Keeping Secrets Crane

by Cindy Crane

  She’d already lost the only other person in her life she really loved. This baby was hers and hers alone. And it would be someone to love again, someone to ease the sadness that weighed like a heavy stone in her heart.

  Her mother took her side. She might have been disappointed that her bright, young daughter, with her whole life before her, had made such a stupid mistake, but she didn’t show it. Instead she shared her pain and her humiliation when he demanded to know who the father was, threatening to make him pay.

  He’d often scared her as a child with his stern manner and quick temper. But it didn’t compare to this. And Frankie knew exactly what he meant. He wasn’t talking money.

  Eyes red and sore with crying, she’d screamed back at him that she didn’t know. He might have dragged her away from Jake, but it didn’t stop her from sleeping with whoever she liked. And she liked it all right—liked it a lot.

  And she’d stood before him, chin raised in defiance, stretching his patience to the limit, daring him to do what he was desperate to do. He’d never hit her before, but he was close now. And that would be all the excuse she needed to pack her bags and leave. She didn’t know where she’d go, but anything had to be better than this.

  But he didn’t. Instead he turned to her mother and said coldly, “Ring an abortion clinic in the morning and get it dealt with. She’s not going to let a baby ruin her life.”

  “But you’re quite happy to do it instead,” Frankie shot back at him. The tears finally stemmed, replaced by anger, the coldness in her voice now matching his. They stood motionless, each regarding the other with recalcitrant eyes, mouths set in matching lines.

  For the first time, her father recognised he’d finally met his match, but he wasn’t ready to relinquish his parental responsibility yet. He just turned to his wife and said, “Do it.”

  And that was when her mother had surprised them both, her unexpected support driving Frankie to tears once more. Instead of meekly agreeing, she stood her ground and said, “No.”

  There’d been no anger in her voice then. As usual, she was calm. But her tone was firm.

  “No?” her father railed back. “No? She’s carrying someone’s bastard and you’re telling me no.”

  “It’s about time someone did,” she shot back.

  And that was when she lost it too, screaming at him that it was about time he stopped his bullying and started treating his daughter like a human being. She wasn’t a trophy to be paraded in front of his friends and to be forced into a career she didn’t want. It was nearly the twenty-first century and women could be single mothers and have careers and babies too. That the baby was the innocent party in all of this, a human being too, and didn’t deserve to be thrown away like a piece of rubbish—whoever the father was. And if he didn’t like it, then he could…. She’d paused for a long moment while searching for a suitable threat…“LUMP IT.”

  She’d shouted the last two words with such venom, but Frankie had almost laughed through her tears. They weren’t exactly the words she’d been thinking, but they certainly put him in his place because, funnily enough, against all the odds, he accepted it—eventually.

  He even grew to love Debs too. Mellowing a little—accepting that, perhaps he couldn’t do much with his wayward daughter—he began to realise he did have a second chance with his granddaughter.

  Frankie softened a little too and an uneasy truce began. Then, when she saw how besotted he was with his grandchild, she decided that, although she wasn’t going to pursue the career he wanted for her, she would at least work hard and give him reason to be proud of her.

  Even when she moved out, got a mortgage, he didn’t put up much resistance. He just suggested it was about time she got herself a husband to make an honest woman of her. He tried introducing her to some of his elite little circle: lawyers, barristers, even some boring, old judge. But eventually he accepted that she was her own woman, that neither she nor Debs would ever be anything other than what they wanted to be.

  But now it was happening all over again; the hard stares, her mother raising her voice, just like Debs had heard two weeks ago.

  Frankie stood just inside the front door, Debs by her side, wide-eyed and wondering. They exchanged uneasy glances. Debs had never heard her grandparents like this. And twice in a fortnight was definitely scary. The voices were coming from the kitchen.

  “When are you going to let this go? She’s a grown woman now, not a child. She’s a mother, independent. You can’t protect her forever. She’s far too clever to make stupid mistakes.”

  “Like she did last time? Being clever was what got her pregnant, was it? I had to do what I had to do. And a good job too, or else it could have been a lot worse than having some stranger’s bastard.”

  Frankie’s heart gave a lurch. Debs was looking at her in horror.

  “Don’t listen,” she said softly, shaking her head at her father’s cutting comment and the distress it was causing Debs. “Adults say stupid things they don’t mean sometimes.”

  “I can’t believe you just said that,” her mother shrieked, appalled at his callousness. “And I can’t believe you’re still trying to run her life. There’s nothing you can do about it now anyway. She’s going and that’s the end of it. And if she wants to see that boy again, then it’s her business and nobody else’s. She’ll soon realise her mistake if he’s as bad as you say he is. Pity it’s taken me so long to realise it with you. I don’t know why I’ve put up with it. I should have left you years ago.”

  Frankie’s heart skipped a beat. Was she hearing right: her mother talking about leaving her father?

  And they were talking about Jake too.

  Why?

  She knew her father had never liked him or his family. But why should they be arguing about him now? Just what was going on? What did her father know about him? Why was he so bad?

  She pushed the kitchen door open. Her mother’s cheeks were flushed pink with anger. Her father looked ready to explode.

