‘Why are you doing this to me, Julia?’ I say. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Neither did I,’ she says, taking the knife away. ‘I didn’t understand why I’d been abandoned. I was a little girl, a scared little girl who just wanted her mummy. I was trapped in hell hole after hell hole waiting patiently for the day when she would walk through the door and rescue me. But she never did so I got on with my life without her. Well, guess what? I found her.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
And then I look at her. The straight blonde hair, the pale-green eyes, her clear-sighted intelligence. I see myself, Elspeth and Ben all rolled into one.
‘You mean … you’re …’
‘I’m your daughter?’ says Julia. ‘Yes. I am. The daughter you tried to kill.’
54
As I sit looking into Julia’s hate-filled eyes, the event I have spent my life blocking out comes back to me. I try but I can’t stop it. When I attempted suicide that first time they managed to save the baby I was carrying. I was pumped so full of drugs that I remember very little about it, only what my mother told me afterwards. That the baby was born by caesarean section; that she was a girl weighing three pounds six ounces; that she was taken straight to the special care baby unit where she was handed over to the care of Social Services, which, my mother told me, ‘was for the best’. Since then I’ve tried so hard not to think about that baby, and what became of her. I tried to put her to the back of my mind, but it was no use; she was always there. My missing piece.
‘How … how did you find me?’
‘That’s not important,’ says Julia, picking up the knife again.
‘Look, let’s talk,’ I say, my voice high-pitched with fear. ‘I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.’
Julia stares at me for a moment and then starts to laugh.
‘God, you’re deluded,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘You see, Mother, I know everything about you. I know what happened, what you did. And I also know what you didn’t do. You don’t seem to realize that for all these years you’ve been my obsession, my specialist subject.’
Acidic bile rises up my throat. I try to swallow it down but it burns and I start to cough. Barbara gets up and goes to the sink. She pours a glass of water then comes over and holds it to my mouth. As she comes closer I can smell her perfume. Must de Cartier: a cloying, musky scent. My mother had bought bottles of it back in the eighties in an attempt to be more like Barbara.
‘So you see,’ continues Julia, who had paused in her ranting while I drank the water, ‘I have no interest in what you have to say. Instead I want you to listen.’
My body is in so much pain I can barely breathe, let alone make sense of what is happening, but I nod my head and Julia seems to take this as a sign of acquiescence.
‘I assume that as a good parent you would want to know that your child is safe, wouldn’t you?’ she says, leaning back in her chair.
I look at her warily. I don’t know where she is going with this.
‘Wouldn’t you?’ she yells.
‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Like your precious Elspeth,’ she says. ‘I mean, she was always safe, wasn’t she?’
She smirks and looks across to Barbara, who has now poured herself a glass of brandy.
‘Leave Elspeth out of this,’ I say, wincing as the tendons in my arms pull against whatever it is she has tied my hands with. ‘This has nothing to do with her.’
‘Oh, I think you’ll find it does,’ she says, turning back to me. ‘I think you’ll find it has everything to do with her. Because, you see, Mother, you are the common factor here. Two daughters. Both neglected. One sent away to be abused and bullied, the other drowned in your charge.’
‘Stop,’ I cry, pulling myself forward in the chair. ‘Stop it now.’
‘Why? The truth too painful for you, is it? Go on then, show me how good a mother you were. Tell me the name of the first place I was sent to.’
My brain is closing down, the room is hot and everything is out of focus. Why won’t she just stop?
‘That’s right, you don’t know,’ she says. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. It was the Elmfield Children’s Centre in Southampton. I spent ten years there, until it closed down and I was moved on.’
She continues talking but I can hardly take in what she is saying.
