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

by Jane Sanderson

  And she didn’t disapprove; she didn’t at all. She felt energised and optimistic, as thoroughly alive as Vince was thoroughly dead. Her face was flushed and bright and nothing – not the noise, not the mess, not the dirt the boys had fetched in on their shoes – bothered her a jot. She’d made six fresh pots of tea so far, and her tinned salmon sandwiches had been a roaring success.

  ‘I thought we could take him on one last walk,’ Sandra said. She patted her bulging shoulder bag in which her dog’s ashes resided alongside her purse, a chequebook, an unpaid parking fine in its yellow plastic wrapper, a packet of paper tissues and a motley collection of money-off vouchers that she’d clipped from newspapers. ‘Scatter him somewhere nice.’

  ‘Now?’ Annie asked.

  ‘Oh, well, no,’ said Sandra. She waved an arm to indicate the room: the tea things, the people. ‘You’ve other things going on,’ she said. ‘I thought perhaps tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m hot,’ Annie said, flapping a hand in front of her face. ‘I wouldn’t mind a little walk.’ She sounded hopeful. Josie and Sandra looked at each other and Sandra shrugged.

  ‘Up to you, I suppose,’ she said to Annie.

  ‘Well, there are no more sandwiches, and I’m sure it’ll all be finishing soon,’ Annie said. ‘Michael’s gone out, hasn’t he? Nobody minds that.’

  This was true, but even Josie and Sandra, who’d only met him for the first time today, could see that Michael was hardly a barometer for acceptable behaviour. He’d gone off on his bike somewhere, still in the black funeral suit but now with clips round the trouser legs and a startling yellow helmet rammed on his head. Apart from the occasional surly heckle at the crematorium, he hadn’t spoken a word to anyone.

  ‘He reminds me of Billy,’ Sandra had said to Josie, as he shouldered his way past them in his cycling gear.

  ‘Yes,’ Josie said, ‘but Billy’s—’

  ‘Fifteen,’ said Sandra, cutting in. ‘I know. That’s my point.’

  They’d smirked at each other, so that when Annie suddenly loomed at them from behind they’d jumped a little guiltily. But Annie had only smiled and asked Sandra how she was feeling, now that poor old Fritz was gone. Which was when Sandra patted her bag and suggested a memorial walk.

  ‘Andrew,’ Annie said now, trying to make her voice carry. The guests – the mourners, Annie kept having to remind herself – were not very great in number, but in the confines of this house they seemed quite a throng. Andrew turned his head at once, even though he was mid-sentence, and he threw her a sweet smile. Moira and Brenda, who’d been hanging on his every word, carried on staring at his profile, as if he was a television programme on pause.

  ‘You don’t mind if I step out for a while with Josie and Sandra, do you?’ Annie said.

  ‘Go for it,’ he said. ‘We can clear up here.’

  Bailey shimmied through the room towards them. Her dress was matt black silk, cut on the bias, and it clung appealingly to her lovely figure.

  ‘You do look beautiful,’ Josie said, and Bailey tipped her head and laughed. She had white, white teeth, even and straight, and at this close range the pale brown freckles that peppered her nose and upper cheeks looked carefully applied, dotted on with the finest of fine-tipped brushes.

  ‘You’ll be leaving for Australia soon, I suppose?’ Josie sounded almost wistful, and in some small way she was. She liked Bailey, on first acquaintance. She knew they would be friends, given half a chance.

  ‘Yup,’ Bailey said. ‘Back to the real world? Our real world?’ she added hastily, in case anyone had taken offence.

  Sandra said, ‘Surf, sun and sand sounds pretty unreal to me.’

  ‘We-ell, there’s work too?’ Bailey said. ‘And school, and shopping for groceries, and cleaning. It’s not wall-to-wall fun, is it, guys?’ She was talking to Blake and Riley, who’d wrung every last drop of entertainment from the staircase and were now hanging around her, one on each arm. Blake ignored the question but Riley said, ‘It is fun, but I really like it here,’ and Annie’s eyes suddenly swam and her mouth softened, at the prospect of him leaving. Bailey said, ‘Hey, the world’s a village these days?’ which was no comfort, because Annie had no idea what she meant by it. All Annie could think was, another six years and he’d be twelve. She pulled out a clean hankie from the sleeve of her blouse and blew her nose loudly. Blake rolled his eyes at Riley, who crossed his eyes at Blake, and they both laughed.

