by Meg Carter
I thought you trusted me, Pete, Wendy had snapped back. It was the only time Zeb remembers ever hearing her stepmother and father row. First you refuse to discuss what happened with Zeb’s mother, and now this. Who was he, Pete, this Uncle Phil?
You’ve always said you had no family.
* * *
‘What do you mean?’ Zeb demands, turning angrily towards Brian, for she is sure now that both of them are lying.
Dad was a good man. Alma, her mother, is a convicted criminal and, at best, naive. And this oaf before her, Brian, is a liar. How dare he suggest she doesn’t know what her own father was really like? She thinks of Matty. Fraser was right, she now understands. They didn’t want me and I didn’t need them, he’d said of the parents who’d had him and his sister adopted. Life makes us who we are. Trust me, you’re better off not knowing.
Zeb stares at Brian. ‘What do you want? Why are you lying to me?’
‘Stop it!’ cries Alma, grasping the wheels of the chair as she struggles to remove herself from the table unaided. ‘Nothing. He means nothing,’ she insists. ‘I’m sorry. For this. All of it. Everything. It was a mistake. I should never have got in contact. Please, let’s just leave it at that.’
28
Northampton, May 1976
‘This isn’t goodbye,’ Pete smiles, squeezing Alma’s hand. ‘We’ll be with you every step of the way, whatever happens next.’
They are seated on a wooden bench in the narrow strip of shade cast by the pebble-dashed side of the two-storey visitors’ block. With their backs to the wall they sit rigidly, without touching. Elizabeth is finally sleeping, in the pram which is parked by their side, beyond the sun’s reach. The warden who so grudgingly allowed them their brief escape in order to settle their fractious baby stands a short distance away. He is pretending not to listen as she smokes her cigarette.
Alma wipes sweat from the side of her face. The hot spell began in mid-June. Now officially designated a heatwave, the newspapers are predicting this summer will be the hottest in more than 350 years. Too hot for the other remand prisoners and their visitors to venture out. But with Elizabeth so restless, they had no choice.
‘I know that,’ she nods. ‘It’s just that with the trial about to start, it seems so close – you know, me being sent even further away.’
Pete frowns. ’If you’re found guilty.’
‘If. Yes. Of course.’
‘And even if the worst does happen, it might not be North Yorkshire, you know.’
‘Yes,’ says Alma monotonously. ‘I know.’
‘Listen,’ he presses on, once more squeezing her hand. ‘Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it, OK? You, me and Elizabeth. We’ve come so far unscathed, haven’t we? She’s doing well. I’m coping. You’ve been so strong. If it comes to it, we’ll move to be close to wherever you are.’
‘But your work—’
‘My work will be just fine.’
Alma shakes her head. ‘I know, but if only we had family, you know? I mean, I wouldn’t want my parents to raise Elizabeth or anything, but if they took an interest – that would be something, at least.’
‘It’s still early days, Alma. Maybe they will come around.’
‘Or if your mum…’
Pete releases her hand. ‘I know, but she’s dead.’
‘Sorry.’
He nods. ‘Me too.’
The warden clears her throat. Having caught the pair’s attention, the woman mimes tapping her watch then holds up five fingers. Alma nods. ‘Any news from anyone, then?’ she asks. At Christmas, her former roommate had got back together with Geoff. By Easter she’d dropped out of the Conservatoire and gone travelling with him. They could be back any day now.
‘Viola?’
‘Damn,’ Pete exclaims, reaching for his jacket and pulling a postcard from the inside pocket. ‘Sorry, I nearly forgot. She sent this.’
Alma stares for a moment at the picture. It is a photograph of a Keralan houseboat with a cabin made from woven reeds. The craft is pictured floating in a drowsy backwater lined with coconut palms. Greetings from the Malabar Coast, is the caption. Scrawled on the back are the words Wish you were here.
How easily people move on, Alma thinks.
‘Thanks. I’ll add it to my collection.’
