by Alyson Rudd
‘I loved David more,’ she said. ‘I loved him too much and look at us now. Who bought David his motorbike? It wasn’t me. I blame Colin but say nothing and he blames me and tells everyone it’s my fault.’
She turned to Vera. ‘It is my fault, isn’t it?’
Vera did not know this woman and saw a grief that was different to hers but a desperation that she recalled all too well.
‘It will take time, but one day you will understand that it is not your fault, and one day you will be able to smile again, enjoy a walk, a film, the grades Daisy gets at school. But it takes time, and I’d like to help now, while it’s raw and terrible.’
Mrs Talbot looked directly at Vera.
‘I’m so tired,’ she said. ‘Some help would be good.’
* * *
Bob gawped.
‘Here? Stay with us here?’ he said.
‘Why ever not?’ Vera said breezily. ‘I had you and then we had Hope. She not only has no husband but the one she did have is blaming her for the accident.’
Bob wanted to say that his home was his refuge after a long day at work, and he could do without tiptoeing around a wailing mother and her daughter, but as he considered an acceptable way to phrase it, Hope said how much she liked Daisy and wanted to help her.
‘Right, it seems to be decided, then,’ he said, ‘but, please, allow me some say in when it’s time for them to leave.’
Vera kissed him on the cheek. ‘Of course, my love,’ she said and winked at her daughter.
Hope enjoyed the planning, she enjoyed her mother asking her opinion. Should Daisy share her mother’s room or share with Hope? Was Daisy a fussy eater? Was Daisy struggling to concentrate at school?
Vera collected them the next evening. Daisy looked like a young girl being evacuated to a safe haven in wartime, while Mrs Talbot looked like she had just seen a bomb destroy an entire city. They stood awkwardly beside their suitcases, Daisy still in her deep burgundy school uniform. Vera felt a wave of energetic empathy. She would make them better; she would heal their wounds and send them back home ready to face the next stage of their lives.
Mrs Talbot was put in the formal guest room with its en suite bathroom, and Vera suggested she have a long soak in the bath and maybe some cocoa or warm milk and then sleep as long as she could, knowing Vera and Hope would make sure Daisy got to school on time.
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘only I have to wake up again, don’t I?’
‘It will get better, really. I was like you, I understand completely, but I also know that I kept going for Hope and you will keep going for Daisy.’
‘They all say that,’ Mrs Talbot hissed.
‘But they are guessing,’ Vera said. ‘I know.’
The next day she found a company that would, for a rather steep fee, rigorously clean and tidy Mrs Talbot’s house. Vera let the cleaners in and pointed out David’s bedroom and told them not to even open the door.
By supper time Mrs Talbot had dressed and even combed her hair, which was dry. Daisy had told Vera that her mum liked salmon so they ate salmon with buttered new potatoes and peas and string beans. Vera made a big bread and butter pudding in case Bob was still hungry.
They talked about school and homework and Bob wondered if they had heard about John Smith, of the Labour Party, and how his survival from a heart attack would gain him short-term sympathy but probably mean he would have to stand down to avoid claims he was too weak to be the party’s leader.
Hope glared at him.
‘Who cares, Dad?’ she said.
‘Sorry, I’m sure,’ said Bob while trying to smile conspiratorially at Mrs Talbot.
‘David was a Communist,’ she said flatly.
‘Right,’ Bob said. ‘I think all young men are Communists, probably, at some point.’
‘Well, he’ll always be one now,’ she said.
‘Hmm,’ Vera said. ‘Actually, we know nothing about David and we’d love to hear what he was like, if you can bear it.’
A tear rolled down Mrs Talbot’s cheek. Daisy swallowed a piece of salmon.
‘I really loved my big brother,’ she said. ‘He made me listen to some weird music but some of it was great and he was funny and…’ she trailed off. She had learned that she could say the wrong thing so easily.
‘He sounds lovely,’ Vera said, and Bob nodded along, mostly feeling perplexed at how adroitly his wife was handling what seemed to him to be the most awkward of situations.
