by Rona Halsall
Anna had been quiet about the whole Izzy episode on the journey, telling Martha, ‘Least said, soonest forgotten. Let’s just concentrate on getting your mum better.’ Her tone had told Martha not to argue, so she debated with herself instead while the drone of conversation filled the air.
What if Izzy was telling the truth?
She found it impossible to get past the idea, as it stood there, resolute, like a roadblock in her mind. Do we look alike? she wondered as she stared at her mother, doing a careful inventory of her features. People had always said so, until Fran’s weight had ballooned over the past few years, changing the shape of her face, but before that… She made her excuses and went to find the toilets and a mirror, gazing at her reflection, satisfied there was enough of Fran in her to shape her eyebrows, her ears, her lips. She studied her face carefully, inch by inch, looking for other signs, suggestions that Izzy could be her mother. Their hair colour was the same, and then… she sighed, unable to recall Izzy’s features in clear enough detail to make a comparison. There were similarities in personality, little mannerisms, and she remembered Izzy commenting on it, but that didn’t mean Izzy was her mother. It happened with friends and partners. Mirroring. Isn’t that what it’s called?
Confused as ever, she went back to her mum’s bedside, and soon after, Anna suggested it was time to leave.
‘Good news that Fran can come home so soon, isn’t it?’ Anna sounded upbeat as they drove homewards.
‘It is,’ Martha replied with a lot less enthusiasm. There were difficult conversations ahead, especially since Fran was still recovering, and Martha would have to be as gentle as she could with her questioning. ‘I’m surprised they’re letting her out so quickly.’
‘People recover better at home. That’s the modern thinking. And the fact they probably need her bed.’
‘Hmm.’ Martha couldn’t really think about it, her head too full of questions. And Izzy. Because Izzy could be one of two things. She could be a crazy person who was obsessed with her missing baby and had latched on to Martha as someone who fit the bill for reasons only she could understand. Or she really was Martha’s mother, in which case her whole life had been more of a mesh of lies than she’d imagined. And that didn’t bear thinking about. All the touchstones of her existence, all the stability, had gone in a matter of days and she was left rocking about like a surfer swept out to sea, alone and vulnerable and wondering if she could ever get back to solid ground.
Anna pulled up in her driveway and Martha thanked her for the lift.
‘I can take you again tomorrow if you like.’
Martha nodded, and muttered her thanks before walking to her own house, suddenly weary of it all.
She realised a part of her wished that Izzy was still there. She’d been such a comfort and had not only offered emotional support but had sorted the house out more or less single-handedly. Martha went through to the kitchen and filled the kettle, clicked it on. Her eyes swept round the room, taking in the uncluttered worktops, the clean windowsills, the doors of the kitchen units all wiped down, a little posy of daffodils in a vase on the table. That was all Izzy and she knew it was done out of love. However much she may want to doubt her, there was no denying their friendship. That had been very real, and she missed her.
There’s no point moping about, she told herself and decided she needed to get a grip of the facts; only then could she decide what was real and what was fantasy. Izzy and Fran had told her two versions of the same story regarding her parenthood. Which one is true? She sat for a while, staring out of the window, wondering where to start. Google was probably the answer.
With a new feeling of resolve, she made herself a sandwich and a cup of coffee, went up to her bedroom, turned on her laptop and started searching.
She knew her grandmother had been Beryl Armitage, and she’d thought it was just coincidence that Izzy had the same surname, not really giving it a second thought as it was pretty common where she’d grown up. She used that as a starting point. Isobel Armitage brought up precisely nothing that seemed even slightly connected with the Izzy she knew. Nor did Isabel or Isabelle…
That in itself worried her. Typing in Izzy Armitage brought up her social media accounts, but there was very little posted, she realised, as she scrolled through her Facebook page. Just a few updated profile pictures and no personal information. So, Izzy might not be who she says she is. She shuddered and decided to take a different tack with her research, following up on something Izzy had mentioned earlier.
