by Sandie Jones
The four couples, the men with their sideburns, and the girls with Coke-can curls in their hair, were all smiling, but it still felt like the Pammie and Jim Show. They were clearly the Elvis and Priscilla of their gang, always holding court and playing for laughs.
So, it seemed Pammie had been getting attention all her life. It was where she was comfortable, naively believing that it validated her somehow, that, without the drama, she’d be insignificant. I thought how exhausting that must be, to be constantly looking for the spotlight.
Towards the end of the album, the black-and-white photos were intermittently interspersed with a flash of colour, as the monochrome was gradually replaced by the real-life glow of a Polaroid. You could see the genuine astonishment on the faces of its subjects as they marvelled at the craziness of this modern-day invention. Would my grandchildren, or even children, look back through an antiquated iPhone and see the same look of wonderment on our faces?
I remembered seeing the first picture on the opening page of the next album, a photo of Jim and Adam, standing at the side of a pond, feeding ducks. Adam with half a slice of bread in his hand, looking up at his dad in awe. I wondered then whether, had they known they had so little time together, they’d have done anything differently. They say we wouldn’t want to know when we are going to die, even if we could, but when I look at pictures like this, I wonder if it wouldn’t be better. So we could use our time more wisely, spend it with people we loved.
I settled back down on the sofa, with the album on my lap, and flicked to the back, where I remembered seeing the picture of Adam and Rebecca, so helpfully left open by Pammie. When I thought about it, every little thing that Pammie had done, from the very beginning, had been contrived, meticulously planned to create upset and turmoil for me. No one else would notice, of course – that’s where she’s clever. ‘What a sweetie,’ they all cried, after she so considerately cooked a huge Christmas dinner, when she knew I’d already had one, and when she secretly arranged for a long-lost friend to turn up at my hen party, fully aware that she’d slept with my last boyfriend. Yep, ‘good old Pammie’.
I thumbed backwards and forwards, then backwards again, looking for the photo of Rebecca. This was definitely the right album; I recollected all the pictures in here. I went through it again, page by page, but there was no photo and no caption that read, ‘Darling Rebecca – miss you every day.’
Where the hell was it? And why had she taken it out? I looked around the room and saw the drawers that sat under the hi-fi. Looking at the photo albums seemed intrusive enough, but I felt compelled to go further, despite the nervous butterflies in my stomach. I inched a drawer open, and could see piles of chequebooks, all used and held together with a rubber band. Statements and invoices were askew, slipping out of plastic folders. I lifted them up, careful not to disturb them too much, and eased the top chequebook out from its tight restraint. I thumb-flicked through the stubs, all neatly written with the date, payee, and amount payable. My eyes scanned at speed: British Gas, Southern Electric, Adam, Homebase, Virgin Media, Adam, Waterstones, Thames Water, Adam. I looked closer to see that Pammie had been paying Adam £200 a month for years, but when I tried to find a similar payment to James – after all, that would only be fair – there was no record of one. Confused, I carefully put the folder back in the drawer and tried to convince myself to stop there, but it felt like I’d picked at a scab and wouldn’t be satisfied until I’d scratched it off. I justified it by telling myself I was on the hunt for the missing photograph, but this woman had so much to hide that I felt a frisson of excitement at what else I might find.
The other drawer of the dresser was awkward to slide, and I had to jemmy it this way and that to get it open. There were two stacks of garish cards, each bundled together with a ribbon. I slid the top card out, a birthday greeting to her from Adam. The one furthest back was a sympathy card, with a note inside, written in Adam’s writing,
Dearest Mum,
Only you can understand how it feels to lose someone so suddenly, so needlessly. I keep asking myself, ‘What if . . . ?’ as I’m sure you must have done a million times. What if I’d been there? Would it have been different? Could I have saved her? Do these questions ever stop, Mum? Can you ever sleep soundly at night knowing that if things had been different . . .
My heart broke for him as I read his poignant words, and a tiny part felt for Pammie too. I couldn’t begin to imagine how it must feel to lose somebody so close. The other pile, much bigger in comparison, was to her with love from James, for every possible occasion: birthdays, Christmas, Mother’s Day, and even those that I didn’t know there were cards for – Easter, St David’s Day. She was lucky to have two sons who thought of her as often as Adam and James did. What a shame she didn’t want to share that side of them, choosing instead to see every advancing female as a threat to the amount of time and love they had for her. By now, she could probably have had two equally doting daughters-in-law as well, both happy and willing to see her through what might or might not be her toughest battle yet.
There were no other nooks or crannies that held any mystery in the sitting room, so I did a quick sweep of the kitchen, but aside from the obligatory ‘man drawer’, which housed old batteries, takeaway menus and keys that no longer had locks for them, there was nothing but cutlery and utensils.
I’d pictured myself going back into the sitting room, picking up my tea, and listening to ‘Homeward Bound’, the track now playing on the CD. So how come my foot was now on the bottom step of the staircase? I looked up at the narrow treads, the carpet wearing thin, and I wondered what happened once the staircase turned right and disappeared. The chintzy lemon wallpaper, with its flamboyant trails of rhododendron, was beginning to fade where the sun ate away at it at various times of the day. But at the top of the staircase, where there was a constant shadow, the green of the leaves was still vibrant and bright.
