After breakfast, Keaton reluctantly left for work. He hated being apart from Meggie and Tina. He was talking about setting up his own business from home, turning their last remaining spare bedroom into an office. Tina finished her letter to her cousin. She wrote Elizabeth’s name and address carefully on the envelope, sealed it and, impulsively, drew a smiley face on the back. She’d pop Meggie in the pram to take a walk down to the post office. It was a beautiful late spring day, the sort of day that filled her with hope. She changed Meggie’s nappy, dressed her in a fresh white onesie, and tucked her tiny resilient arms into a white cardigan. She placed her gurgling daughter in the pram, covered her carefully with a knitted blanket Simone had made, and took up her keys and handbag from the usual place in the kitchen. She popped her letter to Elizabeth in the basket under the pram. At the front door and about to leave, she looked down at her feet.
‘Stupid woman!’ she muttered to herself, and she went back into the lounge to find her sandals, which she thought she’d left by the sofa. In the doorway she stopped, and stared.
‘Oh!’ she cried.
‘Oh?’
‘I thought…’
Tina shook her head. No. It couldn’t be. Not now. It’s over. She put on her sandals. She felt herself being watched but she tried to ignore it. She moved back towards the hallway, where Meggie waited patiently in the pram, making her delightful little noises, slowly kicking off the blanket. Tina opened the front door, manoeuvred the pram down the single step, and turned back to pull the door shut behind her. But she stopped. She sighed.
‘Are you coming to the post office with me?’ she called back into the house. She hoped her call wouldn’t summon Simone or Edward, who, Tina guessed, were in their comfortable little lounge, reading, or tending their houseplants, or maybe even beginning tentative packing for next week’s cruise. Neither of them came to the door of their flat.
Tina walked towards the post office, proudly pushing the pram. Warm air whistled past her as she gambolled along, flip-flopping down the blossom-warm street.
‘It’s just like old times, isn’t it?’ said Meg, struggling to keep up beside her strong, striding sister.
‘No. It’s not,’ said Tina.
‘All right. Sorry I spoke.’
‘So am I.’ Tina stopped and turned to face her sister. ‘Look, I don’t mind you visiting me from time to time, but no more funny stuff. No more gloom and doom. No more whining about Keaton. No more whining about Lucia. Do you promise? It happened. It’s over. It’s all over. I mean it this time.’
Meg glanced into the pram. ‘Your baby is adorable. My little niece…’
‘You must leave her alone, Meg. I’m sorry but you must.’ Tina leaned across her daughter, shielding her.
‘I wouldn’t hurt her!’ Meg looked astounded.
‘I know.’ They were silent.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Tina.
‘Ah, forget it. She’s gone, right?’
‘Lucia?’
‘Who else?’
‘She’s gone,’ said Tina. ‘We don’t hear from her. She doesn’t hear from any of us.’
‘Good. That’s good. That’s right, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes. It’s right.’
‘I’ll say goodbye, then.’
Tina bowed her head. ‘Thank you,’ she said and continued her walk. She walked a lot these days. She was beginning to lose weight. She felt better than she ever had. She was doing so well and she was not going to look back, not even for Meg. Tattered blossom swirled around her feet, thrown about by the pram’s tiny whirling wheels. She felt herself to be unaccompanied, save for the gurgling, kicking baby. She stopped and looked over her shoulder. Meg stood alone on the pavement where they had spoken, and she raised her hand and smiled. It was a beautiful smile, just as Tina remembered. Something in Meg’s smile, the gesture, the distance, told Tina this really was goodbye. Tina raised her hand and smiled back. They nodded at the same time and turned from each other, and Tina picked up her pace and continued her walk to the post office.
Epilogue
July 1976
Lucia carried the tea tray out to the garden and invited Simone to join her at the table under the plum trees. Simone thought, what harm would it do to sit and drink tea with Lucia? She really ought to make an effort, because love her or loathe her, Lucia was her sister-in-law, and that was that. It might please Edward if they were to get along better; if they could be friends, even on a small scale. Simone intended to be Edward’s wife forever. Her colleague at work, who made no secret of his attraction to her, could whistle. He was a nice enough chap, but he was not Eddie.
She and Lucia rarely spent time together. There had been an uncomfortable distance between them for many years, ever since that unfortunate business with the unwanted pregnancy. Probably it had all been for the best. But Simone could never think of it without a pang of regret for the child that could have – even should have – been. Should she have tried harder? Should she have offered to help with the baby? It was ironic, arranging an abortion for a vulnerable young woman and then not being able to conceive a child yourself. There was something poetic in it. God was wise.
Edward was indoors with Anne; the girls were playing. They’d had a fun shopping trip into town. Tina, so bookish, and Meg, so unbookish, were a delight. She was worried about Meg’s new clackers: they were dangerous, but so popular. All the children seemed to have a pair these days. Meg had wanted a red pair but had contented herself with all that was left, which was blue.
Lucia was leading up to something, Simone could tell. She was fidgeting.
‘What is it, Lucia?’ asked Simone. Better to hear it and have it over and done with. It would be nothing important. On rare occasions Lucia had sought Simone’s advice on clothes or hairstyles.
