The Day She Came Back

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘It was a big thing to me.’ She spoke calmly.

  ‘I can see that now. But I never meant no harm, I was only trying to do good for Sarah.’

  ‘And I can see that now.’ She held his gaze. ‘So, you have known Sarah for a long time?’

  ‘Yes. Thirty-odd years.’

  ‘And is she . . . I mean . . . do I . . .?’

  ‘You are very much like her.’ He intercepted her thoughts, and his words sent a bolt of joy through her. ‘She was smart and headstrong, and I think that’s why she and your gran clashed.’

  ‘Did she suddenly start taking drugs, or was it a gradual thing?’ She was curious, feeling her face flush and thinking of how she had smoked weed in this very room.

  ‘Sarah was a free spirit and was very open. I don’t think she did anything that most teenagers do at first. The difference is, most teenagers hide it, but not her, and Prim found that tough to deal with.’

  ‘Did you ever meet my dad?’ Her voice cracked.

  Bernard shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘What did you think, Bernard, about the fact that they told me she had died? That they lied to me like that?’

  He exhaled slowly. ‘I thought it was . . .’ She could see that, when it came to it, he too was struggling for words. ‘I thought it was bound to come back to them at some point and you’d all have to face the consequences, is what I thought. Bit like having a party and letting people run wild in your house.’ He tutted.

  ‘A bit like that.’ She rustled the bin bag in her hand. ‘Better crack on. We are stopping for tea when Gerald gives the say-so.’

  ‘Tea? Prim would have cake too, or at the very least a biscuit.’ He chuckled.

  ‘I’ll see what we can do!’ She felt a small weight lift from her shoulders; to have things restored with Bernard-the-handyman felt good.

  Gerald had already unfurled his own bin liner from a roll and was gingerly stepping among the flowerbeds, popping litter, cigarette ends and at least one condom into its dark confines.

  She cringed. ‘Thank you, Gerald,’ she called from the hallway.

  ‘Less thanking and more doing is, I think, the order of the day. Let’s stop in an hour for tea.’

  She liked his offer of a reward and looked around the hallway walls; thankfully, everything looked to be intact. There were, however, several scratches and scuffmarks on the parquet flooring, which she knew she could tackle with beeswax polish and a soft cloth. With her own bin bag now at the ready, she bent low to gather the horrible clutter of stuff on the floors and in corners that did not belong there, tutting at the rather grey-looking bra that not only had someone neglected to wash carefully, shoving it in with the dark colours, but had also seemingly neglected to put back on before going home.

  Unsurprisingly, the drawing room looked the most forlorn. Partly due to the bare surfaces, from where Prim’s precious objets d’art had, thankfully, been removed, but also because the memory lurked of the crush of bodies and their squeaky trainers and heels, which had run rampant over the block wood floor. Here too she managed a sizable haul of trash, and she stepped outside to place her third bulging bin bag on the driveway. She looked up at the sound of a car door closing and saw Daksha walk up the driveway wearing rubber gloves and carrying a bucket from which poked various cleaning products.

  Victoria couldn’t hold back; she ran to her friend and threw her arms around her, holding her tight. It meant more than she could possibly say to have her friend back by her side, and with Bernard in the garden room and Gerald roaming the hallway, for the first time since Prim’s death, she realised she was not alone, she was not alone.

  ‘I . . . can’t . . . breathe . . .’ Daksha managed over her shoulder.

  Victoria pulled away and looked into the face of her beloved friend. ‘I am so sorry, Daks. I was an arsehole.’

  ‘You were an arsehole,’ Daksha agreed, restoring her glasses. ‘And I have to ask, are you now cured of this arseholeness, do you think?’

  Victoria nodded. ‘I am. I really am.’

  ‘Well, thank goodness for that. I missed my friend.’

  ‘I missed you too. So much happened.’ She looked around the garden and remembered the flare of panic she had felt.

  ‘Give me the highlights or the lowlights, whichever.’ Daksha flapped her hand.

