Tell the Truth

by Amanda Brittany

  Coming to her senses, Laura kicked off a sunken tree trunk and dived down over ten metres after her daughter, deeper and deeper into the lake. Rachel could have hypothermia by now, Laura reasoned. She could lose her. Perhaps this is how it’s meant to be.

  She reached the bottom, where Rachel lay motionless, and picked up her small body. She swam up, up, up; until she broke through the surface, out of breath, her hair slicked to head.

  On the grass verge, Caitlin – wrapped in Imogen’s cardigan – was huddled in Bridie’s arms, her head on her sister’s chest, teeth chattering. Bridie stared at Laura and Rachel, her anger at almost losing her sister tangible.

  ‘Imogen,’ Laura cried, and she turned.

  ‘Oh God,’ Imogen yelled, racing to the edge. ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Laura pushed the child’s soaking hair back from her face. As she reached the edge, she held her lifeless daughter up to Imogen. ‘I don’t know.’

  Laura clambered onto the grass verge, trying to catch her breath, while Imogen laid Rachel down and attempted to revive her with anxious pushes on the child’s chest and an awkward attempt at the kiss of life. Rachel spluttered, and water splurged from her mouth. The girl opened her eyes and stared at Imogen for some time, her hair clinging to her skull, her face so pale.

  ‘Thank God you’re OK,’ Laura said, dropping to her knees and taking hold of her small hand.

  But Rachel turned her head away, and closed her eyes.

  Chapter 40

  March 2018

  Margo, wearing black trousers and a thoroughly buttoned cardigan, laid her hand on my arm as I stood with Grace outside the crematorium. ‘A beautiful service, dear,’ she said. ‘You did your mum proud.’

  ‘It’s all too much,’ I said through a lump in my throat, dashing a tissue across my nose, the aroma of the fresh flowers, woven into a beautiful display, irritating my nostrils. I gripped Grace’s hand. She looked up at me bewildered, eyes wide and lost, and I wondered if I’d been right to bring her.

  ‘I won’t come back to the house, as I’m on duty at Dream Meadows later,’ Margo continued. ‘But I’m glad I came. I was fond of your mum.’ She hurried away before I could answer, disappearing through a gap in a neat high hedge, and into the car park.

  I’d noticed her earlier, when I got up to say a few words, sitting at the back, a handkerchief to her nose, next to a man in his fifties I hadn’t recognised who’d gone now. It had been a small turnout, and it struck me as sad that Mum had so few friends, and barely any family. Her neighbour, Jessica, had turned up, but other than that, it was just Angela, Zoe, and Lawrence – people from my life.

  I’d decided I would stay over at Mum’s house, knowing I would want a drink after the ceremony, and Angela and Zoe had agreed to stay too. I was glad. I needed my friends more than ever.

  Lawrence had declined coming back, saying he would take Grace home, and give me a chance ‘to let it all out’. Looking relieved that I wouldn’t be ‘letting it all out’ in front of him.

  But I hadn’t cried. Not since the rush of tears when Margo called with the awful news two weeks ago. In fact I felt numb, unable to function. Zoe reckoned I was in shock – the tears will come, eventually.

  I tried telling myself it was better than seeing Mum decline. Better her weak heart gave out before the worst of dementia set in. But all I could see were the good times we’d had through the years. Times we would never share again.

  I drove back to Mum’s house, Jessica in the passenger seat, Zoe and Angela in the back. It was the first time my friends had met, and they were happily chatting about movies and London shows they’d both seen, and seemed to be getting on OK. Angela seemed to be her usual self, which I was thankful for.

  ‘I need a drink,’ I said like a desperate alcoholic, once I’d parked and Jessica had hurried across the road to her bungalow, Muffin greeting her. I grabbed a hessian carrier from the boot that clinked with wine bottles, and my overnight bag. ‘Can you bring the sandwiches?’ I asked Zoe, and she looped her hair behind her ears, and picked up four plastic boxes and her holdall.

  ‘How many did you think were coming?’ she said with a laugh, staggering towards the gate under the weight of them.

