Forgive Me Not

by Samantha Tonge

  Every year, on Emma’s birthday, Mum had received one of these cards but had said nothing. She must have raced to the letter box after the postman visited and dashed upstairs to hide it.

  All along, Emma had had a father who’d cared. So, he’d made mistakes… but who hadn’t?

  Mistakes? He physically abused your mum. And hit your sister.

  But why hadn’t they ever told her about his violence?

  On the one hand, he was even worse than she’d imagined. Not only had he deserted a newborn child and her mother, he was also a wife- and child-beater. Yet the cards suggested he’d turned his life around. He was sorry. Had met another woman. Brought up a son who wanted to meet Emma.

  A whole gamut of emotions played her body like an out-of-tune fiddle.

  She went back indoors and up to her room. She shoved the envelopes into her rucksack, turned out the light and lay on her front. Perhaps darkness would take the discontent away. Yet hours passed without a minute of sleep. She had so many questions. How had her parents met? When exactly had things started to go wrong? Was the pregnancy planned? Had he been happy when he heard the news? Was Mum worried that Emma would head over to France and leave her if she found out where he was? Or were the memories too raw to talk about, so hiding all contact made things easier?

  Eventually she nodded off, eyes red, her last thoughts flirting with the idea that maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have a small drink tomorrow. That maybe she deserved one. Just for the shock.

  Chapter 24

  Emma left the pet shop early the next day. On her way up Broadgrass Hill, she didn’t admire the cerulean sky. The morning chorus annoyed her, and she pulled a face at the pungent smell of manure. With irritation she batted away an errant bumblebee. As she walked up the drive to the farm, she kicked a lump of apple no doubt dropped by a bird. She headed straight past Stig with the merest nod of greeting, and set about cleaning the outside of the greenhouse.

  Andrea and Bligh went about their business without talking to her, and for once she was glad. After a couple of hours, Stig brought her a cup of tea, and she grunted her thanks before returning to the job in hand. After she’d finished and had a wash, Andrea asked if she could look after Gail for a few hours. She and Bligh had some work to do on the farm’s website – something about a glitch with the payment system. Emma gave an abrupt up and down of her head.

  Baking always made things better, so she decided she and Gail would make cookies. She started off creaming the sugar and butter and then let Gail take over when the mixture felt light. Humming, her mum didn’t seem aware of her daughter’s silence. Andrea, however, left the dining room and came into the kitchen with a quizzical look on her face.

  ‘You know Mum needs the stimulation of conversation.’

  ‘I’m just tired,’ said Emma. ‘She seems happy enough.’

  Andrea raised a disapproving eyebrow and disappeared.

  Why not find something I’m doing right, for a change? thought Emma. Her insides twisted as she wondered if her sister had replaced the sherry under the sink. It wouldn’t hurt to look. It didn’t mean anything. Cautiously she opened the cupboard as if expecting a jack-in-the-box to spring out.

  ‘Lost something?’ said Bligh. He stood in the doorway, arms folded.

  ‘Just looking for a new washing-up sponge,’ Emma replied. Mentally she told him to fuck right off. Perhaps he heard, because he headed straight back into the dining room.

  Come on, Emma. Get a grip. Andrea and Bligh’s voices could be heard talking urgently. The words relapse and sherry wafted through to the kitchen.

  Let them think the worst, she thought, and pulled off her apron. ‘I can’t do this today,’ she called. ‘I need some fresh air. You’ll have to look after Mum.’

  Without waiting for a reply, she hurried out of the back door. Dash barked as she appeared in the yard. She and the dog crossed to the greenhouse and Emma shut the door behind them. Dash lay on the ground and she sat cross-legged next to him. The beefy aroma of overripe tomatoes filled the air. Emma bowed her head. Took a deep breath. Did what she hadn’t had to do for months and sat through the cravings. She tuned herself into the present and focused on the sounds around her. The squawk of a crow. Dash’s snuffly nose. The distant rumble of the motorway. A sheep’s baa. The hard ground felt familiar. She wondered who had claimed her patch outside Primark.