‘It’s about Edward,’ said Lucia, quietly. She looked about her. There was nobody near. A breeze ruffled all the leaves.
‘Yes?’
Lucia shrugged. ‘My brothers are a bad lot,’ she said.
‘Really.’
‘Yes.’
Simone sighed. ‘What are you trying to tell me, Lucia?’
Lucia put down her cup, and looked about once again. The leaves rustled, the girls continued to play with Meg’s new clackers. Clack-clack-clack.
‘It’s not so easy to say some things,’ said Lucia.
‘Just say it, whatever it is you want to say.’
‘All right, I will. Edward interfered with me.’
Simone thought she might faint. A low rushing began in her ears. Her heart thumped hard. She clenched her fists. She wanted to hit this odious woman. ‘You expect me to believe this… poisonous talk?’ she said, spitting out her words like a wounded cat.
‘No, I don’t expect you to,’ said Lucia, and she sounded bored. Bored! ‘Nobody ever does believe this sort of thing.’
‘There’s a reason for that.’
‘Yes. People don’t want to believe. Even though it is the truth. There is no justice in that. Just because somebody is clever and handsome and nice, he cannot possibly be a bad man, people think. There are certain assumptions. But they just aren’t true and I know they’re not.’
Simone was silent. She felt tears brooding, and she felt panic. Lucia… Lucia couldn’t possibly be lying, could she? How could she say these things about her own brother – who she apparently worshipped – if they weren’t true? But if they were true, why the hell would she worship him?
‘When?’ Simone asked.
‘When I was seventeen. He was drunk. It was only once. He got silly. He kissed me. He touched me. Then… other things.’
‘What things?’
‘He made me sleep with him.’
‘Do you mean, he made you have sex with him? Tell me what happened.’
�
��Hush, be quiet. All right then. He had sex with me.’
‘Against your will?’
‘Yes.’
Simone was silent. She could not think.
‘There’s something else,’ said Lucia. ‘Something that’s unspeakable.’
‘Yet you speak of it.’
‘Somebody has to.’
‘Yes. Somebody has to. Go on.’
‘The… the… that day in London.’
‘What of it?’
Lucia said nothing. Simone stared at her, horror filling her heart, ringing in her ears, torturous.
‘Lucia, are you lying? Tell me the truth because you have said the most damaging, desperate things anybody can say about another human being. Do you understand? Do you understand these accusations… they are the worst of all?’
Did Lucia waver? Did a shadow pass over her face? Simone couldn’t tell. She couldn’t see or think clearly.
‘I understand,’ said Lucia and she cried then, silent tears. There was feeling here. This was real. Something, if not true, not untrue. Simone rested her hand on Lucia’s until she stopped crying. She kept an eye on the girls, who were still playing with the clackers. Edward was still indoors with Anne. Simone needed to think. She needed time to work out what any of this meant, if anything. She needed to assimilate, draw her own conclusions. Clack-clack-clack.
‘Be careful, Meg!’ cried Tina, her shrill voice rising in concern.
Simone stood up.
‘Lucia, I need time. If what you say is true then… what in hell’s name can I say? I don’t know. The girls? Are they… are they safe?’
‘They’re perfectly safe,’ said Lucia coldly. She stood up too. The women faced each other. ‘I look after them and I know nothing bad will ever happen. It was just one time. He was sorry afterwards. He begged me to forgive him. So I did. I forgave him and he promised me, promised on his life, that it would never happen again. I believe him. Nothing else has ever happened. He loves those girls in all the right ways.’
Yes, Simone thought. That part is true. But the rest? She didn’t know, she couldn’t tell. Lucia was an actress, no doubt. But she clearly remembered the teenaged girl’s determination to be rid of the baby. Her assertion that it could not be born. That day they had chosen the material for the bridesmaid’s dress. Her absolute conviction. It all made sense.
Did she not know her husband? Nightmarish thoughts and ideas clouded her mind; a mingled cacophony of panic and noise. And something illogical, out of keeping – she indeed was the one who could not have children. Thank God, who was more than wise, for that.
‘You have forgiven him,’ said Simone, ‘yet you tell me of it.’ She stared at her sister-in-law, who looked to the ground. ‘Would it not be compassionate to say nothing? To me? His wife? And why now?’
Lucia merely shrugged. Simone swore at her, and walked down the slope, away from her sister-in-law, away from the swaying trees, away from the depths of their conversation. She called out to the girls, ‘Show me these clackers! Show me how they work! I shall have a turn.’
Meg gladly demonstrated. Tina looked on in fear. ‘You have to be careful, Tante Simone,’ she said.
Simone nodded and wrapped her arm around Tina’s shoulders. ‘I am always careful.’ Lucia walked past them, carrying the tea tray back to the kitchen. She disappeared into the gloom of the house and moments later, Edward appeared at the top of the steps. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe and watched as his wife knocked the blue clackers together, slowly at first, her hand moving up and down, up and down, gaining momentum, faster, clack-clack-clack. Then higher, more rhythmic, quicker, and finally over her hands, flying, her face a picture of stern concentration and the girls and Edward looking on in awe, in trepidation, and the clackers flying back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, clack-clack-clack.
