by Clare Boyd
Noah pulled away from Rosie and jumped onto the bed. I lifted the baby up, away from his bounce. Her newness, her smallness, was exaggerated by Noah’s boisterousness. ‘Careful Noah.’
‘Can I stroke her?’ Noah asked, peering into her face.
‘Yes. But be gentle here,’ I said, brushing my hand where her skull bones had not yet met.
‘She’s got greasy hair,’ Noah noted, pressing his fingers across her bald head. She didn’t have much hair. A few wisps of blonde, like Noah had had when he was as new as her, and so unlike Rosie’s full, dark head.
I looked over to Rosie.
‘Can I hold her?’ Rosie asked, placing a little present bag by her feet.
I hesitated, wondering if I could depend on Rosie yet. And then shame shadowed my heart. I had been trying so hard to trust her, and here came the real test.
‘If you sit down there on that chair, I’ll hand her to you.’
Carefully, I heaved my battered body from the bed and placed the swaddled bundle of my youngest daughter into my eldest’s arms. Rosie glanced up at me briefly, proudly. The newest Bradley woke up, taking for granted her big sister’s presence, and closed her sleepy eyelids again, comfortable where she was.
A few minutes later, my mother arrived. There were gasps and balloons and presents. Distracted for a moment, I took my eye off the baby.
‘I brought you some food. Hospital toast is the pits,’ Mum said, pulling out one snack after another.
Then I heard the baby’s mewling cry. I looked over. Rosie was pressing her index finger into one of her baby sister’s tiny eye sockets.
‘Stop that, Rosie!’ I flew at her, and lifted the baby out of her arms. ‘What were you doing?’
Rosie flinched, guilt flushing her cheeks. ‘I promise I wasn’t pressing hard.’
My instinct was to punish her, to send her out of the room, to ban her from holding the baby ever again.
‘I was just seeing if she could wink.’
‘Oh,’ I sighed, catching Peter’s eye. A flicker of concern and doubt crossed his face. We had asked the clinic in Prague to resend us Kaarina Doubek’s profile information, which we had then talked through with Rosie. Now I feared it had been too much for her, too soon.
‘She’s too young, darling.’
‘But I still can’t do it,’ she whined.
And again, it was all about Rosie, when it should have been about the new baby.
‘Real ladies don’t wink or whistle,’ my mother stated, missing the point.
Rosie’s chin wobbled and her eyes watered. ‘I only wanted to see if she could do it, like you and Noah can.’
I had to remember that Rosie was taking her own baby steps, and it was a small measure of progress that she was communicating her real feelings to me, rather than bottling them up.
I pushed aside my resentment, handed the baby over to Peter and knelt down beside her. ‘Rosie, it doesn’t matter. You can do lots of other wonderful, clever things, which you’ll be able to teach your baby sister in time. You will always be my big girl, and don’t you forget it.’
When I looked into Rosie’s face, I noticed that my firm reassurance had calmed her, as though a veil of anxiety had slipped from her face.
‘What have you got there?’ I smiled, nodding at the little bag she had put by her feet earlier, feeling relieved there was a distraction, but weary of the longer struggle ahead of us: managing Rosie, managing the baby, remembering that Noah needed me too. I hoped the full year of maternity leave had been the right decision. It was going to be a steep learning-curve.
‘I forgot!’ she gasped, presenting me with a dusky pink posy of sweet peas. ‘They’re from Mrs E. She left them on our doorstep. It’s got a note.’
My empty womb cramped up. ‘She knows where we live?’
I looked over at Peter, who shrugged, possibly wondering why it mattered. I had not told him what I had done. I had not told him about the call I had made to the police after we had moved away from Virginia Close; a safe distance away, to our pretty, beamed cottage in a village near the coast.
With a shiver, I read the little card.
Dear Gemma,
Congratulations on your new baby girl.
Sweet peas are happiest with their heads in the sun, free and innocent, and their roots deep in freshly-turned earth. I thought they might suit her, a spring baby.
Love from,
Mira and The Chickens.
I dropped the note as though it had burnt my fingers.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Peter said, alarmed.
The references to freedom and innocence and freshly turned earth, and those bloody chickens, was a subtle message from Mira. She must have known that the anonymous phonecall to the police had come from me. Not that it had amounted to anything. Barry’s doleful photograph was still languishing on the police’s missing persons list somewhere in the system, alongside millions of other lost faces. One heated argument overheard by a neighbour – with a suspected grudge – was not enough to justify digging up her garden. Mira had covered her tracks too well.
