Light glared into the room from the gap between the wall and the curtains, and Jess pulled the duvet high over her head, her breath circulating hot and damp in the confined space, but still the images kept coming. She scrunched her eyes until her forehead ached, but instead of forcing the memories from her mind, it sharpened their focus until she was back in her childhood home on the day it had happened.
Chapter 16
September 1988
Jess opens the shed door and peers around in the darkness, her eyes accustoming to the gloom. She steps inside, wary of spiders and their webs, but decides she would rather not see them even if they are there. Reaching toward the flowerpot on the middle shelf, she pulls it toward her and hears the key rattle before her fingers find it. She grabs it and backs out of the door, heads across the garden and through the side gate, around to the front of the house.
When her after-school netball practice had been canceled, it had crossed Jess’s mind that her mum would expect her to find Lily, tell her that she was finishing early and wait until her sister was free to bring her home. But as she had hovered at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the fifth-form classrooms, something had stopped her. She had thought perhaps it had been her newness at secondary school that had made her fearful of entering the fifth-formers’ territory: just two weeks since her first day, her August birthday making her one of the youngest pupils in a thousand-strong school. But she had known, deep down, that it was really because she did not want to be at home alone with Lily.
Throughout the summer holidays, Jess had craved an escape from the tears, the tension, the hushed conversations behind closed doors. For months she has not accepted invitations to friends’ houses in case they look at her in the way they had at the end of last term when everyone found out what had happened: those looks of curiosity, pity, sympathy, and horror that had made her want to shout into their faces: It’s not my fault. I didn’t want this to happen. I didn’t know how to stop it. She has not wanted to invite friends home in case they discover the truth about how her family are living now: her mum’s tear-stained cheeks emerging only rarely from under the duvet in the spare bedroom; her dad bookending his ever-lengthening days at the office with a quiet restlessness, as though he cannot sit still but does not know where he wants to go; Lily disappearing before Jess is up, often staying out all day as though the house is contaminated and she fears infection, although Jess has no idea where her sister goes, whether she sees anyone, what she does.
Jess cannot seek refuge in her friends for fear they will ask questions she is unable to answer.
She slides the key into the front door, thinking about the Oreos and mug of hot chocolate she will get from the kitchen before settling down in front of Grange Hill. Closing the door behind her, she feels a shiver tiptoe down her spine and fears momentarily the reprisals when her mum discovers her transgression. Having only recently celebrated her eleventh birthday, she is not supposed to be in the house alone.
It is only when she turns and sees what is at the top of the stairs that the cold trail along her spine spreads toward her ribs, her neck, her head, until her whole body is ice cold from her scalp to her toes.
Jess stares, unblinking, knowing what she is seeing yet unable to comprehend it.
It is her dad, but also not her dad. He is not standing on the landing, waving and smiling, calling her petal and asking about her day at school. Her dad is swinging from a beam on the ceiling, the cord of her mum’s navy blue dressing gown around his neck, his head slumped forward, his legs dangling beneath him.
Jess stares, cannot take her eyes off him, even as she feels the nausea swirl in her stomach. She stares at his suit and tie, his freshly polished shoes, waiting for him to raise his head, smile at her, tell her it’s all some terrible joke. But he does not move.
She does not move her eyes from him, yet somehow she absorbs the rest of the scene: the broken dining chair lying at the bottom of the stairs; the fat double knot under his chin; the deafening silence that seems to be pressing down on her until she fears it will crush her on the hallway floor.
Jess does not move, her body remote, distinct, as though it no longer belongs to her.
And then, all of a sudden, a sound is ringing in her ears and vibrating across her skin, but it is only when she hears a key in the front door, only when Mrs. Sheppard, their neighbor, bursts into the hall and gasps, that Jess realizes the sound she can hear is screaming and that the screams are her own.
She is aware of Mrs. Sheppard’s arm around her shoulders, of being led into the sitting room and lowered onto the sofa, of Mrs. Sheppard speaking but the words feel gluey in Jess’s ears. She sits on the sofa, her whole body trembling, and she knows there is nothing she can do to stop it. She hears Mrs. Sheppard whispering in the hallway, and for a split second she thinks she has got it all wrong, that Mrs. Sheppard is chatting to her dad, that it has all been some terrible misunderstanding. But above the noise of the blood pounding in her ears she hears the words police, dead, and body and they sound strange, unreal, as though they have drifted accidentally into her house from some other time and place.
Mrs. Sheppard returns and sits down next to her, holds her hand, says the same words over and over: You poor girl. You poor, poor girl. It’s all going to be OK. Jess can hear the horror in her voice, knows that what she is saying is not true. All Jess wants is her mum to be there, to hold her and stroke her hair. And with each passing second that she is absent, the panic grips tighter around Jess’s throat that perhaps something has happened to her too, perhaps her mum will never come to rescue her.
And then there are two police officers in the room—a man and a woman—though Jess has no recollection of them arriving. They are asking her questions but she cannot get their words to stick in her ears so she stares silently at her hands, watching them tremble, wishing that everyone would stop talking, that they would all go away. She senses Mrs. Sheppard buzzing around the room, sees the policeman scribbling into his miniature notebook, hears the policewoman speaking into the walkie-talkie attached to her shoulder. She wants them all to leave but knows she could not bear to be left alone with what is at the top of the stairs.
