by CE Rose
I took a deep, shuddery breath. Good God; a married mother on the fringes of adultery and incest rolled into one; was it simply Genetic Sexual Attraction, another break from reality or genuine, adult love? I didn’t know; I couldn’t think about it right now. My whole being was numb. I’d been dealt a knockout blow, and in truth I wanted to stay in that state, unconscious, unfeeling and curled on the ground.
I posted my letter and shook myself down when I returned to the car. I had to concentrate on my son’s safety, so I peered through the windscreen and negotiated the leafy lanes, sharp bends and nocturnal animals with care. Although a glint of moonlight pierced the clouds, the black night was dense and the trees seemed to glower, but at least the long empty passages hastened my journey home. As the roads became busier and wider, both my body and mind seemed to thaw and aching sorrow spread, so I tried to go through this evening’s discoveries methodically, examine them, absorb them, acknowledge them, then hopefully file them away.
The dark secret I’d felt tugging at me was about Dad after all. Not just a secret, but secrets. He had got himself into debt, but instead of seeking help, he’d not only ignored it, but ‘got in deeper’ as Tom had put it. Robbed Peter to pay Paul? I’d seen that so many times; defendants furiously scrabbling to keep their heads above water by ‘borrowing’ funds from the till or a client, vowing to themselves that it would only be temporary, that they’d soon be in a position to pay it back, they just needed time.
And why had he got himself into that dire situation? Spending too much. The expensive holidays and gadgets and cars, sending us to private school, funding that lifestyle. And pleasing my mother. Yes, always that. Buying her love? Still trying to repay his side of the bargain? Furnishing her with those wads of cash and a comfortable life in exchange for giving up baby Oliver?
Remembering her letter, I swallowed. It takes a house and a home and clothes and the care of a good man. Yes, Dad had provided all that. And she’d enjoyed wealth and all its trappings to the full – the golf club, dining out, charity balls; the clothes, the jewellery, the bloody fur coats. The holiday home, for goodness’ sake.
Then there was the bankruptcy and how my proud mum would have seen it: so public, so official, so inescapable; the golfing ladies, her siblings, the whole village gossiping about her humiliation. Going through the ignominy of the trustees’ visits, the collection of assets for the creditors, the removal of Dad’s valuable items, his Rolex, his gold cufflinks, his cameras, his car. Maybe even replacing jointly owned belongings with cheaper alternatives, reducing her plush possessions to ‘basic domestic needs’. Then the worry about losing the house, our home. Perhaps she did a deal with the trustee about that, maybe the mortgage was so huge it wasn’t worth them seizing, but the anxiety – and the effort of hiding it from me and Laura – must have been huge. Bloody hell, no wonder she’d been so snappy with Dad that last summer.
Pieces slotted into place as I drove. Mum’s sudden frugality, her obsession with every penny we spent. Her lack of new clothes and household goods, her scouring the sales, charity or bric-à-brac shops for bargains. Then Dad’s trips to Norwich – not to a hospital, but to consult Roger Bakewell in Meriden Way, of course.
I shivered. The police investigation, the arrest for theft and Dad’s suicide… How low must he have felt to do that? With a frown, I strained to recall how things had been at home in the short period between returning from Norfolk and his death. More tense silent periods or arguments, more irritation from Mum? I couldn’t recall; Laura and I were back at school, our priorities were our friends, having tea on the table, inanely watching TV. But how must Mum have reacted when the worst happened? She’d been spoilt, a snob, she’d been used to a lavish lifestyle, so she’d naturally been angry up to then, especially as Dad hadn’t confessed the debts to her, but did she feel dreadful, terrible guilt for her lack of support? When she found him hanging in our home? When she read his suicide note, because surely that’s what it had been? Not on blue paper and dated like the rest of the letters, but on a white sheet, written with a shaky, desperate hand:
Darling Eve. I’m so sorry. Please find it in your heart to forgive me.
Chapter Fifty-Three
I pulled up on my Manchester driveway in the early hours. Exhausted and achy, I turned to Joe. ‘We’re home,’ I whispered. He didn’t reply. Nor did he stir as I unbelted his seat and carried him to the door. He was a contented baby these days.