‘Has she said something horrible?’ Rosie asked protectively, her face falling.
‘No. It’s nothing.’ I discarded the flowers on the side table.
Peter picked up the note and read it to himself.
‘Sunshine and strong roots. Sounds like she’s trying to say sorry.’
‘She’s talking about her own freedom,’ I mumbled.
‘Why?’
‘Never mind.’
‘She was a weirdo,’ Noah said.
‘I agree,’ I said, when usually I would tell him off for being so rude.
‘She seemed much jollier after Barry left her,’ Peter mused.
‘Cruel thing to do, to leave her in the lurch like that just because she wanted to find her son,’ Helen added.
‘He should have known better than to come between a mother and her child,’ I said cryptically. And I looked over to Rosie, who grinned at me, as though she, too, suspected what lay beneath the chicken coop.
And maybe she did. I have learnt that children pick up on so much more than we ever give them credit for.
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A Letter from Clare
Dear Reader,
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I hope that you enjoyed Little Liar. Maybe it diverted you from real life for a few hours. I am an avid reader myself, and I find that the escape of reading is essential for my sanity! If you want to stay updated on what I’m writing next, please sign up to my mailing list here and we’ll keep you in the loop:
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The writing of Little Liar was a different kind of escape. The process was harrowing at times, and quite unsettling. I had to go to places in my head that were more than a little uncomfortable.
The idea for the book took hold after a conversation with a fellow mother at a coffee morning. Sheepishly, she confessed to shouting so loudly at her children that she was worried the neighbours would be straight on the phone to Social Services. I admitted to having had that same fear. Thankfully, my neighbours have given me the benefit of the doubt, so far!
But in Gemma’s case, the worst happens. Through Gemma, my aim was to unravel the volatile, stormy side of motherhood, and explore the extremes of emotion that children can trigger in a parent. I wanted to push that idea, and push Gemma, until she blows.
In our modern world, so many of us are struggling through parenting in our isolated bubbles, feeling inadequate, stressed-out and over-tired. Often, we are hundreds of miles from grandparents, and too ashamed to ask for help from our friends. If you are one of those parents – as I am – I hope that this book might provide some reassurance that you are not alone!
I
f you liked Little Liar please do write a review to encourage others to read it. If nothing else, it would make my day brighter. In addition, there is nothing like a bit of old-fashioned word-of-mouth to get a book into a reader’s hands, so spread the word at your book clubs or at the office or on the bus.
Please email me if you like, or follow me on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram. See below for details. Little Liar is my first published book, and I would be thrilled to hear from readers outside of my immediate circle of friends and family.
Thank you for taking the time to read my book.
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With very best wishes,
Clare
Acknowledgements
My thanks go to the many people who have helped me – in many different ways – to write this book:
Firstly, I want to thank my agent, Broo Doherty, whose faith in me continues to amaze me; without whom, I would have given up writing years ago. Thank you, Broo, for making me laugh when I wanted to cry. And to everyone at Bookouture, particularly Jessie Botterill, whose incisive editing skills pushed me to write a better book. And to Peta Nightingale for seeing the book’s potential. I am so grateful to them for their enthusiasm and encouragement.
I am indebted to my friend Maria, who supplied invaluable information about police procedure in cases of suspected child abuse, and who inspired some key story twists. I would not have been able to write this book without her help.
Special thanks to Simon, my soulmate, who built me a writing shed all those years ago. His unerring belief in my work underpins every word that I write.
And to my two beautiful girls, whose supportive hugs keep me going. Neither of them are anything like Rosie (most of the time)!
The next thank you goes to a group of women who did not have a direct link to the editorial processes of this book, but they have been integral to its completion. I don’t have to list their names, they know who they are. Thank you to those life-enhancing friends who have respected my shed routines, listened for hours to my whinging and celebrated with real joy when I found a publisher.
Lastly, I want to thank my mother. She is my inspiration. I want to thank her for reading every draft of every book that I have ever written. Her intelligence and sensitivity and talent continues to influence me on a daily basis. I will never tire of our lengthy ‘book chats’. Thanks forever, Mum.
Published by Bookouture
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An imprint of StoryFire Ltd.
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
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www.bookouture.com
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Copyright © Clare Boyd 2018
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Clare Boyd has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-78681-396-1