by Lucy Diamond
‘We’re all just bumbling along at the end of the day, aren’t we?’ said Em. ‘Sometimes getting it right, sometimes getting it wrong. But you’re doing your best, I’m sure.’
Olivia hung her head. ‘I just . . . I mean, I do try, I really do, but it never seems to be good enough.’ A tear rolled down her cheek and dropped to the ground. ‘Thank you,’ she said in a tiny voice as Maggie reached into her cardigan pocket and pulled out a small packet of tissues, passing them over. ‘I’m not sure why I’m telling you all of this – sorry, I’m totally killing the ladies-night mood.’
‘Don’t be silly!’ Em cried.
‘Not at all,’ Maggie agreed. Then she hesitated. ‘So when you say you ran away . . .’
‘That’s what I did,’ Olivia said dully. ‘Just flipped out. Couldn’t cope. Dropped the boys off with a neighbour – I have three-year-old twins – and got in the car. Total impulse decision. What kind of a mother does that?’
‘We’ve all thought it, I bet,’ Em said, reaching out and putting a hand on Olivia’s. ‘I know I’ve had those moments where I haven’t been able to manage. Plenty of them. It’s hard – and I didn’t even have twins.’
Maggie felt sorry for Olivia too. There was something so young-seeming about her, so vulnerable. ‘Do you have much help at home?’ she asked. ‘Family nearby or friends you can lean on?’
‘Not really,’ Olivia replied. ‘My mum walked out when I was young – she’s dead now – and my husband works stupidly long hours. My dad and brother are great, but they both live miles away, I hardly ever see them. As for my in-laws . . . they think my place is in the home with the boys, and that childcare for under-fives means you’re a bad mother.’
‘Harsh,’ said Em indignantly.
‘What century are they living in?’ cried Maggie.
Olivia blew her nose. ‘I really wanted to be good at it, you know? Because of . . .’ She broke off, looking agonized. ‘I really wanted to be this great mum. I tried so hard to do it all myself. But I just can’t.’
Em got off her chair to put her arm around Olivia, and Maggie felt a pang for her too. ‘Sorry to hear about your mum,’ she said, remembering how much she’d always leaned on her own parents, especially in the early years. ‘That must have been so hard.’
‘I’ve always felt a bit . . . inadequate, with her leaving like that, out of the blue,’ Olivia gulped. ‘As if it was my fault, as if I somehow wasn’t enough for her to stay.’
‘Oh, love,’ Em said. ‘On a rational level, you must know yourself that isn’t true, but . . .’
‘It’s always been like a hole in me. A hole I tried to fill up with boyfriends and work and friends.’ Olivia wiped her eyes. ‘And then I hoped my own children would stop up the gap. That I could somehow prove something by being this great mother myself. Except I’ve failed at that, too. I’ve failed at all of it.’
‘It does get easier,’ Em said. ‘Those early years are gruelling, but I promise it gets easier. They sleep, for one thing. And dress themselves. And go to school for long periods of time . . .’
‘Lack of sleep is the worst,’ Maggie added with feeling. ‘It’s a form of torture. But you have to keep reminding yourself that it won’t be like that forever – it’s not a life sentence. None of it is.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Now it’s an effort to drag Amelia out of bed before midday at weekends and holidays. It’s all just a phase.’
‘Exactly,’ Em agreed. ‘And there are millions of women who understand what you’re going through and sympathize. We do, for starters, and I bet everyone at toddler groups or wherever you go – they’ll have felt the same way too, even if they’ve slapped on a brave face for the day. No one’s going to judge you for finding it tough. It is tough.’
‘Your GP can help,’ Maggie put in. She looked at her hands for a moment, remembering the strain she had experienced being alone in the early years. ‘I felt pretty low myself when Amelia was tiny. I’m not sure if it was full-blown Post-Natal Depression or what, but my doctor was amazing. Even telling her about it made me feel better. More able to cope.’
‘Yes, and your husband should help, and all,’ Em agreed. ‘How come he’s not pulling his weight?’
