Under Lying

by Janelle Harris

  ‘They probably didn’t know,’ my mother says. ‘No harm done. I’ll finish cleaning up here, you pop down and ask them to be on their way.’

  I make my way down the incline, squinting to get a better view of the uninvited visitors. It’s a man and a child. He’s tall and thin with shaggy grey hair. Without seeing his face, I guess he’s about my age. I can’t tell what age the child is, not from this distance, but I know she’s a girl with shiny blonde hair that cascades halfway down her back like a beautiful waterfall. I look around for her mother, assuming an entire family has invaded my private space.

  The child leans in to smell the sunflowers and to my surprise she picks one.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ I shout, furious and waving my gardening apron about as I try to catch their attention.

  I pick up speed but it’s hard to run in flip-flops.

  ‘They’re my special yellow flowers,’ I warn, getting closer. ‘You can’t pick them.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know,’ the girl says, turning to face me. A clunky disposable camera dangles around her neck. ‘They’re just so pretty. I love yellow.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ I say, jumping back as I look into her huge blue eyes. I go over on the edge of my flip-flop, my bad hip jars and I fall over.

  ‘Are you okay?’ the girl asks. She is speaking to me but she’s looking at the man for reassurance. I’ve startled her, no doubt.

  ‘Yes,’ I nod, barely even feeling the pain in my hip as I stand up. ‘I’m sorry, I thought you were someone I knew.’

  ‘I’m Amelia,’ the child says, extending her hand.

  ‘Hello, Amelia,’ I say, shaking it, delighted by her wonderful manners. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Amelia,’ my mother shouts from the deck. ‘Is that you? Oh, I can’t believe it’s really you.’

  ‘Grandma,’ the young girl says. She hurries up the hilly garden to where my mother stands with her arms stretched wide and the two embrace.

  I’ve dreamed of this moment for so long, and now that it’s actually happening I can’t quite believe it’s real.

  ‘Deacon,’ I nod, forcing myself to say that name after all these years.

  The grey-haired man turns round and his smile is as familiar as ever. ‘Hello, Sue,’ he says. ‘How have you been?’

  I swallow. I have no words.

  A barge floats towards us on the canal, drifting close to the edge. The captain beeps his horn and enthusiastic passengers wave.

  ‘Salut,’ he shouts happily.

  ‘Oh fuck off,’ I grunt.

  Deacon laughs. ‘I see you haven’t changed one bit.’

  I turn and face my mother and Amelia sitting on the swing chair on the deck. They rock back and forth, chatting and wonderfully comfortable with one another.

  ‘Look at them,’ I say, smiling. ‘Meeting at last.’

  ‘Are you ever going to write back to her, Sue?’ Deacon asks. ‘You reply to mine but not hers. Why?’

  I shake my head. ‘My mother writes to her. I think they’ve reached the stage of sending a letter a week now, maybe even more.’

  ‘Amelia draws her pictures too,’ Deacon says.

  ‘I know. Mam puts them on the fridge,’ I say, remembering how she would proudly display Adam’s and my school art on the fridge when we were kids.

  ‘They share photos too, sometimes,’ Deacon adds. ‘Your mother’s are usually out of focus, but Amelia treasures them nonetheless. But there’s never any of you.’

  ‘I know that too.’

  Deacon slides his hands into his pockets and stares around the picturesque garden. ‘Beautiful flowers,’ he says. ‘No surprise they’re yellow.’

  ‘I like yellow,’ I shrug.

  ‘She asks about you,’ he says. ‘More and more all the time. I’m not sure what to tell her.’

  ‘Tell her I love her,’ I say.

  ‘I do,’ he nods. ‘But she’s nearly eight. She wants to know more than that. She wants to know you.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here? So my daughter can get to know me?’

  Deacon takes a deep breath. ‘I’ve met someone,’ he says, switching his gaze from the flowers to my mother and daughter swinging on the deck.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, bending to pick up the broken flower Amelia dropped.

  ‘She’s amazing, Sue. You’d like her. She’s bubbly and quirky and talks a lot.’

  ‘That’s great, Deacon,’ I say, and he tilts his head as he watches me. ‘I’m happy for you. Really.’

  ‘And she’s wonderful with Amelia,’ he adds, his face lighting up as he talks about her. ‘They paint each other’s nails and go shopping together. All the girly stuff I was never very good at.’

  Amelia giggles on the deck and the sound carries down to me, wrapping its arms around me like a warm hug. My sense of missing out is overwhelming, even worse than usual.

