The Hidden Girls

by Rebecca Whitney

  ‘No one will mind if you get your essay in a bit late,’ Frieda says, leaning through the front passenger door to put her bag on the floor. ‘Especially if you explain where you’ve been today.’

  ‘I don’t want the other students to think I’m a snowflake.’

  ‘What?’ Ruth’s voice is shrill and Bess startles awake for a second before dropping instantly back into sleep. Ruth says, more quietly, ‘You take all the time you need, no one has the right to judge you. Where did you even hear that? Has someone said it to you?’

  ‘No, it was on TV. Penny likes Question Time. We watch it together.’

  ‘Huh.’ Ruth nods, puts her seat belt on. ‘Preferable to EastEnders for an insight into British culture, perhaps?’

  ‘We watch that as well.’

  Ruth and Frieda laugh, and Ruth says, ‘Well, between the two programmes, you’ve got everything you need to know.’ She leans over her seat to straighten Bess’s coat that’s rucked up under her seat buckle. Bess doesn’t stir. ‘What time do you need to leave, Frieda?’

  ‘I’ve got a couple of hours until my bus.’ Frieda hangs on to the sides of the door as she begins to lower herself into the passenger seat, her colourful sleeves billowing, grey hair longer and wilder than ever – a totally unedited version of the woman Ruth first met – the sight of which had prompted startled glances from some of the more conservative mourners. ‘I have to feed the cat and give her her medicine before I go out, so there’ll be plenty of time for me to do that now.’

  ‘You’re going out?’ Leila says. ‘But it will be late. And it’s cold.’

  ‘It’s OK, hen.’ Frieda’s breath wheezes in her chest. Ruth reaches out to help her sit, but Frieda bats her away. ‘I’m only meeting a friend at the pub. I’ll make sure she gives me a lift home.’

  The woman gives her weight to the seat and her eyes connect momentarily with Ruth’s. Ruth looks at her lap; there’ll be no talking Frieda out of her plans and it would cut Ruth deep inside to help in any way. Frieda’s getting a bus to the station as she does every month, then a train to a B & B close enough for visiting hours tomorrow – the nearest prison with space at a mother-and-baby unit was outside London. ‘The rest of Sandra’s lot have washed their hands of her,’ Frieda said when Ruth first found out she was visiting. ‘So I’m the only family Ian’s got.’ ‘But Sandra?’ Ruth asked. ‘How can you bear to be near her?’ Frieda shook her head gently. ‘She’s sucking up to me now, like everything that happened between me and her was all in my imagination, but only because she thinks I might help her case, give her some kind of character reference, as if that could stop her losing her son.’ The old anger fizzed-up in Ruth at this talk of her ex-friend. Frieda continued, ‘It’s a miracle she’s persuaded them to let her keep Ian with her this long, but then you know Sandra, she’s got them dancing her dance. I’m on to her, though, have been all along. As soon as Ian’s eighteen months and the foster carers take over, she’ll no’ see me for dust.’

  Ruth’s sure Frieda visits Liam too, although she’s never told Ruth directly. ‘I love him,’ was all Frieda said after he was first arrested. ‘I can’t help it. Somewhere along the line I must have done something to make him turn out like this.’ Frieda’s earlier paranoia about involving the police had been tied into protecting her son, but she hadn’t fully grasped the seriousness of what he was involved in then, and neither did she know about Farah. None of them did. Things would have been very different if she had. Ruth senses now that it’s deep guilt rather than bloody-mindedness that keeps Frieda secretive about her son. Ruth can’t judge her friend, though, because if it came to Bess, Ruth would be blind to her daughter’s faults too, would do everything in her power to keep Bess safe and close. And keep her free.

  But Ruth can judge Liam and Sandra all she likes, Sandra the most of all.

  Liam’s defence is that Farah’s death was a terrible accident, a struggle that got out of hand and he panicked; he’s taking all the blame, still bowing to Princess Sandra who disguises herself behind vehement denial, gaslighting the lot of them to the point where even the prosecution are questioning if it’s her in the photos. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you knew Liam was Ray, was Rainbow?’ Ruth asked Leila after the girl was first rescued, and Leila shrugged as she replied, ‘I thought he was your friend. Frieda said Ray’s wife could make you believe anything she said.’ When the case finally goes to court, Ruth will be at the front of the public gallery for Leila’s testimony, waiting for the drop in Sandra’s face when her story comes crashing down. Leila told Ruth that when she’d been trapped at Liam’s, Sandra was the one egging him on, threatening to do to Leila what they’d done to Farah if Leila didn’t go back to work. ‘She called me faulty product,’ Leila said. ‘Plenty more where me and Farah come from.’ Ruth doesn’t doubt it, knows first-hand the dark, manipulative heart under Sandra’s airy exterior. After the arrests, the police downloaded the log from Sandra’s phone and found a stream of calls to Ruth’s number. All Sandra had to do was turn off her caller ID and pretend to be a voice from beyond the grave, so that Ruth doubted everything she heard and saw. It’s Tam. How dare Sandra use Tam’s death to chip away at Ruth’s sanity?