When I stepped into my home, the absence of aromas struck me. The house hadn’t been lived in for a while – no cooking, no laundry, no nappies – so perhaps it wasn’t surprising, but I noticed it; I was aware of something that was no longer there. My senses had changed. So had I. Like Mum and ‘that damned smell’ she’d ended up embracing.
Detached and overwhelmingly weary, I put Joe in his cot. He stretched and shuffled, so I sat on the small sofa and closed my eyes, trying to float over my analysis in the car. My parents were dead, their pasts and their decisions were history; as much as I would love to rewrite it with a much happier ending, I couldn’t, so I had to shelve it somehow. Then there was George. As my shoulders eased, I couldn’t escape his look of defeat the last time I saw him. I knew the what-ifs and regrets would hound me, and that I’d have to find a way to explain everything to Laura – including my impetuous decision to give our brother Mum’s home – but for now I had to look forward and search for positives. I had no alternative, after all. But a glimmer of something was already there. The Ali who had left this house nine days ago was different to the one now. And that was a good thing. It was just hard to feel it.
Though Joe continued to kick his covers, he didn’t wake for a feed so I snoozed, but I eventually jerked to consciousness. Oh God, I hadn’t told anyone my plans, least of all Miles. He might call The Lodge this morning and receive a scrambled message from Nancy or Denise that I’d left without warning. Was it too early to call him? I peered at my watch, surprised to see it was nearly seven. Miles would be awake, reading the headlines before his shower.
Widely yawning, I shuffled to my bedroom, pulled out my mobile and perched on the bed. A text was waiting from Madeleine.
Hello darling. Hope you’re coping with all the challenges in Norfolk. Would love to have a chat soon. Always remember I’m here if you need me.
Challenges indeed. Which one would I choose? My father’s arrest and suicide? The discovery of a half-brother? Or my thwarted attraction to George? Well, the last was something I couldn’t share with anyone, ever, particularly not her. Deeply sighing, I shifted my thoughts to Miles. What should I say about my sudden departure? ‘I’ve handed over The Lodge and its contents to Mum’s gardener’ wouldn’t sound good, nor would ‘I found myself falling in love with a man who turned out to be my brother’. I rehearsed a few things in my head: Tom Hague had offered to clear out the contents; there was a problem with mice; the central heating was on the blink; the banks of the bloody River Bure had broken. But in truth it didn’t really matter; Miles would be preoccupied with his trial, so I’d just mutter something about the paperwork being in the hands of solicitors if he asked.
I pressed the icon and waited. As it turned out, I didn’t need excuses, because a female voice answered.
‘Hello?’
Julia Lambert. It felt like déjà vu, but it wasn’t the afternoon or evening now, it was three minutes past seven in the morning. How many times had she snatched up my husband’s phone over the last week, hoping it would be me? An unsubtle way of dealing with things, but effective nonetheless. Like the impersonal letter I had written George. Brutal, unkind.
Seconds passed. My lips shaped a caustic comment: ‘Remember this moment, Julia, because one day you’ll be at this end of the telephone.’ But it wasn’t all her fault: it took two, she wasn’t married and part of me felt sorry for her. Who would want to force their lover’s hand in this devious way? Besides, I didn’t have the energy; I was too knackered and battered. So I gave her a message to pass on. That Jo
e and I were back in Manchester, so Miles would know where to call.
A dry tear piercing my paralysis, I fell back on the bed. I had once been so sure of his love. Too sure, I supposed; I’d taken it for granted. Or perhaps the needy tables had turned. He’d coped with my psychotic break because Madeleine had taken over, but I’d ditched her during my pregnancy, so I’d had to depend on him.
I wasn’t entitled to wallow, though; I had fallen for somebody else too. Shit happened, as they said. It was just tragic my shit had no future.
The peal of my mobile jerked me back to consciousness. Miles Alexander-Jones.
‘Ali, you called me! Julia popped in to see if I had a spare collar and my phone was ringing so…’ he said in a high, breathy voice. ‘She saw it was you and thought it might be important.’
The explanation was pretty poor, but I was too tired for sarcasm or arguments or even plain angst.
