This Much is True: How far will a mother go to protect her shocking secret?

by Jane Sanderson

  ‘Wow,’ Sandra said flatly, and Annie wished the stone flags of Josie’s kitchen would open up to swallow her. She felt like an extra in the wrong play.

  ‘Annie! You look smashing,’ Josie said.

  She herself was dressed casually – carelessly, even. She had on a man’s collarless shirt, striped in blue and white, and a pair of jeans that she’d rolled up above her narrow ankles. On her feet she wore black plimsolls, just like the ones Michael and Andrew used to have for PE when they were at infants’ school. It was the oddest get-up Annie had ever seen on a woman, yet she looked charming and dishevelled, and Annie glanced down at her own immaculate blue patent shoes with their sturdy heels and wondered if she had the nerve to simply walk out of this room and never see Josie or Sandra again.

  ‘Glass of plonk?’

  This was the man, whom Annie didn’t know. She looked at him blankly.

  ‘Alf,’ he said, smiling and waggling the glass jug at her, although she didn’t have a glass to pour it into, and in any case had never tasted red wine, apart from the occasional sip from a chalice.

  ‘God, I’m useless,’ Josie said. ‘Annie, Mr Dinmoor, Mr Dinmoor, Annie.’ She had a box in her arms so she used her head instead, nodding between the two of them in a comical, exaggerated way.

  ‘It’s Alf,’ the man said.

  ‘You did say today?’ Annie asked Josie.

  ‘Yes!’

  She placed the box carefully on the floor then walked up to Annie and startled her with a firm, warm kiss on the cheek. ‘And I have lunch all ready for us, but it’s mostly still in the fridge, and meanwhile Sandra and Mr Dinmoor have been helping me pack up some stuff. Well,’ she said, glancing at Sandra, who was curled like a giant ginger cat on the sofa, ‘Mr Dinmoor has.’

  ‘Alf,’ said Mr Dinmoor.

  ‘Too many cooks, that’s my opinion,’ Sandra said. ‘Anyway I’m directing from the sidelines.’ She yawned and pushed her thick red hair away from her face.

  ‘So, Annie, here, sit.’ Josie pulled a chair away from the table and patted it. Annie sat, placing her handbag on her lap. In front of her was an unruly pile of gaudy woven napkins and tablemats and a stack of tarnished brass bowls, their sides faintly etched with an intricate Islamic pattern. The room had a fusty smell, like an attic, or the innards of an ancient wardrobe. Annie felt her mouth pucker and she made an effort to relax the muscles in her face.

  ‘Dispatch day,’ Josie said. ‘Always a nightmare.’

  Annie felt utterly at a loss. She suddenly had no idea why she was here, what was going on, or what she might expect to happen next. At home, there were two slices of Yorkshire ham in the fridge, and a wedge of mature cheddar; she should have stayed put and made herself a sandwich. Sandra stared openly from her comfortable nest of cushions on the sofa, not in an unfriendly way, but rather as if Annie was a museum exhibit, an artefact from a different culture, and a curious one at that.

  ‘Will you have a glass of red?’

  This was Mr Dinmoor – Alf – whose startling blue eyes twinkled at her. She wondered, did she know him from somewhere? There was something almost familiar about his face, those eyes … and a memory that stayed just out of reach; but then, she thought, this corner of Yorkshire was full of wiry old men. This particular one had an outdoor complexion, ruddy and lined, and his grey hair, which looked as if it could be abundant given the chance, was close-cropped, like a squaddie’s. There was soil embedded in his nails. Annie smiled tightly.

  ‘I won’t, thank you.’

  ‘There’s white in the fridge,’ Josie said. ‘Or elderflower.’ She was shifting things from the table, clearing a space, and Annie was relieved when the brass bowls went too; she’d feared they might have been used for lunch, and she knew she couldn’t have touched a morsel from a vessel so old and so unwashed.

  ‘Nothing at the moment, thank you.’ She cast a helpless glance at the laden table. ‘Um, what is all this, Josie? Are you having a clear out?’

  Everyone laughed heartily and Annie blushed. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Have I put my foot in it?’

  ‘No, you’re right, it does look a bit like jumble,’ Josie said. ‘But I import this stuff from other parts of the world then sell it on my website.’

