The Secret Mother by Shalini Boland

Author:Shalini Boland
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781786813176
Publisher: Bookouture

Chapter Eighteen

I quicken my pace and jog down the sloping meadow, past all the other gardens, until I reach the one I want. The largest of the lot. It’s hidden from view by a high wall, but a wrought-iron gate set into it enables me to see through to shivering fruit trees, their branches creaking in the wintry breeze. Beyond that, a snow-covered expanse of garden stretches away up to the house itself. I press the gate latch and push, then pull, but of course it’s locked. The windows at the rear of the house are dark, but through the back door I spy an open interior door leading through to a brightly lit hallway. From this distance, it’s like looking at a perfectly proportioned doll’s house.

I’m confident I can scale this wall. It’s almost shoulder height, and if my arms are strong enough, I might just manage it. I glance around, but can’t see a soul. If I wasn’t so focused on doing this, I’d be completely creeped out being here all alone in the thickening gloom. As it is, I don’t have the luxury of feeling scared. I’ve got to get over this wall.

I pause. What the hell am I doing? My conscience nags me. I’m about to trespass on private property, to break the law. What if the press snap me climbing over the wall? Imagine. They’d have an absolute field day. Brand me a stalker as well as a suspected child abductor. But my desire for answers overwhelms my fears.

I roll my shoulders back and forth and take a breath. Then I press my right toe against the wall, grab on with both hands and heave myself up so that I’m draped inelegantly across the top. I slide my legs down the other side and drop to the ground with a dull thud, remembering to bend my knees so I don’t jar my joints.

My heart pounds. I’m now on private property. Don’t think about it. Through the bare-limbed fruit trees, I stare down the long garden, clenching and unclenching my fists, trying not to dwell on the fact that I now need to pee. Somehow I move my legs, propel myself towards the house, across the white lawn, my footprints stark and incriminating.

Reaching a slightly raised patio, I slow my pace and come to a standstill, wondering what to do. Can I really be about to rap on this stranger’s back door? I creep up to the right-hand window and peer into a dark room, creating blinkers with my hands to block out next door’s security light, which has suddenly clicked on, making me even more nervous. I’m looking into the kitchen. The decor is dated, with a battered-looking Aga and 1960s units. The room is an absolute tip, with dirty plates piled high at the sink, old boots and shoes strewn around the floor and all kinds of unidentifiable paraphernalia covering the worktops and the table at the far end.

I cross the terrace to the other window.

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