‘Where was it next?’ says Julia. ‘Oh, yeah. The Fallow Mill Home in Eastleigh. That’s where they shipped me off to next; the place where I got bullied to within an inch of my life. When I fought back they told me I had psychological problems. Told me I was delusional for thinking you would one day come and get me. The only good thing that ever happened to me was meeting a surrogate sister, a person who stood up for me and made sure I was okay. Her name was Zoe and she was my family. I even took her surname because it meant more to me than yours. But she died, Mother, she threw herself under a train because she thought that without proper parents to love and cherish her she had nothing to live for.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, my voice trembling. ‘I’m sorry you had to go through that. It must have been so hard.’
‘It was,’ she says. ‘But I stood up for myself because by then I was getting tougher. I was discovering that nobody else was going to do it for me. And then I started to work hard. I passed all my exams and I got the fuck out of there and I made something of my life.’
The pain subsides a little and I look up at her. The similarity to Elspeth is striking. The colour of her eyes, the shape of her mouth, even her defensiveness: they are so alike, it’s scary. How could I not have seen it before? But then, as I know only too well, the brain chooses what it wants to see.
‘I am proud,’ I say. ‘Very much so.’
‘You have no right to be,’ she says. ‘Not after what you did; where you sent me.’
‘But I didn’t know what had happened to you,’ I cry. ‘My mother wouldn’t tell me where you were. I was only a child myself.’
She looks deep into my eyes and it seems for a moment as though she is softening but then she clenches her fists and slams them on the table.
‘You were a child who had known nothing but love and happiness and care,’ she yells. ‘Your parents didn’t just throw you away.’
‘Yes they did,’ I say, angry now at this onslaught. ‘And you know they did because it was all there in my notes. I was sent away and, like that, my life was ruined. I failed my exams, I had nothing.’
‘Failed your exams?’ she cries, jumping to her feet. ‘You call that having nothing? You were sent to a private psychiatric unit where your every whim was catered to. You had your own room, your own things, people visiting you. What did I have? Nothing. I used to cry myself to sleep at night, willing you to come and get me, willing you to be my mother.’
‘Come now, Julia,’ says Barbara, putting her hand on Julia’s arm. ‘Don’t upset yourself. You’ll be ill.’
Julia looks at her and smiles. It is a warm, genuine smile.
‘Freya was the only person who cared,’ she says. ‘Do you know that? You call her all these names, accuse her of being this bitch, and yet where were you when I was being called a freak and a weirdo, when I was being attacked by the other kids? You weren’t there but Freya was.’
‘What?’ I say, looking at Barbara, whose face is flushed with alcohol. ‘You visited her? After everything you said to me about keeping quiet for the sake of your reputation. You kept in touch with the baby I was forced to give away.’
‘She was my granddaughter,’ says Barbara. ‘She is my granddaughter. She was part of Ben. How could I just walk away?’
‘How did you know where she was?’
‘I spoke to Social Services,’ she says, her eyes pooling with tears. ‘I was in the special care baby unit, looking at her in that tiny incubator, when they arrived to take her. I was devastated. She looked so vulnerable, so tiny, though the doctors said she was ready to go.’
She s
tops then and rubs Julia’s hand. I’ve never seen Barbara look so tender.
‘I begged Harry to keep her but he said we had to let her go, that it was for the best. That it would be cruel for you to have to see us bring your baby up. That was Harry all over, always thinking about you and your wellbeing. Anyway, the director of Lewes Social Services was an old family friend. He pulled some strings, made sure I was kept informed of where the baby ended up. I gave them my other name just in case it got back to anyone.’
‘So you’ve known her since she was a baby?’ I say, guilt and envy needling my stomach.
‘Unfortunately, no,’ says Barbara, glancing at Julia. ‘I first made contact when she was ten years old. 1998 had been a tough year. I’d had a breast cancer scare, Harry and I were going through a bad patch. Benjamin had moved to the US and barely visited us. I felt utterly alone. I’d go and sit in the playhouse for hours on end, thinking about what had happened and how it had destroyed my poor Ben.’
‘I saw the playhouse,’ I say. ‘You left it unchanged all these years.’
