‘Beth! I … sorry, I was just tidying these … Is everything OK?’
She pulled the headphones from her ears and waved the papers vaguely at me, her cheeks glowing, then turned and put them back on the desk.
‘Sorry,’ she said again. ‘I … I wasn’t …’
‘It’s OK, Robin. Sorry to have sneaked up on you like that. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’ve just popped back to pick up some files. I forgot them and I need them today,’ I said.
‘Oh! Right, well … I’ll get out of your way. I’m pretty much done in here anyway,’ she said, and, picking up her duster and polish, she scuttled from the room.
I stared after her for a moment, wondering. Had she really just been tidying up the papers, or was she flicking through them as I’d thought when I first walked into the room? I picked the pages up and examined them. Nothing particularly interesting – a few bills, confirmation from the council that I’d paid my green waste bin subscription. And to be fair, if I were cleaning somebody’s house, I’d probably glance at papers left lying on a desk too. It’s human nature, isn’t it? She did have to move them to dust, after all. And so I’d let it go, forgotten about it. There’d been a couple of other things though, after that … similar incidents when I’d walked into a room to find her opening drawers she had no need to open, when I noticed that my passport was on a different shelf in my bedside cupboard, and that documents were out of order in my in-tray. I’d let those go too. Robin was a treasure too valuable to lose over a little bit of nosiness, curiosity, whatever you wanted to call it. I needed her.
Half an hour later we’re settled at a window table at Sunrise Lodge, the small hotel perched on the side of the hill, its coffee lounge famous for its homemade cakes. It’s busy this morning. A steady stream of hikers and dog walkers wanders in and out, and the staff weave their way between tables, heavily laden trays held high. I’ve plumped for a slice of cheesecake, Ruth’s gone for carrot cake, and the waiter has just put an enormous piece of Victoria sponge down in front of Deborah, vanilla buttercream oozing from its middle. It’s making me wish I’d ordered that too, now.
When we arrived, I told the girls that today was my treat, only to realise when we sat down that I’d forgotten my purse, credit cards, the lot. So much for telling myself everything is fine. My head is so messed up at the moment it’s a wonder I’m not leaving the house in my pyjamas. I can’t say that though, even to my friends, so I just roll my eyes and apologise profusely for being such an airhead.
Ruth reaches over and pats my arm.
‘Shush, it’s fine. You’ve just got a lot on your mind, that’s all. Work and the kids and everything else. You just need to chill a bit.’
Deborah nods.
‘You’ve been more stressed than usual lately, Beth. Thinking someone’s following you and all that stuff? Have you thought about talking to someone, maybe? Someone professional, I mean? I know some great counsellors. Just one or two sessions would probably be enough to help you with some relaxation techniques. What do you think?’
She picks up her cake and takes a big bite.
‘Yum,’ she mumbles, and licks a blob of jam off her lower lip.
I shrug.
‘Maybe. I have been quite stressed. I’ll think about it. Thanks.’
I probably won’t, though. I’ve had counselling before, you see. Back then, back when the bad things happened. And it was fine – good even. It helped. But now?
They’d ask me to explain, wouldn’t they? They’d try to get to the root of what’s making me so anxious. It’s what they do. And I can’t do that, not now. I can’t talk to anyone about that.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘I’ve got the house to myself today so I’m going to go home, have a lovely hot bath, and spend the afternoon in front of the telly. That’ll sort me out.’
I pause. ‘As would some of that Victoria sponge. Want to share?’
I reach out a hand and Deborah bats it away with a squeal.
‘No! Stick to your boring cheesecake! This is ALL. MINE,’ she says firmly.
‘Meanie,’ I say. I sigh dramatically and pick up my own cake with a comedy pout, and we laugh. As Ruth launches into a story about Lorraine at work and her latest menopause-brain mishap, I start to relax. It’s cosy here with the sun streaming in through the window and the smell of coffee and warm caramel in the air. I cup my hands around my mug of tea; its warmth is soothing.