‘He does – in his own way,’ Olivia replied, then wrinkled her nose. ‘But “his way”, admittedly, is having an amazing career and bringing home the bacon. He doesn’t really experience the day-to-day grind.’ She gave a sudden snort. ‘Mind you, he’s been doing that this week, at least. I’ve had a lot of messages asking how to cook shepherd’s pie so that the boys will actually eat it, and where the laundry powder is, and are the boys really allowed ice-cream every day . . . So I suppose he’ll have a better idea of what it’s been like for me, the last three years.’
‘Good,’ said Em. ‘And once you’re home again, hopefully he – and they – will appreciate you more for your absence too. For what it’s worth, I don’t think you sound like a rubbish mum at all, by the way. You cook your kids shepherd’s pie and wash their clothes and lay down rules about ice-cream . . . That all seems pretty good to me. Not a failure at all.’ She gave Olivia a last squeeze, then sat back down. ‘I’m sorry you’re going through this though. Really sorry. But there are people out there who can help you.’
Olivia dabbed at her eyes and gave them both a watery smile. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I know running away isn’t the answer – your troubles just come with you, don’t they? – but it’s been good to have a break, even in these weird circumstances. Step out of my ordinary life and have some thinking space.’
‘Yes,’ said Maggie. ‘Thinking space is always a bonus.’
‘And hey,’ said Em, ‘a holiday without your family . . . I’m starting to think that might be the best kind of holiday of all. You might just be starting a trend here, Olivia.’
Olivia laughed, and the conversation took a much more upbeat tone. They moved on to funny parenting stories and most embarrassing moments and terrible teenage hairstyles. Somehow the hours just slipped by. Em made everyone a round of fried-egg sandwiches when they became peckish, and Maggie brought out mugs of hot chocolate sometime after that. Despite some of the more harrowing parts of the conversation, Maggie realized that she was enjoying herself enormously. She didn’t really have girlfriends like this at home. It had been surprisingly lovely to talk so openly to the other two, to get things off her chest and to feel validated and supported in return. Chances were the three of them wouldn’t see each other again, once they were back in their ordinary lives – Em was in Cheltenham and Olivia in Bristol – but that just lent the evening an extra frisson of liberation; they could truly be honest, let off some real steam.
That said, it was getting very late now and Maggie was starting to think about her bed.
‘This has been such a strange holiday,’ she said, smothering a yawn. Strange but unexpectedly cheering in a lot of ways, she thought. She felt a different person, with her new haircut and attitude and, for the first time in years, the future felt . . . interesting. In two days she would pick up Amelia. In two weeks she would go on her date with Paul. She was going to be a better, bolder Maggie and there was plenty to look forward to.
‘You’re telling me,’ said Em, with slightly less positivity. She had sunk lower beneath her duvet in the last half an hour, as if she was ready to sleep too.
Silence fell, except for the faint glugging of the water in the swimming-pool filter and the soft bumps of the inflatable flamingo against the metal steps as it cruised in slow, blind circles.
Maggie was just about to suggest they called it a night when Olivia spoke. ‘I might regret this tomorrow,’ she said hesitantly, ‘but I was wondering . . . can I tell you guys a secret? Like – something really big?’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It was the following morning and Olivia was packing up her belongings, feeling apprehensive. She had spent the last twenty years, pretty much, feeling weighed down by the past, dogged by the shadows. Maybe it went even further back to
when her mum had disappeared and the colour had bleached out of her world. So what had changed today? On the face of it, nothing, apart from her hangover. She had woken up that morning the exact same person she had been the night before: the same combination of cells and nerves and muscles, the same history and memories and experience. Messy blonde hair that needed cutting, extra pounds lurking around the middle – yes, all still there. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had.
She sprayed perfume on her neck and breathed in the sweet scent. ‘For the first few years after my kids were born, I did nothing for myself,’ Em had said last night. ‘I didn’t wear make-up or perfume or jewellery, I didn’t care about my clothes. Sometimes it felt an effort just to brush my hair. But I’ve got to say, I always felt better whenever I did bother with any of those things, however small. If I put on some lipstick or a necklace, if I made it out to the hairdresser’s or rang a friend to chat . . . You’d be surprised, you know, how much of an effect these tiny, tiny things can have. Don’t underestimate them, because they make all the difference sometimes.’
