Gracie’s Secret_A heartbreaking page-turner that will stay with you forever

by Jill Childs

  The young man writes furiously in his notebook.

  Her eyes are on mine. They narrow. ‘Just to clarify, you’re saying you didn’t take a phone call? Are you quite certain of that?’

  I bite my lip a bit and try to look thoughtful. ‘I may have had a call earlier. Work stuff. But not then.’ I pause. ‘I’d have remembered.’

  I’m a damn good liar. There are two vital ingredients. Consistency. In other words, stick to your story. And keep your cool.

  Her eyes bore right through me and I see in an instant that we understand each other perfectly. She knows I’m lying and she knows I know she knows. The question is: what’s she going to do about it?

  ‘It’s a very serious matter, Ms Hicks.’ Her tone is dry. ‘A young woman is dead.’

  I look pained. ‘I know. Awful. I can’t stop thinking about her.’

  Richard, always a soft touch, reaches for my hand and squeezes it.

  The police officer’s eyes are still on mine.

  ‘If necessary, would you testify to that effect?’ she says. ‘Under oath.’

  I nod. ‘Of course. Anything.’

  Richard shows them out. When he comes back, he puts his arm round me.

  ‘Alright?’

  I don’t answer.

  ‘Thank God you weren’t on the phone,’ he says. ‘That could’ve been really serious. Imagine.’

  The next day, Richard makes some calls and finds out that the inquest has already taken place. A verdict of accidental death. He seems puzzled. Why would the police come round and talk about testifying when the inquest is already over? I see at once. I know a warning when I see one. We know exactly what happened, Ms Hicks. Too late this time but watch your step.

  So that’s it. I’m safe, after all. It wasn’t fear of punishment that kept me awake at night. It was fear that, if all this came out, Richard would discover who it was who called me. And why.

  Twenty

  Jennifer

  I opened the door to the babysitter and went upstairs to say goodbye to you. You smelled the guilt as soon as I walked in. I never went anywhere in the evenings. I hated leaving you with anyone else, now more than ever.

  ‘Mummy!’ You sat up in bed, your arms round your bear. Kitty and puppy and the rest of the menagerie were lined along the wall. A story book lay open across your knees. You pointed. ‘Read this.’

  ‘Sweetheart, I’ve got to go. Dianne’s here. Remember?’

  You looked cross. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m going out for dinner.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because mummies have play dates too, sometimes.’

  You narrowed your eyes. ‘But I don’t want you to.’

  I wavered for a moment, seeing you there, then thought how ridiculous I would sound if I tried to explain to Dianne, now settling herself in the sitting room, that I didn’t have the willpower to leave you for a few hours.

  ‘I’ll ask Dianne if she’ll come up and read you a story. Would you like that?’

  No answer.

  I kissed each of your toys and then you. ‘I love you, little Gracie. See you later.’

  You wrinkled your nose. ‘I’m not little.’

  As I reached the door, you added: ‘I don’t like Dianne.’

  I sighed. ‘Gracie.’

  ‘What if she touches my railway?’

  ‘I’ll make sure she doesn’t.’

  ‘Or my books?’

  ‘Or your books.’

  ‘But you won’t be here.’

  ‘Go to sleep.’ I inched out of the bedroom door. ‘Tell that bear all the things you did today.’

  I brushed my hair, pulled on a dress and sprayed a little perfume. My hands trembled as I closed the front door, and my stomach churned. I wasn’t sure if the nerves were about leaving you or meeting Matt.

  As I got off the Tube and walked from the station to the restaurant, I started to feel sick. I tried to remember what I really knew about Matt. Not much. I hadn’t had a date since Richard left. I just hadn’t been interested, hadn’t met anyone. My evenings were all TV dinners and early nights.

  I hesitated in the street, scared of the bustle around me, of the women in high heels and short skirts who looked so fashionable and confident. My own dress, years old, seemed dowdy. I clutched my handbag and breathed heavily, in and out. After all this time, the rules must have changed. Maybe he’d expect sex if he bought me dinner. I wasn’t ready for all that.