  ‘Clearly more than did,’ I said, following, and there was that sadness again. ‘I thought people might come who loved her art.’ I’d even put a piece about her death in the local paper. But I guess it had been a while since she sold anything. ‘People have forgotten her.’

  Zoe sighed. ‘Don’t think like that, hon. Her pictures are on so many walls, and the main thing is, you’ll never forget her.’

  ‘Zoe’s right, Rachel,’ Angela said, putting her arm round my shoulder as I opened the gate.

  Once inside the house, we stepped over the boxes of Mum’s stuff I’d collected from the care home, and had yet to sort through.

  ‘Jesus, it’s cold in here,’ Angela said, wasting no time making a fire in the grate, and I turned on the central heating, which clanked and banged. I headed for the kitchen and poured three large glasses of white wine, while Zoe arranged sandwiches on a plate and poured crisps into a bowl. It was gone six, and none of us had eaten all day.

  Back in the lounge we raised our glasses. ‘To Mum,’ I said, through a lump in my throat. But still no tears came.

  ‘To your mum,’ they said together.

  ‘God, I needed that,’ I said, almost draining my glass in one go, the alcohol warming my body. Angela refilled our glasses, and I grabbed a sandwich, needing something to soak it up.

  ‘I’m not surprised you need a drink, sweetie,’ Angela said. ‘It’s all so dreadfully sad. Your mother was too young to die. It doesn’t seem possible.’

  I stared at Angela. She’d lost weight, and heavy make-up couldn’t hide the puffy shadows that cradled her eyes. I hadn’t spoken to her about the day the man had taken off in his car, leaving her in tears. The death of my mother had dominated everything. I’d even cancelled my clients’ appointments.

  ‘Are your parents alive?’ Angela’s eyes were fixed on Zoe, who’d curled her legs under her and pulled her black dress over her knees. I smiled. The room, lit only by the flickering fire and a standard lamp, glowed orange, and I began to feel warm and cosy – secure with friends.

  ‘Yes.’ Zoe said. ‘They live in Cornwall.’

  ‘Do you visit them often?’ She sounded like a cop questioning a suspect.

  ‘Not as often as I would like. I own my own business in London, and never seem to find a window, somehow.’

  ‘Have you got brothers or sisters?’

  Zoe shook her head. ‘I’m an only child.’ She pulled her legs from under her, and placed her feet firmly on the floor, and threw me a ‘save me’ look.

  ‘Do you live in London?’ Angela went on, oblivious.

  ‘Gosh, what is this, the third degree?’ Zoe said.

  ‘Sorry.’ Angela shuffled uncomfortably. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Zoe said, now pushing her fingers through dark hair, and moving her gaze to Angela. And turning the tables she said, ‘Do you work?’

  ‘I retired just over a year ago from a London hospital.’

  ‘I didn’t realise,’ I chipped in.

  She took a gulp of wine. ‘I worked in admin, updating patient records,’ she said, fiddling with her earlobe, her eyes on the window. ‘And now I’m as free as a bird, as they say, and loving every moment.’ She glanced at me, her eyes wide, as though urging me not to dispute her happiness.

  ‘It must be great not having to work,’ Zoe said.

  ‘It is, although it can be lonely at times.’

  Zoe rose, as though placing a full stop at the end of the conversation. ‘Where’s the loo, Rach?’ she said.

  ‘Straight up the stairs, right in front of you.’

  ‘Won’t be a sec,’ she said, dashing from the room.

  ‘How are you now?’ I said to Angela, as the door closed behind Zoe.

 
‘Fine.’ She looked confused. As though she had no idea why I was asking.

  ‘You were so upset. When I saw you on your doorstep a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Oh, that was nothing, Rach, honestly.’

  I didn’t push her. Not while Zoe was in the house. ‘Well, you know I’m here for you,’ I said.

  We sipped our drinks in silence, and the air that had felt so warm a few moments ago, felt suddenly icy. I got up and looked out of the window. A movement in the shadows caught my eye. Someone was out there, I felt sure of it, and a memory flooded in of the footprints in the snow I’d seen when I visited with Grace – the fact that Jessica had seen someone hanging about.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Angela asked, as I moved closer to the glass, my heart thudding as I peered into the darkness.

