‘None for me!’ She held up her hand as I rammed a teaspoon into the sugar bowl. ‘I need to lose a couple of stone.’
I splashed scalding water into the mugs, and handed her a steaming sugar-free coffee. ‘But you look great,’ I said, controlling my desire to ask her to leave.
She tweaked my cheek. ‘You’re such a sweetie.’
‘I mean it.’ I did. Her weight had yo-yoed since I’d known her. Sometimes, like now, she was curvy, and looked great in jeans and a flowing, funky top – the kind my mum loved. Other times, she looked too thin. Today, her highlighted hair fell in layers to her shoulders, and her pleasant round face carried a smile. ‘Are you going anywhere nice?’ I asked, realising she was more made-up than usual.
‘Another attempt at meeting Mr Right, this time for lunch – hopefully in liquid form.’ She rolled her eyes. She’d signed up to a dating agency she’d seen advertised on TV, but so far it had been a disaster. ‘It’s costing a fortune to meet idiots and bores, quite frankly. Let me tell you, Rachel, chivalry is dead. I’ve paid my own way every single time.’
‘That’s the way it’s done these days,’ I said, with a smile.
She blew on her coffee, and took a delicate sip. She’d told me before how she’d taken early retirement, and recently she’d felt a bit lost. ‘I just want someone to share my evenings with, Rachel. Is that too much to ask?’ she’d said. ‘It’s lonely spending twenty-four hours a day in your own company.’
Now she glanced over her shoulder, and into my lounge: a square room with an original fireplace I adored. Toys were put away in the wicker chest, and I’d straightened the cushions and throws, put the books on the crammed shelf in height order, and dashed the hoover over the grey carpet. I was grateful the room looked tidy. Angela’s house was always spotless. Not that she judged me.
‘I’m guessing Lawrence has Grace?’ she said.
‘Mmm. They won’t be back until Sunday evening, so I’m hoping to drive down to see my mum shortly. I prefer not to take Grace any more.’ Another stab of guilt – what about the times Mum recognised her? ‘It hurts … you know,’ I went on. ‘When Mum doesn’t know us.’ Sharp tears prodded my eyes, and I took a deep breath. I’d done far too much crying.
Angela reached over and patted my arm. ‘I know, sweetie,’ she said, her voice soft and warm. ‘I know.’
***
Dream Meadows Residential Care Home was deep in the Suffolk countryside, and my mother seemed happy there, as far as I could tell.
I parked and headed into the front entrance, spotting Margo, a care assistant with a permanent smile and short silver-grey hair.
‘Are you looking for your mum, dear?’ she asked breezily, hurrying across the reception area. She’d taken a shine to my mother, and Mum liked her too. ‘She was sleeping when I last put my head round her door. Go up. She’s had a busy day today, but she’ll be delighted to see you.’ She went on her way, straightening her navy tunic over her midriff, as I climbed the stairs.
Mum’s was a cosy room: a single bed, and a wardrobe and chest of drawers in antique pine. The surfaces were filled with framed photos jostling for space with trinkets Mum had asked me to bring from her house.
She was asleep on the bed, a duvet with lilac butterflies pulled over her, her breathing shallow. I stepped towards the window, and dragged back the thin curtains that matched the quilt cover.
Fields extended for miles – sheep and cows no bigger than ants dotted in the distance, and I imagined Mum painting the scene.
She stirred behind me, and I went over and perched on the edge of the bed near her head, watching her sleep, my body tensing as I pretended she was fine. Her quiet breaths were rapid, her eyes moving under closed lids. What are you dreaming about, Mum? Is it the times we spent together when I was young? Trips to Southwold – eating chips – flying kites – walking along the beach?
Should I wake her?
As though sensing me, her eyes flickered and opened. ‘Rachel,’ she said, and my heart sang. It was a good day. Thank God it’s a good day.
She pulled herself to a sitting position and leaned her head against the wall behind her. She was wearing a faded orange kaftan dress that was creased from sleep. I remembered her wearing it when I was young, yet it still fitted perfectly; she’d never gained weight over the years. I remembered visiting her house a few years ago, and trying to get her to throw a few things out. She’d been horrified when I suggested the dress should go, clutching it to her like a security blanket.