In bed that night she clung to him and said: ‘We’re saving a family; that has to be worth a little bit of inconvenience.’
I’m wrapped round her little finger, Bob thought, and I live in a world of loss.
Lauren
She had once read a novel in which the protagonist found happiness by being with the two women he loved. He did not divorce his wife because he loved his wife. He did not leave his lover because he loved her too. And as both women were so deeply loved neither grew suspicious that there could possibly be another love. It was a dreadful book but, now, it rang true.
She was happier for accepting that she had another life. She did not yet know what was in it. She had fragments, crystal clear flashes of faces and feelings, but also an innate sense that she would soon form the complete picture. She was happy for about three days. Happy that the wave of loss had not engulfed her. Happy she had survived the event she had been evading, happy that she had left Miriam before churning up her own insides even more. She had a weird condition, that’s all and so what if she had other loves and other homes, she knew she loved Simon, loved her children. It would be fine.
But she knew it would not last, that she would have to close her eyes and let the memories form a narrative and after that… she had no idea. While the image of another man waiting to marry her inside the church was one she tried not to dwell on, Lauren was eager to think about the Stannings. She felt she could help them, and they could help her. She just didn’t know how.
Vera
Vera heard the kerfuffle of Jack’s bike. Was she imagining it or had it become noisier over the years? She opened the door to say good morning and as he gawped she unconsciously dabbed at the corner of her mouth in case there was toothpaste sticking to her lips.
‘You look different today,’ he blurted out.
‘Guests,’ she replied, and she tried not to smile as Jack’s cheeks pinkened as they tended to no matter what she said.
Mrs Talbot was unloading the dishwasher.
‘Oh no need,’ Vera said.
Mrs Talbot smiled at her.
‘There is every need,’ she said. ‘I feel less of a zombie today and that is thanks to you. And Daisy is so happy here, I think she feels safe. I hadn’t thought about it until this morning but to lose your big brother who was the one who protected you must make a young girl feel so, you know, vulnerable.’
Vera tried very, very hard not to feel triumphant. She had been sure she could help this poor family and here was Mrs Talbot, her eyes free of the glaze of panicked grief, able to communicate. Still, it had been a week and she knew Bob wanted his home back.
‘Do you fancy driving over with me to your house after lunch?’ Vera asked. ‘I want to see how well it’s been spruced up before you move back in.’
She noted a slight narrowing of Mrs Talbot’s eyes but then she cleared her throat.
‘Thank you, yes, let’s do that,’ Mrs Talbot said.
Her hand shook as she unlocked the front door and Vera felt a spasm of guilt.
Mrs Talbot stood in the small hallway and looked at the stair carpet which had that perky freshly shampooed look to it. She summoned a small smile.
‘Seems wrong to walk on it,’ she said and Vera laughed.
‘Probably feels lovely barefoot,’ she said.
Vera offered to put the kettle on as Mrs Talbot took off her shoes and walked upstairs. Vera knew where she was going. She was gone a long time.
Vera took off her shoes and cautiously climbed up to the first
floor. One door was slightly open so she knocked gently before entering.
Mrs Talbot was sat on her son’s messy bed, one of his T-shirts pressed against her face. She looked up.
‘You see this in films,’ she told Vera. ‘Mothers sitting on the bed, hoping the child’s smell is still there. Did you do this?’
‘Oh yes,’ Vera said. ‘I found it hard to leave the home we all shared but one day it felt the right thing to do.’
‘He was thinking of moving out,’ Mrs Talbot said. ‘And I thought that would break my heart.’ She snorted. ‘I’d no idea, had I?’
‘Come and see the kitchen,’ Vera said gently and Mrs Talbot stood, her eyes glazed once more.
They sat and drank tea, Vera washed up the cups and then they left. Vera did not have the heart to suggest Mrs Talbot stay behind and once back home she cheered up a little and chopped onions and carrots and even hummed a Frank Sinatra tune. As Daisy and Hope burst through to door she smiled and asked what their new French teacher was like. It all felt so normal apart from the fact that they barely knew the woman.
