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

by Jane Sanderson

  ‘Your haddock’s there,’ she said, nodding at the table. This odd conversation felt like the first they’d had for a long, long time.

  He looked at the wrapped parcel, looked at her, looked at the parcel again. He seemed to be trying to work out what it could contain. Annie watched him, but neither of them spoke. Then Michael came in, holding Martha’s book, which he handed to Annie.

  ‘What’s that then?’ Vince said. He seemed somehow out of his depth, thought Annie.

  ‘Dat den,’ said Andrew. ‘Dat den dat den dat.’

  She looked at the cover for the first time. Tess of the d’Urbervilles. Annie swallowed her shock that Martha Hancock should have possessed such a book, then, ‘Thomas Hardy,’ she said, with steady nonchalance. ‘I thought I’d give it a go.’ She gave Michael a hard stare, and he stared back. They understood each other perfectly.

  28

  Alf had made a picnic, which worried Annie because she wanted to be sure there’d be a lavatory stop en route, and a Welcome Break lunch would have made certain of it. He whistled as he drove: whistled as if he was playing a clarinet or a saxophone. It was ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ and he phrased it like Sinatra, with all the same jazzy, carefree savoir-faire. In the passenger seat of his Land Rover Annie felt ludicrously high; she could see over hedges and into houses. It took her mind off the purpose of the drive. Finn had the rear all to himself, although his bed, blanket, bowls, lead and sack of kibble were packed in a crate next to him. Michael, who would be alone in the house overnight for the first time, had watched from the front porch as they drove away, but refused to say goodbye to Finn.

  ‘He’s a dog, Mother,’ he’d said, as if she didn’t know.

  ‘Yes,’ she’d replied. ‘And you won’t see him again, Michael.’

  At this he had arched his brows and twisted his lips into a little moue, as if to say, thank goodness for small mercies.

  ‘You have a heart of stone,’ she had said, and this was the last thing she uttered to him before she let Alf help her up into the Defender and shut Finn in the back. She didn’t even turn to wave as they left.

  Truth was, she was angry with Michael for so much more than his indifference to the dog. His behaviour was intolerable. Not that it was any worse now than before. It was just that over the years there’d been so few people in their orbit, she’d fallen out of the habit of comparing him. His disdain, his demands, his peculiar way of being had run on unchallenged for so long that it had seemed quite ordinary. Then along came Josie’s friendship, and Sandra, and Alf here, not to mention Andrew and his family, especially dear little Riley. Well, it was as if these past few weeks had been just stuffed with people behaving kindly, reasonably, lovingly, normally, and all of them had thrown Michael into sharp, unflattering contrast. For all her anxieties surrounding this extraordinary trip to Formby, Annie had felt only defiant relief when Alf steered down Beech Street away from her son, who, although she wouldn’t look, she knew would be wearing a sardonic half smile, if he was bothering to smile at all.

  ‘I feel as if I’m running away,’ she said to Alf.

  He grinned at her. ‘Aye well, we all need to escape sometimes,’ he said. He was too much of a gentleman to voice his own feelings about Michael, but Annie felt sure he must be the rudest person Alf had ever met.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ she said. ‘About Michael, I mean.’

  He glanced at her again. ‘You don’t need to apologise for anything,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, but I haven’t helped,’ she said. She cringed when she thought about Michael refusing to shake Alf’s offered hand, recoiling from the contact, crossing his arms across his chest and tucking his own hands under his armpits where they were safe. ‘I’ve never really stood up to him. Even when he was a little boy, I let him get away with all sorts of nonsense for a quiet life.’

  ‘Well it’s not easy,’ Alf said. ‘It’s just a question of managing, int it? Getting by.’

  ‘What’s not easy?’

  ‘Autism.’

  ‘Autism?’

  Alf shot her a puzzled look. ‘Am I wrong?’ he said. ‘Beg pardon, but I thought Michael were a cut and dried case. Has it never been diagnosed?’

  Annie looked at him. ‘Diagnosed?’ She gave a short, disbelieving laugh. ‘Are you saying Michael’s not just awkward?’

  Alf was silent for a while as he negotiated the turn onto the A616, then he said, ‘I’m fairly sure your lad’s autistic, but that dunt mean he’s not awkward as well.’