  She stroked Dash’s back and looked up as the door opened. Andrea came in and actually made eye contact. She sat down opposite. Emma felt as if they were children again.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she said.

  ‘Just a bad day. Sorry about before.’

  ‘Are you drinking again?’

  ‘No.’

  Andrea pursed her lips. ‘I knew this new version of you wouldn’t last.’

  It took all of Emma’s strength not to snap.

  ‘I’ve just had a shock, that’s all.’

  ‘Has Mum upset you? You’ve hardly spoken to her this morning. I know it’s hard, but she is ill. We have to make allowances.’

  Emma clenched her teeth.

  ‘You’ve looked after her for a few weeks – imagine the patience I’ve needed for a couple of years. But she’s our mother. She changed our nappies, listened to our problems and tended to our physical and emotional wounds for years. The least we can do is keep her happy until… until a more intensive kind of care is required.’ Andrea sighed and got up to leave, but Emma pulled her back down.

  ‘Did you know? About those envelopes in Mum’s chest?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was going to ask you before opening them, but… they were from my father. Every birthday for eighteen years he sent me a card. Mum never passed them on. How could she deny me that contact?’

  ‘Your dad?’ Andrea frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I found a bunch of cards hidden in Mum’s chest. In them he explains everything – the reason he left, the violence. Did you know? Did you? Why wasn’t I told?’

  Andrea’s face flushed and without thinking her hand brushed her top lip.

  ‘That scar…’ Emma stared at it. ‘Did he do that?’

  Her hand dropped. ‘Look, it was all a long time ago, there’s no point in—’

  Emma gasped.

  ‘We never wanted to tell you – figured it was bad enough him leaving without you knowing the sordid details.’ Andrea picked up a squashed tomato and brushed a finger over a patch of intact red skin. ‘He slapped me across the face. His ring cut my mouth.’

  ‘Oh, Andrea.’

  ‘I don’t remember much else. Mum told me little things over the years.’ Andrea went on to explain how Jean-Claude had become increasingly controlling about what Gail wore and her choice of friends. How the violence had started slowly. A tap on the arm. An overenthusiastic ruffle of her hair. The first time he really hurt her was a punch to her stomach. Mum was so shocked and he was so apologetic, she gave him another chance. Over time, she started to believe him when he told her it was her fault – that she made him do it. But apparently he hit Andrea because she wouldn’t stop laughing over a joke. When he said the little girl had pushed him to lash out, Gail realised his standpoint had no logic – and that a baby screaming for a feed might be his next target.

  ‘But didn’t I still have a right to know he wanted to get in touch – whether I acted on that information or not?’ said Emma eventually.

  ‘Mum never got rid of those cards – perhaps she left them for you to find one day.’

  ‘But I don’t need them now. I needed them when I was a little girl, feeling I was less valuable than every other child.’

  Andrea got to her feet again. ‘No one has a perfect life, Emma. And I’m genuinely sorry about your dad, but mine actually died. There’s no hope of me ever seeing him again – at least you have that chance if you want it.’

  ‘I… I know, and I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘In any case, you had me and Mum. Bligh adored you. Mum worke
d bloody hard to give us a great childhood – and now she needs us to take care of her. Surely you aren’t going to hold this against her?’

  Emma scrambled to her feet as well. She threw her arms in the air. ‘Since I opened those envelopes last night, I just feel so betrayed. I can’t help it. Mum must have known how badly I needed the validation of knowing I had a father who cared, or at least acknowledged my existence. And all these years she’s been carrying this secret.’

  ‘Then now you know how Bligh and I feel,’ Andrea said in a measured voice. ‘Forgiving isn’t so easy, is it? You’ve waltzed back into our lives expecting us to say that we understand. That we’ll forget what happened in the past. Now you know what it feels like to be hurt irrevocably by someone you love. How difficult it is to understand how they could do that.’

  Emma didn’t blink. Hardly breathed. Stood completely still.

  Her sister was right.

  The lack of eye contact from Andrea, the rage simmering still in Bligh, the perpetual distance of some people in the village, all despite Emma’s new outlook and lifestyle …

  Finally she understood.

