I’ve been trying to keep busy, trying to keep on top of the housework, not wanting Mum to do it all, but I’ve even struggled with that. I potter aimlessly around, occasionally summoning up the energy to put a wash on or water some houseplants, but it all seems to leave me exhausted. The other day I found the plastic bag of books Nadia returned stuffed into the hall cupboard. I took them as far as the lounge bookshelf, only to find that the effort required to put them back in their correct place (my shelves are organised alphabetically, by author) was too much for me, so I simply stacked them on a side table instead. It’s pathetic, I know, but I don’t know how to fix myself. And so I just drift along, somehow getting through each day, each minute.
Now, I sit here huddled in the corner of the sofa. The daylight is fading and the far corners of the room are already shrouded in darkness, but I can’t even be bothered to get up to switch the lamps on. I take a long swallow from the wine glass on the table in front of me and think about how incredibly, how dramatically, life has changed for me. It’s not even two months since Mum came back, since those wonderful early days of our reunion, before my life started to slowly, inexorably fall apart. And tonight I’m completely alone, for Mum’s gone too – although not for long, she promised, as she hugged me goodbye earlier.
‘My friend Gloria is sick, and she’s been such a support to me over the years, love. She’s going to be OK, but she’s having an op on Monday and she doesn’t have a partner or any children; I don’t want her to be on her own when she wakes up. I need to go back to Cornwall, just for a few days. You’ll be fine, won’t you? Just promise me you won’t drink too much. I’m worried about you, Beth …’
I’d flushed at that. I’d thought I’d managed to hide my increased alcohol intake from her, pouring the wine into coloured beakers or coffee mugs for sneaky slugs during the day, topping up my glass in the evening when she nips to the loo, thinking she won’t notice. I should have known better. She’s not stupid. I’m the stupid one.
I dread being alone. I dread rattling around in this sad, empty house, but I’m glad she’s having a break. It hasn’t been easy for her, dealing with me over the past couple of weeks – my moodiness, my tears. I’ve noticed the new shadows under her eyes darkening and an unaccustomed slowness to her step. She’s tired, wrung out with it all, and it will do her good to get away for a few days. My great fear, when she told me she was leaving, was that this was it; that she was going for good, that it was all too much; that finding me, her daughter, had not been at all what she’d hoped for; that she wanted no further part of it all. But before I could spiral into despair she said something so unexpected that I almost laughed.
‘When I come back, I want us to have a party, love.’
‘A … a party? Did you say a party?’
‘Yes.’ She was checking her handbag as she spoke, putting reading glasses and keys into the side pocket. ‘It’s my birthday on Thursday, my sixtieth. And I don’t want much – don’t want to think about it really. Me sixty, good grief! But I’d like a small party, and I know that’s probably the last thing you want to think about right now, but we’re going to do it, OK? On Friday night though; that’s always a better night for a do.’
She zipped her bag firmly shut and looked at me. I was staring at her, astounded.
A party? Now? It’s ridiculous.
I’d almost forgotten it was her birthday this coming week too, and that made me feel even worse. Guilty. Selfish. I swallowed.
‘Well … what sort of party?’ I asked.
‘Early evening, cocktails and nibbles,’ she said decisively. ‘I’ve already started making plans, actually. I’ve spoken to Jacob, and he’s agreed that the children can come …’
‘What? Really? Oh, Mum, that’s … that’s amazing!’
I’d been sitting at the island, but I leapt to my feet at this, my heart soaring.
‘Yes, he asked them and they said they wanted to be here for Grandma’s big day. So that’s sorted. And we’ll ask some of your friends too, maybe make a fresh start, mend some fences. What do you think? I’ll have to go home eventually and I want to leave you in good shape, my girl, so we may as well get going on sorting you out now – and my birthday is a good excuse. So, no arguments. I’ll organise it all; you won’t have to do a thing.’
She left shortly after that, and my initial elation at the prospect of the children coming home, of being here in this house with me again in less than a week’s time, slowly faded.