  I stopped. It wasn’t too late. I’d call him and make an excuse. Say you weren’t well.

  ‘Jenny!’

  Matt, emerging from the restaurant a few doors down, had spotted me. He was wearing a well-cut blazer, his shirt open at the collar. That flop of fringe was pushed to one side. His eyes were amused.

  ‘Are you OK?’ He reached me, took my arm, led me forward into the tapas bar, which was teeming with music, with chatter. ‘It’s a bit noisy down here.’ He leaned close to make himself heard and his aftershave came too. ‘I’ve got a table upstairs. Come on.’

  As I walked ahead of him, his hand hovered at the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd. Warm and strong.

  He had chosen well. A corner table tucked into the broad windows, which gave onto the street below. A bottle of claret sat open beside wine glasses the size of goldfish bowls. Richard hated glasses like that. He said they were designed to make people drink too much. Up here, the clamour of the bar below was muted.

  ‘I kept popping down to look for you,’ he said. ‘It’s not the easiest place to find.’

  ‘You’ve been here before?’ I was fishing, of course, angling for little pieces of his life so I could fit them together and understand him better. Always, with Matt, it felt as if there were pieces missing.

  ‘It’s my local.’ He smiled. ‘My flat’s down the road, near the Tube. Small but central.’

  He poured us both wine and we clinked glasses. I tried to cross my legs, then uncrossed them, shuffled on my chair. I took a sip of wine, then another.

  The claret was full-bodied and spread itself through my chest, down into my stomach, my legs. I let my shoulders fall an inch. The lights were low and a candle burned steadily in a glass holder. All around us, people chattered, ate, laughed. This was it then, being out. I had the sense of setting down a heavy burden, of emerging, lighter, from a cocoon. I was having dinner with a man who wasn’t Richard. A man called Matt.

  ‘So,’ he said, leaning across the table, ‘tell me something about yourself. Something about Jenny the person, not Jenny the mum.’

  I hesitated, trying to remember. It had been a long time since anyone asked about her.

  Matt was a good listener and when I finally faltered, he picked up the conversation with ease, chatting about a film he’d seen at the weekend and the writers he enjoyed. We ordered half a dozen types of tapas to share but the restaurant seemed overwhelmed. The waitress brought us all sorts of things in a complete muddle, some we’d ordered and some we hadn’t.

  As time passed and the claret flowed, we gave up trying to sort it out with her and ate whatever arrived, making a game of guessing what it was. He made me laugh. I noticed too the way the waitress flirted with him as he teased her about the chaos and thought how attractive he was, how charming and wondered why on earth he was bothering with me.

  Later, as we waited for coffee, the conversation slowed. My head was thick with wine and my fingers clumsy. Downstairs, the bar was still raucous but the upstairs diners were more subdued.

  ‘How’s Gracie doing?’

  I considered, pleating my napkin absently in my lap. ‘She’s different.’

  ‘What do you mean? Tired? Clingy? She’s probably still healing, even if it doesn’t show.’

  ‘Not that.’ I paused. ‘She’s said some bizarre things.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Technically, Gracie died in the accident. I mean, they had to revive her.’ I steadied myself, struggling to explain. ‘Well, she sa
ys she went on a journey and there was a man waiting for her. An angel.’

  Matt didn’t move a muscle; he just looked at me.

  ‘I know it’s weird.’ I swallowed. ‘The thing is, Gracie’s adamant. I’ve tried talking to her about the fact angels don’t really exist and she just gets upset.’

  Matt didn’t reply. His eyes slid away from me, down to his hands.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked carefully.

  I shrugged. ‘I’m not sure.’ I hesitated. ‘I think she really believes it’s true. That it really happened and there are angels with halos and wings in the sky.’

  Matt looked out at the darkness. His reflection hung in the glass.

  Finally he said: ‘It might be chemical.’

  ‘Chemical?’

  He turned to face me. ‘Her body was in shock. The brain bleed was extensive. It may have caused a vivid hallucination.’ He paused, trying to gauge my reaction. ‘It’s just a theory.’