Olivia put on some mascara and eyed her reflection. She was going to try Em’s advice, she had decided. Make time for one little thing for herself every day – as well as some bigger things too, like catching up with her friends and her brother. Going swimming or out for a jog on her own, just to clear her head: positive actions that she knew would make her feel good, like Olivia again. She just had to make the effort, find the time, that was all. But she would. She was determined.
Last night, with Em and Maggie, had been lovely – such a relief to step out of the confines of her own worried head for a change. Talking to near-strangers had been like having a sounding board for her feelings. She had poured out her heart and neither of them had flinched or backed away, instead offering her support and kindness, just as Lorna had previously. Women to the rescue, Em had joked, but that was how it felt. Being listened to, being heard, had made her feel brave. Brave enough to spill out her secret at the end of the night. He was called Leon, she’d said, words she’d only ever spoken to Mack.
They had hugged her and assured her she was doing the right thing in telling Lorna and Roy. They had said, You mustn’t blame yourself and You were so young, give yourself a break. She’d only been a few years older than their daughters, they’d reminded her. Would she be so hard on them, so judgemental?
She glanced down at the envelope that lay on the bed, the letter that had been so hard to write. Remembering Lorna’s anguished face when they’d met at Aidan’s grave, Olivia found herself wavering all over again. Handing over the letter was going to mean emotional upheaval for both of them. The landscape would shift and buckle, everything would change and it would not be easy. Once you threw a stone into water, you couldn’t stop the ripples.
Rolling her new swimming costume into a ball, she tucked it into her bag, still considering. Lorna and Roy had been so kind, letting her stay here in her hour of need. Incredibly kind. The last thing she wanted to do was upset them. But didn’t she owe it to them, too, to tell them the truth?
Having zipped the case shut, she heaved it downstairs and left it by the front door. Then she stripped the bedding, gathered it up with the towels she’d used and bundled the lot into the washing machine before setting it churning. She washed her breakfast things and stacked them neatly in the drying rack, bagged up her rubbish ready to go and then checked over the cottage one last time. Her heart was thumping suddenly at the prospect of what lay ahead, and she found herself sinking unsteadily into the armchair, struck by a queasy rush of nerves. Not only did she have to say her piece to Lorna, but after that she planned to drive somewhere quiet where she could phone Mack and talk to him, really talk, about where the two of them went from here. After that, she supposed she would have to go home and face the music. Hoping that it didn’t completely deafen her.
Em’s words came back to her – Olivia, you’re totally going to sort everything out and move on to happy times again – and she found herself recalling how she’d lain in bed the night before, thinking, Yes. Yes, it’s time to sort everything out, once and for all. Because she really did want to move out of the shadows at last and find those happy times.
She stood up, striding quickly towards the door before she could change her mind.
The wind was getting up, the trees rattling their branches threateningly as Olivia put her belongings in the car and then walked the short distance to Lorna and Roy’s farmhouse. It was a lovely old stone building: double-fronted with a shingled roof. A cat snoozed on an upstairs windowsill, oblivious to the birds that whistled and cheeped in the hedgerow. It looked the sort of house where nothing bad could ever happen. How ironic, she thought, knocking on the door.
Lorna answered, wearing a faded blue apron with a dusting of flour on the front and her sleeves rolled up: the image of contented domesticity. At the sight of Olivia standing there, her face creased with a smile. ‘Come in, love. Roy’s just putting the kettle on, aren’t you, Roy? Roy! Put the kettle on, Olivia’s popped round.’
Something folded in Olivia’s heart, but then she forced herself to toughen up. She had to do this. ‘Um . . . thanks, but I won’t stop,’ she said. If she ventured into Lorna’s sunny kitchen, no doubt with warm jam tarts from the oven cooling on a tray and a teapot with a brightly knitted cosy, she would never be able to steel herself and do what she intended. ‘I’m actually leaving. Heading off to sort everything out and . . .’ She shrugged self-consciously. ‘You know, try and be a proper grown-up.’
