The Lost Sister

by Tracy Buchanan

  ‘Quite a turnout,’ someone says from behind her. Becky turns to see a woman with long, frizzy grey hair who looks to be in her seventies. ‘You’re Becky, aren’t you?’ the woman asks.

  Becky smiles. ‘I am.’

  ‘Thought so. I recognise you from the photo your mum used to keep in the cave.’

  ‘You knew her from the cave?’

  The woman smiles and puts her hand out. ‘Yes. My name’s Maggie.’

  Becky shakes the woman’s hand, noticing grey powder when she takes it away. She wipes it on her dress, leaving a handprint on the black material.

  ‘Oops, sorry,’ Maggie says, spitting on a tissue and rubbing at the mark. ‘I was in the middle of making a pot with my granddaughter when I noticed the time and had to leave. That’s what happens when you’re in the current.’

  ‘It’s fine, really, I’m usually covered in dog hairs!’ She frowns. ‘What’s the current?’

  ‘The flow. The zone.’

  Becky nods. She vaguely recalls her mum mentioning something about it. Or maybe it was from one of the school kids? Word had quickly got around about Idris and his ‘followers’ and their strange ways that summer, the fact her mum was part of it all bringing endless embarrassment and teasing for Becky.

  ‘How long were you there?’ she asks.

  ‘Almost a year. It was quite something,’ Maggie adds with a wistful sigh.

  Becky looks in the direction of the cave. ‘Mum was in the cave when she passed away. She asked me to take her there.’

  Maggie puts her hand to her mouth, her grey eyes filling with tears. ‘Was it peaceful?’

  Becky nods, trying to contain her own tears. ‘Very.’

  ‘Poor girl,’ Maggie says, clasping her hand. ‘It must be so difficult for you.’

  ‘It’s been a shock.’

  ‘Yes, I imagine.’

  ‘Is anyone else from the cave here?’ Becky asks, looking around.

  ‘Not from what I can see. I’ve only kept in touch with a couple of them.’

  ‘Like Idris?’ Becky asks, voice tensing at his name.

  Maggie shakes her head. ‘No, not Idris. Haven’t seen him since I left.’

  ‘I’m surprised he didn’t show up today.’

  ‘Me too,’ Maggie sighs. ‘But then they did part rather abruptly, your mum and Idris.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I wasn’t there at the time. It’s just what I heard. He upped and went, leaving your mum behind.’

  Becky had never learnt the details. All she knew was that the cave’s occupants had all packed up one day, leaving just her mum behind.

  ‘They argued?’ Becky asks, keen for more details now.

  ‘I’m not sure. Something must have gone on though. They were so in love. It was hard in those last few weeks …’ Her face darkens. ‘That’s why I had to leave. Though I sometimes wonder if I ever really left, if any of us did,’ she adds, looking towards the cave, her smile returning. Maggie sighs. ‘Oh well, it’s ancient history. I’d rather not go into all that. I’ve worked bloody hard to leave it all behind.’ She looks around her. ‘So where’s your sister then?’

  Becky almost stops breathing. ‘Sister?’

  ‘Yes. I thought she’d be here?’

  Becky tries to talk but finds she can’t.

  Maggie’s eyes widen. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know?’ Becky can’t say anything. She just stares into the distance, mind struggling to compute what Maggie has just said. Maggie puts her hand to her mouth. ‘My God. You didn’t.’

  ‘Mum said something before she died but I presumed she was just delirious from the meds.’ She closes her eyes, suddenly feeling weak.

  Maggie senses it, and helps steer her to a bench. A willow tree hangs over, its leaves stirring in the summer breeze. Becky turns to Maggie. ‘Did you meet my sister?’

  My sister. There, just like that, another member of her family is formed.

  ‘I was there when she was born,’ Maggie replied. ‘I left the cave not long after but met your mum again in this very café just before I headed off to the States. That’s where I’ve been all these years, why your mum and I lost touch. Well, I like to blame it on that but, truth is, I simply never got a response to any of my letters to her.’

  ‘It was definitely her baby? The one you met in the café?’ Becky asks, desperate to keep on track.