  ‘What’s the difference, though?’

  ‘Well, we can all be awkward, like, but if you’re autistic, you can’t help it.’

  There was a silence while Annie digested this. Autistic; nobody had ever said that to her in the sixties.

  ‘So, it were never mentioned at school?’

  ‘Oh he was forever in trouble when he was little, but we all just thought he was rude. Well, and naughty. He was clever, mind you. Is clever.’ She thought of his bookshelf, and the foreign language titles on it: thought of him taking O-level maths at eleven, A-level at fourteen: thought of the violin, which came to him as easily and naturally as talking.

  ‘Often the case,’ Mr Dinmoor said. ‘Maths wizard, I expect?’

  ‘Yes!’ She stared at him, astonished.

  ‘Aye well, that’s it, and it explains that violin, too. Maths and music aren’t far apart to lads like your Michael.’

  ‘Well I’ll be blowed,’ Annie said. Her mind was working feverishly now, remembering episodes down the years where Michael’s singular behaviour, his fiercely held likes and dislikes, had made her feel a failure, a crashingly inadequate mother. He had been such hard work! She said as much to Alf, and he tutted and shook his head. A disgrace, he said, that she was never offered any help. But it was a different time, she said. And anyway for someone to offer help, thought Annie, she would have had to seek it, and she had never willingly sought the attention of health professionals after … oh, well, it was all years ago.

  ‘You rub along all right though, don’t you?’ Alf said, encouragingly.

  ‘I suppose.’

  She sighed deeply and thought about returning to her little house with only Michael in it, not even Finn. Andrew and his family had flown home two days ago and she still felt scarred by the farewell, truth be told. She had driven them to Sheffield railway station and they’d all been quiet except for Blake, who was longing to get home, and talked nineteen to the dozen, just as he had on the day they’d arrived. At the station, while they waited for the train, Andrew had asked the boys for their high points of the trip, and Blake had said it was now, heading for the airport. Riley said he couldn’t choose only one because there were three, and they were equal: being in Mr Wright’s barn, with Grandma and the sheep with foot rot; eating his first gingerbread man in Grandma’s steamed-up car; saying a goodbye poem for Fritz, the dead dog. Annie had begun to cry, and she hadn’t been able to properly stop until long after they’d gone. Bailey’s shoulder had been wet through with Annie’s tears. Andrew had held Annie’s hand, and said they could Skype if she got herself a laptop, but Annie had looked so blank that he’d changed tack and talked instead about a visit to Australia.

  ‘Please come, Mum,’ he’d said. ‘Come and see why we love it out there.’

  She’d told him she might, just to ease the pain of parting, and he’d hugged her so tightly that she felt completely wrapped in love. But then she’d spoiled the mood a bit; asked him not to dig up the past; asked him – begged him, actually – not to look for Martha. And Andrew had withdrawn, become solemn and subdued, so that when the train came rushing in to the station there was still an awkwardness between them, and then when they were settled at a table and the train began to move away, only Riley and Bailey had given her a proper, hearty wave. Blake was already eyes down, switching on his Nintendo, and Andrew had simply raised one hand and watched her with a look in his eyes that was … oh, she hated to think about it! He’d looked disappointed, that was it; he
’d looked at her as if they’d had an arrangement, and she’d broken it. Now, of course, she wished she hadn’t even mentioned Martha Hancock. Maybe by doing so, she thought miserably, she’d only firmed his resolve.

  She sighed again, and Alf said, ‘Let’s put the wireless on,’ which he did, and there was a Cambridge professor discussing the Ming dynasty with Melvyn Bragg. Annie closed her eyes and tried her best to listen for a while, but instead she found herself being lulled into a strange, light sleep, in which she seemed to float above the steady rumble of the road and the erudite conversation on the radio, hearing it but not hearing it, and the next thing she was fully aware of was the unusual green pagoda of Burtonwood Services, where Alf had stopped the car so they could both spend a penny.

  Formby seemed pleasant, thought Annie as they negotiated the wide, leafy avenues looking for Dora. Alf hadn’t been for a while and he couldn’t find the road, let alone the house. Annie considered making a joke about a mapmaker getting lost, but she couldn’t think how to phrase it. Meanwhile Alf covered his embarrassment by saying it’d all changed, although to Annie these streets and houses looked timeless, too substantially distinguished ever to have been troubled by the disruption of modern planners or new one-way systems.

