You Never Told Me

by Sarah Jasmon

  Martha’s chatter began to return as they wandered along. She had questions about the boat, though avoided asking when she could come and see it. There was something in her tone, as if she was expecting to be slapped down. Could it be from not getting a couple of text messages? Surely not. Charlie tried out a couple of openings, general questions about school, about friends. Martha answered without any obvious sense of reluctance, though there was still a certain amount of restraint in her tone. It was quiet, no one in sight, and Charlie led the way towards a sandy shallow, warm in the afternoon sun.

  ‘Shall we sit down for a bit? Bella likes the water – look, there she goes.’ Bella had already launched straight in, chasing the splashes she was making in a skitter of concentration. They perched side by side on the remains of a fallen tree. ‘How are things at home?’ Charlie asked after a while. ‘Is it a bit annoying having to share with Poppy?’ There was a tense pause. Charlie shifted so that she could see Martha’s face. The girl was rigid, her face a blank. What was going on? Charlie felt curls of anxiety unreeling in her chest. She shuffled a bit closer, so that their shoulders touched. Martha remained where she was, not pushing Charlie away but also not seeming to welcome the contact. Then she gave a sudden, wrenching sob and buried her face against Charlie’s shirt.

  ‘What’s up, sweetie?’ Charlie said the words automatically, but the only response was a tightening clutch of hands and more sobbing. Charlie wrapped her arms tighter, murmuring a comforting string of sounds. Bella, tiring of the stream, came puddling up, water dripping from her coat. With a quirk of her head to one side, she stopped to give a vigorous shake, spraying them both. It was enough to break the tension, and Martha sat back up, half laughing through her tears. Charlie let her recover for a moment and was about to ask her what was wrong when Martha began by herself. It was partly that there was nowhere to be quiet, and Poppy kept taking all of her things. She gave a slightly confused account of a disastrous afternoon with a friend around, about Grandad shouting at her.

  This last was said in a quieter voice, a whisper, almost. ‘We weren’t doing anything, just playing. And Poppy kept trying to join in so we were hiding from her. And he came and shouted at us because we were giving him a headache and getting underfoot. And that made us giggle, and he held on to me and shouted again, and he was spitting in my face. It was horrible. And now my friends are saying I live with a mad man and won’t play with me.’ She ended with a sigh, as if a weight was lifting from her.

  ‘Have you told your mum?’ Charlie asked. She was shaken at the intensity of Martha’s emotion. It was true she could recall a couple of times when her father had scared her as a child, but in the past, when he was vigorous and tall and always coming home tired, so don’t be a nuisance, girls, your father needs some peace. But he’d mellowed with age, hadn’t he? Or was it just that she’d become taller, had been able to get away more easily?

  ‘Yes, but she said to be a good girl and it would be all right in the new house. But I don’t want to go to a new house. Mummy told Daddy that she’d be able to go back to work, because I was growing up and Grandad would be able to keep an eye on us after school.’ She took a hiccuping breath. ‘I don’t think Daddy wants to move either. He said it was a bloody nuisance.’ She took a quick glance up at Charlie as she repeated the words, giggling a little as Charlie crossed her eyes in mock horror.

  ‘I’m sure we can work something out.’ Charlie was wondering what on earth her sister was thinking. Even at his best and living in a separate annexe, she wouldn’t consider Hugo an ideal childminder. ‘I’ll have a chat with your mum and find out what’s going on, OK?’

  ‘Don’t tell her I said anything!’ Martha had shot back to upright, staring at her with wide eyes.

  ‘I won’t, unless you say I can.’ Charlie thought quickly. ‘And you can come to the boat with me, like I said, and then you can tell your friends about it. I bet they’ve never steered a boat or opened a lock.’

