If my mother was secretly gay, back then when times were so different, could she have married a man because she felt unable to be her true self and then realised she couldn’t live a lie? Maybe.
And Deborah? She didn’t marry her husband Gavin until her mid-forties, and has, she says, no children. Again, was that significant, I wondered? But then I carried on thinking and wondered again why on earth my real mother would arrive back in my life, make friends with me, and not reveal herself to me. I could come up with no rational answer to that, and so I gave up, busying myself with readying the house for the children’s return. Now, Jacob and Crystal are as baffled as I am.
‘It’s crazy. And why did she attack Alison? I can’t believe she won’t tell you who she is. Well, I suppose I can, really … What are the police doing to find her?’ asks Jacob.
‘Not sure. I couldn’t give them much to go on,’ I say. ‘They want to interview me properly in the next day or so and talk to Alison again too, when she’s feeling better. But I believe her when she says she won’t tell them anything, I really do. There’s no CCTV anywhere around here otherwise they could look at that to see who came to the house on Friday afternoon, maybe get a picture they could circulate. They’re going to do some house-to-house enquiries to see if anyone noticed anyone coming or going, but if Alison let her in, well … I mean it wasn’t as if they were scuffling on the doorstep or anything.’
‘So you really think it could be Robin? Or Deborah. Or Barbara? Seriously?’
Jacob’s stopped pacing now and is leaning against the kitchen worktop, picking icing off one of the cupcakes sitting on a plate next to him – the cakes that had been intended for Friday’s abandoned party.
‘Well, they’ve certainly all been in the house recently,’ Crystal says slowly, ‘and they all know Alison of course, and could have talked their way in on Friday afternoon. The police said the DNA was elsewhere, too, not just on the lamp, didn’t they? Do you know where they found it? That might help narrow it down.’
I shake my head.
‘No, I don’t. I was in too much shock to ask sensible questions like that. You’re right, though. That might help. I can ask, maybe?’
‘Do,’ says Crystal. ‘So … what now? Are you just going to confront them, these women? Ask them if they’re actually your mother? How weird is that going to be?’
‘Don’t,’ I say. ‘I have no idea how to go about it. I need to think a lot before I say anything.’
‘OK, well … come on, more detail about Alison Allen and her campaign against you. Shall I put the kettle on again?’ Jacob asks, and I nod.
‘Please. This might take a while,’ I say.
And so, fresh cup of coffee in hand, I start talking, relaying the remarkable story that Alison told me yesterday.
‘It was the so-called taxi driver who drove us when we went out for pizza that night, right at the beginning, who fitted the hidden cameras in my bedroom and bathroom,’ I tell them. They’re both open-mouthed, agog, like children at nursery story time.
‘He was actually a friend of Mum— Gosh, it’s still really weird not to call her that. Of Alison’s, I mean, who does that sort of thing for a living. The taxi was just a ruse. She’d stolen my keys the day before – I was going mad trying to find them – and she got him a full set cut. He dropped us off in town and came back and let himself in. They were tiny little pinhole things, apparently. They connected to our wifi so he could access the pictures remotely. When he’d got enough, he came back when it was just Alison in the house and took the cameras out again, which was obviously why there was nothing here when I got the house swept.’
‘Wow. Sneaky,’ says Jacob.
‘I know. It makes sense now that she didn’t push it when I wondered if I should go to the police about the pictures too. That’s the last thing she would have wanted. This bloke sent the footage to that horrible website and hacked my Facebook account to post the link. She told him to use the name Daphne Blake to try and freak me out, which of course it did. It was Lucy’s nickname at school, you see. She guessed I’d remember that, and she was right; that was when I finally realised what was behind everything that was going on. She was the one who tipped off the newspaper reporter too. She’d been hoping he’d tell the whole story about what happened with Lucy but obviously he couldn’t, for legal reasons. That was why she decided to out me at the party instead.’