  “Everything all right?” she asked tentatively. That was an understatement if ever she made one.

  Her mother pushed a strand of hair away from her red face and forced a smile, startled at being caught out—especially by Debs.

  “Yes. Yes. Of course,” she said, a little flustered. She looked at Debs. “Grandad and I are just having a difference of opinion, that’s all. Aren’t we?”

  She turned to her husband. At least he had the good grace to look sorry. Despite his earlier disparaging remark, his granddaughter was the light of his life, and she was looking quite distraught.

  She whisked Debs from the kitchen. “Come on. Let’s get your bags upstairs. Your room’s all ready and waiting.”

  Alone with her father, Frankie turned to him, jaw clenched, saying, “What was all that about?”

  In his slacks and sweater, he didn’t cut quite the fearsome figure he did in full uniform. He looked almost dejected. Maybe her mother’s outburst had hit a raw nerve.

  “Well?” she insisted at his silence.

  He shrugged. “I think your mother’s having a midlife crisis,” he answered indifferently.

  “So, it’s nothing to do with you, then?” Frankie said sarcastically.

  “You know what she’s like.”

  “Yes, I do know what she’s like. And I think she deserves a medal for putting up with you all these years.”

  His shoulders squared back. So his daughter was spoiling for a fight too. She just didn’t realise all this had been for her own good, and still was.

  They glared at each other in edgy silence.

  “You do know he would never have been any good for you,” he finally said. His tone was clipped, curt, and short. As far as he was concerned, it was the end of the discussion. Jake’s association with his daughter ended twelve years ago when they moved here. He wasn’t prepared to let it happen again. There was too much to lose.

  Except of course he was mistaken. The discussion, as far as Frankie was concerned,
was just beginning.

  They’d never mentioned Jake since the day they left. He’d driven a wedge between them that had never gone away, but now she needed to understand what he meant: why her father had done what he had to do? Frankie never uttered a word, just raised an eyebrow, inviting him to continue.

  Again, a cold pause followed before her father finally relinquished his silence. “He’s the son of an alcoholic and a junkie who fed her habits by going on the game—until she injected too much. What sort of life could he have given you with an upbringing like that?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied coldly. “I never got the chance to find out.” He wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know.

  “You were a child,” he went on. “You didn’t know your own mind. He’d have groomed you: sent you out on the streets too; pimped you like his father did his mother.” He paused for a moment to allow his words to sink into that stubborn brain of hers. “That night, when you all ended up at Brigg Street nick, we found drugs at his place too, you know.”

  Now that she hadn’t known.

  Her father saw the flicker of uncertainty flit across her otherwise calm expression. So he forged ahead. He was in the driving seat now.

  “He was already dealing.”

  Their eyes locked, and for a moment Frankie couldn’t find the words to reply, to defend Jake. A pulse flickered in her throat at her father’s claim.

  “He never told you?” Her father couldn’t help the patronizing smirk. Of course he hadn’t. That had been part of the deal.

  She shook her head slowly, trying to comprehend what her father was saying. Jake hated drugs and what they did to people’s lives. He told her often enough. Her father must have been wrong.

  “He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Not drugs,” she eventually said. “He was devastated by what they did to his mother. It must have been a mistake.”

  This time her father shook his head.

  “It was no mistake. Jake Wilkes was involved in something big—really big. And the stuff they were bringing in was so bad a girl died. We just thanked our lucky stars I’d got my promotion down here and were able to get you away from him before he dragged you down to his level too. We were working on the case and there was nothing he’d have liked more than to rub our noses in it by producing his trump card—you.”

  Chapter 16

  Frankie’s brain was in turmoil—her mind a carousel of nagging thoughts and doubts.

  Jake—involved in dealing drugs?

  And involved in a girl’s death?

  No, she still wouldn’t believe it.

  If things had been as bad as that, why hadn’t her father told her back then?

  Well, that was easier to answer—because she wouldn’t have believed him back then either.

  But more to the point: she wouldn’t have cared.

  Yet what about those unresolved issues he’d said needed dealing with before he came for her? What had that been all about?

  And what was it that still needed more time to sort out—even now? What trouble had he been in?

  What trouble was he still in?

  She asked her father outright if Jake had gone to prison. That would certainly explain everything—why he didn’t contact her; why he never replied to her letters; why he still didn’t want to talk about it.

  He said no. In the end, evidence was circumstantial. But it didn’t mean he was innocent.

  No! She couldn’t believe ill of him; she wasn’t even going there. She wasn’t going to let her father slip more troublesome suspicions into her already-bewildered mind. She wouldn’t have believed him back then, she told herself. She wasn’t going to now. Her father must have got it wrong.

  But nevertheless, by the time she reached Jake’s place, she was totally exhausted—from too much thinking and too much wondering.

  People said love was blind.

  Was she so blinded by her love for Jake she couldn’t see him for what he really was?

  Chapter 17

  Jake had been on the lookout for Frankie’s red sports car for over an hour. She’d phoned to say she was setting off and he couldn’t contain his excitement—or the trepidation.

  She’d sounded a little edgy, tense, not quite the prelude to the night of passion he was anticipating. Maybe she was having second thoughts.

