Mummy's Little Secret

by M. A. Hunter

  ‘I take it Grace is in bed?’ Charlie asks, yawning, and rubbing his eyes.

  ‘I kept her up for as long as possible, but she was falling asleep on me,’ I confirm.

  His cheeks contract, and it is a relief to see him looking so disappointed. I’d stressed to him how much time Grace had spent thinking about what she wanted to get him for his birthday, and in the end she’d opted to buy him some new gloves for golf. She knows how much he loves going to the driving range, not that he’s been able to go in months, due to work and supporting me.

  I do worry that he’s working too hard, and that he needs rest and relaxation as much as I do, but he can be quite obstinate. I know that if Grace gives him the gloves and insists he spend a couple of hours at the driving range, he will listen. He will do anything for her, and I wish I had that level of control over him. He does a lot for me, but rarely does he ask if I want him to do all those things.

  It’s selfish to complain, I know.

  ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here,’ he says. ‘The pitch to the new client is first thing, but then I should be able to relax more at the weekend. Maybe we can celebrate my birthday on Saturday instead. How does that sound?’

  I nod enthusiastically, but can’t ignore the nagging feeling that Doug will find something else for Charlie to complete desperately at the weekend.

  ‘How was your day?’ he asks, pouring himself a whisky from the drinks cabinet in the corner of our tiny living room, before sitting down at the dining table we’ve had to move in here.

  While I was still undergoing tests at the hospital, unbeknownst to me Charlie was busy converting what was our dining room into a bedroom for me. New bed, chest of drawers and wet room so that I wouldn’t feel obligated to go upstairs any more. A wonderful gesture, but it made me sob. It underlined just how much my life would have to change.

  Accepting I needed to use a wheelchair was a big obstacle to overcome. Not only was I coping with losing my son, but I also had to make a psychological shift that was just as hard, if not harder. I was essentially kissing goodbye to my independence. And then there is the inevitable question of ‘why me?’, though there is part of me that always knew karma would come for me one day.

  At first, it felt like purgatory; it wasn’t that I wanted to die, but I didn’t feel like I could carry on living either. I would wake up each morning, and for the briefest of seconds I would forget about everything that had happened, and I would be free and optimistic, and then my memory would kick in, and my world would crumble. It’s almost a relief that those brief hopeful starts have subsequently diminished. Less painful emotionally to wake and know that my life as I knew it is over.

  Depression is a common side effect to paraplegia, and so I am taking antidepressants on top of vitamin supplements, and painkillers. I take so many pills every day that I’m convinced I must rattle when moving down the street.

  I can’t describe exactly what my depression is like. I don’t feel sad, or like I want to swallow all my painkillers and make it all just end. I just feel empty. I don’t feel like me anymore. My whole life prior to the change was about discovering myself: school; university; becoming a mother for the first time. I thought I’d found what made me tick, and then it was like a bomb went off and my internal clock was reset. If it wasn’t for Grace, I might have spiralled further into depression, but she gives me reason to battle on.

  ‘Jess,’ Charlie tries again. ‘I asked what your day was like.’

  My head snaps round and I look at him, trying to remember exactly what happened today. It takes a moment, and then I remember Daisy approaching me in the park, and the four little words she whispered: she’s not my mum.

  I rub the goose bumps from my arms, as the image of her puffy and terrified face hovers before my eyes. My pulse is once again quickening. I know I didn’t imagine the words. I’ve tried replaying the memory to see whether it’s possible she’d said something else, but I can’t make anything else fit.

  ‘Jess, is everything okay?’ I hear Charlie asking, suddenly approaching and pressing his warm palm to my forehead. ‘Is your blood pressure okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  The doctors warned that my condition can cause fluctuations in my blood pressure, but I don’t think that’s what’s making me feel so anxious.

  ‘I – I – I met a little girl today,’ I begin, knowing that what I’m about to say will sound ridiculous. ‘And I think she’s in trouble.’

  He is frowning at me in confusion as he steps back. ‘What sort of trouble?’

