Tell the Truth

by Amanda Brittany

  Grace ran into the lounge and I followed and put the TV on. She sat down in front of a black and white film that looked harmless enough, opened her drawing book, and began colouring in a picture of a house she’d started in the car before nodding off. It never ceased to amaze me how children could multi-task.

  A lump rose in my throat, as my eyes skittered around the lounge. So many happy memories of my mother flooded in – of her painting – laughing and talking with me – playing board games – reading me poetry.

  ‘This is stupid,’ Grace said, looking up at me. ‘Someone’s squeezed out all the colours. Can I watch something else?’

  I picked up the remote control and flicked through the channels, landing on a cartoon.

  ‘Yay!’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  I went back into the kitchen, made a black coffee, and stood at the window looking out at the back garden, heavy with snow. I’d played out there as a child, spending so much time in the tree-house, which was still in the old oak at the bottom of the garden. It looked a bit weather-battered and sad. The garden circled the house, like a giant hug, and as a child I would run round and round, delighted to end up where I started.

  I sipped my drink, noticing more footprints under the window. Someone had been out there. I put down my mug, hurried back to the lounge, and opened the patio doors, letting the cold air sweep in. There were footprints leading from the garden gate to the kitchen window, and then onwards to the patio doors. Whoever had made them, had been looking in – and it must have been recently.

  I stepped out, inspecting the area, taking in the apple tree I’d climbed as a child, stripped of its leaves – in fact, the whole garden felt abandoned. I crouched down near the window, and pulling a clean tissue from my pocket, I picked up a cigarette butt. I would take it inside and put it in a plastic bag, like they do on the best cop shows.

  I scanned the garden again. The wind was getting up, howling through the hedgerow, lifting a layer of snow so it spun as though dancing, before settling once more. I shivered, the cold numbing my fingers, and as I rose, I heard something move near the bins.

  ‘Hello,’ I called out, a quiver in my voice. I darted a look into the house at Grace still happily colouring then peered back towards the bins. ‘Hello.’

  Muffin shot out from behind the bins, and dashed towards the gate. ‘Jesus!’ I cried, grabbing my chest.

  I raced inside, slammed the doors shut, and pulled across the curtains. Despite knowing it was just the cat, my mind leaped and bounded through scenarios. What if someone had been stalking the place intending to break in? The house had been uninhabited for so long, and in a lonely location. I raced around checking the doors and windows, but there was no evidence that anyone had been inside.

  I shook away thoughts of the footprints, and made my way to the heavy sideboard, thick with dust. I’d taken all the framed photographs to Mum at the home. All that was left were a few abandoned ornaments.

  Mum had always kept her private things in the sideboard, and she’d made me promise as a child to never look inside. I’d promised, and never had, having far too much respect for her to go against her wishes. But now things were different. She’d said there were things I should know, but her awful condition was stopping her from telling me. I had every right to discover the truth for myself.

  I opened the cupboard door, and knelt down. Whatever it was I thought I was looking for, I would find it here.

  The cupboard was rammed with shoeboxes full of paperwork, photo albums, notebooks, and files. I unloaded it, methodically checking through everything as I went, snatching glances at Grace tucking into the remains of her lunchbox, eyes glued to the TV.

  I was about halfway through, when she padded over. ‘What are you doing?’ she said, plonking down next to me.

  ‘I’m looking for something,’ I said, scanning another notebook.

  ‘Can I help?’ She tilted her head.

  ‘If you like. It’s a bit boring though. Not as exciting as Dennis and Gnasher Unleashed.’

  She pulled a face, and dragged a shoebox from the cupboard.

  ‘Be careful, Grace,’ I said, as she tipped it upside down and the contents spilled out over the floor, but my eyes fell on the photos and newspaper cuttings, now spread about her.

  Grace picked up a photo. ‘Is this Gran?’ she said, pouting. ‘She looks different. And the picture’s all burnt.’

  I took the photo from her. It was yellowing, and singed down one side. There had once been two people in the picture – a male probably, as a hand was round my mother’s shoulders. She looked pretty – her blonde hair hanging past her shoulders, a ring of flowers around her hair, blue eyes sparkling. She could only have been nineteen or twenty. I turned it over, to see the words: Laura and Jude in Mum’s handwriting, but whoever Jude was, he’d been torched from the picture.

