The Mother's Lies

by Joanne Sefton

  She tried the dress on quickly. Fortunately, the fit was still good. She grabbed a pair of black tights that she could put on downstairs and went back to the kitchen.

  ‘Wan’ down now.’ Helen dangled a leg as though she might be about to jump.

  ‘Okay. Just let me wipe those hands.’

  ‘Down!’

  ‘Yes. In a minute.’

  Barbara fetched a cloth from the kitchen sink and smeared it around Helen’s mouth and hands, before lifting her off the stool and setting her down on the tiled floor. The girl wandered off through the open door and Barbara followed her into the lounge, tights balled up in her hand in the hope of a chance to put them on. The days were long but the years were short – that was the piece of wisdom one of the neighbours had passed on about motherhood. Well, she could vouch for the first part. The first weeks and months after Helen’s birth had felt like a black abyss.

  Now, with her return to work, a bit more sleep at nights and a routine to their week, she hoped she was gradually clawing her way out of it. But nothing came easily. At the start of each day, the time she would spend with Helen unspooled ahead of her like an out-of-control rope, slippery and cumbersome with length. But despite the feeling that there was boundless time to fill, whenever she actually tried to do anything – get Helen ready to leave the house, make a phone call or even go to the toilet – the rope whipped round, grabbing her ankles and tripping her up. She felt such pressure to get it right: for Neil, to whom the child meant the world; to show Abe and the others that they were right to trust her; to try to prove to herself that she wasn’t some sort of monster.

  There had been brief golden moments, a few whilst she was pregnant, a few just after the birth, where it even seemed to be working. But Helen had seen through her. Helen knew, and, gazing at her judging eyes, Barbara knew that she knew. She carried on with the pretence in the hope that one day it wouldn’t be a pretence. But also because there was no other option. She coped and she worked and she cut herself and she made love to her husband and she prayed that one day she’d be able to love her daughter too.

  ‘We’re going to go for an outing today,’ she said, brightly, holding out Helen’s little red jacket.

  ‘Swimming!’ Helen was gleeful.

  ‘No. Not this time.’

  *

  She changed her mind a hundred times and back on the drive south towards Liverpool. There was no good reason for going – it wasn’t as if her mum would know if she was there. And Barbara had done her own grieving over the loss of Joyce a long time ago. She believed what she’d said to Sonia – that no one would recognise her. She glanced in the rear-view mirror at the dark-dyed hair curling out from under her headscarf. But there had to be some chance; after all, she was family. Perhaps it was silly to take the risk.

  But then another part of her argued that she had a right to be there. That Joyce was still her mother as much as she was Sonia’s or Terry’s or Kevin’s. And then there was the niggle of curiosity. To see her siblings, perhaps even some of the nieces and nephews she’d never expected to meet. Perhaps, she allowed herself to believe, some of them might even be pleased to see her.

  The one thing she didn’t allow herself to think about was him. She knew he’d moved out of the area. She was pretty sure he was living near Stoke. Working at the newspaper made it easier to keep track of him. No reason at all why he would come back for her mother’s funeral. She twitched in her seat, trying to shake the shiver from her spine.

  The roads into the city were fairly quiet, but it had been raining steadily for most of the day and the heavy trucks were kicking up a lot of spray. Whatever tinny pop song had been playing on the radio faded out and she caught the intro for the news. That must mean it was half past one already, and the Mass was due to start at two.

  The announcer’s voice was sombre. Police investigating the disappearance of Eileen Larkin, the little girl missing from Preston, had found a body. Barbara glanced at Helen, slumped soundly in her car seat, before turning the volume up. They weren’t saying much more. The girl had been found up on the moors, only a few steps away from the main road, but hidden amongst some rocks. Barbara looked out at the driving rain and shivered again. She turned the radio off.

  The roads got narrower and more congested as she made her way into the city and then turned south again, towards the river. She parked the Imp a good distance away from the church, in a street that looked very similar to the one she had lived in but was almost half a mile in the wrong direction.

  ‘Come on, Helen, we’re here.’

