by Eve Chase
The leukaemia knocked at our door with no warning. Mother was dead two weeks after diagnosis, four months after coming home from The Lawns. The young, bored nanny who’d replaced Rita upped and left, saying the job was too difficult. Daddy tried to be Mother but he couldn’t boil an egg and had business abroad. So Edie gave up her rented apartment and foreign post and moved in to look after us. Nobody could believe it, or expected it to work. She couldn’t boil an egg either but knew where to eat out. She got an editorial job in London, on a magazine, and filled the house with hacks and artists and people who needed a bed for the night. It was a revelation. The conventions and anxieties that had governed my parents’ lives simply didn’t apply to Edie. She never married. She had a job and a million friends instead. And us. She was the first and only person in my life to say, ‘Don’t worry what other people think, be who you want to be. Hell, why not, Hera?’ So I did. I reinvented myself. Years later, I even took a photograph of Mother to a plastic surgeon and said, ‘Can you fix me a nose like hers?’ I still look nothing like her.
When Mother was discharged from The Lawns, she didn’t resemble herself much either. She’d lost so much weight and her dark hair had turned white and started to fall out in clumps. But she was delighted to be home, which was, by then, a house in Bloomsbury, smaller and scruffier, far away from the gossips of Primrose Hill. She and Daddy had separate bedrooms with an interlinked door that I think Daddy hoped would one day be unlocked. (It never was.) In a funny way, we were the closest we’d ever been in that house. Everything felt tender and quiet but hopeful, like after surgery.
Edie said to me, ‘Only the trees know what went on in the woods that night.’ My father wouldn’t speak of it, or of Don. They never discussed the case in front of me. I’d later learn it had fallen apart. Father sold the mine, and company shares, to pay for the lawyers. I once tentatively asked Mother if she’d really shot Don, and she’d hesitated, her face a cross-stitch of feelings I couldn’t read, her eyes full of tears, then replied, ‘It wasn’t you. You mustn’t ever think it was you, Hera. That’s all that matters.’ But a part of me did. A part of me still does. I’d shot something that night. And although I didn’t try to kill Don, I’d wished him scrubbed from the face of the earth so many times.
Officers would occasionally still come round, and my parents would quickly usher us upstairs. Teddy and I would sit, terrified, huddled together, in case they took Mother away again. Lawyers appeared. Doctors. Newspaper reporters would knock on our front door and we’d be told to duck from the windows and pull the curtains shut. I’ve never lost the sense that the world might shoulder-barge into my life again, and take away someone I love. I still feel comfortable in my house only with the blinds shut. So Edie’s new enthusiasm unnerves me. ‘Don’t put any photos of me on social media, Edie, will you?’
‘Cripes, I wouldn’t dare, darling.’ Edie opens the front door and grins at the city, the cars and people swimming past. She winks. ‘You’d break the Interweb.’
‘Internet. It’s called the Internet, Edie.’ I touch her sleeve lightly. ‘Before you go, tell me what to do, Edie. Please.’ There’s only one opinion that counts.
‘I’ve never told you what to do.’ She purses her lips together, so that all the old smoker’s lines ray out. ‘I don’t believe in it.’ A police helicopter whirs overhead.
‘I’ve tried throwing money at the problem. I’ve tried reason.’
She turns to face me, more sternly. ‘Have you tried giving up?’
‘What?’ I laugh, the idea preposterous.
‘It’s out of your hands, darling. So you either give in fighting. Or you give in with grace and kindness.’ Edie smiles at me, slightly exasperated. ‘You’ll make yourself ill if you go on like this.’ She squints down the street. ‘When’s the next number twenty-two due?’
‘God invented taxis for a reason.’ To save us from crowds and crime and norovirus and me breaking into a cold sweat, unable to breathe.
‘Well, you’re missing out. The conversations on buses, my goodness. I take notes!’
‘You would.’
‘Good luck.’ Her claw-like hand squeezes mine. ‘Let me know how it goes, Hera.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘Oops. The ancient mind slips, darling. Sorry.’ She doesn’t look very sorry. My aunt is constitutionally incapable of regret. But she’s kind. ‘You’ll always be Hera to me, my dear plump mad Hera.’
‘For goodness’ sake.’ I shake my head.
‘Well, at my age …’
‘Edie, I’ve been called Helen Latham for thirty-three bloody years.’ I flick a bit of lint from her navy jacket collar. ‘And I weigh seven stone twelve. Thank you very much.’
