This Much is True: How far will a mother go to protect her shocking secret?

by Jane Sanderson

  How did it come to her, to take her woes to Josie? And, having had the thought, how had she actually arrived here? In the car, obviously, since that was where she now sat, outside Josie’s windmill, gripping the steering wheel as if she needed it for balance. But the period between crying on the lavatory seat and crying here, two miles away from home, was a blank, its shadowy details eluding her as if she’d driven to Wentford in her sleep. She shivered, although it wasn’t cold in the familiar upholstered confines of her Nissan. But she felt exposed all the same: raw with horror, riddled with terror, sodden with self-pity. The flimsy certainties of her life, few enough though they were, hung in shreds now that Andrew – her boy, her lovely boy – had found that cursed trove of secrets. If only she’d known it was there! She wondered how Vince had contrived to bring it from Coventry when they moved, given his – by then – enfeebled state. Perhaps she had packed it in one of the trunks or cases, shoving that box in with all the other boxes in her haste to be gone, unwittingly laying a time bomb for her own destruction. Or perhaps it was Vince’s doing after all; he would have liked to think of her finding the box and leafing through its contents with familiar dismay, reminded again of how little he had loved her when love was still a possibility. Now she pictured the box in flames, its pernicious contents curling and melting in the heat, Martha Hancock’s winning smile gone for ever, as it should be, as she had thought it was.

  There was a tap at the window, breaking her miserable reverie.

  ‘Annie. Annie!’

  Josie stood outside the car, peering in. She was wrapped up like a child in a big blue duffel coat and Betty was beside her. Josie smiled through the window; she expected Annie to wind it down, but she didn’t.

  ‘Sorry, did you try my door?’ Josie said through the glass. ‘It’s open – you could’ve gone and waited for me inside. I just took Betty through the village for a change of scene.’

  Her voice was muffled through the closed window, but Annie heard well enough the happy acceptance of this unexpected arrival, and she wished – another wish, to add to all the others – that she too owned some small quantity, a grain, just an atom, of Josie’s perennial calm confidence. Annie couldn’t speak. She couldn’t smile either, but only stared helplessly at Josie, letting tears course down her cheeks unchecked. Josie opened the car door and asked no more questions. She guided Annie from the driver’s seat, and held on tight to her arm like a nurse with an invalid as they inched up the path. Annie, gazing downwards, saw red brick herringbone edged with clipped lavender that waited for spring and its perfection made her think of her own plain grey flags so that she felt sadder still. Oh, anything and everything could wound an already wounded heart; this lovely garden path might have been placed there only to taunt her.

  Inside, Josie sat her down on an armchair, not at the table where she’d sat before. It was tidy in here today, Annie noticed. There was no sign of ethnic bric-a-brac, except for Josie’s possessions, which all had their place. The room glowed with copper pans, gaudy ceramics, burnished wood, and there was a spicy smell from a fat candle that guttered softly in its glass dish. Annie leaned back, let the chair support her. It was old; the green velvet that covered its cushions was torn in parts and faded, but its seat was deep and its arms were wide, and Annie felt embraced, enfolded. In moments there was a box of tissues on her lap and Josie was busy with a pan of milk on the stove. Tea wouldn’t do, she was saying. Tea was too thin for comfort. At times such as this, Josie said, the very best thing was hot chocolate. Annie waited in the chair, saying nothing but feeling better, safer, in this circular room with walls as thick as a fortress.

  Josie grated chocolate from a thick dark slab and kept one eye on the milk, which hissed in its shining pan. She talked as she worked, about inconsequential matters such as how too many foodstuffs with chocolate in their title tasted of anything but, and had Annie ever eaten chocolate custard in her school days? ‘A case in point,’ Josie said, ‘a classic example of something bearing the chocolate name without earning the right.’ Annie barely registered the words, and certainly didn’t reply, but watched the chocolate shavings fall from the grater, piling up on the plate like a heap of tiny autumn leaves.

  ‘This is the Spanish way,’ Josie was saying. She was whipping up cornflour with a dash of cold milk. ‘Lots of chocolate, not so much milk, cornflour to thicken. Really, when it’s finished, you should be able to stand a spoon up in it.’

