She started to cry again and reached for me, pulling me into an embrace, hugging me hard.
‘I’m sorry, so sorry. I thought about you all the time. I did, honestly,’ she whispered, her face damp against mine. ‘But I was so young when you were born, and after I left … as I said, I thought you were better off without me, you know? Later, when I had Liv, when I was finally grown-up enough to be a proper mother, I thought so many times about coming back, about taking you to live with us, but … well, I didn’t know how you’d react. I didn’t want to disrupt your life and your schooling and all that, all over again, or take you away from your dad … I’m so sorry, love. I really am.’
I clung to her then. I’d thought for the past hour or so that I was OK, that the joy of having her back had somehow erased the pain of the past. But this news, the news that my mother went on to have another child, suddenly brought the old feelings of rejection, of abandonment, crashing back.
She left me behind, and then had another baby. And she kept this one. She didn’t walk out on her. She stayed. Why her and not me?
And then, just as suddenly, yet again it didn’t matter anymore. It should matter, I knew that. I should be demanding explanations, shouting at her, telling her how much what she did devastated me, how it ruined my childhood and took me to dark places I thought I’d never leave. But I just … didn’t. I didn’t want to. Not now. Not when I’d just found her again. Maybe not ever. Because now not only was my mother back in my life but I also had a sister, for goodness’ sake! A sister. I’d longed for a sibling as I grew up, and now …
‘Tell me about her. Tell me everything,’ I said.
She laughed through her tears, wiped her eyes, and obliged. Olivia, Liv, my little sister. She’s just twenty-four, sixteen years my junior. She has a degree in international business and Spanish from Edinburgh uni (business studies, like me!), and works for a big shipping company in Plymouth. I asked for a photo, and in it she smiled back at me, a pretty, blonde, petite girl in a black polo-neck jumper and tight jeans. I felt a shiver of joy.
My sister. I have a sister.
‘We can call her, FaceTime or whatever maybe, during the week? I’ll message her later and tell her I’ve really found you,’ Mum said. ‘She’ll be beside herself. She’s a sweetie. You’ll love her. The spit of her father, facially. She’s got our hair though.’
Our hair. My mother, my sister. My family.
We talked more about me after that – my career, Jacob, the children, the divorce. We opened a bottle of champagne the girls at work gave me for my birthday in February (I’d decided to keep it until I had something to celebrate, never dreaming it would be this), and we clinked glasses and laughed and talked until we were both exhausted. When we finally went to bed just before midnight, I couldn’t sleep for hours, overwhelmed by such a gamut of emotions that I just lay there, staring wide-eyed into the dark. I was still ecstatic, of course, at my mother’s return, and yet … as the clock ticked round to 1am, and then to two, the thoughts swirled in my head and I began to feel panicky and bewildered, my fingers gripping the edge of the duvet so hard they ached as I tried to make sense of it all.
Yes, it was incredible, incredible, that my mother had come back. But could I really let her in, just like that, after all these years? Into my heart, into my life, into my children’s lives? What if she disappeared again? I’d been so hurt, so angry, so damaged for so long. Somehow I’d finally managed to get past all that, to put it behind me and become the happy person I am today. Mostly happy, anyway. In many ways, what she did has made me more adaptable, more appreciative of the good people in my life, more empathetic, more protective of those I love. But her departure also left me with less welcome character traits … I can be needy, insecure, oversensitive. And now she was back, but for how long? And what would happen if she disappeared again?
I slept eventually, the deep dreamless sleep that often follows a day of high emotion. And with the light of the morning came the sound of cups clattering in the kitchen, and my mother tapping timidly on my door, proffering a steaming mug of tea and kissing me gently on the cheek. In an instant, the lingering fears began to dissipate.
She’s here. My mother is back. What does anything else matter?
After breakfast I rang Jacob, telling him briefly what had happened. I wanted to check what time he was planning to bring the kids back this evening and to ask him to break the news to them. He sounded, unsurprisingly, dumbfounded.
