Bee was herself close to tears as she heard her stepmother speak. “I’m so sorry, Rowan,” she offered, reaching out slowly across the table to touch her hand. She jumped when Rowan withdrew it suddenly.
“That is just my experience, Bee,” she said, her voice suddenly filled with panic and regret, her eyes with shame. “Your life is your life and you must make your own decisions. Our circumstances are different, Bee.”
Bee was shocked to see her stand suddenly, grasp her jacket and handbag under her arm and begin to move away from the table.
“Rowan, please . . .” she began, looking in panic at her watch again as her stepmother made to move past her. Two fifty.
“The time . . . it’s time . . . can you . . .?”
Rowan stopped dead in her tracks and paused for a moment before turning back to Bee, reaching out and running her hand over her hair and down along her cheek, all the while slowly shaking her head. “No,” she sobbed, fresh tears staining her face. “I can’t, Bee. Anything else that you would ask of me . . . anything . . .but I can’t stay for this . . . please understand that I can’t.”
Bee began to cry, gazing up at Rowan’s face. At the face she had looked at so many times she barely saw it any more. The face that, throughout most of her life, had dealt out admonishments and punishments, urges to eat her vegetables, instructions to stay in and study. All that stuff that she had resented. Her wicked stepmother. The woman who had taken her away from everyone and everything she loved. And all that time all that pain, that loss that she endured without ever letting on. Grief suddenly washed over Bee in a flood as she saw through to the vulnerability that filled every corner of Rowan’s face. At the fear of being reminded, of being taken back. Anything, she said. Anything except what Bee was about to do.
“I cannot do this, Bee,” whispered Rowan fiercely. “But whatever you decide, I am there for you, I swear. To hold your hand, whatever you’re going through – whatever we’ve already been through. I’m sorry if you don’t feel the same way about me, Bee, and it’s late to say now that I love you. I always have. And I will always be here for you like I have been. Just not now . . . not this.”
With that, she was gone. Bee swivelled in her chair and watched Rowan speed through a small party of people who had just come through the door and then disappear outside, leaving Bee completely alone.
Chapter 56
November 1992
Rowan
Judith didn’t even flinch at the sound of the back door creaking open and closing again, at the sound of a rucksack being dumped on the floor. As Rowan entered, she was greeted by the sight of her grandmother’s back hunched over the kitchen table. Rowan could tell by the empty bowls around her and the vigorous movement of her arms that a cake was being mixed. Feeling very small all of a sudden Rowan paused where she stood, unsure what to do next.
“Oh, you’re back then, are you?” asked Judith, continuing to whisk the contents of the big beige-coloured mixing bowl.
The movement was so familiar to Rowan who had watched her make cakes for years. Everything on the table – she recognised it all as everyday things, as the stuff of her childhood. It should have felt familiar. But it didn’t. Nothing did. Nothing in this room was the same as it had been before she’d left. Everything was different. Now, and from now on. Nothing would ever be the same.
And still Judith stirred, pausing to add in a shake of flour before resuming her task.
“How was the concert?” she asked casually. “Only I didn’t think you were a fan of Take This.”
“Take That,” Rowan corrected, the voice she spoke with coming from deep inside her. Coming from someone else.
“It was good. They were good,” she managed.
“Earl’s Court, wasn’t it?” continued Judith.
“Hammersmith Apollo,” corrected Rowan, staring around the room, trying her hardest to place herself, to find something familiar with which she could make a connection, something that might settle her.
“Hard to find?” asked Judith.
Rowan shook her head. “No,” she replied. She had researched it all meticulously. “There’s a Tube station there.”
There was no need for her grandmother to know that she hadn’t been to the gig. That she hadn’t, in fact, even been to London.
“Did your friend Ellen enjoy it?” asked Judith.
Rowan focused on her suddenly. She longed to scream at her. To rush over there and push her out of the way and upend the table so that everything on it would smash and break and there would be chaos.
