Never Leaves Me

by C J Morrow

  Robin had proposed to me on my birthday. He’d cooked me the most amazing meal – I had no idea he was such a good cook – then got down on one knee and presented me with the ring.

  ‘A single solitaire, for the most important girl in the world. Please be my wife.’

  I was elated. I was ecstatic. We agreed we’d have the wedding as soon as we could. We didn’t want anything elaborate. Robin had just moved to a new school – away from Dad’s – so the best time would be the beginning of the Christmas holidays. We’d have two weeks to fit in our honeymoon then.

  Of course, Mum wasn’t happy about such a short engagement. There was no time to plan. How would I get a dress, the reception venue, the invitations out, in four months?

  I didn’t care about any of that; I just wanted to be Robin’s wife.

  We married in the registry office, had the reception in one of the function rooms at The Marriot – one of the smaller ones. It was lovely. There weren’t many of us.

  ‘Where’s Robin’s family?’ The suspicion was evident in Mum’s eyes.

  ‘His mum lives in Brazil, his dad’s dead, he was an only child.’ I’d told her this several times before. Why she had to keep asking, I don’t know.

  Robin hadn’t had a best man.

  ‘I don’t hold with all that,’ he said.

  Mads was my bridesmaid, she looked lovely in her long, pink dress, prancing around with a basket of rose petals.

  ‘Save them for outside,’ Mum had snapped, several times.

  ‘I’m a fairy princess, spreading love and joy to all the world.’ I don’t know where she’d got that from, but it made me and Robin smile.

  Despite Mum’s concerns I’d managed to get a dress, a bargain from Monsoon’s wedding department. One of the advantages of being small – I had dropped down below a size eight by then – was that there was always something in the sales for me. It was ivory, lacy and floaty. I wore a little fur shrug over it.

  ‘You look like a fairy queen,’ Mads had said. I felt like one too.

  Dad bought a new suit to give me away. Mum wore a dress and coat she’d bought in America the year before, she looked elegant but her face never cracked a smile all day. Robin looked like a male model in his Italian designer suit. My heart raced when I saw him.

  Mads hadn’t quite realised that once I was married to Robin I wouldn’t be sleeping in the room next to hers; that she wouldn’t be able to climb into bed with me in the mornings before school. She cried every time I saw her for weeks. I felt mean. Robin said she could come and stay with us at weekends, he would even let her get into bed with us if it made her happy.

  Mum and Dad said no.

  Mum’s talking in the distance; she’s brought Sally with her again. I can understand why. She needs all the support she can take to cope with me after Dad’s revelation last night.

  Mum won’t ever forgive me for killing Mads.

  I won’t ever forgive me for killing Mads.

  I’m crying as they approach my bed. Yes, I feel sorry for myself. And guilty. Is it murder? Will the police be interviewing me when I’m well enough? Of course, they will. But what can I tell them?

  I owe it to Mads to remember.

  Dad said there was no other car involved. Does that mean I hit something else? The kerb? Swerved to avoid an animal? Another person? I must remember. For Mads, I must remember.

  Have they had her funeral yet? Or are they waiting for me? It’s weeks. If they haven’t already had it, it must be soon. Can I go in a wheelchair?

  Will Mum and Dad want me there?

  When I was hanging upside down in my car, the seatbelt crushing my lungs, was Mads hanging upside down beside me?

  A sudden horrible thought hits me.

  Did Mads die instantly or did she hang there, the life ebbing out of her while I did nothing?

  Or, did she survive like I did? Was she brought in here with me? Has she only just died? So many questions and no answers.

  Why did she die?

  Why didn’t I?

  ‘Why?’ I mutter.

  ‘Sometimes we just have to accept the way things are,’ Robin whispers in my ear.

  He always says that. He said that after we married when he fell out with Mum after an argument. It had been a long time coming – the confrontation. At least she saved it until we came back from honeymoon.

  We were at Mum and Dad’s showing them our photos – the official wedding ones, and from our honeymoon. Robin and I sat on the sofa, Mads squeezed in between us, Dad next to me. Mum hovered in the background, jumpy and pinch-faced.

