‘What were you doing here?’
Mum closes her eyes. She looks tired, and so much older than before … before she died, my head still wants to say.
‘I came to see you. I was going to tell you everything. But you weren’t alone – I panicked.’
I wonder how many times she’s used her key, slipping in and out of the house like a ghost. The thought makes me shiver. I shift Ella from one hip to the other. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I rented a flat up north. It’s’ – she grimaces – ‘basic.’
I think of the uneasy feeling I’ve had over the last few days. ‘How long have you been back?’
‘I came down on Thursday.’
Thursday. Twenty-first of December. The anniversary of her … not her death. She didn’t die. I repeat this fact to myself, trying to make sense of it.
‘I’ve been staying at the Hope since then.’ She flushes slightly.
The Hope is a church-funded hostel near the seafront. They run the food bank, collect donations of clothing and toiletries, and offer temporary accommodation to women in need, in exchange for domestic chores. She sees my face.
‘It’s not that bad.’
I think of the five-star hotels my parents enjoyed, and imagine my mother on her knees cleaning loos in return for a bed in a dormitory of down-on-their-luck women.
Mum’s looking at Ella. ‘She’s beautiful.’
I wrap protective arms around my daughter, as though by hiding her from view I can shield her from her grandmother’s lies, but Ella arches her back and fights my embrace. She twists to see this stranger in our kitchen, this thin, ill-kempt woman who stares at her with filmy eyes I will not acknowledge.
I will not.
And yet my chest aches with a heaviness that has nothing to do with what my parents did, and everything to do with the pain I see on my mother’s face. The love. A love so tangible it arcs between us; so tangible I’m convinced Ella feels it. She reaches out a pudgy hand towards her grandmother.
A whole year, I remind myself.
Fraud. Conspiracy. Lies.
‘Could I hold her?’
The audacity takes my breath away.
‘Please, Anna. Just once. She’s my granddaughter.’
There’s so much I could say. That my mother relinquished any familial rights the night she faked her own death. That a year of lies means she doesn’t deserve the reward of Ella’s chubby hand in hers, of the talcum-powdered scent of a freshly washed head. That she chose to be dead, and as far as my daughter is concerned that is how she will remain.
Instead I walk towards my mother and hand her my baby.
Because it’s now or never.
Once the police know what she’s done they’ll take her away. A trial. Prison. The media circus. She had the police out searching for Dad, when all the time she knew he was fine. She claimed his assurance money. Theft, fraud, wasting police time … My head spins with the crimes they’ve committed, and with the fresh-found fear that I am now an accessory to them.
My parents brought this on themselves.
But I’m not a part of it. And neither is Ella.
My daughter shouldn’t be punished for other people’s actions. The least I can give her is a cuddle with a grandmother she’s never going to know.
My mother takes her as gently as if she were made of glass. With the ease of experience, she nestles her into the crook of her arm and runs her gaze across every detail.
I stand inches away, fingers twitching at my sides. Where is my father? Why has Mum come back now? Why come back at all? A hundred questions run through my head, and I can’t bear it any more. I snatch Ella back, so swiftly she lets out a cry of surprise. I shush her in my arms, pressing her against my chest when she tries to turn back towards her grandmother, who sighs softly – not in admonishment, but something more akin to contentment. As though her granddaughter were all that mattered. For a second my mother and I lock eyes; we agree on that one thing, at least.
‘You need to leave. Now.’ It’s more abrupt than I intended, but I no longer trust myself to stick to the script. Seeing my daughter in my mother’s arms is softening my heart. I feel myself wavering.
She lied to me.
I have to do the right thing. I have to tell Mark, the police.
But she’s my mother …
‘Ten minutes. I want to tell you something, and if you still feel the same then—’
‘There’s nothing you can tell me that—’
‘Please. Just ten minutes.’
Silence. I hear the grandfather clock in the hall, the call of an owl from the garden. Then I sit.
‘Five.’
She looks at me and nods. She takes a deep breath and lets it slowly out. ‘Your father and I haven’t been happy together for many years.’
The words fall into place as though I’ve been waiting for them. ‘You couldn’t split up, like normal people?’
Lots of my friends had divorced parents. Two houses, two holidays, two sets of presents … No one wants their parents to separate, but even a child can learn to understand it’s not the end of the world. I would have coped.
‘It wasn’t as simple as that.’
I remember hiding in my bedroom once, my iPod turned up to drown out the argument going on downstairs. Wondering if this was it; if they were going to get divorced. Then, in the morning, going downstairs to find everything calm. Dad drinking his coffee. Mum humming as she put more toast on the table. They pretended everything was fine. And so I did, too.
‘Please, Anna, let me explain.’
I will listen. And then, when Mark gets back, I will tell him. To hell with what Joan thinks. I’ll phone the police, too. Because once everyone knows, I can distance myself from this insane scheme cooked up by my parents as a preferable alternative to divorce.
‘You found a vodka bottle under the desk in the study.’
She’s been watching me.
And I thought I was going mad. Seeing ghosts.
‘Did you find others?’ Her voice is calm. She stares at the table in front of her.
‘They were Dad’s, weren’t they?’
Her eyes snap to mine. She searches my face, and I wonder if she resents me for not acknowledging this sooner, for leaving her to shoulder the burden alone.
‘Why did he hide them? It was no secret he liked a drink.’
Mum’s eyes close briefly. ‘There’s a difference between liking a drink and needing a drink.’ She hesitates. ‘He was clever about it, like many alcoholics are. Careful to hide it from you; from Billy.’
‘Uncle Billy didn’t know?’
Mum gives a humourless laugh. ‘The cleaner found a bottle of vodka stashed in the bin under Dad’s desk. She brought it to Billy in case it had been thrown away by mistake. I panicked. Told Billy it was mine. Said I’d bought the wrong sort and no one would have drunk it so I’d thrown it away. He didn’t believe me, but he didn’t push it. Didn’t want to, I suppose.’ She stops and looks at me, and there are tears in her eyes. ‘I wish you’d told me you knew Dad drank. You shouldn’t have had to cope with that on your own.’
I shrug, an obtuse teen again. I don’t want to share confidences with her. Not now. The truth is, I’d never have said anything. I hated that I knew. I wanted to exist in my happy bubble, pretending everything was perfect, and never listening to the myriad signs that told me they weren’t.
‘Well.’ Another deep breath. ‘When he was drunk – and only when he was drunk’ – she rushes to make this clear to me, as though it makes a difference; as though any of this makes a bloody difference to what they’ve done – ‘he hit me.’
My world spins on its axis.
‘He never meant it – he was always so sorry. So ashamed of what he’d done.’
Like that makes it all right.
How can she be so calm? So matter-of-fact? I picture my father – laughing, teasing – and try to reframe my memories. I think of the arguments that would end abruptly when I came home; the shift in atmosphere I took pains to ignore. I think of my smashed paperweight; of the stashed bottles around the house. I had seen my dad as a loveable rogue. A loud, jovial, generous man. Fond of a drink, occasionally crass, but ultimately good. Kind.