  The girl was groggy from sleep and clung warily to her mother, deliberately lifting her feet up each time Barbara tried to set her down on the pavement.

  ‘We don’t have time for this, Helen.’ The Mass was due to start in two minutes. Barbara had planned to be late, but they were a good fifteen minutes away at the speed Helen would walk. Eventually she got the girl standing and began to pull her along in the direction of the church. For a moment, she worried that she’d forget her way through the maze of terraces, but the street plan was engraved on her memory.

  She felt her eyes flicker around involuntarily as she walked. She was looking for him, although she tried to tell herself she wasn’t. She jumped when a man of similar age and build rounded the corner just ahead of them. He wasn’t the one; didn’t look like him at all really – even his hair was a different colour.

  As they walked, the photo of poor Eileen shown on the television news the previous night, flashed through Barbara’s mind. There was a mother out there who’d wish she could have held her girl tighter.

  As she’d hoped, the service had just started when she got to the church. The door had been left open and very few mourners turned to look at the latecomers. Barbara had lifted Helen into her arms, hoping to keep her quiet, but also because she could duck her head down and there would be little for anyone to see but the child and the headscarf. Her heart was thudding; the sense of fear rushed up on her, threatening to overwhelm. She slipped, shaking, into a pew just as a hymn began – ‘O God, Our Help in Ages Past’ – and could almost hear her mother’s reedy voice in the congregation. They’d had the same hymn at her father’s funeral, she realised, shuddering at the recollection.

  The inside of St James’s struck her as if she’d been there yesterday. She could already feel the wooden kneeler, cold against her bony knees, and see the blush on Our Lady’s cheeks as she gazed down at the motley, penitent assortment. Her mother’s profile formed in her mind, brow furrowed with concentration and lips forming the well-worn words, as if she was a wind-up toy. As a child, Barbara would peek through her lashes, her sidelong glances often meeting Sonia’s, or one of the boys’, but she had never caught Joyce with her eyes open whilst she prayed.

  Barbara and Neil didn’t attend church, but the blast of the organ and the hum of the voices still felt utterly familiar. Barbara intoned automatically as she flipped through the hymnal, mouthing the familiar words in the hope it would steady her. You wanted to come, she reminded herself, trying to quell the growing urge to walk out.

  When the hymn was over, two men shuffled up to give the eulogy – her brothers Kevin and Terry – both of whose eyes seemed to linger on her as they flicked their gaze up and down from the text of their readings. She felt herself grow hot with what she hoped was paranoia and bent down to busy herself with Helen.

  The church was full. It seemed Joyce was well liked still, or well known at any rate. After the men the priest, whom Barbara didn’t recognise, rose to deliver his piece. She supposed the old Father would be retired, if not dead himself; he’d seemed about a hundred when she was a schoolgirl. This new Father (although he may not have been new at all) spoke in a soft Irish brogue, which meant she had to lean forward in order to catch the official version of her mother’s history. Did she recognise the woman he spoke about? Not really. It could have been anyone’s mother – caring, loving, made a delicious stew.

  Eventually the servic
e drew to a close and she heard the scuffle of the double doors being opened. She moved back into the shadows where she could watch the new Father emerge at the head of the procession. Behind came the family. Terry was first, with his arm round a hard-faced woman who Barbara just about recognised as his wife, Bernice. He wasn’t wearing his age well, Barbara thought. He looked plump and his skin was flushed red in a way that looked more permanent than this recent bereavement would account for.

  Behind him were Sonia and Kevin, each with a partner, and then a gaggle of kids of all ages. The children hadn’t been put in black for the funeral, but they all looked stiff in their Sunday best, the boys in grey trousers that flapped at their ankles and the young girls in pale blouses and dark, jewel-coloured velvet pinafores, quickly covered by bright plastic rain jackets. One or two older ones hung back together, looking sullen and restless.

  ‘Your cousins,’ breathed Barbara into Helen’s ear.

  Hefting Helen in front of her again, Barbara followed, at a distance, to the graveside, placing the girl down in the shelter of an ancient cherry tree.