Mum’s a force of nature, no doubt about that. But really? Jacob isn’t going to actually let the kids come, is he? Nobody’s going to come, no matter what she says. And do I actually want them all to come anyway, when I know one of them has caused all this misery for me? Some party that’s going to be.
I laughed a bitter little laugh, then looked at my wine glass, and at the empty bottle sitting beside it. I got up, slowly, and headed for the fridge.
Chapter 34
‘Right, I’m just going out to pick up the bubbly. I won’t be long.’
I pop my head into the kitchen where Mum is putting the finishing touches to a tray of canapés: little arancini balls and tiny lamb and feta burgers with mint sauce dip. They look delicious, and to my surprise I’m hungry; I’m looking forward to tucking in. Looking forward to this party. Because, somewhat miraculously, we are having a party. Mum’s been vague about the final guest list, but I know that Jacob and Crystal are coming, and that they’re bringing Eloise and Finley, and that’s really all I care about. Ruth’s coming too, and some of the others from work, apparently; I haven’t really asked. Whoever turns up, turns up. I just want to see my babies again, and let Mum celebrate her birthday, and not think about the fact that one of these party guests is, almost definitely, the person who knows all about me and Lucy Allen. The person who’s spent the past couple of months making me pay for what I did. Maybe one day I’ll find out who was behind it, and why. Maybe I won’t. I can’t trust any of them ever again, I know that. I’m just hoping that it’s finally over. That what they did to punish me was enough. That we can all move forwards now.
And so I’ve painted on a smile for Mum, and weirdly, it’s worked. Over the past couple of days I’ve felt better than I have in weeks. I’ve gone shopping to buy ingredients and balloons, ordered champagne, and cleaned the house until it sparkles. I’m looking forward to sipping a little bubbly tonight; I took a few days off the booze this week after scaring myself on Saturday night. Alone in the house after Mum went off to Cornwall, I drank far too much and fell asleep on the sofa, only to wake just after eleven, head aching, eyes dry and sore. I lay there for a few moments, trying to reorientate myself. I realised I hadn’t even closed the curtains, and was slowly dragging myself into a seated position when a movement outside the window caught my eye.
A face, again, small and white, pressed against the glass. I screamed, shrinking back against the cushions, whimpering with fear, but just as suddenly as it had appeared, the face vanished again, melting away into the blackness of the garden. I sat there, shaking, eyes fixed on the dark space where it had been, but there was nothing. Eventually I got up, pulling the curtains across with trembling hands. It had been my imagination, I was sure of that. Too much wine, too much stress. I was hallucinating again, and that frightened me so much I stuck to water for the rest of the week and felt better for it. I didn’t mention the reappearance of the face to Mum, of course, and I made a silent vow to be careful this evening.
‘Not too much, Beth,’ I said to myself as I laid out plates and napkins, polished glasses, and found bowls to fill with nibbles. ‘Not too much. Just a couple of glasses.’
Now, with just hours to go before everyone arrives at six-thirty, I head out to the off-license to pick up our order. The assistant is helping me load it into the boot of my car when he frowns.
‘Got a flat tyre there, luv. Won’t get far on that.’
I look at the wheel he’s pointing at and curse under my breath. Dammit. The tyr
e is, indisputably, flat as a flounder.
‘Bugger,’ I say. ‘I’ll have to call the RAC. I hope they’re quick; this party starts in less than two hours.’
The breakdown service does come relatively quickly – a smilingly efficient man in a luminous orange jacket. But by the time he’s done and I’m on the road again, it’s rush hour, so by the time I reach Prestbury it’s after six-thirty and I’m in a panic. I haven’t even changed yet, haven’t wrapped the lovely silver wristwatch I’ve bought Mum, who insisted I keep my gift for her to open tonight. Now I’m out of time; this is not how I wanted this to go, and I feel furious at myself for not going out earlier, for leaving it all to the last minute.