And then suddenly her mum is there, holding her tight as if fusing their bodies together. Jess feels the first hot tears burn her cheeks, feels the heat of her breath pressed against her mum’s chest, feels the air scorch her throat and char her lungs. She buries herself in her mum’s cotton blouse, not knowing whether she feels relief at her presence or dread in their collective horror.
She does not know how long they stand there, her and her mum, locked inside their shock and grief. She hears more people bustling in and out of the house but will not listen to their explanations of who they are and what they are doing because then she would have to acknowledge that this is actually happening. Instead, she clings to her mum, feeling as though she is adrift in a vast ocean and that tethering herself to someone else is her only chance of survival.
She senses Lily’s presence before she sees her.
And then her sister is standing next to them, and her mum is explaining what has happened, and Jess wants to clamp her hands over her ears, wants someone to take the words away and with them the pain. And when she hears Lily’s sharp intake of breath, when she hears it exhumed in loud, potent sobs, all she wants to do is scream into Lily’s face: This is all your fault. If you hadn’t said what you said, if you hadn’t done what you did, Dad would still be alive.
Fury weaves through Jess’s ribs and encircles her heart. She had thought she couldn’t hate Lily any more than she had at the beginning of the summer but it is as though her anger three months ago was nothing more than a dress rehearsal for the enmity now coursing through her veins.
Now, she thinks. Now is the time to tell her mum the truth about what happened. Her mum needs to know that this is all Lily’s fault.
She prepares to speak, to say the words that have been eluding her all summer. But her mum begins to cry s
o loudly that the sound fills Jess’s ears, swims inside her head, slips down, and lodges in her throat. And she knows she cannot say anything, that she does not have the courage or the cruelty—she is not sure which—to tell her mum the truth. Instead Jess cleaves to her mum and closes her eyes. But all that greets her is the image of her dad’s body looming over her like a grotesque version of the stick men she used to draw in a game of Hangman. As Jess clings to her mum, grief and fury simmering in her chest, a single thought hammers inside her head: Lily is the reason that her dad is swinging from a noose at the top of the stairs. If it weren’t for Lily, the man Jess loves most in the world would still be alive.
Chapter 17
Audrey
The illuminated digits on the bedside alarm clock flicked listlessly from one number to the next.
3:57 a.m.
Audrey turned onto her side, experiencing a breathlessness that had been bothering her for weeks, but until now she hadn’t dared question its cause.
3:58 a.m.
Almost fifteen hours had passed since she’d seen the oncologist. More than twelve hours since she had arrived at Lily’s office, fully intending to confide in her. The desire not to be left alone with the news had been overwhelming as she’d waited in reception for Lily’s assistant to collect her. But then Lily had asked about the hospital appointment and there had been such concern in her voice that Audrey had known she couldn’t do it.
She had kept up the pretense all afternoon and evening, during anxious phone calls first from Jess and then Phoebe. By the time Mia had arrived home from the library, Audrey was so well rehearsed in the lie she almost believed it herself.
Yes, all OK, thanks . . . Nothing much to report . . . No change.
OK: that catchall word signifying everything and nothing.
Audrey closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but for months—ever since her original diagnosis back in September—her brain had been busy stoking memories she’d spent years trying to suppress. Scenes from family history now hummed in her head like Muzak in an elevator from which there was no escape. It was as though her mind, knowing it had so little future, had become obsessed with the past. Except there was no solace in looking back; she knew that. But sometimes it seemed to Audrey that she had forgotten all the things she wanted to remember, and remembered everything she wished she could forget.
For months now she had been haunted by memories of Edward: Edward on their wedding day, strong and handsome in his charcoal gray suit and royal blue tie. How happy they had been at the service in Islington Town Hall, just their parents as guests and witnesses, her wedding dress a long cream halter-neck that flowed seamlessly over her five-month bump. How Edward’s enthusiasm at impending parenthood had been infectious, his careful research into everything they needed to buy, everything they needed to be, making her fall in love with him in ways she had never expected. Edward holding Lily the day she’d been born, cradling her in his arms, tears in his eyes, telling Audrey he had never been happier. Edward arriving home from work and kissing Audrey on the lips before seeking out the girls to bathe them, read to them, put them to bed. Edward planning trips to the cinema, holidays by the seaside, excursions chosen to ensure everyone was happy. Their lives, for so many years, lived to a soundtrack of laughter.
Miracles do happen.
Edward’s voice rang in her ears as clearly as if he were lying in bed next to her. She knew that was what he’d say if he were there now. He’d said it so often, trying to reassure her, to be strong enough for both of them. And later he’d said it again, but by then with such rage and disbelief it was as though a different man had inhabited his body and taken over his voice.
If Edward were there now, he would hold her hands in his and look directly into her eyes, determined to convince her that, in spite of the oncologist’s diagnosis, there was still a chance of recovery. This time, Audrey wondered, might she believe him?
4:09 a.m.