  ‘I think…’ but I don’t know what I think. What do those words mean? She’s not my mum. If Morag isn’t Daisy’s mother, who is she?

  ‘I don’t know.’ I try again. ‘She said something to me, which made me think she was in trouble.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  I close my eyes, replaying the memory again. ‘She told me the woman with her wasn’t her mother.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The woman – Morag – she came over and acted as if she was Daisy’s mother.’

  Charlie’s expression shows he still isn’t following what I’m trying to say.

  ‘The little girl looked so scared, and her reaction to Morag was … was not that of a mother and loving daughter. She looked so scared to be at the park with her, and I just thought it was very strange.’

  There, I’ve said it. That wasn’t so bad.

  A smile is starting to break out on Charlie’s face. ‘You went to the park today? That’s so good, Jess. You went out and got some fresh air. I’m so pleased.’ He leans down and kisses the top of my head, and the stench of whisky assaults my nostrils.

  ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? I think this little girl was terrified to be with the woman claiming to be her mother.’

  ‘Who was this woman? What did she say when you told her what the girl said?’

  ‘She didn’t… I mean, I didn’t ask her. How could I? But I’m telling you, Charlie, something just didn’t feel right.’

  He drops to his knees now and takes my hands in his, and the warmth causes my arms to pimple again. ‘Jess, listen to me. I know things haven’t been easy since you were discharged, and I can’t even begin to imagine just how much you’re suffering, but making up stories about other parents is worrying.’

  I pull my hands away, and wince at the effort. ‘I’m not making this up.’

  He takes my hands again, and I’m unable to resist his gentle touch. ‘I didn’t mean you’d deliberately made up a story about this woman, but with everything you’ve been through, with the loss of your legs, and what happened with Luke—’

  I shudder at the mention of his name.

  ‘It’s understandable that your mind could be playing tricks on you, and seeing things that aren’t there,’ he concludes, his eyes watering. ‘Maybe we should book you another appointment with Dr Savage, so you can talk these things through. Maybe she needs to adjust your meds again.’

  I’m not surprised by Charlie’s reaction, and I can see his doubts are nothing more than concern for me. I didn’t do a great job of explaining why I am so certain that there is something strange about Morag and Daisy.

  But I know I didn’t imagine it.

  Chapter Four

  Before – Morag

  I know instantly I shouldn’t have come to the supermarket today. Angus did volunteer to collect what was required, but I wanted to get out of the house, and the constant reminders of everything we had to leave behind. Renting a furnished property has its benefits, but at the same time, none of the furniture is ours, and so my new home doesn’t feel like mine. Hopefully that sense of being out of place, out of time, and out of sync with my surroundings will pass at some point. At least if we do have to leave in a hurry it won’t be such a wrench to part with what’s there.

  The car park is heaving, and I’m forced to park as far from the entrance as is physically possible. A Tube train chuffs past the wire fence lining the boundary of cars, and I wish
I was on it, headed anywhere but a cramped supermarket where I will have to encounter dozens of strangers, all of whom could be working for him. I probably should have headed out of the town to one of the larger supermarkets in nearby Pinner, Harrow, or Watford. It terrifies me that he could already be inside just waiting to find me once again.

  I hurry inside, reciting the list in my head. If I move quickly, keep my head down, and don’t dawdle, there’s a chance I can be back in the car within fifteen minutes, safe once more. Daisy had asked if she could come with me, but I can’t risk her being around all these people. I am now certain something happened between her and that Jess woman we met at the park on Thursday. They couldn’t have been alone for more than a few seconds, so how much could she have really said? Jess’s quizzical looks and probing questions at the table afterwards have had my nerves on edge ever since.

  I only engaged with her to try and make Daisy more comfortable in her new surroundings, but I was too relaxed, and gave away too much. Jess hasn’t called to accept the playdate I proposed, and in hindsight I know I shouldn’t have suggested it. I haven’t told Angus that I gave my new mobile number to a total stranger. He puts on a brave face, but I know he struggles with our decision as much as me, and although he tries to hide his emotions from me, I know how much he misses our wee cottage in Aberdeen and his former work colleagues.

