Sworn Secret

by Amanda Jennings

  ‘She’s been crying at night,’ said Dan’s voice from behind him. Jon turned. His brother stood in the doorway. He wore tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt. His hatless head was more balding than Jon remembered, and he hadn’t noticed so many wrinkles before. ‘She goes downstairs and cries. Not loudly, mind; whimpering, really. I went down to her the first night I heard her. It was maybe three or four nights ago. I’d needed a pee. Anyway I went to see if she was OK, but she shouted. Told me to leave her alone. That she didn’t need fussing over.’ Dan laughed nervously. ‘I thought maybe he’d died, you know, because she doesn’t cry. And my first thought was thank God. Thank God he’s dead.’

  Dan sounded incredulous, shamed even, by his statement, but for once Jon didn’t point the finger. He looked at the floor, noticing his mother’s hair comb half hidden beneath the bed. The mother-of-pearl glinted green and purple like treasure on the sea bed. He picked it up, put it on the bedside table and then stood and turned to go out of the room, waiting for Dan to go first rather than pushing past him.

  In the kitchen Lizzie was sitting next to her grandmother and they both held cups of tea. His mother looked up when he and Dan came in.

  ‘Lizzie made me tea.’ She smiled. ‘She’s a good girl.’

  ‘Are you feeling warmer now?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Much, thank you. How ridiculous to be so cold in the summer. Honestly, old age.’ She turned to Lizzie. ‘You make the most of being young, my darling. It’s over in a flash.’ Her face fell. ‘I’m finding this terribly hard,’ she said. ‘Too hard. I . . .’ she hesitated. ‘You know,’ she paused a bit. ‘When I first met him, wow, he was quite something. Like no other man I’d ever come across. To this very day he’s the most intelligent person I’ve had the privilege of meeting. He questioned everything. He read everything. You could ask him about anything and he’d have an opinion, and not just any old opinion, but a coherent, knowledgeable opinion that demanded one listen.’

  She looked up at Jon and then at Dan. ‘Can you imagine what it feels like to have that sort of mind then find yourself unable to remember the days of the week?’ She rubbed her lap with the flats of her hands. ‘The disease is becoming a living death. It’s like he’s dissolving in front of my eyes. He’s almost completely incontinent and recognizes me only intermittently. Everything about him is different. It’s like living with a stranger, and every day I mourn the man I used to know. It’s like he’s been possessed.’ The effort she had to muster to keep her emotions at bay was clear. ‘The doctor told me it was like looking after a child. He was trying to be sympathetic.’ She shook her head and rubbed the flats of her hands down her lap a couple of times. ‘Well, it’s nothing like looking after a child! With a child you watch them learn and develop skills. You see them grow in body and mind, but with Peter all I see is him falling apart in front of me—’ Her eyes had filled with tears, and she broke off for a moment until she had composed herself. ‘The illness has no regard for the man Peter was. I can’t sleep with the worry. I worry about our finances, about loneliness, how I’ll cope further down the line. I worry I missed Anna’s memorial. How could I do that?’

  Jon glanced at Kate, but her eyes stayed fixed on his mother.

  ‘He needs so much care, and I’m weak with tiredness. I can’t keep up with the housework and I haven’t had a bath in days. I even went to the doctor last week to see if there was some sort of tonic I could take to boost my immune system. The silly man suggested anti-depressants. He said they would help.’ She paused and shook her head scornfully. ‘How on earth would they help? Would the pills wash him? Change wet bedsheets and soiled underclothes?’ She closed her eyes, her hands rubbing down her lap over and over. ‘I spoke to Peter last night about a nursing home. I told him I’d been looking on the interweb and found some quite respectable places. One has an ornamental pond where the residents take afternoon tea, and he loves water. But he got upset, scared, he . . .’ She took a deep breath. ‘Well, he became so agitated he raised his hand to me.’

