by Sarah Jasmon
‘I was thinking about it after I went to bed,’ Eleanor said eventually. ‘About what you were saying, Mum taking us away.’
‘Do you remember going to the boat?’ The boxes were already dusty, as if they’d been stored for months rather than weeks, and Charlie rubbed her palms up and down her trousers to get rid of it.
‘I think so. There was an old lady with short hair?’
‘She can’t have been that old, but yes, I guess when you were eight or whatever.’ Charlie replaced the lid on a box and reached for the next one.
Eleanor turned to face Charlie, sitting back on her heels. ‘I was working out dates,’ she said. ‘If Mum, for the sake of argument, had a child in 1965, then that child would have turned eighteen in 1983, when Mum was pregnant with me.’ She waited for Charlie to nod, to make sure she was keeping up. ‘That’s when the child would have been able to contact her. But she’d dropped off the map, changed her name, her whole identity, right? According to this story, Mum tried to leave sometime in the early nineties. What if it took the child that long to decide she wanted to track down her birth mother, and then actually manage to find her?’
Charlie sat back as well to consider the thought. Eleanor’s mind worked in a way she couldn’t track. ‘So what are you saying?’ she asked in the end.
‘That the child turned up, which triggered Mum leaving.’
‘That’s a bit of a leap.’ It was Charlie’s turn to have doubts. ‘We don’t know that she ever did try and find her.’
‘I think we do.’ Eleanor’s face was white, her concentration fixed on a card she was holding. It had a teddy on the front, a big smile on its face and a bunch of coloured balloons grasped in one paw. Over its head, the card said Happy 1st Birthday! She read what was inside and then handed it over to Charlie.
Dear Anna,
I hope you are well and having a nice birthday! I think of you every day.
Love, Mummy
The words were heartbreakingly careful, written in a large clear print. Eleanor was already working her way through more birthday cards, a whole sheaf of them, passing each one across as she finished. Charlie carried on reading.
I don’t know if I should call you that. Elizabeth. I hope life has been kind to you, Elizabeth. I want you to know that I never wanted to leave you. I tried my best. My little girl.
The messages became longer as the pictures on the cards changed, both becoming more suitable for an older child. The writing changed also, from the block letters to the handwriting Charlie recognized. It was less careful in other ways as well, with a sense of the words pouring out, complete with corrections and smudges.
My little Anna. I can call you Anna, can’t I? It’s strange to think you’re thirteen now. You were the sweetest baby, always so quiet, keeping your eyes fixed on me. I would have kept you for ever. It is so hard now to remember why I didn’t. They do now, these girls. I see them and I read about them and I wonder when I could have made a different choice. At what point should I have taken you away with me? But it was better this way, they all said it was better this way.
On and on they read. None of the cards were dated, but they developed into the record of a relationship, the writer sharing more details, referring back to previous exchanges, reminding the reader of events in the past. There were no replies though. The thought came into Charlie’s mind, taking a little time to become a realization.
‘They were never sent, were they?’ She sensed Eleanor nod. ‘Why didn’t she send them?’
‘That’s what I’ve been asking myself,’ Eleanor replied, sitting up on her heels, fingers still riffling through the pages. ‘I can’t believe this. How could they not have told us?’
‘She lied to me.’ The sound of Hugo’s voice, coming from the open door, made them both jump. There was a roughness to his tone, and the words spilled out jerkily, in broken sentences. ‘I didn’t know, she didn’t tell me.’
‘Didn’t tell you what? About the baby?’ Eleanor’s tone was sharp.
‘About anything!’ His voice broke, just a tiny, almost inaudible crack. He picked up on the sound himself and straightened, his Adam’s apple working in an automatic attempt to control any suggestion of weakness. ‘The act she put on, to make me marry her, and all the time she was lying.’ He wavered, a small movement to and fro. Despite herself, Charlie went over to stand next to him, in case he fell. He made no sign of seeing her approach. ‘I wanted to make her happy, but there was always something wrong. She said it was me, that I was too old.’ He waved a hand towards the cards. ‘She didn’t tell me it was because of a child.’
