You Never Told Me

by Sarah Jasmon

  Daylight came with the green of Europe, the air clean and unspent above the cloud layer. Charlie eased past knees to wait in the fug of stale night breath for the toilet to be free. A child was sprawled across his mother’s lap on a seat opposite, and Charlie watched him, counted his regular breaths. She could almost feel the heat of his sweat-flattened hair. It was only when she was about to go into the cubicle that she realized the mother was watching her as well, with indifferent eyes. When she was done, the tepid water from the taps making no difference to the thick tiredness of her head, she went back to her seat without looking. She saw them again in Manchester, the child now running in circles as they all waited for the carousel to deliver its promises. The boy’s voice, demanding attention, followed her as she pushed her way out towards passport control.

  And then there was the run for the train, the steady pull over the Pennines. The carriage filled with walkers, all cheerfully indifferent to the outside drizzle, the lack of available seats. Charlie allowed their hum of conversation to fill her head, drifting into half-sleep as stops were made. The station announcements ticked off the distance for her: Belle Vue, Brinnington, Romiley, Hope. The names clicked through her brain with the rhythm of the wheels, calming her thoughts. She was fully asleep by the time they pulled in to Sheffield, and she surfaced to the sound of an elderly lady wondering if she should wake her, the feel of a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘We’re here, love.’ The woman’s voice was soft. ‘Last stop.’

  She didn’t have enough money left for a taxi, but was glad of the chance to walk. She felt strangely calm, the one part of the journey when she could physically change the speed of transit leading her instead to a slow, almost dreamlike, movement. She accepted it all, the cool greyness of the air, the pavement reeling away from her feet, the presence of the houses, the surrounding hills. It wrapped her in a sense of familiar unreality which clung to her as she approached the hospital. She tugged it behind as she followed signs for the ward that Eleanor had told her to find. It was with her as she took in the aura of disinfectant and efficiency until, finally, accompanying her to the curtained side of her mother’s bed.

  She didn’t need to be told. Her father and Eleanor were standing together on one side of the cubicle. The machines, filling so much of the space, were quiet. Charlie came to a stop herself, her eyes fixed on the space that the something that wasn’t quite her mother was occupying. Hair spread out on the pillow, still thick, still the ash ghost of blonde. Charlie couldn’t speak. Her mouth moved, her throat worked, but nothing came out. She just stood there at the end of the bed, barely noticing the clatter as the hanging notes fell to the ground.

  Before anyone could speak, a nurse put her head round the edge of the curtains, catching Eleanor’s attention. Eleanor gave her an acknowledging nod before lifting a hand towards the silent figure next to her.

  ‘Dad, I think we need to go and sort a few things out.’ Her voice sounded too loud in the hushed atmosphere, yet he didn’t seem to hear her. Charlie wasn’t sure he’d noticed her own arrival. His face was blank, his stance rigid and fixed. He was looking not at the figure on the bed, but at a point just a little to one side, as if disassociating himself from the scene. Charlie watched Eleanor put a hand on his sleeve. ‘Dad? Are you OK to do it? I can manage, if you like.’

  At this, he gave a start and seemed to realize where he was. ‘No, no, I’m fine.’ As he came past, Charlie took a step back, uncertain of her place. Was he ignoring her deliberately, or was it that he hadn’t quite realized she was here? At the last minute, she made to move towards him, but Eleanor intercepted her with a small shake of her head.

  ‘Wait here,’ she murmured, glancing round to check where the nurse was taking them. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  A different nurse came around the edge of the curtain. Seeing Charlie, she made as if to back away. Then she stopped.

  ‘Everything all right, my love?’ she asked.

  Charlie made an effort to concentrate. Maybe it was jet lag starting to kick in, but she felt as if her head had no connection with her body, or with her surroundings. ‘Yes, sorry,’ she said, and found herself smiling to reassure the nurse. She was only young, probably the age of most of the backpackers Charlie had spent the last few months with. ‘I’m just—’ She gestured back to the bed. What was she doing? What was she supposed to be doing?

  ‘Just ask if you need anything,’ the girl said, and hurried off in her squishy white shoes.