“Yes,” she answered meekly, still standing stock-still on the doormat just inside the back door.
“I think I’ve raised you wrong, you know?” said Judith suddenly.
Rowan’s heart sank suddenly. She could feel her cheeks colour and start to burn. She knew. Judith knew. She had to. And she’d blame her too, tell her it was her own fault for being so stupid. For allowing herself to get into that stupid situation in the first place. She only had herself to blame, after all. What did she think made her so special? Made her think that bad things still couldn’t happen to her? Made her think that losing her mum and dad was the only bad thing that would ever happen in her life?
Rowan’s heart pounded as she waited for Judith to speak.
“I mean, why Take That? Four or five little wazzocks skipping round a stage singing about love like it’s candy floss and heart-shaped sweets.” Judith continued to whisk, shaking her head as she did so.
“I mean, whatever did I do wrong that you won’t listen to Dylan? Or a bit of Billy Bragg, even? He’s more your generation surely? What’s wrong with a song having a message? A purpose to it? Instead of that manufactured boy-band nonsense? I despair of you sometimes, Rowan. I really do.”
How could she, Rowan wondered, her grandmother’s voice falling to a faint hum in the distance. How could she not know? Maybe if she turned around? Maybe if she saw her face then she’d have to know? She’d have to realise that something was terribly, terribly wrong. She’d be able to tell instantly that Rowan hadn’t been to London. That she’d only been as far away as Clevedon for the past few days. That she hadn’t been to see a ‘manufactured boy band’ in concert with her college friend Ellen at all. How could she not be able to tell this just by the sound of Rowan’s voice? How could she not know to turn and look?
Maybe it’s because she’s not my mother, Rowan reasoned. Maybe if she was then she’d just know. Then she couldn’t, surely, leave me to do what I did alone? Then I wouldn’t feel so isolated in all this. If I had a little girl, I’d never let this happen to her. I’d never just leave her to her own devices – I’d be there, with her, holding her hand, keeping her strong, keeping her in my arms where she was safe forever more.
But for me – now everything is changed. Everything’s broken. I can’t go back to college – I can’t face seeing him again – can’t face everyone knowing, everyone looking and pointing and whispering about me. There’s that girl who threw it all away . . .
Well, there were things that I shouldn’t have done.
I shouldn’t have allowed myself to feel so strongly for him. To become so besotted with him that I allowed what happened to happen. I shouldn’t have gone to his rooms alone. Shouldn’t have accepted that glass of wine. And now I can never shake him off me.
And maybe I shouldn’t have done what I did in that clinic in Clevedon. But what other choice did I have? Maybe other women are strong enough but I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t carry it inside me, couldn’t look at it every day of my life for fear that he’d be looking back at me. Come to my rooms for those notes, Rowan. Have a little drink, Rowan. You like me, Rowan, don’t you? I’ve seen how you look at me in classes . . . we shouldn’t really . . .
How could I have been so stupid?
And why can’t I tell her? Because then she’d feel like it was her fault too. I can’t make her feel that way – this is my doing, my fault. No one else’s. I can’t burden anyone else with
this – not ever. It’s in me now. Locked inside me. And I can’t let it out. Can’t lose control and let it slip, ever. I must make it go away, or else I might die . . .
“Now Pete Seeger – couldn’t you root out some of his records? There’s plenty to be learned from Pete –”
“I think I might go up to bed, Gran, if that’s okay?” interrupted Rowan suddenly.
“Oh fine. Do what you please,” came the reply. “You generally do anyway.”
“I’m just a bit tired,” said Rowan, picking up her backpack, closing her eyes and holding herself steady at the doorpost as she swooned a little. She leaned against the wall for support while the moment passed. “Late night and all that,” she continued, feeling steadier.
“Off you go then,” replied Judith. “I’ll bring you up a cuppa and a slice of this in a couple of hours. Oh, and Rowan?”
