The Day She Can’t Forget: Psychological suspense you’ll just have to keep reading

by Meg Carter

  ‘You’re kidding,’ Brian exclaims, blindly reaching for Chrissie’s hand.

  Phil shakes his head. ‘I can see why you’d hope that but no, Brian, it’s true. Baby Tony – who, by the way, sends his apologies for not joining us today, only he’s got a bad dose of colic, as Cyn’s mother will surely vouch – he will be my heir, not you.’

  Still holding the knife, Pete lowers his hand.

  ‘Well now! This certainly looks like a fine feast, I must say,’ Phil presses on, rubbing his hands together as he surveys the table then fixes his gaze on Patsy. ‘Mind if we join you? Looks like there’s more than enough to go round.’

  To Alma’s surprise, his ex-wife giggles. ‘More than enough,’ she echoes, brightly, waving for Cyn and Phil to pull up extra chairs. ‘The more the merrier, if you know what I mean.’ Again, Patsy laughs. ’As they say.’

  ‘I’m not really hungry any more,’ Brian mutters, grimly.

  ‘You can have my place, too,’ says Derek as he backs towards the door.

  Chrissie, however, seems determined to stand her ground. ‘Well, I’m so hungry I could eat a horse,’ she declares. Phil laughs, loudly.

  In search of a cue, Alma turns towards Pete, but he has his arm around Patsy’s shoulders and is speaking to her in a low voice, so all she can do as Phil and Cyn take their seats at the table is hover, awkwardly, and wait. Until, at last, Patsy has made her intentions clear and the six of them sit down together to eat.

  ‘Voila,’ Phil declares from his self-appointed seat at the head of the table as, without being asked, he takes the carving knife. ‘As the Frenchies say!’

  Briskly, the man swipes the knife across a sharpening steel, the blade on the pad of his thumb, then tears into the roast. Damp-haired and flushed from the steam of it, he is repulsive and the look of that meat, pink around the outside and oozing blood at the centre, makes Alma feel sick. But as the others watch the knife part meat from bone, they do so in a reverential kind of silence.

  ‘Help yourselves to vegetables, everyone,’ Phil finally declares when the carving is done. ‘Enjoy the meal my money has put on this table… And my ex-wife’s exquisite preparations, of course.’

  There is a pause once all the plates are full which Alma thinks, with a fleeting sense of hope, will be blessed by a grace. But instead, everyone waits for Phil to carefully prepare then consume his first mouthful. His final swallow is the signal for everyone else to commence.

  Giddy with nerves – or, maybe, too much wine – Patsy lets slip a giggle. Turning to look at Pete, Alma sees the inner conflict between his loyalty to his fragile mother and his loathing for his oafish stepfather clearly etched into his face. Beneath the table, she feels for his hand. Why doesn’t Patsy tell her ex and his new wife to leave, she wonders. Can the woman still have feelings for this ugly bully?

  ‘Why don’t you go and have a sit down?’ Alma urges Patsy as soon as they have finished eating, shooting a smile at Chrissie in the hope of rallying her support.

  ‘Go on, Pats,’ Pete’s cousin agrees, taking the hint. ‘We’ve got this covered.’

  As the two young women carry the debris from lunch into the kitchen and set about washing, tidying and wiping down it’s soon clear how little they have in common. Chrissie dropped out of school at sixteen to work in a local beauty salon when her mother, Patsy’s sister, died of cancer. Ten years on, her two aims in life are to marry and marry well, though despite a plan to move in soon with Brian, she is now unabashedly undecided about whether or not he’ll end up the lucky man.

  ‘Mum knew him and liked him which made her happier with the idea of us moving in together at some stage. But I guess with Phil and Cyn being married, and everything…’ she starts to confide. ‘Anyway, whoever I end up with has got to be my passport out of here.’

  Alma smiles. Maybe they aren’t that dissimilar, after all. A passport to London, yes, she can identify with that. But the other girl misinterprets her amusement and, an instant later, is flinging down the washing up brush and turning around to face her down.

  ‘Are you laughing at me?’ Chrissie demands.

  Alma hesitates, for in truth the answer is yes and no.