‘Good for you,’ said Lorna. Her small gold earrings gleamed in the light as she nodded approvingly. ‘I’m really glad. I hope everything works out.’
Olivia gave her a small smile – so do I – but could feel her hands trembling by her sides and knotted them together in a clammy tangle. Here we go. ‘Before I leave, I just wanted to thank you and Roy, so much, for everything,’ she went on. ‘For taking me in like that when I was at rock-bottom. You are just the best, both of you. Aidan was really lucky to have you.’
Lorna’s eyes glistened at the mention of his name. ‘And I want to thank you,’ she replied warmly. ‘For bringing him back to us with your stories. Honestly, it has been the best gift hearing your memories, I can’t tell you. Any time you want to stay with us, you’re more than welcome. Bring the family next time, I’d love to meet them.’
‘Thank you,’ said Olivia, her stomach twisting. She wasn’t sure Lorna would be saying that any more once she’d read the letter. ‘Um,’ she said, still undecided even now. Then she pulled the envelope from her handbag and held it out. You could almost hear it ticking like a bomb. ‘Here,’ she said, her voice wavering. No going back now. ‘This is for you. Please don’t open it until I’m gone,’ she added, hoping she wasn’t making a terrible mistake. Lorna looked at her, eyes questioning, and Olivia shoved it into her hand. ‘There was a baby,’ she blurted out and then walked quickly away.
Olivia’s body must have known what to do even if her mind was blanking on her, like a dying light bulb, because somehow or other it got her into the car and then she was driving off, gripping the wheel as nausea rose inside, too fearful to look back in case Lorna was already racing after her, shaking a fist, having been unable to wait to read the letter.
She would never tell Lorna and Roy what had happened just before Aidan had died; the cruel things she had said to him. No way. How could she do that to them and break their hearts all over again, knowing that his last thought, his last emotion, had been one of devastation at her betrayal? No, she would have to live with the guilt of her worst secret alone, and it would be only what she deserved.
As for her other secret . . . it had become impossible to keep back any longer. Having so much time to herself, seeing Lorna and Roy again, revisiting her teenage hangouts – it was no wonder that her first pregnancy and birth had come pushing to the surface. She’d even blurted the story out to Em and Maggie the night before – Can I tell you guys a secret? Like –
something really big? – and then out it had come, albeit a pared-down version, with scant details around the event. His dad was dead, I was all alone, she had confessed, the words bursting out of her, and the other women had ended up soothing and comforting her as if she were a child herself.
And now Lorna and Roy knew too, presumably. There was a baby: all eight pounds and eight ounces of the secret that she had suppressed for nineteen years. He was born in Dorset on April the fourth, 1999, she had written:
He had blue eyes and dark hair like Aidan and roared like a lion as he met the world. But I couldn’t keep him. I gave him away to be adopted. I’m sorry that I never told you before now. For a long, long time I put him out of my mind and tried to start a new chapter. But you and Roy deserve to know that you have a grandson out there. A little piece of Aidan. I hope you don’t hate me too much.
The countryside was flashing by on either side of her as she sped along the road, putting mile upon mile between her and the letter. She imagined Lorna’s cry of shock, a tear perhaps dropping onto that floury apron-front as she read Olivia’s confession. She pictured Roy’s sudden anger, their shared hurt and bewilderment – how could she have kept this from us? How could she have given our grandchild away?
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she groaned aloud. The rushing noise she could hear wasn’t the wind battering against the car, but Fate, she thought, hurrying to catch up with her. An old ghost breathing down her neck.
Meanwhile the ripples would already be spreading outwards. The secret, finally freed, would be covering ground like wildfire. Lorna and Roy would want to track him down, she was certain, and then it would only be a matter of time before her name was mentioned too. Would he want to see her, or would he loathe her for what she had done?
It was hard to concentrate on anything, let alone driving, with such huge thoughts crowding her head and, seeing a lay-by, Olivia indicated and pulled over, her breath coming in gulps as she hauled up the handbrake. Calm down. It’s all right. You’re okay, she reminded herself, but the past was filling her up like smoke all of a sudden, and she could no longer block it out.
