‘Bonnie learnt a new word today. Inevitable. She’s been going round saying it all day. Inevitable this, inevitable that. It’s really sweet. Oh, hold on, here she comes. Brace yourself.’
She skips into the kitchen, waving the DVD in the air. ‘Got one!’
‘What have we got today?’
‘Donald and the Hot-Air Balloon.’
‘My favourite.’ Don grins at John.
‘It was in-ev-it-able.’ Bonnie draws out the word.
John nudges Don in the ribs. ‘OK, then. Go and put it on.’ Don pats her on the head and smiles. ‘God, that’s adorable.’
‘I know.’
‘I may have to teach her the word tremendous.’
‘Don’t you dare!’
Don follows Bonnie into the lounge, sits her on his lap and weaves her arms through the air in time with the music. ‘QUACK!’
John smiles as Bonnie takes up the chant of ‘Duck Duck Duck’. He throws the empty containers into the bin and dishes out the onion rings.
Jules walks through the door as he is carrying the plates into the lounge. He kisses her on the cheek. She drops her bag on the sofa, kicks off her shoes and flops onto the floor next to Don and Bonnie. ‘Oooh, I love this one. Good choice, sweetheart.’
Don spoons chow mein into his mouth, holding his plate to the side, careful not to catch Bonnie’s head.
Bonnie takes a slow bite of an onion ring and smiles up at Don. ‘Oh, that’s tremendous.’
John buries his face in his hands, wishing he could wipe the memory from his own mind. Jules pulls him into her arms and kisses his cheek. They cry together.
Chapter 24
Maisie
Thursday 21 January, 2016
The sweet smell of peppermint pours from the open door and fills Market Jew Street, simultaneously drawing smiles and grimaces. This scent she remembers very clearly after spilling a bottle of the oil on her school uniform when she was a girl. She never did get the greasy stain out, even after her mother washed it.
Maisie breathes in the salty air and smiles, every fibre of her relaxing. An influx of memories invades her mind: her mother skipping along the path to St Michael’s Mount, dragging her along, arousing dirty looks from other parents; her mother laughing as she splashed in the frigid sea, promises of hot chocolate floating in the air; her mother twirling her round the shopfloor, sprinkling confetti over her head, telling her she was a fairy like Tinker Bell; their trips to The Edge of the World Bookshop, tales of adventure and heroism heavy in their arms as they wandered home; those wintry nights they sat up listening to swing music, nibbling biscuits, giggling at the sweet dog they found by their door one morning; she and her mother sitting at their dining table in the cramped kitchen doing shots on her eighteenth birthday; her mother helping her prepare for the tests to become a nurse; sharing one last pan of hot chocolate before she left for a new life in Oxford.
Maisie breathes in a mouthful of fresh air before stepping through the shop door with its red shutters and cracked wooden floors, awash with memories that make her feel as if she is a child again.
Her mother stands behind the counter – bright, big-haired, expressive, chatting to a customer, gesturing to the corner of the shop with a ringed finger. ‘Yes, yes. That was where she was born. My Maisie Prae. She was such a small baby, you know. You can just about see the stain where my waters broke. Yes, that’s it. Oh, she’s a lovely girl. A nurse, you know. Very talented. Cares for people in big ol’ Oxford. Yes, such a special girl. She’s got her own flat with her partner – nice boy, Ben. Bit dim when it comes to technology. Bit dim. But lovely all the same. My Maisie’s not like that. Very clever. Very clever.’
The customer wipes her sweaty forehead, eyes bulging, foot tapping the floor. ‘Well, that’s nice. I’d better let you go.’
‘I hate it when people say that. “Oh, I’ll let you go.” My ex-husband used to say that. Just another way of saying “I’m bored of you now”. But never mind. See you later, Morwenna.’
The woman nods and scarpers through the door. Janet watches her go, then her eyes widen as she looks at Maisie. ‘Oh my…’
Maisie drops her bag as her mother wraps her in a hug. ‘Hi, Mum. I think you just scared away another customer.’