I remember, then, how she’d cried that day the newspaper article came out. How she’d mentioned Lucy and sobbed. She was crying for her lost daughter, not for me, wasn’t she? I think. And then I think of the day I asked her, weeks ago, if she’d kept in touch with anyone at all, if she knew anything of what I’d got up to in my school days; I think of her tears that day too, and my heart quivers. When she first arrived, she’d said something like: ‘You never forget your child’s face, do you?’ Now I know what she really meant: ‘You never forget the face of the girl who killed your daughter, do you?’
We’d never actually met, not back then. But there would have been school photos. It wouldn’t have been hard for her to find out what I looked like.
‘Wow,’ says Crystal. ‘Beth, I do understand why you didn’t confide in us earlier about that, I really do.’
At my request, Jacob had filled her in about me and Lucy Allen last night, and she’d been kindness personified, hugging me almost as hard as the kids had when she arrived this morning.
‘But I really wish you had. We might have been able to help, to work out who was behind it all …’
‘I know. I was an idiot. Thanks, Crystal.’
For a few seconds, nobody speaks. Upstairs, Eloise has turned her music on, the thump thump of a Little Mix track drifting through the ceiling.
‘She was so convincing in getting me to blame Robin for everything too,’ I say. ‘Making up all that stuff about her acting suspiciously in my bedroom and bathroom. She admitted none of that happened. She made it up to cover the fact that she’d moved some of my stuff around herself, trying to work out the best place for her mate to put those cameras. I believed her, because I’d seen Robin looking at papers on my desk and stuff once or twice, so I already had a few doubts about her. I need to apologise to Robin, if she’ll let me. God, I even blamed her for messing with the central heating.’
‘Alison, again?’ asks Crystal.
‘Yep. She told me she kept whacking it up to the hottest possible setting, and then making sure she turned it back down to normal again before I checked it. Robin was constantly asking her too many questions, she said, and she wanted me to blame her, wanted me to get rid of her. Gosh, so many things. She destroyed that letter of Eloise’s, so I never saw it and so she missed her school trip. And then, of course, there was the trampoline incident.’
‘Shit. Was that her too? The evil bitch!’ says Jacob.
‘Shh … no swearing. Remember, the kids are just upstairs,’ Crystal hisses.
‘Sorry, but she could have bloody killed one of them,’ he says. ‘What did she do, tamper with it after you’d set it up?’
‘Yep. First she hid the spring puller tool so I thought I was going mad. And then she loosened a screw or something, knowing it would probably cause an accident. She didn’t even seem to care that Finley got hurt.’
‘Christ,’ says Jacob, and shakes his head slowly, his mouth set in a grim line.
I knew how he feels. A chill had gone through me when Alison had told me about that. There’d been a coldness in her eyes, and I knew exactly what she was thinking.
You took my daughter away from me. Why shouldn’t I have at least tried to take one of your children away from you?
‘She wrote an anonymous letter to Gabby at work too,’ I say, and I tell them about that. They look horrified again.
‘It was classic coercive control, when you think about it,’ says Crystal. ‘Slowly, very slowly, eroding all your self-confidence. Making you feel bad about your weight and your body. Making you think you were going crazy, humiliati
ng you in front of your friends, making you feel like you were a bad mother. Getting rid of Robin, and even making things so bad here that Jacob took the kids, so you’d be even more isolated. What an actress though. BAFTA-worthy performance. Hey, you fell out with Brenda and Barbara as well, didn’t you? Do you think she could have had a role in that too?’
‘Oh. Flipping heck, maybe. I hadn’t even considered that,’ I say.
‘So nasty,’ says Jacob darkly. ‘You must hate her. She put you through hell.’
‘I don’t know how I feel about her,’ I say. ‘She was so clever, always making it seem like she was on my side when everyone else was against me. She even told me she felt bad talking about her past because she didn’t want it to seem like she’d had a great life without me. I know why she was sometimes so reticent now, don’t I? I’m just glad it’s over, and that I never have to see her again.’