‘After what happened I couldn’t bring myself to go near it,’ says Barbara, her face stricken. ‘I locked the door and let the whole thing gather dust. But then, I suppose part of me derived some comfort from knowing Ben’s things were there just as they had been. It felt like a little part of him had remained here at Ketton House.’
She smiles a strange half-smile and her eyes grow misty. Her beloved Ben: the boy who could do no wrong.
‘Anyway,’ she says briskly. ‘The cancer scare proved to be a benign cyst but at that point I thought I was dying and I wanted to put my affairs in order. I needed to see my granddaughter.’
‘Barbara visited me as often as she could,’ says Julia. ‘She brought me dolls and books and coloured pens.’
‘I tried my best,’ says Barbara. ‘But then Harry found out what I was doing and put a stop to it. He said I had to leave it well alone. Those were his words. And so, with a heavy heart, I did just that and I’ve never forgiven myself. I just wanted to do the right thing.’
‘Do the right thing?’ I say. ‘You stood back and said nothing when your son got me pregnant. You made me think I’d done something wrong.’
‘Shut up,’ cries Julia, squeezing the handle of the knife tighter and stepping towards me. ‘It wasn’t Barbara’s fault. She’d tried her best. And anyway, she wasn’t my mother, you were. And you knew exactly where I was, you knew the name and address of every damned place I was sent to, you knew that I needed you and you just left me to rot.’
‘What are you talking about, Julia?’ I say, trying to keep up with her bullet-fast accusations. ‘I had no idea where you were. I didn’t even get to see you after the birth. They just took you away.’
‘Don’t lie to me,’ Julia yells, waving the knife in my direction. ‘Don’t fucking lie to me. You knew where I was because I told you repeatedly. You knew and you chose to ignore me, even when I was begging for you to come and rescue me. So when I heard you’d been in an accident I was glad because I wanted you to feel the pain that I had felt. I wanted you to know what it’s like to be scared and alone.’
‘You were there for me,’ I say, gulping down the sick feeling that is rising up through my body. ‘You wanted to be my GP. You helped me. Why would you do all that?’
‘I admit at first I wanted to see you for myself. Get inside your head. But then I realized you didn’t feel bad at all. You had forgotten me. Then I saw how weak you were,’ she says, leaning closer to me. ‘I realized how easy it would be for you to try it again.’
‘What – what do you mean?’
‘I’m saying, Mother, that I wanted to get you back for everything you’d put me through,’ she says, her face inches from mine. ‘I wanted to play with your head the way you played with my life and I wanted you to feel like you had no other option but to …’
She stops then to catch her breath.
‘No option but to what, Julia?’ I say, my voice shaking.
She looks up at me and smiles and warmth filters through me because it’s Elspeth’s face and I just want to get out of this damned chair and hug her. But then her expression changes. Her eyes glaze and her lip curls. She leans in to me and whispers in my ear.
‘No option but to die. I wanted you to die.’
55
Barbara stands up and pours herself another large brandy. Her hair has come undone and her mascara has smudged. I watch as she haltingly makes her way back to the top of the table.
‘Barbara, please. Let me go,’ I say as she takes a large glug of brandy. ‘Whatever I might have done, however much both of you think I deserve this, you can’t just keep me here. Sonia will come.’
‘Sonia thinks you’re dead,’ says Julia, rolling her eyes. ‘You left her a suicide note, remember?’
I do remember. I also know that my phone is in my back pocket. With my hands tied there is no way I can get to it to make a call.
‘Please,’ I beg her. ‘Just stop it. This isn’t you. You’re not evil.’
‘How do you know?’ she says indignantly. ‘You know nothing about me.’
‘I’ve spent enough time around you to know that you’re a good person, Julia,’ I say. ‘That you have a heart. You’re not a killer. You’re a hurt and scared little girl.’
When I say this her face turns red and she jumps to her feet and comes at me.
‘Don’t you dare call me that,’ she yells, waving the knife in my face. I can almost feel its cruel cut. ‘I used to be a hurt and scared little girl but I’ve grown up now. You had every chance to be my mother, every chance, and you just chose to act like I didn’t exist.’