‘Brian sends his regards.’ She nods. ‘He and Chrissie have officially split up, too, though I guess we could see that coming.’
’She still thinks I did it, then?’
‘It wasn’t just because of that. She’s been seeing someone else – an older man.’
‘I can’t say I’m surprised, she always was a—’
‘I know. But she’s also my cousin.’
Though Alma says nothing, Pete’s stubborn loyalty irritates her.
Family first, she thinks. As always.
From the pram, a flutter of coughs breaks the silence opening up between them as Elizabeth stirs. Though they rise as one, Alma gets to the baby’s side first. The child is lying on her back, dressed in a short pink gingham dress over a plump terry nappy. The child stares up at Alma and smiles.
‘Go on, pick her up,’ Pete urges.
With both hands, Alma gently lifts Elizabeth to her shoulder. Her heart skips as she soaks in the baby’s living, breathing mass. Her intimate smell. But then, as a tiny hand reaches towards the chain around her throat with its dangling silver piano, Alma has a sudden memory of Tony. She stumbles back.
‘No,’ she gasps, fumbling against the tiny fingers, trying to loosen their grip on her necklace. ‘I can’t. Take her, Pete. Please.’
Within seconds, Elizabeth is safely enclosed in Pete’s arms and eyeing her mother cautiously.
‘It’s OK, Alma,’ Pete murmurs, bobbing the child in his arms until she starts to giggle. ‘Just take it one step at a time.’
* * *
‘Who’s the kiddy?’ asks Aileen Duffy, squinting. She leans across the bed to get a better view of the picture Alma has just stuck on the wall, above the bedhead.
‘My daughter, Elizabeth.’
Aileen chuckles, indulgently. ’She’s a pretty wee thing, isn’t she?’
Alma smiles. ‘I know.’
‘What’s the special occasion?’
‘Her birthday – last weekend she turned seven. Have you got kids?’
Her new cellmate’s face clouds. ’No. At least, not yet. But I will. Not a prissy little girl, though – it has to be a boy for me.’ She laughs. ‘Though I mean no disrespect.’
Alma sits down on the edge of her bed beside Pete’s letter which is still folded inside the envelope. The letter is late and she can see he has written on just one sheet this time, not three, and is disappointed, given it was Elizabeth’s birthday ten days ago, so she is savouring the moment and taking her time. There’ll be a reason for this delay, she knows. Just like there was for the last one. But she can’t help thinking that Pete’s dedication to a regular, open and all-embracing dialogue – albeit paper-based – is beginning to wane.
‘Have you got anyone?’ she asks. ‘You know, back home?’
‘Back in Scotland? No, not now,’ the other woman sighs. ‘Which is why I’m here at all, though let’s not get into that.’ Noticing Alma’s expression, she quickly presses on. ‘Don’t worry, he’s still with us, if you get my drift. Let’s just say, I gave him what for when I caught him with his pants down making out with my best friend.’
‘Your best friend? That’s tough.’
Aileen shrugs. ‘That’s their nature, though, isn’t it? Men.’
Alma turns back to the wall and the latest picture of her daughter. She is standing on a chair at the dining room table, blowing out the candles on a three-tiered chocolate birthday cake. She is flanked by four or five other girls of a similar age. Each has long, wet hair. Either they’ve overheated through excitement or they’ve just got back from swimming, Alma guesses.
Standing behind Zeb is Pete, casually dressed in jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt, and a sl
im, dark-eyed woman she does not recognise, with a wide, open smile and a sleek chestnut bob. The pair stand close but Alma’s daughter obscures whether or not their hands touch.
You’re being stupid, she tells herself. Overly suspicious. Paranoid. Yet it would be difficult for anyone, surely? Fifteen years is such a very, very long time. Maybe she could ask Brian. He is her only other visitor, after all. And he was there, of course. At Elizabeth’s party. It would have been him who took the picture.
She squeezes Pete’s letter out from the envelope.
The first thing she notices is that the writing seems bigger, too, with a stilted feel that slows its flow. She skim-reads for any obvious cause for concern. But there is nothing that immediately stands out.