  ‘Do I amuse you?’ the other girl hisses, poking Alma in the chest with her forefinger so hard it makes her gasp. ‘You stuck up cow, with your posh voice and your airs and graces. Think you’re too good for us, don’t you? Well let me tell you something, you’d better make the most of your bit of rough on the side, darling, because trust me, it won’t last. And I should know.’

  ‘No,’ Alma objects, struggling to see what the girl could mean. Too good for Pete? ‘Honestly. I wasn’t laughing – smiling, maybe, but no, not at you, at me. Look Chrissie, I’m really sorry but I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. It’s what you said about needing a passport – you know, to London? It’s just, well, I know just what you mean. I’ve got my music, you’ve got—’

  ‘Don’t put me down.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You heard me, bitch.’

  ‘I think you’ve misunder—’

  ‘Are you calling me stupid?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I—’

  ‘All right, Chrissie?’

  As both girls turn towards Phil, the thought of how much of their exchange he has heard makes Alma flinch. ‘Fine, thanks,’ the other girl beams, unabashed, as she peels off the rubber gloves she is wearing with a snap. ‘Seen Brian on your travels?’

  Phil shrugs.

  ‘Not to worry,’ Chrissie grins, stepping towards the doorway in which her one-time uncle stands – a position he must vacate in order to let her pass by. ‘He’ll be tinkering with the car by the garage, I expect,’ she adds. Then, as she draws level with Phil, she pecks him lightly on the cheek. ’Good to see you again, Phil. As always.’

  Without warning, Phil pulls her towards him, cupping her buttocks so firmly that she struggles to move away until, a second or two later, he sets her free. Flush-faced, she hastily straightens her hair.

  Her one-time uncle smiles. ‘Likewise, I’m sure.’

  * * *

  ’She did what?’ Pete exclaims. He is laughing so hard he slows the car to a halt in a muddy pull-in at the side of the single track road.

  Alma giggles. The relief of leaving the awkward gathering at Patsy’s has left both of them giddy. ‘She kissed Phil.’

  Pete shakes his head. ‘Christ, Alma, if I’d known it would be like that I’d never have—’

  ‘Stop apologising,’ she smiles. ‘Seriously, it’s OK. You should meet my family. Though on second thoughts, please don’t.’

  ‘It’s Mum, you see,’ he presses on with a sigh. ‘She’s been through so much. I wanted to show some support, you know, now she’s getting back on her feet. And, of course, I wanted the two of you to meet.’

  ‘She’s lovely,’ Alma soothes. ‘And Derek seems nice, too.’

  ‘Nice.’ Pete frowns. ‘But she deserves better.’

  ‘I’m not sure Chrissie liked me much, either.’

  ‘Oh I wouldn’t mind her,’ he replies, checking the road in both directions before driving on. ‘Chrissie’s bark has always been worse than her bite. And besides, once she decides she likes you you’ve got a trusted ally for life.’

  ‘Let’s hope she’s not made up her mind too quickly, then.’

  Pete laughs. ‘What shall we do next weekend, then – visit your parents, perhaps? Or are there any skeletons from your past you’d like to share?’

  Alma stares at him for a moment, wondering if she’ll ever dare invite him into the straitlaced world of the person she used to be, let alone tell him about what happened in Vienna. The risks feel too great. Who she is now is the person formed by breaking free from childhood constraints and guilty secrets. She should be thankful she escaped from her past unscathed. No good can come from looking back.

  She laughs, tentatively. ‘If only.’

  17

  Camden, February 2016

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nbsp; ‘We’re back,’ Sam calls from the hallway as Matty charges ahead and into the sitting room where Zeb is sitting on the sofa once more, staring into the shoe box.

  ‘Hey champ,’ she wearily smiles. ‘Did you have fun?’

  The child nods, looking at the box on her lap but saying nothing. He is distracted by the thought of something far more exciting. ‘Can I use the laptop, Mummy? Please? I promise to be careful, only I want to show Auntie Sammy the Puffle Party on Club Penguin. Say yes, Mummy, please?’

  ‘It’s on the floor by my bed, charging,’ Zeb says. ‘Give her a few minutes, though – I need a word with her first, OK?’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Sam frowns, sinking down onto the sofa. She is still wearing her coat. ‘Only you look awful. Did you get the letters back OK?’

