Susan Elliot Wright grew up in Lewisham in south-east London, left school at sixteen and married unwisely at eighteen. She didn’t begin to pursue her childhood dream of writing until she left her unhappy marriage and went to university at the age of thirty. After gaining a degree in English, she decided to choose a new name, and began flicking through the phonebook for ideas. She settled on Elliot and changed her name by deed poll. Then she met ‘Mr Right’ (actually, Mr Wright) to whom she is now happily married. She has an MA in Writing from Sheffield Hallam University, where she is now an Associate Lecturer. Several of her short stories have won or been shortlisted for awards, and one of these, ‘Day Tripper’, was broadcast on BBC Radio 4. She is the author of The Things We Never Said. To find out more, visit her website http://www.susanelliotwright.co.uk/ or follow her on twitter @sewelliot.
Praise for The Things We Never Said:
‘Passionate, intriguing and beautifully written, The Things We Never Said deserves to stand on the shelf next to Maggie O’Farrell’s books. A powerful and talented new voice’ Rachel Hore, bestselling author of A Gathering Storm and A Place of Secrets
‘This is a staggeringly accomplished first novel, perfectly paced. It sweeps you up from the very first page and doesn’t let you go until the end. The hauntingly nostalgic tale of the trauma of an unwanted pregnancy in the sixties, it has echoes of Lynn Reid Banks and Margaret Forster. You can almost smell the boarding house and feel the cold of an unforgiving winter as aspiring actress Maggie faces up to some brutal choices that will affect her for the rest of her life. The ensuing trauma is entwined with a very modern tale of marriage, impending fatherhood and the perils of the workplace in twenty-first-century Britain. The two stories dovetail to perfection. It’s both deeply moving and uplifting – an emotional rollercoaster.
If you love Maggie O’Farrell, you will love this’ Veronica Henry, bestselling author of The Long Weekend
‘A brave and moving story about how much can be lost and what happens next. A compelling and impressive debut’ Alison Moore, author of the Booker-shortlisted The Lighthouse
‘Two intertwined stories explore a past filled with terror and grief, and a heart-breaking present, in writing as smooth and bittersweet as fine dark chocolate’ Jane Rogers, author of the Booker-longlisted The Testament of Jessie Lamb
‘Tightly-woven and tender, The Things We Never Said is a beautifully crafted story that explores harsh family secrets with effortless clarity. A wonderful debut’ Isabel Ashdon, award-winning author of Glasshopper
‘I was swept along by Elliot Wright’s assured storytelling’ Katie Ward, author of Girl, Reading
‘Compelling and deeply moving . . . this is superb storytelling which transports the reader with ease between past and present, across a gulf of fifty years, while gradually revealing the connection between the two. I couldn’t put it down’ Jane Rusbridge, author of The Devil’s Music and Rook
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2014
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Susan Elliot Wright, 2014
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
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® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Susan Elliot Wright to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-47110-234-9
Paperback ISBN 978-1-47110-235-6
Ebook ISBN 978-1-47110-236-3
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh
Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY
For Emma and James
And for Francis
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
PROLOGUE
Sheffield, October 2010
The clocks went back last weekend so it gets dark even earlier now. She curses herself; she should have left more time. She drives a little too fast because she wants to get there before the light goes completely, and if she misses them today, it’ll be another week before she can be sure of seeing them again. The sky is darkening rapidly by the time she’s parked the car and walked through the old stone gateway to the park. It is unusually cold for late October, and the smell of wood smoke is in the air. The autumn colours are particularly vibrant after the rain, and the wet leaves smell fresh and earthy, though they’re slippery and she almost loses her footing more than once as she hurries down through the woods.
Although she once loved this park, she keeps her head down now, avoids looking around. She has walked these winding paths so often in happier times that it is almost painful to come here, but this is the only real opportunity she has to catch a glimpse of them without being seen, and she must take it. She walks alongside the pond, but there’s no sign of the ducks or moorhens that live around it, nor of the pair of grey herons that sometimes appear on the opposite bank. Today the pond is still and silent, and in this light, the water looks almost black. There is something about dark water that she finds achingly lonely and depressing.
She makes her way down behind the café to where the stepping stones cross the stream, taking care to stay behind the trees. Most of her clothing is black, but the scarf she’s wearing is a pale, silvery colour; it’s unlikely that it would show up in the darkness, but just in case, she pulls it from her neck and slips it into her bag. There are a few mothers and children in the play area and she strains her eyes as she searches their faces, but it’s immediately obvious: they aren’t there. She glances at her watch; surely they should have arrived by now?