Acknowledgements
Bringing a novel into the world is always a team effort. I’m fortunate to have a wonderful bunch of people behind me. Thank you first and foremost to author Sarah Vincent for her advice, friendship and editorial input. I couldn’t have done this without her. Also thanks to writer friends Isabel Costello, Louise Jensen and Rebecca Mascull for their unstinting support. Debi Alper and Emma Darwin taught me how to self-edit, and thank goodness they did: psychic distance anyone?! Big special thanks to Antonia Honeywell and all The Prime Writers – you know who you are. I promised to mention Benjamin Dreyer and Helen MacKinven who both came to my rescue on Twitter with the word “incubator”. Many thanks to all at Troubador Publishing. Thank you to Antony Hitchin for the eagle-eyed copy edit, and thanks to Justine Cunningham for the thorough proof read. Big thanks to Jennie Rawlings for her amazing cover artwork. And finally, very special thanks to Hannah Ferguson, agent extraordinaire.
Thanks and love to the family I grew up with: Wendy, Stephen and Pete Tuffrey. Hugs and kisses to the family who are growing up with me: Oliver, Emily, Jude, Finn and Stanley. Finally, and once again, many thanks to Ian for his generosity and his ability to make all things possible.
Exclusive interview with Louise Walters
What made you decide to self-publish A Life Between Us, your second novel?
There are two main reasons. One is I didn’t get a traditional book deal, and the other is I really wanted to try self-publishing. When a book deal didn’t materialise, I felt it was a case of now or never. I’d spent more than two years working on this novel when I decided to bring it out myself. I just couldn’t bear the thought of hiding it away in a drawer and forgetting about it. I home educate my two younger children and I know it’s going to take me at least another two years to come up with a third novel (I have started work on it). I decided to get my second novel out there.
What are the main differences between traditional publishing and self-publishing?
The main difference really is who pays for everything. With my first novel the money flowed from my publisher to me. With my second it was the other way round. It was disconcerting at first, totalling up my expenditure… we all know how things can add up very quickly! Actually, forking out on this project has made me understand the risks that publishers undertake. No book, however published, is guaranteed success and big sales. It’s always a risky investment.
The other difference is the freedom that self (or assisted) publishing brings. There is more consultation and I get to make more decisions, which is exciting. But there really aren’t that many differences. It’s all publishing, regardless of who pays.
What inspired A Life Between Us?
I just wanted to get on with my second novel. It started out as a bit of a thriller-ish story… I liked the idea of an imaginary friend and a real friend, and the reader not really knowing which was which. But in early drafts I discovered I’m not good with twists. I sign post too much. So that early idea became something else, and I switched to my main characters being sisters rather than friends. I still tried the twist with one sister being dead, but the reader not realising until half way through the novel… but again it was hopeless and didn’t work. So that’s where the novel really started to take off into its final incarnation… no big twists, sister dead from the start, and more emphasis on the secrets and misunderstandings that all families seem to harbour. I liked the supernatural element too, the uncertainty surrounding Meg. I enjoyed writing this novel and getting to know the characters and exploring the dark dynamics of this really quite unremarkable family. The disintegration that families can suffer is always fascinating, as well as sad. I love the idea of the extraordinary being found in the ordinary. Secrets are a novelist’s best friend!
One strand of the novel is told in Tina’s childhood letters. Do you enjoy the epistolary form?
I do, very much. Letters are so revealing of character and our innermost thoughts. I used to write regularly as a child to a friend who moved away when we were both
aged about eight or nine, and as a teenager I wrote to a pen pal, Jean, in the USA (and of course we are in touch on Facebook nowadays). I find letters fascinating and I still write them occasionally. Tina’s letters were a wonderful way for me to get to know her. The childhood voice came through so strongly and she was an interesting, if slightly unreliable, narrator of some important moments in the novel. Also, the letters became a useful device in that whole chapters could be cut and the information in them included in the letters instead. It really helped to keep my word count under control. Towards the end of the re-drafting process I was aiming for a saga-style story, told in as few words as possible. The letters have, I hope, helped me to achieve that. They became a pivotal part of the story and were such a pleasure to write.
The novel spans several decades. Did you do much research?
To be honest, not a great deal. I did read a very good book to brush up on political and social history in the fifties and sixties, called Never Had it So Good: A History of Britain from Suez to The Beatles by Dominic Sandbrook. That was a great read for getting a flavour of the spirit of the times. The seventies I remember quite clearly, but I was surprised by how much I still had to look up! My MO with research is to do just enough to make my work acceptably authentic. I write the story first, the first version of it, then I do most of my research, then I continue with the editing process, which is the bulk of the work on the novel.
I always strive not to let my research show and I don’t mind a little “artistic freedom” if the story requires it. I garnered much of my knowledge of the fifties and sixties from houses, fashion and above all music, which is always particularly illuminating. Often authenticity is in recognising the feel of a place or an era. Capturing the zeitgeist is important. Being honest about the prevailing attitudes of a time or place is essential, to my mind, even if nowadays those attitudes are rather unpalatable.
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