Audrey breathed silently into the darkness, thinking about Jess in the room next door and how there never seemed to be the space or time for the two of them to talk. When she had moved in, she had imagined them chatting late into the night over bottles of red wine and squares of dark chocolate, the drawbridge finally lowering, Jess at last confiding in Audrey what had troubled her all these years. In truth, she felt no closer to Jess now than she had two months ago.
A car door slammed and Audrey felt her body tense.
She rolled over, a sharp pain needling beneath her ribs that caused her to inhale short, staccato breaths. She thought about her conversation with Jess a few weeks ago, recalling the fury that had greeted her suggestion that Jess meet Lily after all these years. And before she knew it, a memory was edging into her thoughts: the memory of how, once before, she had got it all so horribly wrong.
Chapter 18
July 2003
Two little girls squeal as bubbles float through the air, popping on their hands as they reach out to catch them. “More, more!”
Audrey twists the stick in the plastic bottle, pulls it out, and blows gently, watching the bubbles drift off into the garden. Some glide over the fence, others land on waxy magnolia leaves, bee-laden lavender bushes, the multicolored petals of sweet peas, geraniums, begonias, fuchsias. The late afternoon sunshine illuminates the bubbles as they hover in the air, their rims glistening like the decisive moment of an annular eclipse.
“More, Granny, do some more!”
Audrey smiles as the girls jump and giggle, feeling the warmth of their camaraderie. She had known this would happen: that they would be friends, given the chance. For five years she has waited to test her belief and now her only regret is that she has left it so long.
Phoebe grabs Mia’s hand and they race to the far corner of the garden, stopping under the apple tree. Phoebe whispers something into her cousin’s ear before they grin at one another with wide-eyed wonder. Audrey can only speculate as to her granddaughters’ secret. It is long overdue, she thinks, the girls finally meeting. It is time they were allowed secrets of their own.
“Gran, we’re thirsty! Mia says she saw lemonade in the fridge!”
They stare at her, smiling and impish, and Audrey cannot help but laugh. “I may have some. But only for girls who promise to be really good for the rest of the afternoon.”
They nod in unison, staring at her with round, earnest eyes.
“Come on then. I’ll get you both a glass.”
The girls clutch one another’s hands and skip toward her, bare knees lifting at right angles beneath Mia’s floral dress and Phoebe’s navy shorts. They sit down next to each other at Audrey’s kitchen table, legs swinging, faces flushed from the midsummer heat, and for a split second it is as though time has reversed and her own little girls are sitting in the kitchen, grinning at one another with collusive smiles.
Audrey studies them while trying not to stare. She does not want to unnerve them, not when they are so relaxed in one another’s company. But it is strange seeing them together for the first time. For so long she has imagined what it might be like to have her two grandchildren in the same room, but until today it has been nothing more than a fantasy.
Phoebe gurgles the last of her lemonade through her straw and Mia copies her, the two of them eyeing one another and giggling, their smiles so similar it is as though one has been molded from the other. Audrey had known, before the girls met today, that their resemblance was uncanny, but it is only now seeing them side by side that she truly appreciates the similarities: the same sleek dark hair; the same questioning green eyes; the same porcelain skin. A stranger in the street would mistake them for twins, not cousins.
Audrey glances down at her watch—5:50 p.m.—trying not to think about how the coming minutes may unfold.
“Right, ladies, would you like to go outside for a last play? Your mums will be here soon.”
Mia and Phoebe hop off the wooden chairs and grab each other’s hands. They run out of the back door and onto the lawn, bending
down on all fours to prowl through the grass like lions, occasionally roaring at each other or stopping to nuzzle with an easy affection that tugs at Audrey’s heart.
She looks down at her watch again. She does not know who will arrive first—Lily or Jess—but if she had to hazard a guess she would assume Lily. Even though Jess is the more protective, and Lily has the higher-profile career, it is Lily who is punctual and precise. In all the years Audrey has been taking care of Mia—after school, during the holidays, at weekends—she can think of few occasions when Jess hasn’t been late to collect her.
Audrey clears away the girls’ lemonade glasses and throws the straws into the bin, wondering when Mia and Phoebe might next sit together at her kitchen table. It is the summer holidays and she does not have to return to work at the school library until the week before Mia and Phoebe return to their respective schools in September. Feasibly she could look after them both every day. She already has Mia throughout the school holidays—one more grandchild would be no problem. It would, in fact, be a delight. She begins to imagine all the things the three of them could do together: trips to London Zoo, the Natural History Museum, the National Gallery; picnics at the seaside, the park, Kew Gardens; exploring the wide open spaces of Cliveden, Polesden Lacey, Hatchlands Park, all the National Trust properties Audrey rarely visits because there is too much melancholy in going alone. A fantasy about how the summer might unfold plays out in Audrey’s head, accompanied by visions of her granddaughters laughing, the sun gleaming against their dark hair, their years of separation melting away.
Audrey brings the dustcloth to a halt on the kitchen table. She is getting ahead of herself. First, she must navigate the next few minutes. Only then will she know what the rest of the summer—what her family’s future—may hold.
If Only I Could Tell You Page 10