Mum must be going crazy too, wondering where I am, I think, and I wonder why she hasn’t called. I’m puzzled – that is quite strange, actually – and I glance at my phone on the passenger seat, but there are no missed calls showing on the screen, and then I forget all about it because I’m pulling into the driveway and—
Oh no!
There’s a little huddle of people outside the front door. I cut the engine and stare at them for a moment, even more perplexed now. Jacob and Crystal and the children – my beautiful, beautiful children, dressed in their party finery – are standing there with Robin.
Robin? Why on earth would Mum invite Robin, after all the things she said about her?
Deborah’s there too, with Ruth and Gabby. I look at her uneasily, and then I see Brenda and Barbara, and my stomach lurches. There’s a cluster of other familiar faces, all of them clutching bags and bottles, all of them turning to look at me as I get out of the car.
Oh bugger. I’m not sure this was a good idea after all, but they’re here now, I think. Why are they all standing in the driveway though?
‘Erm … hello!’ I say brightly. ‘What … what are you all doing out here? Is the doorbell not working? I’m so sorry I’m late. I went to the off-licence and got a flat tyre, but Mum’s here …’
‘We’ve tried ringing the bell and knocking and everything,’ Ruth says. She’s wearing a bright-yellow shift dress and her favourite string of coloured beads with a matching bracelet on her wrist. ‘We even tried calling the house phone. No reply. Looks like nobody’s in. And she told us not to be late too, which is why we all got here on time. She said she had some sort of special announcement to make?’
‘Announcement? I’ve no idea …’ I say, wondering what on earth she’s talking about. I feel horribly awkward now still in my scruffy jeans and trainers with my hair scraped back in a ponytail.
Where is Mum, for goodness’ sake?
I want to hug my children, but everyone’s watching me, waiting for some sort of explanation as to why nobody’s opening the door at this so-called party, so I pull out my house keys and say, ‘OK, don’t worry, Mum’s probably just got the music so loud she can’t hear the door. You know what she’s like.’ I wink at Eloise who looks at me blankly, and I shrivel a little inside.
There’s no music though. The house is silent and still as I push the door open and step into the hall, the others piling in after me. There’s no music, no clattering of plates, no sound at all. There’s something though, something that feels off, and as I move towards the kitchen I realise it’s a strange smell, just a hint of something sour and musty, like when you’ve had a plumber or decorator in the house and they leave a faint, unfamiliar odour behind. The kitchen is empty. Mum’s trays of canapés are sitting on the counter along with a baked cheesecake on a big white plate. I look around, bemused.
‘Mum?’ I call.
And then there’s a scream, one I’d recognise anywhere. I whirl around, and it’s Eloise, eyes wide with horror, hand outstretched. I turn to look at where she’s pointing, towards the open-plan lounge area, and then I see it too, at the same time as everyone else does. And suddenly the room is a maelstrom of noise and panic, cries and gasps, and I stand there, frozen, unable to comprehend what I’m seeing.
It’s my mother, though. I can see that. I blink and take a step closer, and now Gabby is rushing forwards, dropping to her knees and yelling for someone to ‘call a bloody ambulance, quick!’
It’s my mother, here after all, but instead of bustling around the kitchen, smiling, singing along to the music, and celebrating her sixtieth birthday, she’s lying still and mute in the corner of the room. Still and mute, a pool of already congealing blood around her head, and trickling down her face like rain down a windowpane.
Chapter 35
‘The doctor’s on her way down now. Would you like a cup of tea or anything?’
‘Thank you. And no, that’s kind but I’m fine.’
The nurse who’s popped her head around the door smiles and disappears again, and I watch her go, feeling lightheaded with weariness. The past twelve hours or so have been a haze of sirens, panic, questions, and fear. Now, after a night without sleep, I’m dizzy and nauseous, my back aching from sitting in this hard plastic chair. I turn back to the bed where Mum’s lying, head heavily bandaged, eyes closed, an oxygen mask covering her face. On the small table to my right, a half-drunk cardboard cup of tea, now cold, sits next to a paper plate, the sandwich on it barely touched and curling at the edges. I can’t even remember what sort of sandwich it is. Cheese, maybe? I found it in the vending machine down the corridor at about 4am after realising I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime yesterday; I was trying to be sensible, trying to keep my energy levels up, but I had no appetite. How can I eat, sleep, do anything normal, when my mother’s lying comatose in a hospital bed?