Eleanor continued in that cold tone, an interrogator staying calm and impartial. ‘Did you know about her real name?’
‘Not at first.’ His voice was barely audible. ‘She didn’t tell me until the letter came from the child, wanting to meet her. As if it was necessary. I said no, she should be concentrating on us, on her real family.’
‘When was this?’ Eleanor’s voice was a cross-examination, flat, clinical.
‘I don’t remember.’ He ran a hand over his face. ‘When she went to see that woman on the boat.’ Eleanor flicked her eyes towards Charlie and they both nodded. ‘She couldn’t leave me. She had nothing, no money, nowhere to live. I told her I’d take her to court if she tried to take you girls away, and she knew I’d win. Why would they give children to a woman who’d abandoned one already?’ He wasn’t looking at them any more. He was caught up in another world. Then he refocused on Eleanor’s expressionless face. ‘It was for your own good. An illegitimate child, coming into our home? You were both so young, it wouldn’t have been fair. I couldn’t let it happen. It was better for her to come back. Everything went back to normal.’ He turned to face Charlie, anger crossing his face. ‘And then you had to go and stir it all up again.’
Charlie was stunned. ‘Me? What did I do?’
Spittle was forming at the corners of his mouth. ‘She couldn’t let it go, that you were leaving Max, “putting yourself first” or whatever nonsense you’d called it. Kept saying that she should have done the same. And then she got that money. But it was too late, she said.’
‘Too late for what?’ Part of her brain was checking the mention of money, wanting to ask where it had come from, but she didn’t want to slow the flood down with questions that could be asked later.
‘To have a life.’ Hugo’s voice rose. ‘That’s what she said. She pretended not to be doing anything, but I knew what was going on. I knew about the boat. I knew she was leaving. I was watching out for her lies this time.’
‘What did you do?’ Charlie managed to keep her voice quiet, though the effort made her tighten every muscle in her body. She was trying to decode the expression on his face, a look almost of fear. He didn’t seem to hear her, and for a minute appeared to have disassociated himself from the scene. Charlie spoke again, sharply, in the tone a nurse might use on an unresponsive patient. ‘Dad! You need to tell us!’
He turned to her at last, slowly, his eyes bleary, the skin drooping away in defeated folds. ‘Your mother didn’t want to meet the child,’ he said, pulling himself up to almost his original height. ‘It was her choice, not to meet her. I kept the letter for my records.’ With shaking hands, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, an old, leather pouch he’d had as long as Charlie could remember. She could see the same fascinated attention to his movements in Eleanor’s face as she could feel in her own. Finally, he worked an envelope, folded in half on itself, from its hiding place and held it out to Charlie. He turned away as soon as she took it but stopped when he reached the door. He kept his back to them, and his voice was hard to hear. ‘The second letter arrived the day before your mother was taken ill.’
It was only when she heard the door to his room close that Charlie was able to move. She went across to where Eleanor still sat on the floor. They had their shoulders together as Charlie opened the envelope.
The first letter was on a small sheet of wri
ting paper, the kind that had had a separate lined sheet inserted under the top page as a guide to write along. The page had settled into its folds, the first made to fit into the envelope, the second to fit into Hugo’s wallet. Charlie eased it open.
Hello.
I’m sorry, but I don’t really know how to begin this letter. My name now is Elizabeth Brent, but I was born Anna Nilsson. I’m wondering if you might be able to help me find my mother, Sylvia Burrows, also known as Britta Nilsson? I would be so grateful for any help; a reply sent to the above address will reach me.
Yours sincerely,
Elizabeth
‘It’s dated 1991,’ Eleanor said at last, as Charlie was reading the second letter. ‘The year Mum took us to Margareta’s. And he’s had it there all this time.’ She shook her head. ‘I wonder if he thought about it every time he had his wallet out? And whether Mum knew it was there?’
