Ten Little Words

by Leah Mercer

  And it wasn’t just physical. Inside of me, my heart had expanded, knocking down any remaining barriers and allowing me to feel. I let myself smile at people on the promenade and even exchange greetings. Far from being irritated by interruptions from my colleagues at work, I was actually enjoying collaborating with a team. Aunt Carolyn was recovering well and, more times than not, I was the one who called, not her. I’d yet to go for a drink with Lou, but when my aunt was well again, I’d get in touch.

  It wasn’t always easy, taking these first steps towards happiness. I was so used to tucking myself away that reaching out and engaging – feeling – was foreign and unnatural . . . another language I had to learn. Despite my discomfort, though, I wouldn’t go back to building my walls again. Gradually, I was learning. Every day, I was becoming more fluent in the language of life.

  I was moseying along the promenade on my way to work one morning, breathing in the salty scent that rolled straight off the waves, when my mobile rang. I squinted at the screen. The number wasn’t familiar and I almost shoved the phone back in my pocket, but something made me click ‘answer’.

  ‘Hello?’ My voice was loud on the empty pavement.

  ‘It’s Angus.’

  Angus? I nearly dropped the phone in surprise. We hadn’t spoken since I’d hung up on him. Why would he be calling? Had he and Bertie finally seen the article? I winced, realising they still believed my mother had placed that advert.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me ringing.’ Angus’s voice was tense, miles from his usual relaxed warm tone, and my stomach clenched in response. ‘I got your number from the list by Bertie’s phone.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I answered automatically, although already I could feel my emotions swirling as Bertie’s face flashed into my head: tenderness towards the gentle man I’d thought I’d met, followed by confusion when I remembered Aunt Carolyn’s words.

  ‘Bertie’s missing.’ Angus said the words bluntly, and I caught my breath.

  ‘Missing?’ I stopped walking. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Ever since you left, he’s been very agitated – distressed, even. As you know, he’s desperate to find your mother. He’s barely slept, and he’s become quite confused at times.’ Angus sighed, and I could hear his exhaustion. ‘Short of going to London to track her down myself, I’ve done everything I can think of, but nothing seems to calm him.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Angus,’ I said, my heart squeezing. That was a lot for him to deal with.

  ‘He’s wandered off before,’ said Angus. ‘Usually in the night, but I was always able to find him and get him back into bed before he got too far. But last night . . .’ He paused, and I could hear him run a hand through his hair. ‘We were watching a football match at my place – better reception than on his ancient telly – and he wanted to head home to bed. I watched him to make sure he got inside okay, and then I guess I must have fallen asleep. I’d been up late the night before with him, and . . .’ His voice broke off, and he cleared his throat.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said softly.

  ‘When I woke up, I went to check on him, but he wasn’t in his bedroom – or anywhere else in the house. I’ve looked everywhere for him, up and down the mews, the shops he used to go to . . . he’s not there.’ He swallowed. ‘Ella, he’s been talking a lot about watching your mother sing. About the promenade, and something about watching the sunset on the beach. I think he might mean Hastings. That’s where they first met, right? What do you think?’

  ‘It sounds like he might, yes,’ I answered slowly. ‘You don’t actually think he’s coming here, do you?’ Oh, God. I sank down on a bench, my heart pounding.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Angus replied. ‘He’s very confused about the past and the present. To him, the past is the present. There’s a chance he thinks your mother is still living there, and he’s gone to find her.’

  ‘Could he manage that journey on his own?’ I asked. ‘Could he make it all the way here?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe,’ Angus said. ‘It’s amazing how much energy he seems to have sometimes, especially if he’s upset about something or driven by a memory from the past.’

  I gripped on to the phone so tightly the casing bit into my fingers.

  ‘I went to the station this morning to talk to the ticketing agent, on the off-chance someone might have spotted him last night, or to see if maybe he was still hanging around here. He might have got the sleeper train, which arrived in Euston at around seven this morning.’

  I bit my lip, thinking of Bertie in the midst of the chaotic Euston train station at the start of rush hour. There weren’t any trains from Euston to Hastings. He’d have to go to Victoria or Charring Cross first, then get on the right train from there. It was confusing at the best of times, but for someone with Bertie’s condition . . . I took a breath as worry swept over me, followed in the next breath with uncertainty. Should I even worry about someone who might have hurt my mother?

  ‘I need to stay home in case he does show up again,’ Angus said, his voice vibrating with worry. ‘Do you think you could keep an eye out? Maybe go to the train station or check out the promenade and see if he’s there?’

  I drummed my fingers on the desk as my mind flipped back and forth. Even during the short time we’d spent together, I’d connected with Bertie . . . with my father. I couldn’t bear to think of the Bertie I knew, alone and confused, miles from home. But that was just it: did I know him? Aunt Carolyn had painted a picture of someone completely different – someone horrific. I couldn’t bear the thought of helping that person.

  ‘Anything you can do would be great,’ Angus said, his tone taking on a note of desperation. ‘Really, anything at all. I’ll notify the police, but apart from that . . . I don’t know who else to call.’