Elizabeth has lost another baby tooth. The party went well. All’s good at school. And the photographic studio Pete set up has just had its best year. Meanwhile he will be taking the pictures at Chrissie’s wedding next month. After seven long years Bernard Allitt, the older man Pete’s cousin has been dating, will finally make an honest woman of her.
Alma wonders if Elizabeth will be going to the wedding but guesses not. Which is just as well. Of course, Cyn has had no contact with any of them since Tony’s death and then, two years ago, Phil’s death following the return of his cancer. Even so, it is important Elizabeth learns nothing of this side of her so-called family, and of what happened, until she is old enough to understand. And that won’t be until Alma and Pete can tell her, together.
We’ve got to put Elizabeth first, always, Pete had said.
So, reluctantly, she’d agreed that Pete should stop bringing Elizabeth to the prison so regularly. When she was younger and they lived only an hour’s drive away it worked fine. But when Alma was moved to a prison north of Birmingham, it was just too big an upheaval for them to move house again, given Elizabeth had settled in so well at the local primary school.
The most important thing, he said, is that she knows she is loved and cherished by the people who matter.
So Pete would record their child’s every milestone for her, and send pictures, too. And while he worked at home to keep Alma alive in their daughter’s hopes and dreams, she would write regular letters to Elizabeth that the three of them would open, together, when she was free.
All that matters now is us.
Alma had believed Pete because she wanted and needed to.
Soon after her trial her own father, with his reputation indelibly tarnished by the publicity, had resigned his parish post and accepted a non-public-facing administrative role working for a neighbouring diocese where he was less well-known. The lighter duties enabled him to care for Alma’s mother when, five years later, she was diagnosed with cancer. Then, soon after Angela Dean’s death in November, Reverend Dean suffered a fatal stroke.
With Pete now Alma’s only family, and parole becoming possible after serving her minimum term, their focus has to be not on the day-to-day difficulties of weathering their separation but what will come next. And whatever it is could come sooner than she’d dared hope, as her solicitor is now advising that a review of her sentence might be possible within just a couple of months.
‘Cheer up, it might never happen!’
Alma looks up to see Aileen, now seated on her own bed, watching her intently. ‘Seriously, girl,’ her cellmate cautions. ‘You’ll do yourself no good if you give in to the black dog and start to brood.’
Alma lets the letter drop onto the mattress. After the lies she told, the mistakes she made, the woman is right. She considered depriving her own child of life. She ruined two people’s lives – three, when you consider Tony. She bore a daughter she is scared of hurting. She mucked up everything for Pete. She must be punished. She does not deserve the luxury of hope, given everything she did.
As for looking to the future, well, all she can do is take things as they come.
* * *
‘Did you see her leaving Number Ten last night on TV? She almost had tears in her eyes, Alma.’ Brian shakes his head. ‘I mean, really! Did you ever think you’d see the day?’ He chuckles. ‘No more Iron Lady.’
Alma, who has been listening to music for the first part of their journey to London, looks up. Of course she had heard about Margaret Thatcher’s resignation, the day before. As she sat in the canteen, slowly eating her final breakfast before returning to her cell to pack, all the wardens were talking about it. But no, she had not watched it on the dayroom’s communal TV.
‘It’s on every front page this morning, of course,’ Brian carries on, regardless. ‘Here,’ he offers, stretching his arm back to the rear seat without taking his eyes from the road. ‘Look at the Daily Express.’
Alma stares at the front page, a picture taken through the open window of a limousine in which the former prime minister leans forward with glistening, bloodshot eyes. It seems strange to think that the time this woman has been in power almost exactly matches the duration of her stay in prison, powerless.
On the radio, music resumes as the news bulletin ends. The Righteous Brothers sing ‘Unchained Melody’. The original recording had been one of Alma’s mother’s favourites.
Tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in time to the music, Brian laughs at a sudden irony. ‘You know, everyone might think this is from Ghost, but back in the Fifties there was this prison film called Unchained and it was originally written for that—’
‘I know.’
