For some inexplicable reason it had been unthinkable not to tell the whole story of Pedlar’s Yard with complete truthfulness. Alice (‘You had better call me that – I don’t think I can cope with being “grandmother”,’ she had said) had listened without interrupting that first evening, but at one stage her lips had trembled and she had clutched her hands together so tightly that the knuckles showed white. And – this was the curious thing – the part that had upset her so much had not been where Mother had died; it had been the part where Mother had used the scissors on the man who had brutalized and cowed her for so many years.
But then she had said, ‘That was a very dreadful thing for you to see, but the memories will get better after a while. And you’ll travel away from the sadness in time. You’ll build a bridge away from it and you’ll go across that bridge into whatever’s waiting for you in the future.’
‘I will?’
‘Yes. It’s how life works. We aren’t allowed to be sad all the time.’
‘I ’spect you’ll have to tell the police about what happened, won’t you?’
‘Don’t look so frightened, you solemn little owl. We’re not going to tell the police anything.’
‘We’re not?’
‘No. That house – Pedlar’s Yard – is a very long way away from here. And you brought that last letter I sent, didn’t you? Well, I know you did.’
‘I thought you might need to see it so’s you’d know I really was me.’
She smiled. ‘I can see you’re really you without any letters,’ she said. ‘Even without the photo you brought, I can see it.’ A pause. ‘I’m glad you brought that.’
‘I wanted to remember Mother as happy. She’s happy in the photo, isn’t she?’
‘Yes.’ Alice had looked at the small photo for a very long time, occasionally reaching out a finger to trace the features. Once she said, ‘You’re more like your mother than your father.’
‘I know.’
‘Were there any other papers in the house? Anything that might link Pedlar’s Yard to this place? Other photographs, perhaps? Old ones?’
‘Not really. There wasn’t much space for things like that. I only knew about you from the stories. My mother liked telling me stories. She was good at it – she used to make me see the people and the places. Once said she would have liked to be a writer. A proper writer, I mean. Books and things.’
‘And – you do remember her as looking happy sometimes? Like she was in this photograph?’
‘Oh yes. She once said he – my father – could be very charming.’ And for a moment Mother’s face was vividly there, half-sad, half-happy, talking about the charming young man she had married and must once have loved very much…
‘Charming,’ said Alice thoughtfully, as if trying out the word. ‘Yes, I’m sure that’s true.’ And again a memory came surging upwards – this time of Mother saying that families were odd things; that if you married someone your family did not like…
And then, with a switch of mood to practicality, Alice said, ‘Well now, it doesn’t sound as if there’d be anything in that house to connect me – or you – with it. And so I think we can count ourselves safe.’
This had to be considered carefully. Then, because it was as well to get things absolutely clear, ‘You mean we aren’t going to say anything to anyone?’
She took a moment to answer. ‘No, I don’t believe we are,’ she said at last. ‘We’re going to keep it just between the two of us. I’m glad to know she talked to you about me, though.’ She said this half to herself, but there was a flicker of sadness. ‘It means that out of all that hatred and violence, I’ve got you.’ The smile showed briefly. ‘But now your mother’s dead, I think we should make sure we keep her memory as a good one. Keep the photograph carefully, won’t you?’
‘Yes, of course. Uh – do you mean we’re going to keep what she did a secret? In case people think of her as – um – a murderer?’ The word came out a bit bumpily, but Alice did not seem to notice.
She said, ‘Yes, that’s just what I do mean. People love to gossip and to speculate, and they aren’t always very kind. You’d grow up with everyone whispering behind your back.’ Again there was the pause, as if she was arranging in her mind what to say next. ‘And the truth is that your mother was defending herself – and you. Mothers do defend their children – very fiercely at times.’ Again there was the flicker of anger and grief all mixed up together.