  ‘I guess a weird highlight would be there were people I had never met before having sex on the stairs.’

  ‘How on earth do you have sex on the stairs?’ Daksha looked perplexed.

  ‘Very carefully.’ Victoria nodded. ‘And then I struggle to pick a lowlight. It’s a toss-up between falling off my heels and then throwing up in the larder or finding Flynn in Prim’s bed with Courtney.’

  ‘Let me guess, his pants had fallen off?’

  ‘They had.’ She allowed herself the smallest of smiles, even though to recount it hurt. ‘And then Gerald turned up with a gun.’

  ‘You are kidding me!’

  ‘I’m not. He opened a can of whoop-arse and went all gangster. Everyone ran, taking their decks with them.’

  ‘Decks?’

  ‘Yes, you know record decks, for music.’

  ‘God, Vic, I know what decks are. What, did you think that I live in a cave? I was just wondering what kind of party it was if you needed decks at all?’

  ‘I love you, Daksha Joshi.’ Victoria smiled.

  ‘This is all well and good,’ Gerald called from the hallway. ‘Hello, Daksha dear, but love isn’t going to get this house straight. That we can only do with elbow grease and effort!’

  ‘I thought you said we could have a cup of tea?’ Victoria called out. Gerald checked his watch. ‘Not for another eight minutes.’ He winked and disappeared inside.

  By mid-evening they’d finally, finally got the house almost fully restored and smelling fresh: the rubbish was gone, the floors cleaned and laundry sat in piles on the floor of the boot room. Bernard had left a little after midday and Gerald had only just headed home, with a huge hug of thanks. Victoria and Daksha now took up their favourite spots on either end of the freshly plumped and cleaned sofa in the drawing room. The three had worked tirelessly and had enjoyed congratulatory fish and chips around the kitchen table not an hour since. Victoria ran her hand over the waistband of her jeans, her stomach full of the food she had devoured at speed.

  The drawing room felt wonderful. Having dusted each surface before returning Prim’s ornaments, and polishing the floor before replacing the rugs, the place actually shone a little more brightly than it had before the party.

  ‘There, all back to normal.’ Daksha yawned.

  ‘Are we all back to normal?’ she hardly dared ask.

  ‘Nearly.’ Her friend smiled. ‘Don’t worry; we’ll get there. I think you are going through something that most of us can’t begin to understand, and so the odd breakdown of normal service, nuts behaviour and pockets of lunacy are probably to be expected.’

  Victoria nodded, not proud of the breakdown in normal service and hoping her nuts behaviour was drawing to an end, because, quite frankly, it was exhausting.

  ‘I have been feeling so empty and so angry,’ she confessed.

  ‘I can imagine.’

  Victoria picked at a thread on her clean pyjama bottoms. ‘It’s been like my thoughts were on a loop. I’ve been a bit obsessed with wanting to know exactly what happened, how the deal was struck, who suggested what and who agreed . . .’ She let this trail.

  ‘Why do you need that level of detail?’

  ‘Because I thought it would help me understand.’

  ‘I don’t think it would help, not really. I’m not saying you shouldn’t discuss it – I absolutely think you should – but I bet it was a storm of events that led things to turn out how they did. I worry that if you’re like a dog with a bone, then it might just prolong the breakdown of normal service. And I don’t want that for you.’ Daksha squeezed her toes.

  ‘I just want the truth.’

  ‘You kno
w the truth: your mum is still alive. Prim made decisions that you can’t challenge her on because she isn’t here any more and you have to live with it. That’s it!’

  Victoria sighed and looked into her lap. ‘I guess so, but there are still so many gaps. I’m thinking of going to Oslo to talk to Sarah.’ She felt a flash of nerves as the thought left her mouth. ‘I’d like answers, and she is one of the only people who might just be able to give them to me.’

  ‘I think that would be a brave thing to do and a brilliant thing to do.’