  ‘I thought I saw someone, that’s all.’

  Angela shuddered. ‘Oh, please don’t, Rachel, you’ll give me the creeps.’

  I snatched the curtains across the window. ‘It was probably nothing,’ I said, as Zoe reappeared.

  ‘What was nothing?’ she said.

  ‘Rachel thought she saw someone in the front garden.’

  ‘Ooh, a stalker – cue creepy music.’ Zoe laughed, raced to the window, and pulled back the curtain. ‘Where exactly?’

  I joined her, and pointed towards the trees where I’d thought I’d seen a figure.

  ‘Well, he’s not there now.’

  ‘It could have been a she,’ I said, thankful Zoe had let the curtain fall closed again, blocking out the night.

  ‘I’m pretty sure it’s usually men who stalk, Rachel,’ she said, walking across the room and flopping back into the chair she’d vacated earlier. She picked up her glass.

  ‘And you’re basing that on what, exactly?’ I followed and sat down on the sofa next to Angela, and took a gulp of my wine. ‘Anyway, it was my imagination.’ But I was unsettled. It had been a long day, and I was drinking too fast. ‘I think I’ll head for my bed, if nobody minds.’

  ‘What? It’s not even seven,’ Zoe said, as though ready for a fun night ahead. ‘How old are you, five?’

  ‘Rachel’s had a difficult day, Zoe,’ Angela said, giving her a warning look.

  ‘Oh God, yes, sorry, I’m being insensitive,’ Zoe responded, with a tilt of her head.

  I picked up my glass and headed for the kitchen. As I put it down by the sink, I sensed someone behind me. A knife rack was close by, and I lunged forward, grabbed one, and spun round, brandishing the blade.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ It was Zoe, her hands in the air. ‘What the fuck?’

  I lowered the knife. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m a bit jittery, that’s all.’ I laid the blade on the worktop.

  ‘A bit? You scared the fucking life out of me.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I repeated. I hadn’t realised my anxiety was quite so full on.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said, touching my arm. And in a whisper she said, ‘What’s with Angela?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All the questions, and there’s just something about her, don’t you think? Sorry, I know she’s your friend, and …’

  ‘She’s OK,’ I said, defensive. ‘Just a bit nosy, that’s all.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to be unkind about her. You know her better than I do.’ I wasn’t sure I did. ‘Listen, I thought we could go to Southwold tomorrow, before we head home. I know you told me you went there with your mum. I just thought …’

  ‘That’s an amazing idea,’ I said, giving her a hug, breathing in her perfume, before heading for the door. ‘I’d like that.’

  ***

  I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, but was woken in the early hours by a noise in my room.

  ‘Mum?’ It was a ridiculous assumption, but my dreams had been filled with her memory since her death. Dreams that wrapped me in a fantasy that she’d never left at all.

  As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I felt a presence close to me. Someone touched my hand with icy fingers.

  ‘Christ!’ I said, shooting to a sitting position, huddling myself against the headboard, my duvet pressed against my chin.

  I could just make out the shape beside me, and reached out for the lamp, flicking it on.

  ‘Angela, thank God,’ I said, pressing my hand against my chest. She was still and silent, her eyes wide open, as though she was looking through me. ‘What’s wrong? What are you doing?’

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘Angela? You’re freaking me out here.’

  Still nothing.

  It didn’t take me long to realise Angela was sleepwalking. Something she’d never mentioned, but then she’d told me so little about herself.

  I climbed gingerly off the bed, and approached her. Turning her to face the door, I coaxed her out of my room and along the landing, flicking on the light as we went. ‘This way,’ I said, turning her so she walked back to her bed, and, once she was lying down, I covered her with the duvet. After a few moments she closed her eyes.

  Was there an underlying reason for her sleepwalking? Stress or anxiety? Alcohol? Something that ran in her family? I found myself staring at her bedside cabinet. Next to a wine glass was a box of tablets:

  56 Venlafaxine 150mg tabs.

  Take ONE twice a day.

  Take with or just after food or a meal.