  I paused, struggling to answer. I wanted to help him – to do something to alleviate his worry and concern – but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t open my mouth to speak; I couldn’t find the words. I was frozen, caught between two poles, and I didn’t know which way to move. ‘I . . . I don’t know, Angus. I—’

  ‘Fine.’ Angus’s voice cut me off. ‘I don’t have time to convince you.’ And with that, he hung up.

  I clicked off the mobile, Angus’s voice ringing in my ears as guilt slid over me. He needed me, and yet . . . I promised Aunt Carolyn I wouldn’t be in contact with Bertie, I reminded myself, putting my headphones back on. I was conscious it was an easy way out, but I was only too happy to take it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  JUDE

  Jude jerked awake, the sun stinging her eyes. She’d been dreaming she was lying on the beach, the sunshine warming her limbs as Ella played at her feet with a bucket and spade.

  She blinked and sat up, an ache so strong it felt like a fist squeezing her heart as she took in her dingy, barren room. For the millionth time since seeing that article, she reached out for her phone and pulled up her daughter’s photo, as if staring into this now-stranger’s face could loosen its hold; remind Jude that her daughter was a stranger. She was grown, and Jude had forsaken any place in her life.

  Jude shook her head. She’d been so stupid to even think she could be a mother. She’d been so stupid to even try. She sighed, remembering the long days before giving birth when she’d lain cushioned in the house Carolyn and Rob were meticulously resurrecting, vowing to give this child all the love she’d stored up for Bertie – to pledge to this baby never to leave. And she had tried, she really had. She’d even named the baby after Ella Fitzgerald, her favourite singer and the one who’d drawn her and Bertie together the first time they’d spotted each other. Bertie had wanted to play ‘Summertime’ for their first dance as husband and wife, not that they’d ever got as far as the wedding.

  In those first desperate weeks after Ella had been born, Jude had played that song over and over, hoping to soothe her daughter’s cries. Ella would cry louder, only stopping when she was safely in her mother’s arms. They moved into a council flat a
nd Ella grew. Jude tried to forget, tried to love her, tried to follow through. But she’d failed, and she’d ended up here. Not a mother any more. Barely even a person.

  Jude stared into her daughter’s eyes again, but the ache still gripped her. Responding to her daughter’s call was out of the question, but . . . Jude bit her lip as her mind spun. Perhaps there was something she could do. Perhaps she could give her daughter back the one part of her former life she had hung on to, something she’d promised to pass to Ella when her daughter had a love of her own.

  The heart pendant.

  Jude tilted her head as the thought grew. She could send it by post to Carolyn’s address. Her daughter would know it had come from London, but there was no way she’d ever be able to find her. No one knew Jude’s real name or anything about her past. But then . . . then, Carolyn and Ella would know she was alive – no one else could have sent the pendant. They’d know she’d left to live another life, and they’d know she was choosing not to return.

  Was it better for Ella to know Jude was alive yet not coming back, or to still live in hope she might one day come home? Jude looked into her daughter’s eyes again, taking in that uncertain, hesitant expression. Maybe sending this pendant would give her daughter some closure – a final goodbye that Jude had never had the chance to say. Because whether Jude was living or dead, that part of her was gone for ever.

  She opened the drawer in her bedside table, slowly peeling back layer after layer of detritus. Empty Nurofen boxes, earplugs, tissue packets and receipt after receipt for God knows what, because she certainly didn’t have much purchasing power.

  At last the drawer was almost empty. The necklace lay coiled in the corner, like a snake waiting to strike. She gazed at it for a second, breathing in, almost afraid to touch it. It had been years since she’d even seen it.

  Jude shook her head, rolling her eyes at her hesitation. For goodness’ sake, it was just a necklace; an inanimate object. It didn’t have any power. It didn’t have a hold over her now.

  She reached out and lifted the chain, the heart pendant glinting in the sun. Despite the years that had passed, the weight of it was so familiar, and before she knew what she was doing, she’d raised her arms to place it around her neck once more.

  No! She stopped herself just in time, the necklace slipping from her fingers and flying through the air. It clattered on to the hard floor, the pendant snapping open.

  Shit. Jude took another breath to steady herself, then reached down to retrieve the pendant. A yellowed slip of paper slid out into her hands, and her heart raced. She knew what this was. She knew what it said.

  I am always with you. I will always be here.

  She sank on to the bed as the words rolled over her, swirled around her, then vibrated through her body and soul. She could almost feel the hard layers she’d adopted peel away, revealing the soft skin underneath. The memory of the morning Bertie had given her this invaded her brain, so strong and in such vibrant colour there was no way she could even try to stop it.

  The singing of the birds; the rush of the river. The love in Bertie’s eyes, and how she’d felt so safe.

  So happy.

  She ran her fingers over the letters on the paper, her eyes filling as more and more memories tumbled through her mind. Her mother, smelling of the rose bath cream Jude always tried to steal from her, softly stroking her head as she said goodnight. The way Bertie would say those words so naturally, as if he never could believe anything different. The warmth of her baby’s arms and the softness of her limbs as Jude whispered in her ear. How she’d meant those words, to both Bertie and Ella.