Now she pulled her plait over her shoulder, reminding me of a character from a Brontë novel.
‘It’s so lovely to see you, darling,’ she said, burying her fists into her eyes and rubbing them, childlike. She leaned forward, and I took her into my arms and hugged her close, breathing her in.
‘Where’s Grace?’ she said, when I released her.
‘She’s with Lawrence.’ I hadn’t told her we’d broken up. Not yet. I wanted to save her from that. ‘Are you getting up? We could go for a walk in the grounds. It’s cold but bright.’
‘Yes. Yes, let’s do that.’ She swung her legs round, and a furry toy rabbit in a waistcoat fell to the floor.
I picked it up. ‘Mr Snookum,’ I said, placing a kiss on his head. ‘I haven’t seen you for years.’ I thought he was in my attic.
She took him from me, and began fiddling with his ears. ‘I gave him to you when you were little, remember?’
‘Yes,’ I said, raising a brow. ‘I didn’t realise you had him.’
She placed the love-worn rabbit on her pillow, and covered his small body with the duvet, so just his head poked out. Then she slipped her bare feet into canvas shoes.
‘Will you be warm enough? It’s been snowing.’
‘In summer?’
‘It’s winter, Mum. You’ll be cold.’
‘Of course I won’t,’ she said, standing and pulling on a long, thick cardigan that brushed against her ankles. ‘Let’s go,’ she said, and I followed her from the room, closing the door behind me.
We strolled around the grounds for about half an hour, our arms linked as we pointed out crocuses and snowdrops pushing their way through the cold earth. We talked about art – her favourite subject, and how different areas in the grounds would make beautiful paintings. Bare trees lined up against a pale sky in the distance with a hint of sunlight glowing around the branches, caught her attention. ‘I’ll paint those,’ she said.
‘I love you, Mum,’ I said, resting my head on her shoulder, wanting to capture the lucid moment – a second of clarity amongst her sea of confusion. I wanted to bottle it so I could drink it in whenever I felt down. I couldn’t bear that I was losing her, and battled down tears.
‘Love you more, Rachel,’ she said, as I brushed my cheek with the back of my hand. ‘You’re not crying, are you?’
‘No, no, of course not,’ I said, breathing deeply.
‘Is this because Lawrence left you?’
I shook my head. How did she know? We stopped and stared at each other for several moments, her blue eyes shimmering. She took hold of my wrist, her hand freezing. And there it was, that look. I was losing her again. ‘There are things you should know about the past, Rachel,’ she said. ‘Before I go.’
‘Where are you going, Mum?’
‘Laura.’ Margo was dashing across the grass towards us, a little breathless. ‘It’s time for your heart tablets, love.’
To my frustration, Mum released her grip on my arm. ‘I don’t want to take them. They’re poison,’ she said, as Margo took her arm and led her away.
Our conversation was over for the day.
Chapter 6
February 2018
‘She said there are things I should know about my past,’ I said, as Angela and I sat next to each other on my sofa. I admit, I’d have preferred to be with Zoe, who I could rely on to pull me round and tell me I was daft to worry, but she was always so busy with work and her new romance with Connor – who was so cute she could eat him, apparently.
Angela’s eyes were fixed on mine. Her curiosity, or maybe the wine, made them sparkle. ‘What do you think she meant?’
I shrugged. ‘She gets confused,’ I said, stating the obvious.
‘I know, sweetie. It must be dreadful for you both.’ Angela leaned forward and filled our wine glasses for the third time, before handing me my glass. I wasn’t sure I wanted another. I certainly didn’t need a hangover tomorrow. But I took it anyway.
‘She isn’t herself at all,’ I said. Another obvious.
‘How much do you know about your past?’ she asked.
I shrugged again. ‘I was born in Ireland, County Sligo, but I can’t remember that far back. We moved to Suffolk when I was about four, I think.’
‘So, you’re Irish?’ she said, leaning forward, elbows on knees, as though the topic fascinated her.
‘Half Irish – although my father could have been Irish, I guess.’
‘You don’t know who he is?’
Angela had asked about my dad before, but I’d changed the subject. I hadn’t known her well enough at the time to discuss my personal life. She often pried into areas I wasn’t ready to share with her. In fact, she’d only lived next door a week when she brought round moussaka that I could pop into the oven, gas mark 5, and a bottle of wine. She’d seen Lawrence go out for the third time that week, and thought I’d be glad of the company. I’d invited her in, not wanting to hurt her feelings.