  We went through all the pictures; Mads pointing herself and me out on every one. ‘Fairy princess. Fairy princess. Fairy Queen. Fairy princess.’ Robin swiped her hand away to prevent her from marking the photos.

  ‘Ouch,’ Mads yelled, like five-year-olds do.

  ‘Don’t slap her.’ Mum stood up.

  ‘She was marking the pictures, Mum.’

  ‘Trust you to jump to his defence.’ She glared at me. ‘Get away from them, Madeleine. Come on. It’s time you got ready for bed.’

  Mads whinged but did as she was told. Mum disappeared for twenty minutes, during which time we went through the photos twice with Dad, all of us feeling uneasy. All the while I wondered how soon we could leave without it looking like we were sulking.

  Mum came back, she didn’t look any happier.

  She sat in the armchair opposite us. She glanced at Dad. I saw him give a little nod.

  ‘You ruined our Christmas.’ She was speaking to Robin. ‘Taking our daughter away. Taking her away from her little sister. Ruined it.’

  ‘Mum, that’s not fair. We were on our honeymoon.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking to you.’ Mum shot me a look of contempt before picking up where she’d left off with Robin. ‘You knew what you were doing. Taking her away from us.’

  I expected Robin to round on her, to give as good as he got. But he didn’t. He looked at me, at Dad, at Mum, pushed the photos back into their boxes, glanced up at the clock on the wall.

  ‘I think it’s time we went.’ He stood up.

  ‘Yes, run off,’ she said. God, she looked old and bitter.

  I stood up. Dad stood up. Mum stood up. We all shuffled out to the hallway and Robin and I struggled into our coats in the confined space.

  ‘Bye.’ I kissed Dad on the cheek.

  Mum turned away as I approached her.

  Robin opened the front door, took my arm and pulled me with him. He was outside, I was still inside when I spoke.

  ‘Why don’t you like him, Mum?’

  ‘Can’t put my finger on it. Just don’t.’ Her mouth was a mean, thin line.

  ‘Come on.’ Robin yanked me through the door; Mum slammed it behind us.

  I cried all the way home. Robin slammed the gears all the way home – he was driving; I had only just passed my test and he declared that I was too upset to drive.

  ‘Sometimes we just have to accept the way things are,’ he said, once we were indoors.

  We didn’t even discuss it, even though I tried.

  I rang home the next day, it was a Sunday, Dad answered. He sounded sad and embarrassed.

  ‘Why is Mum so against Robin?’ I ask him.

  ‘I think that’s something you should ask your mum.’

  ‘Can you get her please?’

  The phone went quiet, then he was back.

  ‘She’s a bit busy.’

  ‘She won’t speak to me, will she?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘Can I speak to Mads, then?’

  ‘No. Your mum says it upsets her too much. She thinks you’re coming back.’

  ‘Oh.’ I wasn’t even allowed to talk to Mads on the phone now.

  ‘Your mum did say that you can pop round for tea one evening this week.’

  ‘Cool. What day?’ This, at least was progress.

  ‘Whenever suits you.’

  ‘I’ll check with Robin.’


  ‘No, Robin’s not invited, just you.’

  ‘Oh.’ I felt a lump in my throat. ‘That’s mean, Dad.’

  ‘What day do you want to come?’ He wasn’t going to be drawn.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to come without Robin.’

  ‘Well, the offer’s there.’ He sighed. Mum had made this decision and put him in the horrible position of being the go-between. ‘It’s up to you.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Then he pulled the killer punch. ‘Mads would love it. She’s really missing you.’

  I had to swallow hard not to cry.

  ‘I’ll let you know if I’m coming.’

  ‘Bye, love.’ Dad put the phone down before I could even say goodbye.

  When I told Robin, I expected him to criticise them, to join in with me as I ranted and raved and declared that they were being unreasonable and mean. Especially Mum.

  He didn’t. He just hugged me until I had cried out my frustration.

  ‘I don’t know why Mum has taken so against you, and all of sudden too.’

