She wrapped herself around my legs as I climbed out of the car, and whimpered appreciatively when I scratched the back of her neck. Laden with my shopping, I stepped onto the raised paved terrace which Robert had built right along the front of Highrise. Florrie followed close to my heels.
The door to the adjoining shed where we kept our bicycles was ajar and I pushed it shut with one foot as I walked past.
The front door was unlocked and I managed to open it, without having to put down any of my shopping, by leaning my shoulder against it and pushing the handle with my elbow.
Florrie squeezed past me heading for the kitchen. It was her dinner time, and Florrie had a tummy like an alarm clock. She had only one thing on her mind now. Food.
As I stepped into the flagstoned hallway I called out to Robbie, like I always did.
No response, so I called again. Louder. His room was at the top of the house. He may not have heard me. But somehow I didn’t think that was it. I paused. Uneasy. The shopping heavy in my arms. No, that was not it at all.
It was then that I began to feel the emptiness of the house. That I was overwhelmed with the certainty that Robbie was not there.
However, when I’d closed the door to the shed I’d seen his mountain bike propped against the far wall and, unless Robert or I were around to drive him, Robbie’s only means of transport was his bike. The house was too far away from anywhere for walking to be a reasonable option.
In any case Robbie rarely left the house without one of us, and he certainly would not do so without telling me. He would have called or texted.
No. He was upstairs in his room, too engrossed in his computer or his books to have been aware of the sound of the car pulling into the yard or to have heard me calling him.
I told myself off for having an overactive imagination and carried the shopping into the kitchen. I dumped it on the worktop, handmade by Robert from Dartmoor granite, and stretched my aching arms. Then, with a small moan of relief, I kicked off my shiny black ‘school’ shoes. They were nearly new, had heels I was no longer very used to, and did not feel entirely comfortable at the end of a long day. Gratefully, I thrust my feet into my well-worn old slippers.
The kitchen felt chilly and I realized when I reached out to touch the Aga that I certainly wasn’t imagining that. The range was barely warm. Perhaps unusually nowadays, ours was a solid fuel version. We fed it with wood, mostly gathered from our own land, on which grew sycamore, ash and pine regularly culled by Robert. And, certainly not unusually, Robbie seemed to have forgotten to stoke it. I opened the door to the fire compartment. There was just a faint glow at the bottom. I swiftly gathered up handfuls of small pieces of wood from the box which stood alongside the stove, piled them in, closed the door and hoped that Aga magic would ensure that its energy revived without my having to empty and relight the thing. I also made a mental note to chastise Robbie, not that I expected that to do any good.
Meanwhile Florrie pushed her wet nose against my leg and gazed at me imploringly. She had me exactly where she wanted me, that dog. Obediently, I emptied the best part of a tin of dog meat into her bowl along with some dried mixer.
Then I flicked the switch on the kettle to make tea, and began to unpack my shopping. But I was still battling with that inexplicable and overwhelming sense of unease. I walked to the bottom of the stairs and called up at the top of my voice.
‘I’m back, Robbie. Cup o’ tea?’
Still no reply.
I put one foot on the first stair and was just about to run up to the top of the house. That was what I wanted to do. But I didn’t. Instead I told myself to pull myself together. I was just being silly. Extremely silly.
The kettle would have boiled by now. I went back into the kitchen and made two steaming mugs of strong English Breakfast. I didn’t finish unpacking the shopping, though, nor did I put any of it away. I was, by now, in too much of a hurry. None the less, I kept telling myself I would soon be drinking my tea while sitting in the old cane rocking chair in Robbie’s room, quietly watching him at work until he was ready to come down for his supper.
I quite often did that. He never seemed to mind. From what I gathered from the few other mothers I spoke to, most boys of his age would hate it. But Robbie was different. Our relationship was different. And, after all, I never interrupted. I just sat in silence, unless he spoke to me first, looking out over the view of the moors or maybe thumbing through one of his biking or swimming magazines.
There was a sharp angle on the landing from which a second narrower staircase led up to Robbie’s room. Florrie had finished her dinner and was now able to take an interest in matters other than filling her belly. She came tearing up the stairs after me and pushed past just as I was trying to manoeuvre the awkward angle. I spilt some of the tea, a generous slug of which slurped out of both mugs, and swore under my breath.
I’d been trying to climb the stairs too quickly, of course, considering that I was clutching mugs, which, with the benefit of hindsight, I probably should not have filled to the brim.
It might have been irrational, but I remained so anxious to reach Robbie’s room, to see him there in his familiar surroundings, to watch him turn and smile at me, warm and welcoming, the way he always did, that I hadn’t been able to help hurrying.
Once more I told myself to pull myself together, and slowed to a more sensible pace as I climbed the last few stairs.
The door to Robbie’s room was open just a foot or so, probably pushed ajar by Florrie whom I could hear whimpering on the other side. Later I came to believe that somewhere in my subconscious I registered that the sound she was making was not her normal ‘pleased to see you’ noise. But, to be honest, I don’t really know whether I did or not.
I usually knocked before entering Robbie’s room. Even though I knew I was always welcome, even though there were no locks on any doors in our house, not even the bathrooms. Nobody had ever shown me much respect when I was fifteen, as far as I could remember, but I tried to treat Robbie with respect as well as love and all the other mother stuff.
I could not, however, knock while carrying two mugs.
Instead I called out.
‘Tea’s up, Robbie. Hands full. I’m coming in. OK?’
I pushed the door with one foot, aware as I did so that my son had still not replied. There hadn’t been a sound from him since the moment I had entered the house. The house I’d felt so sure was empty. The house which still felt empty of any other human occupation.
The door swung easily wide open on its well-oiled hinges. Everything in our house was well maintained. Robert saw to that.
I took just one step into the spacious attic room with its high vaulted ceiling and ancient blackened beams.
I am not a tall woman. The first thing I saw was Robbie’s feet. He was wearing the trainers I had given him for his birthday the previous May. They were black Adidas Originals with a narrow red and white trim. At first I think I looked only at the trainers, before allowing my gaze to travel upwards.
My son was suspended from the central beam stretching across the room, his back towards the mullioned windows which presented such a spectacular view of the countryside beyond, his face, his poor distorted face, directly towards me.
Florrie sat below him, staring up. She was still whimpering and now I could quite clearly detect a note of distress. Also, perhaps, of fear.
Robbie was hanging from a rope tied around his neck. Bizarrely, I recognized it as one of the lengths of extra-strong nylon cord, startlingly yellow and shiny, which we had bought, along with all manner of other new equipment, when he and his father had taken off on their bicycles for a few days’ camping on the moors during the summer holidays.