The automatic doors to Marks & Spencer’s glided open and I felt a puff of warm air as I stepped inside out of the cold. In the Christmas section mothers were buying shiny, glittering things, watched closely by wide-eyed children at their sides. I paused there for a minute, trying to wipe the memory of that horrible woman from my mind, but I couldn’t seem to shake off a feeling of gloom. I shouldn’t be feeling like this; after all, Hannah would be coming on Boxing Day and staying until the following evening. It’d give me a chance to look after her and pamper her a bit. I stayed with them for a few days after Toby was born, but Duncan was worried I’d outstay my welcome. ‘They need to find their feet as parents,’ he said. ‘If you’re there for too long, it’ll make it all the more difficult when you go and they’re on their own again. And we’re only a phone call away if she needs us.’ Maybe he was right. I knew I had a tendency to overprotect Hannah – I always have. But she looked so tired.
In the Food Hall there was quite a queue of people collecting their pre-ordered organic turkeys. That reminded me – I needed to ask Duncan to call into the butcher’s to pick up the turkey crown I’d ordered. I couldn’t go into those places myself. I could just about cook poultry even though I no longer ate it, but I couldn’t deal with butchers’ shops or meat counters, and I especially couldn’t bear the blood any more; the sight of it on the butcher’s apron and on his hands; the dark smears on the wooden chopping block, and the thought that behind the counter or out the back where you couldn’t see it there would be blood pooled on the floor, sticking to his shoes and making the sawdust stick together in clumps.
I wandered along the aisles, throwing crystallised ginger and Turkish delight into my basket but resisting the pack of chocolate tree decorations because last year Monty, who doesn’t care that chocolate is bad for dogs, snaffled the whole lot up, foil wrappers and all, and had sparkly poo for two days afterwards. As I made my way to the check-out, I sported a man disappearing behind a display of mince pies. A jolt of recognition shot through my body; he was almost bald and he was wearing a huge dark coat that looked too big for him, but there was something so familiar about that walk. He appeared briefly at the end of the aisle. I only caught a glimpse of the side of his face but I could see that he was wearing heavy framed glasses and that his skin was unusually pale. Scott had had an olive complexion; he had long dark hair and he didn’t wear glasses, but there was something about this man that reminded me so much . . . The man half turned towards me and for a moment I was unable to move. It was him; it was Scott and he was here in Sheffield. I couldn’t hear anything except a rushing in my ears; I couldn’t feel my own body. Then someone touched my arm. ‘You all right, love? Here, come and sit down for a minute, don’t worry about your shopping, duck. We’ll sort that out.’ I wasn’t sure what she meant at first, then I realised I’d actually dropped the shopping basket, and now I could see a shop assistant and another woman picking everything up as I was led, by an elderly lady, to the chairs they put along the wall to be sat on by elderly ladies.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m fine. Really.’ Then I was sitting down and someone was offering me a glass of water. The old lady had her arm around me. ‘Do you want us to phone anyone, duck? My daughter’s got her mobile if you—’
‘No, I’m all right now, but it’s very kind of you.’ I gulped the water and took my bags from the shop assistant. ‘Thank you. I felt a bit faint, that’s all – didn’t have any breakfast.’
I looked around for the man as I joined the queue for the checkout but there was no sign of him now. It couldn’t have been Scott, I told myself. Scott’s in New Zealand. He was taller, anyway. And heavier; and he had long hair. But then, the last time I saw Scott was when Hannah was eight months old and that was over thirty years ago. Of course he’d look different now; I looked different too. Back then, my hair was dyed red and I’d cut it short soon after Hannah was born because it was easier when I was looking after a baby all day. Now it was back to its natural colour, not grey enough yet to warrant regular treatments, but not the rich, velvety brown it was when I first met Scott and Eve. I paid for the items in my basket and went out into the street. I couldn’t think about present shopping now, so I’d have to pop back later. I started to make my way home, eyes darting around, scanning the crowd for a balding man in a big dark coat. I felt raw and exposed and I was shivering so much that my teeth were chattering. As I waited for the bus, I remembered that Duncan had an early surgery today – it was only routine vaccinations, mostly cats and dogs, so he’d probably be home by now and he’d wonder why I was back so soon. I could have said I had a migraine coming on, but I didn’t want to lie; I’d never lied to Duncan, only about things that happened before.