I convinced myself that I was going up to have a closer look, to really appreciate the depth of colour, but I didn’t even stop. My feet just seemed to lift themselves up onto those last three steps, the ones you couldn’t see from the hall, and into the room with the open door.
The double bed and small wardrobe were enough to fill the room, but opposite, in the alcoves either side of the chimney breast, were tall chests of drawers. I swear I could still smell the pine scent emanating from the furniture, each piece its own shade of orangey-brown.
The sunlight filtered through a gap in the thin curtains, casting a sliver of light across the room. I moved around the bed, the floorboards creaking as I went, and sat on the floor in front of the chest furthest from the window.
The bottom drawer felt heavy, so I lifted the weight up and off its support as I slid it out. It was full of ornamental boxes and decorated trinkets. The nerve fibres in my hands tingled as my clumsy fingers struggled with the clasp on the wooden jewellery box that was just begging to be opened. There were little milk teeth laid carefully on a red velvet cushion, the white enamel having yellowed over the years, and two name-tag bracelets bearing Adam and James’s names. Guilt washed over me as I caught sight of a pair of tarnished, silver men’s cufflinks, presumably Jim’s, and I slammed the top shut. I leant my head back on the mattress, my folded limbs trapped between the chest and the bed. What the hell was I doing? This wasn’t me. This wasn’t what I did. I’d allowed this woman to turn me into someone no better than her. Of all the terrible things she’d done, I would not allow her to change the very foundation of me: to distort the values and morals my parents had worked so hard to instil. I placed the box back inside the drawer, tilting it to make it fit. I jumped as it dropped heavily onto its back, its underside staring outwards, revealing a hidden compartment underneath.
I looked at it for a while, remembering the mantra I’d just recited, and willed myself to ignore it. ‘Close the drawer,’ I repeated out loud, in the hope that hearing myself actually say it would stop me from doing what I already knew I was going to do. I
carefully lifted it back out again and slid the bottom section backwards. I don’t know what I was expecting to see, some old bones or something, so it was an anti-climax to find nothing more than an old inhaler, the type I’d seen a girl at school with. Molly, I think her name was. I would never forget watching her collapse in PE, just after we’d been told to run around the field twice to warm up for netball. We thought it was a joke at first, but then she’d started wheezing and clutching at her chest. I hardly knew the girl, but I couldn’t sleep that night, and almost cried when they told us in assembly the next morning that she was going to be okay.
I didn’t know Pammie suffered from asthma, but perhaps it was Jim’s, I reasoned. People find the oddest mementoes comforting. There was something beneath it, a cutting or a picture, and I carefully lifted the inhaler out to get a clearer view. My eyes snapped shut, as if desperately trying to stop themselves from sending the message they’d already received to my brain. I tried to retract it, battling furiously with myself to eradicate the image before it reached the part of me that recognized it. But I’d seen it and there was no way it could be undone. Rebecca. Smiling out at me, with the man she loved by her side. The missing photo from the album.
‘Hey, I’m back,’ Adam called out from downstairs.
What the hell was he doing here? He’d only been gone half an hour. I dropped the box, the inhaler falling out into the drawer, and I scrambled furiously to pick it up and put it all back. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, pumping extra energy through my hands, making it almost impossible to do even the simplest thing without shaking.
‘You here?’ he said. I could hear the creak of the floorboards as he walked through the hall to the kitchen. ‘Em?’
If I could just stop my hands from trembling I could get it all back in position. I could make out his footsteps coming into the hall, and there was only one place for him to go from there. A burning acid tore through my chest and my throat constricted violently as it struggled to hold it down.
‘Hey, what you doing up here?’ he asked, reaching me just as I sat on the edge of the bed, my foot slowly closing the open drawer he couldn’t yet see.
‘I . . . I just . . .’ I faltered.
‘Jesus, Em, you’re deathly pale. What’s up?’
‘I . . . I came over a bit funny downstairs, a migraine or something, so I brought myself up here to lie down.’ I patted the pillows under the embroidered bedspread, still untouched and perfect.
‘Oh,’ he said, not noticing. ‘How do you feel now?’
‘A little better, but I think I just sat up too quickly when I heard you calling. You were quick. Is Pammie okay? I hope she’s not going to mind me being up here.’
‘She’s not back yet, I need to go and get her in a couple of hours. Do you feel up to a sandwich or a cup of tea?’
‘Sorry, you’ve left Pammie there?’ I asked tersely.
‘Yeah, she doesn’t like me going in with her.’
‘But you went in with her last time.’
‘No, I did the same then, as well,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t want me to see her like that, all wired up and whatever else they do. Silly really, because I’m sure that’s when she needs me most, but she’s adamant she doesn’t want me in there.’
‘But . . . last time . . . you told me about the other ladies, how they were all chatting to one another?’