  The distraction seemed to work, and they carried on towards the house, hand in hand.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  She didn’t see Hugo until after tea, when Eleanor took the girls to Brownies and Rainbows. As they left, she could feel the silence of the house around her. That should have been welcome, after the chaos of the evening. As Eleanor had said, the place was already too small for them, let alone with one room given over to Hugo. Every surface was littered with stuff belonging to the girls: artwork, homework timetables, hairbands. There were coats hanging over the end of the banister, shoes piled by the door. Toys and books and piles of small clothes had been left on every step of the staircase, waiting to be taken up. It could have been cosy, a sign of a warm family life, but that wasn’t how it felt. Maybe it was the presence of the old man, crouched up there behind the closed door. Or maybe she’d got too used to the quiet of the boat.

  On her way up, she picked up some of the clothes. She wasn’t sure where they were supposed to go, but Eleanor’s bedroom door was open. She’d leave them on the bed. Even in here, the girls had colonized all of the space. Was that how it went? This really was a house of girls, all pink book covers and pink dolls. She and Eleanor hadn’t been like this, even with the same gender ratio. Another time, a different way of doing things. What did Jon feel about it all? She realized that at no point since her return had she thought to ask about him. Looking around, there was no sign of him here either. He’d leave more of a trace as an overnight visitor to a Travelodge. Charlie dumped her armful and backed out, aware of somehow intruding into a place she wasn’t supposed to be.

  Back out on the landing, she had the feeling that she was alone in the house. She paused when she got to Hugo’s door, still covered in Flower Fairy stickers. What if he wasn’t there? It almost wouldn’t surprise her. She tapped and went in.

  In contrast to the rest of the house, it felt empty. She stood in the doorway, taking in the stripped-out feel of the place. There were only the necessities here: bed, wardrobe, a small desk in front of the window. He’d brought no oddments or personal touches, and the overall effect was institutional. It smelled odd as well, of old breath and no ventilation.

  Hugo was half hidden by the wings of his armchair. He was smaller than she remembered, insubstantial. A frail, bent shell taking little notice of the world around him. Eleanor hadn’t said anything to prepare her for this, but maybe she hadn’t noticed. It was different, coming from outside rather than spotting each day’s minute changes.

  ‘How are you?’ Charlie came into the room and crossed to the desk, pulling the chair out to sit down. In a way, the alteration in him made it easier to be there. Everything else she knew had changed, so why would this be any different?

  ‘Well, thank you, if somewhat constrained by the environment.’ He didn’t move, but she looked around, at wallpaper covered in cheerful polka dots, a pastel lampshade in the centre of the ceiling with colourful ballerina cut-outs hanging down around its edge, swaying gently in the aftermath of Charlie’s passage through. Then her gaze went back to her father. He was tidily dressed in his usual style: muted V-neck jumper over a soft cotton check shirt. A silk cravat tucked into the shirt’s neck, an affectation he’d had for so long she barely noticed it. His skin was mottled, brown age spots concertinaed in the wrinkles crossing the bald skin on the top of his head. The hair he had left was soft and fine, and still with a hint of its original gingery brown. His head poked forward on his neck, tortoise-like. Ready to snap or withdraw completely. He seemed entirely uninterested in her coming.

  ‘I’ve been in Sneasham this week.’ She watched for a response, but there was nothing. It was as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘And I met some people Mum knew. Do you remember Margareta?’

  There was the briefest pause and a slither of dark as his eyes flashed towards her. Or maybe she imagined that. ‘I can’t say I remember the name.’

  ‘She had a boat,’ Charlie pressed.

  His eyelids hooded even further down as he replied. ‘It would be fr
om before we met. I was never in that part of the world.’

  ‘You met Britta in London, didn’t you? I’ve been wondering where she came from, what brought her to England. I’m thinking of going to Norway, trying to find her birthplace, you know.’ His eyes flickered again but he said nothing. It was like one of the games of chess he’d tried to interest her in at different points of her childhood. Except this time, she would hold on to her pieces for longer, place them where she wanted rather than be forced into the open spaces. The balance between them had shifted. ‘I thought maybe you could let me have her birth certificate?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ She had to admire his composure. But then he’d had decades to hone it. ‘I said I would find it. Now I’m tired. There’s so little opportunity for quiet rest here.’

  ‘Yes. Poor Martha,’ Charlie said, in a gentle tone as if following her cue from him. ‘It’s so kind of her to give up her space whilst you’re here. Do you know when the move will happen?’