CHAPTER TWO
I was up early on Boxing Day morning and by seven o’clock I was showered, dressed, and in the kitchen making coffee and toast. Yesterday had been nice; Duncan cooked – beef Wellington for himself, caramelised onion tart for me, followed by home-made chocolate truffle ice cream. Then we watched Christmas telly, drank port and ate mince pies. It was a good day, and I was touched at the trouble he’d taken to make it feel festive. But today was the real deal; the proper Christmas.
I ate my toast standing up and drank my coffee as I took things out of the fridge. There was a lot to do. I had to prepare the turkey crown for Duncan and Marcus, make apricot and parsley stuffing and finish the cashew nut and almond loaf for Hannah and me.
‘Okay.’ Duncan came into the kitchen, hair still damp from the shower. ‘Give me a job.’
‘Peeling, please.’ I handed him the peeler and a carrier bag full of potatoes and parsnips, and he kissed my cheek before setting to work. ‘Cheer up,’ he said. ‘We’re going to have a lovely day.’
I’d felt a bit down yesterday. I knew it was selfish of me, but I wanted them here, my daughter and grandson. ‘I don’t begrudge Marcus’s parents.’ I added cranberry jelly and a pinch of ground cloves to the red cabbage and grated apple as it simmered on the back of the hob. ‘But I thought, you know, Toby’s first Christmas . . . And it’s not even two weeks since she gave birth. Wouldn’t you think tha—’
‘Darling.’ Duncan cut the potato he’d just peeled into four. ‘They’ll be here soon and they’re staying until tomorrow night. Can’t we just enjoy having them? They were only at Marcus’s mum and dad’s for a couple of hours, so I think we got the better deal, don’t you?’
‘I know, but—’
‘Oh, come on. You’re not saying you’d rather have had them here for Christmas lunch than staying overnight?’
‘No, I suppose not,’ I sighed. ‘I’m just a bit worried about her, that’s all. I get the feeling something’s not right. Do you know what I mean?’
‘She was a bit quiet when I saw her, but that was just after she’d had him. And when you think of what she’s been through . . .’ He paused and looked up at me, his eyes suddenly dark with concern. ‘Do you really think there’s something wrong? Seeing the look on his face reminded me of how much Duncan cared for Hannah. He loved her, as he promised he would, as though she were his own child. I sighed. ‘Probably not. I expect I’m worrying over nothing.’ I kissed the top of his head. ‘Sorry.’
*
It was what had really sealed our relationship. I could never have made a life with someone who didn’t love my Hannah as his own. The first Christmas we spent together, I’d been worried how a man who wasn’t used to children would cope with a seven-year-old waking him up at four in the morning to show him the presents he’d already seen and had helped to wrap the night before. But he was enchanted, and he took the whole business very seriously, even suggesting we hire a Santa costume in case she woke up and saw me filling her stocking.
On Christmas Eve, we found Hannah a pair of stretchy old boot-socks so she could hang one at the end of her bed while I smuggled the other into the living room. We stuffed the spare sock with tiny gifts, chocolate coins, pink-and-white sugar mice, shiny pennies and a satsu
ma until it bulged and rustled tantalisingly, then we crept into her room together to swap it for its limp, empty partner. ‘I love Christmas Eve,’ Duncan had whispered. ‘Do you remember waking up and feeling the weight of that knobbly stocking on your feet and thinking, he’s been!’ I did remember, but for me, those happy Christmases had come to an end too soon. ‘Hey, look at this.’ Duncan stooped to pick up an envelope that had slid off the bed and onto the floor. ‘I didn’t know she’d written to Santa.’
‘Neither did I.’ We took the letter, along with the mince pie, the glass of sherry and the carrot for the reindeer, into the sitting room. All around the edge of the page, Hannah had drawn bauble-bedecked Christmas trees, holly, and twinkling stars. Dear Father Christmas, if you are real, please wake me up when you come to my house. If you do not wake me up, I will not believe in you. Your friend Hannah Matthews. PS. I hope you are well and I hope you have a happy Christmas. And then she’d added several lines of kisses. ‘Oh my God,’ I laughed. ‘I can’t believe this – my daughter is blackmailing Father Christmas!’
