by Sam Hayes
I am so very, very sorry.
I take a breath and a second’s thought. ‘Then why didn’t you tell the police all this when you were arrested the first time?’
Carlyle shakes his head. ‘You really don’t understand, do you?’
‘Enlighten me.’
‘I still love Mary. I’ve always loved her. If it had been necessary, I would have gone to prison instead of her. There was no way I was pointing the police in her direction. She’d suffered enough.’
‘Loved,’ I say quietly, and at first he doesn’t understand. ‘You loved Mary Marshall. She’s dead, David. She took an overdose last night.’ I can’t watch the landslide of pain on his face. I believe that somehow, in his sick and twisted way, he did love Mary; I believe that he is hurting as much as if I’d been told the same news about Julia.
‘Mary . . . is dead?’
I nod. ‘And so are her secrets. She’ll never tell now. And you will be going to prison for a few years on her behalf.’ It seems Mary got her revenge, even if it did cost a young girl’s life.
Carlyle sits down heavily as if his bones have dissolved. He doesn’t say another word, and that’s how I know that Mary’s secrets will be safe.
The fresh air outside the prison expands my lungs. I leave swiftly, stopping only once on the way back to Ely. Torn into a hundred pieces, I scatter Mary’s letter into the river from the top of a bridge. Julia must never know.
‘For heaven’s sake, Murray,’ Mary says to me in her disapproving voice. ‘Did you have to make such a mess?’ And she wags a finger at me, as if I’m still a kid.
‘Just trying to clean the mess up, actually,’ I reply as the pieces spread and float away in the wake of a boat. I wait until the last one disappears from sight before going home.
Julia opens the door before I reach it. Her face is thin, her body bird-like. Somehow she is in my arms and we are standing alone, the kids oblivious to their mother’s pain as I tell her about Mary. There’s a little hiccup and she digs her fingers into my shoulders.
I kiss her head and she cries. Then there are the hours when she says absolutely nothing at all.
Little piece by little piece, day by day, Julia remembers her mother. She remembers the scolding she got when the rope swing broke and she fell into the mud. She remembers baking summers in the orchard, her mother halfway up a ladder collecting apples in a basket. She remembers winters at Northmire, huddling beside the range as her mother stirred a pot of stew as big as a cauldron. She remembers her mother at our wedding – stiffened in an outfit that she marched straight to a charity shop the next day – and she remembers her mother bent over the kitchen table at night, spied on through a crack in the door as she sobbed and sobbed.
To gradually ease the pain, Julia remembers her mother. Not once does she remember her father.
JULIA
‘I thought I’d find you here.’ Flora’s mittened hand is squashed inside mine. Alex thwacks a branch against the hedge. He didn’t want to come down to the river ever again but I told him that would be silly. Murray stands, hands on hips, staring at the water. ‘How did that happen?’ I ask, not at all surprised. I stifle a laugh.
‘It’s gone. Completely gone.’ He smacks his hands against his thighs; a windmill of despair.
‘Not true,’ I tell him. ‘Look, you can still see the chimney.’ I’m right. The brass-ringed funnel top pokes through the surface of the water. ‘There’s a bit of roof still showing, too. And see, there’s one of your boots floating away.’ Then I laugh. The first time since Mum died. I can’t help it. She would have laughed too.
‘Alcatraz has sunk.’ Murray sounds incredulous. Almost relieved. ‘It was my home.’
Did the bad man do that to Daddy’s boat? Flora signs, worming her hand free from mine. By gripping her so tightly, I am stopping her communicating. But after losing her – so very nearly losing her – how will I ever let her out of my sight again?
No, sweetheart, I explain. The bad man has gone to prison. Daddy’s boat sunk because it wanted him to come and live with us again.
Flora grins, apparently satisfied with my explanation. If only things were that simple. If only it had sunk months ago. ‘Well, it’s not your home any more, is it?’ I remind Murray. Now the funeral is behind us, we have moved into Northmire. The house in Ely will get sold. We will visit Mum’s grave on her birthday, at Christmas, whenever we need her. We’ll take flowers and the children will leave her home-made gifts.
I squeeze Flora’s hand. The four of us walk away from the river and I’m the only one to give a quick glance back. Murray, Alex, Flora – they all dart ahead, dodging the puddles, racing to the bridge. One last look, just to make sure it’s really gone; just to make sure he’ll be coming home with us for good.