  ‘Nobody tells me anything,’ he said, closing his eyes to show that the audience was at an end.

  She was left feeling wrong-footed, uncertain of what exactly she wanted to ask.

  ‘So, what’s all this about then?’ Eleanor was unscrewing the lid from a bottle of red wine. ‘Can you get the casserole out of the oven?’ She waited for Charlie to bring it over, slumping in her chair and twisting the stem of a glass between her fingers.

  ‘I’ve been finding stuff out.’ Charlie came back, the handles of the heavy pan burning her fingers despite the oven gloves.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Let me do this first.’ Charlie began to spoon out the fragrant meat. Eleanor had always been a good cook, even when they were small. ‘Is Jon not going to be here?’ Partly she asked to make sure they wouldn’t be interrupted, but also because of that sense of his absence.

  ‘Probably not. I barely see him.’ Eleanor forked some food in as if she hadn’t eaten for days. ‘They keep him for long hours in this new job. He’s indispensable, apparently. That’s what he claims anyway.’

  Charlie chewed for a moment, thinking there was something off with Eleanor’s tone. Was she suggesting Jon was having an affair? The look on Eleanor’s face put her off pressing the issue further. Besides, this was hardly the time to be thinking of her sister’s marital arrangements. And the last thing she wanted was to threaten this new sense of camaraderie between them, the easy acceptance which seemed to have at least quadrupled whilst she’d been away on the boat. She did need to mention what Martha had told her, though, before they got too caught up in the past. ‘This is delicious,’ she said as an opener. Eleanor raised her glass in acknowledgement and Charlie carried on, choosing her words carefully. ‘Martha was saying you’re thinking of going back to work once you’ve moved?’

  Eleanor gave a sigh. ‘I thought she might have overheard.’ She lifted the bottle as if to pour herself more wine, then put it back down. ‘Maybe not, PTA meeting in the morning.’ With a groan, she rolled her eyes. ‘Just look at me! Organizing bloody fetes and arguing about who gets to collect toilet roll tubes.’ She held up a finger. ‘I’m sorry, I meant cardboard tubes, which have no connection at all with bottoms and poo.’

  ‘But what do you want to do?’ Charlie rested her elbows on the table. She was genuinely interested. Eleanor had been training to be an accountant before Martha came along, but that had been a pragmatic choice. There had to be something else, a hidden dream plan. Apparently she wasn’t going to hear it now, though.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Eleanor rested her head on the table, and Charlie wondered if she’d been drinking before they’d sat down for the meal. ‘But that argument—’ She sat up, pressing her fingers to her temples. ‘Jon was pissing me off, saying all I did was drive the kids around and drink coffee. I said he could bloody do it, and he asked what exactly I was qualified to do. So I threw a plate of dinner at him and said Dad could look after the kids while I went back to re-train.’ She gave Charlie a straight look. ‘Is that why Martha has been playing up?’

  ‘Well, she did mention it,’ Charlie confirmed. ‘But it was more Dad she was upset about.’

  ‘Her dad or ours?’

  ‘Ours.’

  ‘I can see that. Oh, Charlie, he’s been a nightmare.’ She gave the wine another considering glance but got up to put the kettle on instead. ‘And I’d never let him be in charge of the girls.’ Her voice shifted tone. ‘Not that he’d want to. He’s not from that sort of world. I mean, it’s not like he had much to do with us, is it? But seriously.’ She stopped by Charlie’s chair, twirling a strand of her hair around a finger. ‘Look, can we leave it? Tell me what you’ve been uncovering. Dark acts on the canals of the Midlands? Was Mum planning a heist with a boat getaway?’

  Charlie smiled at the thought of using a canal boat to escape from the scene of a crime. Then she remembered imagining Britta using the boat to drop off the map, boats being a means to escape.

  ‘Not that sort of getaway,’ she said. ‘But in a way …’

  Eleanor stared when she’d finished telling her the story of the photograph and Margareta. When she finally spoke, she was shaking her head. ‘I don’t buy it.’ She gave a smile, the sort that was trying to be kind and diplomatic. ‘You think Dad would have covered up that sort of story? He wouldn’t have the imagination. And Mum being some kind of wild child having babies out of wedlock? She was too boring for that. She was too, I don’t know, too bloody Norwegian.’