  ‘Oh, Granny,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘Don’t you worry, my darling,’ she said, suddenly sounding stronger. ‘These old bones can survive a knock or two. Goodness me, but he was upset. And then I got so angry with him. Suddenly. It hit me like a steam train. Anger and frustration and so much resentment. I shouted at him and told him to leave me alone. Didn’t he understand what I was doing for him? Didn’t he see how hard it was? How dare he make me feel so worthless! Such a damn failure. I shouted terribly and he crumbled like a terrified child, but I kept on. I told him how unfair it was. This wasn’t what I planned for my life. I’ve spent my whole life caring for children, and now him. I told him I wanted my life back.’ She stopped, her head dropped, and she was quiet for a moment or two. ‘Then I walked out and left him. I went out of the front door, but as soon as I was on the doorstep, as soon as the breeze hit my face, I realized I had nowhere to go to. My life is with him. For better or worse. This is my lot and I knew I couldn’t leave, and I knew I could never put him in one of those dreadful places with people who don’t love him. How can you clean diarrhoea off a man if you don’t love him? The thought that he would be shut in a room, alone and unloved . . .’

  Then her face shattered like a stone might shatter a pane of glass, and tears began to tumble down her cheeks. She rubbed her lap faster, desperate to regain her composure. ‘I even thought about . . .’ She stopped talking and shook her head. ‘I was . . . lying next to him . . . and he was barely breathing. It was as if his body was only just holding on to life. So I got up and I kissed him, and I told him how very much I loved him and that I would see him soon, and then . . .’ She paused as crying swamped her words. ‘I took hold of my pillow . . . and I held it above his face.’

  Jon felt his stomach cave in.

  Kate reached for Lizzie’s shoulder.

  ‘I couldn’t do it,’ she whispered. ‘I just couldn’t.’ She looked up at her family. ‘You’re shocked, aren’t you? I can see by your faces. You’re asking yourselves how I could have even thought such a thing. What kind of person it makes me.’

  ‘It makes you a very normal, very human kind of person,’ said Kate, without a hint of blame or shock. She knelt. ‘Barbara, you don’t have to do this alone. You have us. We’ve been distracted, not thinking about you, and I am so sorry. We’re your family. We’re Peter’s family.’ Jon felt a tremendous rush of love for her. ‘We’ll get the house organized and bring you food. We’ll help every day. And if that’s not enough, if it’s still too much, he can come and stay with us.’

  ‘But you’ve so much on your plates,’ his mother said. ‘It’s not fair; you’re both exhausted. You’ve had such a dreadful time recently. I know there are things you’re not telling me to do with Anna. And Lizzie. It’s Lizzie who needs your time and support. Not me.’

  ‘I could move back,’ said Dan. They all looked at him. ‘I could come home and help. To be honest, I’m finding the whole New York thing rather dull now.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Daniel,’ his mother said fondly. ‘Thank you. But you are a disaster area. You can’t even look after yourself, let alone your father.’

  Jon and his brother exchanged a brief flash of understanding.

  ‘You know, Mother, there are lots of options,’ said Jon. ‘And we can help you decide which is the best.’

  ‘And if he needs to come and live with us, even for a short time, if you need a break or something, there’s Anna’s room,’ said Kate, her voice a little strained.

  Jon thought of their daughter’s room, just as she’d left it, and imagined them packing her things away, taking her toys off her bed, the make-up and jewellery off her dressing table, in order to move his father in. He reached for Kate and pulled her hand to his mouth and pressed it against his lips.

  ‘For now, though, I think Jon should take Dan to the airport while Lizzie and I stay here and tidy up a bit. We’re going to run you a nice warm bath, and you’re going to wash your hai
r and have a soak.’

  As Jon and Dan were leaving the house, Jon kissed his wife. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you, too.’

  ‘I won’t be long. I’ll drop him at Heathrow and turn right around.’

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘But we’ll be fine.’

  ‘I know.’ He walked out of the house and down the steps. Then he remembered the tortoiseshell comb. ‘Her comb is by the bed. Maybe she’d like to wear it.’

