In Her Wake

by Amanda Jennings

  ‘Shush,’ he soothes. ‘It can’t be that bad.’

  I curl into him, and his chest feels warm and strong. I let him steer me back to his room, where we sit on his unmade bed. The room smells of aftershave and hair gel and clothes that need washing. I pull my knees up to my chin. More tears come, rolling down my cheeks as my body heaves with silent sobs. His body presses against mine and he rests a hand on my knee.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  And then I tell him everything.

  Once I start, once the barricade is breached, I can’t stop, and he is perfect. He doesn’t interrupt, he looks shocked then alarmed then sympathetic. He shakes his head in disbelief. He strokes my hair. There is no trace of blame or judgement. And at last, when the truth is out, I feel free, like one of the gulls on the thermals above the surging ocean. Not Bella, not Tori, not even Morveren, but a chaotic composite of all three strange and tragic parts.

  He brushes my tears away with his hand. I look up at him and lie backwards, pulling him with me, fumbling for the buttons on his jeans, desperate to have him inside me, to feel connected to something real, something life-affirming. We make love and I give everything of myself to him. I give him the real me. I am charged with emotion and his every touch feels electric, as if we are the only two people on the planet, as if, outside his closed door there is nothing, just a white, empty void that holds this room and this bed and the two of us suspended.

  I arch my body up to meet his lips, listen to his whispers in my ear, run my hands over the tiger that prowls his back, and think of nobody else but myself. Dawn, David, my mother, my father mouldering away in that dank house in Bristol, the loathsome effigies of Elaine and Henry, all of them are gone.

  When I wake, I am alone. I look at my watch. It’s nearly nine. I pull the duvet over my shoulder and turn on my side, smile as I remember the way he understood, the way his face was soft with kindness and compassion. But then I remember the awful fight I had with Dawn. I flinch at the things we said to each other. And then her television. That was unforgivable of me, however cross I was, however upset. She has had over two decades of caring for our mother and was only a child when she first had that responsibility thrust upon her. Of course she was going to have some quirks and habits.

  I return to my own room and shower and dress in clean clothes and then grab my purse. As I come down into the reception area Fi calls to me.

  ‘Hey, there was a girl here last night. She was in a bit of a state, crying and that, she could barely speak. She asked me to give you this.’ Fi reached below the counter and retrieved the graffitied shoebox tied round with string from the shelf in Dawn’s bedroom.

  ‘Did she ask to see me?’

  ‘No. Just wanted you to have the box.’

  I return to my room and sit on the bed, then I open the box. Inside are letters, lots and lots of letters, and a note scrawled on a scrap of paper on top of them.

  Dear Morveren

  I want you to have these. You were always with me. I thought about you every day – for all sorts of reasons. The thought of you was sometimes the only thing that kept me going. Come back when you feel you can.

  We need to talk.

  Dawn

  I guess there are about a hundred letters. Each one is dated. Some are long and some are only a few lines.

  I pick up the first one and I don’t break until I’ve read them all.

  SIXTY-ONE

  AGED 8:

  Dear Morveren,

  Dad got cross today. He shouted so loud and he smelled nasty, like beer and I thort he will hit me again. He said I was bad because I lost you. Then mummy cried and we went to the church. It was boring but she got me crisps from the pub. I love crisps but I miss you lots.

  Love Dory

  AGED 9:

  Dear Morveren,

  Dad went mad today. proper mad. He held a broken bottle on my cheek and squeezed my neck so hard I thought all the breath would go out of me. mum was screaming and then she was hitting him and then he went out and banged the door. mum was just still and her eyes coudnt even see me even when I shouted at her. Then she just said I’m sorry and she hasnt said anything more. Not even one word. I dont like how she stares at nothing. Nan said she so sad the shock of dad hurting me has made her go depressed. I dont like it at all.