‘She might not have sent all those cards,’ Charlie said, holding out the second sheet to her sister. ‘But it looks as though she did get in touch in the end.’
Though she’d only read the words once, they flashed up in her mind as she watched her sister read them, as clear as if she’d learned them by heart. Of course I want to hear from you … I understand … Family dynamics can be awful, I know … A boat? That sounds so exciting … Things are so expensive these days … A sister, a real person. With an address and a family of her own. And she didn’t know that her newly found mother was dead. The implications billowing around her, Charlie tried to keep hold of the important fact. Elizabeth was a person, she was real. She knew that her mother wanted to know her.
THIRTY
It was late when Jon came home, though Charlie wasn’t asleep. The sofa wasn’t quite long enough, and there was a ridge in the middle of her back. All around her she could feel unease and restlessness. She couldn’t believe that everyone else was asleep, though the house was quiet. But the living room was too light, the orange glare from the street lamps outside bright enough that she’d draped a T-shirt over her face to keep it out. It was almost a relief when she heard the sound of a car pulling up, a key in the lock. Bella’s ears twitched, and she sat up from her position on Charlie’s feet, waiting for the door to open.
Charlie heard Jon come in, drop a bag to the floor and go into the kitchen. A tap ran, a cupboard door was opened, all with the soft movements of someone not wanting to disturb anyone. There was silence then, for long enough that she almost dropped off, until the door behind her swung open and the light went on.
‘Jesus, Charlie.’ He stopped, a can of beer in his hand. He was wearing suit trousers, his shirt hanging half out and his tie loosened. He made no attempt to turn the light off. ‘Was I supposed to know you were here?’
Charlie was still blinking at the brightness. ‘Hey Jon, good to see you too.’ She reached over to turn a sidelight on. ‘Lights down, maybe?’
‘Oh, yeah.’ He flicked the switch off and came into the room. ‘Did you want a beer?’
‘No, I’m good.’ Giving up on any thought of sleep, she swung her legs down. ‘I might get a cup of tea, though.’
When she got back, Jon was sitting in the armchair with the television on, the sound muted. They sat for a little while without talking, the footballers on the screen racing about and then coming into close-up to shout silently at the referee.
‘How’s the boat?’ Jon asked at last. He was slumped in the chair, possibly with exhaustion, but Charlie was picking up a crackle of energy as well. She found herself studying him for clues, for a smear of lipstick on his collar, the presence of incriminating perfume.
‘Yeah, all good,’ she said in reply to his query. She wasn’t sure how much Eleanor had told him, if anything, about Britta and what they’d been finding out. She didn’t want to get into it now, anyway. ‘Just up to check how you lot are getting on. It was a shame about the house falling through.’ Jon grunted in reply, finishing the last of the beer and crumpling the can. She persevered. ‘You must be looking forward to the extra space when you do move.’
He glanced across at her, his expression unreadable. The tone of his voice wasn’t hard to decipher though. ‘Right, yeah. Grass to cut at weekends and your dad to point out what I’m doing wrong. Can’t wait.’
‘You can always stay late at work.’ She wasn’t even thinking of what to say, just batting back the next comment.
‘She’s got you on to it, has she?’ He was still for a moment, hands gripping the arms of the chair. ‘Ask him why he’s always late, tell him he needs to pull his weight.’ His mimicry vibrated with some sort of emotion, though Charlie wasn’t sure if it was anger, or something less straightforward. ‘You can tell her that if she’s got something to say to me, she can say it herself. If she can make time in her very busy life.’
‘Hey, nothing to do with me.’ Charlie held both hands up. ‘She hasn’t said anything. Though—’ She paused, feeling for the right words. ‘It does feel like you two aren’t quite in the same place at the moment.’
‘Same place?’ This time, the laugh was outright bitter. ‘We’re not even on the same planet.’ He lurched to his feet and, briefly, Charlie tensed herself to duck. He noticed, and laughed again. ‘No need for that. You know me, does what he’s told, keeps his mouth shut and his hands to himself.’ He went behind the sofa to the little sideboard. ‘You want one?’