  ‘Jude?’ I whispered, trying out the name on my tongue, remembering how my mum had asked if he was going to visit. Was he my father? I pushed down the thought – it couldn’t be. That would make my mother a liar.

  ‘Who are these children, Mummy?’ Grace had found another photo and was handing it to me.

  Four children stood in front of a farmhouse, hens around their feet. It was the same house as the one in the paintings. The one in the photo Ronan Murphy sent me.

  I knew immediately that I was one of the children – my mum had a similar picture of me in her locket. Here I was wearing a pretty blue dress and cream shoes. Unease trickled like ice-cold water down my collar. Why hadn’t Mum told me about the farmhouse, or these children who I must have once known? Who were they? And why had Mum got so upset about the place?

  ‘What’s this, Mummy? It smells funny – like mud.’

  Grace was holding a yellowing newspaper cutting to her nose.

  ‘I don’t know, darling,’ I said, taking it from her and reading the headline.

  Death Crash at Devil’s Corner

  The cutting was dated February 1987. I scanned the article:

  Four in deadly crash at Devil’s Corner. Mother of one, thirty-year-old Jacqueline McCutcheon, who was driving a Morris Marina, died instantly, but her daughter, five-year-old Yolanda McCutcheon escaped unhurt. As well as her daughter, Jacqueline leaves behind her husband, Marcus.

  James and Isabella Hogan, who were driving an MG sports car, died later in hospital.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I said. Why had my mother kept this from me? Why hadn’t she told me everything about the accident? That a woman died?

  ‘What’s up, Mummy?’ Grace tilted her head again.

  ‘Nothing, sweetheart – nothing to worry about.’ I slipped the photos and the newspaper cutting into my pocket, and packed everything else away at speed, before bringing my numb legs from under me.

  ‘Are we going home now?’ Grace asked, shuffling her feet.

  ‘No. We’re going to see Gran. I’ll pick up some chocolate cakes to take. That will be nice, won’t it?’

  ‘Yay,’ she said, jumping to her feet. ‘Will she know who I am this time?’

  ‘I don’t know, my little cuppy cake,’ I said, kissing her head and taking hold of her hand, trying to hide the sadness in my voice. ‘I hope so.’

  Outside, I opened the car, and lifted Grace into her car seat.

  ‘Rachel,’ came a voice from behind me. I turned to see Jessica, huddled into a chunky pink cardigan, a purple wool hat pulled over her hair, the rim covering her eyebrows. I hadn’t heard her approach.

  ‘Hi, Jess,’ I said, moving in for a hug. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Never mind that,’ she said, flapping her hand, always one to come straight to the point. ‘I wanted you to know I saw someone hanging about. They climbed over the gate.’

  I snatched a look at the house, recalling the footprints. ‘When was this? Did you call the police?’

  ‘I did, yes. But whoever it was had taken off before they arrived. Anyway, I felt you should know. You might want to get in touch with an alarm company.’r />
  ‘Yes, thank you. Did you see what they looked like?’

  She shook her head. ‘My eyesight isn’t what it was.’ A pause. ‘How is your mum?’

  Tears pricked. Please don’t ask. ‘Not good,’ was all I could muster. ‘I’m going there now.’

  ‘Well, send her my love, won’t you?’ she said, turning and heading towards her house, pausing briefly to wave at me with her stick.

  ***

  Mum’s room smelt of incense, and a Genesis track played on her old portable cassette player. She had her back to us, and was swaying to and fro, singing along to ‘Ripples’ as she looked out of the window.

  She turned, seeming to sense us there, and I prayed she would know us.

  ‘Gran,’ cried Grace, racing towards her, and hugging her legs, and Mum stroked her hair.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she said. ‘How’s my favourite granddaughter?’

  I sighed with relief.

  ‘I’m your only granddaughter, silly,’ Grace said, and they both laughed, a rejoicing sound, like a peal of church bells saying everything will be just fine – for now.

  ‘I’ve brought some cakes,’ I said, putting the box on her bedside table. ‘Your favourite.’

  ‘How lovely. Thank you.’

