The Mother's Secret

by Clare Swatman

  She reread the message and clicked it off. The last thing she wanted to do tomorrow was see her mother again. Memories of two days ago were still fresh in her mind and she hadn’t even started to work out how she felt about everything she’d learnt. And besides, she had plans.

  She showed Matt the message.

  ‘You are going to go, right?’

  Georgie shook her head. ‘I can’t, Matt.’

  ‘What, because you don’t want to see them or because you want to go and find your real mum?’

  Georgie shrugged. ‘Both, I think.’

  He said nothing for a moment, just studied her in the half-light.

  ‘You know you have to go, don’t you? You can’t leave Kate to deal with this on her own, whatever’s happened between the two of you.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘George. She’s your mother. And before you say it, yes, I know she might not be. But she has been for your whole life, and Kate’s still Kate, and she needs you. It sounds like it’s important. You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t go.’

  Georgie didn’t know what to say. She knew he was right but a huge part of her still wasn’t sure if she could face either of them. Plus, of course, she was desperate to carry on with her search and the thought of delaying it by another day seemed almost unbearable.

  ‘I’ll come with you if you like.’

  Georgie shook her head. ‘No, it’s fine, Matt. You’re right. I’ll go. I have to.’

  Matt nodded. ‘You can carry on your search the next day. It’s only one day.’

  Georgie had nodded miserably.

  And now here she is, desperate to go and knock on doors in Woodcock Street, but stuck here instead, waiting to go and see Kate and her mother. To see Jan.

  She glances at the clock on the wall. It’s still early, only just after eight in the morning. She grabs her laptop and opens it up, typing in the road name she’s been given. She also types in Margaret Foster – assuming that is Kimberley’s mother’s surname as well – and anything else she can think of. She taps Kimberley’s name into Facebook again too, just in case, but it doesn’t look like there are any Kimberley Fosters living nearby.

  She sighs and closes her computer. Clem is still sitting opposite staring at her phone, the glow from the screen lighting up her face. She’s only eleven but she’s already so grown-up, so different from the eleven-year-old Georgie had been. So worldly-wise. Georgie can remember clearly the day Clementine was born, the moment she saw her daughter’s perfect face staring back at her from a bundle of blankets, her dark hair so like hers, her blue eyes wide and searching like Matt’s. She’d never loved anyone so much and she knew she’d never love anyone the same way again. She can’t even begin to imagine the pain of losing someone that precious before you’ve even been given the chance to get to know them.

  She stands and plants a kiss on her daughter’s head, the smell of her lemon shampoo calming Georgie’s nerves. Clem lifts her head to peer at her mum hovering above her.

  ‘What was that for?’

  ‘Nothing. I just love you, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh right. Love you too, Mum.’ And then she turns back to her phone, not a care in the world.

  ‘Right, I’m going to Grandma’s now.’ Georgie glances at the clock. It’s still only 8.30. ‘Shouldn’t you be leaving for school?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. It’s only French this morning.’

  ‘Clementine George.’

  ‘OK, I’m going.’ She stands; she’s almost as tall as Georgie now, it won’t be long before she’s towering over her. ‘Bye, Mum. Say hi to Grandma and Aunty Kate for me.’

  ‘I will.’ Georgie’s voice is weak, lost in the noise and shuffle of boots being zipped up, bags being picked up and the door slamming. And then the house is silent. Her eyes wander over the wooden dining table, littered with cereal bowls, crumb-filled plates and half-empty coffee cups. There’s a pile of papers on the end of the table that’s grown so high it’s threatening to topple off and scatter across the floor. She really must sort it out. She knows she won’t.

  She runs upstairs and showers and carefully applies her make-up. She wants to appear in control today when she sees her sister and mother. She needs to feel in control.

  Finally, just after ten, she’s ready. She’s too early, but she’s going now, to get this over with.

