The Mother's Secret

by Clare Swatman

  ‘But you know it’s not, don’t you? You know it’s safer than being in this thing.’ She throws her arm in the air to take in the interior of the car.

  Georgie nods. ‘I know. I do, in theory. But it doesn’t mean I actually believe it.’

  ‘So how do you think you’ll cope?’

  Georgie shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I need to think about it. But I’m determined this time. I know I’ve said it before, but I have to. It’s not fair, on Matt, or Clementine. I just want us to be able to go somewhere lovely and warm and relax on the beach in the sun rather than huddle round a windbreak in Cromer.’ She pictures the look on Clementine’s face when she tells her they’re going abroad, and she knows that this time she really has to do it.

  ‘Do you—’ Kate stops, not wanting to upset Georgie. ‘Do you really think you can overcome your fear? I mean – you have tried it before, Georgie, and it – well, it hasn’t exactly been a success.’

  ‘I know.’ The thought of being in the air was totally alien, but the truth was, she’d never really wanted to go anywhere else, because she felt safe at home. Kate had travelled the world, seen all kinds of places that Georgie had only ever read about. Kate had travelled on her own and later with her husband Joe, while Georgie had stayed at home to take care of their mother, who had always seemed too fragile to be left alone. Georgie could never have imagined leaving her as well. It would have felt too cruel. And so she’d stayed. And until now she hadn’t minded too much. But now, she wanted to try.

  ‘I have to do it this time. I can’t end up like Mum. Trapped in my own mind and never even having been anywhere.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘There is one thing, though.’

  Kate nods.

  ‘I haven’t got a passport.’

  ‘Well no, I don’t suppose you have.’

  ‘And I don’t have a clue where my birth certificate is.’

  ‘What do you mean? Don’t you have it?’

  Georgie shakes her head and takes her hat off, runs her hand through her hair. ‘No. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen it.’

  ‘What? Really?’

  ‘Really. I asked Mum for it once, I think, but it never materialized.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’m assuming you’ve got yours, then?’

  ‘Well yes. I’ve always had a copy. Mum gave it to me years ago when I got my passport. And I needed it when I got married, of course.’

  ‘Exactly. Me and Matt never bothered, did we, so I’ve never actually needed it. I think Mum must still have mine. But I can’t just ask her for it, not with her the way she is.’

  ‘No, you can’t.’ Kate thinks a minute. ‘You’re probably just going to have to go and look for it yourself.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Will you help me?’ Georgie pleads.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, I’ll need you to get Mum out of the house while I look for it. You know how upset she’ll get if I start rummaging around in her things.’

  ‘But she hates leaving the house.’

  ‘I know. Sorry, Kate. I hate to ask but I need to do this before I change my mind. Will you help?’

  Kate sighs and drums her nails on the steering wheel. ‘Of course I will. I’ll take her for lunch, that should give you enough time, shouldn’t it?’

  ‘Hopefully.’

  ‘OK. I’ll sort something and let you know.’

  ‘Thank you. But Kate?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What happens if I can’t find it? What do I do then?’

  ‘Well, then I guess we’ll just cross that bridge when we come to it. But if we can do it without upsetting Mum’s routine, then that’s better. Agreed?’

  Georgie nods. ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Good.’ Kate turns to the front and starts the car, easing out into the flow of traffic, and Georgie leans back in her seat. Her palms feel warm. Now she’s nervous because she’s committed to doing this. To overcoming her fear. She has no choice.

  There’s no going back.

  2

  24 October 2016

  Georgie slides the key into the lock and it turns effortlessly, the door opening with a click. She glances around her nervously. She doesn’t know why, but today she feels as though she’s betraying her mum’s trust just by being here.

  ‘I just hope Mum doesn’t freak out in the middle of lunch and we have to come home early,’ Kate had said on the phone that morning when she rang to confirm. ‘I’ll text you if we do. Otherwise, you have two hours.’