‘That’s OK. I’m dog-tired, so I’ll speak to you later.’
I pulled a pillow beneath my head. Joe would wake soon, but that was fine. If I couldn’t sleep now I’d do it later, ask one of my mum friends or my neighbour Melissa to mind Joe for an hour. Or catch up when he had his afternoon nap. I could do this.
I gave a nod to the chink of light. The secret about my dad had been far more devastating than I’d ever imagined and my heart was broken, but at least the ‘crap mother’ anxiety had gone.
* * *
I slept for an hour without dreaming, only waking at the sound of post firing through the front door. Sighing at the thought of my letter on George’s doormat, I padded to the nursery and peered in. Occupied by the tinkle of ceiling chimes and the taste of his fingers, Joe was kicking contentedly in his cot.
The wave of grief was so sudden, I had to sit down. My halting steps into motherhood had finally become strides, but who would I share it with? My dead mum, my absent sister, my unfaithful husband? The one person I would choose was wholly and completely unavailable to me. Not just unavailable but taboo. It felt so very unfair. But I had to get a grip; I had to focus on the memory of his mother’s face, the disgust and ultimately, the love.
Chapter Fifty-Four
The new normal was keeping busy and resolutely looking forward. Maybe taking modest steps for now, but moving onwards and not back. Back was the enemy; back was Dad and the black hole of my grief. It was Mum, sore boobs and sleepless nights, it was panic attacks and hopelessness. It was George. Handsome and kind and complicated George.
After Tuesday’s brief call, Miles phoned regularly. ‘Just to check in,’ he said at the outset. But the conversations were strained, the ‘I do love you, Ali. I really do,’ at the end uncomfortable, so I didn’t always respond with an automatic echo. I had no idea whether I loved him or not. Was my marriage over? Until I saw him in person, I just didn’t know.
Trying to be positive, I jotted notes on a pad, to-do suggestions and activities for the week. My projections were short, like my breath, but I tried to put them into practice: I phoned friends to catch up. I offered to host the mum and toddler get-together on Friday and joined a new baby group at the church. I made a list of goodies to bake, and in Madeleine style, I went through cupboards and drawers, creating a towering pile of stuff for charity.
Over the next few days, I kept active. I popped over the road to deliver a parcel to Melissa and accepted her offer of a drink. The radio constant in the background, I tackled the ironing pile and the sticky kitchen units, the fridge and the oven. I took Joe for long walks, played with his toys and read him books. Trying to block out Norfolk, I chatted with my mum friends in the park, but sunny memories seeped through all the same – the dawn chorus and the acorn tang of the woods, the taste of warm scones and yellow butter, safe hands and safe arms.
Practicalities meant I had to look back too: calls to Roger Bakewell and the Hagues, for starters. I told Joan an emergency had brought me home and that George would be caretaking The Lodge, but the conversation with the solicitor was trickier. Perhaps my decision had been somewhat knee-jerk, but giving George the house – or at least my half share – still felt the right thing to do, not only because he was entitled to part of it, but in terms of finality and seeing the promise I’d made to his mother through. But how on earth would I broach it with Roger? In the end, I just had to say it. If he thought it was odd, he didn’t mention it, but he carefully explained that nothing could be finalised until the probate was through. As Laura and I were both beneficiaries and executors, the decision had to be joint.
You’re doing well, Ali, was my mantra each morning. But gulps of unhappiness still overcame me: how had George responded to my letter? Did he hate me? Was he living at The Lodge? Had he gone back north to look for his father? Then there was the constant worry, tight in my chest: Was George OK? Was he safe, not self-harming or hanging at the end of a rope? Like my father. Oh God.
My decision to shelve all thoughts of Dad and his final year was successful in the main, but when I least expected it, unanswered questions pestered me. Presumably his suicide was what Mum had been keen to discuss with me before her visit. But after a twenty-five year gap… why then? And if she’d decided to tell me, then why not inform Laura too? Maybe she’d remembered Laura’s ‘I wish you were both dead’ comment, but that didn’t ring true. Laura was thirty-nine and the dispassionate, practical daughter, not the one who’d take it the hardest.
