by Dawson, H A
‘Can’t you leave this until the morning?’ he asked.
‘I want to do it now.’
‘What do you think will happen? Do you expect we’ll be infested with rats and mice?’
‘It won’t take me long. What do you care anyway?’
‘I don’t.’
He pulled out a chair, slumped onto the wooden surface and puffed out. A stench of alcohol and smoke wafted towards her. She crinkled her nose and clamped shut her mouth.
‘You didn’t make enough food,’ he said, ‘I did warn you.’
‘There was plenty. Look at what’s left.’
‘The soggy sausage rolls and the dry ham sandwiches. Where on earth did you get that bread? What you were thinking?’
‘There was nothing wrong with them!’
‘There’s something wrong with you if you didn’t notice. They were bloody awful . . . embarrassing.’
She turned away and started to place the food into a container for the fridge. ‘No one said anything to me.’
‘They were too bloody polite. That boyfriend of yours would have done if he wasn’t wrapped up in-’
‘Steven is not my boyfriend!’
‘No, he’s too good for you. Without me, you’d be nothing and on the streets where I found you. No one else would have you after what you did, you should be grateful.’
She slammed the fridge door to, felt the vibrations pass along her arm. ‘That’s right, keep on telling me. I’ve such a poor memory, if you miss a day, I might actually get over it and move on.’
‘Not likely. Have you forgotten how we suffered? How I suffered?’
She stomped across the room, reached for another container, and pushed more food inside. ‘Just let it go! Do you think I need telling, over and over again, what a bad person I was?’
‘It’s not made any difference, though, has it?’ he retorted.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘What the hell were you thinking by inviting her here?’
‘I had no choice. Steven asked me.’
‘Course you did! It’s your party, your house!’
‘Don’t you think it would look a little bit suspicious if I said no? And you didn’t help by having a go at her like that. She’s not stupid. It’s not going to take long for her to put two and two together.’
He was silent and rotated an empty glass between his fingers.
‘If I can tolerate seeing her, I don’t see why you can’t,’ Teresa said.
‘After what happened? Bloody hell Teresa, that family-’
‘Stop it! Just stop it!’
Silence.
‘I care,’ he said in a calmer voice, ‘remember, I was there. I saw what it did to you. The endless crying, the way you tortured yourself, the anorexia. Churning up the past is not a good idea.’
She noticed the deep compassion in his eyes and remembered his soothing and protecting demeanour. ‘You’re probably right.’
‘Unless . . .’
‘Unless what?’
‘You want something out of this, right?’
She nodded feebly.
‘Well if you think you can cope, maybe you should be friends with her. I have a plan.’
He strolled away, walking into the main lounge, leaving her to drop onto the chair and contemplate the situation. Her heart was aching, her head swirling with painful reminders. Instinctively, she reached to the burn scar on her face and stroked the lumpy surface, and her body tightened. Then, she shut her eyes and imagined squashing her small daughter against her breast and her emotions tumbled.
They were less vivid than they had once been, and no longer squeezed her of breath. Weeks after the event, as calm returned, she had had a conversation with Geoff, her beloved husband, and they had agreed to make a new start. Everything had to change, all reminders of whom she had been, had to go, and they left the area. It was a plan and one they thought would work. Regrettably, Geoff struggled to adhere to it, and he insisted they returned. Apparently, or so he said, work and friends called.
With sadness in her eyes, she looked along the corridor imagining the place her husband was resting. Could they survive more upset in their relationship? What if she said no to contact with Leanne? Would he insist? It was going to be a difficult few weeks. If only Janet had sold the Honeysuckle Cottage . . .
Chapter 13
Leanne wiped away the condensation from the window with a cloth and pressed her head closer to the glass, straining to see across the field through the drizzly rain. The branches on the trees at the end of the garden were thrashing against each other, and the yellowing leaves were struggling to hang on.
Perhaps Steven would not pass by today. If he did, he was braver than she, or perhaps more foolhardy. Even Tansy would struggle to gain anything from the excursion. Battling the wind and bitter rain could not be delightful, not in anyone’s mind.
The path to the village, as far as she could see, was empty. She wiped the glass with a cloth, removing her condensed breaths from her view, and scanned further away. There were no lonely figures and no wandering dogs, and her disappointments swelled. She had been hasty in her decision to rush away from Steven, and she needed to apologise.
Days had passed since the party and Leanne regularly looked across the field, longing for a glimpse. He had told her he walked by at midday and that he always took a circuitous route incorporating her house. Rarely did he go elsewhere during the week; he was a man of routine. So where was he? Had Andrea returned and disrupted his plans? Was he ill?
Stepping away from the window, she reprimanded herself for her behaviour. She had made it clear she was not interested in Steven and pushed him aside with a moody silence. He had made his decision also, deciding to label her as cheap because of her mother’s apparent behaviour. His silence, his choosing not to defend her to Geoff, was the only answer she had needed. She should not be wasting her time on such a man. She turned away.
Moments later, unable to resist, Leanne looked back through the window across the field. There was a figure in the distance and there was a dog. She edged closer and held her breath so as not to mist the glass. It was definitely Steven, his loose gait and his strong slender body so familiar.
Her heart throbbed. She longed to draw his attention and even considered racing outside and jumping up and down. But then it dawned. Steven was walking a different path; he had chosen to avoid her.
A small voice inside her head told her to remove herself from the window, but it was as though something magnetised her to the spot. Her legs locked and her eyes unblinking. His head turned. Her pulse quickened. Had he seen her?
