Sworn Secret

by Amanda Jennings

  If only she had known.

  If only she had known, Kate would have peeled and sliced her an apple every day they had left together. Every one of those thousand days. One thousand apples. Just for Anna.

  The Tortoiseshell Comb: Part One

  ‘Is everything OK?’ asked Jon, as soon as his mother opened her door. Her eyes were puffed and reddened, and he guessed she’d been crying for quite some hours.

  She tried to smile but her skin seemed too taut to allow it. She didn’t say anything, just turned and walked down the hallway, her shoes tapping on the chequerboard tiles on which he and Dan used to play toy soldiers – Jon’s small regimented army always on the lookout for Dan’s renegade snipers. He hovered, unsure, on the doorstep. He had no idea of what waited, and worry dripped steadily into the pit of his stomach as he willed himself over the threshold. He wiped his feet on the sisal mat and shook the water off his jacket. Just running the short distance from the car to the front door had been enough to soak him.

  In the kitchen his mother leant against the sink. She wore immaculate black slacks and a pink cashmere sweater, her white hair put up, as it always was, in a neat bun held in place by her tortoiseshell comb. Her back faced him. Both hands gripped the stainless steel, but there was a slump in her body, a looseness to her limbs; she looked beaten. It was the first time he’d seen her anything other than stoically composed, with the starched upper lip that defined that certain sector of her generation. But now she was shattered like a mirror, broken and tear-stained, barely recognizable. It unnerved him. He looked around for hints of what was wrong, but nothing seemed amiss; the kitchen looked exactly the same as it always had. Of course it would do; as far as he could remember, nothing in the house had changed in forty years. The upright Bechstein in the corner topped with books and papers. The copper saucepans hanging above the antique butcher’s block. The collection of china jugs lined up in height order on the window sill. All unchanged for as long as Jon could remember. The oak farmhouse table – so out of place in their detached townhouse in the smarter part of Chiswick – still held his father’s disorder (piles and piles of papers, a collection of obscure works by eminent French economists here, dog-eared paperbacks of unknown Russian literary geniuses there) organized by his mother as best she could. Every room in the house, including the kitchen, was essentially overflow from the room his father called a study and his mother called the library. He smiled to himself. How had two such contrasting personalities spent so many years living in such apparent harmony? It never ceased to amaze him. Everything about her screamed order, cleanliness and aspiration; everything about his father was bookish, distractable chaos.

  Jon rested a gentle hand on his mother’s. She was so warm, just as he remembered her as a child. Always warm. Like a splendid hot-water bottle, his father used to say with a grin.

  ‘Is it my father?’ Jon asked her.

  Even as the words came out of his mouth he wished he could haul them back in. What if she nodded? What if his father was dead and he had to deal with the aftermath? He wasn’t sure he had sufficient energy for that today.

  She turned to face him; her eyes were soft beneath a film of tears.

  ‘He’s fine. It’s just . . .’ She hesitated. ‘I’m just so tired.’

  Then she shook her head.

  The shake dislodged her tortoiseshell comb, and as it slipped her snow-queen hair came loose. She closed her eyes and pulled the comb fully out and placed it between her lips. She began to smooth her hair back into its proper place, but then she seemed to run out of steam, and her trembling hands fell to her sides. Without a word, Jon stepped towards her and took the comb from her mouth, then rested it beside the sink. He turned her around. She moved without resistance. He stroked her hair, which had aged to the finest strands of bleached silk, and gathered a new ponytail with the experienced hand of a father of daughters. He twisted the ponytail up against her head and pushed the comb into place. Then he lightly touched his fingers to the tortoiseshell. He had always loved the comb. His mother told him often how it had been passed down to her by her grandmother, and to her from an allegedly wild and unknown great-great-grandmother.