  ‘What other parts of the world?’ Annie said, as if she hadn’t realised that anywhere else existed.

  ‘Central Asia.’ Josie waved a casual hand in an easterly direction. ‘Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan.’

  ‘Fancy that,’ said Annie, more in the dark than ever.

  ‘Believe it or not, Annie, folk’re paying good money for this tat.’ Mr Dinmoor put down the jug of wine and picked up a hat, a dusty-black felt dome embroidered with flowers in orange, red and yellow. ‘You wouldn’t catch me dead in summat like this.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Sandra said. ‘Authentic.’

  ‘Aye, if you’re an Uzbek camel herder, but not so clever for a trip down Barnsley market on a Sat’day morning.’

  ‘Okay, Mr Dinmoor, so you won’t get one for Christmas,’ Josie said, perfectly pleasantly. She looked at Annie.

  ‘Did you bring Finn?’

  Josie only meant to bring the conversation back to a topic Annie could follow, but the older woman stood up sharply and her handbag fell to the floor. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘I did! I forgot all about him!’

  ‘Well that’s okay,’ Josie said.

  ‘I only left him while I said hello, then I meant to pop out and bring him in. Oh my giddy aunt.’

  Sandra, watching from the sofa, rolled her eyes. ‘Keep your hair on,’ she said.

  ‘Now now,’ Mr Dinmoor said to her. ‘Be nice.’

  Sandra glared and Annie, overwhelmed, confused, hot in her blue wool, looked stricken. Josie was at her side in an instant. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s go fetch Finn.’ She walked her towards the door. ‘Betty’s in the garden,’ she said. ‘He might like to stay out in the fresh air too?’ Annie still felt silly about the fuss she’d made, but Josie’s enveloping arm was a comfort, so she allowed herself to be led away from the kitchen: away from the central Asian jumble and Sandra’s judging green eyes.

  Lunch was blessedly and unexpectedly familiar. Annie had feared an array of eastern exotica: food as strange and elaborate as the fabrics and doodads waiting to be packed and posted. But no, there was a cheeseboard with Wensleydale, Stilton and Red Leicester on it; there were thinly sliced tomatoes with nothing stranger on them than salt and black pepper; there was chutney in a quaint stone jar, and a small wooden ladle for serving it; there was a bowl of salad leaves and a long French loaf, warm and golden from the oven. Relief pulsed through Annie’s veins and she breathed more easily as she plastered real butter onto a hunk of bread and bit into it, listening to the conversation but not venturing a comment. Words and laughter bounced across the table like ping-pong balls. Mr Dinmoor was helping Josie in the garden, Annie learned. He was planting a host of golden daffodils for her, so the least she could do was feed him, he said. Sandra was mildly drunk. She told stories against her ex-husband, whose name was Trevor. She poked fun at his dress sense – square – and his hobbies – local history and home brewing. ‘I mean,’ she said. ‘Pur-lease.’ Annie wondered why they’d ever got married, from the tone she took. But then, Sandra’s boy Billy wasn’t exempt from criticism either – a prize pain in the arse, Sandra said, and Annie was shocked. Mr Dinmoor said Billy was a grand lad and Josie said he was gorgeous and she happened to know Sandra was completely devoted to him. Sandra shook her head and laughed and swigged red wine as if it was water. Mr Dinmoor asked her if she was planning to drive home, and Sandra said it was none of his bloody business. Annie was shocked again, but anyway she was beginning to enjoy herself a little and Finn, in now from the garden, was sitting right by her, pressed up against her chair. She leaned into him, as if they were holding each other up, and she felt his warmth and his strength. Now and again she passed him a slice of Red Leicester.

  Covertly, Annie watched as
well as listened. Mr Dinmoor – nobody seemed to call him Alf, no matter how often he insisted – looked older than her but he was obviously as fit as a butcher’s dog: wiry and strong. His rolled-up shirt sleeves showed nutty brown forearms with a coating of fine white hair and, beneath them, the shocking outlines of a small tattoo – two crossed broad-bladed knives from what Annie could make out, although she was trying not to stare. Mr Dinmoor was clearly fond of Josie, and Annie could see why – such a kind girl, no edges or sharp corners. Oh, and so bonny! She especially liked Josie’s loose black curls, long and glossy, like the gipsy girl in a painting from her past. It’d hung above the mantel in the dining room after Mrs Binley moved in for good, and had been the only possession of hers that Annie had liked. The girl held a tambourine and wore gold hoops in her ears, and she looked out of the painting with a half smile, as if she knew all your secrets and they weren’t necessarily safe with her. Josie’s ears were bare in fact, but she had a collection of silvery, tinkling bangles that slid up and down her arm when she passed a dish or poured a drink, and she tilted her head when she listened. Josie’s features were delicate while Sandra was big-boned and plain, Annie thought: defiantly plain, though, as if she meant something by it.