  Georgie closes the front door behind her. Silence tumbles down the stairs and beside her the radiator ticks as it cools. She shrugs her coat from her shoulders and hangs it on the hook, shuddering as she remembers her dream, where nothing was here at all. Today, though, one other coat hangs here, looking lonely. A pair of shoes and some slippers are lined up against the wall, and she leaves her boots tucked neatly next to them. She strains her ears to listen for a sound – footsteps, someone breathing, a kettle boiling, anything. But there’s nothing but silence filling the air.

  Shadows dance on the wooden floor in front of her, a line from the door down to the kitchen a shade paler than the rest from years of footsteps wearing it down. Her footsteps sound loud as she follows the worn path halfway along then stops and turns left into the living room. The door stands slightly ajar and she gives it a little push. The room is silent apart from the clock ticking on the mantelpiece, marking time that no one is using. The room is so familiar, so ingrained in her memories, that she can almost picture herself and Kate kneeling on the rug in front of the fire, playing as the room filled with steam from Mum’s iron, the iron that always seemed to be on, the hissing and steaming like a soundtrack to their childhood.

  Quietly, as though someone might hear her, she pads across the room to the wooden sideboard. She’s never really given much thought to what’s in here, and as the drawer opens with a yawn she wonders what she’ll find. There are some mismatched pieces of cutlery, a couple of coat hooks, a roll of Sellotape, one or two odd buttons, a small sewing kit that looks as though it came from a Christmas cracker, a bottle opener, a pack of cards and a few old receipts. She closes the drawer and opens the next one. Inside are piles of old envelopes and she pulls the whole lot out and sits down, placing the heap carefully on her knee. The weak winter sun strains itself through the net curtains that hang tidily at the window, creating diluted patterns on the sofa as Georgie shuffles through the papers as quickly as she can. It doesn’t take long to realize there’s nothing much she needs to see here, and she stuffs the envelopes back into the drawer and stands up. She opens the cupboards underneath but there’s nothing but plates and cups in there, saved for best, which seem to be days that never actually arrive. A fine layer of dust covers the whole lot, and she shuts the cupboard doors again. She casts her eyes briefly round the room, although she knows it better than she knows her own house, just to make sure there’s nowhere else she needs to check, then she moves efficiently to the door and back into the hall. The door to the kitchen stands open and she can see before she reaches it that there’s no one there, just as in her dream. She walks quietly across the tiles, her feet tapping gently with every step. Then she lays her hand on the kettle, unsure why she’s done it because she knows her mother isn’t here. Everything feels cold. There’s a single cup on the table, a rim of coffee staining the inside and a red heart shape on the outside where lipstick has marked it. Half a biscuit sits next to it, a small bite taken out of it, a few crumbs scattered round. She walks over to the drawers and looks carefully through them. Nothing.

  Satisfied she’s not missing anything, she goes back towards the front door and turns and walks up the stairs. It’s darker up here, and she flicks the landing light on and tilts her neck upwards. She shudders as she remembers her dream, the noise that came from the loft, then shakes the thought from her head. There’s nothing to be scared of up there.

  Despite having lived here until she was eighteen,
she still remembers her fear of the monster she’d always believed lived up there. When the loft stairs were first installed, she poked her head in to see what was up there. But it was just a load of boxes, a water tank and some cobwebs. Nothing to worry about, and she never thought about it again.

  Now, though, she’s hoping it will have exactly what she needs.

  Pulling the hatch down with the long hook, she carefully unfolds the steps and starts to climb. The wooden steps are narrow and dig into her feet, and she looks up as she climbs into the gaping black square. Halfway up she stops. Is there a light up there? It occurs to her that a torch would have been useful. Soon her head is above the level of the ceiling, poking into the cavity. She realizes she’s been holding her breath all the way up, and lets it out in one whoosh.

  Slowly she swivels her head from side to side like a meerkat and spots a light switch at eye level. When she flicks it on, the dim light illuminates the immediate area, but fails to reach into the furthest corners, leaving dark, looming shadows. Georgie pulls herself completely into the loft and stands, her head bowed slightly to avoid hitting the apex of the roof. It’s chilly up here and she pulls her fluffy cardigan tighter round her chest and turns slowly, peering into the dark recesses.

