by CE Rose
‘Punished for what?’ I asked.
He followed my gaze. ‘She liked to look at you, remember you, smell you. You were the baby she’d never had.’
Oh God, the seventh sleepy-eyed doll, the only one with brown eyes. And yes, I’d seen it just now, the new one wearing a sailor’s suit was a blond-haired baby boy.
Goosebumps spreading, I repeated my question. ‘Punished for what, Tom?’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Teetering back to the mattress and sitting, Tom covered his face with trembling hands. ‘She didn’t tell me for two days.’
My fear of him all gone, I knelt by the bed. ‘Tell you what, Tom?’
He tapped his ear like he’d done at The Lodge. ‘The earring. I suddenly noticed she was wearing only one. “Where’s your other one?” I asked. “The baby took it,” she replied.’
Rocking his body, he sobbed. ‘I ran there as though my life depended on it, burst in… There was blood and flies. Already blowflies. Too late; I thought I was too late. I picked up the baby, just to warm the poor thing and she whimpered.’ He peered at me then. ‘Oh Lord, such a beautiful cry.’
Sitting back on my haunches, I tried to breathe through the shock. My fist was clasped tight; I could feel the smooth pearls in my palm. Could it be an actual memory from that long ago? Yes, like the one of Tom – policeman Tom – turning a key in a door.
When my focus returned, he was looking at me intently, his expression beseeching. ‘Joan was my wife and I loved her. It wasn’t her fault, not really. She was deranged, that’s all, just for a time. She’d lost six of her own. I couldn’t let her go to prison, could I?’
Oh God. My mother’s murderer wasn’t the ‘bad penny’ or a stranger. It was Joan Hague; she was the white-faced phantom. Frowning, I went back to Tom. ‘So you came to Norfolk and jailed her here instead?’
As though the walls might be listening, he lowered his voice. ‘I had to get her away. She’d left that earring. When I went back to call the crime in, I searched but…’ He sighed. ‘So we came here for good, never went back. Not until…’
We were quiet for a time, then Tom abruptly stirred. Straightening his back, he nodded. ‘Jailing her, aye, in a manner. To shield folk from harm, keep people safe. That’s what counted. Protecting you, especially.’ He nodded to Joan’s display. ‘She loved you very much; I don’t think it was necessary, but I couldn’t take the risk, could I?’
Almost too exhausted to move, I sat next to Tom. I’d already guessed the answers, but I asked anyway. ‘You say Joan loved me using the past tense. Has she died?’
He nodded. ‘Aye, asleep.’ He cleared his throat. ‘She always said she wanted to die at home so I drove her back to Walkley. Peaceful, it was. In her top bedroom until they look her away.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Freed from prison at last.’
I was certain he’d eaten no food since. ‘Where have you been? On Sylvette?’
‘Aye. I felt Joan there. Happy memories…’
‘Young’uns think only of themselves. Think it’s all right to just do as they like or take what isn’t theirs. That’s when they need to be brought to book,’ I remembered. I took a big breath. ‘Why did Joan kill Ella, Tom?’
‘It tore her apart, never having even one baby. She blamed me after the operation; said I’d made her have it; that I’d made her barren. But it was the gynaecologist’s strong advice; I just wanted what was best for her. But I suppose…’ He put a hand to his chest. ‘We took away even hope.’
He didn’t speak for some time. Then he deeply sighed. ‘The baby by rights should have been hers, that’s the reason. I don’t know why she didn’t take her that night, but she wasn’t in her right mind, so…’
His words confirmed what I had already worked out. What had Melissa said about my ‘grandad’s’ car? Only this man wasn’t my grandad; he was my father.
Tom pulled out a wallet from his inner pocket and fumbled through the contents. ‘I didn’t know Joan had found out about me and Ella. Ella had agoraphobia; she’d had the baby at home, never registered the birth. I provided for her as best I was able, of course, but I couldn’t visit too often for fear of being noticed. But I loved that little bairn so much, I couldn’t resist keeping this right next to my heart.’ He held out a small photograph. ‘Joan must have found it and read the back.’
Terrified yet compelled, I took his offering and studied the image of a dark-eyed young woman and her baby. They were the spit of me and Joe. Turning it over, I read the loopy scrawl. To Daddy from baby Alice. Six months old today! it said.