  ‘Yes, definitely. Pretty little thing.’

  ‘Why didn’t Mum tell me? Tell my dad?’

  ‘Sweetheart, she’d just lost you in that court battle with your father. There was no chance she could risk social services marching her baby off. They kept her hidden away in that cave and your mum barely went out in those later stages of her pregnancy.’

  ‘And barely saw me,’ Becky adds. That would explain a lot, how suddenly her mum’s visits dropped off in the months before Becky moved to Busby-on-Sea with her dad.

  ‘Do you know what happened to the baby?’ Becky asks Maggie.

  Maggie shakes her head. ‘Like I said, I lost touch with your mum after that. Maybe social services did catch up with her. Maybe the little mite was adopted?’

  Becky thinks back to what her mum said before she died. ‘Mum said something about Idris taking her.’

  Maggie’s face darkens. ‘Really? That’s not good. You’d think she’d try to track her daughter down if Idris took her though. She had all that money, probably contacts too.’

  ‘Do you know where Idris is now?’

  ‘I heard he went to Spain, to some cave encampment above the hills of Granada. I think he was hoping to start over, build up a brand new group. Maybe he’d have got his way if—’

  She stops talking.

  ‘If what?’ Becky asks.

  ‘Like I said, ancient history.’ Maggie pulls an old watch from her pocket and looks at it. ‘I have to go. I have a flight to catch later and I need to say my goodbyes to the family. You take care, okay?’ She digs around in her bag for a paper and pen, scribbling her name and number down. ‘Here’s my number, in case you ever need to chat.’ Then she walks from the graveyard.

  Becky stays where she is, looking towards the cave where her mum died … and maybe gave birth to a secret child, hidden away so she wasn’t taken from her as Becky had been. But in the end, someone did take her child away.

  Idris.

  Chapter Ten

  Selma

  Kent, UK

  28 July 1991

  When I got home at midnight after visiting Idris’s cave, the house was dark and silent. Mike’s car was in the drive so I knew he was home from the pub with Becky. I stepped inside with some trepidation but then readjusted my mind. What was wrong with taking a few hours out? I went into the kitchen and got a glass of water, drinking gulps of it down as I stared out into the garden. It was a lovely garden, one of the reasons we’d bought the house. Wide and surrounded by trees, it overlooked a field of horses at the back. I’d hoped to write my next novel looking out at that. Would it be easier in that cave with the sea as my view?

  ‘Where were you?’ a voice asked from the darkness. I turned to see Mike watching me from the doorway. He stepped into the kitchen, eyes accusing. He was in his pyjamas. ‘You just disappeared,’ he said, voice cold.

  ‘That’s allowed, isn’t it? It was only a couple of hours.’

  ‘Not when you have a child.’

  ‘You were with Becky!’

  ‘She was asking for you.’

  I crossed my arms. ‘Don’t pull a guilt trip on me, Mike. I’m allowed to have some me time every now and again.’

  ‘You get me time two days a week,’ he threw back.

  ‘That’s work! How many times do I need to remind you?’

  Mike gave me a pointed look. ‘Work? Is that what you call it?’ He grabbed some paper from the side and waved it in front of my face. ‘According to this contract, there was no two-book deal – just one. And as for that royalty cheque you promised will arrive soon, that’s bullshit too, i
sn’t it? I found your statement. Three hundred and two units sold. I thought you said you’d sold thousands?’

  I went very still. ‘You went through my stuff.’

  ‘Can you blame me? You’ve been acting so weird lately.’

  I put my hand to my head. I already had a tension headache and I’d only been home a few minutes. I suddenly yearned for the cave again, for the crackling fire and wistful guitar music, the talk of writing and art and ‘being in the current’ and nurturing creativity.

  ‘It’s just numbers,’ I said, surprising myself. ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘What does it matter?’ Mike said, throwing the contract at me, the paper fluttering to the floor. ‘We have a mortgage to pay, Selma. And you lied to me. Lied without batting an eyelid.’

  ‘Because I knew you’d go on and on.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, staring up at the ceiling in exasperation. ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’

  ‘You don’t get it!’ I shouted back, my voice trembling. ‘You don’t get how bloody unhappy I am.’