  Sandra, feeling Annie’s gaze upon her, abruptly turned and stared back with cool green eyes. Annie, flustered, swallowed the hunk of bread she was chewing and looked mutely down at her plate.

  ‘So Annie, how’s your husband doing?’

  This was Josie.

  ‘Oh,’ said Annie. ‘Not so good.’

  ‘I’d forgotten you were even married,’ Sandra said. ‘You never mention him.’ She took another swig of wine and drained her glass, then stared gloomily at the dregs.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Josie said, to Annie. ‘Such a strain on you.’

  ‘What’s up with him?’ Sandra somehow managed to ask the question and convey indifference at one and the same time. She dabbed a forefinger over her plate, collecting crumbs of cheese.

  ‘A stroke,’ Annie said. ‘I’ve rung my other son this morning, to let him know. All being well he’ll be coming next week.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Mr Dinmoor asked.

  ‘Australia,’ Annie said, importantly.

  ‘No, no, your husband. Is he in Barnsley General?’

  ‘Oh, I see, sorry, my mistake.’ Annie felt her customary hot blush creep upwards from her fluttering breast towards her face and Mr Dinmoor waited patiently for her answer.

  ‘Australia?’ Josie said, unwittingly saving Annie from the choice between full disclosure or a downright lie. ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘It’s a place called Byron Bay,’ Annie said at once. She didn’t want to say where Vince was and why – and it wasn’t that Vince’s dementia was shameful: not at all. Well, perhaps a little. But mostly it was just that having known Josie and Sandra for two months now, it was awkward to embark on the full story, unpicking the half-truths and evasions of previous conversations; and it was hard, too, to break the habit of a lifetime and confide one’s woes to anyone other than the dog. ‘It’s near Brisbane. Well, I say near, but really it’s quite a long way; it’s a bit further than from here to Durham, and we wouldn’t call that local, would we?’ She gave a small chirrup of nervous laughter.

  ‘I think I’ve been there,’ Mr Dinmoor said.

  Annie looked at him, amazed. She’d assumed – from his accent, perhaps, or his dirty fingernails – that he’d never been further than Barnsley.

  ‘Mapmaking, a long, long time ago. A lifetime. Seems like it, anyroad.’

  ‘Byron Bay,’ Josie said, dreamily. ‘It sounds romantic.’

  ‘Not so much when I were there,’ Mr Dinmoor said. ‘Big abattoir is what I remember.’

  ‘Oh shush,’ Josie said. ‘Don’t spoil it. Byron Bay sounds nothing but enchanting.’

  ‘I think it’s nice enough now,’ Annie said. ‘There’s no abattoir on Andrew’s postcards.’

  She was puzzled, but quietly pleased, when everyone started to laugh.

  9

  Mr Dinmoor didn’t linger but went back out into the garden the minute he finished eating. Then Sandra went, defiantly swinging her car keys. Annie stood too, but Josie urged her to sit again and have a cup of tea with her, because it was miserable if everyone left at the same time, she said. Considering this was her busy day, she seemed to be very relaxed, Annie thought. Then, having thought it – practised it, you might say – she said it aloud, and even though it did have a slight ring of criticism about it, Josie only laughed and said, ‘Oh well.’ She was filling the kettle – a flat-bottomed stove-top kind, just like Annie once had herself – and rinsing the teapot of old leaves, and Annie said, ‘It’s a long while since I’ve had real tea. I buy bags.’

  ‘Well, they’re less mess, aren’t they?’ Josie said. Her tea caddy was an emerald-green tin with a gold lid the shape of the roof on an Arabian palace. She spooned black leaves into a china pot.