  And all the while, Sandra was reining Ruth in by playing on her loneliness, keeping an eye on her because she knew too much, even after Sandra had washed her hands of the friendship weeks earlier. That same Sandra was able to carve off her love for Ian, weighing his needs against those of others, attributing more value to her own child than to someone else’s. To have been born across a border, to speak another language, for skin to contain a different amount of pigment, made Farah, Leila and the rest of the girls deserve less, feel less, bleed less, their only crime that they’d escaped and naively put their faith in compassion. The maternal impulse is supposedly a great equalizer, though Ruth knows too well how the reality of caring for a child pitted her against the role she’d imagined for herself. Motherhood became a madness for both her and Sandra, Sandra choosing money to protect her family, slavery her alchemy, transmuted into cars and clothes, that shiny new pram, down payments on a big house. Ruth, on the other hand, chose fear. Neither was right, but even though Ruth’s mothering fell short of what she’d hoped for, she takes comfort in the fact that her actions were always selfless.

  A text lights up Ruth’s phone. It’s from Giles. I’m at the house – he still has keys – Want me to do food? You should eat before you go out. Dear Giles, always trying to counter his betrayal and mistrust, and now Ruth finds she’s living this strange reversal, him waiting nervously, doubting himself and wondering if she’ll ever come back to the marriage, the one she once wanted with him – she lost out too – before the months of illness and trauma bent the family so far out of shape it’s no longer clear if they still fit together.

  Another text: And when did the petrol station come down? Ruth normally drops Bess to his flat, so Giles hasn’t been to the house for a couple of weeks, and this will be the first time he’s seen the shop levelled, the awning and forecourt dismantled in preparation for the development being rolled out across the sidings. Young professionals are flocking to the area with promises of a tram line, and architects’ plans for acres of glass balconies have ensured the gentrification Ruth predicted is finally taking place. The council’s banner on the forecourt shouts REGENERATION. Monica next door calls it social cleansing. ‘None of my kids will be able to afford those flats,’ she said to Ruth over coffee one day. Ruth’s had leaflets from estate agents offering a tempting price for her place too, but she won’t let another home on the street be fitted with dark-grey windows and have its brickwork obliterated by a slick of new white render.

  She pushes the power button to start the ignition, spinning the car towards the exit. The narrow lane leading to the main road is lined with tall pine trees and sunlight strobes through the branches onto Bess’s eyelids. Leila’s forehead is pushed against the window, Frieda’s eyes close against the glare. Ruth thinks about her choices t
his past year and a half: her illness wasn’t her choice, her mothering ceased to be her choice, helping Leila was more of a compulsion. But her life – whether she lived or ended it – that was always in her control.

  Another vehicle is coming from the other direction. Ruth pulls up on the verge to let it pass. The Prius’s engine cuts out as it idles on solid ground and silence rolls through the car; Ruth has no power over tomorrow, but this moment could be hers. She picks up her phone, sends a text to Giles: Supper would be great.

  The road clears. Ruth taps the accelerator, the engine springs to life and she steers back onto the tarmac. Winter sun through the windscreen warms the car’s interior with golden light. Ruth glances round, taking in each of her friends and her beautiful daughter in turn, and with a smile she says, ‘Time to go home.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Huge thanks to my wonderful agent, Sue Armstrong, for much hand-holding and the best advice, and to Emma Finn for great feedback on that early draft. To my brilliant and wise editor, Sam Humphreys, unbound thanks for helping me dig this story out of the words, and also to Maria Rejt, Josie Humber, and all at Mantle for their enormous patience and advice while I took my time to get the book right.

  Thanks to my fellow writers and friends, Kathy Andrew, Jacqui Burns, Laura Darling, Rosalind De-Ath, David Green and Kate Wesson for reading and support, and to Susannah Waters and Catherine Smith for guidance and inspiration. Jo Bloom and Alex Hourston, thank you for endlessly picking me and the story up, as well as for noodles, wine and chats – more of that, please!

  To everyone else I’ve badgered with emails, phone calls and questions, thank you for being so generous with your time and advice, I couldn’t have got there without you: Clive Autton, Graham Bartlett, Rosie Cole, Jamie Cruisey, Andy Cummins, Dr Sam Fraser, Dr Richard Fraser, DC Jayne Hayes, Carly Houston, Eirene Houston, Rich Lancashire, DC Brad Loyzinski, Ellen Nolan, Elaine Ortiz, Charli Regan, Jeanette Rowsell, Caroline Smith, Joanne Squire, Steven Wise and Ian Woodgate. I hope to have done you credit; all errors are my own.

  And to Rob, Bea and Billy, for being the family I wished for.

  About the Author

  Rebecca Whitney’s debut, The Liar’s Chair, was published in 2015. As well as novels, Rebecca writes short stories and features, and teaches creative writing. She lives in Sussex.

  The Hidden Girls is her second novel.

  Also by Rebecca Whitney

  The Liar’s Chair

  First published 2021 by Mantle

  This electronic edition first published 2021 by Mantle

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan

  The Smithson, 6 Briset Street, London EC1M 5NR

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-4472-6589-4

  Copyright © Rebecca Whitney 2021

  Jacket photograph: © Stephen Mulcahey / Trevillion Images

  The right of Rebecca Whitney to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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