‘Oh, course I haven’t. That’s Morwenna. She loves having a chat. Now, now, let me have a look at you.’ She steps back and studies her. ‘You’re looking a little bigger. Pudgy round the face. That’s what I like to see. Don’t want a daughter of mine being stick-thin. What’s nice about hugging that?’
Maisie laughs. ‘Good to see you, Mum. How are things with the shop?’
‘You asked me that just the other day. Are you OK, poppet? How’d you get the time off work? I didn’t even know you were coming. Is Ben with you?’ She peers round her shoulder, puzzled.
‘Nope. Just me. Ben’s back in Oxford. Work’s fine – I’ve been due some time off for ages. I just needed to see you.’
Janet looks at her daughter closely. ‘What you not telling me?’
‘Can we close the shop? Have a chat?’
Janet shuts the shop door with a thump and flips the sign, taking her hand. ‘Come on then. I’ll make us a pan of hot chocolate.’ Maisie follows her through the door and up the stairs to their small kitchen. It hasn’t changed much in the time she’s been away. Jars of pasta and rice line the worktop, spice packets are dotted about the ceiling, hanging down on pieces of string – her mother’s invention, designed for ease when cooking. The old cooker they’ve had since she was a child is still going strong, plus a few new marks and scratches. The table and dining chairs are the same except for a sticker in the middle.
‘You got another one? This isn’t the one from the car, is it?’ Maisie smoothes the ‘God Made Me Bespoke’ sticker down, moving the air bubbles underneath with the tip of her finger.
‘No, it’s a new one. Mick found it for me. Thought I told you that on the phone.’ Mick is a local fisherman, one of the few still eking out a living on the quiet waters. She can remember him popping her on his shoulders when she was young.
‘How is Mick?’
‘He’s fine, he’s fine.’ Janet pats a chair and whips around the kitchen, plucking mugs from their hooks and flicking spoonfuls of sugar and cinnamon into a pan of milk already starting to boil on the hob. They used to joke she could muster enough force to create a tornado, twirling round their kitchen and grabbing cutlery.
Her mother pours two mugs of hot chocolate and drops marshmallows on top. ‘You used to love those.’ She smiles, her big blue eyes softening.
‘I still do.’ Maisie watches her mum lower herself into a chair, harrumphing as she goes. ‘Are you OK, Mum?’
‘Oh, I’m fine. Fine. Just getting old, poppet.’ She takes her hand and squeezes it. ‘It’s so good to see you. I’ve missed you, poppet.’
‘I’ve missed you too, Mum. And these hot chocs. Ben and I tried to make them once – failed miserably.’ She laughs. ‘We couldn’t figure out how you do it.’
Janet shuffles down in her seat, grinning, more than a little smug. ‘I’ll leave the secret in a letter for you after I die. Until then, I want to keep it to myself – makes me special.’
‘How’s the business?’
‘Maisie, I feel this is a prelude to something. Tell me what? What’s wrong?’
Maisie sighs, the energy draining from her sore body, like sap from a tree.
When she speaks, the words feel as if they are sticking to the roof of her mouth. ‘I think I need to tell Ben. About what I did.’
‘I thought you decided not to. It will only be worse now you’ve left it so long.’
‘I know.’ Maisie takes a sip, worrying at the chip on her mug, panic rising in her stomach. ‘There’s this couple I know from Oxford and they have no secrets, no skeletons in the closet. They know each other through and through. And the way things are now, Ben doesn’t know me. Not properly.’
‘Oh, poppet. What do you feel y
ou should do?’
‘Tell him.’
‘Then that’s what you must do.’
Maisie nods, tears burning the backs of her eyes. Even now, she can still feel the warm blood on her fingers. Even after she showered, watched it pour down the drain, she could feel it on her skin, penetrating her thoughts with so much force it began to feel as if she was losing her mind. For the first few minutes afterwards, she’d thought that if she closed her eyes, the bloodied clothes and stench of tragedy in the air would have evaporated by the time she opened them. But they didn’t. Instead she just stared – shocked, guilty, frightened – at the mess. At what she had done. At what she couldn’t undo.