  She picks up her coat and bag and leaves the house. Outside it’s turned suddenly cold and the winter air bites through her too-thin coat, making her shiver. The sun is low in the sky, its warmth failing to reach the ground. She gets in the car quickly and turns the heater up high and rubs her hands together, thinking about the day ahead. She knows she should be worried about Mum – about Jan – about what’s happening to her, but she’s finding it hard to find space for sympathy in her heart, now that she knows what she did.

  She drives slowly to Jan’s, making the twenty-minute drive last almost forty with a stop for coffee. When she pulls up outside her mother’s house, the house she grew up in, she’s hit by a pang of nostalgia so powerful it threatens to overwhelm her. She can clearly picture herself and Kate sitting on the front doorstep as young children, having a teddy bears’ picnic in the sunshine.

  ‘Come in, you two, you’re not supposed to be out the front, you never know what might happen,’ their mother had said, and they’d dutifully gone inside, never wondering what their mother was so afraid of. But it was always the same with anything they did. Most things were deemed unsafe by Jan, and so they were stopped.

  In her mind she walks through the house, seeing it as it was then, with the old-fashioned flowery carpet in the hall and living room, the clock ticking monotonously on the mantelpiece; she can picture the bedroom she shared with Kate, divided down the middle, a single bed on each side. But that was where the similarities ended. Kate’s side had always been immaculate, the walls painted a deep shade of pink, with a pink flowery duvet, neatly framed pictures of dogs, Coke cans and arty black-and-white photos of men holding babies. Her books were stacked tidily on the small desk in the corner and her clothes were always hung in the wardrobe. Georgie’s side, on the other hand, had been a riot of colour; the walls might have been pink but you could hardly see them for the photos, pictures torn from magazines, snaps of friends, of places, of things that she just liked the look of, taped haphazardly to the walls. Her desk was covered in papers and books, clothes slung over the back of the chair and draped across the floor like stepping stones. It drove her sister mad but she didn’t care. It was how she liked it. In her mind Georgie walked down the stairs to the kitchen, where they spent so much of their time. When it was quiet she liked to stand there, with her back to the worktop, and just listen to the comforting sounds of the house, the sounds that made her feel safe: the clicks of the radiators as they warmed up; the creak of the floorboards long after someone had trodden on them, like a memory; the sound of birds and the gentle hum of a lawnmower from Mr Pritchard two doors down, giving his already-neat grass a short back and sides. The kitchen lino had seen better days until Mum replaced it a few years ago; it was always slightly curled up by the back door, and the black tiles there were a shade lighter than the rest, worn by the traffic of so many feet over the years. Crumbs gathered in the corners where the broom struggled to reach, the small kitchen table was stained by cup rings from years of spilt tea and coffee, and there was a larger brown ring on the worktop by the kettle where the teapot had sat for years before it got replaced. The back of one of the wooden chairs had a broken slat, and the iron sat almost constantly on the tabletop, the cable snaking out across the surface instead of being wrapped neatly round the iron. The ironing board was shoved against the wall, standing to attention, and Mum’s sewing machine and box were on the floor waiting to trip someone up.

  It was chaotic but it had been home. It had been the place she’d felt safe and loved, if a little smothered.

  And now that was all about to be ripped away from her.

  She takes
a deep breath and gets out of the car, hooks her handbag onto her shoulder and walks up to knock on the door. Last time she was here – was it really just a few short days ago? – was when she came to confront Mum, to try and find out the truth about the snatching. She’d come away disappointed, but also shocked by the drastic change in her mother’s behaviour in just a few weeks. She’d gone from being a bit confused, a bit scatty and forgetful, to being empty, angry and scared. It was as though she’d literally lost some of her mind in just a matter of weeks and, despite herself, Georgie’s worried about what she’s going to find here today.

  The door swings open and Kate is standing there, her face betraying nothing.

  ‘Come in.’

  There’s no move to hug her; in fact Kate stands so far back to let Georgie pass it’s almost as though she can’t bear to be anywhere near her. Georgie pretends she hasn’t noticed and steps inside, slips her shoes off and lines them up neatly by the radiator the way she always has. The tiles feel cool even through her thick socks and she shivers, trying to ignore the chilly atmosphere between her and her sister.