  ‘Here we are,’ he announced suddenly, with evident relief. ‘Number twelve.’ The Defender came to rest at the kerb outside a grand Victorian villa, detached and set well back from the road. Annie gazed at it from her elevated position inside the car. The front garden looked like a small park, planted with glossy box hedging and abundant shrubs and trees.

  ‘Down there’s the sands,’ Alf said, pointing straight ahead, although there was absolutely no sign of a beach, only trees and houses. Annie thought of Blake, looking for the sea on Beech Street. ‘Formby Point,’ Alf said. ‘We’ll have a walk down there with Dora.’ He opened his door and jumped down nimbly, then scooted round the vehicle to open Annie’s door and help her down onto the pavement. She liked the feel of his strong grip, her hand in his, and the way he watched where she was putting her feet. She thought how little it took for a person to feel valued by another; by these small gestures we show our humanity, she thought, and then wondered where she read that, or was it on the radio earlier, somewhere on the M62? Anyway, she didn’t think they could be her words.

  Alf was swinging open the big rear door and releasing Finn, who bounded out unassisted. He came to Annie immediately and shoved his dry black nose into her hand, pushing at her palm for some attention, so she scratched his head and fondled his ears and fought back tears.

  ‘Took no time to get ’ere,’ Alf said, because he could see how she was feeling. ‘Any time you want to visit, just say the word.’

  She smiled at him and he smiled back, and handed her the lead, which she looped over Finn’s head, and then someone called, ‘Yoo-hoo!’ and a small, doughty-looking woman swung into view, not from the garden of number twelve but from down the avenue, the way they’d just driven. She had a collection of little dogs on leads, ranged around her feet and looking up at the sound of her voice, like tiny hairy acolytes.

  Annie knew this was Dora because Alf shouted, ‘Our kid!’ and he was clearly pleased as punch to see her. He stood with his hands on his hips watching her approach, then, when she reached him, he took her in a bear hug and rocked her from side to side. She grinned at Annie over Alf’s shoulder.

  ‘And you two are Annie and Finn?’ she said, so Alf released her and Dora handed him the terriers’ tangle of leads then shook hands with Annie and bent down so close to Finn that he went cross-eyed looking at her.

  ‘My oh my, you’re a handsome fellow,’ she said. ‘Welcome to the seaside.’ Finn smiled and lolled his tongue. ‘Come on,’ Dora said, standing up. ‘Let’s go and get acquainted.’ She took Finn’s lead as if he was already hers, and Annie followed her through the gate and round the circuitous garden path feeling a complicated mixture of relief and sadness and – she couldn’t deny it – a shade of jealousy at Dora’s easy rapport with her own, dear Finn.

  It was a fine house, but it was given over to the dogs really, so the smell of hound hung in the air and there was canine paraphernalia everywhere: baskets, bowls, blankets and bones. The terriers and Finn skittered around each other on the wooden floors in a frenzy of excitement and Dora seemed neither to notice nor care, then suddenly she snapped her fingers and shouted, ‘Baskets!’ and the little dogs immediately bounced into their wicker beds leaving Finn looking foolish in the middle of the room. He sat down and watched Dora, not Annie.

  Annie watched Dora too, but more covertly, trying to gauge her age but finding it hard to tell: much younger than Alf, anyway. She had a lot more hair than him as well; a wild hairdo of wiry curls in brindled shades of grey and brown, but her bright blue eyes were exactly the same shade as her brother’s. She’d shucked off her anorak to reveal a red checked flannel shirt, and with it she wore jeans and a pair of tan cowboy boots. Annie wondered if there was a Stetson somewhere, to complete the look.

  They had tea and fruit cake, and Annie listened to Alf and Dora catch up with each other’s news. The little dogs rested their heads on their paws and observed from their baskets while Finn mooched about licking up crumbs. Annie wondered how quickly he’d learn all the new rules here. She wondered where he’d sleep, and where he’d be fed, and whether he’d look for her after she’d gone. These thoughts bombarded her mind and she put down her cup and her cake, too upset to swallow properly. She felt heartless, like a devious mother leaving a small boy at boarding school without his knowledge.