Duncan smiled. ‘Clever! But do you notice, she hasn’t actually asked for anything, just wished him a happy Christmas.’ He put his arm round me and kissed me on the nose. ‘What a very nice, well-brought-up little girl.’
We had a lovely time that year. Duncan loved putting up the fairy lights, decorating the tree, and reading The Night Before Christmas to Hannah on Christmas Eve. ‘It’s like being a kid again,’ he said. ‘It’s magical.’
‘It’s what a child’s Christmas should be.’
I still played Santa right up until Hannah went to university; it was a bit of a joke by then and it was one gift instead of a filled stocking, but I’d wanted to keep it magical for as long as possible.
*
Hannah and Marcus were due to arrive at one, and by 12.30 almost everything was done and the house was filled with the fragrant smells of roasting turkey, herby stuffing and the warm, spicy aroma of red cabbage. Duncan had lit the fire in the dining room and laid the table with a crisp white cloth, tall candles and proper napkins with napkin rings. While he was out the front clearing snow and ice from the path, I cut a small sprig from the Christmas tree and slipped out into the garden, as I had done every Boxing Day for the last ten years.
I found the spot under the plum tree at the end of the garden, marked by a small wooden cross, only just visible now through the snow. I crouched down and brushed the snow away. This one had almost made it; the last of my ghost babies. Thirteen weeks, a perfectly formed little boy, about two and a half inches long. None of the others held on past eight weeks, and I didn’t like to think about what may have happened to their tiny bodies. I should have looked; I should have overcome my horror and put my hands down in the blood and found them, my babies that never were; then I could have put them all out here under the plum tree and visited them whenever I needed to remember. This little cross would be surrounded by snowdrops in a few weeks’ time, but for today I placed the sprig of pine in front of it. ‘Merry Christmas, sweetheart,’ I whispered.
The first eight weeks had been agonising; every time I felt a twinge I’d worry that it was happening again. But the weeks went on, I had regular scans and I felt good; we started to hope. Once we passed the magic twelve-week point, we relaxed. We were so sure it was going to be okay this time that we even started to tell people and to hell with the comments. Yes, we were both in our forties; no, we didn’t want to ‘enjoy our freedom’ now Hannah had left home. We still had a lot of love to give and we both wanted this child – our child – desperately. But on Christmas afternoon, the pains started and I knew immediately. Hannah was there with Nick, her boyfriend at the time. She sent Nick away and she and Duncan spent the next few days trying to be supportive, and trying not to cry. I wanted Hannah to go back to Leeds where she shared a house – a daughter shouldn’t have to see her mother in the midst of a miscarriage. But she insisted on staying with me. Then only a few years later, it had been me trying not to cry through each of her miscarriages.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked round, and Duncan was standing behind me. He pulled me gently to my feet and wrapped his arms around me. We stood there in the snowy garden holding on to each other, not speaking.
CHAPTER THREE
Monty’s frenetic barking announced Hannah and Marcus’s arrival and they tumbled into the house in a bluster of bags and rucksacks and nappies and general baby paraphernalia. Hannah looked shattered. Marcus carried a sleeping Toby, still strapped into his car seat, into the kitchen and placed him on the kitchen table. His little body jolted due to the heightened startle reflex, and he opened his eyes briefly but then closed them again. Duncan enfolded Hannah in a big hug, then turned to Marcus and shook his hand. They got on well, Duncan and Marcus, and I was glad. My family was so small that every now and then I was gripped by a sense of absolute terror that something might happen to destroy it. I looked at Toby’s red, scrunched-up face and I marvelled at how clever Hannah had been to produce him. My grandson.
‘Right,’ Duncan said, rubbing his hands together and smiling. ‘How about a Christmas drink?’
‘Huh! I wish,’ Hannah said. ‘There’s a bottle of wine in that bag somewhere, but I suppose I’d better not have any. Any coffee going?’
‘Are you supposed to drink coffee?’ Marcus asked.
‘For God’s sake, it’s Christmas!’
‘But won’t it—’
‘One cup, Marcus.’ Her voice was unusually sharp.
