The Last Thing She Told Me
Page 28
‘Are you OK?’ I asked.
‘Yeah. I guess I didn’t realise how much it had all got to me.’
‘I’ll phone them this afternoon and explain,’ I said. She pulled back, alarmed. ‘Not everything,’ I said. ‘Just some of it. I’ll tell them you need a bit of time off. They’ll be fine. Come on. Let’s have a hot chocolate without Maisie knowing.’
*
James came straight home from work when I messaged him, even though I told him he didn’t need to.
‘I do,’ he said. ‘I’ve got two of you to take care of.’
We went for a walk after lunch. Just the three of us, up to Gaddings Dam at the top of the moors. The last time we’d attempted it, Maisie had complained so much about her legs hurting on the steep climb to the top that we’d given up and turned back.
This time, Ruby set the pace, striding out in front of us and using her walking pole to steady herself on the steepest parts. We didn’t say much, partly because it was such hard work we didn’t have the breath to talk and partly because we didn’t need to. It was enough that we were all together.
We paused at the top to look down across the valley to the Stoodley Pike monument on the hills beyond. The autumn colours were so rich and warm I wanted to wrap myself up in them against the cold, against everything our family had to deal with in the coming days, weeks and months.
James took my hand and gave it a squeeze.
‘It’s just the wind,’ I said, brushing away the tears at the corners of my eyes. He squeezed my hand harder. He knew me too well.
‘Can I climb along the rocks to the other side?’ asked Ruby.
‘Yeah,’ I said. She set off.
‘I’ll go with her,’ said James.
‘No,’ I replied, catching hold of his arm. ‘Give her some time on her own. I think she needs it. She’s got a lot to get her head around.’
We watched her pick her way carefully across the rocks to the far side. Saw her stand, silhouetted against the sun, pick up a handful of pebbles and throw them one by one into the dam. Waiting each time for the ripples from the one before to disperse before she flung the next.
‘Do you think she’s going to be OK?’ James asked.
‘Yeah, I do. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy but she’s strong. Way stronger than me. She’ll come through it.’
‘And what about you?’ asked James.
‘I’ll be fine, once I stop beating myself up over everything I’ve done and shouldn’t have done, and everything I should have done but didn’t.’
‘You’re way too hard on yourself.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe I’ve got a lot to be hard on myself about.’
‘Or maybe you don’t get told often enough how amazing you are.’
‘Don’t go all soppy on me,’ I said, nudging James in the ribs. ‘You’re a Yorkshireman, remember.’
I looked up and watched Ruby hurl a huge stone, more like a rock, into the dam. We heard the sound of the roar she made as she did so, even from where we were. The ripples stretched out across the surface. Ruby stood staring into the freezing cold water below, before turning and starting to pick her way back across the rocks.
‘Shall we tell him now?’ I asked, when she got back to us.
Ruby nodded.
‘Tell me what?’ asked James.
‘We had a chat earlier. Ruby would like you to be her father, officially, I mean. She wants to take up your offer to adopt her.’
James looked from Ruby’s face to mine and back to Ruby’s. They both burst into tears at exactly the same time, then stepped forward and embraced each other.
‘Thank you,’ James whispered into her hair.
‘Come on, you two,’ I said, when they finally separated. ‘There’s leftover pizza in the fridge to eat before Maisie gets back.’
*
James went to fetch Maisie from school.
‘Why’s Ruby home?’ she asked, as soon as she got back. ‘Why isn’t she in her school uniform?’
‘She got some time off for good behaviour,’ I said. ‘Anyway, we’ve some exciting news for you.’
‘Am I getting the puppy now?’ asked Maisie.
‘No,’ I said, with a smile. ‘Daddy’s going to adopt Ruby. It means he’ll officially be her daddy too.’
‘Yay,’ said Maisie. ‘So she won’t be going to live with her other daddy?’
‘I haven’t got another dad any more,’ said Ruby.
‘Do you mind?’ asked Maisie.
‘No,’ Ruby replied. ‘I don’t mind at all.’
‘And the other news,’ I said, looking at Ruby, ‘is that we won’t be moving to Great-grandma’s house, after all. We’ve found somebody else to buy it. We think it will suit them better than us. And we’re going to find somewhere new so you can still have your own rooms and a garden.’
Ruby smiled at me. I suspected she would have cried if she’d had any tears left.
‘Will we still get the puppy?’ Maisie asked.
‘We will,’ I said. ‘But you might have to wait a little while longer until we get everything sorted.’
*
It was the ordinariness of everything the next morning that was so comforting. The walk to school, Maisie charging up to Emily as if she hadn’t seen her for two weeks, not twenty-four hours, Reuben Johnson forgetting his PE kit, even the moaning and grumbling in the staffroom at break.
I’d decided not to tell Fiona everything now. For a start, fifteen minutes wasn’t nearly long enough. But, more importantly, I wanted a day away from it, a day remembering what life had been like before all this had kicked off. I’d arrange a meet-up soon, one evening after school, when I could fill her in. For now, I wanted to return to some kind of normality before the next round of changes began.