She checked the news sites for updates on Greg MacKay and found there had been developments in the past couple of days; two men were being questioned on suspicion of murder, just as Izzy had said. The police had a new theory, apparently, having discovered that Greg had been involved in fencing stolen goods. It linked in with an ongoing investigation into organised crime in the north-west. Martha stared at the words for a moment, her heart giving a flip of relief, before she clicked her laptop shut. His death must have just been a horrible coincidence. It was nothing to do with me. Maybe he hadn’t wanted her there because he was waiting for a contact to show up. That wasn’t too unbelievable, was it? In fact, when she thought about his behaviour, it made perfect sense. He was protecting me, not shunning me. A more palatable truth and one she would cling to for now.
She lay on her bed, tracing the pattern of cracks that ran across her ceiling. How could she make sense of her world, when everything kept shifting?
Greg wasn’t her father. That was a definite. He and Fran had both confirmed it. So, who was? And that question led to another: who was telling the truth – her mum or Izzy? Only one of them was her mother. But which one?
Thirty-Four
Fran
Now
Finally, Fran had been told she could go home, and she checked her watch again. She’d been sitting waiting for Martha to come for what seemed like days, but it was really only an hour or so, the minutes ticking by slower than she’d thought possible. Then she saw her daughter, coming through the door to the ward, and she clambered to her feet, not wanting to be in hospital a second longer than she needed to be.
Martha was frowning; in fact, she looked really glum. Fran guessed the revelations about her father would have been worrying Martha, but they hadn’t had a chance to talk over the last couple of days, as Anna had brought Martha to the hospital and she’d rather dominated the conversation. There’d been no opportunity for any quiet time, just Fran and Martha together, and she promised to make this her priority as soon as they got home.
‘Oh, Martha, am I glad to see you,’ Fran said, picking up a carrier bag which was overflowing with dirty washing. Martha took it off her, as Fran knew she would.
‘You’re not supposed to be carrying things.’ Her words whipped through the air, making Fran sink back into the chair next to the bed. ‘Just hold on a minute. I’ll get a wheelchair. It’s quite a hike just to get to the exit.’
Fran watched Martha as she went out to the reception area, could see her through the glass doors, talking to a nurse at the desk. A few minutes later she was back with a wheelchair and Fran smiled to herself. She was so thankful to have her daughter. How would she have managed if she’d left home? I’d be dead by now, she thought and knew it to be true.
‘Thanks, love,’ she said, settling herself in the wheelchair, while Martha checked that she’d got everything out of her locker.
She tucked a blanket round Fran’s shoulders and another over her legs. ‘There’s a chilly breeze out there today.’ She sounded distant, Fran thought, and wondered whether she’d done the right thing, telling her about the past. It’s done now. Give the girl time to sort it out in her mind. It’ll be fine. Yes, they had a fall out every now and again, but it always came right in the end.
Probably sad about Pete and worrying about work, she decided. And Greg dying. That would be another shock. And finding out I’ve been in touch with him all these years. She supposed that might rankle. She really wasn’t
happy when I told her about her real father. She adjusted the blankets. Oh dear. There was a difficult conversation coming; she could feel it in the way Martha was avoiding her gaze. Thank goodness Anna was driving them home; at least that would delay the inevitable for a little while longer.
A nurse came over, carrying a plastic bag. ‘This is your medication.’ She looked at Fran but handed the bag to Martha, who tucked it in the back of the wheelchair. ‘We’ve arranged for the district nurse to call and see you every week, just to check on your feet and legs, and make sure the diabetes is under control. And here’s a diet sheet.’ She gave that to Martha too. ‘See if we can get your cholesterol levels down, okay?’
Fran nodded. She’d agree to anything to get out of hospital. And she really would try this time, for Martha’s sake.
