She rang me the very next day. Of course I could still visit; in fact, would I like to come the following afternoon? ‘And, darling,’ she said in a low voice, ‘I have to ask, although it’s a little delicate. . . what should I call you now? Would you prefer we stick with Eve or are you going back to Joanna?’
*
When Estelle opened the door the next day, the first thing she did was to put her arms around me. How was I coping, she wanted to know? Were the police treating me kindly? Duncan is her son, so of course she was upset that he was upset, but she has never judged me. ‘Nobody has the right to judge,’ she told me as we sat drinking tea in her sitting room with the late spring sunshine flooding in through the picture window. ‘No one can possibly know what they would have done in a similar situation, you see. And after all’s said and done, you lost your dearest friend, didn’t you? It’s clear from your letter that you missed her terribly; heavens, you still do, and all these years you’ve had no one to talk to about it.’ At which point I nodded and then crumpled, and Estelle handed me tissues and parted my hand while I cried.
The odd thing was, now everything was out, the person I most wanted to talk to about Eve was Hannah. ‘Well then,’ Estelle suggested, ‘why don’t you write to her? Not by way of explanation – from what Duncan has told me, you’ve already explained very fully – and I think you were so brave to do so.’ She smiled and laid her hand on my arm. ‘But if you’re certain that you would like her to know more about . . . good Lord, I don’t know how to refer to . . . your friend—’
‘It’s okay, you can say her mother; or just Eve.’
‘Eve.’ She nodded, looking a little uncomfortable. ‘I shall try not to get confused, but you must forgive me if I make a slip.’
I’d told her to call me Jo from now on, but she’d known me as Eve for such a long time it was clearly going to be difficult.
‘Now, where were we? Ah yes, writing to Hannah. I’m sure she would be most grateful for any little detail you can tell her about her . . . her mother. And you see, you can make clear to her at the start that no reply is expected.’ At this, she looked over the top of her glasses at me in that slightly stern way she has, as if to underline what she’d just said.
I nodded. ‘That’s a good idea. If she knows I don’t expect an answer, she can read what I’ve written without feeling pressurised.’
I wrote the first letter that very evening. I didn’t want to scare her so I kept it brief:
My darling Hannah
You do not need to reply to this, although of course I hope you will read it. I want to tell you some of the things I remember about your mother. I think you’ll be interested in her, and especially in the things you and she have in common. It was Grandma who suggested I write it all down, and I thought that was a good idea, so I’ve decided to try and do a letter each week. You may not feel ready to read them now, but at least you’ll be able to keep them so you have them for the future. More to follow!
All my love always,
Mum
I haven’t said this to Estelle, but although I truly don’t want Hannah to feel pressurised, I find myself constantly checking my texts and emails, constantly waiting for the post. I can’t let myself even consider the possibility that this silence will last for ever, so I tell myself that she will read my letters, that there will be a reply; one day.
My darling Hannah
I wanted to tell you how proud your mother would be of you. You’re like her in many ways. Like you, your mother felt that there were many non-conventional ways in which we could heal ourselves and others. Back then, we didn’t know much about acupuncture and reflexology, but these are exactly the sort of things your mother was interested in, and she would have approved very much of what you and Marcus do.
I know the two of you are keen on aromatherapy, too. Well, I think you get that from your mother. We didn’t call it that in those days, but she believed that certain scents had powerful effects, sometimes as a physical cure – oil of cloves dabbed onto an aching tooth; a eucalyptus inhalation for a cold; lavender oil for burns. And sometimes, she’d use a scent to lift your mood. If she noticed I was feeling sad – my mum had died quite recently, remember – I’d go into my room to find she’d sprinkled my bedclothes with rose water. I don’t know whether it was actually the scent of roses or whether it was her thoughtfulness, but I always felt better afterwards. Once, when she was pregnant with you, she decided to try and make her own rose water. She sent Scott and me out in the middle of the night to nick roses from the neighbours – she said she was fed up with seeing all the rose petals on the ground going to waste. Anyway, God knows how we didn’t get caught, because all the rose bushes were in people’s back gardens, so we had to climb over fences to get to them. We came back covered in scratches with a carrier bag full of rose heads, which Eve then tried to turn into rose water. Somehow, she ended up with six bottles of something that smelled like it had come from a drain. She was cross with herself at first – it was unusual for her to get things wrong – but then she saw the funny side.
With all my love,
Mum
Dearest Hannah
I’ve remembered another thing you and your mother have in common. It’s the way you turn the pages down to mark your place in the book you’re reading. I used to get told off for doing that at school, but Eve said she liked to see books with turned-down pages, or even with written notes in the margins; she said it showed that the reader had loved the story and the characters, rather than caring too much about the actual book. I remember one time, your mother was reading Wuthering Heights. She’d read it before, but I hadn’t, and she was raving about it. It was one of her favourite books, I think, that and Jane Eyre. Anyway, I asked her if I could read it when she’d finished, and she just looked at me, said, ‘Yes,’ then tore her copy in two and handed me the first half. She said it would be better if I started reading it straight away then we could chat about it while we were both reading it. It was only a battered copy she’d bought at a jumble sale for 5p, but what she did still shocked me. She told me off for being shocked – ‘Books are only things,’ she’d say. ‘It’s what they make you feel that’s important.’