‘That’s not true,’ I cry, tears blurring my eyes. ‘I loved you. I loved you so much. I never stopped. The thought of you and everything you could be haunted me for years. I tried to talk about you but my parents told me to move on, to forget you, but I couldn’t, I wouldn’t.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘I swear to you, I’m not,’ I say as the cold blade presses harder into my skin. ‘I saw you everywhere I went. On buses and tube trains. Every little girl was you. You were the empty space that I could never fill. Don’t you understand? They took you from me. They ripped you out and sent you away. I had no choice.’
‘You tried to kill me,’ she says, her voice low and brooding.
‘I tried to kill myself,’ I say, choking back my tears. ‘Because I thought I had no choice. Your father didn’t want to know; Barbara thought I was bringing shame on her family; my parents were clueless. I was all alone and I needed help but there was no one around to give it. Surely you can understand that?’
The pressure of the knife eases a little. Her eyes are red. I try to show her with my eyes how much I care. I want to comfort her, to be her mum.
‘Julia?’ I whisper. ‘Julia, it’s okay.’
‘What about the letters?’ she says, her expression hardening.
‘Letters?’ I say, shaking my head. ‘What letters?’
‘I wrote letters to you almost every week from the care home,’ she says, glancing across to Barbara, whose head is slumped on the table.
‘Julia, I never received any letters,’ I say. ‘If I had it would have been the greatest thing, but I didn’t. And anyway, how would you have known where to send them?’
She looks across at Barbara again and then turns to me.
‘I sent them to her,’ she says, pointing at Barbara. ‘She promised she would pass them on to you.’
‘I promise, Julia, I never saw them.’
‘Of course I sent her the letters,’ says Barbara. ‘She’s lying to you.’
Julia looks at me. If I can just get through to her …
‘Julia, please,’ I cry. ‘You have to believe me. I didn’t receive any letters.’
‘I know you did. I saw the poem that I wrote to you. It’s in your flat.’
Then I remember. The poem I thought was Elspeth’s.
‘That was y
ours?’ I say, aghast.
‘You know it was mine,’ she cries. ‘How else would you have it?’
‘I told you. I found it in the lock-up.’
‘Yeah. Amongst your things.’
‘But I’d never seen it before,’ I say. ‘Please, Julia, you have to believe me.’
Julia doesn’t respond. She stands deathly still, her hands clasped round the knife. I look at Barbara.
‘Actually, Julia,’ I say, keeping my eyes firmly on Barbara, ‘I did receive one of the letters. It was posted through my letter box a couple of days ago, wasn’t it, Barbara?’
The older woman looks up at me, her eyes blazing with venom.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she says, taking a long slug of brandy.
‘Oh, I think you do,’ I say.
Barbara doesn’t answer. Instead she stares down at her glass.
‘Just like you sent Elspeth’s cardigan,’ I continue. ‘How did you describe having access to her things: leverage?’
‘Barbara, what is she talking about?’ says Julia shakily.
‘Nonsense, that’s what,’ says Barbara, running her finger round the rim of her brandy glass. ‘Don’t listen to her, Julia, she’s a very disturbed woman.’
‘I’m a very disturbed woman?’ I cry. ‘You used the death of my child to taunt me, to scare me off, and you call me disturbed.’
‘You have no idea,’ says Barbara. ‘No idea at all.’
‘Oh, I do, Barbara,’ I reply, holding her gaze. ‘I have a very good idea. You have always wanted to control people. Harry, Ben, now Julia, and when people can’t be controlled, when they get in the way of your perfect order, you get angry, don’t you?’
‘Barbara, tell me she’s lying,’ says Julia, her eyes bulging. ‘Tell me you sent her those letters when I asked you to. You promised me.’
Barbara doesn’t answer. Instead she stares at me.
‘What were you doing at the river the night of the accident?’ I say, my voice steady though my heart is pounding with rage. ‘Why did you run away?’
Day of the Accident Page 23