The Hidden Legacy: A Dark and Shocking Psychological Drama

by GJ Minett

  So now she came alone, three times a week for a couple of hours or so – Tuesdays, Fridays and Sundays – while Jack looked after the children. If something unforeseen made the visit impossible, she always made a point of phoning, so that someone could let her mother know not to expect her. She understood this was hardly necessary – most of the time Barbara didn’t even recognise her when she walked into the room. Even on her better days, Ellen strongly suspected her visit would be forgotten almost before she was out of the door. But she never knew for sure, from day to day, which version of her mother would be there. Maybe today will be better, she thought to herself, as she pulled into a parking space in the designated area. Maybe today.

  She stepped out of the car and shaped as if to shut the door, then changed her mind. Reaching in, she picked up a blanket from the footwell and draped it across the laptop, which was lying on the passenger seat. Better safe than sorry. Alan Wharton had brought it over to her, just a couple of minutes later than the agreed time, full of apologies for having taken so long. He’d managed to do what she needed and had reset the password to ‘Langmere’ to make access easier for her. He offered to take her through what was in there but she was conscious of the time and worried that she might hit the heavy traffic around Chichester if she delayed much longer. She’d have to take a look at it later tonight, when she and the children arrived back home after the film.

  She thanked him and asked how much she owed, offering to pay in cash if he preferred. He shook his head, wasn’t having any of it. He’d enjoyed himself, spent the day doing what he loved best. He wasn’t about to take her money. She wanted to protest but accepted this was a discussion that would have to wait. If all else failed, she’d find out the going rate and simply add it to his pay at the end of the week.

  ‘What was the password, by the way?’ she suddenly thought to ask as he was leaving.

  He paused in the doorway and turned back to face her.

  ‘Primrose82,’ he said.

  She smiled. Eudora certainly loved her cottage.

  Jacob was doing a stint on Reception when she walked into the entrance hall at Calder Vale. She liked Jacob. He had a soft spot for her mother. Every chance he got, he was slipping her extra Jaffa Cakes with her afternoon tea, plumping up her hair or checking whether she needed another pillow in her chair. He made great show of professing total disbelief that she could be as old as she claimed – surely there must be some mistake. Somehow he managed to make the obvious flattery sound convincing.

  He smiled and waved a pen at Ellen as she crossed the marble floor towards the desk. She took it from him and signed in. Ellen Sutherland. As if the last twelve years counted for nothing.

  ‘How is she today?’ she asked. He waggled a hand as if to say so-so.

  ‘She was pretty good this morning,’ he said, and this told her all she needed to know about how she would be right this minute. In Calder Vale speak, what was left out was always worthy of serious consideration.

  She handed the biro back to him and headed for the Day Room, where she knew Barbara would be at this time. On a Tuesday she was often in her own room, if the OT and physio sessions had taken a lot out of her. Fridays however she was wheeled down to the Day Room to be with everyone else for a couple of hours before dinner. There were a dozen or so residents in there when Ellen walked in. Some were watching the large flat-screen TV, listening as Anne Robinson sniped at quiz contestants. Others were chatting in small groups or dozing quietly.

  Barbara was in a corner, facing a darkened window with her back to everyone else. Pausing for a moment to look at her, Ellen was struck yet again by how difficult it was to equate this frail, damaged creature with the forceful woman who had seemed so indomitable, so self-sufficient when she was younger. Their relationship had always been a troubled one, especially during Ellen’s teenage years. There was an emotional distance between them, which she was quick to blame on her mother’s reluctance to talk about the past, a barrier she’d never managed to break down. Her relative independence at university and then with Jack had given her a clearer sense of perspective, including an appreciation of the sacrifices her mother must have made on her behalf. She could see that if Barbara’s feelings for her were not always obvious, it clearly wasn’t because they didn’t exist. Understanding this was one thing. Establishing a genuine connection was another.

  She crossed the room, picking up a visitor’s chair as she went. She stooped over the back of the armchair and was about to offer a kiss on the cheek before realising Barbara was asleep. The motion was enough to disturb her though and she flinched as she opened her eyes, blinking rapidly while she tried to process what was happening. She frowned, as if uncertain about the identity of the woman who had just positioned a chair opposite her.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Ellen, placing a hand over hers on the armrest. ‘It’s only me.’ And she was rewarded with that half-smile, hinting at recognition. The moment of concern had passed and there was a certain amount of clarity in her expression. Maybe the sleep had done her some good.

  ‘How are you feeling today – OK?’

  ‘Not too bad.’ Hot hoo vad. Her speech now was breathy, a collection of aspirates and softened consonants which still lay within the compass of her frozen facial muscles.

  ‘Can I get you anything? A drink?’

  Barbara closed her eyes and sank back into the armchair. She slipped her hand from beneath Ellen’s and waved it in the general direction of the table beside her. Next to a glass stood two large bottles, one containing mineral water, the other lime juice, her favourite drink which always seemed to be there. Jacob’s work again, she was prepared to bet.