Rowan stopped, looked again at her grandmother’s back, hoping, praying that she might turn. Longing with all of her heart to be taken in that great embrace, to feel safe, and loved, and wanted. To forget. Just for a moment.
“What?” she replied.
Judith didn’t turn. Instead she poured the last of the flour into her mixing bowl and resumed the energetic mixing.
“Don’t call me ‘Gran’, love, all right? I’ve told you a thousand times if I’ve told you once – I’m not a gran, or a granny or a grandma or anything. I’m just Judith, all right? That’s my God-given name and the one I’ll use till the day I die. It’s just me, all right?”
“All right, Gr– Judith,” replied Rowan meekly before passing through the door that led to the winding staircase to her room.
But once she reached the stairs, she found that she couldn’t go any further. That she didn’t have the energy to even lift her foot onto the bottom step. Frozen, she turned to look back at the familiar sight of her grandmother at work in the kitchen and was instantly drawn back like a moth to a flame.
“Judith,” she whimpered.
“That’s more like it.”
“Can you sit down for a bit? I need to tell you something. I’ve been keeping a secret . . .”
Chapter 57
September 2020
Jenny
I am waiting on the stairs as I hear the key turn in the front door. I watch as my poor, beaten Bee enters first, her shoulders slumped, her steps careful. Behind her comes the woman, guiding her, placing a hand in the small of her back to make sure that she doesn’t trip.
They are silent. The front door is closed with a gentle, reverent click, instead of the loud slam that usually echoes through the house when Bee arrives. She is normally so full of energy, such a human whirlwind – so alive. But not today. Today she is a shadow of herself. Today she is almost as much a ghost as I am.
I watch them chat briefly in the hall. Watch as the woman asks Bee if she would like something to eat and Bee replies something about getting a drive-through Jamie Oliver once they are on the road. She doesn’t want to stay a minute longer in this house, she says, and the woman nods and agrees and says that’s a very good idea. She says that she will pick up some things from the kitchen while Bee packs a bag for herself.
Bee takes the stairs one step at a time, climbing them with her back hunched, the weight of her worries on her shoulders.
Yet I want to grab her and dance with her, to be joyous and celebrate. Because she is still here. And because she has someone to take care of her. Someone real, someone physical.
I watch Bee in her room as she throws handfuls of clothes into a duffel bag. She isn’t even aware of what she’s doing. She forgets her hairbrush, her dressing gown. And there are other things that she deliberately doesn’t pack. The sketchbook – my sketchbook – which she thought was such a source of inspiration. She can’t even bring herself to touch it now, seeing it as the symbol of all that has gone wrong for her.
I watch as she slopes back down the stairs, laying the duffel bag on the hall floor before wandering into the kitchen where the woman stands, holding Guillaume’s letter in one hand and the two cheques it contains in the other. They are substantial. Guillaume cannot have wanted for much if he can leave that amount to the daughter of a woman whose life he ruined and a child that he has never met. It would probably be more honest to send the cheque for Matilda back to his wife – Grace – at the address on the letterhead, but how much does Grace know? Will sending it back make her aware of something that will haunt her for the rest of her days somehow? Far better that the cheque goes to Matilda, even though she isn’t Gui’s child. But with it, she could finally achieve her goal. It’s enough to fly her far, far away and set herself up for a very long time, should she choose to do that. Or to invest in something that will make her a fortune. Either way, the money will make Matilda a very happy little girl. No one will ever call her ‘Poor Matilda’ again.
The woman slips that cheque in her handbag – it’s made out to Vicky, but I know that the woman intends to make sure Matilda gets it. Matilda’s in no rush yet – there’s a while to go for her to finish her degree, and for her to plan, plan, plan whatever it is that she is going to do.
She holds the second cheque out to Bee, who shakes her head in refusal. I want to physically urge her to take it, but I need not worry. The woman is on the case for me, singing the same tune as I would have sung.
