The Secrets You Hide

by Kate Helm

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A year or so before Sharon topped herself?’ She stands up. ‘I’ve got a picture of them all somewhere, let me see if I can find it.’

  She goes to the dresser and starts pulling out photo albums.

  ‘You think Emma and Jim had an affair?’

  ‘Well, you have to ask yourself what pushed Sharon over the edge.’

  Or who? I think. And it’s the second time she’s asked the question. Before I’ve worked out how to reply, she thumps a big photo album on the table.

  ‘Found it!’

  She riffles through – I catch glimpses of children, parties, groups. Chrissie seems to have taken it on herself to document the life of her street.

  She must have had offers from the papers for these after the fire, and I admire her a little more for not selling. One of my dad’s colleagues showed no restraint and flogged my father’s pallid ID card mugshot. It’s the media go-to on the rare occasions they revisit the case – in it he looks every inch the killer in waiting.

  Chrissie slips a large photo out of its cellophane pocket. I try to hold it at my best viewing angle without her noticing. It shows a summer barbecue in somebody’s back garden. Everyone has lined up together, ten or so adults, holding up bottles and glasses. Kids at their sides or playing in a lime green paddling pool behind them. Chrissie is missing: I imagine her behind the camera, bossing people into position and insisting they ‘say cheese!’

  Jim is at the centre of this picture. To see him, I need to position it to my left. Next to him, not Sharon, but a pretty young woman with coppery hair in a twenties-style bob, wearing a striped cotton dress. It takes me a few moments to recognise her as the careworn woman I saw in the pub on the night Jim got engaged.

  ‘Is that Emma?’

  She nods. ‘Yes. this’d be, what, the summer before Sharon took her life. That’s Robert, on the other side of her.’

  The one that got away.

  He’s barely taller than his wife, and a head shorter than Jim. I tilt the picture towards the light. His face is pleasant, and his suit – a bit OTT for a barbecue – fits him so well it might have been tailor-made. But he’s not handsome the way Jim is.

  ‘He left town, didn’t he?’

  ‘Around the time Emma started to show with her second kid. Jodie. Poor little lamb. But men do that, sometimes, don’t they? Get cold feet. They’re never the ones left holding the babies.’

  ‘Do you think Robert suspected he might not be the baby’s father?’

  ‘Nothing gets past you, eh?’ Chrissie shrugs. ‘Who knows. Only time I had much to do with him was when he built that.’ She points at the dresser.

  ‘Robert made that?’

  I hadn’t thought about what he did for a living and seeing this rather beautiful thing he created makes him seem more real.

  ‘He was a chippie. No, more than that. A craftsman. Spent hours in here making sure every detail was right. Before then I’d thought he was a bit up himself. Too good for round here with his fancy car and his aftershave. He always wore buckets of it. What kind of a man does that?’

  One who likes to smell good, I think. Hardly a crime, except in the eyes of the judgemental Chrissie. I can’t wait to get out of here, but I need to keep pushing.

  ‘Awful,’ I say. ‘But the dresser is lovely.’

  ‘Yeah. He was good company, as it turned out. Not a snob, like I’d thought. The car and the rest, I think he wasn’t well off as a kid. Wanted things to be better for his family, his boy.’

  Yet he abandoned them, what, six months later?

  I look again at the photo and I notice something else: Charlie sitting at Robert’s feet, the child’s podgy hand reaching up towards his father, who smiles back. The kid can’t be older than two. His round face is unblemished – of course, the fire hadn’t happened yet.

  There’s an intimacy about the moment that makes it more compelling than anything else in the photo.

  ‘They look sweet together, Robert and Charlie.’

  ‘He talked about the kid a lot . . .’ Chrissie takes the album from me and closes it with a slap. ‘I thought this was about Mr Fielding trying it on with you?’

  ‘It was,’ I say. ‘But I’m curious about the O’Neills, too. They are part of the story. And Robert doesn’t look the type to do a runner?’

  Chrissie says nothing. Then she shakes her head.

  ‘I hate to break it to you, Georgia, but some men aren’t very nice. Now, I need to be getting on.’