  I considered. His voice was matter of fact and made it sound so plausible.

  ‘It seems very real to her.’ I thought of your happiness when you saw the stained-glass window. ‘She talks about the angel as if he’s her friend.’

  Matt pursed his lips. ‘Damage to brain tissue is complex. And it takes time to repair. It’s possible, that when she’s in a state of deep relaxation and her brain is processing information—’ he shrugged ‘—well, it’s perfectly possible she might have a secondary reaction.’

  ‘Really?’ I shook my head.

  A faint shadow of embarrassment crossed his face. ‘I mean, do you mind my asking, are you religious? Because I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘Not really.’ I said it too quickly. ‘I mean, I was christened so I suppose if I was filling in a form, I might put Church of England, you know, but I haven’t been to church for a long time. A very long time.’ I gave a quick nervous laugh. ‘And I never took it literally, Heaven up there and eternal hellfire down below and all that.’

  The coffee arrived and we sat in silence while the waitress set out our cups and milk and the cafetière. She tried to catch Matt’s eye but he didn’t notice her and she withdrew.

  Matt poured the coffee and stirred in milk. I did the same. I was preoccupied, uncertain what I did believe.

  ‘They’re not uncommon, you know,’ he said.

  ‘What aren’t?’

  ‘Out-of-body experiences. I’ve heard of them before from patients who’ve been clinically dead and then resuscitated.’

  I blinked. ‘What do they say?’

  ‘There’s a classic pattern. Tunnels, bright lights, a sense of detachment, then hurtling back into a rush of sensory experience, of bodily pain.’

  I stared. ‘That’s what she said. She flew down a tunnel and the angel was there at the other end, waiting for her. In bright light.’

  He nodded. ‘There you are then.’

  I narrowed my eyes. My senses were befuddled with the wine and rich food. ‘So what are you saying, that people imagine it?’

  ‘Not imagine it, exactly. I’m not saying they make it up. They may experience those sensations, those images, as brain function is compromised.’ He pulled a face. ‘I’m just saying, Gracie’s far from the first to describe something like that.’

  I tutted. ‘I take it you’re not religious.’

  ‘I’m a doctor. I treat the body.’ He hesitated. ‘But I try to respect what other people believe. When someone dies on the ward, a lot of nurses like to open the window so the soul can depart. Some of the doctors stop them. I don’t.’

  I stared. ‘They think the soul flies out of the window?’

  ‘Something like that.’ He shrugged. ‘People deal with death in their own way. There’s no right or wrong about it. They do what they need to do.’

  I twisted in my chair to look out at the lights in the street below. The beams of brightness from passing cars. The pools spilling out from shop windows and bars. The dark mass of people, shuffling and jostling, shouting and laughing, down the crowded pavement. I lifted my eyes and had a fleeting image of Gracie’s soul flying in a streak of light through the night sky.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  His voice drew me back into the warmth.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it such a lot. About why Gracie would say that if it isn’t true. Where do people go when they die? My father. He died years ago. I don’t believe in Heaven, in pearly gates. It makes no sense. But if I try to imagine him as dust, as not being, not existing and, well, that doesn’t make sense either. He was such a strong personality. He knew so much.’ I paused. ‘I don’t understand where he went.’

  He reached over and put his hand over mine. It was kind and comforting and I stroked his long fingers.

  ‘Were you very close to your father?’

  No one had asked me about him for years. I opened my handbag and pulled out my wallet, opened it. There were two clear plastic pockets inside for photographs. On one side was a picture of you, my love, all bunches and a beaming smile. On the other there was a washed-out old Polaroid from decades ago. I’d found it in Mum’s house when I was sorting through papers.

  I looked about your age, three or four. We were posing by the Royal Pavilion at Brighton. I was in a cotton summer dress and strappy sandals. Mum and Dad stood together behind me, their hands protective on my shoulders. Their faces looked impossibly happy. Mum must have been barely thirty then, younger than I was now.

  ‘He worked in a hospital too. Not a doctor though. A technician.’

  ‘He looks kind.’ He nodded, smiled. ‘And that’s your mum?’