“Take it,” she urges. “You’ll need something to tide you over while you get through all this. You don’t have to spend all of it, but what good would it be to send this money back to a woman who might not even know you exist? Who doesn’t need to know the reason that her husband sent you this money in the first place. Just take it, and keep it safe. You’ll need it.”
And she does.
Bee reluctantly takes the piece of paper and glances at it for a second before folding it carefully and placing it in her pocket.
The woman immediately admonishes her. “Take that out of there,” she urges sternly. “It’s not much use to you once it’s been through a hot wash, now is it?”
And it is then that I see Bee smile. It’s a flicker, a hint, a trace of what it should be like. But it is there nonetheless. There is hope.
They leave in the same silence that surrounded them when they came in. Bee’s head is down and she walks like a robot to the car while all the while the woman chats to her in a gentle voice, talking about banal things: what they will eat when they get ‘home’ as she calls it, what’s on TV that night, how Bee shouldn’t yet mention the letter from Guillaume to her dad. They won’t keep it a secret, she says, but she needs time to clear her mind before she decides what – and how – to tell him.
“Maybe it’s best not to tell him anything,” Bee suggests.
The woman doesn’t dismiss the thought. And in my selfish way I hope that they don’t. Not to save my own gutless hide, however, not to preserve me as the tragic lost love of Edmund Mycroft forever, but to save him from more shattered dreams, more disappointment. To allow him to see out the rest of his days – and face what is to come when he is told Bee’s news – protected from information that might just break him all over again, when he is at last content.
I admit that I didn’t think I would ever feel peace at thinking that. Up until now, I still wanted him to miss me a little, to long for me sometimes, to think that nothing compared to me. But now that I know that he is finally happy, I feel some happiness too. And I am prepared to be forgotten by him if it means that he is spared the news of my stupid infidelity. If that is the price that I must pay for his happiness – to no longer exist for him except as an occasional, dim memory – then that is what I want.
I would like Bee to forgive me, of course. To somehow realise that I am not as dishonest as she has come to think over the past – is it only a matter of hours? A couple of days? She has too much to deal with now. She needs to go with the woman to the countryside. I didn’t think that I would ever feel this either, but she needs to be nurtured by someone, brought back to health. She needs help to regain her s
trength and make decisions for herself and move on.
Mostly, I just want her to be happy too – at whatever cost. It doesn’t matter now, anyway. She will come to realise over time that I loved her – that I truly loved her. That it’s impossible not to. But that she has someone else to watch over her now. Someone who already loves her too, and who will come to love her even more, I am sure, until she loves her as much as a real mother could.
The woman casts a final glance around as she pulls the front door shut behind her. She glances up to the ceiling above, around the walls, and finally to the stairs, where I sit on the bottom step. And for a moment her eyes linger, for just a split second too long. And I wonder if she can see me. If, after all these years, someone can really see me.
Then again, maybe she can’t. She pulls the door suddenly behind her and it closes with a loud click. I am alone again.
And I know for certain this time that they will not be back again.
Chapter 58
June 2021
Jenny
I’m sitting at a garden table. It’s Saturday morning and it’s glorious, the sun is warm and a balmy breeze flits across my face where I sit, slightly shaded, every now and again. The sky is cloudless. A fat bee bothers some lavender beside me, lavender so thick that the pot in which it is planted can barely contain it. A robin, of all things, trills its song from the branch of a magnolia nearby. She and I have much in common, I think. Both of us watchers, both of us unseen, keeping a close eye on this moment.
I am watching a man and a woman. They sit a few feet in front of me, side by side on a wooden bench which looks out over a small courtyard lined on either side by pots of flowers and herbs. The man gently bounces a child on his knee. I cannot see his face, but I know that it is a picture of bliss; the woman, the same. Their voices, their laughter rises and falls into the still summer air to be caught by that teasing breeze and carried out over the valley below.
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