Mindfulness, I tell myself. Focus on the moment.
I take a deep breath and join in with the conversation.
Chapter 7
‘Yes!’
I sink deeper into the warm water with a satisfied grunt. I’ve just managed to turn the hot tap on and off again with my toes, topping up the bath nicely without even having to sit up, and this pleases me greatly. It’s the little things sometimes, isn’t it? I slide down even further, until the sweet almond oil scented bubbles are tickling my nose, and I feel the tension in my muscles easing. I love this bathroom. It’s white and stylish, with a vase of fresh flowers on the windowsill and my favourite lotions and creams lined up neatly on the marble counter. This is my ensuite, so it’s all for me; the kids share the main house bathroom. Even now, so many months after moving in here, I feel a surge of gratitude every time I use it. It’s my own little sanctuary where it’s always clean and smells nice, where there are no plastic boats to scoop out of the bath before I get in or suspicious little puddles on the loo seat. There are definitely advantages to not living with a man.
I’ve spent most of my life living mainly with men, when I think about it. First my dad, just me and him after Mum left. We lived in Bristol at the time, but three years later, when I was thirteen, when everything started to go horribly, desperately wrong, when the bad thing, the really bad thing, happened, we needed a new start, and we moved the forty or so miles up the M5 to Cheltenham.
When I went off to uni in Manchester, I lived mainly with guys too, three of them from my business studies course plus one other girl, in a shared house. And then, of course, I met Jacob, and after a year or so we decided to rent a flat together for our final year – we were spending every night at either his or mine anyway by that point, so it seemed to make sense. From then on it was just us, first living in London and getting our careers established, and then moving back to Cheltenham to buy our own little home when we decided it was time to start a family. Jacob was from Worcester anyway, just half an hour’s drive away, so we were close to both his parents and my dad, and for a while everything was wonderful. Until Crystal and everything that happened after that, of course. But things have a funny habit of working out, don’t they? Yes, I’m feeling a little out of sorts at the moment, but when I have time to take stock, to look around me and appreciate what I have, I feel lucky. Really lucky. Jacob was generous when we sold our house, giving me the bulk of the cash to buy this place. He was, after all, moving in with Crystal, and I still have the kids for more time than he does every week. This house makes me happy, makes me feel secure. Yes, I’m very fortunate. Not every divorce is as amicable as ours was.
I spend a long time in the bath and when I finally wander downstairs, snug in a soft cashmere jumper and my favourite stretchy sweatpants, I feel more relaxed than I have in days. It was lovely to see my friends this morning but it’s equally nice now to have the rest of the day to myself, I think, as I put together a late lunch – a cheese and pickle sandwich, an apple, and a big mug of tea – and sit down in front of the TV. I smile as I pick up the remote, thinking about Ruth and Deborah suddenly appearing at the door earlier, a minute after I got home and a mere three minutes after I’d said goodbye to them outside Sunrise Lodge.
‘Deb suddenly announced she needed an urgent pee just as we left the car park,’ said Ruth, who’d driven them both. ‘And that made me realise I needed to pee too, and we were already on the road, so we thought we’d come here instead as it’s on our way back into town. Sorry!’
I laughed and rolled my eyes as
Ruth rushed towards the downstairs loo and Deborah, who’d been dramatically hopping up and down on the doorstep, ran for the stairs. She took ages and Ruth was already back in the car before she scampered back down, but finally they were pulling out of the driveway again, waving at me, and I shut the front door with a sigh and headed up to run my bath.
Now I feel relaxed and contented. There are jobs I could be getting on with – a wall I’ve been meaning to repaint on the landing and some weeding to be done in the garden – but today I just need to recharge my batteries, rest, and take some time to do not very much at all. The kids won’t be back until tomorrow evening so I have all of Sunday to get the chores done and visit Dad, and I refuse to feel guilty about it. But I’ve just taken a big bite of my sandwich while a rerun of an old Come Dine with Me episode is playing on the TV, when the doorbell rings.
