She could hear the hum of the hot water booster – Neil was still in the shower. Quickly, she retrieved the scrap of paper and handed it over.
‘I need to talk to you about something, Jackie. Dad doesn’t know.’
The older woman quickly scanned the note. ‘Nasty. What’s it all about then?’
‘Well, Mum says it was a story she was on years ago. A girl convicted for shoplifting, but she was unbalanced, and came after Mum. Mum said the police were involved, but decided she was harmless. She said there’d been a couple of episodes, and it seems to have started up again when she got ill.’
Jackie was frowning. ‘I don’t see it, Helen. I mean, of course your mum would have covered some magistrates’ court stuff, but not that much. But if this kind of thing had gone off, I’m sure she’d have told me about it, and Geoff would have told the whole office. Especially if the police were involved.’
The cold fear kicked up several gears. Jackie had been a chance for reassurance but instead she was pouring cold water on the one explanation for the notes that was just about okay.
‘But why would she lie to me about it?’
‘Your mum’s a dark horse, Helen.’ Jackie shrugged. ‘I never said she’s lying, I just said it’s odd.’
‘Did she ever tell you about her family – I mean her own family, her childhood?’
The question came on impulse, tossed over her shoulder as Helen stuffed the note back into her handbag, trying to stop her hands from shaking. There had been nothing to suggest that the notes were connected to Barbara’s blank past, but still …
Jackie flushed.
‘I already said she was a dark horse. I think that’s a question for her, don’t you, love?’
The disappointment in Helen’s face must have been evident, because Jackie quickly carried on, in a mollifying tone: ‘Look, would it help if I looked up the newspaper’s hard copy archives, see if I could find this story you’re talking about?’
‘That would be amazing, but wouldn’t it take days?’
‘We’ve got a card index. I’ve got the name Jennifer – though a surname would be better. And I can search the magistrates’ court stories. It won’t be watertight, but I can have a dig if it makes you feel better?’
Helen nodded, but then Neil appeared at the top of the stairs and Jackie called up a hello. She stayed for another few minutes, chatting to Neil before making her excuses.
When Helen returned to the kitchen, Barney’s painting was almost finished. A blue strip of sky butted up against a yellow ball of sun, and clustered underneath were a handful of figures. ‘That’s lovely, Barney.’
‘That’s you, Mummy …’ he pointed, ‘… and me and Alys and Daddy and …’
He had painted his perfect family with the four of them, all four of his grandparents, his teacher, Peso from Octonauts and the pet dog he refused to be persuaded Helen was never going to buy for him. To an outsider, it might have been a random juxtaposition of lines and blobs and circles, but he knew exactly what everything was and pointed to the same places on the page as he named everyone in his picture for Helen, then for Alys, then, later, for Neil.
‘If Nana dies, Mummy, she could still be in my picture,’ he told her, as he filled in the obligatory strip of green grass along the bottom.
‘Ye-es,’ she answered, carefully.
‘She would be here,’ he said, pointing to the greeny-blue sky, ‘in heaven.’
‘But for now she’s here,’ Helen said, firmly, pointing squarely in the human tangle below. Thankfully, Barney nodded without pursuing the point.
At bedtime, she stayed with Barney for a good fifteen or twenty minutes after he dozed off, knowing Alys was already sound asleep. She sang him the songs she had learnt when he was a fretful baby. Now, his body was lengthening away from its baby shape, stretching almost daily, or so it seemed. He could hold a conversation and would be mortally offended if she tried to feed him. But now, with that sheen of sweat across his brow, his little fringe matted down and his thumb wedged between his lips; now he was still her precious baby. She breathed deeply to inhale his scent when she bent to give him a final goodnight kiss.
*
Downstairs, Neil was watching a football match with a beer. He seemed engrossed, even wearing the glasses that he only usually bothered with for driving.
Helen looked at the screen. ‘Is that Bolton?’
‘Nope. Spurs. It’s a friendly against some Italians.’
