The Lost Sister

by Tracy Buchanan

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Becky

  Kent, UK

  6 July 2018

  Becky stands outside the cave waiting to meet Solar’s grandmother, Donna. It’s strange being back in the UK, back in the town where she grew up. Everything seemed otherworldly in Russia with its vast icy caves and strange language. But here it’s achingly familiar. She peers inside towards where her mum had died … and possibly where her sister was born all those years before.

  What happened to that baby?

  She looks at her watch. It’s past ten now, the time she’s due to meet Donna. Becky had called her from Russia and the conversation had been brief, Donna insisting they meet so they could talk face-to-face.

  So here she is.

  Becky pulls her cardigan off. The clouds are grey above, but the air is cloyingly warm, filled with electricity.

  Will there be a storm soon?

  As she thinks that, a woman approaches. She’s short, walks briskly, her greying hair lifting in the sea breeze. She’s wearing a navy blue raincoat and wellies, a coffee in each hand.

  ‘I brought provisions,’ she says when she gets to Becky. ‘I presume you’re Becky?’

  Becky nods. ‘Thanks for meeting me, Donna.’

  ‘You look like your mum,’ Donna says briskly. She hands Becky a cup before reaching into her bag and pulling out two chocolate muffins. ‘Fresh out of the oven this morning.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Becky says with a smile, taking her muffin. ‘They look delicious.’

  ‘Shall we go into the cave?’ Donna asks. ‘Might be a bit more private in there.’

  Becky hesitates. She’s not sure how she feels about returning to the place her mum died. Then she feels raindrops on her head.

  ‘Well, that decides it,’ Donna says in her matter-of-fact voice. ‘Come on.’

  They walk into the cave, the same cave Becky walked into with her mum over a month ago. She feels like a different person now, but she’s not sure who that person is. She’s still trying to figure it out.

  ‘Shall we sit here?’ Donna asks, gesturing to two chalk boulders that sit side by side, one painted red, another blue. ‘This is where your mum and I sometimes used to sit, looking out to sea and drinking tea.’ She smiles as they sit down. ‘Or often it was gin in your mum’s case. She loved her gin.’

  ‘Yes, she did, didn’t she?’

  ‘So,’ Donna says, taking a sip of her coffee and peering sideways at Becky, a nervous look on her face. ‘You’re looking for your sister?’

  Becky nods. ‘I thought it was Solar, your Solar.’

  Donna sighs. ‘I didn’t know myself I had a granddaughter until a few years ago. Oceane didn’t want me knowing she was pregnant, not with Idris’s child. She didn’t even tell Idris at first. In her sweet little way, she wanted the best for your mum and Idris.’ Donna shakes her head. ‘Always so naive, like I once was. Anyway, she stayed with a friend in France, gave birth just before your mum did. She was planning to put Solar up for adoption but then Idris turned up after finding out and she agreed he could take their baby. Years later, she regretted her decision and tracked them down in Russia. They lived there together for many years. Then Idris did his disappearing act again.’

  ‘Where’s Idris now?’ Becky asks.

  ‘Nobody knows. He just left one day when Solar was twelve. But you’re not here to hear all that, are you? You’re here to find your lost sister.’

  Becky leans forward, eager for information. ‘I am.’

  ‘What have you found out so far?’ Donna asks, examining Becky’s face.

  ‘Nothing. Just that Mum had a baby and you might know what happened.’

  Donna nods then reaches into her bag. ‘Part of me didn’t want to have to do this, but I think I have no choice.’

  She pulls out a book, handing it to Becky with a deep shaky breath. ‘I think it’s time your mum took over from here.’

  Becky looks at the book. It’s The Cave by Thomas Delaney, the book she’d spotted at the little bookshop she’d seen across from her mum’s hospital room.

  She frowns, looking up at Donna. ‘This isn’t one of my mum’s books.’

  ‘No, but it’s her story. She told it to my son Tom a few months before she died.’ She smiles with pride. ‘He’s an author now. He was so inspired by your mum’s success, he decided to have a go himself.’ Becky thinks of the photo she saw of the man holding the cane at the bookshop.