  ‘How this comb could tell stories,’ his mother used to say. ‘Palaces, castles, even a prince’s bedchamber.’ And Jon would beg her to tell him. He would sit next to her, gazing at the comb, listening to those tales of passion and daring, fascinated by the way the light caught the milky mother-of-pearl inlays, setting their green and purple glinting. He stared at the comb now; all those decades and barely a scratch.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  She turned back and he stepped closer and tentatively put his arms around her. The last time they’d held each other was the morning after the night Anna fell. Standing there, trying to give her comfort, he was suddenly overcome with memories of that morning. Breaking the news to his parents, his mother’s stoicism, his father’s lack of comprehension. Jon gripped her harder, not for her but for himself – he felt weak, as if he might crumple and bring them both to the floor. He tried to stand tall, but even as he did, he felt the strength in his backbone seep out of him into the ground. Her body stiffened and she pulled away from him, a cool mask set over her face. She pressed the corners of her eyes with the neatly pressed handkerchief that nestled in the sleeve of her cardigan.

  ‘Come on now. That’s enough, Jonathan. Stop looking so terribly stricken.’ Her voice was suddenly sharpened, stark in contrast to how feeble she appeared. It was instantly reassuring. ‘Your father and I are fine.’

  ‘I want to help.’

  ‘There’s no help needed,’ she said. ‘It’s just the end of a silly cold I’ve had; it’s run me down. I need a good sleep and a dose of chicken soup.’

  He knew there was something else; his mother didn’t get ill and even if she did she certainly wouldn’t admit to it.

  ‘I’ve not been—’

  His sentence was cut short by shuffling and grumbling from the hall. She drew the handkerchief from her sleeve again and patted it over her face, smoothed her hair with her hands and straightened her shoulders.

  She cleared her throat. ‘He’s not so good today.’

  Jon wished they had time to clarify the not-so-good. As far as Jon was concerned, even good days were not-so-good. On good days there were still the staring eyes left empty by the lack of recognition, still the flaring temper, the sentences left unfinished and the aimless wandering and disorientation. Even on good days there was always the gaunt thinness and the muscle twitches and hands knotted into the arthritic claws of a man he didn’t know who bore a striking resemblance to his father.

  The man trundled into the kitchen in pyjamas and a plaid dressing gown with creases ironed the length of each arm, the yellow tint to his snowy hair emphasized by the neat rows left by his wife’s combing. He was immaculate save for wearing only one slipper.

  Jon forced a smile.

  ‘Not those pipes again?’ said his father gruffly. His glaring eyes floated away for a moment, but then darted back and fixed on Jon. ‘Actually, don’t I know you?’ he barked.

  Jon felt a flush of heat on the back of his neck. He tried to smile. His father flicked a gnarly finger at him.

  ‘Yes, yes, you’ve been before.’ He gave a couple of guttural tuts. ‘Just you make sure you check your watch, Barbara. This is that one who charged me double. Disreputable bunch.’

  Jon glanced at his mother, who raised a stern eyebrow. He swallowed uncomfortably. ‘The pipes look fine,’ he said. ‘No charge today.’

  The old man grumbled and shuffled past Jon.

  ‘You’ve lost a slipper,’ his mother said. ‘Your foot must be cold.’

  His father looked down at his feet. When he lifted his head the crusty glare had vanished and his face held the bewildered confusion of a lost child.

  ‘Not to worry, I’ll fetch it.’ She patted his hand. He flinched and drew his arm close to his body.

  Jon’s mother left the room an
d Jon watched his father apprehensively. He felt sickened by the lack of affection he had for him. He might as well have been a stranger; everything familiar was gone. He thought back, desperate to peg his emotions to a fond memory: his father’s smiling face across the dinner table, his patience teaching algebra, showing him and Dan how to light fires with flint, the soporific lilt of his voice as he read them Moby Dick by the fire while they ate an entire packet of chocolate digestives.

  But looking at this ruined man, these recollections were as faint as rumours. Jon watched him float about the kitchen like a living ghost, walking from nowhere to nowhere, his hands fluttering at his sides with the memory of use, and racked his brain for conversation to fill the silence that drowned them.

  ‘How was your trip to Kew Gardens?’ he said at last.

  The old man looked shocked. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You went with Mother last week. She took you to see the herbarium collections.’