  ‘She’s still around.’ I paused. ‘Well, just about. Dementia.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said simply.

  Afterwards, we set off together for the Tube, threading our way through the groups cascading onto the pavement from pubs and bars. He took my hand. I felt awkward at first, then relaxed into the warmth of his fingers, their firmness. It felt safe.

  I had an acute sense of his body, now loosely attached to mine, of his breathing, of the muscles in his arms, his shoulders. I sensed the tension in my own body as it imagined being touched.

  My mind raced ahead. He’d said his flat was close by. If he asked to come home with me, I’d say no. I rehearsed the words in my head: I’ve had a wonderful evening, Matt, but it’s a bit soon. I don’t think I’m ready. And Gracie—

  ‘There’s something I wanted to say, Jenny.’ He slowed his steps and I kept pace with him, my eyes on our moving feet. ‘Look, I can see things haven’t been easy. What with Gracie being ill. And Richard and everything.’

  My cheeks grew hot. My hand felt heavy in his.

  ‘I really like you. This isn’t just about Gracie. I want to get to know you properly, you know? If you like.’

  He seemed bashful. A different man from the confident doctor who strode down hospital corridors and swept me off for curry that night. I smiled in the darkness.

  ‘It’s been a while.’ I hesitated. ‘I nearly bottled out tonight, you know.’

  ‘I know.’ He looked round and we grinned at each other like fools for no good reason. ‘If I hadn’t grabbed hold of you, you’d have run screaming the other way.’

  We’d almost reached the Tube. A bright cone of light flooded out into the street from the concourse. We both slowed our pace as we approached it.

  ‘So where’s the flat?’ I paused to look.

  On the far side of the road, just beyond the Tube station, a large square stretched into the darkness, bordered by railings. The trees rose tall and black against the night sky. It was surrounded by grand Georgian mansions.

  He pointed down a much narrower street beyond the square. ‘Just down there. Second block on the left. Flat twenty-two.’

  ‘Handy.’

  ‘Not bad, as long as you don’t want to swing any cats.’

  I wanted to see it. You learnt a lot about someone from their ho
me. But it also felt too much, too intimate, to suggest.

  ‘Well,’ he said.

  I opened my mouth, ready to give my prepared speech about not wanting to rush things, to take my time. I didn’t need it.

  ‘Thanks, Jenny. It’s been a lovely evening.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I tried to sound casual. ‘It has.’

  He smiled down at me. ‘I bet we’ve both got an early start in the morning. Can I call you?’

  I nodded. A moment later, he drew me to one side, out of the flow of passengers and into the shadows, cupped my chin with his hand and touched his lips to mine, so softly I felt almost cheated. His cashmere coat brushed against my legs as he moved to walk away.

  It was only then that I remembered something I’d meant to ask him.

  ‘Matt!’

  He turned back.

  ‘Intensive care at Queen Mary’s. What floor is it on?’

  He looked surprised. ‘Paediatric ICU, where Gracie was? Five. Why?’

  ‘Five.’ I nodded. ‘Thanks. I just couldn’t remember.’

  He hesitated, considering, then added: ‘But Paediatric A&E is on four. She’ll have gone there first.’

  He disappeared into the crowd. I went through the turnstiles and started down the escalator to the platform.

  Four. That’s exactly what you’d said.

  Twenty-One

  ‘Gracie! Stop it!’

  You pulled at my hand like a dog straining on a lead.

  ‘Please, Mummy.’

  We were coming back from the park and I was laden with shopping. My feet ached. I wanted to go home and have a cup of tea but you persisted, trying to drag me sideways off the High Street towards the church.

  ‘Please, Mummy. I want to see Mr Michael.’

  ‘Saint Michael.’ I wished I’d never told you his name. ‘He’s not a real person, Gracie. You know that. He’s pretend.’

  You understood the difference between real and pretend. Heaven knows, your small life was already filled with animals in books and cartoons who talked and rode bicycles and went to multi-species playgroups, with dolls who had tea parties and a stuffed bear who was your best friend. You believed in them but you also knew, at a different level, that it was play.