  ‘Mum’s having a nap.’

  Georgie nods and walks through to the kitchen, Kate following closely behind her. As she reaches the kitchen she stops, surprised. Sandy is standing at the sink, her back to them, scraping plates.

  ‘Oh, Aunty Sandy. I didn’t know you were going to be here.’

  Sandy turns and smiles. ‘Hello, love.’ She leans forward and plants a kiss on Georgie’s cheek, water and bubbles dripping from her hands onto the floor. Her eyes flick to Kate. ‘Your sister asked me to come today, she – she thought it might be useful. As I see your mum a lot, you know . . . ’ She trails off, clearly uncomfortable, and Georgie feels a stab of guilt. She’s done this. The decision she’s made to look for her birth family has already caused a huge rift between her and the people she loves, and they already feel more like strangers. How much further apart can they get before the ties snap? She doesn’t know, but she can’t stop now anyway, even if she wanted to. She’s gone too far.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here.’ She glances at the clock. There’s still an hour to go until the doctor arrives and Georgie’s surprised by how worried she is about filling that hour. She’s never felt this uncomfortable with either Kate or Aunty Sandy, but there are so many unspoken words humming in the air between them they can almost see them. They’re impossible to ignore.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘Please.’

  Kate bangs around taking mugs from the mug tree, milk from the under-counter fridge, teabags from the cupboard above the kettle, as Georgie looks round the room. It’s neater now, the cupboards updated, but it’s still so familiar it takes her breath away. How can this place, where she lived all her life, where she was a child, a teenager, and became an adult, be full of false, damaged memories?

  Kate hands her a cup of tea and Georgie takes it and turns towards the window, looking out into the neglected garden. Weeds grow where flowers used to, and the hedge that runs between their garden and next door has grown wild, tendrils waving in the cold winter air. Pots stand empty on the crazy paving Mum never got round to replacing, and a couple of plastic chairs sit forlornly in the corner, turning green.

  ‘We used to love playing out there.’ Kate takes a sip of her tea – Georgie can smell the scent of peppermint wafting across from her cup – with a sad expression. Georgie feels the need to say something, anything.

  ‘We did. Remember the climbing frame we used to love?’

  ‘Yes. I think it had been there for years even when we moved in, it was probably a deathtrap. But it was fun, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was.’

  There’s a silence again, and both sisters stare out of the window, lost in their own memories. Sandy clatters about in the background, wiping surfaces, putting away pots and pans. Georgie wonders how long she’ll have to wait until Kate asks her how it went with their mother, although she assumes Aunty Sandy’s filled her in. It’s Kate who speaks first.

  ‘I hate this, you know.’

  Georgie glances at her sister, who’s keeping her gaze trained on the garden outside.

  ‘Me too.’

  Kate turns her head and meets Georgie’s gaze. ‘It doesn’t matter how angry I am. I’ll always love you, you know that, don’t you?’

  Tears sting Georgie’s eyes and she nods, hiding her face behind her mug. She coughs. ‘So, what’s happening with Mum?’ The word jars as it leaves her mouth but she doesn’t let Kate see.

  ‘She’s just – worse.’ Kate shrugs, and places her mug on the worktop, running her finger slowly round the rim.

  Behind them, Sandy speaks, and they turn. ‘She’s just so angry all the time, at everyone. But we rang the doctor because we realized – me and Kate – that your mum hasn’t been eating. We’re not sure whether it’s because she’s forgotten how to cook, or she’s just forgotten whether she’s eaten or not.’

  ‘We found loads of food in the fridge that hadn’t been touched for weeks. Even meals I’d made and left there for her, festering at the back, uneaten. I hadn’t noticed before, but they’d started to smell and – well, I rang Aunty Sandy and she said she was really worried about her too.’