  She poured the right mixture – her mother always preferred it so strong it set Ellen’s teeth on edge when she tried it – and handed the glass to her. Then she began the ritual of bringing her up to date with what had been happening since her last visit. The routine never varied, irrespective of Barbara’s condition. Sometimes she was able to make her own contributions and help to keep the conversation moving along, but even when she appeared to be out of it, her mind flitting from one version of reality to another, Ellen still talked to her . . . and talked . . . and talked. Anything to pass the time. Anything to fill in the silence that had haunted every conversation between the two of them.

  There had been a time when Ellen dealt exclusively in questions. As a child she’d pressed her mother for details about the father who existed for her only as an absence. The fact that he’d died before she was born brought with it a whiff of the exotic that she was able to use as emotional currency whenever friends asked where her daddy was. She invented lives for him, struggling to remember exactly which version she’d told to whom. At various times he’d been a pilot, a doctor, a soldier. He’d died in a car crash, succumbed to an incurable disease while helping children in Africa, drowned trying to save a little girl who’d been swept out to sea. But there would have been no need for these elaborate flights of fancy if her mother had just been able to sit down and talk to her about him for one evening, even just half an hour. All she needed was an outline, a shadow she could fill in. Her imagination would do the rest.

  But the conversation had never got past first base. She only had to mention her father and the door slammed shut. Her mother never yielded an inch. Whenever Ellen went to stay with friends for a sleepover, she was always amazed, and not a little resentful, to see just how easy-going and approachable a mother could actually be. There was nothing easy about her relationship with Barbara. Intimacy was a foreign country.

  So she learnt not to ask. It was easier that way. Instead they talked at each other. Whenever they were together, Ellen poured out details about her day, about the children, about Langmere Grove where Barbara herself had worked. And until her condition worsened Barbara did the same, their respective monologues passing on different tracks like trains in the night, heading nowhere significant. And now there was just the one train: she did the talking for both of them. An
ything to fill the silence.

  So she brought her mother up to speed on everything at home – the children, how things were going at school, Harry’s football training, Megan’s invitation to a disco, the film they were all going to see as soon as she’d picked them up from Jack’s that evening. She grumbled about Megan’s mulish refusal to wear her school jumper – was I ever that bad? Even Barbara’s ambiguous response – a snort and a slight tilt of the head – was encouraging. They were touching base. It was almost like having a genuine conversation.

  She moved on to Langmere, inventing messages from old friends who still worked there and remembered Barbara. Some did in fact approach her from time to time and ask for best wishes to be conveyed but nowhere near as frequently as she suggested. A harmless enough deception, she felt. True in spirit at least.

  She was about to mention that Kate had come round for dinner the previous evening when Barbara leapt in first, her face brightening all of a sudden.

  ‘It’s Friday today,’ she said, holding her glass out for Ellen to take.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘My daughter’s coming this afternoon.’

  Ellen swallowed and took a deep breath. She took hold of her mother’s hand and patted it gently.

  ‘I’m here now,’ she said. ‘It’s me, Ellen.’

  Barbara’s voice barely skipped a beat.

  ‘She’s bringing my grandchildren with her,’ she said. Hand hildren.

  ‘Not today, Mum. They’re at Jack’s – you remember Jack?’

  ‘Jack?’

  Ellen leant forward to put her face directly in front of Barbara’s. The eyes gazing back at her seemed distant somehow, as if focusing on something beyond her. She opened her mouth to continue, then changed her mind, plucking instead at a few stray locks of hair that were trapped inside her mother’s collar and teasing them free. She put the palm of her hand to the side of her face and stroked it, the skin dry to the touch, almost like paper.

  ‘That will be nice for you,’ she said eventually, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. She reached over to put the glass back on the table, then sat back in her chair.

  She didn’t talk for some time, allowing Barbara to rest instead. She walked over to a magazine rack and helped herself to a fairly recent copy of House and Home – anything to help pass the time. Jack wasn’t expecting her to pick up the children for another hour at least, so she was in no hurry to leave just yet.

  One of the other residents came over at one point, an elderly woman who was never short of a word or two but who meant well. Then a care assistant brought tablets for Barbara, which she washed down with gentle sips from her drink. When the six o’clock news came on, Ellen put the magazine to one side and turned Barbara’s chair to face the TV set. She picked out occasional items that she thought might interest her mother and slowly, slowly the hands on the large clock on the wall crept round towards 6.30.

  The one subject she hadn’t raised was the letter from Wilmot. She didn’t want to enter into any complicated account of her visit to Cheltenham and the cottage that had so mysteriously come her way. Lengthy explanations of any sort were a waste of time. Even at her most alert, there was no way Barbara could cope with anything like that. A simple question-and-answer routine, short and to the point, was the only way she might learn anything about her connection to Eudora, if one existed.

  She wished now she’d raised the subject a while earlier before her mother drifted out of range. She’d been reluctant to dive straight in for fear of giving the impression that this was the principal reason for her visit. Also there was always a chance that merely raising the subject might re-open old wounds and she had no wish to ruin the entire visit before she’d even made herself comfortable.

  So she waited, putting the moment off in the hope that an opportunity might somehow present itself even now, an indication that her mother was responding with some degree of clarity. When the time came for her to stand and put on her coat in readiness for her departure, she decided it was now or never.