  I wish we could afford for him not to have to work, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I’ve offered to go and find some work once Daisy starts at school next week, but he isn’t keen. Any job I could find wouldn’t be as satisfying as nursing, and it breaks my heart that I cannot return to my vocation. I tried my hand at private nursing care the first time we fled, and Angus is convinced that’s how he managed to find us then.

  There is a man in a T-shirt leaning across me, reaching for an onion. His chest and belly are bulging through the fluorescent Lycra top, and the cycle shorts leave little to the imagination. I can see a huge sweat patch by his arm pit as it hovers near my face, and the pong makes my stomach turn. His dark, cropped hair is dripping wet, secured by a sweat band, which clearly isn’t working. His groin presses against my arm as he tries to get closer to the onions.

  It’s as if I’m not even here. I move away and he nearly tumbles into the carefully stacked produce crates. Our eyes meet, and his cheeks redden a fraction, but he doesn’t offer an apology before sauntering off.

  The overhead speaker sounds as colleagues are named and ordered to the checkouts to deal with the growing queues there. A stream of uniformed students stop whatever they’re doing and gather at the customer service desk like rats following the Pied Piper, before being instructed where to go. Most of them look like they are barely old enough to be out on their own, let alone serving customers and handling their money.

  I silently curse as I remember I’d meant to go to the ATM before coming in here. Although Angus and I both have credit and debit cards, we have agreed not to use them in retail outlets, save for an emergency. Receipts can be tracked and traced by trained people hunters, but bank statements are more difficult to access.

  Depositing my nearly full basket in a quiet corner near the fish counter, I look around for the exit, hoping my goods will still be there once I return. It won’t be the end of the world if some other shopper helps themselves to what I’ve gathered – it’s not like the items have been paid for yet – but it will save me time if everything is as I have left it. I don’t have time to worry about it though, and push myself through the gathered crowd at one of the checkouts, towards the exit.

  It is much warmer outside than I remember, and I’m tempted to remove my ever-present cardigan, but decide it’s easier to have it on than carry it. Reaching into the zipped pocket, I remove my purse, and search for the nearest ATM. There aren’t any banks in the immediate vicinity of the supermarket, and heading left I am relieved to come across a building society a short walk away. There is a tall youth in a woollen hat standing at the machine, and at first I want to forget this whole shopping idea and just return to the car, but as I pass he is already moving off.

  Withdrawing my debit card, I push it into the slot, and type in my PIN. Footsteps approach from behind, but I keep my eyes facing forwards. A shadow falls across the wall ahead of me, and my heartbeat quickens.

  Of course, it’s not him.

  The shadow belongs to just another stranger eager to check their balance or withdraw funds.

  There is no reason for me to be picturing him prowling so close.

  My head begins to turn to look behind me, but I force my attention to the digits now blurring slightly on the screen before me.

  It’s all in my head, but I am suddenly conscious of just how exposed I am here. Jabbing my finger on the button closest to the fifty, I wait as the machine whirs, counting the notes I didn’t earn, and finally the card is spat out. Grabbing the cash, I squash both into my purse, and turn to leave, daring to glance back at the figure behind me. I almost laugh hysterically when I realise it wasn’t a man at all. The young woman with bright, frizzy hair and a lip piercing sneers at me for taking so long, before putting her card into the slot.

  The relief is washing over me in waves as I head back into the supermarket, accepting the empty shopping basket I’m handed by a shop assistant without even thinking about it. In fact, it’s only when I’ve wandered halfway through the shop that I even recall the basket I left by the fish counter. I’m about to head straight there when I spot Jess being wheeled along the aisle towards me. As our eyes meet, there is a shared acknowledgement that neither of us wants to be here. The man pushing the chair must be her husband Charlie.