Tom reached for my cheek, but didn’t quite touch it. ‘Aye, my baby Alice from wonderland.’
Chapter Sixty-One
I eventually stood and found my voice. ‘I need some fresh air,’ I said.
Mixed emotions mottled Tom’s face, but they seemed to add up to the same thing – apprehension, worry, alarm. He’d kept this secret for so many years and he wanted my response. He needed my approval, my blessing, my forgiveness, I supposed. But right now all I could think about was the photograph, and the obvious huge age gap between my birth parents.
He nodded. ‘Right you are. I’ll go down myself and put on the kettle.’
I returned the way I’d come, scooped up my umbrella and headed for the bench looking out to the river. Though it was wet, I sat down and listened to the rain splash the water as I gathered my fractured thoughts. She was so similar to me; there was no doubt the young woman in the snap was my mother. How old would she have been? Sixteen? Eighteen? Twenty? Certainly no older. And Tom? He’d have been in his forties. My skin crawled. Oh God; he was too like the celeb who’d pawed Laura at the village fete – Dave the landlord, too; men who had turned my stomach.
Then there was Joan. The truth was so staggering I had to remind myself the woman had committed a crime; she’d murdered my mother. At fifteen months old, I’d witnessed it. Her actions had stayed with me all my life, not just causing my insecurity and fear of abandonment, but they’d impacted my mental health and brought on psychosis, for God’s sake. And that man, my father, had covered it up. Sure, he might have ‘punished’ her in his own way, but she’d had enough freedom to wander through Bureside and steal items like a magpie.
I breathed through the bubbling nausea. Tom Hague was my father. Save for Joe, he was my only living blood relation. Could I really give him the acceptance he craved? Even pretend everything was all right?
Sighing deeply, I looked up to the boats trundling by. My happiest memories had been here. Could I still own them?
Glancing back to the lawn, I pictured Mum and Dad in those stripy deckchairs. Tom wouldn’t have disclosed Joan’s involvement in the stabbing, but he must have told them he was my real father. Indeed, it made sense. They’d taken a huge risk for him and encouraged little Ali to spend time with him every holiday. They’d trusted him; they were his close friends. They hadn’t shunned him or thought him a bad person. Eve and Doug were decent people; I valued their opinion.
As for Joan… She was dead, gone forever. I wouldn’t ever need to face her again. Maybe that was why I was struggling to condemn her right now. And yes, she must have suffered horrendously from the loss of her babies and the finality of a hysterectomy. She’d been ‘deranged for a time’, Tom had said. Of all people, I understood that. And she’d meekly accepted her punishment, known she had to be ‘brought to book’.
Noting a crack of sunshine in the clouds, I stood and shook away the chill from my limbs. My father wasn’t a murdering ‘bad penny’ after all; he was a flawed but good-hearted man. Ella’s note on the back of the photograph was clearly loving and sweet. When I’d absorbed the bombshell, perhaps the truth would finally give me a sense of belonging and help me feel anchored. As I turned back to the house, I caught a glimpse of Ruby Jane bobbing on the water. I smiled. Yes, Tom had brought me back to Oliver. I couldn’t change the past, but I could have a happy future.
I found him in the kitchen, a forlorn and cowed figure, waiting patiently at th
e table. I held out my hand. ‘Come on, Tom, let’s drive home in the Rolls. We need to feed you up. I can’t promise anything as tasty as Joan’s, but I’ll practice my Yorkshire puds, just for you.’
* * *
For the rest of the week I procrastinated, avoiding my conversation with Laura. But I figured I had excuses – worried about Tom’s health, I’d insisted he stay at The Lodge until he felt stronger. With her questionable TLC, Nancy was a permanent fixture at his side. ‘Like Velcro,’ Oliver described it, ‘poor old bugger.’