  Love Dory

  AGED 11:

  Dear Morveren,

  Today we had a maths test! And I came top!!! I thought mum might be happy when I told her but she didn’t seem that happy. All she does is stare out of the window, waiting for you. Well, that’s what nan says. I really like Craig. He’s my only friend actually. And his mum and dad are really nice too. His mum makes cakes and puts them in a tin with Lady Diana on it and we just help ourselves! I am so glad she asked me round for tea that day. How are you? I hope you are ok and I really am sorry I let you go. Not a very good big sister. I hope you don’t hate me!!!! (I wouldn’t be surprised if you did.)

  Love Dory

  AGED 15:

  Dear Morveren,

  It’s two days after Christmas. I thought about ending it on Christmas Day. I keep thinking about when you went and that if I’d just looked after you right then none of this would be like it is. I was looking at Mum when we had our Christmas dinner. I’d put a paper hat on her head and pulled two crackers. I even found this turkey-flavoured soup. I gave her a new blanket (it was in Woolworths and was half price because the lady said there was a mark on it, though I looked and couldn’t see any mark at all!) Anyway, when I saw Mum sitting there with this blank face on her, not even a flicker of happiness to be spending Christmas with me, I thought about taking a load of pills and just, well, going. But then I tried to think of who would look after Mum and there’s nobody. She only has me. There isn’t even anybody checking in who would find me and take her somewhere safe. She would just starve to death. I find it so hard looking after her all the time and not being able to go out and stuff. God, that sounds selfish, doesn’t it? Sometimes I hate her. But writing that makes me feel bad because I love her so much. I just wish she’d speak to me.

  Give my love to Granddad and Nan. I miss them ever so much.

  Love Dawn

  AGED 16:

  Dear Morveren,

  I need to tell you something. Something so awful I can barely write the words. I’m pregnant. You’re the first person I’ve told. I’m scared and I don’t know what to do. I feel so sick. I’m quite far gone, I think. There’s a bump already. I don’t know. I should go to the doctor, shouldn’t I? And I should tell Craig, but I don’t know how to. I wish you were alive so I could talk to you. I reckon you’d know just what to do.

  Love Dawn

  AGED 16:

  Dear Morveren,

  I had my baby yesterday! I called her Stacey Morveren Cardew-Tremayne. Stacey is my favourite name, and Morveren, well that’s after you! The hyphen is funny, isn’t it? Sounds so posh! But it’s not though, it’s just Craig’s surname and ours pushed together. Stacey is so pretty and has loads of hair. I think her eyes will be green like ours, though the midwife said it’s hard to tell for a few weeks. Right now they are a dark bluey colour, but I can definitely see green. Having her hurt like anything! (She’s your niece. Isn’t that weird?)

  Tell Nan she’s a great-nan!

  Love Dawn

  AGED 16:

  Dear Morveren,

  So the bastards at social services said I can’t keep Stacey. She’s only six days old and they’re going to take her from me. They say I can’t look after her. They came round on a surprise visit and said the flat was unhygienic. The bloody cheek! I told them it was none of their fucking business but they said it is their business if there’s a baby and they think the baby might get sick. As if I’d let her get sick! They said I should put Mum in a home but there’s no way. NO WAY. She’s my mother. How can I leave her in some home being looked after by strangers? I told them that, so they said they’d take my baby. I didn’t know people could do tha
t. I hate them all. Stacey is the most beautiful thing in my life. I want to run away with her and Mum. But how can I?

  Love Dawn

  AGED 16:

  Dear Morveren,

  Craig and his mum and dad are going to look after Stacey. The social services says it’s a good idea. I’m so sad she’s leaving me but I’m relieved she’s not going into care. I’m not sure if Craig is totally ok with it, but neither of us wants her in a kids’ home. His mum and dad have been brilliant. His mum has sorted her shifts out so she can look after her while Craig works. He’s going part time at the video shop, but hopefully he’ll get a better job soon. He has all these plans! I’ve told him and his mum that soon as I can, I’ll have her back. I need to sort myself out, get on top of it all. There is no way I would have let Stacey go anywhere with strangers, but these people love her and I know she’ll be happy. Craig will be a good dad. Not like ours. Craig will be kind and will never, ever hurt her. I know that.

