by Dawson, H A
It pained to think badly of the dead, and she rested her head in her hands and felt the warm vapours reach her skin. Alone with her thoughts, she cried out to Janet, at first screaming at her for keeping such a secret, and then pleading with her for answers, her imaginary voice quivering and her eyes filling with tears.
The shrouded past was sapping her of strength. She finished her coffee and looked around the café at the sombre folks and noticed Roy and Janet’s agony similarly reflected in the eyes of two women nearby. Reprimanding herself for her self-indulgence, she stood up and strode out through the double doors and to the car. Her phone sounded. It was Tyler. Her face brightened.
‘Hello love,’ she said, ‘how are you?’
‘Fine Mum . . . having a great time. We’ve been ten-pin bowling in Manchester and then went on to a community farm. It’s something the girls wanted to do.’
‘I’m glad you’re keeping busy. Do you want some money? I think you should be paying your way.’
‘No, it’s okay. Darren said it was.’
‘Even so-’
‘No. How’s it going with you?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. Any closer to finding your mum?’
She hesitated. ‘No.’
‘Have you found anything else out?’
‘Not really.’
‘So what have you been doing? Do the locals know anything?’
‘Why the sudden interest?’
‘Can’t I be? She’s related to me too.’
‘I know, but . . .’
His behaviour was odd. All week she had to almost pin him down and force him to listen, and now, all of a sudden, he wanted to know everything.
‘. . . I’ve just visited the hospital. Gran and granddad visited someone when I was a little girl. I could remember sitting in a waiting area.’
‘Who were they visiting?’
‘Mum I think, but I thought whoever they visited had died. I can still see their faces when they walked out of the hospital room, stricken with grief.’
‘You would think it was your Mum since that’s what gran said.’
‘I suppose, but it seemed real.’
‘Who else could it have been?’
‘That’s just it. I don’t know of anyone else.’
‘Then you must have imagined she died. She could have been ill. Have you mentioned it to your private investigator?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Then you should. That’s why you’re paying him, isn’t it?’
She smiled. ‘What have you done with my little boy? You’ve grown up all of a sudden.’
‘No, I haven’t, you just haven’t noticed before.’
‘I’m so proud of you Tyler. You’ve been handling everything well . . . Phillip, Gran, Darren. I can’t wait to see you again.’
‘Mum . . .’
His voice quivered and then he exhaled. Filled with dread, she started to shake, the phone rocking in her hand. He was leaving her, just as she had predicted. He was going to a better life, a bigger family.
‘I want to stay on bit longer.’
Inside, she screamed. She wanted to hold him, force him to stay, tell him he could not abandon her, but she just could not do it. Her words, her appeal, were trapped somewhere within.
‘It’s just for a while,’ he said. ‘I’ll still see you. How about the weekend?’
Her voice was heavy with grief. ‘What about school?’
‘Darren will take me. It’ll give you an opportunity to stay on a bit longer. I’m sure, if you ask around, someone must know something. It’ll be good for you.’
Her search for her mother faded into insignificance. She would give it all up in a flash to have her son back. Damn it! Why now? Why was she being punished so?
‘Please Mum. It’s not forever.’
‘If it’s what you want.’
‘It is,’ he replied weakly.
The call ended and the phone rested in her palm. In a daze, she gazed out of the windscreen and into the car park, her senses dulled, her life in tatters and her self-pitying attitude returning. She had no energy to fight it, no will to do so, and thought about home. She wanted to slump onto the sofa with chocolates and cream cake; she wanted to eliminate the daylight and switch off the phone; she wanted to watch some meaningless programme on television. Then she would sleep.
Chapter 14
Leanne discovered that keeping the ache of disappointment from overwhelming her was a perpetual challenge, and even though she busied herself as much as possible by visiting local attractions, tinkling on the piano, and reading books, she still could not keep her mind occupied.
Blanketed in the warm glow of the sun, she sat at the kitchen table and gazed at a photo album resting on the edge of the kitchen unit. It was difficult to resist and she traced the leather-look cover in her mind, her sorrows swelling. The pain was necessary and the self-torture slow and persistent. She wanted to feel her body contorting with grief, and she wanted to feel her tears swell and streak her cheeks. Nonetheless, as Leanne reached for the photo album and felt the burning ripple of memories spread through her body, a tiny voice of wisdom asked her to stop. It was an impossible request.
She flicked open the cover and looked at her son’s young face; his baby blue eyes, round and full of wonderment, his soft creamy-pink cheeks, his even white teeth and small tight lips. He was her baby, her pride and joy. He was the centre of her life.
She turned over the sheet, looking at image upon image of her boy, and her tightened chest rose and fell, her breathing squeezed. There were photos of his birthday, a school sports day, a swimming competition, and his first attempts on his bicycle. There were photographs of a camping trip and a zoo trip, and there were numerous images of Tyler with Phillip and Janet. She wanted to be there again, reverse time, and appreciate the moments in a way that she sensed she never had.