He didn’t bother much with football, especially if it wasn’t Bolton. She supposed it was natural for him to try to take his mind off everything that had happened to Barbara, though.
‘Have you got any lager in the fridge, Dad? I think I might join you.’
He glanced at the pint glass in his hand, as if noticing it for the first time.
‘I’ve got ale, love; there might be a couple of Beck’s kicking around the garage if you look. I don’t buy the fizzy stuff these days.’
Helen left him with the commentators discussing the prospects for the opening weekend of the Premiership. Not fancying a trip to the cobwebby garage, she went to rummage in the back of the drinks cupboard.
Her mum could die, she thought, and the headlines would still be about the start of the football season. It amazed her that Neil had somehow managed to stay tuned in to the real world, even in this small way. But then, Neil didn’t know about the notes.
‘I was wondering if there was anyone we should be getting in touch with?’ she said, delivering the prepared line as nonchalantly as possible, keeping her eyes fixed on the men lethargically booting the ball around the pitch.
‘Hmm? What do you mean?’
‘Mum’s family. You know, is there anyone who should know that she’s ill?’
He gave her a quick, sharp look before turning back to the telly. ‘But you know she’s not got any family other than us, Duckface,’ he said.
‘I know the pair of you never talk about it, but there must be someone. Even if they’re all dead; she didn’t just land from Mars.’
‘She may as well have done.’
‘What do you mean?’
He just sighed.
‘Come on, Dad, I’m an adult, I’ve got my own kids – whatever it is, you might as well tell me.’
‘Wait – they’ve got a free kick.’ He pointed at the screen. ‘This could be their chance.’
‘You’re changing the subject.’
‘I’ll tell you after.’
They sat in silence as the Italian defenders marshalled themselves into a wall and the Spurs striker fluffed his opportunity and then had a go at one of his teammates.
‘Well?’ Helen asked, once the game had resumed, leaving the commentators speculating on what use the manager might be planning to make of the rest of the transfer window.
‘Well what?’
‘You said you’d tell me after the free kick.’
‘Oh, Hels.’ He put his pint down and turned to face her. ‘I would, I honestly would, love, but there’s really nothing to tell. When I met your mum she lived in a hostel. It was run by the church.’
‘Like, an unmarried mothers’ home, or something?’
He gave a sort of shrug.
‘Not specifically. Thing is, in those days, girls stayed at home until they got married. At least around here they did. There weren’t that many options for anything else. Pretty much all the girls in the hostel had jobs. They were just girls who couldn’t stay at home because their parents had died, or there was no room, or no work where they came from. They’d be in flat-shares now, nobody would bat an eyelid, but back then a girl on her own was a cause for suspicion. The hostel was blooming strict, for the good of the girls as much as anything, I suppose, to protect their reputations, but people were still a bit snide about it. You know what folk are like.’
‘So why was Mum living there?’
‘I don’t know, love.’
‘You must have asked her!’
‘Of course I
did.’
‘And in thirty-odd years she never told you?’
He nodded. ‘Thing is, Duckface, you don’t keep asking for thirty-odd years, do you? Your mum made it clear early doors that she had made a fresh start and she wouldn’t brook anyone prying about what had gone before. Me included. Once you’ve got the lie of the land, you take it or leave it. I took it. I just got on with life.’
‘So why do you think she was there?’
He sipped his pint. At least he looked as if he was genuinely racking his brains.
‘She’d come from Liverpool,’ he said. ‘You could tell that by her accent, and she mentioned a couple of things. Plus, she never wanted to go there. Even when Miss Saigon came on and she’d talked about how she wanted to see it, she wouldn’t go to Liverpool for it.’
‘So, something happened there?’
‘It must have done.’ He paused. ‘There were people she used to be in touch with. Professionals. Officials. That sort of thing. One bloke called Abe, I remember. It gradually died away over the years.’
‘So who were they?’