‘Your … your mother? What the hell? How? When? Are you serious? Good God, Beth, that’s MAD!’
I told him I’d fill him in on all the details when I saw him and warned him not to mention it to Dad if, as he often did, he popped into Holly Tree with Eloise and Finley after Sunday lunch. That conversation was definitely not one I could delegate.
I’d called Brenda and Barbara too, remembering we’d vaguely discussed going out for a pub lunch today. On hearing my reason for cancelling, Brenda had shrieked so loudly that I actually dropped the phone, laughing as I scrabbled under the table to retrieve it, still hearing the little whoops and screams emerging from the speaker. Barbara had reacted completely differently, shocked into silence for a long minute before she stammered:
‘I … I just can’t believe it, Beth. Your mother? That’s … that’s impossible!’
‘Apparently not,’ I said. ‘She’s upstairs right now. Pretty amazing, eh?’
Now, as Mum and I start to head slowly for home again, crossing a field that borders the racecourse which is empty and quiet today, I feel another little rush of joy.
My children are going to meet their grandmother.
They’ve asked so many questions over the years, of me and of Dad, awkward questions both of us found tricky to answer. And now …
‘Hang on … Mum? Look.’
I’ve stopped dead and I’m staring at a figure on the other side of the field. It’s a man, dressed in dark clothing, standing still next to the stile that gives access to the lane back into the village.
‘What am I looking at?’
I point, suddenly feeling that familiar agitation, anxiety pricking my skin.
‘There. Is that … is that your private detective again? Mike. It is, isn’t it? What’s he doing?’
She shrugs and starts fumbling in the small leather bag she’s wearing across her body.
‘Can’t see that far without my glasses. Hang on … but no, it can’t be, Beth. His job’s done. He’s back in Cornwall now as far as I know. Must be someone else.’
I’m still staring. OK, he’s a long way away, but he looks so like the figure I’ve seen so many times in recent months. As I watch, frowning, the man turns away from us, swiftly climbing over the stile and disappearing up the lane. Moments later he’s out of sight. I stare after him for a few moments, then realise Mum’s still rooting in her bag. I wave a hand at her.
‘Forget it, he’s gone. You’re right. I probably imagined it. Ignore me.’
She smiles.
‘You’re definitely imagining it, love. Sorry, that’s my fault for getting him to follow you in the first place. Worth it though, eh?’
She squeezes my arm and I smile back.
‘Absolutely.’
We start walking again and I take a deep breath, trying to quell the butterflies in my stomach and silently talking myself down.
Of course it wasn’t him. That’s all over now. Stop it, Beth. It was just a bloke out for a walk …
‘Beth? I was just wondering … do you need to go and see John later? Your dad? Because it’s fine, if you do. I can amuse myself. I don’t want you to change your routine just because I’ve turned up.’
The question comes unexpectedly. Her tone is casual and I’m so surprised I almost stop walking again. She didn’t ask me last night about where Dad lives and now I’m wondering how much she knows. I hesitate, but she’s still striding along, still talking.
‘I know he’s in a nursing home … care facility, or whatever they c
all them nowadays. Mike saw you there a few times. Well, we assumed it’s John you visit there?’
I glance sideways at her, eyebrows raised.
‘It is, yes. And he must have been on the ball for once when he followed me there. Probably one of the very few times I didn’t spot your defective detective.’
She laughs at that. She looks lovely today, I think. Her eyes are a dark green and I realise that’s something I don’t even remember, the colour of my mother’s eyes. But they’re smiley eyes, crinkled at the corners, and I do remember the warmth in them, the warmth I see now as she laughs at my silly joke. She’s wearing a cowl-necked cream jumper and a blue angora wrap with an oversized silver necklace. She has the small brown leather bag worn across her body and her white-blonde hair is brushed back off her face. I can just picture her floating around her gallery, organising everyone, being all arty.
‘How is he, health-wise?’ she asks. ‘He must be, what, eighty?’