  ‘What the blasted hell are you on about?’

  ‘The gardens,’ Jon tried. ‘Kew?’

  ‘Why are you even talking to me? Just get on with your job!’ His voice rose as his eyes filled with blind panic. ‘Wasting time and filling air with nonsense about gardens and mothers!’

  ‘Goodness me,’ said Jon’s mother, as she hurried back into the room clutching the missing slipper.

  She went straight past Jon to her husband’s side and guided him to a chair, cooing softly as she did. She threw Jon a look that spoke silent reproach.

  ‘This man’s talking nonsense! Going on like a stupid child. A dunce. I know what he’s up to. He’s creating some sort of . . . of . . . a smoke screen. He’s trying to take my money. You should check his bag.’ His father’s eyes suddenly grew wide and flicked up to the ceiling and back. ‘You know I can hear them upstairs again, Barbara. Can’t you? Can’t you hear them up there? How many are there this time?’ His voice was now a whisper. He nodded. ‘Lots. I can hear lots. At least ten. It’s my watch they’re after. They’re trying to take my watch.’

  ‘There’s nobody up there, Peter,’ she soothed. The softness in her voice seemed unfamiliar suddenly, and Jon tried to recall if she’d ever used this tone with either him or Dan. ‘It’s just those squirrels again. We’ve had so many squirrels this year. Remember? We were watching them out of the window, eating the nuts I put out for the blue tit. Try not to get yourself worked up.’ She stroked his hand. ‘Let’s get this slipper back on before your foot turns to ice.’ She bent down and cradled his foot, carefully sliding the slipper on as if both foot and slipper were made of glass.

  ‘Now,’ she said, leaning back on her heels and resting her hands on his knees. ‘How about I make you a nice cup of tea?’

  ‘What the hell do I want tea for!’ he shouted suddenly. He leant forward until his face was only inches from hers and grabbed the tops of her arms. Jon could see his knuckles whitening as his grip tightened.

  ‘Mother!’ cried Jon. He stepped forwards, but she stopped him with a lifted hand.

  ‘It’s OK, Peter,’ she said. ‘Everything’s OK. You don’t have to have tea.’ She turned to Jon, her face calm, controlled. ‘You should leave now, Jonathan.’

  Jon didn’t move.

  ‘Jonathan,’ she said again with more force. ‘It’s upsetting your father.’

  Jon nodded. ‘Yes . . . yes, of course. I’ll leave.’ At last Jon saw the tension lessen in his father’s arms, and his mother’s face relaxed as he heard her exhale. ‘I’m leaving right away.’ His father released his grip and then he stood and began to shuffle out of the kitchen.

  ‘He’s slept late this morning,’ his mother said to the empty chair when her husband had gone. ‘He always wakes in a tetchy mood.’

  ‘He hurt you.’

  ‘No. He would never hurt me.’

  Jon didn’t say anything.

  She went to the cupboard that held the china teapot. This, too, they’d had since Jon was a child. Over the years it had been broken and broken and broken again, but each time, rather than throw it away, his father would mend it. He’d carefully lay the pieces out in front of him on a double spread of the Sunday Times, and set about rebuilding it with superglue, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose, his face the picture of concentration, so that now its white bone was tinged brown by the multitude of hairline scars that crisscrossed it. Jon and Kate had given them a brand new teapot several years back, Wedgwood Polka Dot, gold banding, dishwasher safe. They’d paid quite a lot of money for it, but it sat unused at the back of the cupboard. His parents thought the old one made the perfect cup of tea.

  ‘He’ll be better for some tea,’ she said, still facing the empty chair. ‘Will you have a cup?’

  He hesitated and glanced at the clock on the oven, then felt a sharp stab of guilt from his now broken promise to Kate. ‘I should get home. Kate’s meeting the headmaster to talk about Tuesday.’

  Her mouth set hard and her eyebrows lifted a fraction.

