The Shadow Year

by Hannah Richell

  It wasn’t Tom. It was her mother.

  Lila stares across at her for a moment. ‘What did you mean,’ she asks, trying to steady her voice, ‘“just like hers”?’

  Her mother glances away. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The necklace . . . you said it was “just like hers”. Who did you mean?’

  Her pale face visibly reddens but she swallows and shakes her head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  Lila tilts her head to one side, eyes her carefully then takes a breath. ‘Why did you do it, Mum?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Why did you lie about what happened? That day, in my house, on the stairs?’

  Her mother opens her mouth to speak but Lila holds up her hand; she isn’t finished. ‘You were there, weren’t you?’

  Her mum remains silent and so Lila continues, piecing things together out loud. ‘You didn’t see me through the letter box. You didn’t let yourself in with the spare key and call the ambulance, did you? I’d already let you inside. You came upstairs with me, to help me find something to wear. I remember now. I let you in. I was in a flap. I was moaning about how I couldn’t find anything nice to wear that still fitted over my bump.’ Her mother’s face is a picture of horror but Lila doesn’t stop. ‘I remember. You followed me upstairs, came and sat on the bed while I tried on clothes.’

  She shakes her head. ‘No, that’s not—’

  ‘That’s when I asked you about Dad, isn’t it? I wanted to talk to you about him . . . about his affairs and about how he’d treated you.’ She sees her wince. ‘He was gone – but I wanted to talk to you . . . to try to understand it . . . to try to understand your relationship. But you got so cross. You screamed at me to stop and I said “no”. I said I was sick of the lies. Of the pretence. I wanted to understand why you stayed with him, in such a toxic relationship.’

  ‘It wasn’t toxic.’ She says it under her breath, so that Lila has to lean in to hear her mother’s words. ‘It was love. True love.’

  Lila gives a tiny snort. ‘Love? There wasn’t much love in that house, not in all the years I was there. You jabbed at each other like fencers, trying to make contact, trying to score points whenever you could. That wasn’t love.’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘It wasn’t. But you got so angry, didn’t you? When I dared to criticise Dad and your devotion to him, no matter what he did, no matter how many women he slept with. You were enraged, like you are now, except here we are in a public place and oh, no,’ Lila gives a bitter laugh, ‘we mustn’t make a fuss, must we? God forbid we draw attention to ourselves or actually speak the truth for once.’

  Her mother glances about angrily. ‘For God’s sake just stop, Lila. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘All I wanted to know was why you put up with it? All I wanted to understand was why you allowed him to make you so unhappy. But you couldn’t bear to hear the truth. I remember it all now.’ And she does. In a sudden rush Lila is back there in her bedroom, facing off with her mother across a double bed strewn with clothes.

  ‘Don’t talk about your father like that, not when he’s not here to defend himself,’ her mother had screamed, still raw with grief.

  ‘But if we couldn’t talk about it when he was alive and we can’t talk about it now he’s gone, when, Mum?’

  ‘Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to upset me like this?’ she’d cried. ‘I’ve given you everything,’ she’d implored.

  ‘I’m not trying to upset you, Mum; I’m just trying to understand things. To understand him. Why were we never enough for him?’

  Tears had coursed down her mother’s cheeks. ‘We were enough, Lila.’

  ‘Are you still trying to deny his affairs, his lack of commitment?’

  ‘Stop it, just stop it.’

  ‘He was my father, Mum, but you know sometimes he wasn’t a nice man. It doesn’t hurt to admit it.’

  Her mother had stared at her then, her eyes had swept over her, from head to toe, and Lila had been filled with the strangest sensation, that her mother was seeing her, and yet not seeing her. She’d shaken her head. ‘All this time . . . you’re just like her.’

  Lila had barely heard, fury ringing loudly in her ears. ‘I can’t stand this,’ she’d said and had moved to leave the room, but her mother hadn’t wanted to let her go.

  ‘Don’t walk out of here. Don’t leave the conversation like this. I won’t have it.’