But despite her flaws, she’d become a good friend. A friend I relied on to look after Grace.
I shook my head. ‘I’ve asked my mother lots of times over the years who my father was, tried prodding her memory – but she’s always insisted he was a one-night stand, and she’d been too drunk to even remember his name.’
‘Do you know where in Sligo you lived as a child?’
I shook my head again.
‘Could you ask your grandparents?’
‘They died in a car accident before I was born. My mum was never close with them. And I have no other family.’
I tried to shake my mum’s comment from my head. I liked that my memories started in Suffolk, that they were such happy times spent with my mum. But now I felt my curiosity rise, drawn to Ireland – to Sligo.
‘You should find out more about your grandparents, at least. I’ve done a family tree, and it’s been fascinating discovering things I never knew.’
‘But they may not be relevant to what Mum said. I think I just need to talk to her next time I visit, wait for one of her more lucid moments, and ask her what she meant – before it’s too late.’
My mood was spiralling downwards, like a child on a helter-skelter. I needed to change the subject, and managed to pluck a smile from somewhere. ‘Anyway. Enough about me. How’s the dating going?’
‘Awful,’ she said, leaning back, and peering over her almost empty glass. She was drinking too fast – and I wasn’t far behind her. ‘I feel like a fool selling myself to strangers. And the bra and knickers stage scares me half to death.’
I laughed. ‘It’s not easy,’ I agreed. ‘Have you met anyone you like?’
She shrugged. ‘There was one bloke. But after a couple of dates he told me he was married. Separated, he insisted, but I couldn’t face being part of a love triangle. I’ve been there before.’
‘You have?’
‘Mmm.’ She nodded. ‘A long time ago.’
‘Was it serious?’ I said, clutching at the opportunity to find out more about her. For a person who was so inquisitive about my life, she’d given little away about her own.
She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘Anyway.’ Her eyes sprung open, and I knew the little insight into her past had ended. ‘There was another bloke I quite liked. He was a bit young though.’
I raised a brow. ‘How young exactly?’
‘Thirty – give or take a few years.’
‘Oh my God, Angela, you devil.’
‘I felt like his sugar mummy.’
I smiled. ‘Is there such a thing?’
She shook her head. ‘A panther then …’
‘Cougar.’
We burst into laughter, my mood lifting.
‘I think I’ll be alone forever,’ she said, fiddling with her earring as she drained her glass.
‘You and me both.’
‘But you will always have Grace.’ She unscrewed the lid of the third bottle, and filled our glasses.
‘Yes, Grace keeps me going,’ I said, rubbing my forehead with the tips of my fingers. ‘Although I worry about her, you know, how my breakup with Lawrence is affecting her. Nursery said she’s been a bit quiet lately, but they have no concerns.’
‘She loves you both very much, and you love her. She’ll be just fine.’
‘I hope so,’ I said, my mind drifting.
And as though sensing she was losing me, Angela put down the bottle, looped her arm around me, and pulled my head in to her shoulder. She smelt of Chanel No.5 – Mum’s favourite. ‘Is there anything else bothering you, Rachel?’ she said.
‘Just Mum.’ But in truth it was more than that. It was Lawrence. It was the fact I was letting the friend request from David Green blow out of proportion. And I’d definitely had far too much wine.
‘I’ll deactivate my Facebook account,’ I said. ‘Then the friend request can’t bother me any more. And the truth is I look at Lawrence’s timeline far too often. That can’t be healthy, especially as he seems to be having more fun than me – which isn’t that difficult.’
‘Do you miss him?’
I shrugged. Do I miss him? ‘I miss bits of him,’ I said. ‘The good bits.’ And there had been good bits. We had a beautiful daughter together. He would surprise me with flowers and a bottle of Prosecco, and lead me upstairs where we’d stay for hours. Yes, there’d been good times. Lots of them.
But there had been bad times too, and his voice suddenly hammered in my head: ‘You always over-react, Rachel.’ ‘The place is a pigsty.’ ‘You’re a mess.’ ‘Aren’t you getting a bit old for bright red hair?’ ‘Your mum isn’t going to improve, and you have to accept it, and just get on with it.’ ‘I’ll be late tonight.’ ‘I’ll be late tonight.’ ‘I’ll be late tonight.’