  He shrugged. He didn’t seem to be bothered at all.

  ‘Don’t worry. Go on Tuesday, I’m tutoring a new pupil at their house that night so you can pick me up on your way home. About nine.’

  The pattern was set. I went to my parents for tea every Tuesday on my own. I picked Robin up at nine. Sometimes I went twice in the same week. When we moved house and Robin had his own study, the students usually came to him, so I didn’t need to pick him up so often, but occasionally he still tutored in a student’s home.

  Mads was allowed to stay up an extra half-an-hour on the evenings I visited, and we went on like that for years. And over those years, although Mum’s attitude towards Robin mellowed, she never explained why she felt the way she did and he never came with me.

  After we moved to our bigger house, Mum, Dad and Mads came over for lunch one Sunday. It was a bit awkward, but I’d invited them and I think Dad had convinced Mum that they had to come. I’d cooked roast pork, apple sauce and all the trimmings and even Mum said it was excellent. Robin had offered to cook, but I wouldn’t let him.

  It was only as we were sat around the dining table – brand new from John Lewis, expensive, but we could afford it now I was a chartered accountant – that I realised Mum and Dad had never been to our other house; Robin’s two-up-two-down. Never. I didn’t make that observation out loud.

  After lunch, when everyone was food drowsy in the lounge, Dad dozed off and Robin disappeared into his study; Mum, Mads and I went through the wedding photos – the first time since that fateful evening years before.

  Mum selected a few photos, we’d never got round to putting them in an album. There was one of me and Dad, several of Mads and me, one of the four of us; Robin wasn’t in any of them. The next time I visited they were in a lovely frame taking pride of place next to the TV. Mum saw me notice them; neither of us commented.

  Mads was about twelve by then and didn’t look like the fairy princess anymore, though she’d giggled at herself when we’d looked through the photos. I didn’t look like the fairy queen either. I’d put weight on – according to Robin, too much. When I’d refused pudding at Mum and Dad’s one week, saying I needed to lose weight, Mum had frowned and asked why.

  ‘Robin says I’m much bigger than I was when we got married.’ I’d laughed, though it did irk me; I didn’t feel fat.

  ‘Of course you are. You’re a grown woman now, you were a child when you got married.’

  ‘I was eighteen, Mum.’

  ‘Yes, a child.’ Mum raised her eyebrows and pushed the pudding towards me, it was Summer Pudding, my favourite. I picked up my spoon; I couldn’t resist.

  ‘Don’t tell Robin.’

  ‘As if,’ Mum muttered to herself.

  ‘He isn’t any fatter, you know. He can still get his wedding suit on.’

  ‘I’m sure he can. But he wasn’t a child when he got married, was he? He was a man.’ The way mum said those words truly showed her feelings. That was the crux of her animosity towards Robin; he was a child-stealer. And I had been the child. Mum’s child.

  Dad and Mads had sat silently throughout our conversation, watching us like a tennis match. I shut up then and ate my pudding.

  I’m crying when Mum and Sally reach me.

  ‘Darling, don’t cry.’ Mum dabs at my eyes but I can stop.

  ‘Mads. I killed Mads.’

  ‘What?’ Mum is audibly shocked.

  ‘In the car. I killed her. In the accident.’

  Mum doesn’t say anything. The chair scrapes against the floor, Mum flops down into it.

  ‘Juliette, listen.’ It’s Sally’s voice. ‘Madeleine was already dead when you had your accident.’

  That doesn’t make any sense. ‘Then what was she doing in the car?’ I wail. None of it makes any sense.

  ‘She wasn’t in the car. She was already dead. You were on your way back from her funeral when you had your accident.’

  Funeral? Funeral? I don’t remember that. I don’t remember anything. My brain isn’t working properly, nothing works.

  ‘Funeral?’ My tiny voice says.

  I hear Mum sniff. This is obviously too painful for her.

  And for me.

  Just as well Sally is here.

  ‘We were at the crematorium, you know how far out of town that is. It was raining and you, for some reason, decided that you didn’t want to go in the funeral car with your mum and dad.’