  The Girl in the Cage: Part II

  Lizzie and her mum worked quickly in the kitchen. It didn’t take too long, and though she wasn’t a massive fan of housework it felt great to be helping her grandmother. Seeing her so upset had shocked her because as far as she was concerned, the woman was made of rock. When Lizzie was seven Anna told her that their granny would never die because she was a white witch. Lizzie believed her, of course, and they used to spend hours poring over photo albums and picking out pictures of their grandmother that clearly showed she hadn’t aged a day in decades.

  ‘And that hair?’ Anna had said. ‘Only a real witch can have hair that long and white.’

  Lizzie sprayed Pledge on the cleared table and polished in big sweeping circles. She was glad her grandmother was clean and dressed again, and her hair had lost that crazy bedhead look. It hadn’t suited her.

  ‘Have you spoken to Haydn since you came out of hospital?’ her mum asked suddenly.

  Lizzie’s heart skipped. ‘Um, no,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe you should.’

  Lizzie nearly choked in surprise, and she stopped polishing.

  ‘I thought you didn’t want me anywhere near him.’ She couldn’t stop her heart thumping against her chest.

  ‘He saved your life.’ Her mum turned on the tap and squeezed some washing-up liquid into the sink.

  ‘But you said—’

  ‘I said many things, Lizzie, but we owe him a lot. And at the very least I think it’s right you thank him.’ Her mum said the words as if she were rehearsing them for a play.

  Lizzie nodded. ‘I would like to do that. I’d like to thank him.’

  Her mum tried to smile.

  Lizzie put the polish and duster on the table. ‘Can I call him now?’

  Her mum looked reluctant, nervous even, but nodded.

  Lizzie went through to the living room and then turned her phone on. There were dozens of missed calls from Haydn and four texts.

  Call me asap :L xx

  I need to talk to you!!! :s

  Please Lizzie my hearts breaking :((x

  Lizzie you have to call me

  She sat on the sofa and laid her head back and closed her eyes. Just those four texts filled her with glorious thoughts of him. But then, as easily as those things came into her head, so did the nasty stuff. Was this how it was always going to be? Her thoughts of Haydn forever tinged sour by spiking imaginations of his perverted dad and murdering mum?

  She picked up her phone and took a deep breath. Then she hesitated, resting the phone against her mouth, her mind turning over and over.

  No, she thought. You have to.

  He answered the call before the first ring had finished.

  ‘Lizzie?’ Just hearing his voice sent shivers down her spine.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’ He sounded desperate. ‘I called you loads.’

  ‘I know. My phone was off.’

  ‘We’re leaving.’

  ‘What do you mean, leaving?’

  ‘Me and my mum.’

  ‘Leaving where?’

  ‘Here. London. We’re going to stay with my nan in Leeds.’

  ‘Leeds! Oh my God. How long for?’

  ‘I don’t know. Mum says she can’t live in London any more.’

  ‘When are you going?’

  ‘She packed last night. We’re leaving this afternoon. I’ve been trying to call you.’

  Lizzie felt sick.

  ‘I want to see you,’ he said.

  ‘OK,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’ll come to yours, if that’s all right. I’ll get Mum to pick me up on the way.’

  Lizzie tried to say OK again, but she couldn’t speak because she was crying.

  ‘Lizzie?’

  ‘Yes,’ she managed. ‘I’m at my grandmother’s. I’ll leave now.’

  ‘I’ll be there soon.’

  Lizzie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Then she thought of Angela Howe. There was nobody in the world she hated more. ‘I don’t want to see your mum.’

  ‘No, OK.’

  Lizzie chewed on her lip to stop from crying.

  ‘Lizzie?’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I love you.’

  Lizzie hung up and then burst into wretched sobs.

  ‘Sweetheart?’ Her mum sat down beside her and rested a hand on her knee.

  ‘He’s leaving, Mum. She’s taking him away from me . . .’ She sniffed. ‘They’re going to Leeds . . . this afternoon.’

  Her mum hugged her tightly, resting her chin on the top of Lizzie’s head.

  ‘He wants to say goodbye to me. Is that all right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I said I’d meet him at home. I don’t want to see her.’

  Her mum let go of her and sat back. She carefully stroked her hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ears. ‘Do you want me to drive you?’

  ‘No, you finish with Granny. I’ll walk.’