  Charlie dropped into the single chair that was squeezed between the bed and the curtain. Just ask if there was anything she needed. What she needed was for this not to be happening, for someone to tell her she could wake up now. She wasn’t ready, she didn’t know what to do. Should she hold her mother’s hand, tell her how sorry she was that this had happened? Apologize for not being in touch, for moving away, for always wanting her to be a different sort of mother? Nothing felt right. Max would know. She imagined him being next to her, a bulwark against the strangeness. He would hold her and reassure her that what she was feeling was normal, that she didn’t need to worry about some imagined standard of behaviour she was failing to meet. For a moment it seemed possible, that she could call him and he’d drop everything. He might do that: he was a kind man and he had loved her. But it didn’t seem to be playing fair to call on him just because she was in need. The words from one of their final conversations kept popping up in her head. You know if you leave, that’s going to be it? I’ll go with you anywhere, try anything, but if you go, you go. His voice had broken at that point, tears running down his cheeks. You can’t leave me and still have me, you know that?

  ‘What do you really think about it all?’ Charlie spoke without thinking in the end, the words surprising her. Somehow, her hand had reached out, resting itself lightly on her mother’s arm. It lay still and straight, resting on the laundry stamp of the hospital sheet, warmer than Charlie expected her to be. It really was as if she was lying there, listening to her speak. A moment of intimacy, the last chance to talk. Except they’d never sat together like this, not really. Charlie tried to remember the last time they’d talked, just the two of them, and her grip tightened. She’d left it too late. Numbly, she sat on in silence, with every minute taking her mother further away. Gravity pulled at skin and muscle, leaving her mouth slack and lop-sided. There was nothing Charlie could do.

  They drove home in silence, Eleanor at the wheel of their father’s Rover. He had stayed at the hospital to sort things out, please, leave me to do this, but Eleanor had been insistent that Charlie should go back. There hadn’t been any point in arguing, so here she was, in the passenger seat, letting the passing views roll by. Her body knew every stone of the route. It counted off the junctions and bends in the road so that at any given moment she’d have been able to say where she was, even with her eyes closed. She forced them to stay open, couldn’t risk giving in to the almost overwhelming desire to sleep yet. This road had been her way in and out of the village for her whole life. She’d had years of school bus mornings and evenings, packed in with the same crowd, day in, day out. Then there were the giddy escapes during long summer holidays, and tired returns on the last bus back, her head on someone’s shoulder, blanking out the recriminations ahead. Where have you been? Do you know what time it is? Why can’t you think? She’d last taken it just before she’d left for Thailand, fuming as she drove away from the village. Bella had been with her then, watching anxiously from her cushion on the back seat.

  Now Eleanor made the final turn into the drive and switched the engine off. They sat there in the silence, listening to the tick of metal as heat ebbed away. The sky had taken one of its spring turns, dark clouds whipping the air. On the far side of the valley, Charlie could see where the rocks pushed through the thin grass in their familiar patterns. They had names for them all: the sewing machine, the bonky man. Secret names to be counted off like charms on a bracelet, from a time when she still held her mother’s hand and they told s
tories as they walked, the three of them together. The memory made her uneasy. That was a part of her life she’d chosen to forget. Chosen, or been given no choice? Somewhere a sheep bleated, and was answered by a discordant volley of sound from the rest of the scattered flock.

  In front of them, the house was unchanged, stark on the side of the hill. Its angular seventies lines were unsoftened by the years of moorland wind, though she could see signs of age. She hated it, she realized. Not just the sense of it. She was used to that, to low-level apprehension building from her stomach as she walked up to the door. The not-knowing of what mood would be there to greet her, silence or a brittle pretence at normality. Now she noticed streaks down the white walls where the rain left green trails, and cracks in the render. Had they always been there? The house would disintegrate now her mother had gone. Which didn’t make sense: her mother’s disregard for any issues with the fabric of the place had been one of her small rebellions. And now she’d slipped away from it for good.