  I moved towards her, and took her in my arms, breathing her in. She was wearing Chanel No.5, but the heavy intoxicating smell of incense almost overpowered it.

  We went downstairs to the lounge, where we sat by the window and ate the cakes. ‘So much snow,’ Mum said, looking out. ‘Remember how we used to build a snowman and make snow angels, Rachel?’

  I nodded, the memories winding round me like a comfort blanket.

  ‘I like making snow angels,’ Grace chipped in with a wide chocolatey smile. ‘But there’s no snow left in London.’

  I was enjoying the chatter. The happiness in Grace’s eyes, the glow in Mum’s cheeks as Grace showed her drawings she’d done earlier.

  ‘You’ll be an artist like me one day,’ Mum said, stroking Grace’s hair.

  ‘Well, it’s in her genes,’ I said, taking hold of Mum’s hand and squeezing. I didn’t want to break the spell, but needed to ask Mum questions, before I lost her again.

  ‘Mum,’ I said, and she turned to face me. ‘I’ve been wondering who told you I’d broken up with Lawrence.’

  She looked up, furrowing her forehead. ‘You told me, didn’t you? I forget so much these days. I couldn’t even remember Margo’s name the other morning, but she said I wasn’t to worry.’

  ‘Has Lawrence been here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Recently?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t think so.’ She placed her slim finger against her lip. ‘No, no not lately, not for a long time.’ She laid her hand on mine. ‘Are you OK, Rachel?’

  ‘Yes, yes of course.’ I fiddled with the photographs in my pocket, knowing the one of the farmhouse would upset her – but I needed to know how the children had featured in our lives.

  I fished one out, but it was the one of her, where, I assumed, she’d once stood next to Jude. I showed it to her.

  ‘Who is it?’ she said.

  ‘Well, this is you.’ I pointed at her younger self. ‘And I think you were once standing next to Jude.’

  ‘Jude?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know a man called Jude, Mum?’

  She shook her head, and turned away. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘But you did once?’ I persisted, but she didn’t reply. ‘Mum, what is it you wanted to tell me about the past?’ I went on. ‘Where did you go in November, when I was a child? Tell me about the farmhouse.’

  ‘I’m tired,’ she said, stroking Grace’s hair, and closing her eyes. And I wondered, this time, if she was pretending.

  ***

  ‘I don’t want to go in the car again,’ Grace said, rolling her eyes as we walked towards it, snow crunching beneath our feet. ‘What if Gran wakes up? She’ll miss us, and wonder where we’ve gone.’ Sometimes she sounded far too grown-up.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid we’ve got to head for home,’ I said. We’d waited for over an hour for my mum to open her eyes, but she hadn’t. ‘Just think, soon you’ll be in Disneyland. How exciting is that?’

  ‘Yay!’ she said, stretching her arms above her head, mittens dangling on strings from her sleeves.

  ***

  Once Grace was bathed, and I’d tucked her into bed and read her The Very Hungry Caterpillar six times, I headed downstairs, and fired up my laptop.

  Evermore Farmhouse hadn’t left my mind since leaving Mum, and I knew it was time to take a deep breath and book a bed and breakfast in County Sligo.

  I’d never been before, never drawn to the land of my birth. I guess I thought it had nothing to tell me. My mother didn’t know who my father was. My grandparents were dead. And my mother had been an only child. But things were different now. I needed to find out about my past.

  Chapter 21

  January 1990

  Laura drove her mother’s yellow Ford Capri along the country roads towards the closest village, Rachel asleep in her car seat. Was a mother and toddler group such a good idea? Rachel was a difficult child.

  But Laura had known she had to do something. Living a hermit lifestyle was affecting Rachel, and she knew if she didn’t force herself to do something about it now – for Rachel’s sake – perhaps she never would.

  And it was affecting her too. Sometimes she would pick up the phone, place the receiver to her ear, and listen to the hum of the dialling tone, searching her mind for someone to call. She’d even looked up an old school friend a few weeks back in the hope she might be able to meet up with her – but she’d moved away from Sligo a long time ago.

  She still hadn’t seen Imogen since the day of the cigarette burns, and Dillon hadn’t come near the house since November, despite Laura watching out for him. It was as though they’d closed ranks, and sent her into solitary confinement.