There was a candle, the table was set, and I’d cooked a meal. Our first time alone in ages; our first night at Northmire with just Mum’s ghost for company. Nadine had offered to have the children. She said she needed all the practice she could get for when she and Ed adopt. The application is already in; the chance of a baby in their house is a breath away.
‘It’s a start,’ I said to Murray when he saw the table, thinking just how close to the end we’d come. I served the food. ‘Do you think Mum would approve?’ I’d rearranged some furniture and Murray had plumbed in a dishwasher that morning. A radio stood amongst photographs propped on the dresser. We had plans.
‘No,’ he said laughing. ‘She’d kick and scream.’ Suddenly, we both heard her barging around the house, cursing at the television in the bedroom, shaking her head at the music coming from Alex’s room.
She’d notice the changes; she wouldn’t approve. That was Mum. ‘She’d be happy for Brenna and Gradin, though,’ I added. ‘Although not so pleased about her chickens.’ Reluctantly, before the brother and sister were introduced to their new family, Gradin took me aside. Growing up about ten years in as many minutes, he confessed to culling a couple of Mum’s birds. ‘I was angry,’ he said. ‘They pecked me and stopped me from sleeping.’ Brenna and Gradin are seeing their mum at weekends now, living with a new foster family, hoping to rebuild their lives.
‘This is good,’ Murray said, and I didn’t know if he was talking about the food or us. ‘Sheila called me from the office earlier,’ he continued. He took a sip of water and closed his eyes for a second. ‘With news.’
Since Murray told Sheila that he didn’t want the Carlyle case, he’d been waiting for the call to clear out his desk. But, probably using up her entire lifetime’s supply of empathy, she’d allowed him several weeks’ compassionate leave. I held my breath; fork halfway to my mouth.
‘I’ve been offered a partnership.’
‘Wow,’ I said, trying not to sound too excited. ‘But?’
‘No buts. Dick Porsche left. Gone with dream-girl to Sydney. As of Monday, I have an office with a view.’
‘Whatever reasons you gave to Sheila about dropping the case must have convinced her that you’re good at your job.’
Murray eyed me over the rim of his water glass. As he drank, I didn’t have that feeling inside – the one that would prepare me for the drunken hours ahead, not knowing if he was going to be happy or morose; kick up an argument or sleep it off.
‘Sheila . . . understood,’ he replied, and I didn’t question what he meant.
The talk of solicitors reminded me of the envelope that had been in the pile of mail waiting for me at Ely. After we’d eaten, I fetched it from the kitchen. ‘This came.’ I withdrew the document and ran my finger over Murray’s signature. It confirmed that he had received my divorce petition. It confirmed he agreed.
‘It’s what you wanted,’ he said, clearing the plates and running a bowl of water. ‘So I signed it.’
‘No. It wasn’t what I wanted. It was what I had to do. For me. For the kids.’ I watched him and couldn’t help the laugh. ‘Er . . . Murray.’ He turned around from the sink to see me pointing at the new dishwasher.
I
t took him a moment to realise. ‘Old habits, eh?’
‘Exactly,’ I replied, and took the plates from him. My arms slid easily around his neck.
Later, when we came back to the dishes, I tore up the divorce papers and dropped them into the bin. Now all we have to do is pick up the pieces.
The first fingers of spring flourish into colour and hope; little stubs of daffodils have shot to brilliant swathes of yellow these last few weeks, while patches of folded green buds erupt on the trees. It’s a nice day for a walk. The sky is clear.
‘Watch this, Dad.’ Alex has made a dozen paper aeroplanes and is chucking them in all directions. We have been to visit Mum. The first time since the funeral.
The cemetery is half a mile outside Witherly. It was a pensive walk there for Murray and me; a chilly scamper for the children and Milo. As we approached the neat lawns and ordered rows of headstones, Milo slowed instinctively. He fell alongside me and allowed the lead to be hooked to his collar. We only stayed for a few minutes, long enough to replace the flowers; long enough for the children to leave a picture for their grandma.