‘Had any luck with the job hunting?’ she asked, putting a mug of coffee down in front of me.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I haven’t really had a chance and, to be honest, I think I might do something different.’
‘Great,’ she said. ‘Like what?’
‘Teaching,’ I replied. ‘I’m thinking of getting a degree and doing my teacher training. You have permission to tell me how stupid that is.’
‘It’s not stupid, it’s brilliant,’ she said. ‘I’ve always told you you’d be an amazing teacher.’
‘Thank you. It just had to be the right time for me, I guess.’
‘Well, as you’re wanting teaching experience, I think I’ve found just the right person to be in charge of the year-six Christmas show extravaganza.’
I smiled at her. ‘I’m the sad Martin Freeman character in the remake of Nativity, aren’t I?’
‘Got it in one,’ she said. ‘And, no, you can’t have real donkeys. This is Hebden Bridge. We’d have an animal-rights protest on our hands.’
*
I saw the text message from Dawn at the nursing home when I got home that afternoon. I rang her back as soon as Maisie had gone up to her room.
‘Hello, Nicola,’ she said. I knew straight away from her tone but let her go on anyway. ‘I’m afraid Olive passed away this afternoon,’ she said. ‘It was very peaceful. She slipped away in her sleep.’
I thought of the lady in the yellow cardigan whose hand I had held two days ago. Who had asked me to bring Mum to her because she needed to tell her something. A secret she didn’t want to take to the grave.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I think it’s probably for the best. I think she was ready to go.’
Epilogue
I rang Mum’s bell and she answered straight away. She was starting to look a little better. The plumpness had returned to her cheeks. Her lipstick was firmly in place.
‘Hello,’ she said, smiling at Ruby next to me. ‘Come in a second before we go. I want to show Ruby where I’ve put it.’
‘I think it’s a good spot for it, isn’t it?’ said Mum.
Ruby nodded. ‘She looks happy here,’ she said.
‘Good,’ Mum replied. ‘I’m happy to have her too. You must bring Maisie to see her soon. She’ll like that.’
‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes,’ said Mum, taking a deep breath.
‘Are you sure about this?’ I asked Ruby. ‘I can drop you back home with James and Maisie if you’ve changed your mind.’
‘No,’ said Ruby. ‘I want to be there.’
We got into the car, Mum climbing into the back with Ruby.
‘Who are they from?’ asked Mum, spotting the two wreaths on the front passenger seat, beautiful hoops of delicate cream daisies.
‘William’s niece, Deirdre,’ I said. ‘She ordered them online from Winnipeg.’
She’d got in touch after I’d posted a message on the Wartime Memories Project website. She hadn’t known about Betty. Although she had always wondered who the Land Army girl was in the photos that had been returned to William’s family.
‘That was nice of her,’ said Mum.
‘Great-grandma would have liked that, wouldn’t she?’ asked Ruby.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She would.’
I turned into the gates of the cemetery and pulled up in one of the three spaces next to the chapel. They’d said I could park there because we were the only mourners. Mum had insisted it should be private and she was right. The public had had their turn to gawp and speculate. It was our chance for quiet, privacy and solitude. For closure.
The funeral car swung through the gates and parked in front of the chapel. I gripped Ruby’s hand tightly on one side and Mum’s even more tightly on the other, as the first of three tiny coffins was brought out, Mum’s wreath of yellow roses sitting on top.
The other two followed. I stepped forward and placed the wreaths from William’s family on each of them, alongside our own, and took a photograph of them, as I’d promised Deirdre I would.
The undertakers stood for a moment, then carried each coffin forward into the chapel. We followed, Mum dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, Ruby staring stoically straight ahead.
We sat in the front pew on the right-hand side. The young vicar nodded at us, gave a tentative smile. I don’t suppose he’d ever had to conduct a funeral service like this one. He was probably more than a little nervous himself. I’d asked him to keep it short and simple but I think he understood how important it was that he spoke of these three babies. That in death, they were finally recognised.
‘Today we gather to mourn the loss of William and Ruby, much-loved son and daughter of William and Betty, and of Joanne, much-loved daughter of Irene.’
I squeezed Mum’s hand again. She’d said she hadn’t thought about names when she was pregnant, mainly because she hadn’t wanted to think about the baby growing inside her. But she’d thought about it afterwards, once she’d been taken from her, and that was what she would have liked to call her, had she ever been given a chance. We’d found the names William and Ruby scratched on to the bottom of the other two fairy statues, when we’d moved them to our back yard. I’d told Ruby her great grandma had suggested her name while I was pregnant. That was why she’d always been so special to her.
We stood for ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, which Ruby had chosen. Not that our voices could be heard above the organ. I could barely hear Mum’s next to me. But we moved our lips and sang the odd word we could manage.
The vicar spoke of Betty’s time in the Land Army and of William’s service in the war. He spoke of their love and devotion to each other, of their hopes and dreams, of William’s boundless optimism and a life cut cruelly short. And before I knew it we were standing again, singing a final hymn before walking out behind the coffins and following them down the path to the far side of the cemetery.