  ‘We’re popping out,’ Josie said to Bailey, giving Annie time to collect herself. ‘To say goodbye to Fritz.’

  ‘Two funerals in one day?’ Bailey said.

  ‘Oh,’ Riley said to Sandra. ‘Did your dog die?’

  ‘He was put down by the vet.’

  ‘Oh. I liked him.’

  ‘Me too,’ Sandra said.

  ‘Can I come with you?’

  Sandra raised her eyebrows at Bailey, who said, ‘Fine by me.’

  ‘Cool!’ Riley danced a little jig. ‘We can take Finn, right?’

  Sandra didn’t want to leave Fritz at the reservoir and Annie didn’t want to take Finn anywhere near the Wentford estate, and Ecclesall Woods seemed too far to drive, so instead they headed for the outcrop, a swathe of open land on the edge of Hoyland, parking their cars on Hawshaw Lane where Annie had once lived with Harold and Lillian. The house that had been theirs was long gone, demolished in the early seventies and replaced with a large L-shaped bungalow in pale stone with huge windows, front and back, although there was no view to speak of. Perhaps they were for looking into rather than out of, Annie thought, and certainly she found it difficult, as they passed, not to stare in and notice the low cream leather sofas and cherry wood dining furniture. In her mind’s eye, Annie saw fragments of the past: a fanlight of coloured glass over the door, casting yellow and green patterns onto the floor: fireplaces disgorging soot into the chimney sweep’s sack; wet washing on a wooden clothes horse and herself alone inside the V, breathing in the smell of wet wool. Long ago. A lifetime ago.

  ‘Annie?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘You’re staring straight into that house.’

  ‘Oh!’ Annie shook herself from the reverie and trotted up to the others. ‘I was daydreaming,’ she said. ‘I used to live there.’

  They all stared now, imagining Annie in the chic blonde bungalow.

  ‘Well I say there, but it was a different house then.’

  ‘When you were younger, Grandma?’ Riley said.

  ‘As little as you are now,’ she said.

  He laughed at this implausible idea. They were walking through the old disused graveyard now, opposite the church, heading for the footpath beyond. Finn was on his lead but behaving badly, lurching and lunging ahead so that whoever was holding him – Josie now, to spare Annie’s shoulder – was forced into a permanent tug-of-war.

  ‘Did my dad live there too?’ Riley asked.

  ‘No, he was born in Coventry.’ She blushed at the lie, which had slipped easily and automatically from her tongue, still truer to her than the truth. Josie glanced at her, but said nothing.

  ‘And then you came back here?’

  ‘Well, to Beech Street, yes.’

  ‘Why did you move back?’

  This was Sandra, and it was probably only her usual brusque manner, but the question had a hint of interrogation about it. Annie swallowed and thought about her answer. She considered, only for a second, being wholly truthful about all the reasons she had for leaving Coventry, but what she said was ‘Because I like it here.’

  ‘Me too,’ Riley said. He was holding her hand and swinging her arm to and fro. His little palm against hers was warm and dry.

  ‘Shall I let Finn loose?’ Josie said. ‘I can’t see any sheep.’

  ‘We couldn’t see them before,’ Sandra said. ‘But they were there.’

  ‘But if he just sits here, by us?’

  Annie shook her head, no. True, this wasn’t farm land, just a few hundred acres of grassed-over slopes that had once
belonged to a colliery. But she couldn’t – wouldn’t – risk a mishap. There was a date now for the trip to Formby, where Dora Dinmoor was preparing to receive Finn, and having taken the plunge by agreeing to the plan, Annie felt keenly responsible for its smooth running. She felt she had Finn’s future happiness in her hands. ‘Keep him safe,’ Mr Dinmoor had said last time he rang, ‘and I give you my word it’ll all be fine.’ They were going together, Alf and Annie, in the Land Rover. Just the two of them. ‘Who would’ve thought it?’ Josie had said, when she told Sandra the news, and Sandra had said, ‘Aye aye,’ and winked, so that Josie had had to make her promise never to take that tone with Annie, or the whole scheme would founder.

  So Finn remained tethered, close at heel, but they’d stopped walking now, so he didn’t seem to mind. He narrowed his eyes and scanned the view, then dropped into a sitting position and Riley did the same, as close to the dog as he could be, with one arm draped around his wide, soft shoulders. Annie, watching the two of them, sighed.

  ‘There’ll only be Betty soon,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that sad?’

  ‘You’ll get another dog, though?’ Josie said to her. Annie looked doubtful. There’d only ever been Finn.