  He drew a deep breath, wondering why on earth she couldn’t forgive his wife. It wasn’t as if she’d done that much wrong, not really, not if you took everything into account, remembered what she’d been through. Kate didn’t need his mother’s ongoing disdain; she needed her compassion, her support. He nearly said as much, but instead he kept silent. This wasn’t the right time for that discussion. He looked at the oven clock again and wondered if he’d make it home before the meeting with Stephen ended.

  ‘Would you like me to stay?’

  ‘That’s kind, but no thank you. I’m fine now. I don’t know what nonsense got into me.’ She tried to smile, but didn’t quite manage it.

  ‘Well, you must call whenever you need,’ he said. ‘I am always here for you.’

  From the look on her face it was hard to be sure if she believed him, or whether she merely saw his sentiments as empty platitude. He couldn’t blame her if she did – after all, he’d done very little for her recently. He tried to remember if he’d called her in the last week. A malevolent voice in the back of his head began to point the finger at Anna’s death, but he silenced it quickly. Anna was too easy an excuse, and it wasn’t fair on her. It certainly wasn’t her fault he’d been a neglectful son. It had been a year now. Once Tuesday was over he would try and put her death behind them. It was time to stand tall. He would make Wednesday the start of a brand new chapter.

  The Him in Her Head

  Lizzie went back into the living room to get her half-eaten, browning apple from the window sill and went upstairs. She thumped her feet heavily so her mum would hear her and know she was there if she needed her. She waited briefly at the top of the stairs in case she appeared, but there was no sight or sound of her so she went into her room and closed the door. She sat on her bed and took a bite of the apple and stared out of the window. Dr Howe was right about the cats and dogs. It had been raining day and night for most of the last two weeks. Certainly it had been non-stop yesterday and the day before and the day before that. The newspapers said it was the wettest June in fifty-six years. This made her laugh because every June was always the wettest June in whatever number of years. As far as she was concerned, it would only be news when June was thirty days of anhydrous sweltering heat. Lizzie didn’t care, though; she loved the rain. Mostly because bees didn’t; then again, she pretty much enjoyed anything that bees didn’t – rain, November through February, high winds, bonfire smoke, snowflakes that stayed on her nose and eyelashes . . . all just a few of my favourite things. She smiled to herself and hummed the tune quietly as she watched the pelting rain.

  Gradually, the rain began to change and the sheeting frantic drops became fattened little balloons that exploded on the window ledge like water bombs. She threw her apple core into the wastepaper bin and stood up, leaning against her white-painted desk, so tidy, just as she liked it, with a neat pile of lined paper and a jar of pens and pencils, rubbers and a ruler and a stack of books on the floor beside it. She was about to spend most of the next t
welve months glued to this desk. It wouldn’t be too much of a hardship. Her friends at school were moaning continually about the looming threat of their exams. She kept quiet. She liked exams. She’d always found work comforting, especially since Anna – such welcome respite from both the crying and desperate silences that rung about the house, not to mention her own brooding. She loved the whole exam nonsense, making neatly colour-coded revision timetables, organizing her notes into labelled sections, ticking modules off when she’d revised them thoroughly. She had worked really hard for the school exams she’d just done. Now, all those colourful notes and immaculate lists of key dates and names and capital cities were all tidied away, stored beneath her bed ready to appear in September when she began preparing for her mocks and then her GCSEs.

  She leant over her desk and pushed her forehead against the window. She noticed the drops of water on the glass, wiggling their way downward, some merging with static drops, some not, some sliding to a halt, others so beefed up by snowballing they suddenly catapulted off at tremendous speed. Why did the drops zigzag? she wondered then. Why did some of them run out of steam, while others hurtled? Surely they should behave predictably, rigidly scientific, obey some water-on-glass formula that governed them from unseen mathsy heights. Their behaviour appeared totally random and as she watched the drops, irrational and unpredictable, the hairs on the back of her neck began to prickle and her heart started racing. She slid the latch open and lifted the lower half of the window so her room was filled by the unseasonal weather and the papers on her desk quivered in surprise. She breathed in the beautiful smell of rain on warm pavements. She breathed in again, convinced she could also smell mowed grass on Brook Green.