Sophie Draper - Magpie

‘Claire. Sally said you were looking for me.’

His voice is clipped and professional. He smiles at Imogen.

‘Would you give us a moment?’

She throws me an anxious glance.

‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Lovely to see you, Claire.’

Duncan’s arms are toned, his neck bare against his dark blue tunic. His name is embroidered on the front pocket: Duncan Henderson, Clinical Director. He waits until Imogen has gone, then turns on me.

‘What are you doing, Claire? I really don’t appreciate you coming onto the ward like this. It confuses the hell out of the staff and undermines my authority. We’ve talked about this before.’

He steps between me and the Great Dane, gently pushing the dog back into its crate.

‘Come on, now,’ he says to the dog. ‘I know, I’m sorry. But you’re next, I promise.’ He pats the dog.

I feel the heat rising up my neck. The Great Dane moves slowly around in the confined space, claws tangling in the blanket at its feet. Water spills from the bowl. I feel clumsy and embarrassed as Duncan slips the door catch back into position. He turns to me, but I speak before he does.

‘She’s got a dislocated hip and I noticed the femoral head on the x-ray—’

‘Have you been going through my notes?’ He’s openly angry now.

‘You left them on the kitchen table,’ I say. ‘It’s the second time this month, isn’t it? Dislocation. Manipulation isn’t going to work this time, there’s a—’

‘You need to go, Claire. And leave me to do my job. Why did you come here?’

‘I …’

I don’t know what to say. I came to say hello? He’s not going to believe that. I thought … I don’t know what I thought – that there was still a way for us to connect? When we were newly married, we always discussed difficult cases. As I look at his face now, I know he doesn’t even remember that, or doesn’t want to. And he certainly doesn’t want to hear what I have to say about the Great Dane. Well, screw you, Duncan, you can work it out for yourself, then.

‘Nothing. I was in town and I was dropping off the notes you left behind.’

I rummage in my bag and produce a folder. He takes it, our fingers not even touching.

But that’s a lie. The file is just an excuse. I know there’s no point in trying anymore.

I came for a look, to check out the staff. To work out if … which one of them, this time, it might be.

I was never quite sure about this house. It’s not a house, it’s a barn. A great, vast tomb of a place, all gleaming sleek lines and huge panes of glass. Very beautiful, very impressive, but not a home. Not at first, not to me.

Duncan said I’d get used to it. All that space, the mod cons, the view – that amazing aspect over the valley. It’s Derbyshire at its best, lush and verdant with the reservoir glittering at the bottom of the fields. And the privacy. There’s not another house for at least a mile in each direction, who wouldn’t want that? And even I had to admit, I did appreciate the privacy.

But home to me is smaller. Shoes by the back door, coffee stains on the table, dog hairs on the sofa, knick-knacks, photographs and postcards cluttering the mantelpiece. A proper mantelpiece, not one of those engineered slabs of wood buried in the wall.

If he clears my stuff away, I discreetly put it back. And if Joe, our son, or Arthur, the dog, leave muddy footprints on the tiles, I cheer. That first scratch on the polished work surface in the kitchen was uniquely satisfying. Always striving for perfection is not much fun.

The front door glides shut with a soft clunk. Duncan has gone to work. I hear the smooth hum of his car and the measured crunch of wheels on gravel. I stretch out the fingers of my hand and roll my shoulders. Then I gather my long hair at the back of my head and twist it into a loose bun. Strands of brown hair fall on either side of my face; I never was much good at grooming.

The wind gusts across the walls of the house and a sweep of rain splatters against the full-height window in the sitting room. I see my own shape reflected back; it makes me look taller, larger than I am, at least that’s what I tell myself. Strong. The sky is green, not grey, coloured by the triple-layered tinted glass so that even the view is tainted by Duncan’s choice of architecture.

Everything about this place was his choice, not mine.

I turn back to the sink. The deep-set window behind it was the only thing left unsullied by the builders. At my insistence. One last remnant of the building that was before, the old cottage that stood beside the barn. I would have kept it whole, perhaps linked by a glass atrium, but Duncan wanted it gone, to focus on the barn itself, stripped and open to the roof. There’s not much sense that this was all once a busy working farm.

As I plunge the mug into the hot water, I see my son, Joe, crossing the lawn from the top field. His head is bent against the weather, his dark hair damp and curling against his neck.

Moments later, the utility room door flies open and dead leaves bluster across the floor. Arthur, our black Labrador, scampers inside. His jaws are slack, drooling with saliva, and he shakes the rain from his coat so that water sprays on to the cupboard doors. He heads for his metal drinking bowl and I hear the sound of his tongue pushing it across the floor.

Joe hops on one foot and then the other, slinging each boot into the corner by the ironing board.

‘For heaven’s sake, Joe, take some care!’

He ignores me. He doesn’t even look up as his awkward frame passes into the kitchen.

‘Where have you been?’

It’s a stupid question, I know the answer. It’s almost eight o’clock in the morning and he’s been out all night. Not clubbing or drinking like most teenagers – I should be so lucky – but out there, in the fields.

Joe doesn’t reply and I see that ‘thing’ he always takes with him, the metal detector. He’s left it against the wall, looping the headphones and cable over the handle. He crosses the kitchen to find the biscuit tin, fishing out a handful of digest-ives. He shoves one in his mouth and the rest stick out from between his fingers like the roof of the Sydney Opera House.

‘Joe!’

I raise my voice, trying to break into his thoughts, but he simply gestures to his full mouth with his biscuit knuckle-duster and leaves the room. I swear I love my son very much, but his lack of eye contact cuts right through me sometimes, even now after all these years.

Today, he seems more than usually distracted.

He takes the stairs two at a time. A door bangs and the music starts. Thump, thump. Rude and raucous and irreverent. Very satisfying. The volume blasts up a notch, a heavy tuneless beat that reverberates through the ceiling. There’s the surge of hot water from the shower in the bathroom. The sound carries across the open roof spaces in the barn. You can hear everything, despite the distance. I let it wash over me. It’s the silence of the house that gets to me, when he isn’t here. Like a cathedral with no worshippers, a grand theatrical production that no one comes to watch. But when he is here, the noise of him annoys me, too. Eventually. There’s no pleasing me. My mouth twists into a smile.

At least he’s looking after himself. Not like before.

I dry my hands, leaving the towel dumped untidily on the kitchen island. I pour hot water from the kettle into a new mug. My fingers reach around to comfort myself and I breathe in the warm steam. The familiar smell of coffee tickles my throat. Familiar is good: a hot drink, a slab of bread thick with butter. It grounds me.

At least this time my son has come home.

‘There was this man ten years ago who discovered a hoard in Somerset.’