  Victoria smiled at her friend and slid down to rest her head on her end of the sofa. ‘I have kind of been avoiding her to punish her a little bit. I wanted her to miss me, like I have always missed her.’

  ‘You think she hasn’t missed you? Jesus, Vic, you only have to look at the woman to see that she is utterly broken! The way she looked, standing like that in the foyer waiting for you . . . I think she’s been punished enough, and actually by letting strangers smash up Rosebank, ignoring the mother you have longed for, shagging Flynn the dickhead and shutting me out, you are only punishing yourself. Enough already!’

  Victoria lifted her head and stared at her friend.

  Daksha flapped her hand. ‘Sorry. Too much?’

  ‘Too much.’ She smiled at her friend.

  ELEVEN

  Victoria tucked the duvet around her legs, reached for her laptop and opened up Sarah’s emails. She took a deep breath and opened the next two letters.

  May 2001

  Sarah Jackson

  Henbury House

  West Sussex

  Hello Mum,

  What to say?

  Your letter has provoked every emotion possible.

  At first I was furious, raging! How dare you? How dare you assume that because Marcus has an illness – that’s right, the illness of addiction – that he could not be the best father to our child?

  Would you suggest the same if he had a different illness? Cancer? A missing limb? Of course not, and if you think that either he or I would knowingly put our daughter in danger, then you are deluded! Bloody deluded! She is the good thing that will pull us out of this; she is the one bright light at the end of a very dark tunnel and we will cherish her!

  I spoke to one of the counsellors here, who calmed me a little, and you know what, Mum? Now I feel sad for you, sad that you are willing to dismiss him so willingly and that ultimately you don’t have more faith in me. You say you do, but words are easy.

  And I don’t write this to be cruel or calculating, but it is the truth.

  I will be out of Henbury House before I give birth to my daughter and I was considering asking you to play a part in the arrival of this child.

  But you can forget that.

  How many times do I have to say it: Marcus and I come as a package.

  It’s either us as a couple or neither of us.

  That’s it.

  There’s nothing more to say.

  Sarah

  ‘Knock knock?’ Daksha spoke as she walked into Victoria’s bedroom.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘You okay?’ Her concern was sweet, touching.

  ‘Yup.’ She touched the screen. ‘My heart aches for her, this woman in the letters.’ There was a crack to her voice.

  ‘Your mum?’

  ‘Yes. It’s hard to think this is me they are talking about, and hard to think it’s Prim that she is talking to. I can feel her pain. I can feel both of their pain.’

  ‘Well, I call that progress. Have you booked your flight?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I’m going to call Sarah first and just check that it’s okay for me to go.’

  ‘I bet it will be.’ She closed her eyes briefly. ‘Heard from Flynn?’

  Again, she shook her head.

  ‘Do you want to hear from Flynn?’ Daksha pushed.

  ‘I don’t think so, but it feels weird. We had sex, ate noodles and then he just disappeared.’ She threw her palms up. ‘It’s not what I pictured when I thought about losing my virginity. But then, he’s not who I thought he was.’ She closed her eyes and sighed. I’m such an idiot . . . falling for that shit.

  ‘No, I bet. So what was it like?’

  ‘What, the sex?’

  ‘No, Vic, the noodles! Of course the sex!’

  Victoria laughed. ‘It was . . . disappointing and brilliant and exciting and flat and intimate and embarrassing and addictive and strangely awkward.’

  ‘Good God! Doesn’t sound like I’m missing much.’

  ‘I think it’ll be good when it’s with the right person.’

  ‘Here’s hoping.’ Daksha pulled a face and stood. ‘Anyway, the spare room is calling and I am turning in. Night night.’ She blew a kiss from the doorframe.

  ‘Night.’

  May 2001

  Rosebank

  Epsom

  Surrey

  Sarah,

  I can feel the anger in your written words. Let me try again to explain.