It’s true. I really don’t know how I feel about Alison anymore. Yes, I’m appalled that she was able to fool me like that, to ruin my life so comprehensively. And yet, I understand completely. She needed to do it, and I made that possible. Now maybe we can both find a little peace. She’s taken her revenge, and I’ve been punished, and now it’s over. And, odd though this may sound, I liked her. I even have a tiny, sneaking suspicion that she liked me too sometimes, although I’m not a hundred per cent sure about that. But she was funny and glamorous and entertaining, and I liked her. I wanted her to be my mother; I was proud that she was my mother.
Except she wasn’t, was she? And now I have to find out who is.
‘So, what’s your next move, Beth?’ asks Crystal.
I hesitate for a few seconds, but I already know the answer.
‘Today I’m spending with Eloise and Finley,’ I say. ‘But tomorrow, I’m going to start asking some serious questions, guys.’
Jacob and Crystal look at each other, eyebrows raised. Then Jacob grins.
‘Fair enough. Good luck, Beth.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’
Chapter 41
It’s Monday morning, and after I’ve dropped the kids off at school, asked Jacob to collect them later to give me some more time, and rung the surgery to tell Gabby I’m coming in later today for a chat, my first job is to go and see Dad. I tell him about Alison Allen as succinctly as possible, and at first he’s shocked and disbelieving, then upset.
‘I’m a fool, Beth,’ he says. ‘I thought it was her too. That tattoo … I’m so sorry, love. The disappointment for you …’
To my horror, tears spring to his eyes and I grab his hand, rubbing it gently and telling him it’s fine, I’m fine, it will all be fine.
‘I knew it would catch up with me eventually, Dad,’ I say. ‘Lucy Allen, and everything that happened back then. Now that it’s finally happened, it’s almost a relief, you know? It’s not hanging over me anymore. I’m OK, honestly.’
And strangely, I really am. I feel freer somehow, even though I know what I’m about to do in the next day or so is, quite frankly, preposterous. As I drove to Holly Tree this morning, I remembered a book I used to read to Finley when he was a toddler, one of those big colourful hardbacks with lots of pictures and few words. It was by P.D. Eastman and was called Are You My Mother? It was the story of a baby bird who hatches while his mother is away from the nest and he goes off looking for her, asking first other creatures and then even a boat and a plane if they’re his mummy.
That’s me, isn’t it? I thought. A lost bird, asking everyone and anyone. What am I doing?
I don’t tell Dad anything about my real mum allegedly being the one who attacked Alison – it’s too weird and too complicated to explain. If I find her I’ll tell him all about it, obviously, but for now I’m on a mission and I need to focus. Sitting in the car outside the care home I text Brenda, knowing that Monday is one of her days off from the boutique. I tell her I need to see her, and Barbara too if possible, telling her something momentous has happened, something I have to talk to them about. I’m half expecting my text to be ignored, but within minutes there’s a ping from my phone.
OK. Hope you’re all right? We could both pop round in about half an hour, about 11.30?
To my surprise, I feel like crying. I’ve missed them so much, and now I desperately want to try to get back to where we were before. As I drive home though, I try to collect my thoughts, wondering how best to ask the questions I need to ask, which now seem even more ludicrous than they did yesterday.
‘But my mother is somebody I know,’ I keep telling myself. ‘Remember that. I’ve got to do this.’
It’s already eleven-fifteen by the time I open the front door. I turn the kettle on and assemble mugs, plates, and cake, grateful for the still-present party food. I bustle around feeling jittery and nervous while my stomach flutters, and when the doorbell rings I have to make myself stand still and take a few deep breaths before I answer it. They’re standing there, shoulder to shoulder, Brenda in a floaty floral tunic and Barbara in a green jumper and jeans. She looks rosy-cheeked and noticeably fresher-looking than the last few times I’ve seen her, I notice.
Are you my mother? You can’t be, surely? This is ridiculous …
‘Hello. Thank you so much for coming.’
They look as on edge as I feel, with tight smiles and muted greetings, but Brenda is carrying a little posy of flowers which she holds out to me.
‘Picked from the garden this morning,’ she says.