If I lose her now when I’ve only just found her again …
I feel the panic rising once more and push the heels of my hands into my eye sockets, taking deep breaths. We’re in a side room, private, quiet, and for that at least I’m grateful. The police, who arrived yesterday shortly after the ambulance and who followed us to Cheltenham General, spent an hour here with me last night, asking questions while Mum was whisked from A&E to CT scan to surgery. She’d been hit, hard, on the head, the resulting injury increasing the pressure inside her skull, but she’s going to be OK, we think. They’re keeping her heavily sedated, for now, and of course there are no guarantees, not with head injuries, as the kindly surgeon told me last night. But she’s in as good a state as she can be, for now. I know this, and yet I can’t seem to control the waves of dread and terror that keep sweeping over me, the cold sweat that breaks out on my skin, the trembling of my limbs.
Who did this? Who?
It’s all I can think about, and the guilt is almost unbearable, because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that although it’s my mother who’s now lying unconscious in a hospital bed, this attack was aimed at me. I took a daughter from her mother. And now, so many years later, my mother has – almost – been taken from me. The final part of my punishment. It’s perfect, isn’t it? Poetic, almost.
There was, as I told the police, no sign of a break in. No broken glass, no forced locks. Nothing missing either, as far as I could tell. Just my mother, battered and bloody on the floor, attacked by a ghost from the past who slipped in and out without leaving a trace. I didn’t tell the police my suspicions, of course. I should have, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.
‘She must have let them in, whoever did this – someone she knows, most likely,’ the female officer said. She had red hair coiled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck and a freckled nose. She looked about sixteen.
‘Is there anyone who might have a grudge of any sort? Had she fallen out with anyone recently, anything like that?’
I shook my head, swallowing a lump in my throat.
‘Everyone loves Mum,’ I whispered.
They went away for a bit then, leaving me alone to wait, shivering and terrified, for her to emerge from surgery. I’d jumped in the ambulance with her, asking Jacob to take the kids home and refusing Ruth’s offer to come with me.
‘I need to do this for her. Just me,’ I told her, and she squeezed my hand and nodded her understanding. Th
e others all stood around watching, white faces etched with shock. As the ambulance pulled away I glanced out of the window at them, this little group of people who were, just weeks ago, my closest friends and allies, and I thought about how everything had changed so monstrously much.
Did one of you do this? Did one of you come here earlier, do this, then slip away again? You must have, mustn’t you? Or have I got this all wrong? I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore, and I’m so scared, so tired of it all …
Now my brain is too numb, too confused, to even begin to try and work it out. I no longer know what’s true, or real, or who to trust. Suspicions and doubts chase each other around the dark corners of my mind then fade away again, leaving me dazed. Now and again, there’s a sentient thought: did someone say Mum had told them she wanted to make some sort of announcement? What on earth was that about? But otherwise I just sit and listen to Mum breathing in and out, in and out.
The police returned briefly close to midnight, telling me they’d finished at the scene for now – a scene! My living room is now a ‘scene’ – and that the house was locked up and secure.
‘We found the weapon used to attack your mother, by the way.’ This was from the male officer who is tall and lean, his cheekbones sharp, his eyes deep blue.
‘It was a lamp that was sitting on the side. It’s in the shape of’—he looked down at the small, scrappy notebook he was clutching in his big, bony right hand—‘a pelican. A pelican-shaped lamp.’
A hint of a smile hovered on his lips, just for a second, then vanished again.
‘There’s blood … well, anyway, that was the weapon used, it seems. So probably not a planned assault. The attacker most likely grabbed whatever was to hand?’
The Happy Family Page 24