  There are some suitcases piled in the front, and a couple of plastic boxes which she pulls towards her. This is as good a place to start as any. A quick glance inside the first one reveals it’s not going to be any use, as it’s filled with an odd assortment of shoes. The other is full of clothes – she can see a fluffy fleece and a waterproof jacket on the top and wonders briefly why they’re up here and not being used.

  Stooped over, she walks into the darker parts of the loft, trying not to block the light as she moves so she can still make out what’s up there. ‘Gah!’ she gasps and spits as she walks into a cobweb, and brushes her hand furiously up and down her face to remove any traces.

  Peering into the darkness, she sighs. It’s no good, she can’t make out a thing. Perhaps the torch on the iPhone in her pocket will help. The beam that pours from it lights her path. Apart from the dust motes floating in the air that are making her nose tickle, she can see a few boxes piled up at the far end, almost hidden from sight. Maybe what she’s looking for will be in one of those.

  She pulls a blanket from the top of one of the bigger boxes and, placing it on the wooden boards, sits down cross-legged, her phone propped awkwardly on the floor next to her. There’s nothing written on the first of the boxes to give a hint of what might be inside, but the top is loose and she pulls the flaps out easily, one by one. Dust flies into the air, making her cough, and she wafts it away with her hand and peers over the top. It’s a pile of folders with faded black ink smudged along their sides with words like ‘Bills’ and ‘House documents’ and ‘Car insurance’. She pulls one out and peers into it. The paperwork inside is clipped neatly into the folders but the most recent is at least three years old, explaining the dust on the top of the box. The other folders are all the same – neat, but out of date. A frown creases her forehead. Has her mother stored more up-to-date stuff somewhere else or has she simply forgotten to do it any more? Who knows, but that’s a thought for another time. Right now, she needs to get a move on.

  The next box is half empty, just a few old kitchen items and a couple of empty tins; the next one says ‘Christmas decorations’ down the side in red marker pen, and sure enough it’s crammed with tinsel, baubles and fairy lights. The next few boxes are pretty much the same – odds and ends from the house, things that her mother has apparently decided she might need one day or can’t bear to throw away.

  Georgie’s becoming agitated; she yanks the last box towards her and claws open the top. Inside is a small box and it’s Sellotaped shut this time, so she pulls the tape off carefully and opens the lid. On the top sit piles of photo albums and Georgie’s heart thuds in her chest. Maybe there are some photos of her father here that she’s never seen before. Her hands shaking, she pulls the top album from the box and opens it carefully. A loose picture falls out and she peers at it, holding it up to the light of the torch. It’s a picture of two little girls and a woman and she recognizes immediately who the adult is – her mother. Kate, her curly blonde hair and chubby red cheeks shining in the sunlight, is with another darker little girl, so very different from her mother and sister, her hair in pigtails and a big grin plastered across her face. It’s her, and although she doesn’t remember the picture being taken – she only looks about two in the photo – it makes her happy. Desperate to see more, she opens the album and gasps. There are dozens of photos of her and Kate, playing in the garden, on a beach in the sunshine, huddled under an umbrella, walking along a promenade somewhere, eating ice cream.

  Memories stir in her mind as she flicks through a few more pages, some so strong they almost overwhelm her. Why has she never seen these albums before? Why would her mother hide them away to gather dust in the loft?