  ‘Come on, it’s going to rain any sec.’ Eleanor spoke but didn’t move, though she had one hand on the door handle. Her body was angled away, her face turned towards the hills. Charlie wondered if she was noticing the rocks as well, what her memories were bringing back. She was right about the rain. Charlie could see black clouds massing behind the house. A spot landed on the windscreen in front of them. Eleanor spoke again, more to herself than Charlie. ‘Right, let’s get on.’

  Charlie followed her up the path, her feet crunching on the gravel as if they belonged to somebody else entirely. Once inside, she let her rucksack fall with a tired thump. There it was, the smell of home. It made her want to run away.

  ‘Will you be OK?’ Eleanor had gone straight through to the back of the house, looking for something in the drawers and cupboards of the utility room by the sound of it, but now reappeared. Her voice had a snappy edge, as if this was all Charlie’s fault. Charlie vaguely wondered if they should be hugging, sharing what they felt. Surely that would be the normal reaction? It would be hard, mind; at that moment, she couldn’t begin to work out how she felt, and maybe her sister felt the same. And maybe she should also be apologizing, for not being there, for leaving when she had, but Eleanor interrupted the slowly forming thought. ‘I’m going to have to run home for a bit. The girls are with Jon’s mum, but Poppy won’t eat unless I’m there. I’ll just have time to feed them before Jon gets back, then I’ll go and get Dad.’

  Charlie almost asked why Jon couldn’t sort all that out, but bit the words back. It wasn’t her role to interfere. And anyway, her sleepiness was reaching an unbearable pitch, a monstrous weight pushing all other considerations out of its way. Wrapped in its haze, she watched Eleanor leave before stumbling up the wide, floating boards of the stairs and collapsing onto her old bed.

  FOUR

  The room was dark when she woke. Charlie lay still, her mind grappling to make sense of the quiet. There should be lights, departure boards, the reassuring chatter of a surrounding crowd. With a surge of adrenaline, she sat up, trying to find her bag. If that was stolen, how would she get back? Then the shadowy contours of the room began to settle, and she remembered that she’d already arrived. She slumped down again, piecing herself together. Her mouth was dry, her body stale and acrid, and her stomach empty. Maybe if she closed her eyes and went back to sleep, everything would go away.

  In the end, she had to get up. Out on the landing she paused, trying to work out what time it was. Eleanor had talked about coming back, but would she have been and gone again? Charlie didn’t think she could face talking to her father by herself. From downstairs she caught the chink of movements, a tap running, then the low murmur of voices. Both of them, but did that make things easier or not? She could stay where she was and pretend to be asleep, put off everything until the morning, but that would double the awkwardness of the next day. Plus, she really needed the toilet. Maybe a shower would wake her up enough to be coherent.

  The water was a stinging heat, scouring off the last of Thailand. Strange that it was less than a day since she’d left. It felt as if she’d never been there. She stood under the spray for minutes longer than necessary, unable to move. Then the water made the decision for her, changing to the sudden blast of cold that signalled the boiler’s limit. Back in her room, she emptied her rucksack and looked at what she’d brought back. Not much. The bundle of thin cotton trousers and embroidered tops were creased and dirty, and not up to the chill of an English spring. It was a pathetic pile. She should have made sure she had something wearable. And anyone else would have brought gifts, mementoes from away, offerings to those left behind. No one would be expecting it under the circumstances, but Charlie felt a dull guilt that it hadn’t even crossed her mind, for Eleanor’s girls at least. She turned to the chest of drawers where there were still the odd bits of clothing that had accumulated over the years. Leggings, and a T-shirt she must have brought once as a nightshirt. It was one of Max’s, oversized on her and with a daft slogan, and she was afraid for a moment that it would smell of him. There was nothing but the floral waft of washing powder, but she put it back in the drawer anyway. It wasn’t hers to borrow any more. In the end, she settled on a saggy vest top, crumpled and feeling slightly damp. She was cold now, goosebumps covering her arms, the chill made worse by the water dripping down her neck. Giving her hair a final rub, she went back out onto the landing. After a moment’s hesitation, she crossed over to her mother’s door and pushed it open.