  Love Dawn

  AGED 16:

  Dear Morveren,

  Craig and his mum came and took her today. I’d packed her clothes in a plastic bag, and put in the nappies and the milk and her little teddy bear. I sat up with her all night long. I put my nose against her hair and just breathed her, and then I stroked her little cheek and told her how much I loved her and how sorry I was and that when she grows up I hope she forgives me. Last night I nearly changed my mind. Thought about putting Mum in a home and keeping Stacey with me. But who would love Mum if it’s not me? Nobody would love her, nobody would care for her, and what kind of life is that? At least Stacey will be with her dad and her nan and granddad. And I can see her of course. Craig and his mum came with this lovely pram they bought from an ad in the back of the paper and his mum knitted her a pretty blanket. Seeing it made me cry buckets! When Craig held his hands out for Stacey, I couldn’t hand her over. There was this voice in my head screaming ‘Don’t take my baby’. But Craig needed to get back to settle her before work, and he couldn’t wait around all day so I gave her to him. It felt like he was pulling a bit of my body off. I sat in the kitchen asking myself over and over why I’ve given up the most important thing in the world? How can a mother live without her baby? I can see why Mum went quiet now. And then I looked around the kitchen and I saw the state of it. How many dirty pans there were, the bin overflowing so that rubbish and our clothes are in crumpled heaps everywhere. I went into the bathroom and saw the toilet dirty, the sink with this black grime all round it, more clothes and rubbish. Maybe if the cow from social services had seen it tidy and clean she might not have said she’d take Stacey. So I went and bought all this cleaning stuff. I bought a massive bottle of bleach and bin bags and I started cleaning. I worked all day and night and I scrubbed and scrubbed and cried all the time I did it, and my hands hurt with the chemicals and the scrubbing but it was a good hurt, like it was my punishment for letting go of your hand. If only I’d held on. I miss Stacey, Morveren. I miss my baby.

  Love Dawn

  AGED 19:

  Dear Morveren,

  I thought today you might not ever have existed. You could be made up. I can’t remember your face and as far as I know you might just be a story everyone told me. I wish this was true, because if you never existed then you wouldn’t be here with me all the time. You are though, Morveren. You’re here with me all the time. Like a ghost.

  Love Dawn

  AGED 21:

  Dear Morveren,

  Craig asked me to marry him again today. I said no as usual. What else could I say? I can’t do it. Everything I have – all my energy – goes to Mum. He said he loved me and then he cried. That was hard. I’ve never seen him cry before. That was really hard. Did I tell you Stacey starts school in September? Well, she does. I’m going to make sure she works as hard as she can so she can do something with her life. I tell her to live every day to its full because life is precious, isn’t it? You and I both know that. Mum’s OK, but God it’s quiet. Even after all these years I still get a headache from the quiet.

  I wish more than anything I had my sister to talk to.

  Love always

  Dawn

  SIXTY-TWO

  The sky above me is deep grey with heavy rainclouds and the wind sends leaves and dust scurrying around me in angry whirls. I stand on the doorstep for some minutes, wracked with nerves. We had set on each other like filthy pit bulls in a ring, poisoned the waters that ran between us. How can we face each other after all we said? And those letters. Those heartbreaking letters.

  My heart thumps in my chest as footsteps approach the door. Then the latch. The handle turning. The door opens and there she is. Her eyes are puffy and red. Her hair bedraggled, her clothes are those she wore yesterday, now crumpled from sleeping. We look at each other for only a few seconds before we fall into a hug that feels like the first and last in the world.

  There is no sign of the broken television or the box with the cat. I don’t mention either. Mum is sitting at the kitchen table. She is dressed in a clean, pressed blue shirt and a pair of beige trousers. In place of her usual slippers she has a pair of brown slip-on shoes and her hair is brushed and styled neatly with two combs. She has a hint of lipstick on her lips and her eyes shine out of freshly powdered skin. When she sees me, she smiles.

  ‘Mum,’ I say. ‘Don’t you look beautiful?’

  ‘Dawn did it.’

  Dawn looks at me. ‘You were right. About lots of things.’

  ‘I read your letters. Every one.’