  Did I? Why would I do that? Why would I leave my parents on their own?

  ‘You drove. It was raining. Visibility was bad, the roads were slippery….’ Her voice trails away.

  I desperately try to remember, searching my brain for a clue, but I have not one recollection of that day. Hardly surprising, since I didn’t even know Mads was dead. Just that thought, that Mads is gone forever, sets me off again.

  ‘It was a lovely service,’ Sally is trying so hard to soften the blow. ‘Very well attended, all her friends from school came, the crem was packed out. And they all did as you suggested and wore bright clothes, because Madeleine would have liked that.’

  That’s true, she would.

  ‘What was I wearing?’

  ‘Um,’ Sally stalls, pretending she has forgotten.

  ‘Was it a black coat with great, big buttons? Too tight?’

  I hear Mum gasp.

  ‘I think it might have been.’

  Why the hell was I wearing that if I’d told everyone to wear bright colours?

  ‘Did everyone wear bright colours? Did you? Did Mum and Dad.’

  Mum blows her nose.

  Sally’s answer is almost whispered. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was I the only one?’

  ‘Well, you and your husband.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Mum says, patting my hand.

  I have a fleeting image of the crem, there are coloured balloons, a basket weave coffin.

  ‘Balloons?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sally’s tone is a bit brighter now. ‘Do you remember?’

  ‘Music. I remember music, her favourite band.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Mum is joining in, encouraging.

  It seems wrong that we should be pleased I can remember something, when that something is my little sister’s funeral.

  ‘Dad did a reading. So did I.’

  ‘Yes. You do remember.’

  ‘We sat in the front row, Mum and Dad, me and Robin.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Sally, you sat behind us.’

  ‘Yes, with my son, Stephen.’

  ‘Stephen. Yes.’

  The memory of the funeral, such as it is, fades away as I remember Stephen, the boy next door.

  The boy I played with in the back garden, sharing paddling pools in summer, snowmen in winter. We went to school together. Although he was almost a year older than me, his birthday in September, mine in August, we were in the same school year. He looked after me, held my ha
nd and stuck up for me in the playground. He was the big brother I never had.

  All through primary school, right up until he was eleven and I was ten, we were inseparable, unless he wanted to play football and I wanted to play Barbies.

  I remember the Easter when everything changed. Stephen’s dad left; on Good Friday morning. He packed his bag and said he was going, said he needed space. Sally never saw it coming or understood why, not then anyway. Later she discovered he had found someone else, someone new, someone younger. But he denied it to start off with, just said he needed some time to himself. It’s not you it’s me, he’d said.

  By summer he was living on the Isle of Man, had started divorce proceedings and insisted that Stephen fly over to spend time with him. After that all Stephen’s summers were spent on the Isle of Man.

  Sally had to increase her hours at work, though her husband had, very generously he said, given her the house in a full-and-final settlement. Naively, she had accepted his offer.

  We went to different senior schools after he came back, his dad having insisted on choosing not the local one, but one that required a long bus ride. We hardly saw each other after that, we both had new friends, new interests. Then Mads came along, more than filling the void Stephen had left.

  Good of him to come to Mads’s funeral, he hardly knew her.

  ‘Stephen,’ I muse out loud.

  ‘Yes.’ Sally says. ‘He’d like to come and visit you.’

  ‘Why?’

  There’s a pause. ‘You were friends.’

  As teenagers I remember animosity, especially when Robin came into my life.

  ‘A long time ago.’ I don’t want strangers gawping at me now.

  ‘That’s all right.’ Sally sounds disappointed. ‘I’ll tell him you’re not ready for visitors just yet.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Everyone all right?’ Sue appears. ‘Time for a few checks and a move, Juliette.’

  ‘Is it that time already?’ Mum scrapes her chair on the floor. ‘Well, we’d better be getting home. Tea to cook.’ She’s hardly said a word and she wants to go. I don’t blame her. One daughter dead, the other nearly dead. Poor Mum.

  ‘Is Dad coming later?’