  The covers on the bed were thrown back. Charlie stood at the threshold, taking in the clothes folded neatly on the back of the chair, the half-full mug of tea on the bedside table. It had been years since her parents had shared a room and, for the first time, Charlie wondered why her mother stayed in this room after she and Eleanor had left. It was by far the smallest of the bedrooms, with just one small window looking out over the driveway. There was a sense of warmth, clutter even, not to be found in the rest of the house. Feeling like an intruder, she went further in, sitting down on the bed and looking about. A book lay face down on the floor, the pages splayed, and she picked it up, smoothed it shut. Offshore. She’d never come across it before. The pages were soft at the edges, the spine broken. This had been a well-loved copy. Charlie studied the cover before putting it down next to her. Maybe it was the last thing her mother had done. Eleanor had said something about her heart. Charlie pictured her sitting up in bed reading, and suddenly feeling that something was wrong. Did paramedics tramp through the house, or had she gone to the doctor’s surgery in the next village? There was no sign of anything here being disturbed. The room felt peaceful, untouched by drama and tragedy. It was almost as if any moment her mother could reappear. Would they sit down together in this little room, and talk? Probably not. And would that be because she was avoiding it, or her mother was?

  She jammed her hands between her knees, again trying to remember the last time they’d had a proper conversation. It felt important, to be able to pin down a moment, a time when they’d connected. What sort of a daughter sat on her mother’s bed on the night of her death and couldn’t come up with a single occasion when they’d shared more than the essentials. How was your day? OK. Good, I’ll let you get on then. And it hadn’t even bothered her, not really. Yes, she was aware that it wasn’t normal, but then she was used to keeping things from other people. There had been tricky moments, Max’s parents wanting to get to know your family, darling, but they’d listened with sympathy to her explanation of agoraphobia. Who made up psychological diagnoses for their parents? She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out the thought. If she could think of one moment, she would go downstairs and get the meeting over with. But she needed to think of it before anyone came upstairs and found her sitting there.

  And there it was. She and Eleanor squashed into the same bed whilst their mother told stories to them. There was a princess, Charlie thought, maybe more than one princess, and snow. A soldier, and a troll. They had to be good to hear the stories an
d go to sleep quickly. It was worth it, though, because no one else’s mummy could tell them fairy tales from another country. Their mummy was the only one who came from somewhere that wasn’t Derbyshire. Another echo came through: someone at school shouting that there wasn’t anywhere called Norway. She blocked that voice out, trying to keep the story alive instead. It was almost as if she was hearing it again, the whole tale present in her head for a split-second, her mother’s words quiet in her ear. Then the focus began to slip and, when she pressed the memory, it was harder to be sure it was there at all. A noise, the closing of a door downstairs, shook her out of her thoughts. Leaping up as if she’d done something wrong, she grabbed a jumper, the soft grey wool as warm in her hands as if it had only just been discarded. It was wide, falling in loose folds from her shoulders, and reaching almost to her knees. As she was about to leave the room, she caught a glimpse of herself in the wardrobe mirror. Her, or a brief visitation of her mother? She didn’t wait for a longer look.

  Eleanor was in the kitchen, clearing plates and cutlery to one side to make room for a litter of paperwork. Charlie hesitated before going in, watching Eleanor’s movements, her father’s closed face as he sat waiting for her to finish. It all looked so ordinary, a normal evening with no one missing. But none of them was normal, she thought with a sense of revelation. They were all just pretending to do what normal people did. Briefly, her sister’s and her father’s faces settled at the same angle, and Charlie was struck by how similar they were. It must have been something about their expression, because they didn’t look alike at all in person. Eleanor had her mother’s blondeness, her hair still naturally pale in a way that strangers never accepted. Charlie had heard it her whole life, first about her mother and then her sister, the disbelief that no chemicals were involved. She’d used it as a pass, the sort of offering that got people’s attention, made them notice her, even if it was at one remove. Her own colouring was from her father, though in photos she could sometimes see an odd resemblance to her mother. Eleanor glanced up to see Charlie standing there. She stopped what she was doing, sending a quick, undecipherable look at their father before moving towards her.