  She’d planned to wait until the rites were finished and the crowd had dispersed, to spend a little time at the graveside alone with Helen. It would be nice, she’d imagined, to feel that she’d missed her mother only by a short while, that perhaps Joyce’s spirit still lingered, that she would know the pair of them were there. In reality, the sight of the slick, dark soil and the wet-earth smell that hung in the air were making her nauseous. Even as the crowd thinned, she shifted, restless and wary as an animal pacing near a fire, both fascinated and repelled by the grave.

  There was one figure who didn’t head towards the churchyard gate: Terry. Even with her eyes averted she could sense his lumbering gait, feel the intensity of his stare.

  ‘Didn’t think you’d have the brass neck to show up here.’ His voice was low, rumbling with menace.

  ‘She’s my—’

  ‘Yeah, well she’s dead now, in’t she? There’s nothing else to see and you’re not wanted.’

  ‘How do you know what Mam wanted? Or what Sonia wants? Or any of the kids? The kids would want to know they’ve got a cousin.’

  He leant back, assessing her, a hum of indecision on his lips.

  ‘You were always a contrary one. You can’t be intending to march around glad-handing the neighbours or else you’d not be skulking around here. I know you’ve been in touch with our Sonia.’ His voice hardened. ‘You shift yourself, now, or I’ll get onto that husband of yours …’ he nodded towards Helen, ‘… assuming you are married to her dad, that is. And then we’ll see who wants to know what.’

  She could feel her cheeks burning and her throat choked with rage. Saying nothing, she grabbed Helen and marched towards the gate, holding her head high. The few remaining mourners were clustered around the priest in a tight, black knot. The new Father was chatting to them, patting hands and giving out sweets to the kids.

  As the gravel path reached its closest point to them, Barbara caught a movement in the corner of her eye. It was Sonia. Their eyes met for half a second before her sister turned back to the grave.

  Neil

  That night, Neil lay awake listening to the wind rattling the fence panels and the distant thrum of the motorway traffic. He’d caught something amiss almost as soon he turned his key in the lock. Barbara was too subdued – normally after a day at home with the little one she’d be clamouring for adult conversation. He would laugh at how the words flooded out of her.

  She had Helen ready for bed and brought the girl down for a goodnight kiss.

  ‘Daddy!’ She grinned and held her arms out to him, not looking at all tired.

  ‘Hello, sweetpea, how’s my little Duckface?’

  They rubbed noses and she chortled, her little face lighting up.

  ‘Daddy’ll come and read you a story in a minute,’ he told her.

  ‘It’s no trouble, Neil, I’ll get her settled.’ Barbara’s tone was light, but the comment puzzled him. She was normally very keen for Neil to have as much to do with Helen as possible, particularly when she’d had a day on her own with her.

  ‘I want to, love. Don’t worry, I won’t get her excited. I’ll just get changed and then I’ll be through.’

  He knew Barbara well enough to recognise the quick pursing of her lips and see that she wanted to argue the point, but she shrugged and led Helen out to the stairway without saying anything more. Neil eased his work shoes off; he’d find out later what was bothering her. Or else he wouldn’t and the world would keep on turning regardless. He’d learnt to accept that sometimes there would be small mysteries with Barbara.

  ‘Grrrrr – look who’s coming to eat up, Helen!’ Down on all fours, he nudged her bedroom door open and roared, rolling his neck like the cinema lion.

  ‘Lion! Come here, Daddy-Lion!’ She shrieked with laughter as he stalked across the floor.

  ‘You said you wouldn’t get her excited,’ scolded Barbara. But she was smiling, and, still growling, he butted her knees until she moved aside, letting him pull back Helen’s blankets and growl onto her flat, wriggling belly whilst she screamed with delight.

  After a minute, he sat back on his heels, laughing himself and out of breath.

  ‘Okay, which story?’

