by CE Rose
Bewildered words trickled out. ‘Everyone dies and leaves me alone.’
As though understanding my anguish, she nodded. ‘I know, darling. But everything’s fine, it really is. Let me have Joe, then we’ll sit down and chat.’
I stared at those brown, inviting eyes. She couldn’t possibly know, not really. And she’d wanted to take my baby not so long ago. Could I trust her?
Gently guiding me by the shoulders, she sat me down, rubbed my shaking arms and gazed intently at me. ‘What happened today, Alison?’ She glanced at the empty mugs. ‘Has someone been here?’
My mind was too scrambled to explain about Tom’s visit or his surreal and sickening tale. I was still tremulous from the terror of the panic attack, that certainty of heart failure and being unable to breathe.
‘I’m so tired and Joe’s hungry.’
She gently prised him from my arms and placed him on her lap. I had no energy to stop her.
‘Well, neither are so bad. We can easily sort both, Alison.’ She smiled. ‘There’s nothing to worry about; I’m here now.’
* * *
No dawn chorus, no birds, I woke on the sofa and hitched up. The curtains were drawn, my surroundings silent and black. It took a moment for the surge of dizziness to pass, another to focus.
Oh God, where was Joe? Joe and Madeleine, where were they? Jerking to my feet, I strode to the kitchen. The fridge buzzed, but the room was empty. I rushed to the stairs, climbed up on jelly legs and shoved open my bedroom door. It clattered against the wall. Vacant too.
Almost faint with terror, I turned to the nursery and stepped into the dark.
‘He’s been unsettled without his mummy so I stayed,’ a voice whispered behind me. ‘Let’s go downstairs. I’ll make us a drink.’
Relief sapped any strength I had left. Taking Madeleine’s proffered arm, I returned to the lounge and sat in the armchair.
‘Hot tea coming up,’ she said, spreading her cardigan around my shoulders.
She handed over a cup and saucer I hadn’t known I possessed. Bone china from a dusty wedding set, I guessed. She must have rummaged in the back of a cupboard to find it. ‘Did you feed Joe before bed?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘The box of baby milk in the fridge?’
‘Yes.’
It didn’t matter; today teacups and formula really did not matter.
‘Thank you. For coming so quickly too.’
Sitting in the chair opposite, my mother-in-law was in analyst mode, I knew, but that was fine as well.
‘That’s what I’m here for. What I’ve always been here for.’
I dropped my gaze. ‘I’m sorry for slapping you. It was unforgivable. I don’t know why I did it.’
I did, though. Denial, pure and simple denial.
‘No it wasn’t, Alison. I pushed you too far that day; it was a clumsy and unprofessional attempt to help you.’ With a small smile, she flushed. ‘And it’s me who should apologise. The booze, the drink-driving to Lymm. That was wholly and utterly unforgivable. When I’m in that zone, I feel elated, invincible. I kid myself alcohol doesn’t affect me like normal people. I can brilliantly function; I can drive safely. I can fly to the moon, give up the booze at the drop of a hat! Bipolar, of course.’ She softly snorted. ‘Physician heal thyself.’ Leaning forward, she stared steadily. ‘But of course none of us can, Ali. Everyone needs help sometimes.’
I nodded; we’d discussed it many times in the past. Most young children were attached to their parents, but I’d been an introverted loner so my bond with Dad had been almost obsessive, the final separation creating high levels of anxiety and fear.
Although she’d never spelled it out, I knew Madeleine thought I’d got stuck in the denial stage of grief, that I’d never properly resolved it, so it harmed my other relationships – with Miles in particular. Being his mother, she’d had a conflict of interest, but I hadn’t minded that. They’d only been friendly chats when we’d lunched or shopped and were helpful. And it had been fabulous to be the centre of someone’s attention again, a parental figure who instinctively seemed to understand me. Then I’d discovered the Evian-vodka secret; the special bond and trust had been broken, the person I’d loved and admired was lost.
Madeleine was silently waiting. ‘Why did you call me this afternoon?’ she eventually asked.
Tom’s story was too convoluted, too raw, too perturbing to express. I’d listened and nodded until he’d finished it, then I’d managed to say something about an appointment I’d forgotten about and bundled him out of the house before I puked.
