My Husband's Lie: A page turning and emotional family drama

by Emma Davies

  Indecision roots me to the spot until, unable to bear being inside my head for a minute longer, I creep upstairs to do the only thing that seems left to me: submit to the oblivion of sleep. If it will let me.

  I’m halfway across the landing when I catch sight of Lauren’s bed through her open door. Mr Blue, her bear, is propped against her pillow and it draws me towards it like a magnet. I’m suddenly desperate to be a child again, swamped by a wave of nostalgic longing, for what I don’t know. Perhaps it’s a yearning for a time when things seemed simple, the comfort of not having to make decisions, of being looked after and protected, but the force of the feeling brings renewed tears to my eyes. I crawl beneath the covers, pulling the bear down with me, and curl into a ball.

  * * *

  I feel the emptiness the moment I awake. A hollow that’s no longer just inside of me but has leached out until it’s spread throughout the house. It’s silent and heavy, an oppressive stillness that weights the air. Something is missing and I know exactly what it is.

  I walk through the rooms like a stranger, one by one, until I reach the kitchen with its sheet of white paper in the centre of the table, a note that confirms what I already know. Drew has gone.

  A shockwave of panic pulses through me and I force myself to breathe, to read the note, and make sense of what is written there. There is a meeting. Drew will be back later, he doesn’t know when. But he’ll be back later… I read it again. He’ll be back later… And the tears spring to my eyes. I cannot be without Drew. I don’t know how.

  But, for the moment, the house is empty, and I stand in the kitchen for several minutes before conscious thought returns. I rub at my face, at my sleep-drugged eyes, my skin, which feels like putty. My headache has gone, but in its place is a leaden feeling that makes even the simplest of decisions feel out of reach. My clothes are rumpled and my mouth parched. A crust of dried saliva feels rough on my chin.

  The tap water is cold, but I drink it greedily, splashing it over my hands and face, the shock of it bringing me back to the present. It’s nearly eleven o’clock. What on earth am I going to do now? The day feels like it contains an impossible amount of time to fill, but I have to do something. I drift through to the studio but, although I lift the cover on my sketchbook, the work feels alien, there is nothing to connect me with it. I sit on the stool and stare out into the garden.

  All at once I cannot bear to be inside – in this house that once promised me the world but has now snatched it away from me. I push the doors open, flinging them back as far as they will go and breathing in the cool air. The grass is damp and my bare feet lay a trail through it as I walk, ignoring the path, heading for the table and chairs which sit under the trees to the rear. The church clock chimes the hour as I sink onto one of the chairs, hugging my arms against the stiff breeze.

  The house and gardens lie in front of me. Beyond them the church, the lane which wends its way to Rose Cottage, the fields behind, the school, the shop, a crossroads with houses, farms on the outer reaches, and I feel utterly insignificant in the face of it all. The village which once felt like home, welcoming and enfolding, now seems otherworldly, a hostile prison whose secrets haunt me. My chin drops towards my chest and I close my eyes.

  I’ve no idea how long I sit there before I become aware of someone calling my name. I drag myself back to the present, opening my eyes to a light that seems incredibly bright and jarring. So much so that I have to squint to make out the figure coming across the lawn towards me.

  ‘Thea, whatever are you doing?’

  The words take me instantly back to the past again and I sit up; it’s what I always used to do.

  ‘Mary…’ I can’t say any more.

  She makes a clicking sound with her tongue. ‘Heavens, aren’t you cold?’

  I stare at her. I am, I’m freezing.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, getting to my feet. ‘We should go inside, out of the wind.’ I must look deranged, I think, suddenly shivering. And I’m ashamed that my old head teacher should find me looking like this. Sitting in the garden with no coat on, no shoes either. What must she think of me?

  I apologise again. ‘I wasn’t feeling well.’ It’s a small lie, but I’m not myself, that much is true. ‘I just needed to get some fresh air.’

  We enter the studio and I close the doors firmly behind me. The room feels frigid, but Mary stops by my workbench and peers at the paper there.