  Rachel stirred in her car seat, and gave a little grizzle as she rubbed her eyes with clenched fists. Laura pulled into a space along the road, a two-minute walk from the village hall. Despite the short distance, Laura lifted Rachel into her buggy, and headed along the pavement. She opened the wooden doors of the hall and stood, framed in the doorway, as the blast of children’s happy squeals and motherly chatter penetrated her eardrums.

  ‘Are you new?’ It was a woman in her forties, her fair hair in a Princess Diana style. Laura took her to be the organiser.

  ‘Yes. I called yesterday. I’m Laura Hogan, and this is Rachel.’ She pointed down at Rachel in her buggy.

  ‘Well, do come in. Get yourself a cuppa. We’re all very friendly.’ Her smile was wide and welcoming.

  Laura’s stomach tipped as she took in the room full of strangers happily sitting on small chairs with cups of tea or coffee, their well-behaved and well-balanced children playing happily. She lifted Rachel from her buggy and put her down on the floor, where the child looked bewildered.

  She took her daughter’s hand and, chanting I must do this for Rachel in her head, made her way towards a plump woman in glasses, who was dressed in a long black jumper with Liquorice Allsorts on the front, and a pair of Oxford Bags she must have had since the Seventies.

  ‘Hi,’ Laura braved, sitting down, and putting Rachel on the floor by her legs.

  ‘Hi, I’m Libby.’ The woman was confident – her voice deep and strong.

  ‘I’m Laura, and this is Rachel.’

  ‘Pretty name – reminds me of Daphne Du Maurier’s My Cousin Rachel.’

  ‘Yes, me too.’ The conversation felt stilted, and uncomfortable tingles shuddered through Laura’s body. She was so far from her comfort zone she needed a telescope to find it. But Rachel seemed fine. She was happily banging on a drum with drumsticks.

  ‘Mine’s the red-headed chap.’ Libby pointed at a child pushing a metal truck around the carpet, making brumming noises. ‘He’s two and a half.’

&nbs
p; ‘The same as Rachel.’

  ‘Super age, isn’t it?’

  Laura nodded, wishing she felt the same.

  ‘Aaron,’ Libby called. ‘Come and play with Rachel.’

  Rachel stopped drumming, and stared at the boy.

  ‘Brum brum,’ he said, rolling the truck across the floor towards Rachel.

  Laura could hear Libby chatting to her about how she’d just got a desktop computer with a CD-ROM drive from Comet, and how Aaron’s favourite toy was his Glo Worm – won’t sleep without it. But the words were muffled as Laura stared at her daughter and began to overheat, a sense of foreboding washing over her. Was she afraid of what Rachel was capable of? For goodness’ sake, she was only two and a half.

  There was a thud as Aaron rammed the truck into the drum, and Rachel stopped drumming, and looked at the child.

  ‘I’m afraid Rachel doesn’t like trucks,’ Laura said, bending forward to see her daughter’s face redden. ‘Why not go and play with that little boy over there?’ Laura went on, pointing to a boy with spiked gelled hair.

  But it was too late. Rachel lifted one of the drumsticks and smacked the boy around the face with it, leaving a red welt. His scream was piercing, but before anyone could react, Rachel picked up his truck and smashed it on his forehead.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Libby cried, jumping from her chair and picking him up, cuddling him close. ‘Hush, darling,’ she said, jiggling him up and down as he continued to scream. She stared at Laura. ‘Your child is an absolute monster,’ she cried, as the friendly Princess Diana woman from earlier bustled over, and other mothers approached, comforting the crying child and his mortified mother.

  ‘Is he going to be OK?’ Laura said, as a trickle of blood rolled down the child’s forehead. ‘Can I do anything? Should we take him to hospital?’

  ‘For God’s sake! Just take Rosemary’s Baby and leave!’ Libby yelled.

  Laura looked down at Rachel, who smiled up at her. She whipped her up from the floor and dashed from the hall, tears filling her eyes. Once she’d strapped Rachel into her buggy, she left the village hall and raced down the road, her vision blurred from tears. ‘What the hell is wrong with you, Rachel?’ she muttered through her teeth. ‘Why can’t you be like normal children?’