  She moved her chair back a little and squatted down on her haunches in front of Barbara. Then she picked up each of her hands in turn and held them in her own, resting them in her mother’s lap. She looked her in the eye, anxious not to miss anything significant.

  ‘I nearly forgot,’ she said. ‘There was one more message for you. This woman . . . I don’t know who she is but she asked to be remembered to you.’ She paused, watching for the slightest reaction.

  ‘Her name’s Eudora? Eudora Nash?’

  The hands seemed to clench slightly under hers. There was something of a twitch maybe at the corner of one eye but that could easily have been her imagination. Ellen said nothing for a few moments, waiting to see if her mother had anything at all to say. Again, there was no reaction to speak of.

  ‘So who is she, Mum?’ she persisted. ‘This Eudora Nash – how do you know her?’

  Still nothing.

  ‘I’m probably going to see her some time next week,’ she improvised, looking away briefly so that the lie wouldn’t register in her eyes. ‘Do you want me to say hello from you? Have you got a message for her maybe?’

  Her legs were starting to cramp up. She stood up to straighten them.

  ‘I’ll do that then, shall I?’ she asked, giving it one last try. She watched closely, then bent over and gave her mother another kiss on the cheek. She said goodbye, gave the usual assurances about when she’d next visit, aware as she did so that a lot would depend on what time she and Kate decided to leave Oakham on Sunday. Maybe she’d have to leave it until the evening before coming back here.

  She picked up her mother’s glass and put it back in her hands once more before patting her on the shoulder. Then she turned and walked towards the door, where she realised that Jacob had been watching her. He asked how it had gone and they were swapping notes when she heard a cry and the sound of breaking glass.

  Jacob was the first to react. He called out to one of the other assistants for help and was by Barbara’s side before Ellen had even worked out what was happening. He whispered soothing words into her ear as he carefully prised her fingers apart and plucked at the remaining tiny fragments of glass. Ellen looked around desperately for a cloth of some description, horrified by the deep cut that now creased the palm of her mother’s hand. The blood was flowing freely, dripping through her fingers and onto her lap.

  ‘Not very clever now, was it?’ Jacob cooed, keeping the tone light and aiming a mock frown in Barbara’s direction. Two other assistants arrived swiftly with a couple of cloths, a towel and a bowl of water. Ellen stepped back momentarily to allow them room in which to operate. As she did so, she looked in surprise at her mother, wondering at the force she must have exerted to break a glass by squeezing it like that. She’d never have believed she had it in her.

  The moment there was room, she moved closer and put her arm on Barbara’s shoulder to comfort her. As she did so, she realised she was mumbling something, which she couldn’t quite make out. Leaning forward, she asked her to repeat it. The voice was quiet, but steely in its determination. The words, no matter how slurred, were unmistakable this time.

  ‘You stay away from my daughter,’ she heard. ‘Leave her alone.’

  March 1974: Josef

  The snow is heavy now, coming down like a white blanket, blotting out his vision so quickly that each sweep of the wipers from right to left is barely enough to clear the windscreen. In Inverness itself and the built-up area around it, the snow was settling on driveways and pavements but there was enough traffic to keep the road itself relatively clear. Out here things are very different. He’s seen no more than a handful of cars in the last quarter of an hour and the road surface is worsening by the minute. Already, on a couple of occasions, he’s felt the rear of the car start to drift at the slightest touch of the brake pedal.

  This country road seems to be going on for ever. What’s worse, it’s unlit and so narrow here that it’s not too difficult
to imagine it petering out into a dead end before long. If that happens and he has to do a three-point turn in the dark, he could easily end up in a ditch or stuck on a grass verge, unable to get any traction. This is no place to be stranded – it’s some time now since he remembers passing a phone box or building.

  He hopes it’s the right road. He stopped a while ago and asked for directions. A man, who’d ventured outside to cover his windscreen and bonnet with a layer of blankets, told him he needed to take the first left at the crossroads, assuring him that the Prince’s Arms was no more than two, maybe three miles from there, just the other side of the village of Lachlie. Dead straight, he said. Cannae miss it. He’s been driving down that same road now for what feels like a quarter of an hour at least, with no sign of the pub and not one road sign to reassure him he’s at least heading in the right direction. Even allowing for the fact that he’s playing it safe, barely climbing above twenty miles an hour, how long can it possibly take for him to cover a couple of miles? He removes the now redundant directions from the passenger seat and screws them into a ball in his frustration.

  It’s the diversions that have thrown him. In a lighter moment, he might appreciate the irony of it all. He’s travelled nearly 400 miles and reached Inverness with hours to spare and barely a problem worthy of the name, give or take a little ill health. He’s allowed himself plenty of time to find a bed and breakfast and has come across one which suits his purpose just perfectly. The owners, a retired couple more or less his own age, were dismayed to hear that he planned to go out again so soon after such a long drive, especially in view of the weather forecast for the area. When he explained he’d come all this way to meet someone, they urged him at least to bring his case in and maybe have a cup of tea with them before setting off again but he politely declined their offer. He wanted to be absolutely sure he was first there, to be in position to watch the others as they arrived.