I nod. ‘He’s OK. He had a stroke. His eyesight is bad – well, he’s almost blind really – and his mobility isn’t great, but he manages so well, with help. And his mind’s as sharp as ever. He’s the life and soul. I would have moved him in with us – I wanted to, but it would have been impossible, you know, with work and the kids and …’
My anxiety is suddenly rising again.
She must think I’m awful, putting my father in a home, when I have a lovely house and a spare room …
But she’s shaking her head, frowning.
‘No, no, you did the right thing. Gosh, you don’t have to justify yourself to me, of all people, love. If he’s well and happy, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?’
She squeezes my arm and my heart rate slows again.
‘He is. He really is. I see him a lot … Do you want to visit him, Mum? I mean, I haven’t told him about you yet, obviously. I’d need to do that first, to see how he felt, but it would be so nice if the two of you could make some sort of peace, after all this time …’
My voice tails off. Her footsteps have slowed and she’s looking uncomfortable suddenly, her face flushed.
‘I … I don’t know, love. I’d need to think about it for a bit. It would be so … so awkward, you know?’
‘Of course, of course. Ignore me. It was probably a stupid idea,’ I say hastily. We’re nearly at the house now and I take her hand and give it a little pat.
‘I’ll have to tell him you’re back,’ I say gently. ‘But there’s no pressure, OK? I suspect he might not be too keen for a reunion either, when I think about it.’
I smile at her, trying to diffuse the tension, and she smiles back.
‘I suspect not,’ she says drily. ‘I doubt I’m his favourite person.’
As I turn the key in the lock, the house phone starts to ring.
‘Damn,’ I say. ‘I’d better get that. Just close the door behind us, Mum.’
I run into the lounge and grab the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘Mrs Holland? Hello, it’s Anya here. From Holly Tree?’
‘Anya, yes, hello. Is everything OK?’
There’s a second of silence. Then: ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Holland, but I’m afraid it’s your father. He collapsed about an hour ago. He’s been taken into the General—’
‘Collapsed? But he was fine … What happened? What is it?’
I’m aware that I’m starting to shiver, that little tremors are running through me.
No, Dad. No. Please. Not now.
In my ear, Anya is still talking.
‘… said it was most likely another stroke. But an even bigger one this time. I’m so sorry, Mrs Holland, but it’s not looking good. I think you want to get over there as soon as possible.’
Chapter 11
He looks so small, so old, so frail. My dad, who just days ago was laughing and sharing a drink with his pal in Holly Tree’s bar. Now he’s a tiny white-faced version of himself, his mouth even more violently twisted than it was before, his breathing laboured. He’s awake though, and when I bend down to whisper hello he mumbles, ‘Beth. Shorry, love.’
His words are slurred, but the fact that he can say them at all is such a relief that my legs, already wobbly, almost give way. I lower myself onto the chair at the side of his bed and turn to see where Mum is. Dad’s in a private room, and she’s lurking by the door, her discomfort clear. She hasn’t seen her husband for thirty years, and now …
‘Give me a minute,’ I say quietly, and she nods, edging out into the corridor. I turn back to Dad. There’s a reassuringly steady beep beep beep from his heart monitor, and I hope desperately that what I’m about to say won’t change that. But what can I do?
I have to tell him, don’t I? Just in case … just in case he dies, and never knows …
I sit there for a few moments, composing myself, trying to find the words. They loved each other once, my mum and dad, I know that. And I remember those days too, sometimes, the days when they’d walk hand in hand in the park, when she’d drop a kiss on his head as she passed his chair, when he’d come home with flowers and she’d wrap her arms around him and then carefully select a bloom and put it behind her ear. But I remember the dark days more. The days when I’d come home from school to find the lounge curtains closed and my mum curled up on a corner of the sofa, sobbing. The days when she wouldn’t even get out of bed, and I’d go to school and come home again and there she’d be, still lying there, staring at the ceiling, her eyes expressionless. The days, the weeks, when my parents would barely speak to each other, barely acknowledge one another’s presence, both of them hurting but not knowing how to stop the pain. And then, one day, she simply got up and walked away. It probably was for the best, in the end. But on the way to ‘the best’ there had been so much destruction, so many repercussions. And now she’s back and somehow I have to tell him, and I have absolutely no idea how this is going to go.
