by M. A. Hunter
Mummy’s Little Secret
M. A. Hunter
One More Chapter
a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021
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Copyright © M. A. Hunter 2021
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Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
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M. A. Hunter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
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Source ISBN: 9780008409067
Ebook Edition © August 2021 ISBN: 9780008409050
Version: 2021-05-21
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Acknowledgments
Thank you for reading…
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About the Author
Also by M. A. Hunter
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About the Publisher
Dedicated to all the parents who held
their shit together during home-schooling
Chapter One
Before – Jess
If the little girl hadn’t been deathly pale and trembling as she’d hesitantly whispered, I probably wouldn’t have thought twice about it. She’s not my mum.
My instinct is to frown and internally question whether I’ve simply misheard. Her eyes are shining in the late afternoon August sunshine, and as I continue to study her face, her lower lip wobbles, like she wants to say more, but can’t find either the words or the strength.
Over the girl’s left shoulder I catch a glimpse of Grace squealing with delight as she swings through the air, pushing her legs out and then promptly tucking them beneath the plastic seat, as the chain overhead squeaks under the strain.
‘Mummy, look at me,’ Grace’s voice carries on the wind.
I raise my hand to acknowledge her, but my focus remains on the other girl’s face. Perhaps what she actually said was she’s lost her mother. From my seated position it is difficult to see beyond the playground apparatus. The giant climbing frame shaped like a pirate ship blocks out the horizon to the right, and beyond Grace and the swings, the forest of green shares little of the secrets it holds.
You wouldn’t believe it is the height of summer. It’s been over a week since we last donned shorts, but at least there’s no rain today. Talk of an imminent heatwave in the weeks to come doesn’t fill me with joy.
From the way the girl is gripping the arms of my chair, her knuckles an unnatural shade of white, experience tells me that something is very wrong.
A flashback to the hushed conversations between the midwife and doctor flickers before my eyes, as I’d sucked hard on the gas and air. I’d known back then that something wasn’t right, even though they’d yet to tell me just how bad things really were. Their faces had failed to keep my pulse from rising, and this terrified child is doing little to ease my anxiety. I shake the memory away. Now is not the time.
As I open my mouth to ask the girl to repeat what she said, there is an explosion of colour in the corner of my eye.
‘Daisy? Daisy?’ The Scottish accent echoes across the protective carpet of soft rubber that stretches beneath the playground equipment.
The girl’s arms tense and her eyes seem to widen in greater panic, but her stare remains locked on mine, as if she’s trying to assess whether I’ll admit what she’s told me; begging me to keep quiet.
A foreboding shadow falls upon us, and I am forced to glance towards the sky, now seeing the tall figure hovering over us. A pale blue cardigan pokes from beneath the large waxed overcoat, the rancid smell reminding me of childhood visits to farms.
‘Daisy? Ah, there you are,’ the woman says. ‘Leave this poor lady alone.’
She is much older than I’d expected. A shock of auburn hair interspersed with wisps of grey, and subtle blonde undertones. The skin above her cheeks is mauve and hangs, while the lines beside her eyes are tight and strained. Maybe she’s the child’s gran or minder. Certainly not her mother.
‘Sorry if my daughter is being a nuisance,’ the woman continues. ‘Daisy, how many times have I told you not to wander off?’
I look back at the girl. She doesn’t look like a Daisy. If I had to guess I would say she was a Ruth or a Sandra, a name that would conform to the direct stare and determined scowl. The name Daisy belongs to a fair child with a playful smile and a mischievous look in her eyes. This girl has neither quality, yet there is a subtle femininity to her features: firm but fair.
The waxed coat sleeve reaches out and extracts the girl’s hands from the arms of my wheelchair. ‘Come along now. Places to go, people to see.’
‘She wasn’t being a nuisance,’ I offer quickly, feeling drawn to engage with these strangers, but unsure why. ‘Really, no bother at all.’