The girls sat in their shared bedroom, revising as Madame Morel had told them there would be a test the next day, while Mrs Talbot stirred a melting stock cube.
‘I doubt she’s really French, the new teacher,’ Vera said.
‘It is peaceful here,’ Mrs Talbot said. ‘Like a haven.’
‘I’m glad you feel at ease,’ Vera said. ‘What you are going through is, apart from everything else, exhausting.’
‘And look at Daisy,’ Mrs Talbot said. ‘It’s like you’ve performed a miracle.’
The next morning saw the house surrounded by mist and late autumn sunshine. It was beautiful.
‘Let’s go for a wander,’ Vera suggested.
‘Is all this yours?’ Mrs Talbot asked as they meandered through damp grass and old roses.
Vera would have been embarrassed but she knew as well as anyone that if you lose a child, someone’s wealth or good fortune is neither impressive nor intimidating.
‘We haven’t been here that long,’ she said. ‘But I have grown fond of the place.’
‘It’s a beautiful place to bring up your daughter,’ Mrs Talbot said as a sluggish squirrel peered at them from behind an ancient tree stump.
Vera was about to say she supposed Hope would find it a dreadfully dull place by the time she was sixteen but thought twice about conjuring images of teenagers having fun, dressing up for parties, discovering cider, the opposite sex and riding motorbikes.
Bob did not allow himself to even imagine it would be just the three of them at supper but he was pleasantly surprised by Mrs Talbot’s demeanour and how she beamed when Daisy said something amusing or when Hope playfully squeezed her daughter’s arm.
‘It’s the anniversary of when we met tomorrow,’ he told the table and then turning to Mrs Talbot said, ‘I hope you don’t mind if I steal my wife for lunch.’
‘You have a nice time, you two,’ Mrs Talbot said.
‘We don’t normally do midweek lunch and we don’t normally celebrate the day we met,’ Vera said as they sat in a quiet, expensive dining room of a newly refurbished pub, the hazy early November sunshine illuminating the polished unscarred wooden tables.
‘I was feeling selfish, I wanted you all to myself and I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving Hope alone with Daisy and her mother,’ he said. ‘I know that sounds uncharitable or mistrustful but well, I just wouldn’t.’
They ate profiteroles they did not really want but could not resist because they were covered in warm chocolate sauce, and then Bob said he would have to pop back to the office but could drop Vera home first.
‘I’d like to come along,’ she said. ‘Say hello to George if he’s in.’
George was in Manchester buying up yet another failing but potentially profitable firm so Vera pottered around in her husband’s office, checking for dust, peering out of the window.
‘OK,’ Bob said, ‘let’s go home.’
They kissed and Vera, emotional having drunk two glasses of wine so early in the day, felt weepy at how lucky and unlucky her life with Bob had been.
‘We didn’t toast Lauren,’ she said. ‘And Lauren was why we got married quicker than we planned.’
He squeezed her hand. He knew better than to offer an explanation. They had forgotten to make any sort of toast. That was all.
The house was quiet and still and they wondered if Mrs Talbot might be in bed. Eventually they noticed a letter propped up on the mantelpiece of the large, slightly formal living room.
‘Thank you,’ it read. ‘Daisy is so happy here. I’m sorry for all the trouble this will cause but I want to be with my son, Connie Talbot.’
‘Jeez,’ Bob said. ‘Does she expect us to keep Daisy here indefinitely?’
‘I don’t know,’ Vera said. ‘I’d have thought it would be easier for her to be at home with Daisy than alone, sitting in her son’s bedroom all day.’
Bob ran his fingers through his hair.
‘I suppose we let Daisy stay another few nights, then, or something,’ he said doubtfully.
‘I suppose,’ Vera said. ‘I know it’s been odd but we’ve helped them and I’m not sure it is entirely healthy for a girl of Daisy’s age to be holed up with only a grieving mother to keep her company. Her father sounds unreliable at best, damaging at worst.’
Bob grunted then patted the large sofa.