  Georgie tries to ignore the pang of pain she feels at hearing that Kate had rung Sandy first and not her. It’s not important. At least, not right now. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I rang the doctor and he’s coming to see her today because she refuses to go there. Says there’s nothing wrong with her. But we think she’s going to need some care. More care. Help with everyday tasks, that sort of thing. And I just can’t do it on my own.’ Kate sniffs and rubs her eye, looking away back out of the window.

  Georgie knows it’s terrible news. She’s known for ages that her mother has been getting worse, but she’s finding it hard to care as much as she should. She glances at the clock again, desperate to get out of here.

  ‘It’s 11.30, should we wake her up?’

  Kate shakes her head.

  ‘Let’s give her another ten minutes.’

  ‘OK.’

  The three women sit down at the table, Georgie perched on the edge of her wooden seat, sipping her tea, watching the seconds tick by. The silence in the room is oppressive, each woman lost in her own thoughts; where there’s usually warmth, today there’s only emptiness; where’s there’s usually laughter and chatter, today there’s only silence.

  A bang from the hallway slices through the air and the three of them stand and push their chairs back quickly, rushing into the hallway just in time to see an ornament flying through the air and down the stairs, to land with a crash, tiny pieces skittering across the tiles in all directions. They look up the stairs to see Jan at the top, her face pulled into a mask of rage.

  ‘Mum!’ Kate steps over the shards of ceramic and climbs the stairs quickly. By the time she gets there Jan has stepped back into the doorway, a look of terror on her face.

  ‘You didn’t come and get me.’

  ‘I thought you were asleep, Mum.’ Kate’s voice is soft, pleading.

  ‘You were meant to come and wake me up, I’m going to be late.’ Jan’s voice is louder now, laced with tears. ‘You promised and now I’m going to miss it.’

  Georgie looks at this woman she’s called her mother her whole life and feels a ball of anger and shame well up inside her. She watches as Jan stands at the top of the stairs, scared and alone. She’s lost weight but she looks bigger than usual, bulked out by the countless cardigans she’s layered over and over each other until her arms can barely bend, and Georgie can feel something else, a sense of pity washing across her face and down into the pit of her belly.

  Kate moves towards her mother, walking slowly up the stairs, her arms held out in front of her, as though in surrender. ‘Come on, Mum, let’s take some of these cardigans off and get your hair looking nice, shall we, then we can come back downstairs. How does that sound?’ Kate’s voice is soft and pacif
ying and Georgie wonders how she can do it, how she can be so patient faced with such a nightmare. But she knows, deep down, that she’d be exactly the same, under normal circumstances. It’s just a shame that these aren’t normal circumstances.

  ‘No, I don’t want to. I want to come down now.’

  ‘But Mum—’

  But Jan pushes her to one side and walks down the stairs, holding onto the banister for support. At the bottom she looks at Georgie, as though trying to work out who she is, shakes her head then turns and walks into the kitchen. She’s muttering something under her breath but Georgie can’t make out what it is. She hears Kate’s footsteps running down the stairs again as she follows her mother into the kitchen and then watches as she opens the back door and marches out into the garden. Jan’s walking purposefully now, a changed woman from the scared one who stood at the top of the stairs just a few moments before, and Georgie and Kate watch in horrified fascination as their mother reaches the end of the garden, by the shed, and bends down and starts to scrabble at the earth with her bare hands.

  ‘Jan, what are you doing? Stop it!’ Sandy rushes towards her as lumps of wet soil and stones come flying from the patch of ground, Jan fixed on the task. All they can see is the back of her head, her back hunched over under all her cardigans, and the soles of her slippers pointing up to the sky as she kneels. But then Sandy reaches her and grabs her arm, and Jan turns, and they see tears running down her face.

  ‘But I have to get her, she’s here, she’s here.’ She struggles to catch her breath and Sandy slowly pulls her to her feet, Jan brushing mud from her hands, her nails black. ‘Why are you stopping me? You can’t stop me, it’s nothing to do with you.’

  Jan tries to pull her wrists away from Sandy’s grip but she can’t and the two women stand there, locked together in silent battle for a moment.