  Mike paused. ‘Unhappy?’

  As he said that, I realised just how deeply unhappy I was.

  ‘You get everything you want,’ he said. ‘Two days of writing, that bloody view which we pay a premium for,’ he said, flinging his hand towards the window. ‘Everything you ask for.’

  ‘This isn’t what I asked for,’ I said miserably.

  ‘What do you mean by this? Me? Becky?’

  ‘Of course I don’t mean Becky. I adore her.’

  ‘Do you really? Sometimes I wonder what you love more, your daughter or your writing.’

  ‘How dare you say that!’

  But maybe Mike was right. Wasn’t my own mother the same way? All those years I had to endure her dispassion, sitting at the kitchen table and sucking on a cigarette as I silently begged her to look at me, speak to me, anything. I’d seen the desperation on my father’s face too. The desire to bring his wife back into the here and now, to look at her family. Was Mike doing the same?

  No, I wasn’t like my mother. How could I think that? I did pay attention to Becky; I talked to her, listened to her. Becky knew I adored her. She knew I was always there for cuddles, for kisses, to hold her when she hurt herself. Or when she cried out in the night, my reflexes sent me flying to Becky’s room before Mike had even registered our daughter’s cry. A world away from the way my own mother had been with me.

  And the fact Mike was daring to judge me in that moment made me more angry than ever. Criticise my failure as a wife, maybe. But a mum? No.

  ‘Don’t ever question my love for our daughter,’ I said firmly.

  Mike’s face turned stony. ‘And what about your love for me?’

  My shoulders slumped. For once, I was sick of lying. ‘It’s changed for me, you’re right.’ I lifted my eyes to meet his. ‘I’m sorry, Mike.’

  He held my gaze, his nostrils flaring as tears gathered in his eyes. ‘Then go,’ he hissed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me, get out. You’ve not paid towards the mortgage for the past few months. So officially, this is my house. Pack your bags and get the fuck out.’

  My heart started thumping uncontrollably. ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘I can and I will.’

  I opened my mouth to protest again then I paused. Maybe it was time to leave, even if it was for a few days?

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  Surprise flickered on Mike’s face. Then he stormed into the living room, slamming the door shut behind him.

  I stayed where I was for a few moments, blinking into the moonlight-flooded kitchen, my head buzzing. Then I walked upstairs, pausing on the landing as I peered towards Becky’s room. She was curled up on her side with her thumb in her mouth, something she still did when she slept. Her covers were thrown off, her face red from the night’s heat, her little legs protruding from her pink shorts.

  I walked in and lay next to her, watching as she breathed. When Becky stirred slightly, I almost wanted her to wake. Maybe seeing my daughter’s pretty, innocent eyes blinking up at me might switch something in my brain, make me see reason instead of that cave, those knowing eyes of Idris’s.

  I lay like that for many hours, not sleeping, just with my arms wrapped around Becky’s warm body. Mike remained downstairs, probably asleep on the sofa.

  By the time sunlight started peeking through the curtains, I’d made my decision.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered to Becky, stroking her soft hair. ‘Mummy’s just trying to figure some things out and – and none of it’s your fault, okay? I love you so much and I’ll come back for you, I promise.’

  I kissed her on the forehead then walked to the door. But before leaving the room, I paused. Maybe I should just take Becky with me? What could Mike say, Becky was my daughter too.

  No, that wouldn’t be fair on her. I just needed a couple of days, then I’d come back for her. I wouldn’t leave her for good. Couldn’t.

  I packed some items then tiptoed downstairs. I knew where I was going.

  When I approached the cave a few minutes later, the rising sun spread a pink hue across the sea. I paused a moment to take it in, breathing in the beauty, the simplicity. The world was so tranquil at this time. Usually I’d still be sleeping, on the brink of being woken by Becky.

  Becky.

  I thought of her waking to find her mum gone and I hoped Mike would explain it in a way that wouldn’t sadden our daughter. I couldn’t bear to think he might not, too bitter and angry. No, he wasn’t like that. And anyway, hadn’t he told me to leave?