‘Look, I’m sorry.’ Brian says. ‘I don’t mean to say the wrong thing. It’s just… Well, ever since I picked you up this morning, it’s been like dancing on eggshells, you know?’
‘Sorry. And thank you. For collecting me and for driving me to London.’
‘Well, someone had to!’ As Alma grimaces, Brian’s mood turns thoughtful. ‘So you’re really going through with this plan to move to Scotland, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘And she’ll be meeting you at the other end, will she, this friend?’
‘Aileen Duffy, yes.’
‘And you’d really rather get the train from London. Because I’d drive you all the way, if you wanted, you know.’
‘I know.’
He would, she is sure. Only she relishes the freedom and the anonymity of simply buying herself a ticket then boarding the train of her choice from Euston. Perhaps she’ll catch the first one, perhaps she’ll eat a coffee and a sandwich first at a station cafe. But either way, she will be in control.
‘Scotland is a long way away, you know.’
‘It is,’ Alma smiles.
That’s why she’s chosen it. Because she can’t go back to London after so much has happened. The last thing she wants to do is try to salvage what fragments, if any, remain of her old self. London was a lifetime ago. What she needs is a clean slate to start again. Maybe a new name.
To be someone simple and forgettable.
An Anna, perhaps.
The plan is to move in with Aileen who, since her release two years earlier, has settled in a small village not far from Fort William.
Soon after leaving prison, her friend began a regular weekly correspondence with Alma that continued uninterrupted despite the upheaval and heartache she suffered over the next few years. At first, everything seemed to be going so well for Aileen, Alma remembers. Through a new job as a cleaner at a local hotel, she met and got engaged to a gamekeeper who worked on a local laird’s estate.
But then, when she was eight months pregnant, everything went wrong. First, the man died in a car accident. Then, a premature and protracted labour brought on by the upset culminated in Aileen’s son being starved of oxygen during birth. Though the child survived, her friend confided that only time will tell if poor little Davy is all there.
Alma’s hope is she can help her friend while she sets about finding paid work to cover the cost of her lodging.
‘A long way from Somerset, I mean.’
He means where Elizabeth now lives, of course. She nods again. ‘Yes.’
Brian frets. ‘You know I didn’t know about Pete and Wendy, don’t you? Not at first.’
Alma forces a smile. ‘You don’t need to worry.’
‘When I think of it now.’ The man shakes his head. ‘I mean, falling for someone’s one thing. But telling Elizabeth her mother is—’
‘Dead, yes, I know. That was wrong.’
Totally and utterly wrong, she knows. Who gave him the right to issue her a double sentence?
While Alma had long-suspected he might eventually find someone else and settle down, even marry, she had grown increasingly resigned to this lurking dread. What he did next, however, had been far crueller than anything she could have imagined. His lie to their daughter was – still is – the ultimate betrayal. And it left her bereft, her resilience weakened.
‘What I don’t understand, though, is this,’ says Brian, turning towards her. ‘Why aren’t you angry?’
Alma shrugs.
‘What’s done is done,’ she says. ‘Besides, what would be the point? You can’t force someone to love you again when they’ve stopped. The more I thought about it, after, the more I began to wonder if maybe it wasn’t so bad an idea for Elizabeth not to know me. I mean, she’s done fine so far without me. From what you say she’s confident and bright. She’s doing well at school, isn’t she? She has plenty of friends. She’s happy. And in four years’ time she’ll leave home. Meanwhile, Pete sends me her news and pictures—’
’But only at Christmas and on her birthday—’
‘You keep me posted.’
‘When I can. Though it’s been tricky since I burned my bridges with Pete. I shouldn’t have said what I said, but I was so cross when I found out what had been going on behind your back. By the way,’ he says, changing the subject abruptly at a sudden memory. ‘I ran into Chrissie when I was in Camden at the weekend. She’s bought a flat now she and Bernard have finally got divorced.’