‘I don’t know. I always imagined she had a “past”. You know, people still talked about fallen women in those days. There were charities that managed it, put the children out for adoption, set the mothers up with a “new start”. I thought maybe it was that sort of thing that she’d got caught up in. You forget how interfering people could be in those days; so much has changed in a short time. Back then, it was almost Victorian – the control some people took over others, supposedly for their own good.’
‘But she never actually told you that was what it was?’
He shook his head. ‘No. The closest she came was when we were expecting you. She was worried that she wasn’t a fit mother; that “they” would take you away. I reassured her – over and over again – that I wouldn’t let that happen, and that she could tell me about the past, whatever had happened, but she never wanted to. Of course, no one ever threatened me with taking you away.’ He gave a sigh. ‘I don’t even know how much of it was in her imagination.’
‘But what about trust? How could you marry her, if she kept secrets from you?’
‘I suppose I trusted her enough not to need to know.’ He took a long swig of his beer, and she thought the conversation was over, but then he turned to her again. ‘When I fell in love with your mother, Helen, I fell for her entirely. Body, mind, soul, everything. I knew I’d make whatever sacrifice I needed to be with her. Looking back, I’d do exactly the same thing all over again.’
‘And that’s it?’ She tried to keep her voice measured. ‘You love her, so she owes you nothing. You love her, so it doesn’t matter that her life is … is … a fraud. And if her life is a fraud, then what about mine?’
‘I never did any of this to hurt you, Helen. I know that she didn’t either. Maybe I should have tried again when you were older. I can see it was important to you.’
Finally, he lowered his voice, glancing at the door, almost as if he was expecting his wife to burst in. ‘I think there is a family, Helen. I picked up the phone once or twice to a woman who sounds a bit like your mum. She always made some excuse, but I’m sure it’s a sister. And then I started checking the phone bills. There’s a Liverpool number she rings, maybe a couple of times a year. I asked her about it once and she said it was about the house insurance. But I know it’s not.’
Helen felt a tremor of excitement. This was new. After three decades of living with silence, finally this was something.
‘Did you ever try to find out who the number belongs to?’
‘I wasn’t about to start spying on her after all that time.’ He looked rueful. ‘Like I said, I hadn’t really thought about it in years. Lately … with all this … I’ve been so worried about her, I never even thought about … the Liverpool thing.’
He gave her a look that reminded her of Barney’s expression when he was uncertain, when he needed Helen to tell him what to do.
‘I think we should see if we can find out, Dad.’ She tried to keep her voice steady, calming. ‘We won’t tell anyone she’s ill, certainly not before we see the doctor on Monday, but perhaps then …’
‘But she’ll phone them herself if she wants them to know, won’t she?’
‘I don’t know, Dad. And what if she doesn’t want them to know? Or thinks she doesn’t? We could end up doing her and her sister a lot of good if we put them back in touch.’
He grunted. ‘I could end up hung up from a lamp post by my balls, you mean!’
She had to giggle, and after a moment he joined in. ‘I won’t let that happen, Dad. If we do anything, I’ll make sure she knows it was my idea. After all, if she does have family, they’re my family too remember, and Barney and Alys’s. Mum will know it was me who wanted to look for them – she can’t really blame me either.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘So you’ll find that phone number for me? And help me try to find them?’
‘What if she was hiding from something? What if she’s in danger?’
Helen bit her lip, the image of the notes and the bloodstained hospital bedding flashing through her mind. If danger was looking for Barbara, it seemed pretty clear it had already found her.
‘I’m sure she’s not,’ she lied. ‘Not if it was all so long ago. And she’s in the best place, isn’t she, like you said.’
He sipped his ale. ‘All right. I’ll get out the phone bills.’
Helen wondered what her aunt would be like. Were there other siblings too? Probably she had cousins. She remembered the time she and Darren had driven down to Spike Island to see the Stone Roses and she’d been scanning the crowds for someone who looked like Barbara. Not so wide of the mark, perhaps.
October 1975
Barbara
The call had come into Barbara’s work on a wet October morning. The newspaper receptionist transferred it through the classified desk with a chill disapproval, but Barbara only really paid attention when she mentioned the name of the caller.