  ‘Get back in the saddle, girl,’ said Sandra. ‘I know I will, else who’ll bother to look up when I walk into the house?’ She was standing, legs akimbo, arms folded, casting a critical eye over the bland vista of local authority landscaping. ‘It’s not exactly scenic, is it?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Annie said. ‘It’s green, anyway, and it’s nice and close to us all.’ When she was a girl, and even for a while after she came back, there had been a pit yard and winding gear directly ahead, and wet black slag heaps.

  ‘I’ve always thought I’d bury Betty when her time’s up,’ Josie said. ‘Under a cherry blossom tree, or something.’

  ‘Hmm, well I never had that in mind,’ Sandra said. ‘But this’s just a bit boring, these new trees and the grass so sparse.’

  ‘Shall we leave him in his Tupperware?’ Annie asked. ‘Take him somewhere else, another day?’ She was feeling a little guilty. If it weren’t for her scruples about Wentford’s unhappy associations, that was probably where they’d be now, among centuries-old oaks and Capability Brown parkland.

  ‘Nah,’ Sandra said. ‘What does it matter, really? Fritz’s certainly past caring.’ She delved into her shoulder bag for the tub, and Riley craned his neck, curious to see the actual remains of an Alsatian.

  ‘On your feet,’ Sandra said to him. ‘You can be in charge.’

  Riley leaped up, all eagerness, and Sandra handed him Fritz’s ashes. The little boy rearranged his expression into one of studied solemnity. Sandra placed a hand on the crown of his head.

  ‘On behalf of Fritz, because you liked him and he liked you, I nominate Riley Doyle as funeral celebrant.’

  ‘Well! Isn’t that nice, Riley?’ Annie said. Sandra shushed her.

  ‘Lick your finger,’ Sandra said, ‘then hold it up in the air.’

  He looked at her curiously. ‘Why?’

  ‘Whichever is the coldest side of your wet finger, that’s the direction the wind’s blowing.’

  He furrowed his brow, none the wiser.

  ‘You mustn’t be downwind of the ashes,’ Josie said. ‘They’ll blow all over you.’

  ‘They’d get everywhere,’ Annie added. ‘In your mouth, your eyes, up your nose …’

  ‘Ew, gross,’ said Riley, lapsing momentarily from the dignity of his funereal responsibilities. He sucked an index finger then held it up, considering the evidence.

  ‘So,’ he said finally, ‘this bit, where my fingernail is, feels the coldest.’ They all obediently made a ninety-degree turn and Riley flushed with proud importance. Annie gave him a secret smile, which, being in charge of the funeral, he could only allow himself to return fleetingly, like the switching on and off of a light.

  ‘Okay,’ said Sandra. ‘Lid off.’

  ‘Are you going to say anything?’ Josie said. ‘A eulogy?’

  Sandra laughed. ‘I was going to say something like “there you go, Fritz”.’

  ‘No!’ said Annie, quite vehemently. ‘Say a poem or something. We need a sense of occasion.’ There had been none at Vince’s funeral, unless you counted Marjorie Bevin’s cobbled-together tribute, but Annie felt no guilt, nor any irony either, at this heightened swell of emotion for a deceased dog. She knew where her heartfelt sympathy lay, and it was with Fritz.

  ‘A poem?’ Sandra said. ‘I only know limericks, and a bit of Spike Milligan.’

  Riley, standing with the Tupperware aloft but still lidded, said, ‘I know a part of a poem.’

  ‘Do you?’ Josie said. ‘Do you think it’s one Fritz would’ve liked?’

  Riley nodded. ‘It’s about a dog,’ he said. ‘I only remember a bit of it though.’

  ‘A bit of it is fine,’ Sandra said. ‘So, say your poem, then fling the ashes as far away from us as you can manage.’

  ‘Right.’

  He lowered his arm and prised off the lid, spilling a little ash as he did so, but they all pretended they hadn’t noticed. Then he took a deep breath and yelled out his words to the sky, in a slowed-down, sing-song style.

  ‘HE WAS VE-RY POOR AND HUM-BLE

  AND CONTENT WITH WHAT HE GOT

  SO WE FED HIM BONES AND BIS-CUITS

  TILL HE HEARTENED UP A LOT.’

  He heaved the ashes from their plastic pot and they spun and tumbled through the air in a dusty arc, tiny particles of Fritz, catching on the breeze. There was a small, stunned silence and then Sandra said, ‘Awesome, just awesome.’ There were tears in her eyes.