I squeezed my mind back to Brenda and Peggy’s conversation at the funeral. The siblings had made Mum a promise and Brenda had ‘broken ranks’. I could absolutely imagine my mother asking her family to keep Dad’s ‘shame’, his arrest and suicide a secret, but Brenda had said Mum’s response was a ‘huge overreaction’. And there was no mistaking the fact that Brenda’s challenge and Mum’s departure to Norfolk coincided. Was Tom correct? Had Mum stayed in Sheffield until I was eighteen for my stability and happiness? Or was there more to it?
But I had to let those thoughts go. Of course, I could make a rare call to my aunties, open old wounds and demand the facts from them. But did I really want to be subjected to one of Brenda’s ‘home truths’ lectures? Or even worse, her sorrow and guilty tears? No I didn’t; I wouldn’t do that. What remained of Mum’s life would stay in the drawers and cupboards of The Lodge. I’d made a vow never to return and I intended to keep it.
* * *
I finally saw Miles in person on Friday evening. His jolly tone was forced. ‘I’m home!’ he said at the door. ‘Ali? Where are you?’
‘In here.’
Bounding into the kitchen, he took in the sparkling surfaces and clean cupboards. ‘Wow, you’ve been busy. Something smells delicious too. Don’t tell me… Boeuf bourguignon, my favourite.’ He pulled me into a hug. ‘God, I’m glad to be home.’
It had been less than a week, but this suited man felt like a stranger. He disappeared upstairs to look in on Joe, but even when he returned with a fond smile and in weekend gear, the situation seemed staged.
‘Are you hungry? I didn’t know if you’d eat on the train,’ I asked.
‘Starving. Are those homemade…’ He squinted. ‘Got it. Bread-cakes! Fantastic, what a homecoming.’
We sat at the table, dipped the crusts in our casserole and drank wine.
It felt like a fifties drama. I was playing the dutiful wife in her pinny and Miles starred in the role of chirpy and appreciative husband. It was laughable, in truth. Would either of us mention the early phone call or Julia? Were we really going to pretend it hadn’t happened?
Miles soon moved on from his polite questions about my week to himself, talking animatedly – and at length – about the trial, taking me through the ‘inspired genius’ of his cross-examination. He’d won on liability and wished I’d seen the sour look on Paul Jefferson QC’s face. He’d be making submissions for damages on Wednesday but they were going to be ‘fucking huge’ after his ‘bloody good win’. He’d be around until then, so we could have a lazy long weekend.
It wasn’t as arroga
nt as it might have sounded to a stranger. We were, after all, husband and wife; we could be as egotistical and as candid as we liked.
But neither of us were being honest.
I analysed Miles as he spoke. He was amiable, attractive and undoubtedly good company. He had a moody side, but didn’t we all. He was a good dad to Joe; he’d be thrilled to sire him a brother or sister. If I decided not to work, he’d gladly provide for me. We had a nice home and lovely friends. I just had to let it go; continue to be the girl with tightly closed eyes, or bluff like he did.
The words burst from my mouth. ‘So, Julia and this thing you’re having…’
‘Sorry?’ His expression was all innocence. ‘There is no thing, Ali. I don’t know what you mean.’ Then as though the connection had suddenly landed, ‘You can’t mean Tuesday morning; I’ve already explained…’
Part of me wanted to guffaw. His acting was pretty impressive; had he practised on the train? ‘Oh come on, Miles, I’m not that stupid.’
Perhaps it was my weary acceptance, maybe it was my lack of emotion, but the mask slid from his face, revealing the heightened features of a little boy who’d been rumbled.
‘She’s nice to me, Ali, which is more than you’ve been for months. She listens to me; she’s interested. Ever since you got pregnant—’
I snorted. ‘So that’s when the affair started, is it?’ I said the words idly, a throw-away comment I expected him to deny. But he didn’t.
‘You were totally self-obsessed, right from the start, Ali. You went completely over the top about the whole bloody thing. One crisis after another.’ He glanced sullenly. ‘You’d promised me all that was over. A one-off in the past, but I could see it coming back and it freaked me out. Things were tough for me too; I was lonely; I needed someone to talk to…’