‘Damn it!’ I swear softly through a mouthful of sourdough.
Who on earth is that? Probably just a delivery.
I swallow and heave myself off the sofa, checking my face for crumbs as I pass the big mirror in the hall. When I open the door, a woman is standing there, a large red holdall slung over her shoulder.
‘Hi,’ I say. I don’t recognise her and wait expectantly to see what she wants.
She hesitates for a moment, looking at me. Then: ‘Beth,’ she says.
I frown, starting to feel embarrassed.
So she knows me … Is she something to do with the school, maybe? I have no idea. This is awkward.
‘Erm … yes, but sorry, I don’t … What can I help you with?’ I ask.
Is she selling something, maybe? Is that why she has the big bag over her shoulder …?
She’s staring at me now, not saying anything, just looking. She’s about my height, older though. Late fifties at a guess, with short blonde hair and a slick of berry-coloured lipstick. She raises a hand as if to shake mine, then seems to change her mind and drops it to her side again, and I suddenly realise that she’s trembling slightly. There is a faint tremor running through her body and a tiny nerve twitching in her cheek.
‘Beth … it’s me.’
She whispers the words, her face reddening, and I feel myself blushing too because I still have no idea who she is, and this is just so … so uncomfortable.
‘I’m sorry, I just can’t think …’ I stammer, but now she’s bending forwards slightly, sliding the heavy bag off her shoulder, and as she leans down to sit it on the ground the neckline of the loose jumper she’s wearing under a dark coat slips forward and I see a small tattoo on her collar bone. Three little stars. Something catches in my throat.
Three little stars. One star for her, one for Dad, one for me.
I gasp.
But it can’t be … can it? It’s not possible.
My legs suddenly feel weak and I grab the doorframe for support. She’s straightening up now and I see there are tears in her eyes. She reaches out again, touching my arm this time. She’s still trembling, her fingers sliding down my sleeve to grasp my hand, her skin warm on mine.
‘Beth,’ she whispers again. ‘It’s me. I’m so sorry.’
And finally, I say it. I say the word I’ve longed to say for so many years to the person I’ve longed so desperately to say it to.
‘Mum? Mum?’
Chapter 8
We sit and stare, drinking each other in. The last few minutes are a blur: my mother on my doorstep (my mother!), me whimpering like a child, dragging her into my arms, both of us crying and laughing and talking at the same time. Me pulling her inside, the door closing behind us, the two of us collapsing onto the sofa, gripping each other’s hands, touching each other’s faces, unable to believe that this is happening, that this is real.
Now we have moved apart a little but our fingers are still entwined, our eyes fixed on each other’s faces. She has changed – of course she has … it’s been three decades after all, and all I’ve had for all those years is one faded photograph and my own hazy memories of her face. I stare at her, looking for shades of the young woman I remember in this face that is looking back at me so intently, eyes still shining with tears. The blonde hair, flecked with grey now and shorter, the defined cheekbones. Yes, they’re familiar. She was slender back then, and still is, even though she will be sixty in a few weeks’ time. She still looks good, clearly looks after herself … and that tattoo. The three stars, a paler blue than I remember them, worn by time, but unmistakable. I can’t see them now – they’re covered again by the neckline of her jumper – but the fact that they’re still there, that she hasn’t had them removed, has worn them on her skin for all this time, fills my heart with a soaring joy. My mother. My mother’s come home.
‘I need a tissue,’ she says with a smile, and I hear the soft West Country accent that I remember so well from my childhood. My heart swells again.
She squeezes my hand and slips her fingers from mine, fumbling in her coat pocket. She finds a tissue and dabs at her eyes, then smiles at me again, a slightly wary smile this time.
‘I’m sure you have so many questions,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry, so sorry, Beth. I’m going to try to explain, if you’ll let me …’
Her voice tails off, tears springing to her eyes again, and I leap to my feet.
