False Hope

by Lynne Lee

  Or had been. I’d texted to say I was on my way when I left the hospital, so by now everyone was busy, bustling around, clearing up. They’d obviously been engaged in some sort of artistic activity, because tubes of acrylic paint I’d never seen before were lined up on the windowsill, and Isabel was wearing Matt’s chef’s apron.

  ‘I’ve done Nan a picture of Spitfire,’ Dillon declared, thrusting one of his finished paintings at me. ‘He’s a soldier, and he has a gun that shoots fire. See? I made a flame print to show it.’

  Daniel, more pragmatically, had gone down a different road. His work of art was a vase full of sunflowers, my mother’s favourite.

  I felt emotion welling dangerously in my throat. My own mother. To avert an overflow, I hauled my shopping bag up on to the counter. ‘I have cake.’

  ‘Ooh, that sounds good,’ Isabel said. ‘But how’s your poor mum doing?’ She was bending down, busy rinsing paint palettes and jam jars, dipping intermittently to place things in the dishwasher, and talking to me over her shoulder.

  ‘So-so,’ I said. ‘As well as can be expected, I guess.’

  Isabel turned around then, hooking a strand of hair behind an ear and wiping her wet hands on her apron. A smiling sun in the centre of a calm domestic universe. The person my children came home from school to.

  Something Hope and I had never had. Not, at least, as far as I could remember. Perhaps at one point, before Hope arrived, before her marriage had ended, perhaps my mother had been such a warm maternal presence. But my memories said otherwise. All they seemed to register was absence. Sometimes she wasn’t there simply because she wasn’t home from work, and I would look after Hope (at what now seemed an astonishingly young age); would be her Isabel. Or, much worse (and this became truer as I got older, and my journey to school longer), she would be home but not present. As in not seeming even the tiniest bit pleased to see me – my ‘favourite’ status still no match for her true love, her work. I could hear the blare of the television in the living room – Hope banished to her electronic childminder, as per – and see the teetering piles of exercise books that always littered the kitchen table, bristling with childish errors that Mum needed to correct. See the irritation on her face as she jabbed her red ballpoint in my direction. For goodness sake, Grace, I’m marking. Can’t you see? Just because I’m home doesn’t mean I’ve finished working!

  Why so irritated? Why so cold? Why did she even have children? Why, why, why, why?

  Stop it, I told myself as I pulled out the cakes. ‘They think she’s developing a kidney infection,’ I clarified. ‘So they’re keeping her in for a bit. But no major harm done, thank goodness.’

  Isabel cocked her head slightly to the side, and frowned. ‘Oh, bless her. Your lovely mum. It’s all just so sad, isn’t it? I was saying to my nan earlier. You must have been so worried about her. I know everyone there was. Still, at least she’s in the right place,’ she added brightly. ‘And I’m sure she’ll be back to her old self in no time. I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’

  Then she stopped, looked at me quizzically, and, presumably reading my expression, placed a hand momentarily on my arm. ‘Are you okay?’ she mouthed silently, giving it a little squeeze. Then, deploying some secret skill she seemed far too young to have mastered, changed her tone completely, grabbed the kettle, and waved it towards Daniel. ‘Oh, and by the way,’ she trilled, as I gratefully swallowed the lump in my throat. ‘By the flippin’ WAY. Isn’t it just the best news about Dan getting into the B team?’

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘I didn’t know! Oh, sweetheart, that’s amazing!’

  He made a ‘tsk’ sound. ‘Mum, I left you a voicemail.’

  ‘We thought you were probably in theatre,’ Isabel added quickly. ‘And then what with your mum and everything . . .’

  By now, I was already rummaging for my mobile. Where, right there, amid the slew of Mum-related calls and texts and WhatsApps, was a lonely missed call from my son.

  ‘Are you crying?’ Daniel asked, looking bemused now. Then he grinned. ‘Chill out, Mum. It’s only the B team.’

  ‘Of course your mum’s crying,’ Isabel told him. ‘Mums always cry when they’re happy. D’oh, Dan. Everyone knows that.’