I grabbed my open laptop, thumped it down on my knees, and clicked into Facebook, determined to close my account. ‘Oh God, I’ve got another friend request,’ I cried, peering at the little symbol at the top of the screen.
‘Don’t look at it,’ Angela insisted, trying to pull the laptop from me.
I tugged it back. ‘No, no, I’m not going to.’ But I was already clicking on the symbol with shaking fingers.
Relief surged through my body, and I let out a small laugh.
‘Who’s it from?’ she said, looking over my shoulder at the screen.
‘You, you doughnut.’
She’d said a few weeks back that she was going to sign up, to stalk the men on the dating site, she’d joked. I gave another laugh as my heart, which I hadn’t realised was racing, slowed to an even beat.
‘Oh, yes, I forgot about that.’ She laughed too. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll use it that much. It took me all afternoon to work out how to set up a bloody profile.’
I accepted her friend request.
‘But I thought you were going to deactivate.’ Her forehead furrowed.
I shrugged, confused. ‘To be honest I feel a teeny bit pissed – not the best time to make such a life-changing decision.’ I giggled, picked up my glass, and drained it in two gulps, even though a nagging voice in my head was telling me not to.
Angela yawned and, stretching her arms above her head, glanced at the time on her phone.
‘Oh my God,’ I said, looking at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s gone midnight. I’ve kept you up.’
‘No problem,’ she said, rising. ‘It’s been fun. Better than a blind date any day.’
Five minutes later we hugged goodbye and, from my front door, I watched her stagger towards her house. Once she was safely inside, I closed and bolted my door, hating that I was alone – and hating even more that I hated being alone. I flumped down on the sofa, and picked up my phone, moving my index finger over the screen. Would Lawrence be up? Would he mind if I called? He’d said we could be friends.
I squeezed my hand into a fist. It was a ridiculous idea. If I called him after midnight he would be put out. He’d always told me he needed his beauty sleep if I ever woke him in the night desperate to talk about Mum.
I reached for the half-drunk bottle of red, unscrewed the lid, and refilled my glass. As I drank, I couldn’t expel Lawrence from my head. How happy we’d been in the early days. We’d met at an art exhibition I’d put on for Mum, in a small gallery in London. He’d bought a study of Lough Gill in Ireland.
‘It’s the lake mentioned by Yeats in his poetry,’ he’d said, locking me in with his grey gaze.
‘You like Yeats?’ I’d asked.
He’d nodded, and there was something about him that had captured my interest. Maybe it was simply because my mother had read Yeats and other romantic poetry to me when I was young.
I finished the wine and, my good sense heading out the door, brought up his number on my phone. I pressed call. It rang and rang, and I was expecting it go to voicemail when it was picked up. ‘Lawrence Templeman’s phone.’
It was a woman. American. Why has a woman picked up his phone after midnight?
‘Hello,’ she continued when I remained silent. ‘Is that you, Rachel?’
Damn you, caller-ID. ‘Sorry, yes, who is this?’
‘It’s Farrah.’ It was as though I should know exactly who she was. ‘Lawrence is asleep, I’m afraid. I heard his phone and, well …’ She paused. ‘Is everything OK? Is your mother OK?’
I bristled. Why had Lawrence told this woman, whoever she was, about my mum?
‘Is Grace OK?’ The sudden thought of a strange woman in the same house as my daughter angered me.
‘Yes, she’s been asleep since seven, bless her heart. She’s an absolute delight. You must be so proud.’
I wanted to yell that I was coming to get my daughter, and how dare Lawrence let her into Grace’s life without my permission? But I said nothing.
Farrah clearly picked up on my silence. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. Listen, I shouldn’t have called.’ My voice trembled, and I knew it carried a slur. ‘I’ll ring back in the morning.’ And before she could respond, I ended the call.
A surge of tears hit my eyes as my thumbs thumped the screen and I sent a text to Lawrence:
How dare you let someone new into Grace’s life without telling me!
Oh God, would Farrah read the text? I let out an exasperated wail, raced upstairs, chucked my phone onto the bedside unit, and threw myself onto the bed like a lovelorn teenager. The room spun.