  Lila remembers it all now, pushing past and racing away down the hallway, her mother calling for her to come back. ‘Lila! Stop, Lila!’ her voice echoing down the landing, but Lila had lumbered on, the swell of her belly slowing her. She had almost been at the top of the stairs, just reaching for the banister when she felt her mother’s hands grabbing at her, trying to pull her back, but somehow tipping her off balance so that she stumbled and teetered before falling headlong down the stairs.

  ‘You tripped me,’ she says, her voice barely a whisper. ‘You sent me over.’

  ‘No. I was trying to stop you. I didn’t want you to leave. I wanted to talk about it.’

  ‘Your hands.’ Lila shivers. ‘I remember. I can still feel them.’

  ‘I just wanted you to stop. I just wanted you to listen. I wanted you to think about what you were saying and to understand the sacrifices we made for you. You father and I, we loved you – so much. I couldn’t hear those awful words coming from your mouth. You were so angry. You looked . . . you looked . . .’

  ‘What?’ asks Lila. ‘I looked what?’

  ‘Just like her.’ She says it in a small voice.

  Lila stares at her in fascination. ‘Like who?’

  But her mother is crying now and she just sits there and shakes her head, reaches into her handbag for a handkerchief, sniffs and wipes at her tears. ‘You were running away from me and I didn’t want to lose you. I couldn’t lose you. Not after everything else. I reached out to stop you. I just wanted to hold you, to talk to you . . . but I must have put you off balance. You stumbled. You fell. The stairs were right there. You fell all the way down, toppled right over and landed at the bottom.’ She bites her lip. ‘You weren’t moving. I was so scared. I thought you were dead. I thought it was my punishment.’

  ‘Your punishment? For what?’

  Her mother just shakes her head again. ‘I called the ambulance right away, then I waited with you for them to come.’ She is weeping openly now. ‘I was so scared. I sat beside you in the ambulance and I held your hand. I called Tom and told him what had happened. I wanted to be there for you. I wanted to help.’

  Lila stares at her. ‘But you couldn’t help. No one could. My baby was coming – too early. It was your fault.’

  ‘No. It was a terrible accident.’

  ‘So why lie about it? Why lie about being there with me in the first place?’ Lila reaches for her scarf and bag then stands. She can’t bear to hear any more. She isn’t sure what to believe, but she knows she can’t sit there next to her mother and think about this madness another moment. Her mother has lied to her, over and over, and she can’t stand to hear one more word leave her mouth.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Don’t go. Let’s talk this through. I need you to understand.’

  ‘Oh, I think I understand. All these months I knew there was something. I’ve been blaming myself . . . told myself I was going crazy with strange nightmares and fragments of memories . . . and yet you were there. You were there with me. You were responsible.’

  ‘No. I never wanted any of this to happen. I was going to talk to you about it but when you came round in the hospital and didn’t seem to remember’ – Lila sees her mother at least has the good grace to look ashamed – ‘there didn’t seem to be anything to be gained by dredging it up again. I didn’t want to upset you any more than you were already. You had so much to deal with.’

  ‘So you lied?’ Lila stares down at her through narrowed eyes. She can feel the barman�
��s curious gaze from across the room but she doesn’t care. She shakes her head. ‘You don’t have any idea, do you, what I’ve been through these last few months?’

  Her mother casts about desperately. ‘Don’t go,’ she pleads. ‘Let’s talk this through.’

  But Lila shakes her head again. ‘No. All I want right now is for you to leave me alone.’

  She turns and stalks through the dining room, ignoring the glances and raised eyebrows of the other customers as she half runs, half walks out of the pub. The whole way to the car she expects to feel her mother’s hands at her back, to hear her plaintive cries, but as she draws closer to the car, the only voice she hears calling out to her is a man’s. ‘Excuse me,’ she hears, ‘excuse me, miss . . .’

  She turns around in a daze, and eyes the young barman racing towards her.

  ‘Is this yours?’ he asks, holding out her mother’s credit card. ‘I think you left it behind the bar.’

  Lila looks at him, confused.

  He half shrugs then looks down and reads the name printed across the bottom. ‘Are you Freya? Mrs Freya Everard?’

  Lila stares at him for a long moment then shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says, ‘Freya’s my mother. It’s her card. You’ll find her in the restaurant.’

