‘I’m sorry,’ Theresa said flatly, ‘but she never left.’
My gaze fell on the living-room door, as if I had expected her to make an appearance. But I knew from the tone of Theresa’s voice that it was not likely to happen. I had not wanted to believe what my father had hinted at all these years, that the real reason he had built the bench at the foot of the oak tree was because he needed a place to visit my mum. I hadn’t been digging a vegetable patch the day Luke came to challenge me. I’d long suspected that there was more to Mum’s disappearance than either Dad or my older sister were letting on. It felt like there was some sort of conspiracy between them and, over the years, I’d grabbed on to the one explanation that made sense. I was finally confronting my secret fear that my mother had been buried on the land adjoining our house all along. Mum’s leaving had been so sudden, coinciding with Theresa’s departure shortly afterwards. I hadn’t wanted even to consider the thought that she was no longer alive, but the way Dad behaved gave me plenty of cause for concern – and doubt. The missed birthdays, the Christmases that passed without a word, I couldn’t help but wonder why Mum had not got in touch. Sometimes I silenced the niggles, but when Dad became ill and we came back to Mersea, I could no longer ignore my suspicions. The faraway look in his eyes, his mumbled regrets in his last days before he passed away, all conspired to give me no choice: I had to unearth the truth, once and for all. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ The words came out as a whisper. ‘He buried her next to the tree.’
The glint in Theresa’s eye cast a chilling reminder. I had seen that look many times in my youth, and her resemblance to Mum caught me off guard. ‘It was the day Dad said she left,’ Theresa recounted, unable to meet my gaze. ‘Mum had been drinking and she was in one of her moods.’
‘I remember,’ I said, clawing back the image from the bowels of my memory. ‘She caught me bingeing and shoved my head down the toilet to teach me a lesson. Then Dad came home and he sent me to my room.’
‘I’d just come in when their argument kicked off,’ Theresa said, her fingers tightly clasped around each other. ‘Dad’s arms were all scratched from where Mum had attacked him, and next thing I knew she was going for him with a knife. She would have killed him . . . He . . . he had no choice.’
‘No,’ I said, bringing my fist to my mouth as the pain and fear of that day came back all over again. My bravado left me. I wasn’t ready for the truth. ‘I don’t want to hear it. Please, don’t say any more.’ I tried to turn away but Theresa rose from the table with me, gripping my forearm and gently stilling my movements.
‘I can’t leave it there, not now. We need to get this out in the open so we can both move on with our lives. Surely you had your suspicions?’
I sighed, feeling something shift from deep inside. The clues were there. I remembered what she had been like that night. It was their wedding anniversary and Dad had been gone all day. But regardless of her behaviour, she did not deserve to die. ‘Did she . . . suffer?’
Theresa shook her head. ‘It was an accident. Mum launched herself at Dad just as he turned to leave. I saw the glint of a knife in her hand and screamed at her to stop. Dad pushed her away to defend himself, but she was drunk and stumbled.’ Her eyes turned to the living-room door, to the real reason she could not bear to be in this house. ‘She fell on her knife. Within seconds she was dead.’ She paused, the memory of that awful day etched on her face. ‘I wanted to call an ambulance, but it was too late by then. We had two choices. Call the police and risk Dad being falsely accused of murder, or cover it up.’
‘I . . . I don’t believe it,’ I stuttered, yet somewhere inside, I knew it was true.
‘Dad was covered in scratches. The police might not have believed it was self-defence. He did what he had to do, to keep the family together. Do you remember? How I stayed with you for ages, telling you everything would be OK?’ Theresa sniffed as a tear trickled down her face. ‘You were playing some God-awful music to drown out the sounds of their argument.’
‘Pink Floyd,’ I mumbled, remembering how she had come into my room and reassured me. There was an edge to her voice that had made me scared that day. Now I knew why.
‘I never knew where he buried her . . . until he was dying. He told me he was scared. Scared to die because Mum would be waiting for him.’ Her fingers relaxed on my arm. ‘Then he said it was my fault, that I shouldn’t have got involved.’ She shook her head. ‘I think he was trying to pass on the blame before he died. Writing me out of the will just reinforced it.’
‘And you’re sure she didn’t suffer?’ I said numbly.
‘No,’ Theresa said softly, plump tears gathering in her eyes. ‘It all happened so fast.’
‘It was an accident,’ I whispered. ‘You should have told me. You didn’t need to shoulder this on your own.’
‘I waited for the right moment but it never came. Dad paid me off. He couldn’t bear to look at me because I knew the truth. I was scared you’d feel the same way about me too.’
‘That’s crazy,’ I said. ‘I remember what Mum was like. That day when she shoved my head down the toilet, I thought I was going to drown. Dad should never have let things get that far.’
‘He never was very good with confrontation.’ A bitter laugh escaped Theresa’s lips. ‘You know, I used to lie in bed at night, thinking about Mum. I wanted to see her one last time. But then I look around this house and realise she never left. She’s in the floor, in the walls. She’s waiting for a peaceful burial in a marked grave. Dad couldn’t bring himself to do it but I can.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
EMMA
2013
I frowned in irritation at the knock on the door. ‘Blooming postman,’ I muttered. ‘Can’t I get a minute’s peace?’ Snapping shut my laptop, I rose to answer the insistent rap. Alex had finally gone to work and I had snatched a spare moment to research a subject that had been banned from discussion. Lately all I could think about was getting pregnant. I reminded myself to delete all trace of my visits to the sperm-donor website when I was done.
As I twisted the door latch, my breath stilled at the sight of the bright-yellow bouquet of flowers before me. ‘Luke,’ I said, my breath cut short at the sight of my old teacher. I gripped the door, preparing to slam it in my unwanted visitor’s face.
A bemused smile crossed his face. ‘Now, Emma, is that any way to treat an old friend?’ He had aged since my school days but was every bit as intimidating. Dressed in a shirt and trousers, his style had hardly changed from when we first met.
I had thought about this moment many times, and what I would say if I saw him again. But now that he was here, I struggled to find the words. ‘What do you want?’ I said, a sudden rush of dread like ice flooding my veins. ‘My husband will be back any minute.’
‘We both know that’s not true,’ he replied, pushing past me into the hall. His voice trailed behind him as he let himself into my home. ‘I thought you could do with some cheering up, after your dad dying. He made the nationals, you know; a big name in the archaeology world.’
‘I . . . I didn’t say you could come in,’ I stammered, following him into my kitchen. I rubbed my neck, the ghost of his breath still heavy on my face.
He rested the flowers on the table, as if he knew his way around. He said something about a reunion, and I realised he had a bottle of red wine in his other hand. I couldn’t get over his gall. After everything he’d said about me stalking him, he’d turned up at my house like nothing had happened.