You liked Wuthering Heights too, didn’t you? Do you remember that copy you had when you did it for GCSE? You kept dropping it in the bath and drying it out on the radiator, and in the end, it was almost twice the thickness it should have been. But you didn’t want another copy, you said you liked the water stains!
You know, there’s something about Catherine Earnshaw that is very much like you, and like your mother. I’m not talking about the selfish, spoilt side of Catherine’s character, but the way she loves the outdoors, the fresh air and the wild, open moors. You’ve always been the same, ever since you were little. And it’s a bit like how Eve used to feel about the sea. Never happier than when she was in it or near to it.
My love always,
Mum
My dearest Hannah
I know I’ve already told you what a good, kind person your mother was, but I thought you might like to know about a rather lovely gift she once made for me. I think I told you how, when I first arrived in London from Newquay just after my mum died, I spent a few nights in a hostel and another girl who was staying there stole a cameo brooch that had belonged to my mother? Well, I told Eve about that, and she knew how upset I was to have lost the brooch. Anyway, she obviously remembered it, because not long before you were born, she told me she had a present for me – an advance ‘thank you for helping me with the baby present’ she called it.
It was a pendant, a cameo she’d made herself out of shell fragments. She’d used dark blue razor shells for the background and white, cream and pinkish shells for the woman’s head. It looked great, but it wasn’t so much how it looked that made such an impression on me, it was the amount of work she’d put in. The thought that she would spend so much of her own time, would go to so much trouble for me, well, it just really made me feel sp
ecial. I wish I could have done something similar for Eve. There were only three and a half years between us, but it made a difference. I took a lot of things for granted and it was only much later that it occurred to me that, if Eve’s little gestures had meant so much to me, then a similar gesture from me would have meant a great deal to Eve. But by the time that very simple truth had dawned on me, it was too late.
I’m so sorry that I don’t still have the pendant to pass on to you, but sadly, it was one of the things I couldn’t find when your father and I left the house.
With my deepest love,
Mum
Darling Hannah
Briefly, I enclose the only items I have that belonged to your mother. I apologise for not sending these before, but it was only as I wrote the last letter that I remembered these things and where I’d hidden them. In my last letter, I told you about the shell cameo your mother made for me; she was always an artistic person. Not exceptionally talented, but extremely competent and fairly committed. She’d always been creative apparently, and when she was about ten years old, not long before her mum died, she made a collage out of postage stamps and sent it to Blue Peter. It was a cameo, oddly enough: a woman’s head in pinks and creams on a darker background. They loved it and sent her a Blue Peter badge – this was a much-coveted item in those days! She kept it in a crocheted bag along with a few photos of when she was much younger – one with some schoolfriends, one of a cat I assume she’d owned at some point, and one of her with both her parents – your grandparents. I enclose these and hope you’ll be pleased to have them as another small connection to your mother.
I left your mother with a connection to you, too. I’ve been trying to decide whether to tell you this and I’m still not sure whether it’s appropriate or not, but anyway: Just before your father and I left the house we each said goodbye to Eve, and I cut a tiny lock of your hair, which I placed on her chest. I wanted her to have something of you.
With love,
Mum
Darkness is taking hold by the time I go through the gates to the park. I’m glad I brought the car or I’d never have made it before the light goes completely, and if I miss them today, it’ll be another week before I can be sure of seeing them again. The irony is painful – most grandmas are at least ten years older than I am, and when Toby was born, I felt grateful that I’d have the energy to do lots of things with them both. But now this is all I have. I park the car and hurry down through the woods towards the play area. Usually, I love being around trees at this time of year; I’ve always enjoyed autumn’s display of reds and golds but nature’s beauty seems almost painful to me now. In my haste, I trip over a tree root and stumble, but I manage to right myself. Seconds later, I slip on some wet leaves and have to grab on to a branch to stop myself from falling. I should slow down, take more care – I really can’t afford to break anything.
I walk down behind the café to where the stepping stones cross the stream, remembering to take off my scarf in case it makes me more visible. I can’t see them at first, and I spend an anxious few minutes waiting, watching a little cat playing with the leaves and trying not to glance at my watch every ten seconds. But then I spot them: it’s chilly today, and Hannah is wearing her long purple coat and the black-and-white woollen hat she knitted herself, and Toby is looking adorable in a new red duffle coat. He can sit up on his own easily now, and from where I stand behind a dense cluster of trees and bushes, I can see that he’s squealing with laughter as she pushes him in the baby swing, but I’m not quite close enough to hear his little voice. She is smiling, too; at long last, she is taking pleasure in her child, and this is the one thing that makes me happy. Well, as happy as it’s possible to be. She’s laughing now, too, and I smile as I watch them together. This is as near as I dare be to them now. If Hannah spots me, as she did in the summer, she’ll strap Toby back into the buggy and hurry away, so I must content myself with lingering in the shadows for the time being.