  ‘You’re forging quite the career for yourself, aren’t you?’ she says. ‘Justifiably so; I can see why your mother is so proud of you.’

  ‘Is she?’ The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I’m about to apologise again when I’m struck by the look on her face as she looks around her in wonder.

  ‘This is new,’ she says. ‘Well, of course it is. Everything must be new… It’s so long ago since I was here but… Oh, I always did love this house, so wonderful to be back.’ She looks at the door which leads to the living room. ‘May I?’ she asks.

  I nod, following her as she moves from one room to another, her face lighting up as memories come flooding back. We end up in the kitchen where she takes a seat at the table. I join her in a daze, I don’t know what else to do.

  She smiles at me. ‘Your mother’s kept me up to date with all your news, obviously, and so I know you have two little girls now as well.’ Her fierce blue eyes twinkle back at me as she shakes her head in amusement. ‘Goodness, to think that you and Drew used to sit outside my office, as punishment for talking too much in class. Quaking in your shoes, you were, but inseparable even then. In fact, I often used to think that if one of you got into trouble, the other followed suit just to keep them company.’ She smiles at me. ‘And now look at you, all grown up.’

  I fidget awkwardly, embarrassed by the way I must look. I’m hardly doing a very good impression of a competent adult.

  ‘I don’t see many stories from my time at the school as successful as yours, but you and Drew… There always was something special about you.’

  I swallow, my throat constricting with emotion. What she says is true, and I can’t bear the thought that it could ever be any different. But I still don’t know why she’s here. After our last meeting we’d made no definite promises to see one another and a trip down memory lane seems incongruous at best.

  ‘Sorry, where are my manners,’ I mutter. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I look around the kitchen vaguely as if I haven’t the first idea how to make one. ‘I’ve been in bed,’ I add, as if that explains things. ‘In fact I haven’t long been up…’

  The blue eyes linger on mine for a moment. ‘I should make you one,’ she replies, pausing for a moment to continue in her scrutiny. ‘Is everything all right, Thea?’ But then she shakes her head. ‘No, of course it isn’t… how could it be?’

  She sighs. ‘It hasn’t been easy, has it, moving back here? I can see why you wanted to, of course. And Drew too… Pevensey is such a wonderful house. It broke your parents’ hearts when they had to leave and I’m not sure your mother ever really got over it. Never felt settled, she told me. But she certainly didn’t think that you would ever move back here – that came as quite a shock, as I’m sure you can imagine. No doubt it was a decision you made with the best of intentions for your family but, unfortunately, as is the way of these things, it was only a matter of time before people made the connection between your family and what happened to Georgia. You weren’t to know that of course, but sadly it was rather inevitable.’

  ‘Yes, well perhaps I wouldn’t have been in such a rush to come back here if I had known about Georgia…’ I can feel my anger rising again but I force it back down. Mary has done nothing wrong. And of course she knows all about it. It’s only me that doesn’t.

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘You always think that too much water has flowed under the bridge, and that no one could possibly remember, but all it takes is one person and a whisper, and then what starts as a trickle turns into a flood. I had hoped this wouldn’t b
e the case, but… Oh dear, I am sorry.’

  My mouth drops open. ‘I should have been told,’ I reply, eyes blazing. ‘But instead everyone seems to think that there wasn’t a right time to tell me, or that it all happened so long ago people would have forgotten about it. None of that is any help to me now, is it? If I had known then I would never have come back here. Even Drew knew and yet… How long will it be before my own children hear the gossip-mongering and start asking questions? That’s what I want to know.’

  The steely gaze I remember so well is turned on me. ‘Thea, what are you angry about? That information was kept from you, or that your dad was accused of something so awful in the first place? Because it sounds very much to me as if it’s the former…’

  I open my mouth to argue but a wave of shame washes over me and my eyes lower to the table.