She had lost too much time to trivia, the stress of daily life once weighing her down so utterly. So often, Leanne had bundled Tyler to one side, keeping him occupied with computer games and the television. She had spent lazy days in bed, wasted hours having fractious exchanges with anyone within earshot, and she had moped over the most pointless of irregularities. Even after Phillip entered her life, she had not delighted in her son’s presence enough, and within the blink of an eye, Tyler had grown up.
Now he was gone and Leanne felt as though her life was not worth living. She could deal with life without Phillip and Janet, but not Tyler, not her son. He was her world; he was everything.
She shut her eyes and her face twisted in agony as she relived the torturous moment when Tyler told her he was not returning. He wanted to be away from her, preferring life with Darren. She had failed him completely.
Craving a soothing word, and unable to reach out to either Janet or Phillip, her frustration intensified. She could not release her agony with a soothing flood of tears, despite reliving each torturous moment of parting, and it stayed with her as a perpetual and persistent ache. Her previous heartaches, which had crippled her so intensely, now seemed insignificant, and she wondered if her suffering had been self-induced, a selfish need. In comparison, Tyler’s decision had resulted in a sense of absolute desolation, and her agony lay deep within her gut, irremovable.
Leanne had failed her duty as a mother and she had no other role. She was neither daughter, nor granddaughter, nor a wife. Not even someone’s colleague. Where was her future? Everything before her was bleak; there was no chink of light. She laid her head on the table and closed her eyes. She wanted to vanish.
Wallowing in self-pity was draining. Deciding it was time to do something constructive, Leanne thought back to her conversation with Steven and to his suggestion that she started her handmade jewellery business. Brushing aside a vision of his lopsided smile, which accompanied another flicker of regret, she reached into a drawer for a notepad and pencil and urged herself to design.
Her inspiration and motivation were lacking, and for a
few moments, the pencil hovered millimetres above the sheet. Months previous, she had numerous designs within her head, bursting for release. Now, when she needed them the most, it was as though they had been erased or altered; her ideas seemed ugly and ridiculous and not the exquisite work of art intended. She battled with a small voice that doubted her abilities to create such pieces, and she questioned why anyone would want to purchase the unusual.
Phillip’s encouraging words became her focus. He would have suggested she calmed her mind, used meditation if necessary, and played some tranquil music. He would have told her of her talents, pointing to her earlier attempts. He would have talked through her design ideas.
Feigning enthusiasm, she lifted herself from the chair and headed across the hallway to the outer door. There was barely a breeze outside, and the loosening leaves on the trees hardly flickered. It was a beautiful autumnal day, warm and bright. Inhaling the fresh country air, pure and unpolluted, she strode towards the barn alongside a hedge.
The long strands of fading grass were wilting and damp and moistened her ankles, and the straggling branches invaded the trodden path. She stayed close to the hedge, the once distinct path vivid in her mind, aware that in her younger days, like Janet, she too had trotted to see the hens around the corner.
It would be good to resurrect the site and return it to the glorious place it once was, with livestock and vegetables, delicate and colourful floral displays, and the scent of homemade cookery wafting from the house. She imagined how her grandmother must have felt coming from London, leaving behind the smoky city, the overcrowded buildings, and the blitz. The peace and tranquillity must have been like entering another universe, another time, and she was beginning to see the attraction.
Her steps faltered as she approached the fire damaged barn. The brick walls were sound, but part of the roof had collapsed and the remaining charcoaled beams exposed. There was little left of the roof at the side with the hayloft; at the other side and scorched by flames was an old wooden chest. Stacked alongside were a couple of cardboard boxes.
She strode across, stepping on the concrete and into relative darkness and waited for her eyes to adjust. Then she pulled open a drawer and scanned the old rusty tools placed side by side across the bottom. There were chisels, hammers, and billhooks, but there was nothing small enough and suitable to use in a piece of jewellery.
The next drawer contained an assortment of bolts, washers, nails, and screws, and other small items. It was exactly what she was looking for, and so she rummaged through the disorder, searching for pieces with a good reflective surface. Feeling inspired, she gathered tiny brass keys, small metal plates, wire, and a sheet of copper, laying them on the top.
‘Leanne?’
Alerted by the faint cry of her name, she darted out of the barn and turned the corner to the house. It was Teresa. As she stepped through the grass and weaved around a straying branch, they shared greetings.
‘I’ve been gathering some odds and sods in the barn to make some jewellery,’ Leanne said. ‘Want to come and have a look?’
Hesitating, Teresa pulled each of her fingers in turn.
‘I’ve seen jewellery made out of junk, and it can be effective. Some is pretty awful too.’
‘How’s it done?’
‘I’ll show you.’
She took the lead, heading to the barn door, and then turned around to speak. Teresa was standing a few metres away, her arms wrapped around her middle, her expression fearful.
‘Everything okay?’ Leanne asked.
She nodded, anxious.
Ignoring Teresa’s qualms, Leanne stepped through the door and headed straight towards her assortment of items. Sensing Teresa’s absence, she turned around. Teresa was moving cautiously, and staring at the hayloft and the burnt beams.