  I could only blow my nose and nod gratefully.

  It was getting on for ten by the time Matt was finally home, by which time we had eaten what felt like half our body weights in pizza, and I’d recovered at least some of my misplaced emotional equilibrium.

  But my mother, currently lying in her hospital bed, oblivious, was still dominating my thoughts. I was still dumbstruck by what I’d found, and had by now created an inverse correlation; the more I was able to slot the correspondence into an orderly timetable, the less ordered were my increasingly racing thoughts. What the hell had she thought she was doing?

  I poured Matt a beer, got out some cheese and crackers for him to eat in lieu of dinner, and once he was sitting down at the kitchen island, and he’d inspected my eye, I finally presented him with the evidence of Mum’s betrayal.

  ‘That’s a strong word to use,’ he said mildly. ‘Even for your mother.’

  ‘It’s still the right word. The only word.’ I pointed to the cards and letters now before him. ‘She was doing all of this, right under my nose, for, as far as I can work out, at least five or six years.’

  He picked up one of the cards. ‘So Mary is definitely Norma, by the looks of things.’

  ‘Of course. That was obviously the way they’d decided to play things. They couldn’t introduce her as Norma, could they? The boys might say something to one of us, mightn’t they? So I imagine they decided to tell the boys she was her friend.’

  ‘Logical. But wouldn’t Dillon have recognised her anyway?’

  ‘I did wonder about that. But from what I can work out here, she didn’t actually meet up with them till at least two years after we cut off all contact. How likely would it be? He wasn’t even two the last time he saw her. No, they were obviously speaking on the phone at first, and Mum was sending her photos. And you know what’s worse? That I’ve even worked out how they did it. And, seriously, it beggars belief.’

  I passed him one of the letters. ‘This was when we both went to Edinburgh for that awards dinner, remember? When she said she’d have the boys and we drove down and dropped them off with her, and then flew up to Scotland from Gatwick?’ I grabbed another. ‘And this was when you were away on that big road project in Cumbria, and I needed a couple of days to revise for my MRCS exam. Remember how she offered to have them, and how astonished I was? And this one—’ I picked up the letter I’d first opened – the angry, threatening, ‘don’t make me come round’ one. ‘This was when she was supposed to have them while they fitted the new kitchen in our old house. I’d arranged everything but there was that last-minute delay with the cabinets, remember? And I ended up deciding to stay down there as well?’ I handed Matt the letter. ‘Remember when I told her I’d decided to stay as well? Save driving up to London and back twice when I didn’t need to? Especially with the kitchen in such a state. Remember me telling you how she’d huffed about having to make me up a bed? I was just working on the principle that she wanted to spend time with them without me there, but she was obviously agitated because her plan to meet up with Norma had been scuppered. I double-checked the dates. The letter’s postmarked that Friday. Which means we were still actually at Mum’s when it arrived. And you know what? I even remember her being a bit strange and distracted. D’you remember me telling you? How we’d wanted to go to that lifeboat charity event on the front, and she’d insisted on dragging us off to that bloody falconry centre near Hailsham instead? It all makes sense now. She must have arranged to meet Norma there, mustn’t she? And was worried about the risk of us bumping into her with the boys there. And God, that’s another thing. Her phone! Yes, I remember now – it kept on ringing and ringing, and when I asked her who it was, she was all odd and cagey – I think I even mentioned that to you as well, come to
think of it. Yes. Yes, I did. And we’d laughed, thinking she might have a secret boyfriend. God, can you believe she was doing all this right under our noses?’

  Matt drained his beer. Put the glass down. Shook his head.

  Said, ‘Honest answer? Yes. Absolutely.’

  I started gathering the letters and cards into a pile. I still couldn’t quite get my head round the extent of her treachery. Which had clearly troubled her too – it was presumably the reason she hadn’t passed the cards on; to do so might have led to me asking questions. ‘And do you know what else I’ve been thinking? That her haring off up to Hope’s grave today didn’t happen out of the blue. It was obviously triggered by something or someone – and, seriously, you should have seen the state of her flat – so what if that someone was Norma?’