  The mood has changed. I’m sure she knows more but she’s closing down. Honesty is my last throw of the dice.

  ‘Please, Chrissie. Help me understand. I’ve spent hours with Jim and I feel like I know less about him now than when I started.’

  Chrissie returns the album to the dresser. Her blouse is sticking to her back, a line of sweat darkening her spine. The lasagne is beginning to cook, and the meaty smell makes me nauseous.

  ‘What do you talk about when you’re painting him? You and Mr Fielding?’

  ‘Family. It seems to be everything to him. He’s gone out of his way to look after others, including Jodie and Charlie. He even wants to create affordable homes. He’s one of the good guys, isn’t he?’

  Chrissie opens her mouth and I wait.

  ‘If I were you, love, I’d finish your painting and move on. Everybody has secrets. I’m not saying his are worse than anyone else’s. But whatever they are, they’re nothing to do with you.’

  I’m being dismissed.

  ‘You’re right. Thank you, anyway.’

  I stand up and as I do, I see Charlie on the floor again. His pose is exactly the same as it is in the photo: he reaches up, to me, or to his unseen father. Something happened to deprive this kid of his dad.

  ‘One last thing. Do you have any idea where Robert might have moved to?

  Chrissie sighs. ‘For Pete’s sake. How should I know? It was chaos, back then. First poor Sharon. Next thing, Emma mooning round town, asking everyone if they’d seen her husband. No one had a bloody clue. Least of all Jim. He was in pieces after Sharon died, hardly capable of doing up his shoelaces, never mind . . .’

  I wait for her to finish the sentence.

  ‘Never mind what?’

  She stares at me for so long that I wonder if she’s heard me. Then finally she speaks.

  ‘Like I said before, anyone who might really know what went on that Christmas, is long gone.’

  She shakes her head, and ushers me towards the back door.

  53

  I walk down Chrissie’s drive, and out of Cherry Blossom Lane.

  Once her house – and number 9 – are out of sight, I lean against a tree, glad to be alone again.

  Long gone.

  Chrissie contradicted herself with everything she said. Implying that Jim drove his wife to despair, then insisting he was the perfect husband. Suggesting Robert was a weak man who was tired of fatherhood, but showing me a photograph that seemed to demonstrate the opposite.

  I look at my watch. Ten to five. There’s one last conversation to have before I see Jim again.

  Little Charlie is walking ahead of me, keen to make tracks.

  ‘Let’s go and see how you turned out, eh?’ I say.

  The streets are still quiet. Sometimes, in Brighton, I long for the absence of voices. But here, it doesn’t feel peaceful. As I pass rows of houses, the blank eyes of the windows reflect my blurry image back at myself. I think of all the secrets behind them.

  The garage where Charlie works – or where he’s a wage slave grease monkey according to his Facebook profile – is under a line of old railway arches, though the town’s station closed decades ago. A man – forties, rail-thin – stands outside, talking to someone on his mobile.

  ‘Is Charlie here?’ I ask.

  He nods towards the garage.

  The young man has his back to me, as he sweeps the floor. I glance around, looking for my Charlie, and am relieved the child has
gone. I’m going to need all my concentration to handle this.

  ‘Hi,’ I call out.

  Grown-up Charlie doesn’t hear me. The fluid way he moves as he drags the broom across the concrete is so familiar.

  ‘Hello?’ I say, louder. Too loud.

  He spins round, tearing earbuds from his ears. Even without my Charlie here, finally being face to face makes me dizzy.

  ‘We’re closing for the weekend, sorry.’

  ‘I don’t want my car fixed. I want to talk to you.’

  His hand darts to his face and he wipes it across the area of his cheek which was burned in the fire. He leaves a smear of oil behind.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About your godfather.’

  ‘Yeah, no. I gotta leave now. Mum’s working tonight so I’m minding Jodie. Can’t be late, she gets upset.’

  It’s a relief Emma won’t be around. I daren’t risk talking to her, because she has so many reasons to be loyal and report back to Jim.