Friday 22 January, 2016
A cluster of photo frames sits on the scuffed pine sideboard. In one she and her mother stand by their small Christmas tree, which is swathed in tinsel and fairy lights. On the coffee table behind them is a plate with cookies, carrots and a glass of milk. Her mother had tried to tell her Rudolph didn’t need five carrots, and that he stayed home for Santa’s trip to Penzance in any case, but she insisted, saying Santa could take the carrots back with him and that Rudolph might want to share them with the other reindeer. Her mother couldn’t argue with that logic.
She could remember the first time her mother told her the story of Santa coming to Penzance in a dinghy, the sack of presents for her and the other children propped against the side, his white beard blowing in the breeze. It was a sweet tale, one most of the children in their town were led to believe. Not a sleigh but a dinghy – very coastal-oriented.
Maisie kneels down and opens the doors of the sideboard, pulling out blankets infused with the scent of Rich Tea biscuits from their midnight feasts. She pushes her hand to the back. She can’t remember the last time she thought about the doll. Funny how important a bundle of fabric and stuffing can be at a young age, and how easily forgotten later on. She pulls it out and runs her fingers across the doll’s hair, which is really only a piece of fabric cut into a V shape at the end and sewn to the head. The eyes are drawn with black marker pen and the mouth is red felt-tip. She remembers cutting her curtains to pieces, declaring she was making a dress like the lady in The Sound of Music. Her mother should have told her off but instead she made her a doll from the remnants.
She’d treasured it for years but now she couldn’t even remember its name. She holds it to her nose and inhales deeply: the aroma of biscuits, scented candles, and the faint smell of dried saliva from when she’d dribbled on it as a girl. She’d tried to get her mother to wash it but was told it would get torn to pieces in the washer.
‘You’ve found Polly, then?’
‘Polly! I forgot her name.’
‘You used to love that doll. You always wanted a baby called Polly. That doll is a very ugly baby, though.’
Maisie smiles. ‘Well, she’s a lot better than the dolls you can buy in the shops, Mum. You did a good job.’
Janet laughs. ‘Those things are terrifying. I was in Asda the other day and came across this hideous doll. Why do they give them such big eyes? I think it was a Disney one – a princess. I bet it gives children nightmares. Would me.’
Maisie stands. ‘Do you mind if I take her?’
‘She’s yours, poppet.’
Maisie nods and follows her mother into the kitchen. Her bag is packed, sitting near the door. She has to leave in a few hours; the thought of going back to Ben makes her stomach churn.
Her mother is right. She needs to tell him. She needs to be open and lay down her secrets. Why couldn’t she have broken that hideous vase his mother gave him? Or cheated on him? Anything was better than the shadow of death.
She slumps into the chair, propping her chin up, holding the doll close as if to instil in herself the strength she had as a girl. In a way she hadn’t only killed him; she’d killed a part of herself too, lost it the moment she saw blood pooling on the floor. A light-hearted, carefree strength whose absence was like a constant punch to the gut.
For the first few months, she piled make-up onto her face to hide the crusty skin under her nose and the black rings beneath her eyes. She sprayed dry shampoo on her greasy hair and forced herself to get out of bed. The only consolation she found was in the routines of work. Where she cared for her patients and wiped away the slime of the monster. Even if it was just for a few moments, she felt human.
Her mother was the only person she told. After it happened, she drove down to Cornwall, escaping her life, much as she was doing now. She wonders if people look at her and think: murderer. If they’re thinking that just over a year ago there was blood underneath her fingernails. Can they sense it? Can they tell? She doesn’t think so but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.
Janet kisses her head and holds her hand. ‘Just tell him, sweetheart.’
‘What will he do?’
‘I don’t know.’
*
He is light in her arms, featherweight. Such a small boy. She wonders whether, if she holds him close enough, she can breathe some life back into his body, just enough for him to open his eyes and wiggle his fingers. Just enough for him to look at her and for her to look at him. Just to say hello.