  ‘OK,’ said her mum. ‘I won’t be long.’ Then she hesitated. ‘I won’t disturb you when I come in.’

  Lizzie flushed red.

  She ran most of the way home, stopping to walk a bit when the air in her lungs burned too much. She felt like the desperate heroine in a tragic love story, running through the streets to get to her lover, bumping shoulders with people, dodging dogs and bikes and bins. She half expected him to be waiting on the step when she got there, and when she saw he wasn’t she was a little disappointed. But then again, she was hot and sweaty, dirty from cleaning her grandmother’s house; it was probably better she cleaned herself up before he got there.

  She flew up the stairs two at a time and flung herself under the shower, then got dressed and dried her hair. She smoothed the flyaway strands down and put some mascara on. Her stomach twisted with nerves and dread; she felt as if she were making herself pretty for her own funeral. When she was finished, he still hadn’t come. She looked at the clock. It was nearly three. If he was leaving that afternoon there was hardly any time left; he had to be here soon. Her tummy teemed with nerves.

  Hurry up, she thought, where are you? We’ve so little time.

  She went into the living room to peer out of the window for the umpteenth time. She pressed her forehead against the glass and waited as time sloped past with hours for seconds. She remembered her grandparents’ shed. It was the last time they’d been together, not including when she was stung. She winced as she remembered her dad pulling her off him. She hoped she hadn’t made a mistake and tried not to think of her mother, who was surely worrying right now.

  Please, she thought, please let everything be all right between us.

  She needn’t have worried. When he finally appeared, her heart leapt and she squealed with joy as she jumped up.

  ‘Haydn, Haydn, Haydn,’ she whispered, and ran to the front door. She flung it open and jumped into his arms, kissing him all over his face and neck.

  He grinned and stroked her face with the back of his hand as he kissed the tip of her nose. She turned her head enough to kiss his wrist, but as she did, she tasted the metallic tang of blood. She took hold of his arm and looked at his wrist. A smattering of dried blood was visible below the line of his sleeve. He tried to pull away, but she held on and pushed his sleeve up his arm.

  ‘Haydn!’ she gasped. ‘What have you done?’

  There were new cuts. Lots of them. Parallel lines of dried and drying blood doodled into his scarred skin, with the skin b
etween inflamed and red. She touched her fingers over the cuts, then looked up at him and saw his eyes fill with tears. She lifted her hand and placed her palm on his cheek.

  ‘I thought you said you’d stopped doing that to yourself.’

  ‘I had,’ he said, pulling his sleeve down over his wrist to cover his arm. ‘It’s just, I don’t know, finding you on the floor like that, all blue, and you couldn’t breathe. I thought you were going to die.’ He took her hand and turned it over, then touched the small brown dot where the wasp had stung her. Her hand was still swollen, tight and red, and when he stroked her it tingled as if a thousand tiny needles pulsed against her. ‘If you’d died, Lizzie, my life would have been over. But you didn’t die. And I’ve never been so relieved and happy and, I don’t know, God, just so fucking grateful about anything ever.’ He reached for her hand and pulled it up to his mouth and kissed her.

  They pressed their foreheads together. She closed her eyes and breathed in the delicious, sweet smell of cigarettes and chewing gum on his warm breath.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ she whispered.

  ‘I have to.’ Haydn squeezed her hands. ‘She’s selling the house.’

  ‘But what about Manchester? We could still go.’

  ‘I can’t do that to her.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t leave her. She needs me.’

  Lizzie felt a smack to her gut. ‘But I need you too.’

  They stared at each other, his eyes flicking over her face, taking her in.

  The sound of a car horn made her jump.

  ‘That’s her,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ she breathed. ‘Not now.’ She glanced over his shoulder at their car, which had pulled up on the opposite side of the road, its roof rack piled high, the load covered by an electric-blue tarpaulin and lots of yellow bungee cords.

  Her stomach clenched; this couldn’t be happening.

  ‘Oh, God,’ Lizzie whispered, tucking herself tighter into Haydn. ‘She’s got out of the car.’ She gripped his shirt with both fists.