‘You were right about my dad,’ I replied after a time. ‘I found out today.’ I shook my head. ‘Or perhaps I should say that I finally listened, finally heard, finally saw.’
‘Oh, Alison, I’m so sorry. I felt you already knew on some level. But I did it badly, clumsily, at the wrong time. Perhaps I was still disappointed you’d abandoned me, but I convinced myself it would assist and the opportunity presented itself. I thought it might help you to loosen the grip of grief, but it didn’t, did it?’
Thinking back to the day I’d lost my temper, I didn’t answer for a while. It had been the start of my pregnancy and Madeleine had rushed to the house loaded with gifts.
‘I’m beside myself with excitement!’ she’d declared, chatting about generations of the Armstrong-Jones family, whether it would be a boy or a girl and what he or she would look like. Her enthusiasm and excitement had been so genuine and contagious, I had almost forgiven the hidden drinking and warmed to her again. But she’d picked up the family portrait from the bookcase and traced my face with the tip of her finger.
‘The whole gene pool is fascinating, isn’t it?’ she’d said. ‘I wonder whether your exotic one will come out…’
‘Exotic?’
The word had felt like a stab in my heart. When the young me had looked in the mirror, I’d only seen ugly, but deep down I must have known exactly what she meant. Different; darker; the subject of my aunties’ whispering.
She’d gazed for a moment, then laughed. ‘Oh, darling, look at the photograph. Blond-haired blue-eyed parents. You don’t take after your pale mum, so your beautiful brown eyes and colouring must have come from somewhere. Not that it matters one bit.’ She’d pulled a mock sad face. ‘Poor daddies. They never really know, do they?’
I’d simply slapped her, the blow so hard it had stung my palm.
I came back to the present and her question today. There was so much to take in. ‘I don’t honestly know,’ I replied. ‘But when I called you earlier…’ I tried to frame those paralysing sensations. The deep black abyss and sheer, hopeless agony. I nodded. ‘My daddy. It felt as though he’d died yet again.’
Chapter Fifty-Seven
I didn’t travel for a while. I wanted to take care with my packing, to make sure I had everything Joe might need for two weeks or a month. Perhaps even longer, who knew? I had to buy him clothes suitable for different weather. Much larger sizes, too. Funny how I hadn’t anticipated my son would grow. I’d somehow thought our existence wouldn’t change, that he’d stay a newborn forever. But life ebbed and flowed all the time. Mine had shifted unexpectedly, and part of me was still flailing and lost.
Talking to Madeleine helped. ‘It’s a shock, of course,’ she said. ‘I know you’re reeling, but it doesn’t actually change anything, not the security, the love nor the contentment of your early years. Everyone’s past is set, don’t try to pick it apart. You were happy, accept it, embrace it, move on.’
I knew she was right, but it didn’t stop sensations of the ground moving under my feet. And it wasn’t just my childhood; Miles’s unfaithfulness had hit home too. He’d betrayed me for a year and I hadn’t had an inkling. How blinkered had I been? Nothing felt certain anymore. Going forward, I needed safety, solid love and secure ground.
* * *
Summer had broken and moved on to early autumn. It had rained most of the night and I wore a cardigan to take the
chill off the misty morning. I’d always liked my Manchester home and felt sad to leave it all alone again. But Miles would be back at some point fairly soon. Whether Julia would be in tow, I didn’t know. Over the last two weekends, he’d stayed over with a friend in London ‘to think things through’. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but for me there was no going back to half a marriage. Did Madeleine realise the implications of her advice to move on? I wasn’t sure, but she was right; I had to acknowledge the past and go forwards, this time, I hoped, with open eyes.
As I lugged my suitcase outside, I noticed purple and pink petunias had pushed through the damp soil in the hanging baskets. Looking for light, I supposed.
* * *
After an unbearably long journey, Joe and I finally arrived. It was a trip into the unknown and the sullen sky felt foreboding. Holding my chubby son in one arm and an umbrella in the other, I knocked on the door and waited for a while. No reply, but that wasn’t surprising. Work, of course. Not everyone had this freedom I’d been given.