  She turns the novel around, reading the blurb.

  In THE CAVE, a gripping novel from author Thomas Delaney, we delve into the world of cults and caves as we follow one woman’s journey into a life that spirals quickly out of control.

  ‘I’m still confused,’ Becky says. ‘It’s a novel, a work of fiction.’

  ‘To anyone else, it is,’ Donna says. ‘But to those in the know, all you’ll find in there are facts. Read that and you’ll get your mum’s full uncensored story, from the day she first laid eyes on Idris to the weeks after she gave birth.’ Donna smiles sadly. ‘No more lies.’

  ‘How do you know there aren’t any more lies?’ Becky asks, gripping the book so hard her knuckles turn white.

  ‘I could see it in your mum’s eyes when I saw her a few months ago. She gave me an advance copy to read. And when I did, there was one truth I thought she’d never tell in there, confirming every line was fact. The only fabrications are the main characters’ names, see?’ she adds, pointing to the name on the first page. ‘Tom renamed your mum as Selma, instead of her real name, Samantha. Plus she charged the name of this town to Queensbay. That was one of the four things she insisted on.’

  ‘What else did she insist on?’ Becky asks.

  ‘That Tom make no reference in his bio or press interviews to his time with Idris and the Children of the Current. She needed to be sure no connection was made to her. She also asked that she write the dedication at the front of the book.’

  Becky flicks back through the pages to see the dedication.

  To B. No more lies.

  ‘That’s you, Becky,’ Donna says softly. ‘Samantha knew she was dying when I saw her, that it might not be long. She feared you might never get to learn the truth if you refused to see her. This was her way of delivering that truth to you.’

  Becky feels tears flood her eyes.

  ‘Shall I leave you to it then?’ Donna asks, standing up.

  Becky nods, unable to get her words out.

  ‘I’ll be in the café if you need me.’

  ‘You don’t need to stay,’ Becky says.

  ‘You might need me to,’ Donna says, looking at the book sadly.

  As she walks away, Becky opens the novel and begins to read.

  Chapter One

  It all started when the boy nearly drowned.

  Queensbay was experiencing one of those summer evenings where strangers smile at each other as they pass on the street, everyone in awe that the temperature could be that warm in grey old Britain …

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Selma

  Kent, UK

  15 May 1992

  I checked my face in my little compact mirror, smoothing more concealer under my eyes. I looked ragged, which was no surprise considering I’d given birth just a few weeks before. At least my stomach was more easily covered now, even if it hadn’t returned to its previous form.

  I peered behind me, looking towards where Catherine was sleeping in Idris’s arms as he looked down at her in awe. I had to go see Becky as it was her last day in Queensbay. I wanted to see her, of course I did, but this was the first time I’d left Catherine alone. It made me feel sick, frantic even. But I couldn’t let Becky down.

  I took a deep breath and headed to the café. Becky was waiting at a table with Mike, reading a magazine as Mike talked on a mobile phone. So much for being made redundant. He must have got the promotion he’d always wanted with the move to Busby-on-Sea, a guaranteed work phone part of the package. Social services wouldn’t blink an eye i
f I were still with him. In fact, we’d be ideal parents. But now I was the worst kind of parent according to the authorities, living in a cold, damp cave with no money and an unemployed partner.

  I clenched my fists. Stop the negative thoughts. The darkness was hovering above, a stormy cloud waiting to burst. I was working hard at keeping it at bay, focusing on my love for my girls. And today was all about Becky. She was growing all the time, taller now and becoming less the little girl I remembered. Sun filtered in through a window, creating the effect of a halo over her head. She looked healthy, fit.

  Would Catherine look like that in eight years’ time? She wouldn’t be afforded the luxuries Becky had: four walls and a secure roof over her head. Three square meals a day. Baby classes. Pre-school. Soft play and regular ice creams. It wasn’t just the money. I couldn’t have social services knowing about Catherine so we’d have to spend a lot of time hidden away until we got enough money to leave the UK for Spain, and that wasn’t looking likely. To make matters worse, Catherine had a little cough, no doubt caused by living in that godforsaken cave.