  But Matt was off on another trajectory. ‘But why?’ he said. ‘Why would your mother befriend Norma Kennedy in the first place? What’s her motivation? Why would she befriend Aidan’s mother, given what her son had done to Hope? Why would she want anything to do with her? That bit doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘But it does. Think about what we were saying last night. Suppose Mum had already gone through the same thought process as we have? And don’t forget, Hope kept a hell of a lot about Aidan from her. So perhaps she felt guilty—’

  ‘Guilty? About what?’

  ‘About Norma. Well, maybe not so much guilty as, I don’t know, sorry for her. That it wouldn’t hurt to send her pictures of Dillon from time to time. Stay in touch.’ I raised the wodge of cards in my hand. ‘I’ll bet that’s how all this started. In fact, I’d put money on it. After all, she made no secret of the fact that she felt bad for Norma, did she?’

  ‘Which was pretty rich, coming from her. Like she was ever granny of the century. Or mum of the century, for that matter. To either of you. Jesus. What a Judas.’

  Which made me think then. About Judas. And his remorse at his treachery. Was that what Mum had been babbling about earlier? Was this what had got out of hand?

  Chapter 16

  I fell asleep that night in seconds, but at two I was wide awake again, agitated and restless. I could hear a tawny owl calling (‘our’ owl, as Daniel called it now; perhaps that was what had woken me) but, apart from that, the silence pressed in on all sides, only emphasising the clamouring of anxious thoughts inside my head. I knew there was no chance I’d fall asleep again.

  The light in the bedroom felt strange, too. Not quite dark enough, faintly pink, distinctly milky. And once I’d slipped out from under the duvet – grateful for Matt’s earplug habit, as I didn’t want to disturb him – I could see why: the garden was blanketed in snow.

  I knew I would never get back to sleep now, so grabbed my dressing gown and went downstairs to make myself a mug of tea, then headed across the hall and living room into the conservatory.

  Though, technically, it wasn’t actually a conservatory. It had low walls on three sides, as opposed to being fully glass, which apparently made it an orangery. It had come up during one of only two conversations I had had with our nearest neighbours, a childless retired couple who’d known the previous owners well – and, I suspect, liked them better, too. (The only other time we’d spoken to them had been a slightly frostier encounter involving Daniel’s football.) Whatever it was called, there were no oranges growing in it. Just a couple of beanbags, a coffee table, and the low L-shaped sofa that had been in our living room in London. We’d replaced it, for this house, with a substantially scaled-up model, which I hardly ever sat on, because I didn’t do much sitting. And when I did, usually to read, I liked this one much better. Twelve years old now, it was sagging and on its last legs, but it had so many memories woven into its tired, threadbare fabric that it was like an old friend. Matt and I, newly married, curled up on it together, falling asleep on it, in the small hours, after a night at a party, and during all those barely awake 5 a.m. sessions breastfeeding Daniel before work, knowing, even then, that they were moments of precious babyhood I must burn into my soul, because they were ones that I would never have with him again.

  I lowered myself into it now, in the same spot I always did, and recalled the day when Matt and I had sat on it with Daniel, and explained that his cousin was coming to stay.

  ‘Which cousin?’ he’d asked.

  It said it all.

  After Hope’s death, I knew relationships were bound to get messy, and not just the complexities of assimilating a toddler we barely knew into our little family. Losing a loved one, especially so unexpectedly and tragically, is like dropping a rock into a pond; it’s not just about the ripples that inevitably spread out, it’s the violent displacement of previously calm water. Most will flow back, but some inevitably seeps away.

  I had no idea what my mother was going through. I could guess – it’s not like humans aren’t wired to try, after all – but it was such a huge thing to imagine what it must be like to lose your child that I was no different from anyone else in that respect. I could sympathise but – with luck – I’d never be able to truly know, not on a visceral level.

  Visceral it was. Mum was, for a while, lost to us. Wholly, worryingly absent. Had joined a club, one with a very small, exclusive membership. One nobody wanted to join.