  Is it merely coincidence that they happen to be here when I am? Probably. After all, Waitrose is the only supermarket in Northwood, so probably used by most of the residents at one point or another. Yet the horrified look on Jess’s face when our eyes meet would suggest otherwise. Grace is with them, chattering as she pushes the small trolley under the watchful gaze of her father. Maybe I should have brought Daisy with me after all, so that this encounter wouldn’t be wasted.

  It’s too late for me to pretend I haven’t seen them, and so with a deep breath I plaster on my most welcoming of smiles. ‘Why, Jess, fancy seeing you here.’ Even I think my pitch is too high, the false-surprise dripping from every vowel.

  Charlie stops the chair and trolley abruptly, and frowns curiously at me. He extends his hand. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met?’

  I shake his hand, surprised by how cold it feels despite the warmth of the air around us; or maybe it’s just me feeling the heat. ‘I’m Morag. I met your wife Jess and wee Gracie at the park the other day.’

  He smiles in acknowledgement, suggesting Jess has mentioned my name to him. I wonder what else she’s told him.

  ‘Charlie,’ he says, pressing the icy hand to his faded blue polo shirt, his bicep tensing.

  Such a handsome man, who clearly takes care of himself. It’s difficult to picture them as a couple, him in his designer shirt, and her in a crumpled, tatty tracksuit. I would venture that she didn’t always look so dowdy, and it’s hard to imagine he hasn’t noticed her lack of effort.

  ‘Hello again, Gracie,’ I say, wanting to ruffle her hair, but feeling that Jess won’t like it if I do.

  ‘Is Daisy with you?’ Grace asks, searching around the other shoppers closest to us.

  ‘Alas, not today,’ I say, my pitch still too forced. ‘She’s at home with her dad.’

  ‘I’m in charge of the trolley.’ Grace beams excitedly.

  ‘And what a fantastic job you’re doing.’ I can feel myself smiling at her, but I don’t really know why; there’s just something so joyful about her features that I find I can’t control what my face is doing. ‘Daisy really enjoyed meeting you at the park,’ I add, keen to foster any potential blossoming friendship. ‘In fact, she hasn’t stopped talking about you, and pestering me to take her back to the park since.’

  ‘Maybe she could come to
my house and play,’ Grace says, before turning to check with her parents, whose faces are at polar opposites.

  Charlie is listening intently, whilst Jess looks like she wants the ground to swallow her up.

  Daisy looked so disheartened when I told her she couldn’t come with me to pick up the groceries, and I don’t think I can handle her moping around the house all afternoon. If these two are anything to do with him, then I need to know one way or another. I daren’t tell Angus my darkest fears on a whim. There’s only one thing for it.

  ‘I’ve had a fabulous idea,’ I declare too enthusiastically, the basket on my arm swinging. ‘What are you three up to this afternoon?’

  ‘We were hoping to cook up a barbecue,’ Charlie says as Jess squirms in the chair, ‘but they’ve already run out of burgers. Can you believe that? I mean, I know it’s supposed to be a scorcher this weekend, but you’d think they’d account for that and order in extra stock.’

  ‘What a coincidence,’ I say, and it really is. ‘Angus is due to fire up the barbecue this afternoon too. We have plenty of burgers in the freezer at home if you’d like to join us? Angus has been on at me about organising a house warming of some sort; reckons it’s bad luck not to toast the walls or some such thing. Daisy would love to see Grace again, and it’ll give you both a chance to meet Angus. What do you say?’

  Jess doesn’t look keen, but her husband doesn’t give her the chance to decline. ‘That sounds wonderful,’ he says. ‘What time would you like us over?’

  ‘Any time after one will be fine,’ I tell them both, my face starting to ache from all the forced smiling. I tell them the address, already thinking that I’m taking a huge chance, and Charlie types it into his phone.

  Maybe I should have checked with Angus first. I did tell him about meeting Jess at the park, and he didn’t seem worried or troubled by the encounter, but how is he going to react when three perfect strangers turn up at the house?