  Zeb nods. ‘The whole file. And this. It’s a box of… stuff.’

  Taking the shoe box from her Sam sorts through it for a moment then raises her head. ‘Where’s it from?’

  ‘An old friend of Dad’s who lives in Scotland.’

  Sam looks thoughtful. ’Do you know what it is? What it looks like, at least?’

  ‘Keepsakes.’

  ‘A memory box. Sian, a friend of mine from school, she made one when she was diagnosed with breast cancer – for her kids.’ Sam smiles. ‘Though thankfully she’s never had to use it as she’s in remission now.’

  Zeb shrugs. ‘Well yes, I guess that’s what this is.’

  ‘So who’s the old friend?’

  ‘Anna someone, though the name means nothing to me,’ she adds, pulling free a black, plastic jewellery box – the last item she’s yet to examine. Lifting it up, she opens the lid but there is nothing inside other than an empty velvet mound marked with two holes and small indentation – perhaps where a pendant might sit. Fingering the chain at her throat, she thoughtfully traces the contours of the silver piano.

  ‘Goodness, I almost forgot,’ Sam exclaims, dipping into her coat pocket and pulling out a small padded envelope. ‘As we were leaving, a delivery man was dropping off this – I said I’d take it for you.’

  Tearing open the packet, Zeb pulls out a mocha-coloured Mulberry purse which she recognises instantly as the one Richard gave her the last Christmas before they split. The purse she’d used every day since until she’d lost it in Scotland, along with the handbag Dad gave her and all its contents. The accompanying letter from PC Heath, the constable she met while in hospital in Fort William, explains that the purse had been handed in at a local police station – though any cash and all the cards are, sadly, long gone.

  Even so, Zeb opens the flap and checks inside. It is indeed empty, or almost, for buried in the back pocket is a small, handwritten card like the ones that come with floral arrangements.

  Never forgotten, never forgiven, she reads, A.

  ‘What is it? Who’s it from?‘ Sam begins, peering over her friend’s shoulder.

  Zeb turns over the card. On the reverse is the circular sticker she’d saved from the tribute’s cellophane wrapping bearing the logo of the shop that did the arrangement. Fleur’s Flowers of 10, The Parade, Fort William. She puts the box and empty envelope on the floor then lays the card from the flowers beside the postcard from the music shop, side by side on her lap. Her attention flits between the two for a few seconds as she compares the handwriting, but there’s no way they’re the same. Then something strikes her: it would have been the florist rather than the sender who would probably have written the message. She stares at the initial, A, and thinks of the teenage sweetheart’s letter she found at Dad’s.

  It only takes a moment to spot the papers she brought from her father’s, left unsorted on the floor next to the coffee table. She extracts the handwritten note and places it beside the postcard and once more compares the scripts. This time there is no doubt. The two messages, though separated by decades, are almost a perfect match. The sender of the flowers from Fort William is not only someone who knew Dad many years ago but she also appears to have known – still knows, if Zeb is reading this correctly – her mother.

  Zeb frowns, frustrated by how little she understands of her family – which, as Dad was an only child whose parents died when she was just a toddler, now amounts to just two people: her and Matty. The possibility of more is tantalising.

  Impatiently, Sam tugs Zeb’s sleeve. ’For Christ’s sake, what is it? Tell me!’

  Zeb wonders where best to begin.

  ’So you think this Anna, some old flame of your dad’s, knows where your mum is?’ Sam asks when she is done, doubtfully.

  ‘I guess that’s what I’m saying, yes.’

  ‘But that would mean your dad—’

  ‘Yes, I know. Lied.’

  ‘But why?’

  Zeb sighs. ‘Now that, I don’t know. And if I’m honest, I can’t really believe it. He never lied to me, why would he? He shared so little about her – not even pictures of what she looked like – because of how cut up he was when she died.’

  ‘Left.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Maybe she left. Walked out on him. Perhaps that’s why he lied.’

  ‘He wouldn’t do that,’ Zeb answers, stiffly.

  ‘But you just don’t know, do you, Zeb,’ her friend murmurs. ‘None of us do; about who our parents really are – what they are capable of, I mean. Because to us they are, well, just our parents. We never see those other sides of them, do we? Rebellious child. Or abusive lover.’