  She’d certainly raised a few eyebrows last time she was here; her red sports car parked at the foot of the high-rise block of flats where he lived. His neighbour had already asked what a classy bird in her chic outfit and even classier car was doing with a bit of rough like him.

  And he was right. What was she doing with him? She’d always been so sophisticated. That was what made her so different from everyone else.

  He remembered the first time he set eyes on her. She’d been standing, in her tight jeans and tiny boob tube, trying her hardest to look part of the lager-swilling, cigarette-smoking little band of teenagers with whom she knocked around. Rays of sunshine danced across her lightly tanned shoulders and her hair cascaded down her back, curls of autumn fire threading its long tresses. Her fingers were gingerly pinching the butt of a cigarette as she attempted to drag the nicotine-laced smoke into her body, blowing it out quickly before it had chance to reach the back of her throat.

  He was entranced by the vision of loveliness, just standing and watching how her eyes lit up, as she laughed and joked with her friends; while they commandeered the wall at the edge of the children’s playground in the local park.

  He didn’t really know why he’d gone there. He’d long since stopped hanging about with the local teenagers. But the day had been bright and sunny, and he was sick to death of cleaning up after his alcoholic father. The flat was an absolute shit tip—too much heat, too much smoke, and too much noise from the banal television programmes the unemployed drunk zonked out in front of all day.

  It was about time he took the bull by the horns and got his own place. He’d taken responsibility for him for too long now. So he’d gotten into his old, battered van and done a runner, until he stopped in the car park and decided to stretch his legs and stroll round the park; until his anger subsided and guilt eventually drove him back to his father.

  The path led him to the playground, as it did with everyone else who followed its route. And teenagers weren’t exempt, although the noise they were making showed in the irritation plastered on young mothers’ faces as they played with their toddlers. Especially as the sweet smell of weed, drifting on the warm summer air, suggested this group were up to no good. At least she had the good sense to refuse a drag on it as a spotty youth offered her the spliff. There again, she was struggling enough with the cigarette. And he couldn’t resist the smile creeping to his lips; thoughts of his father banished to the outer reaches of his mind. He was spellbound.

  As if sensing she was being watched, she turned her face to him. He didn’t even look away. Just did what all pretentious, young bucks do— decided to show off.

  He took a bigger, longer drag on his cigarette and took the smoke as far into his lungs as he could. Then, blowing it out, watched smoke rings rise gently into air, increasing in size as they got higher, until they finally dispersed into the fresher air above.

  She cocked her head so prettily, slightly raising her eyebrows, pretending not to be impressed. And as his already-pounding heart somersaulted in his chest, he wished in that moment he could have blown love hearts instead.

  But when he’d done it again, all she did was roll her eyes and look away.

  Show off , she was saying without even moving her lips.

  But it was for only a second. Because when she looked back their eyes locked, the connection made. And her lips twisted into a mischievous little smile before she too took a longer drag on her cigarette, trying her hardest to look mega-sophisticated. Though she didn’t need to try—she already was.

  Then the harsh, acrid fumes hit the back of her throat and caught her breath, nudging at her gag reflex. She coughed and coughed a
nd coughed again. Until her friends turned to her and laughed at her demise, offering no help as she whooped every in-breath, struggling to feel the relief of untainted air in her throat and lungs.

  He’d flipped his tab end and scooted across, the top already off his cola bottle. Her eyes were swimming with tears, her face as red as a beetroot, unable to stop. He patted her lovely back, and then rested one hand on a delightful shoulder, his thumb stroking across the tense muscle—easing her, calming her.

  “Here, drink this,” he offered, and watched mesmerised as she placed those lovely lips around the top of the bottle, eagerly drinking the cooling fluid in between bouts of coughing until it finally subsided.

  He stayed with her as her friends slowly slipped away, eager to dispose of the spliff. As far as they were aware, he could be anyone. And they didn’t want anyone grassing them up. Only Carly stayed for a while, fussing round her in an attempt to make an impression on the new guy. But as Frankie looked up at him, not in the least fazed by the episode or her mascara-smudged eyes and snotty nose, she gave an almighty sniff, wiped the tears with her fingers, and gave him a huge grin. Carly could stick her feigned concern. She was the one who’d pulled, not her. And Carly soon got the message and disappeared with the rest.

  Frankie kicked the remnants of the cigarette away.

  “That’s the last time I smoke one of those,” she said in disgust, meeting his gaze with such openness his heart could do nothing more than somersault all round his ribcage.

  It bounced across every rib, ringing bells until it reached his skull, where an almighty claxon exploded. And this time, his breath caught in his throat, as she totally bowled him over with her smile.

  She didn’t belong with this crowd. Even he could see that, knowing exactly where their flirtation with drink and drugs would eventually take them. So he made a promise there and then: he’d never dream of taking her away from her friends, but he’d make damned sure Frankie never became a part of their drug culture. He might have dragged himself up, with no mother or father to speak of, but he knew right from wrong. And what they were doing was wrong. In fact, after his parents’ antics, he was lucky not to have ended up in care. But he’d managed it, somehow.