We passed Olive’s grave on the way, though I didn’t point it out. There was a bedraggled wreath of white carnations in the shape of the word ‘Mam’ still lying on top of it. I’d come afterwards, to pay my respects. To stand at her graveside and whisper a final thank-you.
The undertakers stopped and stood over the two graves that had been dug, one bigger than the other, just the other side of Grandma’s grave. We’d all agreed she would have wanted the twins to be buried together.
They lowered Joanne into the little grave nearest us first. Mum clutched my arm but stared intently at the coffin. This was what she’d wanted, to see her daughter buried. We stood with our heads bowed as the vicar said a few words. Mum stepped forward shakily and bent to throw some earth into the grave, before turning back to me, her eyes moist with tears.
I grasped her hand and we all stood together, linking arms, as William and Ruby were lowered into the remaining grave. They were being buried for good this time, having finally given up their secrets.
I walked over to Grandma’s grave and bent to lay the bunch of flowers I’d brought for her. ‘Rest in peace,’ I whispered. ‘I’m glad you’re with William again. And you’ve got your babies with you too.’
*
Afterwards we went straight to York. We all needed a lift, a reminder of happier times. I’d phoned Bettys and asked if it would be possible to view the mirror, the one on which hundreds of servicemen had etched their names during the war. They’d said we were very welcome. That although part of the mirror had been destroyed during a bombing raid, the majority of it remained.
I took Mum’s hand as we entered the tearooms. It was hard to imagine it as it had been then. The boys from the Royal Canadian Air Force laughing and joking with each other, knowing that they might not survive the night.
We went straight over to a member of staff who led us downstairs to the basement.
‘Take your time,’ she said. ‘There are a lot of names to get through.’
It was Ruby who found it, her eagle eyes able to pick out their names among all the others. She pointed, tugging my sleeve, and I crouched down to look.
‘William and Betty forever’, it read.
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Acknowledgements
Huge thanks to the following people: my editor, Emily Yau, for her patience, encouragement and helping me to get so much more out of the characters and the story; Jon Butler, for coming up with the title (someone should give him a job in publishing!), and all at Quercus for their hard work and tireless championing of my books. My agent, Anthony Goff, for his ongoing support and invaluable advice and all at David Higham Associates.
My copyeditor, Hazel Orme, for her eagle-eyes and removing all the words you didn’t need to read; Rebecca Bradley, for her excellent police fact-checking service; Andrew Smith, for the cover design; Lance Little, for my website; Nansi Rosenberg, for her archeological wisdom and having some great bone photos on her phone; members of The Book Club on Facebook for their thoughts on the Yorkshire dialect (have gone for the middle option so as not to alienate our friends down south but feel free to Yorkshirefy it fully in your heads!).
The books Yorkshire Airfields in the Second World War by Patrick Otter and Yorkshire Women at War by Marion Jeffries were invaluable sources of research, as was the Wartime Memories Project website www.wartimememoriesproject.com
Thanks to my friends and family for their ongoing support, my husband Ian, who is now an old hand at the trials of living with an author but continues to bear it with good grace (while producing cracking book trailers for me!), and my wonderful son, Rohan, for being brutally honest on plot ideas and always seeing the potential for his future stage adaptations of my work.
A special thank you to the various tradesmen who, eventually, after months of our house being under dustsheets and me having to shift my laptop to every room of the house in turn, finished the rewiring/plastering/painting/flooring and left me alone to write. Thanks, as always, to the fantastic booksellers, librarians and bookbloggers who do a wonderful job promoting books and reading and, most importantly, to my readers, for buying, borrowing, recommending and reviewing and whose lovely messages about previous books once again kept me going through the tough bits and the odd one-star review on Amazon. I hope you all enjoy the book!
Please do get in touch on Twitter @lindgreenisms, Facebook Fans of Author Linda Green or by email via my website www.linda-green.com I look forward to hearing from you!
About This Book
WARNING: Spoiler Alert!
It was something which my nan said, shortly before she died a couple of years ago, which made me think about the secrets people take to their graves. Particularly women, who for so long have borne the shame that society has dealt them for their supposed ‘transgressions’ from what it deemed to be acceptable or simply for the workings of their own bodies. On so many occasions, when I told people what my next novel was about, they responded with stories about women in their own family who had harboured painful secrets for many years for fear of how they would be judged.
Over time, the things for which women have been made to feel shame may have changed but the one constant thing is that it is women who have been made to feel responsible for everything that have happened to them, even when criminal acts have been involved.
My hope in writing this novel is to spark conversations that encourage more women to share their secrets without fear of being judged and to inspire the next generation to ensure that women are freed from the shackles of shame to live their lives without judgement.
I’ll be making donations from the royalties of this book to Rape Crisis www.rapecrisis.org.uk and the NSPCC www.nspcc.org.uk to help them continue the amazing work they do supporting women and children who have suffered rape or sexual abuse. If you’re able to make a donation too, however small, I’d be hugely grateful. Thank you.