48
Sylvie
Elliot and Annie are sitting a continent apart on the sofa, their eyes drilling into the floor. ‘How’s it going?’ I ask unnecessarily.
‘Great,’ Elliot answers when Annie says nothing. The air crackles.
I’ve given them an hour’s privacy: a fake mission to buy a pint of milk. ‘Did Annie tell you we’ve bought a cot?’ I slide the milk carton I don’t need into the fridge. ‘Two, actually. One for here. One for her dad’s. Hugely reduced. A bargain.’ Still a fortune. Annie made me buy them. I’m a softer touch than Steve. ‘Didn’t expect them to arrive quite so soon, though, did we, Annie?’
‘No,’ Annie says quietly, colouring.
If it were up to Annie, she’d have bought everything by now. Maybe all new mothers try to buy a bit of confidence, not realizing that when the baby’s screaming at four in the morning, the brand of changing mat really won’t matter. But for Annie I think it’s also a way of staving off her fears for Mum, whose condition remains perilous. Partly for this reason, I haven’t told Annie about my trip to the forest last week, not wanting to add Marge or ‘Jo’ to the mix. ‘A beer, Elliot? I’ve got some cold ones here.’
Annie shoots me an eye-widening look that says, ‘Mum’. Okay, perhaps the meeting to discuss ‘practicalities’ hasn’t gone so brilliantly. And I’m making it worse.
‘Annie can’t drink so I’ll do the same.’ He shoots a cautious glance at Annie, who looks regally unmoved by such sacrifice. A moment later she glances back at him, pretending not to. I’m aware of a certain hormonal heat in the room.
Elliot stands up, pulls on his shirt cuffs nervously. ‘Guess I better shoot then.’ He waits for Annie to say, No, do stay.
She doesn’t. ‘I’m off too.’
They both leap up from the sofa with awkward synchrony. ‘Bye then,’ murmurs Annie, not meeting his eye.
To my surprise, and Annie’s, Elliot reaches out and hugs her. ‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do,’ he whispers into her hair.
Annie closes her eyes – I’m about to creep away, discreetly – then pulls back roughly, as if coming to her senses. ‘I’m pregnant, not disabled.’
Christ. He is trying, I mouth to her, as he shuffles dejectedly to the front door. My heart aches for them both.
*
‘It’s Elliot’s baby in there too, Annie,’ I say afterwards.
Annie picks up her handbag. ‘It’s going to be a Broom not a Latham.’
‘I just wonder …’ I say carefully.
‘What?’ Annie’s nostrils flare, alert for any disloyalty.
‘There is a palpable energy between you two. I can feel it.’
‘A sort of you-screwed-my-life sort of energy?’
‘No. A spark. An attraction. The way he hugged you, Annie …’
She scoffs. But her eyes fill with tears. She looks away, trying to hide them from me.
‘Could you not try to make it work, sweetheart?’
She bites down on her lip and shakes her head, muttering something about Elliot not wanting the baby, Elliot wasting no time moving on to someone else.
I wonder if it’s the same girl Helen described on the phone to me. ‘Family friend, works at Christie’s. Very tolerant of the Situation
,’ she’d said. ‘Maybe you could have a little chat with Annie about it.’ The cheek.
‘Anyway, it’s much better for the baby to have always known their parents separated, than to try and fail and psychologically damage them with a split,’ she says. ‘All the experts say so.’
Ouch. I bite my tongue, trying not to take it personally.
‘I’m going to see Granny.’ She walks to the front door and opens it. London rushes in, humid and heavy. ‘Play her the forest recording again. The woodpecker.’
My thoughts run, screaming, arms in the air, back in the direction of the forest. Marge. Fingers. ‘Okay, Annie. Good luck.’
*
I can’t stop thinking about Marge’s ramblings. Muddled, Fingers said. But she’s certainly not gaga. In fact, she seemed relatively lucid, albeit off-message. I don’t know what to believe.
I’ve picked up the phone to call Caroline many times then put it down again. I don’t want to send her loopy, too. Also, old habits die hard: I can’t shift the belief that if I keep all this secret, I can contain it, shape it, stop the past spewing on to the present. And the present is growing more urgent. Every day, Annie’s unborn baby journeys closer to the cot in the bedroom, over which the tree mobile hangs, quivering, waiting.