  Chapter 25

  A week later, Emma had upped her daily readings and meditation and fitted in two meetings. Yet she’d started to isolate. Hardly chatted to Stig. Avoided eating with Phil.

  She had spent so many years hating her dad, and now she felt confused. She almost said no when Rachel texted her early on Saturday asking if she wanted to meet in Manchester for afternoon tea. But she could tell her friend needed to talk, and so reluctantly she agreed, though not before checking with Andrea, half hoping there would be some urgent job that needed doing on the farm.

  ‘We can manage,’ said Andrea, and gave her a curious look. ‘Polly’s coming over to spend some time with Mum.’

  So at three o’clock, Emma and Rachel met in the popular Northern Quarter. They chose an unobtrusive café famous for its old-school decor. The furniture was worn, with holes in the upholstery and scratches on the tables. The staff wore uniforms and wrote down orders using pens rather than digital keypads. The smell of toasted teacakes hung in the air. Couples flirtatiously shared cake and children slurped from straws. Delicate floral crockery enhanced the vintage feel.

  ‘Just look at the size of these teacups,’ said Rachel. ‘My gran has some like this. They provide only a mouthful compared to a Starbucks grande.’

  A young waitress arrived with a three-tiered silver cake stand loaded with crustless ham and cheese finger sandwiches, scones bursting with cherries and an array of sponges.

  ‘Well that’s today’s healthy eating out the window,’ said Rachel, and grinned.

  ‘You look really great. You put me to shame with your jogging.’

  ‘It’s more like fast walking at the moment.’

  Emma managed a smile.

  ‘After you.’ Rachel jerked her head towards the food.

  ‘I’m not really hungry,’ said Emma. Reluctantly she took a cheese sandwich.

  ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘My appetite’s just off. So, why did you want to meet up? It’s lovely to see you, of course, but I sense there’s a reason.’

  ‘Nothing gets past you. It’s this coming Monday… I’m a bit – read that as a lot – nervous.’

  ‘Starting a new job is massive. I think it’s brilliant you taking a pay cut to do something so worthwhile. Don’t a lot of people drop out of the course?’

  ‘Yes. It’s certainly been challenging. I’ve studied motivational interviewing, restorative practice, boundaries and safeguarding, and I’m a walking dictionary when it comes to drugs…’ Eyes shining, Rachel carried on talking for a few moments.

  ‘So what’s the problem?’ said Emma, her eyes convincing her stomach that she wanted one of the plump scones. Against Cornish rules, she slathered it with clotted cream first and jam second.

  ‘What if I’m rubbish? Web design’s my thing. What if I can’t be tough or kind enough? What if the people I deal with don’t get any better? What if they relapse? I’ll feel guilty. I messed up my degree – what if I mess this up?’

  ‘Whoa! What if? What if? Hold on there. Talk about negative thinking. And you were drinking at university – you’re sober now.’

  Rachel looked sheepish. ‘I know. I keep telling myself that I wouldn’t have qualified if I wasn’t up to the job.’

  ‘And you don’t need a qualification to prove you can do it,’ said Emma. ‘The way you’ve helped me says it all. Remember in the early days, whenever I thought about picking up, you weren’t afraid to remind me that I’d be letting Josephine down?’

  Her stomach clenched. This last week she hadn’t thought much about her daughter.

  ‘Then that weird week of nightmares I had. Dreams about running after Andrea and Mum and never being able to catch them up? You insisted on sleeping in my room, and when I woke up in the night, you were there with your kettle.’ Emma smiled. ‘You’ll be perfect. Honestly. You know when to be kind and when to be firm. Anyone would be lucky to have you help them turn their life around.’

  Rachel straightened up. ‘You really think I can do it?’

  ‘One hundred per cent,’ said Emma in between crumbling mouthfuls of scone. ‘And as for feeling guilty if others fail, remember what we’ve learnt – nothing and no one is to blame for someone’s behaviour apart from themselves.’