‘All that can wait, Mum, honestly. I’m just so … so happy! I can’t believe … Look, let me take your coat, make some tea, get you something to eat maybe? And then we can talk. The kids are away until tomorrow and—’
‘The kids! My grandchildren …’
She lets out a little sob as she slips off her coat but she’s beaming through her tears.
‘I can’t wait … if you’ll let me …’
‘Of course! Oh my goodness, they’ll be so thrilled; they won’t believe it either … Right, I’m going to hang your coat up and put the kettle on, OK? Sit, relax. I’d just started a sandwich – I can make you one? And … oh, I can’t remember, do you drink tea, or do you prefer coffee maybe? How ridiculous that I don’t know, I’m sorry …’
I’m babbling, I know I am, and I laugh. She does too.
‘I’m easy; either is OK. I’m not hungry, but tea maybe. Just a dash of milk. Thank you, Beth.’
I nod and head for the kitchen to make the tea. I bring it to her and sit as she sips it, looking at my half-eaten sandwich but not picking it up, my appetite gone. My head is spinning. The initial euphoria is wearing off a little now as reality begins to sink in. She’s right. I do have so many questions.
What’s Dad going to say? How will he react when I tell him she’s back?
She caused him – caused us – so much pain … Can we even let her just walk back in like this? Should I have been so welcoming? She left me, her own child … The damage that caused, the anguish …
But, it’s her. It’s my mother … Isn’t that all that matters?
The kids though, and Jacob, and my friends, and … and everyone, everyone who knows she walked out on us so long ago. Will they welcome her, or reject her? How do I even tell them …?
I don’t know, I don’t know …
I take a deep, shaky breath and my mother looks up, puts her cup down, and dabs at her lips with her tissue. I’m sitting on the armchair opposite her now and we’re both silent for a moment. Then she says: ‘Right, well. Where to begin? I need to explain … I would have come back sooner, you know? Years ago. But, well … why I left, where I went … there’s so much. I don’t know where to start. You must have been so angry. You must have felt so rejected …’
Her voice quivers and I shake my head, holding up a hand to shush her. Quite suddenly, I’ve made up my mind. Whatever’s happened in the past, today is a new beginning. Recriminations, explanations, and everything else can wait. She’s back. She’s back. And today is for celebration.
‘Please … Look, don’t worry about that now. We can talk about all that later; there’s no hurry. I’m just so … well, so happy, Mum. And so amazed you’ve just turned up on my doorstep! How did you even f
ind me?’
She smiles and sinks back in her seat a little, her body visibly relaxing.
‘Yes, let’s start with that. It wasn’t easy. I didn’t keep in touch with anyone, after … after I went. Well, you probably know that. So when I decided it was time, you and your dad had moved away and everything, so …’
She shrugs.
‘It sounds like something out of a movie but I had to hire a private detective, and it was only really last night, after he called you, that we were a hundred per cent sure …’
Last night? He called me? But I didn’t …
‘Ohhhhh!’
Suddenly, I get it, and a massive wave of relief, of understanding, rushes over me.
‘Oh, now it all makes sense … Oh thank goodness!’
The phone call, the man who asked me about my maiden name … and, oh, of course! The man who’s been following me too? A private detective, hired by my mother? Was that really who it’s been, all this time?
I exhale and sink back in my chair, groaning and grinning at the same time.
‘Honestly, you don’t know how relieved I am to hear that! That explains so much. So much. A detective, of course! I mean, the thought never entered my head, and why would it? I suppose … he’s been following me for a while, hasn’t he? Taking photos and all sorts? I thought … well, I thought all kinds of things. Thought I had some sort of deranged stalker!’
She’s shaking her head, her eyes wide.
‘Oh love, I’m so sorry! Mike’s his name, and he said you wouldn’t even see him. Said it would all be completely discreet … Did he frighten you? That’s awful. Wait ’til I get hold of him …’
The Happy Family Page 4