Strapping Joe back in the car, I retraced the route I had taken a month ago, but this time I didn’t see the shops, the holiday flats, the boats or the river. Instead, I listened to the sudden squall battering the roof and looked doggedly ahead. I didn’t know how this confrontation would go, but I was determined to see it through.
Throwing wet pebbles either side, my car lurched up the shortcut to The Lodge. I turned off the engine and sat for a while, studying the pretty façade through the sodden windscreen. The usual glow wasn’t there; it looked empty, unwelcoming and dark. Taking a deep breath, I climbed out and trotted to the patio. For what purpose, I wasn’t sure. I had no keys; I had given mine away.
The rain unrelenting, I peered through the small panes of the front door, then quickly followed the building around, squinting and tapping on the glass as I went. The hall, the lounge, the dining room, my heart falling a little further with every step.
Nothing had been touched. Everything was just as I’d left it.
I rushed back to the car, lifted Joe from his seat and sat him on my knee. Feeling impotent and rootless, I stared at the pinpricked puddles surrounding us. Then the windows fogged up, so I couldn’t even do that. What next? To Bureside, I supposed, to beg a towel and a spare key.
Fighting the impulse to cry, I pressed the ignition and turned on the wipers. When the windscreen cleared, I glimpsed a figure by the sunken garden, unmoving, like a statue.
A jolt of alarm whipped my chest but I blew it away. Strangers and shadows weren’t necessarily malevolent phantoms. I knew that now. I’d also learned that the living were far more dangerous than any spectre. But this effigy wasn’t a stranger or a ghost. He’d be angry, for sure, and might not wish to speak to – or even greet – me, but I was here to try, to acknowledge the past and move on.
I quickly reached for something to keep my son dry. By the time I’d turned back, he’d gone.
Covering Joe with a coat, I scurried to the side door. It was open, thank goodness, so I stepped in and watched my brother rub his hair with a towel. Eventually he spoke without looking my way.
‘So, you’re back. To reclaim the house, I suppose.’
My heart thrashed; I’d almost forgotten his deep timbre. ‘Not the house, no.’
He turned and raked his fringe from his forehead. His eyes were burning beneath his furrowed brow and a full beard emphasised the hollows of his face.
‘What’s this about, then? You don’t need to worry; nothing’s been touched or taken. I was still paid, so I just kept up the gardens.’
My cardigan was wet through and poor Joe was whimpering, stuck against it. Needing to peel it off, I passed him over.
‘Do you really think that badly of me?’ I asked. ‘That I wouldn’t trust you?’
He peered at Joe and his eyes seemed to relent a little before clouding again.
‘You seem to change your mind very easily.’
He had a good point, and though I wanted to explain about his mother’s visit, bringing her into it wasn’t fair. She’d done the right thing after all, absolutely the right thing. We’d both been temporarily unhinged thinking any good would come of a sibling relationship.
I took a deep breath. ‘Look, I’m freezing, so are you. Can we make up the fire? If you have enough time, I’d like to tell you a story.’
Chapter Fifty-Eight
We sat on the sofa and watched the flames dance.
‘There once was a policeman,’ I began, briefly looking at Oliver. I had decided that if this moment ever came, I would call him by his proper name; it only felt right.
I paused for a while. I hadn’t shared the whole tale with Madeleine, and though I had practised it many times in my head, I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about uttering it out loud.
Oliver hadn’t said anything since the kitchen, but Joe was on his lap and his tense hostility seemed to have eased. His eyes were dark and watchful.
‘It’s a story, so the characters need names,’ I said. I couldn’t make this about me, not yet.
He nodded.
‘So, this policeman, Frank… He was a bobby on the beat and he liked it that way. He was personable and good with people; no one kept tabs on him, he could turn up late, he was invisible at crime scenes. If he had more money than a constable should, nobody noticed because he stashed it away. Not that he’d ever take a bribe, but if a villain’s cash was lying around, he might deduct a few quid for his troubles. Who didn’t?’
That part was my interpretation; I was reading between the lines.