‘The local GP practice will send you a letter about rehabilitation classes. There’s a healthy heart initiative just started in your area, so you can meet up with other people who’ve had heart attacks. Like a support group. And we’ll call you back for a check-up in a few weeks. In the meantime, any problems, your GP is your first port of call, okay?’ She looked between Fran and Martha, and when neither of them said anything, she carried on. ‘I’ll just go and get you a walking frame. You’re managing all right with that, aren’t you?’
Fran nodded and the nurse bustled off, returning a few minutes later with a metal frame that she tucked over Fran’s legs. ‘There, all set?’
Fran gave a tight smile. ‘Yes, thank you.’ Come on, let’s go! she silently urged, desperate to be on her way home before they decided there was just one more test they needed to do. No way am I going to a support group, she thought as she pulled the blanket a little tighter round her chest. She knew what the problem was, and she and Martha would sort it out. No need for strangers to know her business.
‘Thank you for everything,’ Martha said to the nurse before pushing Fran out of the ward.
Poor Greg. It kept hitting Fran out of nowhere, like a wrecking ball, making her thoughts lurch all over the place. Sadness weighed heavy in her belly, pulling at her shoulders as Martha wheeled her down the corridor. Had the past caught up with him, or had he been up to his old tricks? She gave an involuntary shiver and pulled the blanket tighter.
It wasn’t until they got outside that she realised Martha hadn’t said a word to her.
Fran could feel a prickle of shame on her skin. She hadn’t thought about how hard things had been for her daughter, wrapped up as she was in her own misery. She was glad to see Anna’s car. At least she’d have a distraction all the way home, and thank goodness Anna would be around for a week or so. Maybe she can act as mediator between me and Martha? She knew Fran’s story, after all, and Fran would be happy for her help.
Anna held the car door open while Martha helped Fran up from the wheelchair, settling her in the front seat before transferring the walking frame, bags and medicines into the boot.
‘Thank you so much for coming to get me.’
‘Don’t be silly, it’s the least I can do.’ Anna leant over and fastened Fran’s seat belt, making sure it was properly adjusted, and Martha got in the back. Fran could feel her smouldering presence behind her, the heat of unsaid words burning the back of her neck.
As soon as they set off, Anna started to chatter about a new idea she’d had for the book cover, and Fran’s mind started to fill with fantastical images that coloured over her problems, distracting her from the ominous feeling there would be trouble as soon as she got home.
She smiled when they finally arrived outside the cottage. How she’d missed her little house, and she promised herself that she was going to do things right this time, turn over a new leaf. This had been a mighty wake-up call, and only she could ensure that she prioritised her health and tried her best to ditch the bad habits that had put her in hospital in the first place.
‘Are you getting out?’ Martha’s voice broke into her thoughts. Her face was miserable as a wet weekend and Fran decided they’d have to clear the air sooner rather than later because she couldn’t cope with this atmosphere for long. There were apologies to be made, she knew that. But did she have the energy right now? Maybe not. Maybe later, she decided as Anna helped her from the car and Martha retrieved the walking frame from the boot, following behind with the bags as Fran moved at a glacial pace towards the door. She gritted her teeth through the stabbing pains in her feet, determined to get there under her own steam.
As Fran entered the lounge, she was shocked at the state of the place. She stopped and stared around her. ‘Dear God, where is everything?’
The room was practically empty, apart from the settee, an armchair and the TV in the corner. All her knick-knacks, collections of magazines and bric-a-brac that she’d gathered as inspiration, to inform her designs in terms of texture and colour and form – it was all gone. Her heart did a weird skippity-thump and she sank onto the settee, a hand clasped to her chest.
Anna frowned at her. ‘Are you okay?’
Fran nodded, unable to speak.
‘We had to have a tidy up before the home assessor came,’ Martha said, defensive. ‘There was so much junk in here, you could hardly move, and there was a chance you would be in a wheelchair, so we had a proper clear-out.’