  ‘He has a Bonio at bedtime,’ she suddenly blurted out, apropos of absolutely nothing. ‘I’ve packed some with his other things.’

  ‘Right-ho,’ Dora said smoothly, as if she hadn’t just been interrupted mid-sentence on another matter entirely.

  ‘And at home he sleeps indoors, not in a kennel.’

  ‘Well, he will here too,’ said Dora. She smiled. ‘Would you like to see where?’

  Annie nodded, and they made a small tour of the ground floor. It was huge by comparison with her own house, and there were no carpets, only wooden floorboards, so Dora’s Cuban heels made a hollow clopping noise as they progressed through the rooms. At the back of the house, in a room of elegant proportions where French windows revealed a long garden of lawns and herbaceous borders, there were more dog beds and water bowls scattered around the floor.

  ‘Ta da!’ Dora said. ‘The dormitory. We’ll put Finn’s bed in here and they can stay up late and have a midnight feast.’

  Alf laughed but then stopped when he saw Annie’s face. ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘Let’s walk down to that beach. We’ve been a long time sitting.’

  It was ideal, Annie could see that. The expanse of sand and the flat, distant sea felt like the ends of the earth and Finn streamed about as if he’d never before been free. Dora had taken him and the terriers all the way to the water, which was too far away for Annie, so Alf stayed with her by the dunes.

  They’d reached Formby Point by following a long sandy track through a pine forest and Dora had immediately taken charge of Finn, winning his heart with a bag of boiled chopped pig’s liver. He was on his lead, but he hadn’t once yanked Dora’s arm, only walked politely alongside her, fixing her with an obsequious upwards gaze, waiting to be rewarded. Even the red squirrels that danced boldly through the pines went unobserved by Finn, who only had eyes for his new, liver-scented guru. Now, from her vantage point on a windy dune, Annie could see him running to Dora whenever she called him, which she did by whistling through her fingers in a competent manner. The terriers seemed to know that this liver training was for Finn alone, because when Dora whistled they only glanced at her then looked away. They were self-contained, scrupulously well behaved. They pottered contentedly through the dried seaweed and driftwood, a tight little unit. Annie hoped they’d let Finn join their gang.

  Alf, chatty and cheerful in the bracing sideways wind, pointed out the dim silhouette of B
lackpool Tower and, in the other direction, a vague mist-shrouded suggestion of Liverpool. Annie looked, but didn’t much care. She could see this vast arc of sand was a kind of heaven for Finn but personally she was finding Formby Point a melancholy place, lonely and remote. She couldn’t look at the sea: the reach of it, the impossible distance to the horizon. She liked to be landlocked, not teetering on the margins of terra firma. Also the sand on the dunes was dry and fine and the wind whipped it up into their faces so they had to turn their backs on the sea and look towards the car park.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind making a move,’ Annie said.

  ‘Off the beach?’

  ‘No, out of Formby altogether.’

  They’d planned to stay at Dora’s for the night. There were two rooms prepared for them upstairs and Alf’s bag was already deposited in one of them. But Annie knew now that she didn’t want to linger. Finn would be happy here; she could see that, just as clearly as she could see her heartbroken self in the days ahead. But if there was to be pain, she’d rather meet it halfway than wait placidly for its arrival.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I just don’t want to hang about. But you stay with your sister, like we planned. Just drop me at a station or something.’ She said this casually, as if she was always jumping on trains in strange towns, although in fact the prospect made her feel sick with anxiety. But anyway, she should have known better because Alf harrumphed with friendly indignation.

  ‘Not on your nelly,’ he said. ‘I’ve a much better idea than that.’

  29

  Vince was waiting for another visit from Martha. He hardly left the house and when the flap of the letterbox swung open and shut he was at the door like a whippet out of the gate.

  ‘What about work?’ Annie asked. He was meant to be in Tamworth, selling drainpipes.

  ‘Sick leave,’ he said. He was lying on the single bed in the spare room, which was now his room really, as it was where he chose to sleep. He was reading the Coventry Telegraph and he spoke to her from behind it, so she couldn’t see his face.