‘Frank befriended a young accountant who’d recently set up on his own and this accountant – John – advised Frank where to invest his savings. The ventures came good, the two men became close friends and John confided in Frank, told him about his rocky marriage.’ I glanced at Oliver again. ‘Before they married, John’s wife had become pregnant by another man. She’d given up the boy for adoption, and though they had a new child together, they struggled to get over the past.’
Oliver smoothed Joe’s fluffy hair. I carried on. ‘Frank had a good heart. For one reason or another, he and his wife hadn’t been able to have kids, so he created his own family of sorts, keeping an eye on the needy, the old folk, the drunks and the druggies. He’d knock on doors to check they were well, have a chat over a cuppa and cake, or share a cigarette. If someone vulnerable disappeared for a while, he’d follow up, and if he had to, he’d let himself in with a key under a plant pot or a mat. Several times he carried out life-saving CPR, stemmed a razor blade cut or called an ambulance just in time.’
Frowning thoughtfully, Oliver nodded. ‘You paint a good picture,’ he said. ‘Go on.’
I took a shuddery breath. ‘Of course there was a beautiful girl. All fairy stories have them, don’t they? Well, this young woman lived with her grandma. It wasn’t easy having darker skin than everyone else on her street, but Frank had watched her grow up into a right little stunner.’ I swallowed. ‘He called her Ella because she could sing like a nightingale. When her grandma died, a bad penny moved in with her. This bad penny was in and out of trouble and didn’t treat her well. He finally went off when she told him she was pregnant. She had the baby at home and became more or less reclusive – she’d had a horrible stint in a children’s home before Granny stepped in – and her big fear was that the child would go into the care system like she had…’
Oliver pulled me towards him. Perhaps my voice had faltered, but I had to go on.
‘Ella was a good mum; she tried, she really did, but she was young, didn’t have much money and the bad penny turned up from time to time with his wares… Frank still visited and helped where he could, keeping an eye on her and the baby.
‘“Why don’t you take her, Frank?” Ella pleaded when she was low. “She’d have a good life with you and your missus. A proper mum and dad. That’s what she needs.”
‘And he would reply, “A baby needs her real mummy. The little lass would be lost without you”.’
Oliver left the room then, so I waited. He came back moments later with a toilet roll. ‘No tissues,’ he said. He put Joe on his play mat and pulled me back to his chest.
I wiped my cheeks and tried to focus on the tale as I’d heard it from Tom. ‘Then one warm summer’s evening, Frank was on his regular Wednesday round. He had half a beer and a slice of Victoria sponge with Mrs Bates at number ten before moving on to check on young Ella and her toddler. Ella didn’t answer, and though that wasn’t unusual, the key wasn’t under the mat. But when he tried the front door, it was unlocked…’ My breath was short, so I lowered my head. ‘Even before he stepped in…’
I paused then. Had Tom told me this part? Or was it my memory?
‘Even before he stepped in, the smell of blood was unmistakable. The only sign of movement was flies.’
‘You don’t need to go on,’ Oliver whispered.
But I did. I had to go on.
‘Clutched to her dead mother, the child’s hair and clothes were matted with congealed blood. She’d been stabbed too, Frank assumed. He thought she was gone…’ I gazed at the fire. ‘What should we call her? This dead baby, this toddler?’ I asked.
Oliver held me tightly.
‘It’s fine,’ I said eventually. ‘The story has a happy ending.’
Closing my eyes, I pictured Tom Hague’s face. His pale gaze had been wet behind his lenses. He’d put his papery hand on mine. ‘This is the good part, love,’ he’d said. ‘Pure madness, I’m afraid, but with a little godly intervention, perhaps.’
‘The young mother and her dead child were a pitiful sight. It was a crime scene; the constable knew to leave it untouched. But on impulse, he peeled the baby away and put her inside his coat. Then he left the house, closing the door quietly behind him, and with a thrashing heart he walked the streets towards home.
‘Perhaps he knew the child was still alive; maybe it wasn’t a surprise when she whimpered against his chest. Perhaps he had in mind some grand plan to present his wife with the baby she’d never had. Maybe he thought of Ella’s pleas. But as the little one warmed and struggled inside his jacket, he knew he and his missus were too long in the tooth to take on a tiny child. So the policeman turned around, panicking at what he’d done, not able to think clearly.