‘I’m so pleased you came,’ she says. ‘I was half afraid that …’
‘I’d leave again?’
She’s looking at me. To her, I’ve aged so quickly – in an instant, almost.
‘Perhaps,’ she says. ‘Come on through to the kitchen. Peter won’t be long.’
‘It’s so odd hearing you talk about him like that,’ I say, following her. ‘Wow, this has changed. It’s spotless.’
She flicks on the kettle. ‘I took early retirement. Can’t bear a mess if I’ve got to look at it all bloody day.’
On the fridge are photographs of Bobby, Annie and her family. I feel a knot in my stomach.
‘You can make new memories,’ she says.
‘Stop being so nice to me, Mon. I don’t deserve it.’
‘It’s not up to me to decide what you deserve – it’s up to you.’
I sigh. ‘Since when did you get so wise?’
‘Since I got so fucking old,’ she says.
‘You’re not old. You look great – you always did.’
She turns her back to me and looks out of the kitchen window.
‘I didn’t have my eye on Peter the whole time you were married, you know. We were in such a difficult situation … we were there for each other. I was always fond of him.’
‘I understand,’ I say. She turns around. ‘Really I do. Who am I to judge?’
‘I thought you’d be so angry with me.’
‘How could I be? You and Peter have brought up my children. They’re a credit to you, they really are.’
‘Oh, Debbie.’
She walks towards me, and rests a hand on my shoulder, then embraces me in a hug.
We’re still crying in each other’s arms when the front door opens and closes.
‘Shall I go out and come back in again?’ says Peter.
‘No, no,’ says Monica, pulling away from me and dabbing her face with the back of her hand. ‘I’ll just pop upstairs … freshen up.’
I want to grab her hand and beg her not to leave me alone with Peter, but I don’t. We have to talk. We haven’t been alone since I got back.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. The words don’t seem enough.
He nods slowly. ‘I know.’ He pulls out a chair and sits, gesturing for me to do the same. ‘I should’ve known there was something wrong, after you had Anna. I’ve blamed myself every day since you … left.’
‘You shouldn’t have. It was no one’s fault. Though it’s taken me so many years to realise that.’
‘The children have been happy. I won’t lie and say there weren’t times when they withdrew into themselves as such, but overall, I think we’ve done pretty well.’
‘I know you have. Thank you.’
‘You don’t have to thank me – they’re my children too.’ He shifts in his seat. ‘What you said … about what happened that night … you must go to the police.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘It’s what I should have done a long time ago. But I’ll visit Annie first, if that’s okay?’
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘But just one thing. Anna hates being called Annie.’
Chapter Forty-Nine
Anna
I’ve been looking out of the window since midday, and Debbie’s finally pulled up outside, driving the car that I’ve been seeing for days. It’s a strange thought, but I never imagined she would drive a car. Dad never mentioned her ever driving; she always took the bus. At some point in her life after us, she would have taken lessons, a test. She must have done so many normal, everyday things without us. Like I have done without her.
Thirty years is a long time. What sort of life has she had? We didn’t get a chance to talk much at Robert’s party, but I’m hoping this afternoon I will get some answers.
I open the door to her.
‘I never imagined you’d come to my house,’ I say to her, as she greets me with a hug. She smells of Dewberry from the Body Shop.
She stands in the hallway, rubbing the tops of her arms – the rucksack she brought is at her feet.
‘I’m not cold,’ she says. ‘I’m really nervous.’
‘Me too,’ I say. ‘Jack’s taken Sophie out for a while, but they’ll be back soon. I’ll make us some tea.’
She follows me through to the kitchen. I prepared the teapot, cups and saucers, a plate of biscuits and cakes, and a jug of milk, hours ago. I’ve been up since five o’clock this morning. Everything had to be just right.
‘Oh, you kept it!’ says Debbie, bending so she’s eye level with the shell box she made me that I placed on the dining table. ‘I remember choosing the shells, but I can barely recall sticking them on the box.’
‘Oh.’
‘Annie – I mean Anna, sorry. No. I know I did it … sorry. All the talking therapy I’ve had over the years … encouraging me to tell the truth … it’s not always the best way, is it? Oh, fondant fancies!’ She picks one up, turning it round in her hand. ‘I haven’t had one of these for years.’
Her train of thought is all over the place. I always thought we’d be similar people, but we aren’t at all.
‘Gran told me you liked them,’ I say, pouring hot water into the teapot.
‘Really?’
Her face drops, and her lips press together when I mention her mother. I shouldn’t push the subject.
‘Please, have a seat,’ I tell her.
I can’t help staring at her all the time. I can barely believe she’s here. She seems so small, so vulnerable. I feel as though I want to look after her.
I put a cup on the saucer; it rattles slightly. I can’t believe I’m so nervous being alone with her.
‘Do you take sugar?’ I say.
Such a strange question to ask your own mother.
‘No thanks.’
She smiles at me; her eyes are glistening.
‘This is lovely,’ she says, ‘isn’t it?’