  ‘Hmm, I thought so.’ She pushes her chair back from the table and levers herself up, breath sighing through her teeth as she does so. ‘Don’t ever get old, Thea, I don’t recommend it. Now I shall make you some tea and we can talk some more. Sensibly.’

  I would argue, but years of being told not to are hard to overturn, and so I sit meekly, thoughts freewheeling around my head, while my old head teacher moves assuredly around my kitchen. My head is beginning to pound again.

  A short while later a hand is placed gently on my shoulder and a mug set before me. The hand lingers a while, the touch warm, and oddly understanding.

  ‘But you’re not having anything,’ I remark.

  There’s a quick smile. ‘When you get to my age there is little else to do besides drinking endless cups of tea in between the small actions that punctuate daily life. Believe me, it’s quite a relief to go without.’ She retakes her seat. ‘Now then, where were we?’

  I wrap my hands around the mug. ‘I think I was just being an obnoxious six-year-old again,’ I reply.

  ‘Perhaps… But then when we’re faced with the depths we thought our lives would never sink to, it’s surprising how tempting a good tantrum can be. Life is unfair at times. I don’t think there’s any doubt about that.’ Mary watches me as I blow across the surface of my tea. ‘But, as a friend rather than your old head teacher, I would like to ask you a question, Thea, and please think very carefully before you answer.’

  I manage a small nod, wondering what on earth is coming next.

  ‘I can see that you’ve been very upset and angered by this nasty business and I would imagine that, particularly given where we’re currently sitting, it’s caused you to question the life that you lived here as a child. Would I be right?’ She doesn’t wait for me to agree. ‘So, I’m wondering whether you think your past is what’s wrong here, or simply your knowledge of it?’

  I close my eyes briefly, willing her question to make sense, but just when I think I grasp the point she’s trying to make, it skitters away from me.

  ‘I’ll put it another way,’ she says. ‘Was Georgia Thomas molested when you were eleven?’

  I stare at her. ‘Well, we know she was.’

  ‘And was your father, if not accused of that, then at least connected with it?’

  I don’t answer.

  ‘And yet, before you moved back to Pevensey, you were not aware of either of those things. So did they happen or not?’

  ‘Of course they did…’ My brain is moving interminably slowly.

  ‘So the only thing that has changed, the only thing making you so upset and angry, is the knowledge of a particular thing.’

  And finally I understand the point she’s making. ‘But that’s absurd.’

  ‘No, Thea, it’s not absurd. It’s currently the difference between your life carrying on the way it has, happy and successful, with two beautiful daughters and a loving husband, or sliding into something you clearly wish you could run away from.’

  My fingers are still curled around my mug which rests on the table and she wraps her own around mine.

  ‘I can see this is difficult for you, but you mustn’t blame your mother for not wanting your life to change. It’s bad enough that hers had to. And as little as ten minutes ago you asked me when your own children were going to start asking questions, so you see you’re no different after all. Your fears now are exactly the same as your mother’s were all those years ago. She did everything she could to protect you, just like you would if it were your own children. More than that, she ensured that the memories you have of your father were never diminished. Your mother is one of the strongest women I know, Thea, and, if I’m not much mistaken, you’re a chip off the old block. You’ll get through this, I know you will.’

  I look at Mary Williams, sitting in my kitchen, as she must have done countless times before. Her mind is still as sharp as it ever was and her friendship with my mum just as strong, despite their distance apart. Maybe I do need to see things from a different point of view. I’ve only ever looked at my relationship with my mum from one angle, but I can see now that I need to widen my perception to take account of all the sacrifices she must have made for me. The silent suffering that she endured for years just to protect me. It’s a humbling thought. And what’s true of my mum, I realise, is also true of Drew.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whisper, suddenly incredibly touched that this woman, who I haven’t even thought of in years, should take the time to tell me these things. ‘You must think me incredibly rude…’

  But the smile I receive in reply is warm with compassion. ‘Teaching is a hard profession, Thea, but one thing I learned from it is never to be judgemental. I’ve seen too many facets of too many lives to be shocked by how people react to the crises they face. We’re all different, and often what you see on the outside is no real indicator of what’s going on inside.’