Then there was Miles. After his initial tetchy – and understandable – silence, he’d taken to calling me each evening, talking at length about Julia’s demands and his irritation with his mother, who wasn’t paying him enough attention, apparently. On reflection, I realised the poor woman had had a tough time with her self-absorbed son and even more egocentric husband. She’d given her all to her patients as well as them, but her needs had been ignored, so she’d turned to the booze for understanding, care and consolation. Though she was possibly a shrink who needed a shrink, she’d seen a vulnerability in me she’d wanted to fix – a fragmented mental psyche, no less – and I was grateful for that. And in truth, I had neglected her as much as anyone, so I was now making an effort to check in and ask how she was doing, listen to her worries and be appreciative of all she’d done. She’d still drive me nuts from time to time with her interference, I was sure, but ultimately she was a genuine person and she’d be a brilliant grandma to Joe.
The other distraction was Oliver. These days I could kiss and touch and gaze as much as I liked in theory, but we were stymied by etiquette. Tom and Nancy weren’t stupid, of course, but other than a furtive peck when they weren’t in the room, any intimacy at The Lodge felt wrong. He ate with Tom and me in the evenings, then went home to his cottage.
‘Day off on Monday,’ he said with raised eyebrows before parting each night. I knew what that meant and the anticipation was delicious.
* * *
On Sunday morning my preparations for a traditional roast were interrupted by the telephone.
‘It’s me,’ Laura said.
I looked at my watch. ‘You’re early.’
‘Late, actually. You’ve gone quiet on me. What happened to the visit?’
I heard her say something in the background. To Shelby, I assumed. ‘Right; we’re on the internet now before bed. November is good for Shelby. The fourth. I’m about to click “buy”.’
‘Don’t!’ I blurted. Then after a moment, ‘Well do, but I might need another seat.’
I tensed. How would she react? She knew I was back in Norfolk and I’d briefly messaged her about Miles and Julia, saying it was a long saga, that I’d fill her in with that and other surreal stories when we met.
‘OK, that’s a date. Need to sleep now. Text me the details and I’ll sort the tickets.’
I waited for a moment. ‘Aren’t you the least bit curious why I’m bringing a friend?’
She snorted. ‘Ali, I know you. You wouldn’t have split up with Miles unless you had someone else lined up. You always did need to be adored.’
I laughed. ‘Love you too. Speak tomorrow.’
I turned away thoughtfully. I’d never seen it like that, but she was probably right. I hoped the bumpy journey of motherhood was making me a more complete person, fixing me, like baby Ali had helped heal my parents. At least until Dad had felt the need to end it all. My nose burned at the thought of his wasted life. Mum’s too, from something so simple as her fleeting inattention at a road junction.
Resolutely pushing away the images both tragedies evoked, I returned to the dining room. To make room for the table in the centre, I had folded away Mum’s travel easel, leaving just one. The canvas was no longer blank, nor was her chair vacant. Oliver was back in the landscaping business, his first commission the plot he could see from the window.
I plonked down in the seat, absently swung it from side to side and studied the view. When I’d berated Tom for neglecting himself after Joan died, he’d chuckled: ‘Roger wouldn’t like me dying on him, that’s for sure. He’s been nagging me about tax and exempt transfers.’ He’d patted my arm. ‘Don’t you worry, Alice. The paperwork’s already been done, so we’re not going to let the taxman take half. Roger’s on the case and I’ll be good for another seven years, just you see.’
Maybe he’d been referring to Bureside and his other assets, but gut instinct told me Tom didn’t just own the woods and scrubland, he owned this house too. I’d never found any title deeds, and considering Dad’s financial problems, it wasn’t a surprise. Had he always owned it? Most likely – the trustee in bankruptcy would have sniffed out any quick transfer between him and Dad to avoid paying creditors. I was also pretty sure Tom had provided for Mum financially ever since, that those household direct debits came from his bank account, not hers. It made sense: Dad had been his surrogate son; Mum had brought up his child. Would we ever have a frank discussion about these things? Or why he didn’t interact with me until I was five? But I suspected I knew the answer to that one: little Alice had been badly traumatised; she’d lost her real mother; she’d needed to settle in her new home.
In the main I was happy with not knowing chapter and verse. Most of the jigsaw had been completed by facts or guesswork, yet something was nagging at the back of my mind; something I’d seen or heard that had jarred. Like synchronicity, a soft breeze made me shiver. Silly though it was, I was sure Mum was still hanging around. Like the peculiar sensation I’d had at Bureside, I felt she was tugging me to find the missing pieces.