The woman pauses and looks down at me, almost astonished that the cripple before her in the rickety old wheelchair has a voice. ‘That’s kind of you to say.’ She turns to move away, before hesitating, and looking back at me, extending a hand as
she does. ‘Morag.’
I blink in surprise, but shake her hand. ‘Jess.’
‘That’s your wee one on the swings?’ she asks, nodding towards Grace, who is still squealing in delight.
‘Yes,’ I say, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. ‘She gets her crazy streak from her dad,’ I add, nervously.
‘I’d say we both must be pretty crazy to be at a deserted park on such a chilly day. The things we do for our kids, huh?’
Something about the way she says it puts a flicker of doubt in my mind that I struggle to push away.
‘Worth it to witness such unbridled excitement though,’ she adds.
It was only because Grace had bleated on at me for close to an hour that I’d eventually caved and agreed to bring her down here. I don’t know if that makes me a good parent for bringing joy to my four-year-old’s sheltered life, or a weak one for giving in. Deep down I know I only agreed because I want to make as much of the little time we have left together. Within a week she’ll have started in reception class at the local primary, and I know a part of us will be lost for ever. Right now I am her whole universe – well, Charlie and I are – but once she steps through those school gates we will be relegated to the fraction of her life not dominated by learning and playing with her newfound friends.
Daisy is staring at the dark ground before her. For someone so worried about losing her mother, where is the joy at being reunited?
I recall a moment before my paralysis, when I was at the supermarket with Grace. I’d told her to stay by the shopping trolley while I went to choose a fresh loaf of bread, and when I returned she was out of sight. I’d breathlessly searched the two aisles closest to the bakery area without success, and had been about to flag down the security guard near the main entrance when Grace had come rushing back to the trolley, a children’s magazine gripped in her hands. I’d dropped to my knees and hugged her tight, wanting to chastise and cradle in equal measure. She’d quickly apologised before lecturing me on the dozen reasons why I had to buy her the magazine, when clearly the attraction had been the cheap plastic sunglasses taped to the front cover.
I can’t dispel the curiosity sweeping through me. ‘You’re not from around here,’ I say, as Morag tugs on Daisy’s hand, ready to move on. It’s a statement more than a question, and although I can’t claim to recognise every face in our small town in north-west London, Morag’s certainly isn’t familiar.
Morag looks back at me again, and I’m sure I see a hint of annoyance as her eyebrows dip together. ‘What was it that gave me away?’ she coos, her accent deliberately more pronounced.
She must notice my face reddening, as she suddenly steps closer. ‘No offence intended.’
Before I can respond, Grace is at my side, breathless.
‘Did you see how high I went, Mummy? I was actually flying.’
The cool wind tempers the burning in my cheeks, and I take in every inch of my daughter’s beautiful face. She is more than I ever could have wished for. Articulate, eager to learn, and with a healthy interest in outdoor activities. When I think back to the shy, awkward child-version of myself, I don’t really feel like I’ve changed that much, aside from the four wheels now keeping me off the ground. Grace is the polar opposite of me as a child. Whereas I spent hours with my head in books, devouring the fictional lives of the characters I so admired, Grace is already creating her own stories, filled with vibrant colours, language beyond her experiences, and a positivity that warms the heart. I now find myself wanting to be a character in one of my daughter’s stories.
‘Hi, I’m Grace,’ my daughter says, stooping and forcing eye contact with Daisy. ‘Do you want to go on the seesaw?’
I’m even envious of my daughter’s unabashed self-confidence. It’s as if nothing daunts her. I’ve never once heard her admit to being scared of anything. Even as a toddler when I would read her adventures involving sea monsters and ferocious beasts, she would snuggle close, but beam as I closed the book.
I notice the hopeful yet despondent look that Daisy fires at Morag, who seems to consider the proposal, before nodding. ‘Aye, it’s okay. Off you go.’