  ‘It’s important.’ I trot out the lie I’ve planned. ‘It’s about a surprise for Jim. For his wedding. It won’t take long.’

  Charlie shrugs. ‘You could walk with me, I s’pose.’

  ‘Great!’

  ‘All right, I just gotta—’

  He waves down at his blue overalls and I realise he wants me to leave while he changes. I step outside and wait. His boss is off the phone now, and I hear him ribbing Charlie when he emerges.

  ‘Hey, toy boy, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, eh, kid?’

  Charlie is blushing when he steps alongside me. The first time I saw him, he was with his mates, cocky and laddish. Now he just seems terribly young.

  ‘Did you hear that Jim is having his picture painted for his wedding?’ I ask.

  He shrugs and keeps walking.

  ‘I’m the artist who is doing it. I’ve spent a couple of days drawing him. But I also want to talk to other people who know him well.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘A portrait isn’t like a photograph. It’s layered. Every time you look at the painting, you see something new about the person. Their kindness, sense of humour, their sadness. That’s why I want to know how other people see Jim.’

  He crosses the road towards a brambly bank with a path worn by decades of people taking the same short cut.

  ‘Right.’ He sounds dubious. I don’t blame him.

  ‘I hear he’s been good to you, since your dad . . .’ I leave the sentence unfinished.

  ‘Fucked off and left us to it?’

  Charlie sounds defiant, as though he’s expecting me to tell him off for swearing.

  Instead I say, ‘I know what that’s like. I haven’t seen my dad since I was twelve.’

  I hate using my own past this way.

  ‘I don’t really remember mine. Except that he left at Christmas.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. Best present he could have given us. If he couldn’t even be bothered to say goodbye, why should I care?’

  I think of the little boy in the picture, reaching up for Robert. If Jim did kill his friend, he broke his child’s heart too.

  ‘You have no idea why he left?’

  ‘Thought you were here to help you paint Uncle Jim better?’

  Charlie is cannier than I thought. I consider whether he might be Jim’s son, but the dates don’t fit: Chrissie said Robert moved here with his son already in tow. Charlie looks wrong, too: his features are too rounded and pleasant, with none of Jim’s power.

  I pull myself up the last part of the bank by a branch. Something pierces my palm.

  ‘Ouch.’

  I look down and a thorn is embedded in the centre. I hadn’t seen that they were roses.

  Charlie comes back to me and inspects my hand.

  ‘That’s gone deep.’

  He reaches over and pulls out the thorn. A bead of blood appears and he passes me a clean tissue from his bag.

  Ahead of us, there’s a new estate, the small houses built in little clusters. I sense Charlie’s nearly home. I’m running out of time.

  ‘Your dad is a carpenter, isn’t he? Is that how he met Jim, working on site?’

  Charlie shakes his head. ‘They knew each other way before that, when they were my age. Uncle Jim even went to jail for him. My dad is a selfish shit.’

  ‘It sounds as though Jim was more of a father to you than Robert.’

  Charlie glares at me. ‘Wish he was my fucking dad. He wouldn’t have left Mum with no money and nothing to flog but a bunch of fancy suits he never even wore.’

  ‘Maybe your father didn’t have a choice?’

  ‘Course he did. I know why he left.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘He knew Mum was having Jodie and he couldn’t handle the idea of a disabled kid. Not good for his image. Even though my sister is worth ten of him.’

  But Jim said Emma didn’t know Jodie had Down syndrome until delivery.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Jim told me.’

  ‘But . . .’

  Has Jim lied to me, or to Charlie? Maybe he’s lied to everyone.

  ‘Jim won’t like it, you asking all these questions. Hates gossip.’

  ‘It’s not gossip. Everything you say helps me to make the portrait richer, but I want it to be a surprise. So please don’t mention our chat.’

  I want to ask even more questions – like, do you know Emma has had your father declared dead? But that’s something I’d never do.

  Charlie shakes his head and stomps off, conversation closed. As he approaches the cul-de-sac opposite he stops and, for a moment, I think he’s going to come back, to shout at me, maybe. Or tell me something else?