I’ve done my bit, haven’t I? Taken Annie to the forest, at least. Why risk digging deeper? Mum was protecting us from something, I’m sure of that now. In this strange hinterland between life and death, a place where I cannot grieve for her or move on, I make a decision to leave it alone. Right now, my focus needs to be on the baby. Annie. Mum. Work.
I write an email to my agent, trying to sound dynamic: Dear Pippa, How are things? Can we have a catch-up on the phone this week? I press send. The doorbell rings.
‘Sylvie.’ Helen marches into my apartment. Intense. Wearing flats. Something’s up. Has Elliot reported back already? Maybe he doesn’t want his firstborn sleeping in an end-of-line bargain cot but instead something festooned with antique Parisian lace. ‘How was the cold-war summit?’
I hesitate. Settle on optimism. ‘They’ll get there.’ She looks worried at such a prospect. ‘Helen, come and see the nursery.’ For once, Annie’s room is scrupulously tidy due to Elliot’s visit. I can risk it.
‘Very early to do the nursery, Sylvie. You don’t want to tempt Fate.’ For a moment she seems frightened, as if the worst thing wouldn’t be Annie having the baby but Annie losing it.
‘God, I know. But the cot arrived yesterday and Annie insisted we erect it and see what it looked like. I spent hours in flat-pack purgatory last night. You’ve no idea. Have a peep. Annie’s out. She won’t mind.’ She will. But I want to reassure Helen that we’re more together than we appear. Also, she suggested Elliot coming over today. Her razor edges appear to be blunting a little.
I open Annie’s bedroom door. The light from the canal is wavering on the walls. The room is a-glitter. ‘Sweet, isn’t it?’
She stands in the doorway, her hands steepled over her nose. I wait for her to say something. She simply points to the windowsill, where the terrarium basks in the sunlight.
‘Oh, Annie loves that.’
‘It’s one of mine. I … I have a company. A small terrarium company.’
The hairs on my arms prickle. ‘Someone gave it to my mum. She’s in hospital …’ I stop, seeing the expression on her face.
‘Good Lord. That … that.’ She points at the forest mobile over the cot, slowly spinning in the breeze from the open window. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘Oh, it’s very old. My father made it.’
‘Your father?’ she splutters.
‘He was a carpenter.’ Pride swells my voice. ‘A very good one.’
At this news Helen appears to short-circuit, her mouth opening and closing, her eyes bugging. ‘Who was he?’ She clicks her fingers. ‘Name. Name!’
‘Robbie Rigby. His stuff’s quite collectable now. Have you heard of him?’
49
Hera, now
I hear myself make a small ugly gasp. Sweat glues my silk shirt to my spine. It’s like riding a nuclear menopausal flush. I lower myself to Annie’s bed, covering my mouth with my hand, trying to soothe myself with the familiar chemical smell of new gel nails. I must contain the feelings. The panic. Breathe, Helen, breathe.
I can’t make sense of it.
Hanging over the cot is the wooden tree mobile that’s turned in my dreams for forty-odd years. Beside the window is the terrarium I had made especially by my company’s finest craftswoman a few weeks ago.
‘Your mother in hospital.’ My voice comes out as a croak. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Rita.’ She hesitates. ‘Rita Murphy.’ I glance at the tree mobile again, shaking my head, unable to take it in. Sylvie adds, ‘She kept her maiden name.’
‘Big Rita,’ I whisper, the words sweet and as rare as cheesecake in my mouth. So she did marry Robbie. And she had a family of her own. Feeling a mix of joy and childish envy, I stare at Sylvie, searching for likeness. Although much darker, she looks a bit like Robbie, with those high cheekbones and glinting forester eyes. But Big Rita? No. She certainly didn’t get the legs. But, then, there’s not much of Mother in me.
‘It wasn’t you who left the terrarium at the hospital for Mum, was it?’ Sylvie asks, with a nervous laugh.
‘I wanted to replace what my family destroyed.’
‘Your family?’ Sylvie steps away from me. Her eyes flash black gypsy-gold. She crosses her arms over her chest.
‘Your mother was my nanny. When I was a girl.’ As I say the words, I fight a frightening surge of emotion. It suddenly feels like the protective rind over my heart might split like a dry heel. ‘Sorry. May I have a glass of water?’
Sylvie doesn’t answer. She doesn’t offer me water either. Her eyes are narrowing to sickles. A question is moving behind them.