I heard Tom’s whistle before he entered. ‘Morning Alice,’ he said, placing a tray with two mugs on the table. ‘You look a little pale. Are you alright, love?’ He looked at something beyond my shoulder. ‘Thinking about your mum?’
This was a strange comment in many ways. My mum was a girl called Ella and he was my dad, but we both knew it wouldn’t be mentioned again.
‘Thanks.’ I took the tea. ‘I was, actually. How did you know?’
He busied himself with his Sunday Times. When he glanced up, his eyes seemed to flicker. ‘Maybe because I do too.’ He nodded. ‘Aye, I think about her and… you know, that day, a lot and I feel so very—’
Not wanting to go there, I quickly interrupted and smiled brightly. ‘You were up early for your newspaper. Any good news for a change?’
He took off his glasses, peered at the print and chuckled. ‘Well I’m damned if I’ll ever find out. Wrong pair for reading.’
I looked at my watch. The beef was a huge joint, so I had plenty of time before lunch. ‘Tell you what, you keep an ear out for Joe and I’ll fetch them for you. A brisk walk will do me good.’
Chapter Sixty-Two
Glad I didn’t have to enter Bureside and see that spooky doll replica of my son again, I trotted past the garage towards Sylvette. His reading glasses were on the table in the saloon, Tom had said, so I’d be able to scoop them up and jog back before Joe awoke. Tom was capable and I trusted him, but he was still pretty weak, and Oliver hadn’t yet appeared with a smile at the side door. I climbed onto the deck and shuffled around to the cabin doors. They were unlocked – a security risk, but not surprising; when Tom and I left on Tuesday, I hadn’t anticipated him staying over at The Lodge. Not wanting to face the upstairs at Bureside, I’d asked Oliver to collect some of Tom’s clothes and toiletries, but I’d clean forgotten he’d been sleeping on the boat.
Stepping down to the living area, I glanced around. There wasn’t much sign of ‘living’ though, really – the room was neat, with only a water glass, two empty coffee cups, Tom’s usual humbugs and a couple of banana skins to even show he had been staying here. No wonder he was so frail. But then he’d been mourning his Joan, and there was no doubt that despite everything, he still deeply loved her. I hadn’t liked to ask what she’d died of – though cancer was my guess – and I sniffed at the thought of her funeral with only one attendee. It felt like a final punishment. She�
�d taken a person’s life, so maybe it was deserved, but even convicted lifers didn’t serve a whole sentence.
What on earth had Tom done here for two weeks? Paperwork it seemed, and reading a book. I idly scooped up the novel, surprised to see it was The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. It seemed unlikely reading matter, but he loved all things Yorkshire and maybe he was a member of Mum’s book club. Peering closer, I frowned. The two bookmarks… It was Mum’s actual copy. And if I wasn’t mistaken… I scooped up a small bottle from the window sill. Chanel No. 5. I’d smelled the scent on Joan, so it wasn’t surprising of itself, but it was tarnished like the one I’d found in Mum’s bedroom drawer.
Discomfort spreading, I slipped into Tom’s chair and peered at what he’d been working on. His finances, it seemed. It felt wrong to look, so I put the ledgers to one side, revealing a buff folder underneath. Breath stuck in my chest, I stared at the cover. ‘Norfolk Constabulary. Forensic Collision Investigation Unit.’ Oh God, it was the very thing I hadn’t wanted to know about. I sat back and shook my head, but that invisible force was pressing me on. Swallowing, I opened it and peered at the first document. Yes: a fatal accident on an A road on the 30th June. The deceased one Evelyn Marie Baker.
Not knowing what I was looking for, I slowly turned the pages and scanned the witness statements. Damon, the driver of the other car: the Mini came from nowhere; I tried to swerve away, but the front of my car clipped it and it started spinning, out of control…
His front seat passenger: I was turned to the window and saw the bonnet of the Mini at the junction, then it suddenly jerked out…
I had no idea what I’d expected, but I sighed with relief. There was nothing there I didn’t already know. I moved on to another witness. This account had been made later, after seeing the accident on the local news: Though I’d already turned right before the crash happened, I remembered it because it looked like a road rage incident… I frowned. Road rage? The Mini was at the junction but the blonde lady was standing outside the driver’s side, talking to someone in the car behind. I guessed it was an argument because of her body language.