I nod. ‘What made you get in touch now?’ I can’t help blurting it out. ‘I know you said before about Ellen convincing you after she left prison, but …’
‘She tracked me down a few days after coming out of prison … She didn’t want me to mention anything about Nathan, though. She was so scared of the thought of going back inside. It took me a few months to find the courage to even send that email at the library. It was only when I looked for Peter, that I found out he was married to Monica.’
‘What? You haven’t been on Facebook or anything to search for us?’
She shakes her head slowly.
‘It was too painful. What would’ve been the point when I couldn’t be in your lives? I know it sounds flaky, what I’m saying, but after so many years of being away, I got used to feeling alone – the feeling of missing everyone as though you were all dead.’
My mouth drops open.
She looks up at me. ‘God, that sounds terrible,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean … I … I’m not very good at explaining things. I missed you very much, Anna.’
‘I missed you too,’ I say, looking at her and realising I don’t know her very well at all – not the person she is now. I stir my tea, even though it’s probably stone cold by now. ‘Gran talked about you all the time. She encouraged me to keep a scrapbook about you. Would you like to see it?’
‘Did she?’ A tear rolls down her cheek. ‘I thought everyone would’ve forgotten about me. Yes please, Anna. I’d love to see it.’
I jump up from the chair and almost run into the living room to get my book of facts about her. I leave the photographs Robert took in Tenerife in the box; she wouldn’t want to see them after what happened there.
I hand her the scrapbook; she pushes her cup to one side and places the book in front, stroking the cover with her fingers. She opens it. My cheeks warm a little; no one has read it before. Those facts were all mine, but they are, actually, all hers.
She laughs. ‘I wish I still had those Doc Martens.’
‘Grandad might still have them. He kept all of your clothes, well until recently
. He’s had a sort through them.’
‘I don’t blame him for having a clear out – I had so many things I didn’t even wear.’
‘Did you … have you ever …’
‘Met someone else?’
‘Yes.’
‘There was someone a few years ago – serious, I think, but I guess you have to love yourself before you love someone else, don’t you? I suppose I’ve always believed I didn’t deserve happiness.’ She reaches over and strokes my hand. ‘I’m not going anywhere. You do believe me, don’t you?’
The front door opens, and there are whispers in the hallway.
Debbie and I look to the kitchen door, and Jack appears. Sophie’s hiding behind him.
‘Is that you, Sophie?’ says Debbie softly.
My little girl peeks her head around her dad’s waist and nods, before retreating.
Debbie points to one of the cakes, and I nod.
‘Would you like a fondant fancy, Sophie?’ says Debbie. ‘They’re my favourite.’
Sophie walks to the table and pulls out a chair before sitting down.
‘Yes please,’ she says shyly.
I push the plate towards her and she picks up a pink cake, biting the icing off from around the edges.
‘I used to do that,’ Debbie says, dabbing her cheeks with the back of her sleeve.
‘I thought you were dead,’ says Sophie.
Silence.
Debbie looks at each of us.
‘I’ve been away. I wasn’t well.’
‘Are you going to stay now?’ my little girl says.
‘Yes,’ says Debbie without hesitation. ‘Yes, I am.’
Acknowledgements
A massive thank you to my brilliant editor, Phoebe Morgan, whose insight and support has been invaluable. Thanks too to Sabah Khan, Elon Woodman-Worrell, Elke Desanghere, and the fantastic team at Avon.
A big thank you to my agent, Caroline Hardman and everyone at Hardman & Swainson.
To Lydia Devadason and Sam Carrington, who have read nearly everything I’ve ever written. Your support and friendship has been unwavering, supportive, and much appreciated.
To WU for the chat and laughter (and … er … we do talk about writing some of the time … ).
Thanks to Ami and Dan at Waterstones, Preston, to Steve and Denise at Nantwich Bookshop, and to Tom Earnshaw at the Lancashire Post.
Thanks to my mum, Carmel, for the patience in answering all of my questions about the 1980s – from maternity wards to bad food. To Rosemary McFarlane for the advice on Lytham Club days of the past.
Thank you to Janet Dyer and the lovely ladies at the art group for the tea, cake, laughs and support.
A big shout-out to the bloggers for the time and energy you spend reading, reviewing and blogging.
To Dea Parkin at the CWA, to Claire Reynolds, Louise Fiorentino, Alison Stokes. A big thank you for your support.
A shout-out to Chris, Loretta, Oliver, Nick, James, Conor, Sam, Janny, Maralyn, Jackie, Anne, Carolyn, and Caroline.
To my family: Dom, Dan and Joe, who (mostly) allow me to write in peace (the caravan helps).
And last, but definitely not least, thank you to my lovely readers.
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About the Author
Elisabeth Carpenter lives in Preston with her family. She completed a BA in English Literature and Language with the Open University in 2011. Elisabeth was awarded a Northern Writers’ New Fiction award, and was longlisted for the Yeovil Literary Prize (2015 and 2016) and the MsLexia Women’s Novel award (2015). She loves living in the north of England and sets most of her stories in the area. She currently works as a bookkeeper. Her debut novel, 99 Red Balloons, became a bestseller in 2017 and received widespread acclaim from both reviewers and readers.
You can follow Elisabeth @LibbyCPT.
By the same author
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