  Heat swept up Emma’s neck as she recalled the past seven days of secretly blaming Gail for the way her life had developed. Poor Gail, who’d been stuck in an abusive relationship yet found her way out.

  Rachel’s face lit up, and she bit into a slice of chocolate sponge. ‘Thanks. I feel so much better. It’s just that when it comes to work, I’ve stayed in my comfort zone for so long.’

  ‘Nothing can be more uncomfortable than sharing your most private feelings with strangers like we had to – I bet Monday will seem like a doddle.’

  ‘And talking of comfort, how are things at the farm? Are you more at ease there now?’

  Emma stared into her cup.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Rachel said gently.

  Emma hesitated before blurting out the whole story, finishing with, ‘… and all this time Mum kept his contact from me.’

  ‘You know I can relate to that,’ Rachel said. ‘All those years Mum refused to even tell me my dad’s surname. But we have to remember Step Four and the inventories we drew up. All that letting go of resentments against people. Don’t those words actually just mean forgiving them?’

  Emma thought for a moment. Yes, that was true. And it was also true that she had expected everyone to let go of their resentments against her, yet when it came to Gail, she was finding it oh so hard.

  ‘How about putting yourself in the other person’s position?’ said Rachel. ‘It can’t have been easy for Gail, carrying this secret, but what else could she have done? Did you say your father got help when he returned to France; that losing you finally made him face up to his behaviour?’

  Emma nodded.

  ‘Who does that remind you of?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes you do.’

  Emma’s brow furrowed. ‘You mean… me?’ Of course. Losing Josephine was what had made her determined to see the treatment through.

  ‘Maybe your mum had no choice. Maybe she knew your dad had to hit his rock bottom before he could change. If he’d stayed, the odds are his violence would have continued. She was protecting you, Emma.’

  ‘But he has changed. Don’t get me wrong – part of me hates him for what he did to my family, and if he wasn’t remorseful, I wouldn’t care how many cards he sent. But if his words are to be believed, he’s a different man now. God knows I can’t judge anyone who has made mistakes and got better.’

  ‘But how was your mum to know for sure? Why would she risk letting an abusive partner back into all your lives again? And weren’t your problems starting to get bad by the time you were eighteen? How could
she have dropped this bombshell about your dad when you were so out of control?’

  Emma stared into her lap. ‘But I can’t help thinking that if I’d seen those cards, I would never have ended up on the streets.’

  ‘What were we just saying? No one is to blame for their addiction but themselves. Your self-esteem has been okay these last few months, yes?’

  ‘Better than for a long time.’

  ‘Right, but when you found out about these cards, be honest, was your first instinct to use?’

  ‘I… I have had thoughts about drinking.’

  ‘Even though those cards were effectively good news – that your father did care about you?’

  Emma swallowed as she faced the truth that she’d ignored lately and that had been drilled into them during treatment – people like her were wired to use, whatever happened, good or bad.

  ‘That devious inner voice will search for any reason to get you to pick up.’ Rachel drained her cup. ‘That’s why we can never afford to be off our guard. And we can’t mind-read… Who’s to say that either of our lives would have been better with our fathers in them?’

  Emma nodded. As a child, one reason she’d loved baking was because the cakes made her feel good inside after an argument with a friend or a tough exam at school. Or they seemed like the perfect way to celebrate after a good essay grade or a successful livestock birth. Even back then she was associating a substance with feelings. Whereas now – oh, she still loved baking, but in moderation and along with healthier coping mechanisms like talking to friends and meditation.

  Andrea was right. Really, Emma had enjoyed a pretty idyllic childhood. She just couldn’t see it at the time.

  The conversation moved on to easier subjects, such as the weather and the books they were reading. Rachel mentioned how her mum had recently explained that all those years ago she hadn’t simply given her daughter’s goldfish away. Apparently it had died, but she hadn’t wanted Rachel to be upset so had buried it in the local park and then pretended it had gone to a good home. Emma’s shoulders relaxed. For the first time in days, the frantic buzz in her mind eased. Letting go of resentments, not thinking the worst of people, seeing things from their point of view – it was like a magic panacea.