To her left, a small black-and-white cat slinks through the metal railings that surround the swings before hunkering down, ears back and tail flicking as it spots some real or imag
ined prey in the undergrowth. She watches it for a moment, briefly distracted by the intense, snowy whiteness of its paws and whiskers. It’s a pretty little thing, barely more than a kitten and yet already practising its skills as a hunter. The cat pounces, then examines the dry leaf it has caught between its paws.
At that moment, she spots them, just coming into the play area. She recognises their voices and she instinctively moves nearer so she can hear them more clearly, but then she stops. This is as near as she dares be to them now. If she is spotted, as she was once before, they’ll stop coming here and then she may never be able to find them again, so she must content herself with lingering in the shadows for the time being.
CHAPTER ONE
Sheffield, 21 December 2009
I listened to the squeaky crunch of my boots as I walked to work. It was a sharp, crisp morning. The sky was still dark, but the whole of Sheffield was hidden under a blanket of snow and I was struck by the contrast of the white rooftops and church spires against the inky blackness. There had been another heavy fall overnight and there weren’t many people about yet, so it all looked new and perfect with only my own dark tracks spoiling the pristine whiteness. Today was the winter solstice, and it was also my fiftieth birthday, though no one knew that. As far as my family was concerned, my fiftieth was three and a half years ago when we celebrated according to the date on my birth certificate – which by a bizarre coincidence was the summer solstice. It felt strange, knowing that it was such a significant day and not being able to tell anyone. As a child I thought it terribly unfair that my birthday fell on the shortest day of the year. Tell you what, chicken, my mum said in the end, we’ll have another party just for you in the summer; you can have two birthdays, like the Queen. And now I really did have two birthdays, except I didn’t get to celebrate them both. I was used to it now, but it was hard when it was a special one, one with a zero on the end. I sighed as I walked, watching my breath crystallise in the morning air. No point in dwelling on it.
It was my last day at the Young Families Project until after New Year. I was sure they’d rather I worked up until Christmas Eve, especially as I’d already had a week off, but they knew my daughter had just had a baby and they were pretty flexible. I usually finished at noon on Wednesdays, but after what felt like a particularly long morning, I realised that I still had some case notes to write up and I didn’t want to leave them until after Christmas, so I just got my head down and carried on until everything was done.
It was gone two by the time I was ready to leave the office. I wished everyone a merry Christmas, put my welly boots on and headed out into the snow. I turned off Queen Street and trudged up the steep, narrow, cobbled road towards the cathedral. This was a pretty part of the city, and the little Georgian square where all the solicitors’ offices were looked particularly attractive in the snow; the fairy lights in the windows and the old-fashioned lamp-post in the middle of the square made it look like a Christmas card.
As I walked into the warm fug of the veggie café where I usually had lunch, the lunchtime crowd was beginning to thin out and the tea-and-carrot-cake brigade was starting to drift in. I recognised some of the other customers. It tended to be the same faces here, mostly a mix of students and academics from the two universities – colourful, arty women and what my husband Duncan sometimes called weird beards. Like me, they came mainly for the organic food, but with its wooden floors, scarlet walls and free newspapers, this café was a popular place to hunker down away from the busy town centre, especially on cold, grey days like today.
While I waited in the queue, I glanced around to see which tables were free. There was a blast of cold air as a figure in a huge dark coat opened the door and disappeared out into the greyness of the street. I did a double take. For a moment, something in the walk seemed familiar, but no, it couldn’t be.
‘The butternut squash and walnut risotto, please,’ I said when it was my turn. I put the plate on my tray with a bottle of water and carried it over to the cashier. I was about to rest the tray on the counter when I heard a male voice exclaim, ‘Jo!’ I dropped the tray, and it crashed to the floor, flipping the plate of risotto upside down. The plate broke into several pieces and the risotto splattered over the floorboards. For a split second I froze, unable to breathe. I looked around in a panic, but the voice belonged to a bearded, rotund little man who was greeting a young woman with purple hair enthusiastically.
Briefly, the background hum of conversation stopped. ‘Are you okay?’ someone said.
‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘Yes, thank you. I’m sorry about the mess; the tray slipped.’
Shakily, I tried to help to pick up the broken plate, but the girl behind the counter insisted I sat down while they brought me another risotto. ‘Not your fault, love,’ she said. ‘Them trays are always wet.’
It was years since I’d been that jumpy; an old reflex I thought had long gone.