  ‘Dad would never—’

  ‘No, I wasn’t saying that about your dad. But—’

  Zeb springs to her feet. ’You’re wrong. We didn’t have secrets. Which is what I’m going to tell this Anna when I see her.’ Her friend’s eyes widen. ‘Yes, Sam. I’m going to see her to put a stop to this. First she sent flowers, then she sent – this.’ She waves at the shoe box. ‘And she shouldn’t have. Because what she’s suggesting is a lie.’

  ‘I hear you,’ Sam soothes. ‘Really, I do. But you don’t have to go to Scotland again, do you? I mean look at all your dad’s papers, the ones you’ve got right here.’

  Zeb eyes the black metal filing box beneath the window.

  When she was little, it always stood on the floor to one side of his desk, with the dent in its side from that time when Wendy dropped it. Though plain and unobtrusive, it had long held a treasure trove of grown-ups’ secrets – their passports, Dad’s driving license and insurance details, her school reports – all locked away safe from prying hands.

  It was where he continued to store important documents long after she’d left home. Like her birth certificate, which for some reason he’d continued to look after. Even when she’d applied for her driving license, he’d been the one to send off the form. Zeb steps towards the box, crouches down by its side and opens the lid.

  ‘Zeb, what is it?’

  As soon as she scans the hanging files, each meticulously labelled, she realises her birth certificate is missing. Which is strange, she thinks, inspecting the folder marked ‘Personal ID’ which contains his own. Dad was always so meticulous.

  Zeb opens the folder and scans the top sheet.

  She is touched by the fragility of a life, book-ended by flimsy bits of paper. Peter Philip, boy, his birth certificate reads. To Bert and Patricia. Born Mile End, October 1, 1952. Her gaze switches to the A4 sheet which she must have slipped in beside it just a few weeks earlier. Died Woodleigh, Wilts. January 26, 2016. At the back of the folder Zeb finds a copy of his marriage certificate paper-clipped to another death certificate, but it is Wendy’s.

  ‘Zeb?’

  But Zeb is no longer listening. Instead, she shuts her eyes as she tries to make sense of Dad’s story.

  What she knows is that Peter Philip Hamilton was born in Clapton, north London. That though he never revealed why, his relationship with his family was fraught. His sole passion was for photography, until he met a beautiful young woman. A talented musician, she too had a troubled relationship with her family and – lik
e him – dreamed of escape. The pair became lovers but before they could marry, she fell pregnant. Though it all happened too fast they vowed to make it work – and would have, too, had she not died during a difficult labour.

  Zeb opens her eyes to see her friend seated on the edge of the sofa opposite watching her, anxiously. ‘I’m fine,’ she sniffs. ‘Honestly. But I could murder a coffee.’ Sam busies herself in the kitchen. Because it strikes her, for the first time, that something about Dad’s story doesn’t sound quite right.

  As a child, his explanation had seemed reasonable to Zeb. Its details were unquestionable; romantic, even. How many times had she imagined their first meeting? So many that she can still see the fictionalised version of it playing out in her mind. Now, though, it seems a stupid fairy tale.

  How obviously Dad sugar-coated details, she thinks, trying not to give in to the creeping realisation that Peter Philip Hamilton is feeling more and more like a stranger.

  Most awful, though, is the thought of what he left out. The truth – even more dreadful than a mother who died – a mother who’d lived and chosen to go away. How could he have continued to love her after that, Zeb marvels. For Dad’s love for this woman is something she never questioned and still believes in, recalling the one and only time she ever saw him cry. It was the day he announced he and Wendy would marry.

  Tears for what could have been, he’d told her, ruefully wiping them away.

  But what if he’d been crying for a different reason? Like losing the woman he loved to something – or someone – other than death? Might that explain how he’d abandoned his old life; the many sacrifices he’d made? Turning down lucrative newspaper work that would have taken him away from home in favour of a so-called career as a small-town wedding photographer.

  Why couldn’t you tell me, Dad? a voice in her pleads. If I’d known the truth, nothing would have changed.

  ‘I’m sorry. Really, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  Zeb looks up and sees Sam holding out two mugs of coffee. ‘I know,’ she mumbles, taking the nearest. ‘But I think maybe you should go.’