‘Dad? Dad, something’s happened. Dad, can you hear me?’
His eyes have closed, but he opens them again, blinks, and tries to focus on my face.
‘Mmmm,’ he says.
I take a deep breath. I can feel my heartbeat echoing in my ears, the clamminess of my palms.
‘Dad … it’s Mum. I know this is going to be a lot to take in, especially right now. But, well, she’s back, Dad. Last night. She just … appeared on my doorstep. It’s mad and it’s a long story, but … well, she’s here, now. Can I bring her in, just for a minute?’
He’s staring at me, frowning. He has deep creases around his eyes and his lips are dry and cracked.
‘Mum? Alissh?’
He slurs the name but he’s clearly understood.
‘Yes, Alice. She’s here, Dad.’
He stares at me for another moment, then his eyes close again. The room smells of disinfectant and over-bleached sheets. I reach for his hand. It’s so thin I can feel every bone.
‘Dad? I’m going to bring her in, just for a minute. Then we’ll let you rest. Is that OK?’
I whisper the words, leaning in close to his ear.
‘Mmmm,’ he says again. He doesn’t open his eyes. I turn back to the door and wave.
‘Come in,’ I say.
She’s leaning against the wall just outside, her face tight and pinched. She takes a few steps into the room and then stops.
‘Are you sure?’ she whispers. ‘I don’t want to make things worse. I don’t want to upset him. Are you sure about this?’
I nod. I have no idea if I’m doing the right thing. No idea at all. But if Dad dies and Mum was here, so close, and they didn’t get to speak, to be in the same room just one last time after so many years …
‘Come on,’ I whisper back. ‘Sit here.’
I slip my hand gently from Dad’s and stand up, moving aside so she can take my place. She swallows.
‘John? John? It’s me. Alice. Can you hear me?’
‘Mmmm.’
His voice is weaker now but he opens his eyes again, even that smal
l movement looking like an effort. He blinks, clearly trying to focus on her face, and my throat tightens.
How must he feel, seeing her again? Seeing the woman who broke his heart so long ago, who walked out and left him with a little girl to raise alone. Who made his life so very, very hard for so many years. Was it a mistake, bringing her here?
‘Mmmmm.’
This time it sounds like a groan of frustration. He’s squinting, his face contorted. Mum turns to me with a look of panic.
‘What is it? What’s he trying to say?’
I take a step closer.
‘It’s his eyesight,’ I say. ‘Lean in a bit closer so he can see you. He’s just trying to focus on your face, don’t worry.’
She turns back to the bed, shuffles the chair closer and leans forward.
‘John? Is this better?’ she whispers.
He’s still squinting, and then, quite suddenly, his face relaxes.
‘Shtill … shtill got tat,’ he says.
‘What? Sorry, John …’
I’m puzzled for a moment, and then I get it. I actually laugh out loud, relief flooding over me.
His brain can’t be too badly affected if he’s recognised that.
‘He said you’ve still got your tattoo, Mum! He’s remembered it, even now. That’s … that’s amazing.’
She sits back in her chair, rearranging the neckline of her jumper which had dipped when she leaned closer to Dad, covering the tattoo again.
‘Oh!’ she says. ‘That’s … well, that’s good, isn’t it? That’s …’
Her voice cracks, and a tear slips down her cheek.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry. And I’m saying that to him, as well as you, Beth. I’ll never stop being sorry for what I did to both of you. If I could turn back the clock, if I could change things …’
She sobs and buries her face in her hands. I look at Dad, but his eyes are closed again, his breathing slower and deeper. Asleep, I hope.
‘It’s OK, Mum. I know. He knows. Come on, let’s go. Let’s leave him to rest,’ I say.
As I manoeuvre the car out of its space and look for the exit signs, she turns to me.
The Happy Family Page 6