‘Physiotherapist. She wants to work with premiership footballers. She says she admires their athleticism and dedication to the sport but I think she just wants to touch their thighs.’ I laugh. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she wanted to be an air hostess tomorrow and a marine biologist the day after that. Charlotte changes her mind about what she wants to be so often I can’t keep up.’
Mum chuckles. ‘You were exactly the same, Susan. I always thought you’d be a teacher but Dad was convinced you were more cut out to be a seamstress.’
‘You were both right,’ I say. ‘In a way.’
I trained to be a TEFL teacher after university – it was the easiest way to fund my travels – but my heart was never really in it. I’d graduated with a 2:1 in textiles and I really wanted to work in the theatre as a costume designer but jobs were worse than scarce. It was all about who you knew and I knew no one. That’s how I ended up with the Abberley Theatre Players.
‘You were very good at both,’ Mum says, startling me back into her small, magnolia-walled bedroom at Hays-Price Retirement Community Home. She pats her chair. ‘You should do this professionally, upholstering. People will pay good money for beautiful things.’
I smile. I abandoned my dreams of designing for the stage twenty years ago. I didn’t pick up a needle again until a tearful five-and-a-half-year-old Charlotte came home from school one day and asked why she was the only one in the nativity play who didn’t have a costume.
‘Maybe I should.’ There are a million things I want to tell her while she’s still here, in the present, but I don’t know where to start. I don’t want to tell her that I suspect that Brian is cheating on me or that I think Charlotte’s ex-best friend and boyfriend may have something to do with her accident. What I want to do is tell Mum how much she means to me and how I wish I could take away the terrible disease that, day by day, is stealing another part of her away from me.
‘I love you, Mum,’ The words tripping off my tongue so quickly they run together. ‘I don’t say it enough but I do. We all do. And I appreciate all the lovely things you’ve done for me in my life and I’m sorry I’ve been a terrible daughter—’
‘Susan!’ The smile slips from Mum’s face and she purses her lips. ‘Don’t you dare say such a terrible, untrue thing. I couldn’t have asked for a better daughter than you.’
‘But I ran away.’ Tears well in my eyes and I frantically swallow to try and dispel them. ‘I ran away to Greece when you needed me and—’
‘Susan!’ She crushes my hand between her two smaller hands. I’m surprised at her strength. ‘Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare apologise for that when that … that monster … did the things he did to you. I just wish your dad had been around to stop him from—’
I stare at her in horror. She wasn’t supposed to know about James. She wasn’t supposed to remember. I phoned her from Gatwick airport while I was waiting for my flight to Greece and told her everything. I needed to talk to someone, to purge myself of three years of hell but I didn’t think for one second that she’d take any of it in. I didn’t even think she’d know who I was. How could I have been so selfish?
‘Charlotte sends her love,’ I say, desperate to change the subject. ‘She’ll be along to visit as soon as she can.’
‘Oh, that would be lovely.’ Mum’s face lights up and I say a prayer, begging whoever is in charge of the universe to make my daughter well so they can spend some time together, so it’s not a lie.
‘I’d like that,’ Mum says. She rummages in a little drawer in the table beside her and presses a brooch into my hand. It’s glass and paste, a bouquet of flowers with a ribbon tied around the stem. It’s terribly old-fashioned but very pretty and sparkly. ‘Give this to Charlotte with my love. Tell her it’s to bring her luck in her exams.’ She fixes me with a meaningful look. ‘I was wearing it the day I met your dad you know.’
I open my mouth to thank her, to tell her how touched Charlotte will be but find I can’t speak.
‘I have something for you too,’ Mum says, twisting back to her drawer. I try to object, to tell her she mustn’t when Mozart’s Symphony Number 40 in G Minor fills the air and I rummage in my handbag for my phone.
‘Brian?’ I say, standing up and walking across the room, my back to Mum, my voice hushed. ‘Now’s not a good time. I’m with Mum.’
There’s a pause then,
‘It’s Charlotte,’ he says. ‘You need to come to the hospital. Now.’
Tuesday 18th October 1990
Tonight I finally got to see James’s house. And now I know why he kept me waiting for so long …
We were supposed to get to his house for one o’clock, the times Mrs Evans had said we should come for lunch (yes, he lives with his mum!) but we’d hit the pub early and James, who was ridiculously nervous but wouldn’t admit it, insisted we have one more for luck. His mum wouldn’t mind if we were late, he said. She was probably too busy watching ‘Murder She Wrote’ to notice the time.
Two hours later we finally rolled up at his house in Wood Green. James could barely get the key in the lock and I couldn’t stop giggling.
‘Shoes,’ James said, nudging me in the ribs as we fell into the hallway.
‘Socks!’ I nudged him back and burst out laughing.
‘No,’ he glanced down at my beautiful red, patent heels. ‘Take off your shoes. Mother doesn’t allow shoes on the carpets.’
I reached a hand down and yanked one shoe off. I had to brace myself against the wall to stop myself from tumbling over. ‘I thought you were playing a word association game. You know – shoes, socks, toes, feet …’
‘Why would I do that?’ He gave me a look. ‘I’m not a child, Susan.’
I shrugged and reached for my other shoe, unsure of what to say.
‘Kidding!’ He poked me in the side and I instantly lost balance and tumbled to the floor. ‘Feet! Cheese! Beans!’
I laughed as he helped me back onto my feet but it felt forced. The joke wasn’t as funny anymore.