It’s lovely – pansies and freesias tied with red twine – and I feel my nerves easing a little. I make the drinks and we sit in the kitchen, and for a few moments there’s an awkward silence.
‘Well, here we go. Let me tell you a story,’ I say. And then I tell them the whole incredible tale of Alison Allen, watching their faces carefully as I do so – Barbara’s especially. They’re both looking similarly astounded though, and I carry on, with growing anxiety, explaining why Alison did what she did. Because of what I did, to Lucy.
Alison wanted to do this, didn’t she? I think. She wanted to out me to my friends, and now she’s forced me to do it myself. She’s won, but I don’t even care anymore. No more secrets.
And so I tell them everything, and their eyes grow wider and wider as they listen, little gasps coming from slack-jawed mouths, and when I’ve finished Brenda leaps from her stool and throws her arms around me.
‘Beth … oh my goodness, I can’t believe this! And honestly, what happened back then, I mean, it’s awful, dreadful, so sad but, well, we all make mistakes. And you were so young and so unhappy. You’re a different person now, aren’t you? And— Oh gosh, now I’m wondering … oh my goodness, did Alison lie to us too?’
She releases me, spinning round to look at Barbara who claps her hands to her face.
‘Oh no! Bren, do you think so? I was so surprised, so upset by what she said, and it seemed so unlike Beth …’
‘What? What did she say?’ I ask. They’re both wearing horrified expressions now, and Brenda turns back to me and clasps both of my hands in hers.
‘She said … well, it was that last night when we came round, and you had a little bit too much to drink and fell asleep? Well, your mum’—she rolls her eyes—‘not your mum. That woman … When you fell asleep, she took us out here into the kitchen and said there was something she thought we should know. She told us that you’d been laughing about us, and saying how sad it was that you only had boring old women as neighbours, and that you only hung out with us because we were quite useful as babysitters and so on. She said she’d been a bit shocked by that, because she could see we weren’t old; we were about the same age as her but she felt she should tell us because she didn’t think it was right, her daughter disrespecting us like that …’
‘What? I didn’t … I would never … Oh Brenda, Barb, honestly, how could you think that?’
I’m aghast. This is awful, awful, and now I’m remembering what Alison told me the next day and I realise that she gambled on playi
ng us off against each other, and that it had worked.
‘Listen, she said pretty much the same thing to me. She said that you two had told her how odd you thought it was that I didn’t have friends my own age, and that you only hung out with me because you felt sorry for me, because I didn’t have a mother, and that now that she was back you said that she could take over now, or something like that. And I was so upset because I thought we were friends, but she was so convincing … Oh shit, why didn’t we talk about this sooner? Why didn’t we have it out with each other? We might have rumbled her!’
‘Oh. My. God,’ says Brenda dramatically. ‘What. A. Cow.’
We all look at each other and we start to laugh, and suddenly everything in my world is just a little brighter, a little shinier, than it was ten minutes ago.
‘What twits we are,’ I say. ‘We’ve wasted so much time.’
‘We have. But the Busy Bees are back! Group hug?’ says Barbara, standing up, and Brenda and I smile and stand up too. We have one of those lovely, silly, swaying-from-side-to-side hugs, and then we sit down again, all of us with broad grins on our faces.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘So now … well, now I have something else to tell you. To ask you, really.’
‘Uh-oh,’ says Brenda.
Again, I’m watching Barbara as I relay the news that my real mum was the one who attacked Alison, but again she looks no more and no less shocked than Brenda does, both of them open-mouthed again.
‘But … how? I don’t understand,’ splutters Brenda.
‘No idea. But it was her. There seems no doubt about that, from both the police and from Alison,’ I say. ‘She was here, in this house, on Friday.’
Brenda looks around the kitchen with a wary expression, as if half expecting my mother to leap out of one of the cupboards.
‘I don’t get it. That’s so creepy,’ she says.
‘Barbara …’ I begin, then stop, and she looks at me quizzically.
The Happy Family Page 28