‘Oh,’ Leanne said, looking to her burn scars, ‘I’m sorry.’
She gulped, voiceless.
‘It must have been terrifying.’
She returned her gaze. ‘Show me what you plan to do with this junk.’
Leanne was hesitant, and wondered if she should question Teresa further; instead, she bumbled along, explaining how she intended to clean and polish the objects and attach them to a chain. When she got no response, her confidence faded. She was about to give up on her explanation when Teresa made an encouraging remark.
She found the courage to continue. ‘You need objects that complement each other, say like these small keys and the washers and bolts. It might sound crummy, but I’ve seen it done, and when they are all cleaned up and coated in something to make them extra shiny they can look fantastic.’
‘I’d never have considered using old junk.’
‘Think of it as recycling.’ She leaned down and opened the bottom drawer of the chest. ‘Blimey, look at this, old piano keys. I’ve seen pieces done out of these. They were definitely my favourite.’
She fingered the small strips, her excitement rising, her ideas bouncing through her mind. When she looked up, Teresa was staring at something at the far side of the barn, near the hayloft.
‘What is it?’
Teresa walked across and then crouched to the floor. She was holding something in her hand. It was a chain with a pendant. She wiped away the dirt and a shimmering blue stone emerged.
‘I wonder who it belonged to,’ Leanne said.
She passed it across, her hand trembling.
‘It could be Gran’s . . . or Mum’s. It looks valuable. Did I tell you I’m trying to find her?’
Teresa nodded.
‘Fancy a drink, and I’ll tell you what I know?’
‘All right.’
‘Great,’ she said, clutching the necklace. ‘I could do with a bit of company. It gets a bit lonely out here.’
Proud to show off the house, Leanne fixed her gaze on Teresa as they entered the lobby. Whilst her companion didn’t give much away, Leanne knew she had to be impressed.
‘It’s not bad, is it?’ she said.
‘No, it’s not.’
‘It’s a bit dated, but given how long it’s been since anyone has lived here, I was surprised to find it in such good condition.’
‘It’s not been lived in at all then?’
‘No, I don’t think so. There’s a tragic story connected to it. Mr and Mrs Coombs were shot dead, and as Janet was like a daughter to them, she inherited the lot.’
Teresa sat down.
‘From what I can gather, they were a lovely couple. I can’t see why anyone would have wanted them dead.’
Teresa's hands were shaking, and her face, damp with moisture, had turned a pasty white. ‘Sorry, I need the toilet.’
She jumped to her feet and fled out of the room clutching her stomach. Leanne followed her, and just as Teresa faded out of view at the top of the staircase, she shouted it was the first door on the left. She had already found her way.
After a few minutes, Teresa returned and joined Leanne at the table. ‘Sorry about that, I’ve a bit of a stomach bug.’
‘You didn’t look too good. Are you okay now?’
‘I think so.’
With both hands clinging to the mug, she sipped her coffee. ‘W-was Janet adopted?’
‘No, she was an evacuee. She was placed here with two other children, a brother and sister. It wasn’t her first stay. She’d been with someone else for a while, and arrived full of bruises.’
‘Her guardians abused her?’
She nodded. ‘She had made an agreement with her parents to return home if it didn’t go well, but they let her down and never collected her. I don’t know whether she ever forgave them.’
‘That sounds a bit harsh.’
She scowled. ‘I don’t see why. If I make a promise to Tyler, I would always do what I could to keep it. Janet’s parents fobbed her off . . . they never intended to keep their word.’
‘It wouldn’t have been that easy in those days, dropping everything and travelling half way across the country on demand.’
/> ‘Then they should never have agreed to it in the first place.’
Teresa was staring into the mug, her eyes narrow and her expression tense.
‘Anyhow,’ she continued, ‘worse was to come. Janet had been writing home, and when she returned, she found her letters unopened. She was devastated and stopped writing. The next time she returned to London, they’d moved away.’
‘That’s awful,’ she said in a half-hearted tone.
‘They can’t have cared much to do something so horrible.’
‘That’s a big assumption.’
‘No, it’s not. How can you say that?’
‘There are always two sides to every argument Leanne. I wouldn’t judge too hastily if I were you.’
‘But she was their daughter. There’s no excuse for not telling her where they’d moved to.’
‘No, but maybe they had had their reasons. It . . . it could be complicated.’
‘What do you know?’
‘I don’t know anything. I just like to be open-minded.’
Leanne leaned back into the chair and studied Teresa. She was enjoying being disagreeable; it was reminiscent of their first meeting in the village hall. What was her motive?
‘Did Janet ever have contact with her parents again?’ Teresa asked.
‘I don’t know. I’m still trying to find that out.’
‘Then don’t be so quick to judge.’
‘It’s difficult when I’ve so little to go on. I don’t have any other relatives, at least no one who knows anything about this.’
‘Some things are better off remaining hidden.’
‘My mother too?’
‘Perhaps. She hasn’t contacted you, has she? Otherwise, she would be here.’
‘What if she didn’t know how to find me? I have to give this a go.’