‘That’s what she told me,’ he said, not understanding for a second the implication of what he was saying. ‘No doubt to make me feel better about not going in. Apparently, they’re all on their own, they don’t encourage accompanying visitors because it’s only a small room and there’s just not enough space.’
‘So where does she go when you drop her off?’ I asked, my mouth moving too quickly for my brain to keep up. ‘Where does she go?’
‘To ward 306, or whatever it is.’ He laughed. ‘I don’t know. I just do what she says and take her to the main entrance.’
‘So, you don’t go with her past that point?’
‘What is this, Em?’ he asked, still half laughing, but a tension was beginning to seep in.
I needed to sit, be quiet, and think. My brain felt like it was going to explode with all this new information bombarding it from every angle. The inhaler, Rebecca’s picture, and the image of Pammie walking straight through the hospital and out the other side, clogged up any sense.
‘You really don’t look well,’ said Adam. ‘Why don’t you lie back down and I’ll go and make a cup of tea.’
‘I can’t,’ I said, feeling suddenly compelled to get out of there. ‘I need to go. I need some fresh air.’
‘Whoa, hold up,’ he said. ‘Just take it slowly. Here, take my arm, I’ll help you back down the stairs.’
‘No, I mean – I can’t stay here.’
‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ he said, his voice a little louder. ‘I’ve got to go back and get Mum in a bit, so just have a cup of tea and calm down.’
‘Drop me back to the station when you go. I’ll get the train home.’
‘That’s crazy,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to go all the way into London and back out again to Blackheath. That doesn’t make sense.’
I knew it didn’t, but nothing made sense anymore. After everything she’d done, I’d given Pammie the benefit of the doubt, and was fully prepared to put everything behind us and get through her treatment together, as a family. But this? This was something entirely different, something that I couldn’t even begin to contemplate.
‘Come on,’ said Adam, beckoning me towards him. ‘It’s been a tough few weeks and we’re all feeling the strain.’
He rubbed my back whilst he held me, blissfully unaware of the knowledge that was slowly poisoning my brain. The realization that not only was Pammie a lying, deceitful schemer who had set out to ruin my life, but a truly abhorrent murderer who had deprived Rebecca of hers.
34
I watched from the car as she hobbled across the car park, hanging onto Adam’s arm, and felt physically sick. She’d kept him waiting in the busy hospital reception whilst she finished her ‘chemotherapy’. He’d offered me a coffee from the cafeteria, as she stretched it out, no doubt to add authenticity, but I couldn’t stomach it. I’d wanted to get dropped off at the station, so I didn’t have to face her, so I could no longer be party to her evil lies and deceit. But Adam had refused.
‘You look as right as rain now,’ he’d insisted, driving straight past the station on his way to the hospital. ‘You’ve got your colour back.’
‘I really don’t feel well. Can’t you just drop me off?’ I’d said.
‘But Mum will be so disappointed. She’ll be upset if you can’t, at the very least, have a cup of tea with her.’
If I’d felt stronger, I would have dragged him into the hospital, demanded to be directed to the relevant ward and called her out. Only then would he know what she’d done, what she was capable of. She’d be none the wiser, though, as whilst he furiously searched the list, refusing to believe she wasn’t there, she’d be happily pottering around the shops in town, no doubt treating herself to a new blouse. But that’s all it would take to make him see. For him to start understanding what she’d put me through, and for both of us to begin to piece together what she’d done to Rebecca.
Once the string was pulled, it would unravel at an alarming rate, but I needed time to work out which thread to pull first. Adam needed to see her for what she was, to believe in the possibility that she could do someone real harm. He’d think I was deranged if I started accusing her of Rebecca’s murder with no real evidence, and if he didn’t believe me, it would spell the end of us. I wasn’t prepared to let that happen, not only because I love him, but because I refuse to let her win.
I wished that the anger I’d been carrying around for so long was still there now, forcing me to stand up and do what was right, whilst I had the chance. But that maddening resentment that had always been so close to bubbling over, had been replaced by fear: no
t only for the relationship with the man I love, but for me. This woman, who I’d first thought of as nothing more than an annoying, but harmless, over-protective mother, is a jealous psychopath who will stop at nothing to get what she wants.
To think that, looking at her now, is laughable. All hunched over, with her pleated skirt and sensible cardigan buttoned up tightly, shuffling ever so slowly, as if every step pained her. If I wasn’t so scared it would be funny.
‘Would you mind sitting in the back, dear?’ she said as she reached the car. ‘It’s just that I feel awfully nauseous after that, and I’m better in the front.’
I didn’t say a word. Just got out and moved.
‘Thanks so much. Honestly, I can’t describe what it feels like.’
Go on, try, I wanted to say. Explain to me what it feels like to pretend to have cancer, to wander nonchalantly around the shops whilst your friends and family put their lives on hold and pray for your recovery.
‘How was it?’ I said instead, my voice level, even though my heart was thumping out of my chest.
‘It’s not very nice,’ she said. ‘And they say it’s going to get worse. I can’t imagine what I’m going to do with myself when that happens.’
‘You might be all right,’ I said curtly. ‘People react very differently to chemotherapy. It’s down to the individual. You might be one of the lucky ones.’