Grace grabs Daisy’s hand, and the two girls tear off towards the seesaw directly in front of us, leaving Morag to watch. Daisy can’t be much older than Grace as far as I can tell. They are a similar height and build, and given that Grace will be one of the oldest in her year group, I can only assume Daisy is in the year above.
I know we should be getting home soon. It is Charlie’s birthday, and the cake that Grace and I baked earlier today still needs to be iced before he returns from work. I do hope he isn’t late again. He promised this morning he would be home by six at the very latest, and the fact that he has yet to message fills me with renewed hope that he will live up to the promise for once.
I can see Grace is imagining that her end of the large beam of wood is a horse or a dragon, as she is gripping the safety bar with one hand, while the other flails overhead. Daisy on the other hand is staring right back at us, no sign of any enjoyment. Maybe she is wondering whether I’m going to tell Morag what she said.
‘The girls look like they’re having a good time,’ Morag comments, but I’m not sure for whose benefit she’s said it.
‘Yes,’ I concur. ‘How old is Daisy?’
‘Five next week,’ Morag says after a moment. ‘They grow up so quickly, don’t they?’
This statement I can’t disagree with. It seems like only yesterday the blob of pink and white was being passed to me in the hospital. Charlie was too busy snapping photographs on his phone to really take in the fact that we’d now been charged with the responsibility for this tiny life.
A further flash of memory of the midwife and doctor conspiring with each other fires in my mind, from the last time I’d been rushed to the maternity hospital, and I bite back the stinging tears that threaten to explode.
‘I can’t believe she’ll be starting school in a week,’ Morag says, dragging my attention back to the park.
‘I know what you mean,’ I say absently, looking back to Grace and Daisy. ‘Grace is starting too.’
I feel Morag now staring down at me. ‘Is that so? Maybe they’ll be in the same class. Ah, wouldn’t that be nice for them to already have friends when they start school?’
I don’t mention that Grace will know at least a dozen other children in her year group from encounters at pre-school. ‘Yes,’ I comment instead.
‘Maybe we should fix up a playdate in the next few days so they can get to know each other properly. What do you say?’
I’m not used to strangers being so direct with me, and she must sense my hesitation, as she quickly adds, ‘Only if you want to.’
I think about all the pitying looks Charlie has given me since I was assigned this chair, all the encouragement he’s offered when I haven’t wanted it: you will get through this.
I know it’s bitter to question whether he’d still be so positive if it was him facing a lifetime confined by no legs, but I can’t help it. It didn’t happen to him, it happened to me. I’m the one who will suffer every day as a result of my actions.
‘I tell you what,’ Morag offers. ‘I passed a small coffee stand on the way to the playground. How about we take the girls for a juice and some cake. God knows, I could do with a refreshment.’
I think about Charlie’s pitying stare again. ‘Why not,’ I say, knowing Grace won’t want to miss out on a sweet treat.
‘I’ll go and tell the girls,’ Morag says, and before I can offer to go with her, she is already striding across the playground to the seesaw.
I watch as Grace punches the air in excitement at the news, while Daisy fires a look in my direction, before dismounting the seesaw. In that moment, I can’t ignore the nagging doubt in my mind: what if she really did say what I thought I heard?
Chapter Two
Before – Morag
The woman across the table from me looks frustrated and tired. I daren’t ask what unfortun
ate circumstance has seen her wind up in that rickety old wheelchair, but I can’t deny I’m curious.
‘Aberdeen,’ I say in answer to her question about where I’m from. ‘On the east coast. You’ve not experienced cold until you’ve felt the gales blowing off the North Sea.’
We are seated around a wobbly plastic table, the kind they sell cheap in DIY stores. The stains and scratches in the once white surface suggest the table is far from new, and probably stored outside overnight. The hut where we have purchased our drinks is little more than a painted shed with a window cut out of it. Despite the limited space, there is a wide selection of biscuits and individually wrapped cakes on display on the counter, and behind the moustachioed man running the stand sit two large metal drums for boiling water. Two of the other four tables are occupied, but we are too far away to overhear their conversations.