  A woman looked up sharply as I entered. Panic flickered inside. What if it was a social worker spying on me? What if Mike had set me up?

  I went to back away but then the woman stood up and walked to the counter, putting an apron on.

  She wasn’t a social worker, she worked at the café.

  Of course she wasn’t a social worker.

  I took a deep breath as I walked forward, making sure my coat was buttoned up over my stomach. Mike frowned when he saw me. Could he sense I’d had a child?

  ‘Hello darling,’ I said when I got to Becky.

  Becky peered up, a bored expression on her face. ‘Hi Mum.’

  Mum. She used to call me Mummy.

  Mike stood up. ‘You look tired, Selma.’

  ‘I’ve been ill, remember?’ I replied, voice trembling slightly. ‘That’s why I haven’t been able to meet up the past few weeks. I didn’t want Becky to get it.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Mike asked, a concerned expression on his face. ‘Maybe we should rearrange? We’ll be back in a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t mind,’ Becky said, sticking out her chin defiantly.

  ‘No, of course not,’ I said. ‘I want to see my girl.’

  ‘I’ll be sitting outside, making a call,’ Mike said. ‘I have some work to do so thought I’d do it looking out to sea. Got to make the most of these last hours in Queensbay.’ He looked at me sadly then kissed Becky on the forehead before walking out of the café, strolling to a bench just a few metres away.

  Why was he staying so close? Didn’t he trust me? What if he was spying on me from that bench for social services?

  ‘You’re acting weird.’ Becky’s voice cut through my fears.

  I turned to her, forcing a smile. ‘Just tired, that’s all.’

  ‘You always say that when you’re lying.’

  I took her cold hands between mine. ‘So tell me everything! How was your Easter? Are you excited about moving? I’ll plan something fun for when I see you in two weeks, a whole day of it.’

  Becky moved her hands out from under mine and dropped her gaze. ‘Easter was all right. We spent most of it with Cynthia and the twins.’

  I frowned. ‘You seem to be spending a lot of time with them.’

  ‘She has a swimming pool,’ Becky said, shrugging. ‘Anyway, she’s cool.’

  I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of jealousy. ‘I can’t stand the woman personally.’

  Becky’s face hardened. ‘I like Cynthia. She’s a really good mum.’

  I blinked. ‘Really? That surprises me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s always struck me as being a bit competitive, one of those stage mums, you know?’ I tried to get the waitress’s attention. I needed a coffee.

  ‘At least she cares,’ Becky spat.

  I looked back at her in surprise. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Becky crossed her arms and looked away. ‘Nothing.’

  The waitress came over. ‘What can I get you?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re not ready yet,’ I snapped. The waitress gave me a look then walked away. I leaned towards Becky. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I repeated.

  Becky sighed and turned back to me. ‘You’re just not much of a mum, you know?’

  I flinched back, like Becky had slapped me.

  ‘I mean, when’s the last time I saw you?’ Becky asked. ‘Four months ago or something.’

  ‘Two,’ I said. ‘I told you, I’ve been ill!’

  ‘Yeah, you keep saying that. Whatever.’

  ‘What’s with this attitude all of a sudden? Where’s my little girl gone?’

  ‘Where’s my mum gone?’ Becky shouted.

  The café went silent, people looking up from their plates. We both glared at each other. Then Becky pushed her chair away from the table and stood up. Tears started gathering in her eyes.

  ‘You’re rubbish! You bloody left us, Mum. Just left us for a hippy and a smelly cave! Mums don’t do that!’

  ‘I had to,’ I said in a quiet voice. ‘I – I felt trapped. Not by you, not even by your dad. But me! I was trapped by me, by these feelings I get. I love you.’ I started to sob. ‘More than you could ever know. Please believe me, Becky.’

  I went to grab her hand but Becky took a step away. ‘Dad says you don’t really know what love is.’ She angrily wiped her tears away. ‘I agree with him. You don’t think like other people. All the lies you tell … I know you’ve told some to me. Like you being ill, what rubbish. I know you’ll just go and have another kid, that’s what I heard Cynthia say to Dad. You’ll have another kid with Idris and you’ll forget about me and you know what? I don’t really care, not for me anyway. But what about the poor kid?’ She grabbed her backpack, looking down at me with hard eyes. ‘That poor kid won’t have a chance, at least I get to escape you.’ Then she ran out of the café and into her dad’s arms.