‘It looks lovely,’ Anna said, a genuine note of approval in her voice. ‘So much bigger and brighter.’ She looked at Fran. ‘And nothing to trip over. That was the idea, wasn’t it, Martha?’
‘That’s right. We wouldn’t have passed the assessment if we hadn’t done it, and you’d have been shipped off to a residential home.’
Fran’s eyes widened. ‘Residential home?’ The thought was horrifying. But so was the idea that all her collections had gone. She loved nothing more than an afternoon rooting through her magazine pile, cutting out pictures for whatever project she was working on, or digging through her boxes of stuff, finding an ornament or a piece of glassware the right colour.
‘Right,’ Anna said. ‘I’ve got to go and do a couple of jobs in Looe, but I’ll get some shopping on the way back if you like?’
Martha was leaning against the archway into the dining area, her arms folded across her chest. She gave Anna a quick smile. ‘That would be brilliant, thank you. Just milk and bread and a few tins for now. I’ll have to look at Mum’s diet sheet and sort out a proper shop another time.’ She walked Anna to the door. ‘Thanks again for the lift.’
‘I won’t be long,’ Anna said before Fran heard the door close and they were alone. Her and Martha. She heard Martha’s footsteps clump up the stairs and she thought she must be taking her bag up to her bedroom.
She sank back on the settee and let her eyes travel around the lounge. It was clean and tidy, the cobwebs gone from the ceiling, the windows sparkling for the first time in goodness knew how long. There was no doubt it was more hygienic and probably safer, but now it was half empty, it didn’t feel like home. She glanced into the dining room, to her worktable, and clasped at the fabric of the cushions. Martha had been through all her papers.
Oh my God! A snippet of conversation came back to her, something about finding the file where she stored all the demands for money, and her fingers relaxed. Well, at least that was all out in the open. But now she’d be wondering where all the money had gone because she knew they didn’t pay much rent and then Fran would have to explain how stupid she’d been. Or do I? Her mind raced round, trying to work out an excuse, but by the time Martha came back downstairs, she still hadn’t come up with anything remotely credible.
‘You’ve been through my stuff!’ she cried as soon as Martha came in the room, unable to help herself. It was an unwritten rule in the house that Fran’s stuff shouldn’t be touched, because although it might look messy, she really did know where everything was. ‘How could you? That was private. You’d no right—’
Martha held up a hand, folded her arms across her chest. ‘I told you a debt collector came, so of course I went through your stuff, Mum. I had
no choice. Someone had to sort out the mess.’ Martha sighed and sat in the armchair by the side of the fireplace. She leant forwards, her elbows on her knees, face earnest. ‘Look, Mum, things have got to change. I have no idea where the money’s going, but now I’m not working and you’re not going to be able to earn anything for a bit, well, we need to be extra careful about spending. I’ve got some more redundancy coming, but it’s going to be a few months.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve paid the debt collector an advance and said we’d sort out a payment plan. I told you about the Citizens Advice, didn’t I? They’re going to do a home visit to go through everything with you.’
Fran’s mouth dropped open. She’d never seen Martha so businesslike, so in control, and could hardly keep up with her as she rattled through the list of what she’d done. A part of her glowed with pride at the way Martha had tackled the problem directly, something she was poor at doing herself. Fran was a head-in-the-sand sort of person and she admired this decisive quality in her daughter. In fact, she wondered why she’d struggled on, trying to manage the finances herself, when it was clearly not her strong point. Perhaps it was time to trust Martha a bit more, treat her as the adult she was and share out the stresses and strains of keeping a house running.
‘And now, Mum.’ Martha had a determined glint in her eye that Fran didn’t like at all. ‘Now, we’re going to start a new policy of being honest. After all this stuff with Greg and money and—’
The sound of the front door opening, then closing, stopped Martha mid-flow. Fran glanced towards the door, thinking it must be Anna, but the woman who walked into the lounge was someone else entirely.