*
I can’t face going home just yet, so on the way back from the park, I drop in to see Estelle. She’s pleased to see me as always, and she’s smiling as she ushers me into the sitting room. ‘I’ve just this minute made a pot of tea, so that’s fortuitous, and there are spare cups in the sideboard. Now, you look frozen, darling. Come and warm yourself.’
Sitting here by the fire with Estelle I feel almost normal. I couldn’t have coped without Estelle; she has supported me unconditionally, right from the start.
‘I’m so glad you’ve called in,’ she says. ‘Young Marcus popped round on Sunday – I asked him to clear my gutters for me before the weather gets really bad. They were completely blocked with leaves and moss. Anyway, we had a little conversation afterwards, and I managed to get some information out of him.’ She chuckles mischievously. ‘I’ve managed to establish that your letters have not been thrown away. It’s not a lot, I know, but at least we know that much.’
‘Has she read—’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. Marcus says she’s very secretive about it; takes them off and tucks them away somewhere, apparently. But he’s certain she’s kept them all.’
I nod slowly. ‘That’s good to know; it’s . . . a comfort.’
Estelle looks at me with such fond sympathy that I’m afraid I might cry. Then she gets up slowly and uses her stick to help her across the room to the sideboard, where she keeps the sherry.
*
When I arrive home, I prepare myself for the gauntlet of sadness I run each time I enter this house. The front garden was Duncan’s project when we moved in; he dug the fish pond, laid the lawn and made the crazy-paved path. For our first anniversary, he bought me a sundial which stands on a plinth near the pond. I was touched because he’d clearly remembered me telling him how I’d once lived in a rambling old house in Hastings and that I’d loved the old sundial we’d found in the garden. The one he gave me is engraved with the words: Grow old with me, the best is yet to be. I can hardly bear to look at it.
Once I’m inside, it gets even worse. On the walls in the hall are photographs of Hannah: there’s one of her dressed as a Christmas star in her first year at primary school; then one where she’s about eight, with short hair and a missing front tooth; there’s Hannah and her friend Vicky looking dark and moody in their Goth phase; there she is at the surgery with Duncan during her gap year, helping to hold a Jack Russell while Duncan examines its paw. Then there’s the graduation photo, the wedding pictures – a whole wall of Hannahs, smiling, happy. Looking at them hurts, but taking them down would hurt more. I push open the door to the kitchen, and am confronted with the series of scores cut into the door frame where we measured her height every birthday and recorded the year on the wall next to it. It’s funny, but I hadn’t noticed those marks for years, and yet now they seem to scream at me every single time I walk past them.
I open the back door for Monty to go out into the garden – Duncan lets me have him for half the week now, although it’s been slightly longer this week because he suggested we drive out to the moors on Sunday when he comes to collect him, maybe even stop somewhere for a drink on the way back. It’s a step on from coffee, I suppose, but I don’t want to get my hopes up.
I fill the kettle for tea and open the fridge to see what there is for dinner. Nothing inspires me, and I can’t really be bothered, so I cut myself a chunk of cheese and put it on a plate with a few oatcakes and a dollop of chutney. I nibble at the food as I empty the dishwasher. With just me here, I only need to run it every few days. When I’ve done that, I wander into the sitting room and pick up the remote control. I find I watch a lot of telly these days. I’m flicking through the channels when the phone goes. I almost ignore it. ‘Hello,’ I answer with a weary sigh, ready to say no, I don’t want to change my phone company, fuel provider or whatever. Silence; probably a bloody call centre. I’m about to hang up when I hear a throat being cleared. The voice is quiet, hesitant, but it doesn’t sound angry. ‘Mum?’ she says. ‘I
t’s . . . it’s me.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There are many people whose confidence in this book and unwavering belief in me as a writer have kept me going through difficult times. I am deeply grateful to them all. In particular, I’d like to thank my wonderful editor Clare Hey for her editorial brilliance, her perceptive and insightful feedback, and her reassuring smile. I also want to thank my agent Kate Shaw for her excellent editorial suggestions and for her support and encouragement which steadies me when I’m floundering. Massive thanks also to the fabulous team at Simon and Schuster for pulling the whole thing together.
For their generous assistance and endless patience in the face of my questions regarding police procedure, forensic matters and the CPS, my thanks to Kevin Robinson, and to Gary Atkinson. Any remaining errors are my own.
My research around Hastings in the 70s led me to Bats in the Larder, Memories of a 1970s Childhood by the Sea, a wonderful memoir by Jeremy Wells. My thanks to Jeremy for the lovely email chats that helped to stir my own memories of Hastings and of the 1970s.
Writing can be a painful business when the words don’t come easily. I am incredibly lucky to have wonderful friends who understand, and who don’t mind me droning on about various versions of the plot and about how hard it all is. For listening, and for sharing wine, coffee and cake, my thanks to Iona Gunning and Sue Hughes, and especially to James Russell for all the above and for reading parts of the manuscript and convincing me not only that I could make it work, but that it was worth working on.
Finally, the greatest debt of all is to Francis, for so much; for everything.
The Secrets We Left Behind Page 28