  ‘Oh Riley, that was perfect,’ Josie said. ‘I love that poem.’

  Riley was pleased, but apologetic. ‘It’s really longer,’ he said. ‘But I only know the bones and biscuits bit.’

  ‘But I bet that’s the best part,’ Sandra said. ‘Definitely that’s the bit Fritz would’ve liked. Thank you, Riley. I’ll always remember what you just did for me and my dog.’

  Annie was lost for words, so she just bent down and hugged him.

  27

  It was a relief to leave the house and Annie walked briskly along the pavements of Coventry with her two boys, paying no particular attention to where they were heading. Michael held the frame of Andrew’s pushchair and managed to keep step with his mother by jogging now and again, although for once he didn’t complain. Andrew closed his eyes the moment they were on the move and now he was sleeping, his thumb jammed in his mouth and his head turned to the right, so that the nasty wound and its makeshift dressing was on display. Annie glanced down at it from time to time. She was worrying about infection, although she’d swabbed it clean as best she could with TCP and cotton wool. Andrew was peaceful, though, and she took heart from this. It was only a cut, after all; children were always in the wars.

  They were supposed to be fetching fish and chips, but first she needed to clear her mind and get some air. The further away she was from Vince and Sydney Road, the better she felt. Lately she’d found herself mentally arranging a move back to her childhood home, in Yorkshire. She remembered the house in Hawshaw Lane with exaggerated fondness; the intervening years had wreathed her memories in a flattering, misty light. The unhappier she had become as an adult, the happier her childhood seemed, until those first ten years of life in Hoyland became, in her mind, an exalted decade of perfect order and cosseted joy. If her father, Harold, grew remote and cold and her mother, Lillian, grew selfish and neglectful, these were things that happened here, in Coventry, after they moved house. This was what Annie believed, and in this way she protected this small, distant part of her life from blight.

  She allowed her thoughts to slip into the past now, as she walked the children blindly through the town. She thought about her mother’s death – so strange and so far away from home that it hardly seemed real, either at the time or even now. She blamed this on her father, who left her at home with Mrs Binley and the
blasted parrot when she should have been allowed to mourn her mother’s passing. It was folly, she thought, to shelter children from the passing of a parent; it was cruel. They needed the nailed-down finality of a coffin and the solemn rituals of a funeral service, otherwise the death became just another fact they’d been told by adults and were simply expected to believe. When her mother left and never came home, Annie used to wonder if her fatal accident was only a malicious lie, a fabrication by Mrs Binley operating in cahoots with Harold to erase Lillian from their lives. Even now Annie sometimes imagined Lillian, vital and beautiful, living a whole other life somewhere distant and glamorous, like the French Riviera or Martinique: places Annie had read about, places she could picture her mother, frozen in time, in an open-topped car or a speedboat, swathed in a Grace Kelly chiffon scarf, her lips a vibrant crimson, her nails painted to match, her face raised to the warm blue sky, laughing and laughing at the great joke she’d played on them all.

  ‘I’m hungry.’

  This was Michael, and Annie was startled by his voice, so lost was she in the past. She had to stop walking and look around to get her bearings, letting the familiar Coventry landmarks reveal themselves through the fog of the past. They were on Priory Street, not far from the cathedral, and she was shocked by how far they’d come. She thought of Vince, waiting for his haddock.

  ‘You said we were getting fish and chips,’ Michael said.

  ‘And we are. I just needed to stretch my legs.’

  He looked her up and down in his odd, assessing way. ‘Stretch your legs,’ he said carefully.

  Oh, here we go, she thought. ‘Yes, it’s what we say when we need some exercise.’ She wasn’t going to rise to his pedantry.

  ‘Stretch them so they’re longer?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Michael, don’t be silly.’

  ‘So, not stretch them then?’

  ‘Michael …’

  ‘So, not stretch them?’

  They were racing towards Bayley Lane now, and the pushchair bumped on the cobbles so Annie had to slow down. The little boy had begun to stir, shifting in the seat and grumbling sleepily although he was barely awake. His head must hurt, Annie thought: poor little mite. She glanced at Michael, erstwhile villain of the piece, who despite the gallop had managed to keep up. Now they were on the cobbles he couldn’t avoid stepping on lines, but still he tried, trotting in tiny steps, on tiptoe. Annie knew he’d expect an answer to the leg-stretching issue in due course. He never forgot an unanswered question, especially when he knew the answer to it already.