Marcus put his hands up in mock defence. ‘Okay, okay.’ He grinned. ‘Sorry. The lady wants coffee, the lady gotta have coffee.’
I made the coffee with hot milk, just the way Hannah liked it. ‘So, how are you feeling?’ I asked after Duncan and Marcus had gone through to the dining room.
‘Totally and utterly knackered.’ She sighed and sat down, pushing the car seat away so she could lean on the table and rest her head in her hands.
‘It’ll get better, you know. The first few weeks really are the worst. Is Marcus pulling his weight?’
‘He’s doing more than his share, to be honest.’ She put her hands round the coffee and blew lightly on the surface. ‘He’s very good with him.’ She sounded a little sad. Then Toby woke up and started to cry.
‘I’ll take him, you drink your coffee.’ I fumbled with the catch on the harness that kept him in his car seat. It seemed so much more complicated than the clips I remembered.
‘Here.’ Hannah leant across, snapped the clasp open easily then sat back with a sigh as Toby’s cries increased in intensity. ‘He can’t be hungry again, surely? I only fed him a couple of hours ago.’
‘Come on, sweetheart,’ I murmured as I lifted him from his chair and held his warm little body against my chest. He looked so sweet in his Christmas-red baby-grow and the navy cardigan that Hannah knitted when she was pregnant. We had a hell of a job finding those ladybird buttons, but Hannah knew exactly what she wanted. She had such a good eye for that sort of thing. ‘He’s perfect,’ I said. ‘And so tiny and compact.’ I almost commented on how like Marcus he was, but something stopped me. ‘Shush.’ I swayed back and forth with him as I walked around the kitchen trying to settle him. ‘Shush, my little pickle; let your poor mummy have her coffee. Shush-shush.’
‘Oh, shit.’ Hannah looked down. ‘I’m leaking again.’ She grabbed a wipe from the quilted bag next to her and started dabbing at two wet spots that had appeared on her jumper. ‘This keeps happening when he cries.’ She held her arms out. ‘Better give him here.’ She lifted her jumper and held Toby in place until he seemed to sense or smell her milk and started to root frantically for the nipple. Then, after several attempts, he latched on and Hannah winced.
‘Sore?’ I asked.
She bit her bottom lip as she nodded. ‘The health visitor said it was like breaking in a new pair of shoes, but either she’s never had a baby or she wears shoes made of broken glass.’
I felt a flash of anger towa
rds the health visitor. ‘That’s not very helpful, is it. Isn’t there any cream they can give you?’
She nodded. ‘But it doesn’t get much of a chance to work, does it? It’s like there’s no escape; he’s either clamped to my nipple or he’s crying and making me leak so I couldn’t get away even if I wanted to.’
‘What do you—’
Hannah shook her head. ‘I don’t mean I really want to get away from him; just . . . well, he’s less than two weeks old and it’s as though he’s been here for ever. He seems, I don’t know, so determined; it’s as if he knows what he wants and he knows how to get it, whether I like it or not.’ She looked up at me and smiled weakly. ‘I sound ungrateful, don’t I?’ She looked down at her son, whose eyes were now closed as he sucked blissfully, his tiny fingers curling and uncurling as they rested against her breast. ‘I don’t mean to,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s what I wanted, after all. But I can’t even remember what it’s like to walk around without my arms aching from carrying him, or to get into bed without holding my breath, waiting for him to start crying. ’
I looked at her again. My poor Hannah; she was pale, and there were deep, dark shadows in her face. And yet she’d looked so well while she was pregnant.
Despite having just been fed, Toby cried a lot while we were having lunch, so Marcus, Duncan and I all took turns walking around with him so that Hannah could eat. When we’d finished the main course, I got up to clear the plates and Hannah followed me into the kitchen, loaded the plates into the dishwasher and then sat at the table while I found matches to flame the Christmas pudding. She picked up the bottle of brandy and sighed. ‘I could really do with a large one of these right now.’ I got the impression she was only half joking when she added, ‘Perhaps it’d make him sleep a bit longer.’
‘Listen, how about if I come over again for a few days? Just to take the pressure off for a bit? I’m not at the Project again until after New Year, and I can easily . . .’
The Secrets We Left Behind Page 2