  But then he waves at someone in the garden of the furthest house and breaks into a jog. Jodie. She comes running towards him and as they meet in the street, he lifts her up as though she’s five, not fifteen, and I can hear her giggling from here.

  54

  In my room, I bolt the door and lay out my big sheet of sketches on the floor. I take out a pencil and begin to draw. Robert is now a person, not a silhouette: a carpenter who wears too much cologne. A loving father.

  A victim?

  Charlie hates his dad, but then he never really knew him. All he has to go on is his absence, and what others have said about him.

  Especially what Jim has said about him. And maybe Jim has strong reasons to stop Charlie – or anyone else – ever trying to find Robert O’Neill. But why has no one warned Charlie that his father has been declared dead?

  A hard copy of Robert’s probate paperwork should have been sent to my flat by now; perhaps it’s waiting for me at home. I go to the records office site to check the despatch date.

  You have one new download waiting to view.

  I hadn’t realised it’d be online too. I only have my phone with its tiny display, but I want to read it. The PDF opens quickly: it’s two pages, the first a covering note giving details of where and when it was filed.

  The second page is handwritten: three paragraphs. It’s hard for me to read, though I can see how painstaking his script is. It fits what I know about this careful man with his good clothes and his detailed craftsmanship.

  I magnify the text, to read just a couple of letters at a time. The will is dated the year before Robert’s disappearance, and the address at the top is 22 Oakland Close. The first paragraph must have been copied from a book or the internet: I declare this is my last will and testament.

  The second lets just a little of this man’s personality bleed through.

  I wish I had more to leave her, but everything I own goes to my beautiful wife, Emma Caitlin O’Neill. I hope that we will have many decades together but I trust that she will care for our cherished son, Charlie, and that perhaps one day he might take up the carpentry tools I’ve used to make a living for my small but perfect family. Whenever I die, I will have been a lucky, lucky man.

  Jodie wasn’t even concei
ved then, I suppose.

  As to my funeral and the disposal of my remains, I leave the arrangements to Emma, whatever makes it least painful for her. But I would ask that I am cremated, and my ashes scattered by the playground in our special place here in the Forest, so she and Charlie can visit me, and he can play, while she enjoys the peace, knowing I am at rest too.

  The will has been witnessed by a couple of people whose names I don’t recognise. But the unexpected sweetness of the words actually makes me catch my breath.

  Charlie should have seen this, should know how his father felt about him. Yet no one in Ashdean even seems to have told him that Robert is presumed dead.

  Perhaps because the man they fear was behind it could come after them too?

  The canvas of Jim leans against the wall, the box of new paints beside it. I bought the oils the publisher wanted me to use before I knew about my vision, before I understood this last sitting was all going to be a charade. I haven’t used oils in twenty years – even the slightest whiff of that tarry smell along the corridor at art school was enough to send me gasping out into the street, the olfactory memory of the last time I used them literally nauseating.

  The painting will never be finished, whatever happens at the sitting. I couldn’t care less. All of it – the book, the publisher, and my rivalry with Maureen – seem trivial now. Even Oli and Neena feel like characters from someone else’s life.

  They are of course, in a way: because they are part of Georgia’s.

  As I pick up the tubes of oil paint, I can almost feel myself becoming Suzanne again, the girl who tried to capture the world – and the people around her – as she saw it. The girl who loved faces, and the stories they told.

  The girl who hasn’t dared to look properly at her own face in the mirror for twenty years.

  *

  ‘I want you to paint all our faces,’ Pip had demanded, as we discussed the plans for his eighth birthday. It was going to be the best ever.

  ‘A portrait of you and your friends?’

  I remember feeling pleased. My first commission.

  ‘No! Paint on our faces. Like superheroes. I will be Spider-Man.’

  Of course I said yes. No one but Dad ever said no to Pip. He’d already bought his outfit on a trip to Bristol with Mum. He knew exactly what music he wanted too – ‘Tubthumping’ played on a loop, so all his mates could throw themselves at the sprung floor of the church hall, screaming ‘And we get up again’, at the top of their voices.