  ‘But she wasn’t Norwegian,’ Charlie said, holding on to her temper. It did sound less convincing coming from her than it had from Margareta. ‘That’s the whole point.’

  ‘How could she not be Norwegian?’ Eleanor’s voice rose. ‘We’d have noticed, surely. She couldn’t have kept it up that long!’

  ‘She did, though. It was, I don’t know, her way of coping.’ Charlie reached out for Eleanor’s hand. ‘Think about it. She was sixteen. She had a baby, at home, with no medical help. Then she watched her mother die from a seizure and was stuck in the house with the body for several days. It’s in the paper, she had some kind of local notoriety. The baby was taken away, and she ran away herself and became someone else.’ She waited in vain for her sister to respond. ‘Explains a lot, doesn’t it?’

  ‘And this whole thing about her trying to leave Dad, running away to a boat. Who was this woman, how do you know she wasn’t making it all up?’

  ‘She gave me another photograph.’ Charlie put her free hand into her bag to find it. ‘Look, it’s us, Ellie, like I remembered when I found those books. Mum took us to her boat when we were little. She was trying to leave Dad. We were there for a couple of days before he came and talked her into going back.’ She waited again for a response. ‘Come on, you were older than me. You have to remember something!’

  ‘No.’ The monosyllable was aimed at cutting off any discussion. The silence after it, though, echoed with uncertainty. ‘And why would she have kept the baby a secret?’

  ‘She was young, it was another world.’ Charlie was starting to feel like the older sister, arguing the sensible side of the situation. ‘She was left to deal with everything that happened by herself. She didn’t have anyone.’

  ‘Lucky her.’ Eleanor said the words in a jokey tone but her voice wavered. ‘And you think Dad knows about it all?’

  ‘How can he not?’ Charlie felt her voice begin to rise. She swallowed, carrying on in a quieter tone. ‘We just need to check the paperwork. We need to know what else there is, if there is anything else, even. I want to know.’

  ‘All right.’ Eleanor dropped her head on to the table again. ‘We’ll do it as soon as the girls have gone to school tomorrow. My dining room’s full of bloody boxes. You can try and find the right one, and when it turns out you’ve built up a whole tale of nothing, you can come and look after the kids while I go and train as a—’

  ‘As a what?’ Charlie asked into the sudden silence.

  ‘As a bloody something!’ Eleanor turned, tears s
treaming down her face. Charlie wrapped her into a hug. They stood together, rocking, as Eleanor cried, the same heaving, painful sobs as Martha had cried earlier in the day. ‘As a bloody something,’ she repeated.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Eleanor’s dining room had never, as far as Charlie knew, been used for eating. It was the room that had never been redecorated, the space for dumping whatever didn’t need to be to hand. There was a set of Meccano-like shelves, which must have been destined originally for the garage, holding paperwork and boxes and bike helmets and DIY equipment. A doll-house sagged at one end, the roof hanging off, waiting for repair. There was a table just visible in one corner, buried by a tottering heap of stacked cardboard cartons. Charlie recognized them from the sorting of the house and wondered why they hadn’t been sent with everything else into storage.

  ‘We ran out of space.’ Eleanor was obviously thinking the same thing. ‘And I thought we might as well bring this lot here rather than pay for a bigger storage room. I warn you, it’s mostly rubbish. I’ve no idea why they thought they had to keep it all.’

  They started with a box each, pulling open the flaps and digging through the contents before moving it across to the other side of the room. It was like one of those games where you had to move a tile and another tile before finally shifting the one you wanted to get into position. There were piles of old tax forms, brochures for double-glazing, payslips, astronomy society newsletters. They worked in silence, decades-old dirt smudging their fingers, making them sneeze. Eleanor had wriggled her way back into the tiny space she’d left between checked and unchecked boxes. She had an intent look on her face, one that Charlie recognized but hadn’t seen for years. A response to a challenge, a desire to win.