  She lifted the pan from the stove, tipped in the chocolate, added the cornflour paste and whisked the mixture with concentrated vigour, and then glanced up to smile across the room at Annie.

  ‘There,’ she said, and she poured a dense, generous slick of molten hot chocolate into a wide sky-blue teacup. ‘This’ll soothe your spirits.’

  She passed the beautiful cup to Annie, poured another, then sat down opposite her on an old wooden carver, which creaked contentedly. Annie took a sip and the unctuous, creamy sweetness ran into her like balm. It was astonishing.

  ‘So now,’ Josie said. ‘Tell me everything.’ She was expecting a sad tale of an old man’s death compounded by grief at the imminent loss from her life of Finn, but Annie began to speak and revealed another story entirely, of pain and deception and long years of denial. She talked and talked and Josie listened, and if she was shocked, she hid it well.

  ‘So Andrew is actually Robert, although he’s always been Andrew to me, but now he thinks he has a half-brother, and I wish that was all it was,’ Annie said. She was exhausted by her confession; she was running out of words. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what to tell him.’ And then abruptly, she stopped talking.

  Josie drew a slow line through the thick chocolate inside her cup and licked her finger. ‘You must tell him the truth,’ she said carefully. ‘You simply must.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Annie said. ‘But I don’t know how.’

  ‘Yes you do, you just told me.’

  ‘Oh, but I can’t tell Andrew what I’ve told you!’

  Josie laughed kindly. ‘Why not, Annie?’

  ‘Because it’s … it’s …’ She petered out uncertainly. Because it was different here, she wanted to say; it was safe and closed, as secret as a priest’s confessional.

  ‘You see, you can’t not tell him,’ Josie said. ‘Not if you love him.’

  ‘Well, I could just let sleeping dogs lie.’ Annie’s voice had a touch of sulky defiance. The hot chocolate was all gone now; its cathartic effect was starting to recede. ‘Vince can’t tell him anything, can he? He’s not capable.’

  ‘Vince has told him something, by leaving those pictures,’ Josie said. ‘Now Andrew needs your help to fill in the gaps.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Try to see it as a good thing, Annie, like setting down a heavy bag you’ve carried for years. The relief of it!’ Josie suddenly seemed to hear her own cajoling tone and she clamped shut her mouth and waited. Betty, curled in her basket, whimpered in her sleep. Finally Annie said, ‘But what if Andrew can’t forgive me?’

  ‘What’s to forgive? You took a young woman’s unwanted child and loved him. That’s no crime, that’s a generous act. It’s laudable.’

  Annie shook her head.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ she said.

  ‘I understand this much,’ Josie said. ‘Andrew’s a grown man, with children of his own. He’ll know what you did for him and he’ll see your predicament, Annie. He’ll see why you’ve never told him this story before.’

  Annie looked bleak. She was grateful to Josie, she was glad she’d come here, but still she knew she was alone. Josie believed she understood and yet, thought Annie, she didn’t. She didn’t. She didn’t.

  Back at Beech Street the house was empty except for Finn, whose greeting was muted, as though he knew she was bruised. Andrew and Bailey had gone who knew where with the boys, but they’d washed the dishes, tidied away the toys, plumped up the cushions in the sitting room, so that, downstairs at lea
st, you might never know they were staying here. The red light blinked on the answerphone and when Annie pressed play, a man’s voice startled her with talk of Finn until she realised that it was just Mr Dinmoor, so she let him speak but walked into the kitchen without listening. He ended his message with a bright cheerio and she stood in the silence for a moment, considering. The wooden box and its arsenal of mementoes was gone, and there wasn’t a single thing out of place in here; all was as it should be, as it ever was, but the perfect order now seemed steeped in loneliness and Annie sat heavily on a chair, worn down by sorrow, spent and fearful. When the front door opened and closed she didn’t so much as stir, and when Michael called her she didn’t reply, so that he was instantly rattled when he found her in the kitchen.

  ‘So you are here,’ he said, in a huff. ‘Don’t know where you’ve been, but you’ve missed all the action.’

  ‘What?’ Annie said, although she barely registered interest.

  ‘Oh, high drama.’ He stood behind her, so she had to twist in the chair to look at him. She knew that expression; he was spinning out the moment. Well, let him. She turned away again. She wondered if he knew about the shoebox and decided he probably didn’t, because it was years since Andrew had shared anything with his brother.