  Mrs Angela Frost

  Mrs? I picked them up. They were strong antidepressants. How had I – a psychotherapist – missed that she suffered with depression? And why hadn’t she told me she was married?

  I put down the tablets, noticing her purse lying open. A photograph of a young lad with dark curly hair stared out at me through clear plastic, and there was an appointment card too. I slipped it out. It was for two weeks’ time at Bell and Brooks – the clinic where I used to work.

  I turned my gaze back to Angela and reached out my hand, about to stroke a straying hair from her face, but I pulled back, not wanting to wake her. I gave her one last look, before padding back to my bedroom, knowing I wouldn’t sleep.

  ***

  ‘This was such a great idea,’ I said as I walked down the pier, my arms linked with Zoe and Angela’s, trying to put the events of the early hours behind me.

  Plaques pinned to the pier railings, where people remembered those they’d lost, caught my eye. I wondered if I could add one for my mum. It was one of her favourite places, after all. There were a few shops and cafés, and a quaint old-fashioned penny arcade. ‘I love this place,’ I said, looking down at the sea between the wooden slats we were walking on. Even in winter. In fact, especially in winter.’

  Mum had always paddled in the sea at Southwold when I was a child. But I’d never got too close to the water, happy to sit on the craggy rocks, the multi-coloured beach huts behind me, watching as she ran along splashing her feet and laughing. Later we’d have chips, and she would paint, and I would watch her. Never bored – always happy.

  Now we reached the end of the pier, and looked out at the choppy, brown sea, the sky almost white, like cream on weak coffee.

  ‘Rachel?’

  I turned to see the man who’d been at the funeral.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, as Angela and Zoe turned too.

  ‘I wondered if we could talk.’ He was well-spoken, pleasant.

  ‘Sorry, who are you, exactly?’

  He looked from Angela to Zoe, and back to me. ‘Could we talk … alone?’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ I said. ‘Whatever you’ve got to say, you can say in front of my friends.’

  ‘OK.’ There was a long pause, as he stared hard into my eyes. ‘Well … the thing is, Rachel … my name is Jude Henshaw, and I’m your father.’

  Chapter 41

  March 2018

  I had so many questions. But now, as I sat opposite Jude Henshaw, a comforting drinking chocolate in front of me, I couldn’t arrange the words in my head so they made sense.

  Zoe and Angela sat at the other end of the café, watc
hing over me like the secret police, and I wondered what they thought. Whether they believed this stranger could be my father.

  ‘You don’t look like your mother,’ Jude said. He was handsome, with salt and pepper hair, casual in a chunky-knit jumper and jeans. It was clear he looked after himself, maybe going to the gym a couple of times a week. ‘Although I’m guessing the red hair isn’t natural,’ he added.

  I smiled. ‘Why ever would you think that?’

  He smiled back. Yes, he was likeable. But the truth was, he could be absolutely anyone. This strange man turning up with his paternal claims as soon as my mother died didn’t ring true somehow, especially after the weird things that had happened to me lately. My body tensed. Was I being paranoid?

  ‘How much do you know about me?’ he asked.

  I shook my head, my eyes veering towards the window. The wind had got up, and frothy waves crashed on the deserted beach. ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘She never told you anything about me?’

  Another shake of my head, as my eyes met his once more. ‘She told me my father was a one-night stand – said she didn’t know his name.’

  ‘That was never the case. Your mother and I dated at university,’ he began. ‘She told me she was pregnant, and the truth is I didn’t stand by her. I was an idiot – far too young, and my parents expected so much from me.’

  ‘And that’s your excuse?’

  ‘No, it’s no excuse at all.’ He reached into his pocket, brought out an envelope, and pulled a piece of thin, discoloured paper from it. ‘And then I got this.’ He handed it to me, and I unfolded it. It was in my mum’s neat handwriting.

  Dear Jude

  I got your address from your mother, and I’m writing to let you know of the tragic death of your daughter, Rachel.

  It breaks my heart to tell you this news – especially as you’ve never seen your child. But I wanted you to know, just in case one day in the distant future you get a prick of conscience – or merely become curious and come looking for her.