Sonia claimed she’d not been able to ring any earlier. The funeral was tomorrow.
‘My God. How did it happen?’ Barbara asked, stretching the cord on her phone to turn away from the open-plan office.
‘The big C,’ whispered Sonia. ‘It seemed quick, but she must have guessed and kept it to herself. She went into hospital last week.’
‘Were you with her?’
‘Yes, me and our Kevin.’
‘Did she say anything?’
Sonia sighed before answering. ‘Not about you, she didn’t.’
Barbara paused. ‘Good,’ she said, clenching the telephone wire to stop her hand from shaking. ‘It’ll be at St James’s then? What time does it start?’
‘You can’t come.’
‘I didn’t say I was.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘I could slip in at the back. She was my mother too.’
‘Exactly. Do you not think people might be looking for you?’
‘Let me worry about that.’
Sonia hung up soon after and Barbara left her desk to make a Nescafé in the privacy of the cubbyhole office kitchen.
‘Shall I get you one?’ Jackie Miller called over. She was the new junior reporter and she acknowledged Barbara’s more senior status with frequent offers to brew up, something none of the men, however new and eager, seemed to think to do.
‘Thanks, Jackie, I’ll go this time.’
Tomorrow’s ads had already gone off to be set, so Barbara could afford to neglect the desk for a few minutes. If she closed her eyes she could picture her mother as she remembered her best. Cheeks dry and burning with shame under her peroxide blonde curls; her characteristic bluster and certainty diminished by the formal surroundings; her good clothes out of place against the sombre flannels of the welfare workers and the police uniforms. Then, Barbara had blazed with shame for the disaster she’d brought down on all of them, her mother most of all. Now, that shame had diminished, and she saw all t
he things that her mother might have done to save her, if only she’d had the wherewithal to know how.
Still in the kitchen, she took a sip of the coffee and then lit a cigarette. Deliberately, she focused on the image of her mother’s face. Not across the distance of that awful day, but close up, as it always had been in her childhood. Her mother’s voice. Her beleaguered laughter. Her almond-essence, baking-day smell. Barbara pushed herself, testing, but it was okay. There was no pricking of tears or catch in her throat. The cigarette had settled the trembling in her hands. It was just the shock that had made her shake, the adrenaline, nothing deeper than that. She looked out of the window as she finished her cigarette; no point in wasting it.
The newspaper offices were in the centre of town. In the street below, people went about their business: travelling in cars or buses, shoppers with packages and umbrellas, mothers with prams, old folk with sticks. It was as if nothing had changed. And it hasn’t, thought Barbara, stubbing out the cigarette and smoothing down her dress before heading back to the desk.
*
She didn’t work on Thursdays, so in a way the timing was good. But it did mean that she’d have to take Helen with her. She turned to where her daughter was sitting at the kitchen table, a plate of toast and banana in front of her. The girl stared at her with her solemn grey eyes and Barbara had the familiar sensation that there was an older, wiser being inside. One that was judging her and would inevitably find her wanting.
‘You’ll come with me on an adventure, hey?’
At two years and a few months, Helen stared back mutely, before returning her attention to her banana. Barbara hoped the food would keep Helen busy while she rummaged in the wardrobe for a black dress she’d bought for Neil’s dad’s funeral. That was before she got pregnant. Frank had died in his fifties, his lungs weakened from the pneumonia he’d had in the war, he said. Barbara reckoned forty years of chain-smoking unfiltered cigarettes might have had more to do with it, but who was she to begrudge a dying man a little satisfaction?
Her own mother would have been sixty-seven by now. It took her a moment to work it out. Not too old, really, but then Joyce had been one of those people who seemed made to be young. Barbara tried to imagine what she would have looked like in her sixties but came up with nothing more than a peroxide blur and a harsh web of wrinkles where the fine lines round her mouth would have carved themselves deeper.
The Mother's Lies Page 10