  We both sit down with Mum at the table and Dawn and I talk. We speak about going forward, about giving all three of us time to adjust. We speak about how we shouldn’t underestimate the enormity of the trauma we are dealing with, that this will take time and patience and understanding. I tell them that sometimes, often when I’m least expecting it, I find myself missing my old life and how confused this makes me.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Stacey?’

  Dawn looks down at her hands. ‘I couldn’t find a way. I kept wanting to and then I clammed up with guilt. I didn’t want you to hate me or judge me. And every time I thought about telling you I imagined how awful it would sound, that I gave my baby up. I didn’t think you’d understand. I should have been braver.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what it must have been like to give her up. Was there no way you could do both?’

  The question sounds harsher once it’s out of my mouth and I worry for a moment that she will become defensive, but she doesn’t. She nods a little, the look on her face resigned and a touch regretful.

  ‘Maybe. I was young, and … I did try … but I couldn’t manage. Looking back I think I made a mistake, but at the time?’ She shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I knew I could never have found anyone to care for Mum like I did, but Craig and his parents loved Stacey and would look after her perfectly. Better than me…’ She trails off as the sadness of reliving what happened eclipses her ability to talk.

  ‘What’s she like?’

  Dawn’s face immediately lights up. ‘Oh, she’s incredible. Such an amazing girl. She’s growing into the most confident, independent woman. And she’s beautiful.’ Dawn grins at me. ‘Though obviously I’m biased. She’s clever, too. Works hard and did brilliantly in her exams.’

  ‘I’d love to meet her.’

  ‘I’d love that too.’

  Mum seems to follow to our conversation as much as possible. I worry that talk of Stacey might confuse or upset her, but she remains passive, taking sips of tea and occasionally looking at one of us and nodding. At one point I hold her hand and she closes her fingers around me.

  Dawn notices and smiles and then takes hold of her other hand.

  ‘My sunrise and my mermaid,’ whispers Mum. ‘My two girls.’

  Then she eases her hands from ours and stands.

  Dawn stands too and takes her elbow. ‘I’ll help you, Mum.’ Then she does a slight double take and looks at me. ‘Unless you want to?’

  I shake my
head and Dawn leads Mum out of the kitchen. I go to the sink and rinse a cloth beneath the tap, squeeze it out and wipe the table down.

  When Dawn returns, I say, ‘We need to have a chat about our father, about Mark Tremayne. I need to work out what to do about the house in Bristol.’

  Dawn is about to reply when a loud knock at the door interrupts her and makes me jump. ‘Who could that be?’ she asks, her face showing surprise.

  ‘Not Craig?’

  ‘No, he’s taking Stacey up to college. She needs help taking her art display down.’

  There’s another loud knock.

  ‘I’ll get it.’ I walk out of the kitchen and down the corridor. Mum is standing at the threshold of her room, staring at the front door. Her hands are playing with the hem of her shirt.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum.’

  I open the door and a strong gust of wind, wet with drops of rain, hits my face.

  I gasp in shock.

  A group of people, two of them holding long-lens cameras, hover on the doorstep. A woman in a tailored, ivory suit with a raincoat over the top that flaps in the wind at her sides, her dark hair secured in a tight pony tail, holds a microphone. There’s a van behind them with the The Cornish Herald logo emblazoned across it.

  ‘We are hoping to talk to Morveren Tremayne. Is she in?’

  She lifts her eyebrows and smiles. A man starts fiddling with his camera and points the lens at me. I hear the heavy click of a picture being captured. I stare at the unfamiliar faces gathered in a pack. Dawn comes up behind me. I turn helplessly.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she says.

  My mouth opens, but no words come out. Panic takes hold of me, twists my stomach into a tight, uncomfortable ball as the outside world rushes into the flat like air into a vacuum. Why are they here? How did they find out?

  Mum appears beside me.

  The ivory-suit woman starts talking. Her microphone points at us like a weapon. She looks at Alice. ‘Mrs Tremayne,’ she says in a clipped voice that has none of the soft Cornish tones I’d become used to. ‘How did you feel when you lost your daughter in France? Were you happy with the way the French police handled it? What are your feelings now she’s back?’