  As I drew closer to the cave, I saw Idris sitting outside it, cross-legged as he watched the rising sun. Beyond him, within the cave, people lay still and quiet in their sleeping bags, eyes closed. And above, the old hotel stood white and dilapidated. How ironic that I’d dreamed of buying the place when I became a published author. Instead, I was going to live in the damp cave below it. But somehow, that seemed just as exciting to me now.

  When Idris turned to look at me, suddenly it all seemed very real, the weight of my overnight bag heavy on my shoulder. He stood and walked to me, barefoot on the sand.

  ‘Here, let me take your bag,’ he said, putting his hand out for it.

  I shrugged the bag off, handing it over to him.

  ‘I’ve set a bed up for you. I think you’ll like it,’ he said, as though he’d not doubted for a moment I would come.

  I followed him into the cave, leaving my old life behind.

  Chapter Eleven

  Becky

  Kent, UK

  12 June 2018

  Becky peers up at her mum’s house, the old hotel she once used to stare at as a child from the beach below. ‘When I get my big book deal,’ her mum used to say, ‘I’ll buy this place for us. Then you can run around as much as you want, causing mischief.’

  Her mum had got her wish in the end, except Becky hadn’t been with her. How strange to think it is Becky’s now, as the main beneficiary of her mum’s fortune. That is why Becky is here – to clear out her mum’s belongings, get the house on the market. What else is she to do with this vast beast of a house on her own? Plus it is a good chance to dwell on what Maggie had confirmed: that her mum had had another child.

  Becky is still struggling to come to terms with the idea that she has a sister.

  She’d tried to call her dad again on his mobile yesterday to talk about it, but it had just gone to voicemail. She’d left a message, quickly trying to summarise what Maggie had said.

  She looks around the house now, imagining running around it with another little girl. How different life could have been. She’d felt lonely sometimes as a child, especially after her mum left. When she’d moved to Busby-on-Sea with her dad, he’d promised her she’d always have friends to play with, her cousins not far away. But they were older than her and she rarely saw them anyway. Most weekends were spent at her grandparents’ house with her dad, a bit of a miserable exp
erience for a child as they didn’t like the TV being on. She made some friends at school, but none of them particularly close ones. Maybe that was why she put so much into her first boyfriend when she was fourteen, spending most of her time with him until he dumped her ten years later.

  She would have loved to have a sister, living in this place too, with her mum’s beaming smile and sneaky chocolate gifts instead of her dad’s quiet ways, no matter how much she loved him.

  She gazes around her. The old hotel looks smarter than she remembers, the weatherboards a sparkling white, the windows new and gleaming. Her mum had clearly renovated it. Becky’s dogs sniff at the overgrown grass outside, stopping to make their mark.

  As she lets herself in the front door, she is instantly overwhelmed by the musky scent of her mum’s perfume. Becky irrationally looks around for her mum, but no, of course she isn’t here. The dogs bound in, paws sliding on the wooden floors. How would her mum feel about dogs being in her house? She’d never been a fan.

  ‘Calm down,’ Becky shouts at them. The three of them stop where they are, peering over at her. ‘Go gently,’ she says, voice softer now. ‘And stay by me,’ she adds, patting her thigh. They all trot over, staying close to her as she looks around. It’s clear it was once a hotel, the old reception desk to the right of the hallway made from the same wood used to clad the house. An ornate silver rail sits at the back of it, piled with a range of her mum’s colourful jackets, coats and scarves. Maybe she found it charming, quirky, inviting people over to her empty hotel for dinner. Becky could imagine her mum doing that.

  Becky places her car keys on the counter along with the dogs’ leads.

  She walks down the hallway and into an L-shaped bar. A long navy sofa made from plush velvet adorns it, facing out to sea. Beyond is a long dining-room table made from driftwood. It looks well used with dents and circles left behind by wine glasses and mugs. A strange-looking chandelier hangs above it and, as Becky draws closer, she sees it’s made from books, beautifully arranged, with glimpses of lightbulbs between them. The books are some of her mum’s favourites: Angela Carter novels, of course; a copy of Hotel du Luc by Anita Brookner; John Donne’s poetry; a James Joyce novel or two.