  ‘Is that a yes or a no?’ I ask, a wry smile crossing my face for an instant.

  ‘It simply means I understand,’ comes the reply. ‘And that in saying it perhaps you won’t feel quite so alone.’

  Mary’s kindness touches something deep inside of me. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to drink?’ I ask. ‘It doesn’t seem right for you to take the trouble to come and see me and not even have a cup of tea. I feel I should offer you something.’

  She shakes her head. ‘No, that’s very kind, but there’s really no need. There’s no debt to repay and I should get going – I think you could use some time alone with your thoughts.’ She gives my hand another squeeze. ‘But if you do want to talk some more, you know you can come and visit, don’t you?’

  I nod.

  ‘Good,’ she replies firmly, a warm smile on her face. ‘Because I shall be keeping an eye on you…’

  Eighteen

  As soon as Mary has gone, I drain the last of my tea and carry my mug to the sink to wash. A thought came into my head as I was waving her goodbye and now I’m in a hurry to pursue it.

  The boxes of photos are in one of the spare bedrooms, untouched, exactly where we left them when we moved. Some while before I’d bought a load of albums with the intention of sorting them all out, but I still haven’t got around to it – teasing out the pictures we want to keep on hand from those we don’t. All of them memories but, since Dad’s death, some more precious than others. But that isn’t really the point today. Now I just want to surround myself with them, to feel close to my dad again, to see if the photos look as they did when I was packing them up to move.

  Just a few short weeks ago I had looked at these pictures of my childhood as a reminder of what I was about to return to. Now I’m looking to see if they were a lie. If they were staged snapshots of the life we were pretending to have rather than the one we did. I can’t believe that my memories are false, but I have to face the fact that they could well be. Despite what Drew said, and despite everything I feel about my dad with every fibre of my body, I don’t know for certain what his involvement was with Georgia. I have to consider the possibility, however slight, that he was not the man I thought he was.

  The photos aren’t in any particular ord
er. I could be aged two in one picture, closely followed by a shot of me on my eighth birthday. But, in a way, that helps because I want to see if anything changed over the years. I spread them out on the floor around me, sorting them into loose piles.

  It’s odd, but I’ve never realised before how relatively few photos there are of my mum and, as I cast my eye over them now, I understand why. In so many of them she would have been the photographer instead of the subject.

  I hate taking photos. I’m not that keen on being in them either but throughout our girls’ early lives I’ve always had the feeling that I should have been taking more – to preserve those moments and give us, or them, something to look back on when we’re older. But the trouble is that I’ve always preferred to be in the moment rather than the recorder of it. It doesn’t seem right to be viewing the action from a distance. I want to be immersed in it, to feel it, and I wonder if my dad was the same. And if maybe my mum was too…

  I pick one up, a Christmas gathering showing a blend of my family and Drew’s, all of us wearing party hats and pulling crackers. I don’t remember it particularly, but it’s typical of so many others. My dad is leaning in towards me as if to share some joke or other and I can almost feel the warmth of his shoulder against mine. Another shows Drew, on the evening he broke his arm, grinning bravely as a nurse works a plaster cast around it. I didn’t find out until the morning after it happened but I remember being furious with him for being so careless. In the next, it’s years earlier, a day in summertime, and my dad is teaching me to ride my bike, one hand on the back of my saddle, the other on my shoulder. I’m in the lane outside, just about to go around the bend, and my mum must have stood in the gateway to the churchyard to take the shot. The view is side-on but you can still see my grin stretching from ear to ear.

  I pick pictures up then put them down, looking for a sign of anything untoward. Are people frowning when they should be smiling? Does anyone look awkward or uncomfortable? But they don’t, the photos are just as I remember them, relaxed snapshots of family life, easy and spontaneous. Nothing has changed. The relief is almost overwhelming and a swell of hope begins to build. Perhaps it’s all still okay.