  We took Dillon straight back to London, of course, the day after Hope’s death, and tried hard to persuade Mum to come and stay too, at least for a couple of weeks, so we could all be together. She wouldn’t. She sat tight, with us visiting in the week before the funeral, and refused to leave Brighton after it as well. It was out of the question, even for a night, she insisted, since she had to visit Hope’s grave every day. Sometimes, I knew, she spent hours there. Hours she’d rarely spent with Hope when she was well. But perhaps that was the reason, right there.

  We never spoke about it. We’d rarely ever spoken about anything meaningful, and this was no different; in fact, I think it suited her. She’d taken full ownership of the family grief from day one. Had ring-fenced it so completely that I sometimes found myself wondering if she’d had some Damascene moment of shocking maternal clarity, wishing that perhaps I’d died instead. Because mourning me would have been so much more straightforward a business, so much less cluttered by guilt and remorse and regret.

  And perhaps the knowledge that I knew that, as well?

  Somehow, however, she got back to work, and sooner than anyone expected. She had taken barely half a term off, and was back in her classroom immediately after Easter, finding a way through the forest of the pain she was thrashing around in by leading the kids who’d always seemed a much more natural fit for her than her own daughters out of thickets of mathematical incomprehension. She retired the following year, at sixty-five, very reluctantly, by which time our relationship had shape-shifted so dramatically that what had once been a random musing on the complexity of grief now felt like a personal truth. Whether it was because I didn’t share her loss, quite (not in her strict hierarchical system), or because she genuinely couldn’t stop herself from feeling the way she did, she seemed to resent me every bit of my life: my work, my marriage, and our boys – particularly our boys.

  And as I sat looking out over the garden, another brutal truth settled on my by-now chilly shoulders. There was no getting away from it. She hated me being happy.

  I recalled one conversation all too vividly.

  ‘They’re throwing me a party,’ she’d told me, once she’d set the date for her retirement. ‘On the fifth, at the school. A special assembly. The mayor’s coming. Can you bring the boys?’

  The fifth. Which was a Thursday a scant nine days hence. ‘I can try,’ I’d said, my heart sinking. ‘Though it might be a bit tricky.’

  ‘Tricky why?’

  ‘Because it’s rather short notice, Mum. And I’m on call. Which would mean trying to swap it, which means—’

  ‘But you have to bring the boys down. It’s my retirement.’

  ‘I know, and if I can I obviously will. But if I can’t—’<
br />
  ‘Well, where’s Matthew?’

  ‘In Glasgow, remember?’ He was working on a road-building project at the time, necessitating frequent days-long trips away. The boys were still in nursery, the one at the hospital, and my weekdays were not so much a nine-to-five routine as a five-to-nine, mile-a-minute blur.

  ‘Well, can’t you take a day’s holiday?’

  ‘I can try. It might be difficult.’ It would, in fact, almost certainly be impossible.

  ‘But it’s important. It’s my retirement.’

  I remembered wanting to scream then. And I work for the NHS! And I am on sodding call! ‘Mum, I’ll try, okay? I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  And I’d done so, the following evening, just as I’d promised, Matt’s advice not to let her bully me ringing in my ears.

  ‘Mum, I’m sorry, but I really can’t do this. So, we were thinking, how about we bring the boys down to Brighton that weekend? Take you out for dinner. Somewhere nice. Have a family celebration.’

  The silence was short. Short and sour. No hint of sweetness. And, in a flight of steps we both climbed up like medal-hungry Olympians, we went from regret (I did my best) and polite acceptance (thanks for trying) to a place we had probably both visited in our thoughts many times, but never, up till that point, together. Thus I was selfish and work-obsessed (I’m selfish? I’m work-obsessed?), she was unreasonable and demanding (oh, pots, kettles, young lady!), and, dig by dig, we arrived at the inevitable stalemate of disagreeing about whose needs mattered most here. Which inevitably veered away to whose rights mattered most here. Mine, not to move heaven and earth for her party. Or hers, bottom line, to have ‘her boys’ there.

  There’s a point in chess, called the endgame, when the strategy changes. When the king, previously passive, becomes aggressive. ‘Mum, they’re my boys.’