Ashamed of her behaviour, she stepped back. He continued until a tree obscured her view. She urged him to reappear, prayed for him to take a direct route towards her house. It was not to be. Steven disappeared out of sight.
Leanne returned to the kitchen and sat at the table, her senses alert, still hoping for his padded footsteps or dulcet tones to break the silence. She could not get him out of her head, could not stop herself from hoping, wishing.
As a diversion, she reached to the newspaper, a local freebie, and spread it across the table and scanned the adverts and reports. There was an article on a charity fundraiser, one on a spate of missing cats, and another on the continuing struggle of out-of-town shops and businesses. She flicked over the sheet, the dry texture removing moisture from her fingertips, and stared at a two-page spread on the local hospital.
The article spoke of the imminent renovation and refurbishment, and there were multiple photographs, both of the inside and the outside of the building. Mesmerised, Leanne stared at the hospital front. She had been there before, many times, visiting someone as a little girl. She had to visit.
There was a steady flow of traffic passing through the town centre but not enough to cause unnecessary disruption or frustration. With the radio set on a low volume and her eyes alert to any imminent danger, she ambled her way through traffic lights, around roundabouts and
through a level crossing, following signs to the hospital.
The thrill of the sight of the entrance and the car park caused ripples to cross Leanne’s body. She eased the car into a vacant space, paid the parking fees, and stepped through the blustery air. Her hair danced and her skin tightened. She raised her collar, placed her left hand into her pocket, and headed to the entrance. There she paused.
Gazing back towards the block of cars, her memories dominated. She had trotted alongside her grandparents, Janet’s firm grip dragging her along. There had been strained conversations - bickering, deep anxieties and anguished cries – and she had dared not speak. Silence had been the preferred option, that and private tears.
Leanne entered the hospital and inhaled the sterile odour. The decor was clean but nondescript and plain; the walls were white, the floors a smooth grey, and the furniture basic. There was nothing pleasant to look at, no colours, no inspirational paintings, no comfortable chairs; everything was either scratched or marked. Through the intervening years, since her last visit, nothing had changed. It was unsurprising that there had been a decision to refurbish.
After weaving through the hospital, she found herself in a small waiting area near an intensive care ward and sat down on a plastic hard-backed chair, her back to a row of windows. There was no one else around, bar a nurse at the end of the corridor, and she re-familiarised herself with a place she believed she once knew well.
Before her was a closed door, and up above, stretching along the length near the ceiling was a narrow window. She had traced it many times with her mind, noted the fine crack in the frame and the lumpy wall surface to one side, and she drifted back through time.
As a little girl, she had looked to this door, focusing upon the handle, and strained her ears to listen to the sounds of her grandparents nearing the exit, her face tight and her body rigid. More than anything, she had wanted to feel the comfort of their touch, yet she had also feared their sorrowful faces from emerging. Why, she could not say.
The answers remained elusive, and after hanging around for several more minutes, she decided to leave and headed to the cafeteria, a vast rectangular structure crammed full of tables and chairs, many occupied, some littered with used crockery. She purchased a coffee and weaved around tables to what she believed had once been a familiar spot near a pillar.
Images of Roy and Janet continued to perturb her, their bodies tightening with fear, their expressions agonizing. She had dared not speak, and sat in the chair, her legs dangling and immobile, and her arms resting on the table. There, she sought out moments of comfort with strained glances. Her torment had gone unnoticed.
She had a vague a memory of Janet informing her of a death, or perhaps it was an instinct. Either way, she had a firm belief that the person in intensive care had passed away. She remembered her grandparents’ pallid cheeks, grief-stricken and washed out, and recalled their tears. Their bodies had been together, their shared agony thickening the air.
Had they mentioned Karen was the one that had died? She believed they had, a consideration causing her confusion to intensify.
It seemed real, but it could not be true, not since her mother had not died. Searching for answers, reflecting on what Luke had shared, she took tentative sips of the hot coffee and enjoyed the comfort of the warm vapours pass to her stomach. Janet had been an evacuee, choosing to stay with the Coombs’ rather than returning to London, and later married and continued to live in Honeysuckle Cottage. The Coombs, having had no children of their own, left all their assets to Janet, but their lives reached a tragic and sudden end, shot dead for no apparent reason.
Trevor Parry was not a name familiar to Leanne, and Luke had found it difficult to make a connection also. It seemed as though it had been a random attack, yet, as Luke pointed out, if that had been true, there would have been no reason for Janet to refuse the inheritance. Leanne’s mother, Karen Jefferson, must be the missing link.
As a child, Leanne had created a person in her mind that fit the role of mother. She had a rounded figure, dark brown flowing hair, a pleasant face with even skin tones, and an infectious smile. She would have been hard-working with a quiet personality. She would have always been there, whatever happened, whatever stress befell them.
Leanne was unsure if the description was fiction or if it had come from Janet and Roy, but she was sure of the tense atmosphere that always surrounded discussions about Karen. Usually, they brushed aside her questions, their excuse being it hurt to talk about such a tragic loss. So gradually, over the years, her interrogation stopped. It did not matter. Janet filled the gap - she was everything a mother should be – and she was happy to let it rest.
Where were the photos? Where was the evidence that Karen even existed? Leanne’s body and mind ached with disappointment, mostly aimed at herself for never asking questions and never pursuing the baffling and unfathomable, but also at Janet and Roy for keeping the truth a secret. It was acceptable if it had been to protect her during childhood, but they should have said something to her when she matured. To wait until the last moment was cowardly and disrespectful.
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 the
n 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.