  ‘Oh,’ says the man, looking a little sheepish, ‘my mistake. Sorry to bother you.’

  She hurls her bag into the passenger seat and starts the car with an angry roar. Lies. It’s all lies. At that moment she doesn’t care if she never sees her mother again. Too angry for tears, she revs the engine again and speeds out of the car park with a spray of gravel. She circles the village green once and then races all the way back to London without so much as a backwards glance.

  22

  MAY

  1981

  The May Day celebration is Simon’s idea. He broaches it with them over dinner one night. ‘It’s traditional,’ he tells them. ‘We’ve survived winter. It was bloody hard, but we did it and now we should celebrate. We should show appreciation for what the land has provided us with so far . . . and ask for luck with this year’s crops. After all, new life is coming.’ Kat notices his eyes flick to Freya’s swollen belly.

  ‘Our crops?’ laughs Ben. ‘Steady on, mate. You make it sound as though we’ve been out in peasant smocks sowing fields of wheat and corn.’

  ‘Oi!’ protests Carla, ‘they might not be fields but I’ve been working hard out there. We’ve got rhubarb, and lettuces coming through, the first pea shoots too. Soon we’ll have carrots, marrows, strawberries, beans, maybe even some tomatoes if we’re lucky.’

  Simon smiles. ‘So, what do you all think? We deserve a little celebration, right?’

  ‘How do we even know it’s May Day?’ asks Kat. ‘I lost track of dates a long time ago.’

  ‘Well, it’s definitely the right month, that’s a start isn’t it? What does it matter if it’s the first or the twenty-first? Let’s just enjoy ourselves. It’s been too long since we had a little fun.’

  Kat shrugs. ‘Let’s do it,’ she says, trying to conjure some enthusiasm, but when she looks across at Freya with her head bowed and her enormous stomach protruding over the top of the table, Kat feels her bitterness coil and constrict around her guts.

  Ben builds a stone hearth down on the shore of the lake and fetches kindling and logs. He fashions a basic but effective grill. Simon takes the fishing rods out onto the lake and ends their run of bad luck by catching four juicy perch within an hour. Kat helps Carla in the vegetable garden and they return to the cottage triumphant with spring greens and a bowl of tiny pink radishes. Mac does his bit too. He strikes out early with the traps and gun and arrives back that afternoon with a brace of plump wood pigeons and fragrant wild garlic pulled from the forest floor. Kat sees him holding the birds up for Freya’s inspection, her sister congratulating him with a smile and the lightest touch on his sleeve. As the kitchen fills with produce, their excitement grows. It’s as though they are all trying to banish the memory of the recent weeks of stress and discord.

  Watching her friends, Kat is reminded of how it felt all those months ago when they had first arrived at the lake, all of them giddy with the freedom and excitement of discovering a place all to themselves. Somehow it feels as though they are coming full circle. It’s there in the return of the yellow cowslips and white puffs of water hemlock growing near the lake, there in the blush of pink honesty flowers blooming near the cottage and in the forget-me-nots meandering across the grassy bank. The valley is alive once more with plants and insects, the splash of ducklings and the shimmering warmth and light she remembers from a year ago.

  ‘See,’ says Simon, wrapping an arm companionably around her shoulders, ‘this is going to be fun.’

  She nods. It is a good idea. After a long winter of sickness and hunger Kat can see that they need something to celebrate and for the first time in ages it feels as though they are pulling together again, a group united by a common purpose. She leans into Simon and beams up at him with her brightest smile.

  ‘Where did Freya get to?’ he asks, ruining the moment.

  ‘Beats me. You know,’ she adds, ‘I’m not sure she’s contributed anything to the meal tonight.’

  Simon sighs. ‘I suppose we can let her off, in her condition.’

  Kat nods again but inside she simmers. Why should Freya be let off the hard work? They all excuse her now, for being big and slow, for drifting around aimlessly, lost in her own world, but it annoys Kat. She lives there with them all. She should be made to join in.

  She finds her sister on the fallen tree trunk down near the water’s edge, gazing intently at something hidden within her cupped hands. She is wearing her usual shapeless dress, her velvet slippers and her hair in a loose tangle around her shoulders. ‘Are you going to help us today . . . or what?’ Kat has meant to sound encouraging, but instead the words come out stiff and angry.