  He was reading her The Snow Queen, and they both loved the strange landscapes and colourful people that Gerda met on her travels. As he flicked through to find the page he’d stopped at the night before, he could hear Barbara on the landing, taking washing off the radiator from the sounds of it. She was still there as he read, telling Helen about the fierce little robber girl and her doves. Helen preferred the princess of the previous chapter. Eventually, Neil heard Barbara’s footsteps on the stairs. When he heard the kitchen tap come on, he gently closed the book.

  ‘What did Helen and Mummy do today?’

  She looked blankly at him.

  ‘Gerda went to the forest – what did Helen and Mummy do?’

  ‘Went to the big church.’

  ‘Did you?’

  But she was looking away from him now and rubbing her eyes. He finished the story, stroking her hair with one hand and holding the book awkwardly in the other.

  ‘Night, night, sweetpea,’ he whispered, and there wasn’t a peep out of her as he pulled the door to and made his way downstairs.

  Lying in his own bed, he wondered again if he should have asked Barbara what Helen meant and pushed until he got an answer. Instead he’d just accepted the cup of tea she’d made for him and sat down to watch her busying around peeling potatoes and grilling the chops.

  All of Barbara’s energies seemed to be focused on the spuds. She’d not taken him up on any of the little bits of conversation he’d tried. Finally she’d looked over to him. ‘Do you want these mashed or just plain boiled?’

  ‘Just boiled. It’s easier, love.’

  He went to take another mouthful of tea, but then realised he’d already finished the mug. He felt very tired all of a sudden. Exhausted. Maybe he should speak to the boss, ask to cut down on the overtime a bit. Maybe they should look into booking a holiday. They’d not been away properly since the year Helen was born when they’d gone to Devon for a week.

  With a little effort, he stood up and went to the sink to start soaking the pots whilst Barbara dished up. He’d poured a glass of water for each of them and pulled the rattan tablemats out of the drawer.

  ‘That lamb smells good, love.’

  ‘I’d hope so. I went to that butcher’s in town after work on Tuesday. They’re not cheap.’

  ‘Worth it, though, when it tastes like it should.’

  Even as he’d sat there, Neil had felt as if they were reading the lines out of some family drama on the telly, his wife as distant and artificial as a second-rate actress.

  She would come back to him, though.

  That was what he’d told himself in the kitchen, and that was the mantra he repeated late at night as he tried to summon sleep. Ther
e had always been times like this, and he liked to tell himself it didn’t worry him so much now as it had at first. There was that tiny, unknowable fragment of Barbara that would always remain hidden from him. Most of the time it didn’t make any difference; he could just forget about it. Then, from time to time, there was a day like this, when it was there, a shard of ice needling its way between them, but not to be talked about. Was Barbara the Snow Queen? No – he quickly dismissed the thought – Barbara was more like poor little Kai, tormented by the speck of glass that had found its way to her heart.

  Eventually, Neil slept. His dreams brought him images of the moors and of melting ice, but the morning brought back a little of the old Barbara. And each morning after brought a little more, until, within a week or so, he could imagine that nothing had ever been amiss.

  August 2017

  Helen

  Darren came to pick up the kids just before ten in the morning. Helen said as little as possible to him as she handed them over at the front door. It wasn’t quick, of course – as always there had to be a pair of shoes on the wrong feet, Barney’s must-take toy rabbit that contrived to get lost and, finally, a rush back through the house to say goodbye to Granddad. Barney and Alys’s chatter camouflaged the awkwardness, though, and soon enough Darren was able to whisk them off in the hire car. They waved happily back to her, leaning forward against the straps of their car seats.

  Neither of them had asked if she was coming this time. Were they getting used to it?

  She noticed that Christine was in the passenger seat, but she didn’t get a wave from her. Helen could see her silhouette, bending round into the back, reaching as far as the seatbelt would let her to fuss over her grandchildren.

  Neil had stayed away from the hallway. He’d not spoken much about Darren since the split. Helen surmised that her father was far too cautious to confess he’d never liked her husband, but over the years she’d formed a good sense of what he felt about him. Darren’s charm – his one great gift that served him so well in life – had never been an asset as far as Neil was concerned. He wandered downstairs a few moments after Darren had driven off.