  ‘Well? Do you want to know?’

  ‘Not really,’ Annie said, and she knew from the stunned silence that this was as shocking to Michael as a slap in the face. She knew, too, that something in her offhand manner had impressed him; he walked around the table and sat down opposite her.

  ‘Father’s on his deathbed,’ he said.

  ‘Again,’ Annie said.

  He conceded with a small laugh that they had indeed been here before. ‘But really, this time,’ he said. ‘The home rang, spoke to Andrew. The old bastard had a massive seizure by all accounts. They want you in there pronto, to sign a DNR.’

  She looked at him, puzzled.

  ‘Do not resuscitate,’ Michael said.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I told Andrew I didn’t think you’d have any moral objection to that.’

  ‘None whatsoever,’ she said, and they shared a rueful smile, a rare moment of understanding. ‘So where’s Andrew now?’

  ‘Dashed off to Glebe Hall with Bailey and the sprogs in tow.’

  ‘Oh. Oh dear.’

  ‘Rang a taxi! I suggested they wait for you but—’

  She stood up abruptly so that he stopped mid-sentence. ‘Was he carrying a box?’ Annie said. She was heading out of the kitchen as she spoke.

  ‘What? A box?’ Michael left the table too, followed his mother down the hall. She was shrugging on her coat and Finn thought it was for his benefit and stretched luxuriously, limbering up for a walk. Annie was oblivious; she ignored the dog entirely and Michael, noticing this, thought that of all his mother’s present strangeness, this fact was the strangest. It pleased him to see the dog spurned, put him in a better frame of mind.

  ‘Well was he?’ Annie snapped, poised to leave the house.

  ‘No. Oh well, maybe.’

  He was perplexed at his mother’s behaviour, her tone; nothing about her seemed quite as it should be. Michael tried to picture Andrew, leaving the house, carrying a box under one arm, and the image had a ring of credibility to it.

  ‘Well actually …’ he said, but Annie was already dashing away, leaving the door open behind her, and he called out to her to wait, that he was coming too. She didn’t even look round: extraordinary! He shut the door and jogged after her, without a coat.

  When he slid into the car, she threw him a sceptical look. ‘When did you last see your father?’ she said. He laughed, thinking of the painting, but she wasn’t amused; her profile was rigid with tension as they drove slowly along Beech Street.

  ‘Yes, all right,’ he said. ‘Point taken.’

  He was being facetious, but still, she was surprised, because Michael never admitted to being at fault. But then, she thought, when had she ever truly laid fault at his door? She glanced at him and seemed about to speak but he raised his eyebrows at her and flourished at the windscreen with his long fingers.

  ‘Eyes on the road, Mother,’ he said.

  She turned away, and Michael reclined his seat, closed his eyes, and hummed snatches of Mendelssohn all the way to Glebe Hall.

  21

  Vince’s eyes were open but he looked dead already, desiccated, empty of spirit or light, and with Andrew motionless on one side of the bed and Bailey on the other, the scene had the look of a morbid still life. The boys weren’t here, but all Annie was looking for as she scanned the room was the wooden box, and there it was, on the floor on Andrew’s side of the bed, its lid off but its contents still contained. She looked at it warily, then at Andrew, who smiled uncertainly at her, clearly unsure what to expect. The last time he’d seen her she was running from the house like a scalded cat.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked. She nodded, although she wasn’t okay, not remotely, and her immediate concern was just how soon she could make a grab for the box.

  Bailey stood up and stretched, and said, ‘Hey, Annie, hey, Mike,’ and Michael winced.

  ‘Please don’t call me Mike,’ he said, but Bailey only laughed and left the room to find the boys, whose voices could now be heard in the corridor. Michael heaved a suffering sigh and wandered to the window.

  ‘Have you seen the doctor, Mum?’ Andrew asked. Preoccupied by the box, she forgot to speak, and he stared at her, waiting for an answer. He must be disappointed, she was thinking; he must have planned to spread the pictures and postcards across the bed, share them with Vince. She felt their malevolent, lurking presence. The air in the room was thick with dry, sterile heat and Michael pulled effortfully at the window but it didn’t budge.