‘The accident was in the newspaper. The cliff fall.’ I talk into the awkward silence, feeling the need to explain myself. ‘After all this time. There she …’ my voice cracks phlegmatically ‘… was.’
Sylvie’s hands, dexterous make-up artist’s hands, flex and fist at her sides. Her face has drained of colour, and all that’s left is a powdery frost of highlighter on her cheeks.
‘I called the hospital, the one mentioned in the paper. Learned she’d been transferred to a specialist unit in London.’ I wince, recalling how I intimidated the young assistant on the desk into giving me the information. ‘Is she out now? Better?’
‘Not yet.’ Sylvie’s lower lip convulses minutely. She’s staring at me with a discomforting intensity.
‘I had no idea she was your mother. Didn’t even know your mother was ill. Elliot doesn’t tell me anything! Nothing! I have to read him like a rune stone. We’re not close …’ My voice fissures again. I disguise it with a cough. My eyes sting, as if I’m slicing shallots. I blink the tears back. I never cry. I can’t cry. ‘Your mother … gosh, your mother, she was … an inspiration. A complete inspiration. For my company. Everything. They were for her. Shattered things mended. Broken glass recycled, blown again …’
‘I know who you are.’
Something inside me jerks. I reach for the scars behind my ears, the seam between Hera and Helen. She doesn’t know. She can’t. ‘I … I beg your pardon?’
‘The girl from the old newspaper my mother kept.’ Her voice deepens with a dawning certainty. ‘The Harrington girl.’
No, no. Not her. I lift my chin, arrange my face into Helen, and try to smile. ‘I think you must be mistaken,’ I say weakly, and both of us know she’s not.
‘Your eyes.’ Sylvie squints, like she’s looking right through me. ‘Just the same.’
I’m about to protest, deny it all but, outside the window, a man starts strumming a guitar. And for a reason I cannot fathom, I find I can’t lie to the sound of that guitar, the notes vibrating with summer and hope. Or to Sylvie.
‘I’m right, aren’t I? Helen?’
&n
bsp; I bow my head. The exposure is raw and painful, like skin peeled back.
‘Shit, Helen.’ Sylvie sits down on the bed and drops her head into her hands. She looks up at me, dragging at her cheeks with her fingers. ‘Does Elliot know Annie’s granny once worked for your family? The connection?’ Her voice is faint.
I shake my head. ‘Elliot wouldn’t even know Rita’s name.’ My foot starts to tap involuntarily, slacks tightening over my skinny thigh. ‘I’ve never told him …’ I stop. ‘Something terrible happened to my family once. A long time ago. We were pariahs. Our world fell apart. I … I changed my name, you see. Married. Built a new life.’
She’s frowning at me. ‘But why didn’t Elliot mention your terrarium business to Annie? If he had, she’d have said something, when she saw that one over there.’
‘I guess he didn’t want to talk about me.’ I lower my gaze, humiliated. Screwed-up woman, she’s no doubt thinking. Not close to her son. Liar. Pretender. Bad mother. But when I look up again, Sylvie’s eyes are soft, like she understands. ‘Helen,’ she says. ‘There’s something about me you should know.’
50
Rita, October 1972
A half-chewed Farley’s rusk pulps in Sylvie’s clutched fist as she sleeps behind the stripy windbreak. Rita removes it, flicks away the sand bugs and covers her little girl carefully with a pink blanket, one she hand-knitted on summer evenings. Today is one of those glorious late-autumn days, unseasonably warm. But the breeze is cool, hinting at the winter months, the stews, roaring fires and hunkering down to come.
Rita picks her shoreline finds out of a red bucket, her hands working quickly, deftly, and spreads them in an arc, like a deck of cards. ‘There,’ she says, glancing up at Robbie with a smile, and feeling that immediate catch, weakening, whatever it is, that still happens low in her belly every time she locks gazes with her husband.
Robbie is lying on his side, resting his head on his hand, his expression receptive and quiet. His hair has grown longer since their wedding in May – Hackney register office, a short white Miss Selfridge dress, a model friend as a witness, drinks in the pub afterwards, bliss – and is sun-bleached from his daily sea swims, as far out as the fishing boats, cove to cove, like a native. There’s a wallet-shaped faded square on the front pocket of his jeans, their house keys bulging in the other. Behind him, the sun is gold as Devon butter, and starting to sink.