  That man might, as you say, be a very nice person, he might have the makings to be the very best father, but all of that pales into insignificance when I consider the welfare of you, the person I love most in the whole wide world! He gives you drugs! If not now, then he has given you drugs in the past! How, how am I supposed to welcome him into my home, into my heart, when he has left a dark hole in both?

  I do have faith in you. I always have. But is it a coincidence that you, who had never lied, never stolen, never been anything other than trustworthy and wonderful, met him and then lied to Daddy and me about a trip to Barcelona – using the money instead for drugs? Read that back, Sarah! And trust me that I do have faith in you. The fact that you are at Henbury House at all is the most positive step.

  But I have no faith in him, none at all.

  And I do not trust him.

  I think he brings you into harm’s way.

  And I do not trust you when you are with him.

  That is a hard thing to write and an even harder truth to bear.

  And so, if you and he do indeed, as you say, come as a package, then, as heartbreaking as it is, I can only agree. It would be impossible for me to help at the birth, to smile and make out everything is rosy, when I believe the very opposite.

  What a desperate state of affairs.

  Utterly desperate.

  Think this through, Sarah! Think about that little baby girl you are carrying. Think about it! I want you home safely and I want your baby to have the best start.

  I am begging you. I am begging you . . .

  Mum. X

  Victoria closed the laptop and let the words of the letters settle.

  Prim knew you so much better than I do, and she didn’t trust you, Sarah – so should I? But then, on the other hand, I trusted Prim and she let me down . . .

  It was nine o’clock – which made it ten o’clock in Oslo. Victoria turned the phone over in her palms and tentatively dialled Sarah’s number. Her stomach churned and she lost her nerve, half hoping the call might go straight to messages. Closing her eyes, she breathed slowly, still in two minds about the wisdom of her actions, but before she had a chance to reconsider, the call was answered.

  ‘Hello! Oh, hello!’ And there it was: the note of hope, the undercurrent of joy that was something Sarah evidently felt at no more than seeing her name pop up on a phone screen. It felt nice to know that was the effect she had on her, flattering even.

  ‘Hi, Sarah.’

  ‘Is this a misdial? Or did you want to call me?’ Sarah asked with quiet intensity.

  How Victoria answered this question would, she knew, set the tone for what came next.

  ‘No, it’s not a misdial. I . . . I wanted to call you.’

  ‘Oh! Oh, that’s wonderful! Really wonderful!’

  Victoria could hear the smile in her words, and it made her smile too.

  ‘It’s not too late for you?’

  Sarah took a deep breath. ‘Too late? I would talk to you any time, any place, al
l night if I could.’

  Her response was reassuring and warm.

  ‘How . . . how are you? I wanted to call . . . so many times . . . but I didn’t want to make you feel . . . I don’t know, crowded, spied on, pressured.’ She sensed Sarah’s nerves and knew they matched her own. ‘I find it hard to get things right, to strike the balance. It feels like one false move and I might ruin everything. That’s exactly how I feel. I am so nervous. And riven with guilt, sadness and regret, and I hate feeling like I am out of control, like I might mess up this chance I’ve been given; this wonderful chance! I have been given the opportunity to get to know you, but there is glass between us that I am scared to lean on, scared to push in case it breaks into a million pieces and takes me with it.’

  ‘Well. I think that might be the first truly open and honest exchange we have had.’

  ‘I think it might, apart from that I have thought about you every single day of your life. That was true, every word . . .’

  Victoria heard the crack to Sarah’s voice.

  ‘Sarah, you know, if you and I are going to be able to talk, we need to do it without that glass wall between us, and we need to try and do it without one or both of us crying every five minutes!’

  ‘I know. I know.’ She sniffed. ‘I can try. Where are you? At home?’

  ‘Yes, in my bedroom, it’s the one almost opposite Prim’s.’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘How long since you were here last?’ Victoria was curious.

  ‘Well, apart from for Prim’s funeral, the last time I went inside was during the holidays of my first year at Durham – that’s where I went to university.’