  I stayed where I was, breath a thunder in my ears, my eight-year-old daughter’s words echoing in my heart and my soul, over and over. Maybe she was right.

  That poor kid won’t have a chance.

  I didn’t return to the cave straight after the incident with Becky. Instead, I walked to a patch of beach where I used to take her when I was on maternity leave. It was in the opposite direction to the cave, ten minutes’ walk from the house, in between Queensbay and Margate. It wasn’t as busy as the other beaches in the town as the sand wasn’t as white, nor as smooth. Instead, there were small rock pools and pebbles. I used to go as a child, my father skimming stones across the waves. It made me happy.

  Or at least it used to.

  I stepped onto the beach, feeling the familiar crunch of pebbles, imagining Becky wrapped up against my chest, the sight of her blonde hair in wisps as they lifted in the wind. I used to love holding Becky as a baby there, close to my chest in a cold coastal breeze. I used to imagine this beach as mine and Becky’s private little world, even telling her we’d get a tent and set up there in the summer. Not that Becky understood, she was so young. But she’d still smile and look up at me with those happy blue eyes of hers.

  Why hadn’t I fought harder to keep Becky in my world? I’d wanted to escape the wider world, but it shouldn’t have been just about me. It should have been wrapped up in Becky as well. If Becky couldn’t come, then I shouldn’t have gone. Sure, I’d gone to court to fight for her. But after, I’d given up so easily. What mother does that?

  ‘Well this is a surprise.’

  I froze. I’d recognise that voice anywhere.

  It was my mother.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Selma

  Kent, UK

  15 May 1992

  My mother looked awful. Her once heart-shaped face was bloated, her complexion blotchy and red. She looked more like eighty than fifty-five. It was a shock to see her like that.

  She stumbled toward
s me and I backed away, blinking. Was I hallucinating?

  ‘I used to come here with you and your dad,’ she slurred. ‘Is that why you’re here too? Do you remember?’ She frowned. ‘You were young though, just a babe.’

  ‘You’re drunk.’

  ‘I’m always drunk.’ She laughed, then started spluttering, covering her mouth with her spotted hand. ‘Where’s my granddaughter then? You had one, didn’t you? I’ve seen you both looking miserable in that café in Queensbay.’

  ‘You’ve been to Queensbay?’ I asked.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I have been? I’m a resident too, you know.’

  ‘Resident? I don’t understand.’

  She smiled, revealing yellow gapped teeth. ‘I own the hotel there.’

  I froze.

  ‘You know the one,’ she continued. ‘The Queensbay Hotel? Not that it’s done me much good,’ she grumbled.

  That was when it dawned on me.

  My mother was Idris’s stepmother.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ I said, putting my hand to my mouth. ‘You married the owner, Mr Peterson.’

  ‘Yes, and that little thief son of his ran off with my money.’

  Thief.

  So my mother was the one who’d scrawled that graffiti on the cave. She was the one Idris had been scared of all this time. My mother and her imaginary family.

  ‘He isn’t a thief,’ I spat. ‘You swindled his father out of that money, out of the whole hotel.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ my mother said, folding her arms and glaring at me. ‘He signed it over to me fair and square.’

  ‘I know you,’ I said, striding towards her and jabbing my finger at her. ‘You would have manipulated him.’

  She shrugged. ‘Needs must. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same?’

  I shook my head. ‘I wouldn’t.’

  She laughed a bitter laugh that sent seagulls squawking away. ‘I’ve been watching you, Selma. All set up in that cave, deceiving those fools, pretending you believe all the shit they spout. All in the hope you’d get that hotel off the man they call Idris.’ She shook her head. ‘I know that kid from when he was this high,’ she said, her hand to her chest. ‘Snivelling whining, useless little boy. You saw that weakness in him and homed in, just like I did with his father.’