  ‘She’s happy,’ I say, pointing towards my daughter.

  ‘Yeah,’ Deacon nods. ‘She is.’

  I bend and pick several of the shorter-stemmed sunflowers, adding them to the one already in my hand. I bundle them together and take the brightly coloured belt off my apron and tie it around them, securing them into a haphazard bouquet.

  ‘Tea, Deacon? Or are you hungry, would you like some tart?’

  He makes a face, confused, as he looks me up and down. ‘Susan, I’m trying to tell you that your daughter needs you and you’re asking if I’m hungry?’

  ‘My mother made it herself, it’s delicious.’

  ‘Susan, I can only imagine how hard this must be to have Amelia suddenly so desperate to be a part of your life. But she needs her mother.’

  I shake my head. ‘She needs a mother, Deacon. And by the sounds of it you’ve found someone wonderful to fill those shoes.’

  ‘Susan—’

  ‘Deacon, please. This is already so hard. Don’t make it worse by trying to reason with me.’

  He shakes his head and a sadness washes over him.

  ‘Do you remember the text you sent me the day they arrested Paul for murder?’ I ask.

  ‘Vaguely,’ Deacon says.

  ‘You told me to get help.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Deacon smiles, ‘my pearls of wisdom.’

  ‘But I already had help,’ I say. ‘I had someone who put Amelia first when no one else did. I had you.’

  ‘I love her as if she is my own,’ he says.

  ‘I know.’ I pass him the makeshift bouquet of sunflowers. ‘And that’s why I know you’ll put her first again now. She can’t be here, Deacon. It’s too dangerous. Someday Paul will come looking . . .’

  ‘He’s in prison for triple murder, Susan.’

  ‘I know. But someday will eventually come. It always does. Amelia deserves a family, Deacon. With real parents, not the selfish biological ones she was cursed with. She doesn’t remember me, does she?’

  He shakes his head, and although it’s the answer I needed I wasn’t prepared for how much it would hurt.

  ‘Good,’ I say, flicking away a tear that trickles down the side of my nose. ‘That’s good. Now, let’s have this tart.’

  Acceptance creeps across Deacon’s face as he places his hand on my shoulder.

  ‘And then you can tell Amelia that I’m the nice lady who looks after her grandmother’s garden, and you can be on your way.’

  ‘Sue . . .’ He looks as if he is about to object, then he sighs. ‘These are beautiful,’ he says, shoving his nose into the centre of the bouquet and taking a deep breath. ‘Amelia will love them.’

  ‘You won’t be back, will you?’ I ask, choking back tears.

  Deacon shakes his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Can I take your photo?’ Amelia says, skipping towards me.

  ‘She loves nothing more than taking pictures,’ Deacon explains.

  I smile but my heart is aching.

  ‘She’s really very good,’ he adds proudly.

  I know, I think. I’ve seen the ones she sends Mam. And Mam says she
’s even more talented than Adam was at that age.

  ‘Okay,’ I nod nervously. ‘Just give me one moment?’

  ‘Okay,’ Amelia says.

  I rush back to the house. In the kitchen I open the corner cupboard and glance up at the top shelf, beaming with satisfaction when Adam’s old camera stares back at me. I pull over a chair, climb up and take a deep breath as I reach for his pride and joy.

  Amelia is happily snapping shots of my sunflowers and the canal when I return to the garden.

  ‘There’s something I’d like you to have,’ I say, offering her Adam’s camera.

  ‘For me?’ she says, wide-eyed and giddy with excitement as she takes it. ‘Look, look, Deacon. How cool is this?’

  ‘Very cool,’ he says.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you,’ Amelia chirps. ‘I’ll take such good care of it.’

  ‘You didn’t have to do that,’ Deacon whispers.

  I nod happily. ‘Yes. Yes, I did.’

  I position myself next to the beautiful yellow sunflowers as Amelia raises the camera, her small fingers managing it masterfully.

  ‘Say cheese,’ she says.

  I smile brightly. ‘Cheese.’

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Janelle Harris penned her first story on scented, unicorn-shaped paper. She was nine. A couple of decades, one husband, five children, two cats and a dog later Janelle wrote another story. Unfortunately the paper lacked any fragrance but that didn’t hinder No Kiss Goodbye from becoming an international bestseller. Janelle now writes psychological suspense for Lake Union and women’s fiction for Bookouture. She is always on the lookout for aromatic notepads.