‘Give me a moment,’ I say to Murray, and he nods, watching me walk through the cemetery. Alone, I pay a visit to Grace. My brilliant pupil. I kneel down and tell her that her classmates planted a garden in her memory. ‘You won’t be forgotten,’ I say, laying down some flowers. Then, shivering, I leave her to rest.
Murray pulls off his scarf and winds it round my neck. ‘You need to get away. Let’s book somewhere for the Easter break.’
‘Let’s,’ I reply, smiling up at him as we walk home. ‘Depending when . . . when the trial is.’ The word narrows my throat. Kidnapping charges were brought against David, and Ed is determined to nail him for Grace’s murder. Murray says he won’t be leaving prison for a long while.
‘Look at Alex. Have you noticed how he’s really grown up these last few weeks?’ Murray asks, changing the subject. We watch as Alex smoothes out a paper plane that Milo caught in his mouth. ‘He’s realising that things don’t stay the same for ever.’
‘Yes, but it’s hard when that thing is you,’ I say, laughing. Flora pulls off her mittens to talk, trotting in front of me.
Where’s my grandad? she asks. Is he with Grandma? Her nimble fingers dig straight into my heart. She bounces around, pretending to be Tigger.
Perhaps, I sign slowly, wondering if the world is on a big, repeating loop. And there I am, whisked back in time twenty-five years to my first day at playgroup when I’d painted a picture of a father I didn’t have. Murray falls out of step with me, chucking planes about with Alex.
‘Oh Flora,’ I say, taking her by the shoulders. She catches the breath of her name on the wind and watches my lips as if she can read them. I tell her about the day my mother insisted I never mention him again; about how upset I was; about how I learned to live with the hole in my heart. I so desperately wanted a father.
So haven’t I got a grandad then? Flora signs.
No, I reply. She is confused. I never knew my father, your grandad. And you already know that Grandpa French died a long time ago. I hug her close, wishing I could have had just one day with my father, to get a glimpse of the other half of me, to show him my children. He would have been proud. Now Mum is gone, that will never happen.
I’m going to do a picture of him for Grandma, Flora signs. So that she won’t be lonely.
Come on then, let’s go inside and you can get started. I refuse to let the tear in my eye drain on to my cheek.
The kitchen is warm. Boots are kicked off and coats dumped on chairs. The promise of cake and drinks follows, while Flora settles at the table, unfolding her bundle of pictures. She spreads them out for all to see and sets to work with her colours. I peer over her shoulder.
What are all these? I ask. There are at least a dozen drawings of different men, each one with a different look. I pick them up, amazed at the detail.
They’re my grandads, she says proudly. They don’t have to be a secret now Grandma’s gone to heaven. She told me to draw them.
I frown, remembering the workings of a little girl’s mind. It was so hard to understand why someone wasn’t there – especially when you knew that he must have been once.
I sit down next to Flora and pick up a couple of crayons. She will get her grandad. What colour hair do you think he has? Brown, grey, bit of both?
Flora nods and begins to draw. Between us, we create the perfect father, the perfect grandparent; always there.
Look, Daddy, Flora signs. She holds up a picture of a man with one arm longer than the other. He’s wearing a bright green cardigan and smoking a pipe. He has a little dog and is standing on a strip of blue grass.
Murray comes up behind me, slipping his arm around my shoulder. He’s a fine-looking chap, he tells Flora. She grins. Alex comes to see what all the fuss is about.
‘I want to draw too,’ he says, settling down next to his sister. Within a second, Murray has grabbed some crayons and there we are, the four of us, scribbling and colouring for all we are worth; chattering and squabbling over colours, comparing sketches and laughing at our mistakes.
Before long, we have a stack of papers, each with a father or a grandfather staring out of the page. Some stand tall with proud eyes and long noses, while some are hunched and old, bent over a walking stick. All of them ours. All of them make-believe. I spread them out on the table.
‘Enough to last a lifetime,’ I say proudly. ‘Now no one in this family need be without a father again.’
And Murray looks at me thoughtfully across the table, a crayon pressed against his lips, as if he’s about to say something so life-changing, so huge, it got wedged in his mouth on the way out.
What? I ask, frowning and signing at the same time.
‘Nothing,’ he replies too quickly. ‘Really, nothing.’
Odd, then, that I understand his silence completely. Odd, then, that for the first time in ages, I feel the first glimmer of happiness.
Unspoken
SAM HAYES
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