  ‘It’s been lovely,’ Annie said, then hesitated before adding, ‘but was Sandra cross about something?’

  Josie turned. ‘Oh, don’t you mind Sandra,’ she said. ‘She’s all right really. She’s just a bit snippy sometimes.’

  I’ll say, thought Annie. ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, well, y’know, single mum, teenage boy, a tendency to overdo the booze when it’s offered.’

  ‘But doesn’t she work at the library?’

  ‘Annie!’ Josie said, in a laughing voice. ‘Librarians are allowed a few glasses of red wine, y’know.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose,’ Annie said, although actually she wasn’t at all sure about that. ‘But I mean,’ she went on, ‘is she unhappy?’

  Josie turned now, so that the teaspoon of tea leaves in her hand hovered in mid-air. ‘Does she seem it to you?’ she said. ‘Only, I’ve known her for years, so perhaps I’m missing something.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Annie, a little flustered. ‘Well, no, not exactly.’ Just bad-tempered, she added, silently. Josie was busy again, making the tea.

  ‘Sandra’s one of those people who can’t dissemble,’ Josie said.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Annie.

  ‘She says what she thinks, and she can be really brusque, but honestly I couldn’t like her more.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Annie said. How lovely, she thought, to be entirely liked by Josie. She sat comfortably at the kitchen table, Finn on one side of her chair and Betty on the other. The little collie had rested her chin on Annie’s blue patent foot, and it seemed like such a compliment that she was loath to shift position. She wiggled her toes inside her shoe to ward off cramp, and studied her curious surroundings. The room was bigger than she’d imagined. Without all the clutter of Josie’s stock, it would be really quite spacious. Only one room per floor, though, each one placed on top of the other in ever decreasing circles. The bathroom was directly above, accessed by a narrow flight of wooden stairs, which disappeared through a round hole in the kitchen ceiling. Annie hadn’t dared use the lavatory, for fear of the acoustics. Josie’s bedroom, Annie presumed, must be upstairs again. What an odd way to live, she thought, all the rooms piled up like hatboxes.

  ‘I’ve always wondered what this place looked like inside,’ she said. ‘I never imagined you could buy curved furniture.’

  Josie turned and smiled.

  ‘You can’t really. Not very easily anyway. I had to have all these pieces made specially.’

  Annie regarded the room silently: two long pine cupboards and a dresser, following the contours of the space they occupied, and an old butler’s sink set into the curved top of another honey-coloured pine cupboard, the plumbing concealed behind two wooden doors. On the dove-grey walls were deep curved shelves, also painted grey but a shade or two darker, bearing gaudy, unmatched crockery, a collection of photographs and a line of small pewter tankards filled with bunches of dried herbs; sage, rosemary, mint and thyme. Of the furniture around the room’s perimeter, only the range didn’t stand flush to the walls, but sat proud and squa
re on a low brick plinth.

  Josie poured boiling water into the teapot and brought it to the table.

  ‘It’s very …’ Annie said, ‘… very circular.’

  Josie laughed and poured the tea.

  ‘You’re not local, are you?’ Annie said.

  ‘No, I grew up in Donegal, in Ireland.’

  ‘When did you come here?’

  ‘Oh, eleven years ago, no, twelve. I was following my heart, but it didn’t work out.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Annie said, a little flatly because she was unused to the sharing of confidences. She had no idea what to say, so she just sighed and said, for the second time, ‘It’s been lovely.’

  ‘Well, do pop in any time. I’m always here. Except when I’m not, and then I’m really gone.’

  ‘On your travels I expect?’

  ‘Buying trips, but I stick to one a year now.’

  ‘I’ve never even been on a plane.’

  ‘I prefer to drive, actually, but the red tape’s put a stop to that for the time being.’

  Annie’s eyes were wide. Drive? To the land of camels and woven silks? ‘Well I never,’ she said. ‘How ever do you find your way?’ She thought about the difficulties she encountered on her rare shopping outings to Meadowhall – slip roads, traffic lights, multi-storey parking, green, pink and blue zones – and she felt at a loss as to how Josie could lock the door of this quaint little home then set off blithely for – where was it?

  ‘Where is it you go again?’

  Josie added a splash of milk to the tea. ‘Central Asia,’ she said. ‘All the ’stans, basically. Or most of them.’