*
I’d finished most of my Christmas shopping but I wanted to buy something special for Hannah, some earrings, perhaps, or a bracelet. I told Duncan I wanted to mark the fact that she was now a mum herself, but if I was honest, it was more a celebration of the fact that she’d got through the birth and she was okay. People didn’t realise how dangerous childbirth can be, but I did. As I sat on the packed bus into town, I wondered whether she’d have another baby in a year or two, and how I’d cope if she did. Duncan hadn’t wanted me to go to the hospital when she was in labour. ‘Marcus’ll call as soon as there’s any news,’ he’d said. ‘There’s nothing you can do so why not stay here and watch a DVD or something rather than pacing up and down a hospital corridor?’
‘If I want to pace, I’ll bloody well pace,’ I told him, more sharply than I meant to. I just wanted to be there; I needed to at least be near by. And so I sat on a plastic chair outside the delivery room, praying to every god I could think of and somehow managing to keep from beating the door down. Poor Duncan; I knew he was worried too, but I was in such a state I couldn’t even talk to him until I knew she was going to be all right. In the end, after a long night of worrying, it all went reasonably well, thank God, and now we were looking forward to our first Christmas as grandparents.
After I got off the bus I cut through the glass-roofed Winter Garden with its huge cacti, exotic ferns and giant palm trees, and I realised there were quite a few little children around who appeared to be showing an interest in the plants. What I hadn’t noticed before were the larger-than-life-sized models of snakes and lizards skulking in the undergrowth – a good way to attract kids. I came out of the Winter Garden and walked past the Peace Gardens where, in the summer, children in swimming costumes and sun hats ran squealing in and out of the fountains. It was a shame that none of this was here when Hannah was little, but I couldn’t wait for the time when she and I would be able to bring Toby here so we could picnic on the grass and watch while he played with the other children in the foaming jets of water.
It was Christmas Eve and the city centre was predictably busy with some shoppers looking anxious, others looking plainly bad-tempered. Although most of the students had now gone home for Christmas, some were still here, working in the shops and bars or just enjoying the town, like the group of Chinese girls wearing Santa hats who were queuing for the Sheffield Eye, holding hands and giggling while they waited. The Wheel had gone up in the summer, and I had to admit, now it was all lit up for Christmas it looked spectacular, especially at night. Next to it was a giant Christmas tree decorated with blue lights and looking very pretty with the snow still on its branches.
As I walked along Fargate towards Marks & Spencer’s I noticed a woman a few feet ahead pushing a buggy laden with shopping. A child of about four tottered along beside her, trying to hang on to the handle, his little arm stretched up high to reach past the carrier bags bulging from the sides. As I watched, the little boy stumbled and fell smack onto the icy pavement. The mother turned, hand on hip. She was heavily pregnant and I was just about to step f
orward and help him up so that she wouldn’t have to bend, when she said, ‘For fuck’s sake! I haven’t got time for this, Aaron, I really haven’t. Get up!’
The child, bundled up in a blue padded coat and red woolly hat, was still lying face down on the ground, the soles of his Spider-Man wellies facing upwards. He began to wail.
‘I said get up,’ the woman yelled. ‘Now!’
‘For God’s sake!’ I scooped the poor thing up by the armpits and set him back on his feet.
‘Mind your own fucking business,’ the woman snarled, letting go of the pushchair and coming towards me. I braced myself but then the overladen pushchair tipped up and the baby inside began to cry. The mother turned. ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ she shouted, though it wasn’t clear who she was shouting at. She grabbed the little boy by the sleeve and yanked him towards her, making him cry even harder. ‘Come on, you little bastard,’ she said, righting the pushchair. ‘And don’t think you’ll get any Christmas presents if you keep up wi’ that roaring,’ she shouted, her voice hard as a slap. Then, dragging the crying boy alongside, she walked right in front of a tram, causing it to brake and sound its horn, before she headed off across the square and down towards Castle Market.
I stood there for a few moments. The sound of crying became fainter and the red hat got smaller as they disappeared into the bustling crowd. I felt my throat constrict and hot tears threatening. For a second I fantasised about sweeping the child away from his wicked witch of a mother and taking him home to a proper, warm, happy Christmas. Some people shouldn’t be allowed to have babies. But I remembered the training I had before I started at the Young Families Project: don’t make judgements; you don’t know the background; you don’t know the circumstances. And it’s true, some of the families I supported had huge and complex problems, but if I was honest, I knew that the majority of them loved their children, and sometimes they just needed help and guidance to get back on track. It was hard, though; sometimes, I wanted to pick all those poor kids up and take them home with me so that I could make it all better.
The Secrets We Left Behind Page 1