  ‘They keep them fastened,’ Annie said. ‘Stops patients escaping. Will you find the doctor for me, Michael?’ She wanted him out of the room.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be along soon enough,’ Michael said, more from the habit of being disobliging than from any real objection to the task. He turned from the window with a grimace. ‘Imagine living and dying in a room with a view of the Doncaster Road,’ he said.

  ‘Dad doesn’t mind,’ Andrew said. ‘He’s long past caring what the view’s like.’

  ‘Yes, Andrew, thank you for that insight. How lucky we are you’re here to speak for Father.’

  ‘Oh, go fuck yourself, Michael,’ Andrew said, flatly.

  ‘Boys,’ Annie said, but there was no heat in her reproof, no conviction. Andrew and Michael both looked at her, then at each other, and Michael seemed about to speak, then the door swung open and Moira the nurse glided in, with the young doctor following behind, holding a clipboard against his chest like a shield.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Doyle,’ he said, with a stab at compassion that sounded silly in one so young. Poor boy, thought Annie. Moira put an arm round Annie’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. ‘How’re you bearing up?’ she whispered. ‘Can I bring you a brew?’

  ‘Some iced water would be nearer the mark,’ Michael said. ‘This room’s an oven.’

  ‘There’s chilled water in the dispenser by reception, Mr Doyle,’ Moira said. She didn’t like Michael. It’d been years since he’d visited, but she remembered him right enough.

  ‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you could bring us some?’

  ‘Could you come with me to the quiet room, Mrs Doyle?’ the doctor said. Annie hesitated, wanted to refuse. Her place was here, with the box.

  ‘Mrs Doyle?’ The doctor looked puzzled. ‘I’d like to explain the situation to you, and I’ll need your signature, you see.’

  ‘Yes,’ Annie said. ‘Yes, of course. But I’ll just bring this.’ She darted forwards and lunged madly for the open box at Andrew’s feet, but it tilted, spilling half the contents onto the floor, and there was Martha Hancock again, smiling up at her from the vinyl tiles with vindictive glee. Michael was onto the photographs in a flash.

  ‘A-ha, the mysterious box,’
he said. ‘Its secrets revealed,’ and Annie knew then that this was the only reason he’d come. She bitterly regretted mentioning it to him; bitterly regretted, too, her bungled snatch-and-grab because now everyone in the room was looking at the pictures, even the doctor. Everyone except Vince, that is. He still lay on the bed, wired up to a heart monitor, gazing upwards at nothing. Annie was thankful for this, at least; she had imagined him sitting up, rosy-cheeked and revived by the call of the past, remembering Martha and everything she had meant to him.

  ‘Well now,’ Moira was saying. ‘Is that the young Vince?’ She smiled at Annie, utterly without malice, only with genuine interest. She saw too many bewildered old people here at Glebe Hall; it was grand to be reminded that once upon a time they were young and vital. She was holding a photograph of Vince in a sharp black suit and winkle pickers, his hair swept up in a rockabilly quiff.

  ‘Would you look at that?’ she said. ‘What a heartbreaker!’

  ‘Oh my God, this isn’t you, Mother, so who is she?’ Michael said, poring over the shot of Martha in the sunshine, adorable in her cotton frock. He flipped it over and read aloud, ‘Martha Hancock, Whitley Bay. Martha Hancock, Martha, Martha.’ He was thoughtful, tapping an index finger on the edge of the photograph. Annie, light-headed with the approach of the truth, wondered if the reach of Michael’s memory could take him as far back as early boyhood.

  ‘One of his conquests, no doubt, randy old goat.’ He was studying the image now, not the writing. Annie, watching and waiting, felt almost liberated by her own helplessness.

  Now Bailey swung into the room, a boy in each hand, and Blake immediately said, ‘What’s that?’ so Michael absently passed the photograph down to him, already distracted by another. Blake scrutinised the image and Riley, craning his neck slightly to see it too, suddenly exploded with laughter and said, ‘Daddy! Why are you wearing a dress?’

  There was a potent silence. Michael immediately took the photograph back, held it up to the light. The likeness to Andrew was startling, now it’d been voiced. He had another one in his other hand, the picture of Martha with baby Robert, and now Michael compared the two.