or two but preferred something with a story. A thriller, even a historical romance. Secretly she thought Sheena should have gone out more, even found herself a job, mixed with people other than the arty friends who seemed very similar to her. Then she would have had something to write about. Towards the end, of course, that would have been impossible.
    After the funeral there was quite a crowd in the little house. Teachers from the High School where Mark worked. Friends of Sheena, many of whom Emma thought were unsuitably dressed for the occasion. Mark introduced her perfunctorily to some of them: ‘This is Margaret from the Flambard Press, this is Chaz, this is Prue.’ He must have hired caterers because trays of rather unappetizing food stood on a table. If Emma had not been pregnant she would have taken charge of the proceedings – handed out plates, offered drinks. As it was she kept out of the way, not because she didn’t feel up to it but because of the same embarrassment which made her uneasy in Mark’s company. Eventually her legs began to ache so she settled herself in a chair by the window with a glass of orange juice and a cardboard vol-au-vent.
    From her corner she watched Mark move restlessly from one chatting group to another. He was attractive in an intense, rather humourless way and the women turned towards him as he approached. His face was strained and it was obviously an effort to be polite. Brian must have realized that too because he went up to Mark and put an arm round his shoulder. There was nothing to say.
    Emma thought that perhaps there had never been much to say, not even when Sheena was first diagnosed. Nothing that did any good, though Brian had railed at length about the mastectomy and the chemotherapy and the radiotherapy. He had been angry and uncomprehending on Mark’s behalf. Mark himself had said little.
    Brian peeled away from the group and stood beside her. He was big and dark, given to sentimentality and outbursts of temper, but only when he’d been drinking. At work he was cool and quite determined, willing to take risks if the odds had been properly weighed.
    ‘A drink?’ he asked.
    ‘I could murder a cup of tea.’ The house had been empty for nearly a week and it was not very warm. ‘But I don’t know if that’s on offer.’
    ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘ I’ll fix it.’ And he went away into the kitchen glad to have something to do. She thought that was Brian all over. He was the fixer, the dealer, the person who made things happen. But not even Brian could fix it for Sheena to get better though he’d tried hard enough, yelling at consultants when appointments were cancelled, hunting out information about the best doctors, the best centres, pretending to be Mark over the phone so he’d be taken seriously. Now he had to admit defeat and it didn’t come easy.
    He brought her tea on a little tray painted with blue and white flowers. When she’d drunk it she asked if he minded her going home. Suddenly she felt very tired.
    ‘I’ll get a taxi if you like,’ she said. ‘You can bring the car back later.’
    He said he would come too. She knew the decision to leave early had little to do with concern for her. He’d never liked sharing Mark with other people. Except Sheena, of course. He’d never seemed to object to her.
    It was half past three. The children were coming out of the Infants School on the corner of Mark’s street. Emma thought sadly that