  It would be easy to sit and stare at them all day, lost in memories of the past. But she has a job to do so she tears her eyes away, closes the album and picks up the next one. There are a few black-and-white pictures at the front, which slowly give way to colour pictures, the colours faded to pale orange and grey. She recognizes some of them as photographs of her mother, very young, and an equally young Aunty Sandy, and she smiles. Both women look so youthful and carefree; it was a time before Georgie was even in the world. They seem like different people with their big hair and miniskirts barely covering slim thighs. The first few pages are all similar – but then suddenly, a few pages on, she stops, her heart thudding. There’s a photograph of her mother, holding hands with a man. The only other photo of him that she’s ever seen is the one that sits on the mantelpiece in Mum’s living room, but she knows him instantly. It’s her father. The pair of them are standing in front of a motorbike and Jan is holding her hand to her eyes to shade them from the sun. Her father has his free hand on her mother’s tummy, as though trying to protect whatever is inside. Georgie realizes with a jolt that her mother must be pregnant with her or Kate – probably Kate, as there’s no evidence of another child anywhere. It’s not taken at this house, the house where she’s lived her whole life. Was it a house they lived in together, before here, before her father died? The torchlight picks out the details of the photo, as though seeing it more clearly might help her hold the image in her mind for longer, or learn more about the man in it. The photo isn’t clear but she drinks in the details she can make out, of his dark hair, his high cheekbones, his leather jacket. If only she could take the photo with her, but she daren’t. There must be a reason her mother didn’t want her to see this, and it’s bad enough she’s found it at all; taking it away would betray her mother’s trust completely.

  Setting the torch down again, she reluctantly turns the page to see if there are any more photos, but the rest of the album is blank, just endless white pages devoid of any memories, as though the world stopped just after the last picture was taken.

  Georgie allows herself one last look at the picture of her father, then closes the album. A glance at her watch shows that almost an hour has gone already.

  There’s not much else in the box, just a few ornaments and a couple of empty photo frames. As she lifts one of the frames, something makes her pause. There’s another box under here; she almost missed it. Gently she kneels and puts both arms inside the cardboard box and pulls out the smaller metal box, flat and wide, which is wedged in the bottom. There’s a pattern of flowers on the top, and a small catch holds it shut. It looks like something personal, private, something her mother wouldn’t want anyone else to see. She’s not here to snoop through her mum’s things, and Georgie feels bad about some of the photos she’s found. After all, the intention was just to find her birth certificate, nothing more. Best put this back, leave it here, untouched.

  But then again, what if her birth certificate is in this box? And if it is and she doesn’t even open it to have a quick look, she’ll nev
er find it. If it isn’t, then no harm will have been done.

  Her hand brushes over the top and sweeps the dust away. It’s amazing how dust gets through even the tiniest cracks and covers everything. She prises open the catch. It flicks open easily and she slowly lifts the lid, careful not to let anything fall out onto the floor. Balancing the box cautiously on her legs, she looks inside. There’s not much to see at first, just a small white envelope with nothing written on it. She picks it up. There’s something inside, but it’s not a piece of paper. Nothing she needs, then.

  But better to check, just in case. Georgie unfolds the flap of the envelope and peers inside. There’s a small piece of plastic. It’s a tiny, baby-sized hospital wristband. She studies the name on it: Kathryn Susan Wood. 12 March 1977.

  Ah, it’s Kate’s band from hospital, from when she was born. Her finger traces the edge of the plastic, trying to imagine her sister small enough to fit this round her wrist. She puts the band down carefully on the floor beside her and peers back into the envelope to find her own wristband. The envelope looks empty, so she puts her fingers inside and feels around, expecting them to catch on another piece of plastic almost the same, but with the name Georgina Rae Wood on it, and her birthdate, 23 November 1979. But she can’t feel anything at all. That’s strange. With a frown she peers inside the envelope again. There really isn’t anything there.

  Her hand drops into her lap. Why would her mother have Kate’s hospital band and not hers? It doesn’t make sense. Unless there is another envelope, for her? Yes, perhaps that’s it. She glances back down at the metal box hopefully, but there’s nothing else in it. Another quick look inside the envelope, just to make sure, as though something might have materialized in the few seconds since she last looked. But of course it hasn’t.

  There is something else, though: not a hospital band, but a piece of paper pressed up against the side of the envelope, folded neatly in half. Her heart stops. This could be what she’s looking for. It could be her birth certificate.