  And how they’d believed in her.

  How they still seemed to believe, despite everything.

  That ache she’d felt awakening from the dream this morning intensified, so strong that she could barely catch her breath. She’d loved Bertie; loved her daughter . . . she loved them now. The bit of her she’d thought had died was still there, stirring painfully within. How that was even possible after so many years had passed – after what she had done – she didn’t know. Maybe, just like the words she’d uttered, that love had always been there. Maybe it always would be, no matter how many protective layers she piled on top; no matter who she pretended to be.

  She glanced at Jude’s photo again, her heart swelling. She could feel the pull in her gut, that visceral response when your child cries out and only you can soothe them. She was still a mother: a mother with a daughter who needed her.

  But . . . seeing Ella now would mean facing the past. How could she explain to Ella why she’d left without unlocking the fear and anger she’d felt after Frank’s attack? How could she even start to tell her daughter that she’d attempted to bury herself first with alcohol, then by running away, and then by becoming someone else entirely? Jude got to her feet again, pacing back and forth across the room as anger slowly poured into her, filling her up until she was shaking with rage.

  Frank had taken her relationship. He’d taken her daughter. Hell, he’d almost taken her life. He might as well have, for all she was living now.

  How much more was she going to let him take from her?

  Jude reached up and put the chain around her neck. The pendant lay against her skin, feeling as if it had always been there. Her daughter was reaching out for her. Her daughter wanted her; believed in her.

  And she was going to show her daughter she was right.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  ELLA

  I increased the volume on the clips I was reviewing for the upcoming exhibition, closing my eyes to try to block out the image of Bertie standing alone on a busy platform, disoriented and scared. Clip after clip of sounds from the promenade filled my ears, from the seagulls gliding overhead to the fairground to an accordion, but still that image lingered. I sighed, thinking how ironic it was that just as I’d accepted the past and started to make a new life, here it was disturbing me once more.

  And what was I doing, a little voice asked? Hiding away in my cubicle again, attempting to burrow inside myself? If I really had made peace with the past – if I really was open and ready to live – why wasn’t I out there now? Why wasn’t I able to face my father?

  I shook my head. It was one thing to accept living with the uncertainty of what had happened, and it was another to face that person who may or may not have committed such terrible acts. He might not remember, but that didn’t erase what he could have done.

  I turned the next clip up even louder, and a voice filled my ears, rich and throaty. My lids flew open, and I sat up straight.

  I knew that voice.

  I clicked on the description of the clip, my heart beating fast as I scanned the words: Singer, June 1980, Hastings Promenade. It couldn’t be. Could it? And yet, even as my mind dismissed the possibility, I knew it was her. It was my mother, singing ‘Summertime’ by Ella Fitzgerald, the very singer she’d named me after.

  My mind flashed back to the look on Bertie’s face when I’d told him my name, and I remembered how he had said this was the first song he’d heard my mother sing; the song that had brought them together. Their song, he’d told me – the song they’d chosen for their first dance together as husband and wife.

  And now my mother was singing the song, as if to me. I closed my eyes again, listening to the cadence of her voice, the way she released the words out into the air so you could feel them coming towards you, ready to wrap you in their warmth. I could almost sense the sun beating down on me, smell the suncream and the melting asphalt. She cast a spell with her voice, the music spinning from her like magic. I could feel the life streaming from her . . . the love.

  Listening to this song felt like my mother whispering in my ear, telling me to leave this desk and go out into the world – to find my father and be strong enough to face him . . . for us both. Whether it would be in love or to stand up against him one final time, I didn’t know, but I felt her urging me to close the loop. And even though it might seem silly, I wasn’t going
to try to block it out. My heart was open now, and I was going to follow that voice. I’d hold my mother inside of me and take her to the place where all of this had begun. Back to where she’d met Bertie . . . and where it felt as if, through me, she might meet him again.

  I pushed back my chair and got to my feet. I was breaking my promise to my aunt but, somehow, I didn’t think she’d mind. I made my way through the museum and out the door, the sharp sunshine stinging my eyes. For a split second I paused, wondering if I was doing the right thing, glancing back towards the safety of the museum. I pictured the dark silence of my cubicle, then shook my head. No more hiding – not for me, and not for my mother.

  I turned to face the blinding light reflecting off the sea. Then I stepped on to the promenade and started to walk.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  JUDE

  Jude hurried through the station and boarded the train to Hastings. Now that she’d decided to go home, there was no point hanging around. Her daughter had waited long enough already. Jude had waited long enough, even if she hadn’t known that love and desire inside of her still existed.

  She collapsed into a seat, her hand reaching up to close around the pendant as if it could give her strength. Was she really doing this? Was she really going back home . . . back to the place where it had all started? And back to the place where it had ended?

  Where she’d thought it had, anyway.

  She’d never thought of returning. She’d slammed that door shut, but the article had blown it wide open again. Blown her heart wide open again, to reveal what was really underneath. Love, and a longing to show she cared. A longing to see the daughter she hadn’t been able to stay with, and the sister who’d always been there.