Eventually sleep saved me from my chaotic emotions.
Later, I woke from a vivid nightmare, certain something had stirred me. I was thirsty, my head throbbed, and the quilt was tangled around me like a cocoon. I normally planted a glass of water on my bedside table if I’d been drinking, but in my silly stupor a few hours earlier, I’d forgotten. I was still in my clothes.
I lay for a few moments listening, but the only sounds were familiar creaks of the old building, and the distant rumble of a train. It was odd how when Grace wasn’t with me, I felt more insecure.
I untangled the quilt, sat up, and swung my legs round, stuffing my feet into my slippers. I needed water before my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.
Flicking on the bedside light, I picked up my phone: 3 a.m.
I thought again about Lawrence. Were there photos of Farrah on his Facebook timeline that I’d missed? I dragged my fingers through my hair, still feeling pretty pissed. Water could wait. I clicked into Facebook on my mobile.
It was then that I saw it – another friend request. My heart bounced around my chest.
Ronan Murphy: CONFIRM/DELETE REQUEST
I clicked on his profile. As before, he didn’t appear to have any friends. His profile picture was another view, a mountain this time – and I knew it was Benbulbin in Sligo. The cover picture was of a building that reminded me of a workhouse, and it had a sign outside that read ‘Glastons Insurance. Dublin’.
I scrolled down his timeline. Just one status update:
Ronan, Ronan is no good
Chop him up for firewood
But this time I noticed he’d sent me a message.
Chapter 7
September 1999
Incessant rain hammers against the window – a clap of thunder rings out. It doesn’t wake him.
One strike to his head, so he doesn’t fight back – but now he wakes, dazed – tries to speak – no words come out.
I plunge the knife deep into his flesh – once, twice, three times. The blood sprays and spurts like a bright red fountain, covering me – metallic on my lips.
He’s holding on to life – too young to die – refusing to let go, reaching up to me, eyes pleading. He thinks I’ll stop. Poor Ronan.
I lurch forward. The knife goes in one final time – deeper, and I twist, hearing his ribs crack.
They’ll know it’s me this time, but I don’t care.
Ronan Murphy deserves to die.
Chapter 8
March 1987
Kneeling in front of the loo, Laura buried her head in her hands, waiting for another wave of nausea to hit. It would soon pass, once the digestive biscuit she’d eaten on waking took effect.
She rose, padded to the sink, and splashed her face with cold water. This would be so much easier if Jude was with her – but he hadn’t replied to her calls. And she’d already stayed at her parents’ house longer than she’d envisaged, unable to find the strength to put it on the market and move on. For now the woods and lake felt different to when she was a lonely child. She liked the solitude. The isolation.
She’d received a couple of letters from acquaintances at university, asking if she was OK, was there anything they could do, but she hadn’t replied. Paralysed by the twin poles of grief – the loss of the parents who never loved her, and Jude not changing his mind – she found she couldn’t reach out them.
She headed down the stairs, tightening her robe, knowing her face was the colour of dough. She needed to shower, to clean her teeth, but first, some coffee.
Despite liking the quiet of the area, the house still felt far too big. Sometimes it was as though she was on display – an exhibit in a glass case. Why had her parents loved this house so much? Her father had said the window gave them a splendid view of the lake, and she supposed it did, but what about feeling vulnerable on the other side of the glass?
She drifted into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Should she try to get hold of Jude again? Was she beginning to act like a stalker? Never giving up when she knew, deep down, it was over.
She’d tried the number of his digs so many times, but either it went to answer machine, or his roommate answered and promised to pass on a message. But Jude had never got back to her. She’d even tried his parents’ house, but his father had picked up and told her with a bark to stop calling.
She made herself a mug of coffee – she’d gone off tea – and stood at the kitchen window sipping it. The kitchen looked out onto a lonely country road. It was a rarity to see a car pass by – it was too quiet at times, just as it had been when she was a child. She’d had no friends nearby back then, and travelled a fair distance to school by bus.
A postman appeared, cycling round the bend, and her heart almost lit up at the sight of another human being.
Maybe she should get herself a cat. At least she could speak to it, even if it didn’t answer – it was better than talking to herself, which seemed to be happening more and more.