Charlie twisted round and saw that he was holding up a bottle of whiskey. Why not? It might even help her sleep, once this slightly surreal encounter was over. ‘Go on then, just a small one.’
He came back with generous doubles, the bottle tucked under one arm. ‘What do you want to know, then?’ he asked, as he handed her the drink and sat back down.
Charlie took a sip, letting the spirit burn its way down her throat. It wasn’t especially nice whiskey, but she was more than ready for it. ‘I don’t want to know anything.’ She paused. That wasn’t actually true. She wanted to know that he and Eleanor were happy, that at least one part of her world was steady and stable. She wanted him to tell her that Martha and Poppy could live in some kind of perfect world where no one argued. The thought came out of nowhere and left her breathless. ‘OK, I want to know something.’ She took a bigger sip of the whiskey. ‘Are you having an affair?’
‘An affair? Me?’ Jon coughed as his whiskey went down the wrong way. ‘Is that what you think’s happening?’
‘It crossed my mind.’ She was watching him carefully, ready for any hint of bluff. He seemed genuinely taken aback by the idea, and she didn’t think he was a good enough actor to be pretending.
‘Is that what your sister thinks?’ His expression was momentarily angry. But after holding her gaze for a long combative moment, he slumped. Charlie watched as he rotated the glass in his hands, his attention apparently on what was left of the whiskey. He didn’t look back up at her as he carried on talking. ‘I’ve thought about it. There was someone at work, made it obvious she was interested. And it was nice, you know.’ There was a pause, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely audible. ‘I was finally in a job I was good at, doing something which might make a difference. Sharing it with someone.’ He looked up at her now. ‘I liked it. Being noticed, knowing she was interested in what I had to say, how I was feeling. I liked her. But you know what?’ Suddenly he was too close to her, the force of his emotion pressing her into the cushions on the back of the sofa. ‘This is what I want.’ He waved an arm around the room, taking in the toys stacked in the corner, the photos of the girls lining the mantelpiece. ‘My girls, my family.’ His voice broke, but he wasn’t finished. ‘But we’re just on this merry-go-round of taking them to this, taking them to that, and it doesn’t matter what I want to do, whether I’d like to spend some time with them doing something as a family. The routine can’t be missed.’ He was crying now. ‘I don’t want them not to do things, it’s not that. It’s just I’m starting to not know who they are, and that scares me. And you and Eleanor have something going on, I c
an see that, but she doesn’t ever talk to me. So I stay late at work and that’s wrong too, and I don’t know what to do any more. And now there’s your dad, and chasing a new house and …’ He wound down, staring off into the middle distance.
Charlie let the silence hang for a while. The house breathed around them, and she pictured the sleeping inhabitants above. The two girls would be sprawled across their beds, surrounded by toys and books and discarded clothes. In the next room, Hugo. How did he sleep? Lying straight on the mattress, arms by his sides, his face collapsing in his unconsciousness. There was a vulnerability to the image that unsettled her, eating into the other picture, of him stopping his wife from meeting her first child, keeping the letter from that child folded into his wallet. Was Eleanor asleep? Or was she lying there, aware that her husband was home, wondering what he was talking about with her sister for so long?
‘You need to talk to Eleanor.’ The plan to live with Hugo had to change. She could see it, the whole complex coil of disaster unspooling to leave everyone damaged. Especially with Eleanor’s martyr approach. ‘Look, I’m going to be here for a couple more days. Leave the girls with me and take her out. I know, I know.’ She forestalled his objections. ‘It’s not going to fix everything, but it’s a start.’ She hesitated, wondering if she should share her concerns about the house plans in particular. Better not. She didn’t want Jon charging in with well, Charlie said. She remembered his earlier comment, about there being secrets he wasn’t part of. Should she smooth that over at least? ‘There have been things going on, about Mum. It honestly wasn’t anything Eleanor could share, though. She didn’t even know most of it. That’s why I’ve come up, actually.’