‘Foot rub?’ he said and she giggled as she took off her thin cotton socks but then as a fat blackbird swooped by, narrowly avoiding collision, she went to the picture window from which she could see at the very edge of the view a bright red scarf billowing in the breeze a quarter of a way up an old sycamore tree.
She turned the key in the pretty brass lock, opened the door and ran barefoot towards the scarf, not feeling the scratch of the twigs and dead leaves until she saw what she feared she would see. Mrs Talbot swinging from the branch of a tree, a stepladder on its side and an awful aura of peace.
Lauren
She was not pregnant after all. She was not relieved, she was not sad. She was perplexed. She had no mysterious memories of other versions of Rosie and Toby, but as her breasts ached as if filling with love, if not milk, the black clouds rolled in, taunting her. She felt like someone with a fear of flying might feel when passing through security, a point of no return. She needed to be with someone who would not be hurt when she started to panic.
She knocked on Miriam’s door and took a deep breath.
‘I need to piece things together and I think I could do that here with you but I am really worried that you might diagnose me as deranged or schizophrenic. I’m not. I know that I’m not but I need to be able to trust you.’
Miriam, delighted to see the intriguing Lauren again, shuffled some papers on her desk to buy her some time, then told her she would be honest with her and not refer her to anyone else without her permission.
Lauren looked her in the eye. She really liked Miriam but then Miriam would be bad at her job if she was the sort that people took a dislike to.
‘Let me tell you what has happened to bring me here,’ she said, ‘and if you feel you can’t fall in with me on it then I’ll leave.’
Miriam needed to know so she nodded.
Lauren sat in the armchair and calmly explained the way her heart had expanded like a rosebud rapidly unfurling to allow her to love more people than those in her current life.
‘I wish I could express it better but I feel I have landed here from somewhere else,’ she said. ‘And that is why my memory lags behind. This is not the only life I have been living. And I think that I might be about to remember the bits I don’t want to remember.’
Miriam felt her pulse quicken. She had listened to only one other patient in her career who had, effectively, been exciting, and that had been a mouse of a woman called Tina who had witnessed her aunt murder her baby and allowed that to stop her having children of her own. The aunt was arrested at the age
of fifty-eight, thanks to Tina’s evidence prompting a new investigation. Thanks to Miriam’s teasing out of the dreadful details. Lauren was different, Lauren was in charge now. Lauren simply needed Miriam to listen, to prompt, to guide, to perhaps console, and because of the power shift Miriam was briefly at a loss to know how to start.
‘How would you like to start?’ she asked.
‘Well, that I don’t know,’ Lauren said. ‘I was hoping you’d find a way to help me piece it together.’
Miriam turned the page of her A4 notepad and stared at the blank space. At the top she wrote: ‘Lauren is born.’
‘What is your first memory?’ she asked. ‘Are you in a cot or a pram or a playground?’
Lauren closed her eyes.
‘I remember being sat on a sheepskin rug and drawing. I used to draw a lot. I remember being a bit lonely. I remember how pretty I thought my mother was and I missed her when she went to work in the dress shop.’
Lauren sat up half in a panic and half in exhilaration.
‘Now that’s interesting,’ she said. ‘I really do remember the shop but I also remember there not being a shop and I also remember it not being a boutique but it being a dentist’s reception.’
Miriam felt her jaw slacken. She was out of her depth.
‘Shall we try to pin this down, then?’ she said. ‘Did your mother work when you were little?’
Lauren knitted her fingers together. ‘Yes, no and yes,’ she said.
‘But that’s three memories,’ Miriam said.
‘Yes, I’ve missed my real mum for a long time,’ Lauren said, and she felt herself floating like a kite, hoping the string would stay firm in the buffeting wind.
Miriam made some notes.
‘You recall a mother who worked in a boutique, a mother who did not work and a mother who worked with a dentist?’
‘That sounds daft,’ Lauren said. ‘My mother is Vera and has always been Vera but somewhere along the way she became a bit less pretty and I had to start again, loving the one who was less wonderful, and recently I’ve had to love the Vera who is a bit more practical and dotes on Ben and worked on Saturday mornings at the dentist’s reception until my brother was born.’