  Freya just shrugs and Kat feels her anger flare. Is she really still punishing her for Wilbur? It’s been days and she has hardly spoken to her.

  ‘We’ve got fish as well as Mac’s pigeons for dinner tonight.’ Kat cranes her neck and sees the dragonfly nestled on the palm of her sister’s hand, its body shining iridescent green in the sunlight. ‘Is it alive?’

  Freya nods and Kat watches as the breeze catches a strand of her sister’s fair hair and lifts it away from her face. She stares at her, transfixed. For just a moment it’s as though the faintest outline of someone else has been overlaid onto her sister’s profile; it fuses in place for a split second before vanishing. Kat blinks. ‘You remind me of her, you know,’ she says.

  Freya can’t help her curiosity. ‘Who?’

  ‘Mum.’

  Finally, Freya turns to Kat and studies her with eyes as clear and blue as the lake before her. ‘I don’t remember her.’ She hesitates. ‘What was she like?’

  Kat thinks. ‘Fair, like you, and fun too . . . when she wasn’t drunk . . . or high. She liked to sing . . . she loved that song, “Pretty Woman”, you know the one. She’d sing it over and over. Sometimes she would spin us round the kitchen, grab us under our arms and twirl us round and round until we begged her to stop. Do you remember that?’

  Freya shakes her head, but a small smile creeps across her face. She turns away from Kat to hide it. ‘I wish I could remember. I’m jealous that you do.’

  Kat gapes. ‘You’re jealous of me?’

  Freya nods but she won’t look at her.

  Kat would laugh out loud if it wasn’t so ridiculous. She would gladly swap her memories. They are lodged like shadows deep in her subconscious but the sight of her sister, pregnant and waddling about the place, has unlocked them from somewhere inside. She remembers their mother shuffling about the tiny flat, her belly jutting like a football beneath a thin, cotton dress; then later, a screaming baby in her arms and their father red-faced and shouting, shut that bloody baby up! She sees a young Freya toddling around in a dirty nappy, emptying a packet of cigarett
es out across the floor; her mother weeping over a plate of burnt sausages as she reaches, unseeing, for the vodka bottle beside the sink. It isn’t much, but she does remember.

  ‘Would you ever try to find her?’ Freya asks.

  ‘No.’ Kat shakes her head. ‘The last time she left us . . .’ Kat swallows. ‘If those men hadn’t arrived from the electricity company with their warrant . . . they said we could have died.’ She shakes her head. ‘I have no desire to find her.’

  Kat notices her sister’s shoulders sink a little lower. Both of them understand how it is: there is no one else. They are all they’ve got and that’s why Freya won’t leave now. Even though she is miserable, there is nowhere else for her to go. So she stays, and every day she grows bigger with Simon’s child, and every day Kat’s jealousy and bitterness grows a little stronger. It creeps up through her like the thick green vines climbing across the exterior of the cottage. She can feel it tangling around her heart, squeezing the life out of it. It’s such a messed-up situation and Kat has no idea how to fix it. All she knows is that things can’t carry on as they are because like it or not, the baby is coming.

  Freya reaches out a finger and gently touches the body of the dragonfly still resting in her palm. Its wings flitter before falling still, the creature reluctant to leave its sanctuary. Freya lifts her hand to her mouth and gently blows beneath the bug so that finally, on the current of her breath, the dragonfly takes flight and buzzes out over the surface of the lake, vanishing into the powder blue sky.

  ‘Come on,’ says Kat, ‘we should help the others.’

  As they gather down by the shores of the lake, half of the valley is in shadow, the other half still bathed in sunlight, as if a giant curtain waits to be drawn across the scene. Mac’s pigeons have been plucked and skewered and sit cooking on the grill alongside the fish. Ben strums quietly on his guitar. Carla sits behind Freya, brushing her hair while Mac watches on silently. Kat perches next to Simon on the fallen tree, the two of them drinking beer and chatting about the best fishing spots in the lake. The night is easy and informal until Simon stands and urges them all to gather round.