She opens the door and carries him inside with a care she did not know she possessed. The curtains are drawn, a partition to keep the world from invading their moment of time together. The candles she lit hours earlier are burnt down to the nub, tears of wax weeping over the edges. The book she was reading him lies on the floor, open in the middle, pausing the story – pausing the life she had that morning. Soon she will have to walk back out and stop that life completely. But for now, the moment is hers, and if she closes her eyes she can imagine a different version of this scene. One in which warm fingers reach out to touch her face and bright eyes peer up at her.
She walks to the middle of the lounge, slowly turning, as if to show him the room, her eyes fixed on the soft brown lashes sitting across his skin, at the pink nails and small fingers. She breathes in the smell of him, every detail of him. So that, when the moment ends, she can revisit it in her mind.
She kisses his forehead, the cold skin sending a shiver down her spine. It makes her feel unsteady on her feet. She tells him how much she loves him over and over again. He can’t hear her but she likes to think that if he could, he’d look up at her now and know. And that if she hadn’t taken his life, right now she would be singing him her favourite songs and welcoming him into a life she was going to make perfect.
‘You look like your daddy, little one. You have his nose and his lips and you have my funny-shaped eyes and your grandma’s ears. She loves you. She’ll make you her famous hot chocolate and tell you stories about giants and fairies. And then Daddy and I will read you books and dance around the lounge with you.’
She strokes his head and smiles. ‘Shall we have a dance now? Your first dance with Mummy. You know, when you grow up, even when you think you’re too cool for it, we’ll have to do it again. Then, when you get married, I want you to save me a dance at the reception. I want you to dance with me even when I get old, even when my back hurts and I’m struggling to see. Then you’ll be twirling me round like I’m doing with you now.’
She rocks him in her arms, singing under her breath, hoping wherever he is he can feel her loving him. She nestles her face into his neck as tears roll down her cheeks, fingers seeking out his own. She squeezes her eyes closed and, when she kisses Billy’s hand, thinks she sees him smile at her.
When the moment ends and life catches up with her, she leaves the room and takes his body away, a small part of her believing that, for those few seconds, when she poured all of her love into him, he really did open his eyes and look at her. And then she was no longer holding a bundle of blankets with a cold body inside, but a little boy called Billy, whose life extended far into the future and was filled with love and happiness and lots and lots of dancing.
She tells him and feels as if she has been set free. For the first time in a long time she feels we
ightless. And her memories of Billy are no longer tinged with guilt and lies. They are pure and beautiful. Hers to keep and to treasure until the day she dies.
He looks at his hands as they hover over the mug but his eyes are blank and it is as if his personality has been stripped from his body; she knows she has just destroyed something inside him.
The seconds stretch into one another, each one longer than the last, making her feel as if the moment will last for ever. Finally, with a slowness to his movements that makes her worry, he puts down the carton of milk and stares at the floor. When he meets her gaze, she doesn’t see even an ounce of love. She doesn’t blame him – she would feel the same.
When he eventually speaks, it makes her jump. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I felt guilty. I didn’t want you to know what I’d done to him.’
‘You are guilty.’
She flinches. He walks towards her, hands shaking. If she didn’t know Ben through and through, she’d think he was about to hit her. But he doesn’t. Instead, he looks at her, tears in his eyes. ‘You should have told me! He was my son! My son! I loved him too!’
‘I know! I know that, Ben.’
‘What were you even doing? Why would you be rushing like that, when you were so heavily pregnant?’
‘I fell asleep. It was my last chance to get your birthday present so I grabbed my bag and ran into the hall. I wasn’t concentrating. I didn’t realise I’d left my lace undone.’ Maisie sinks onto the sofa, a place she always feels so relaxed but which now offers her no comfort. ‘When I tripped, I tried to grab the handrail but I couldn’t. It all happened so fast and yet so slowly at the same time. I can remember praying he’d be all right. I put my hands out, tried to protect him – that’s why they were so bruised. When I got to the bottom of the staircase, I was already bleeding.’
Ben’s hand goes from his mouth to his eyes, an amalgamation of shock and horror flicking like a reel of film across his face. His legs slip out from under him and he flops to the floor, a broken crackle of sobs escaping through his lips. He doesn’t look at her – this is what she notices more than anything.
Lies Between Us Page 11