by Annie Lyons
‘Goodnight Mrs N,’ smiled Lizzie.
‘Yes, goodnight,’ called Stella.
Part of Lizzie longed for her to stay. She wasn’t sure what to say to her mother or how she felt about her presence here. This was Lizzie’s world; the place where she felt safe. Stella was intruding, bringing the past and all its confusion with her. Lizzie felt a little sick at the prospect of the past meeting the present. However, she also acknowledged that it must have taken a force of will for Stella to come here today. She must have wanted to come.
Stella was still staring at her but made no movement towards her daughter. ‘So this is where you work,’ she said, looking around her.
She gave no sense of approval or disdain so Lizzie simply said, ‘Yes.’
‘And I see you have a book group,’ she added, pointing at the poster on the wall. Lizzie nodded. ‘I remember reading that book.’ Lizzie was surprised. She hadn’t had her mother down as a reader of nineteenth-century French fiction.
‘Did you enjoy it?’ asked Lizzie, intrigued.
Stella frowned. ‘It was a long time ago but yes, I think I did.’
Lizzie paused, wondering where to take the conversation next. ‘I should probably lock up,’ she said, gesturing towards the door.
‘Yes, you carry on. Don’t let me stop you.’
Lizzie turned the key in the front door and flipped the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed’. She could feel her mother’s eyes boring into her. Her heart was beating with anticipation as she tried to guess why Stella had come here today.
‘I expect you’re wondering how I found you,’ said Stella with a glimmer of pride. Not exactly, thought Lizzie. ‘Sam helped me to Google you!’ she cried triumphantly. ‘He knew the name of the shop and so here I am!’
That boy, thought Lizzie, that pesky little boy but she smiled as she thought about Sam instructing Stella. It was altering her view of her mother too and she found herself saying, ‘Would you like to see my flat?’
Stella seemed pleased. ‘Very much,’ she said, following Lizzie down the back of the shop and up the stairs.
‘It’s quite small but it suits me just fine,’ said Lizzie, stepping back to let her mother in through the front door.
Stella stood in the lounge taking in her surroundings. ‘It’s very nice,’ she said in a way that showed she was being polite. Lizzie recognised a marked change in her mother compared with their first meeting. Lizzie wasn’t ready to let her off the hook yet but she could see that they needed to get to know one another again. For all those years, Lizzie had cast her mother as the number one enemy; the root of all her hurt, but as she watched her mother now, she recognised how hard Stella was trying. She seemed to want to make a connection with her daughter and Lizzie realised that she wanted this too. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked.
‘Yes please,’ said Stella, following her daughter to the little kitchen.
Lizzie filled the kettle and set two mugs on the side, placing a tea bag in each. ‘I might even have some biscuits,’ she said, searching the cupboard under the counter. She noticed her mother staring at Bea’s next letter. Letter number four.
‘What is that?’ she asked, sounding confused as she recognised Bea’s handwriting.
Lizzie snatched up the letter and held it to her chest. She had forgotten that she had left it there ready to read. She had intended to open it that evening and she didn’t want to share it with anyone, not least her mother. She wasn’t sure how Stella would react to Bea’s wishes or if she would really understand. A renewed sense of uncertainty crept over Lizzie as she remembered why she had kept her past away from the present for so long.
‘What is it?’ repeated her mother and this time it sounded like a demand which could not be refused.
‘It’s a letter,’ said Lizzie weakly.
‘I can see that,’ replied Stella. ‘Why have you got a letter written by Bea?’
‘I don’t really want to talk about it,’ said Lizzie. She knew this wasn’t going to wash but she had to try.
‘Well I want to know. Please.’
Lizzie looked at her mother and could see the desperation behind her demands. She spotted the pain like a mirror to her own. She missed Bea too. Lizzie knew she had no choice. Stella had a right to know. She took a deep breath. ‘Bea left me a parcel when she died. It contained a note and twelve letters. They are Bea’s final wishes which she wants me to complete. This is the fourth one,’ she said holding up the envelope.
Her mother was silent for a moment. ‘That’s why you came to see me wasn’t it? Because Bea told you to,’ she said after a pause.
Lizzie held up her hands. She couldn’t deny it. ‘I’m sorry you found out like this.’
‘I thought you’d come because you wanted to,’ said her mother quietly. Lizzie felt crushed. It would have been easier if her mother had ranted and raged and stormed out. Lizzie wasn’t sure if she could cope with quiet disappointment.
She made the tea and set a mug in front of her mother. ‘If it’s any consolation, I’m glad she made me come,’ she said.
Stella looked up at her in surprise. ‘Really?’
Lizzie nodded. ‘I know there were some harsh truths said that day but they needed to be said.’
Stella stared down at her tea. ‘Probably. I have to confess that I enjoyed the afternoon more than the morning,’ she said with a knowing smile.
Lizzie laughed. ‘Me too. It was good to see Sam and Joe as well.’
There was a pause. ‘Well I’m glad you came, whatever the motive,’ said Stella quickly without looking Lizzie in the eye.
Lizzie was surprised by her mother’s admission but pleased as well. ‘We’ve still got a long way to go,’ she said, buoyed by Stella’s frankness.
She wondered if her mother would dismiss this out of hand but instead she looked into Lizzie’s eyes. ‘I’ve already lost one daughter. I’d like to try to hang on to the other one if I can,’ she said. It was such an honest, open declaration that Lizzie was caught off-guard. She said nothing but gave her mother a small nod of agreement. ‘Could I ask you something?’ said Stella after a pause.
‘Of course,’ said Lizzie.
‘Would you read Bea’s letter to me please?’
If she had asked this question just half an hour earlier, Lizzie would have refused but something had changed. Her mother wasn’t the pantomime villain any more. She was a human, who had experienced similar grief and loss to Lizzie. Bea had been right. They were the same in some ways. ‘All right,’ said Lizzie. She picked up the envelope and sliced it open with her finger. She fished out the letter and looked at her mother. Her face was eager and she looked small somehow, like a child waiting for a story. Lizzie cleared her throat and began.
Dear Lizzie,
It’s a good sign if you’re reading this because it means you’ve seen Mum. I can only imagine how hard that was for you but I hope you have managed to find a way through all your history to build some bridges. I know how wonderful you both are and I just want you to see it in each other too. Lizzie paused, glancing at her mother, but Stella was looking away. She continued. God knows we all have regrets and we’ve all made mistakes but I think the important thing is to try to put them right.
So another thing you may not know about dying is that it makes you reflect on your happiest times. I’ve tried to relive a few of mine. You featured in one of them actually. Do you remember when I came round to your place and stayed in your bed? That was because I wanted to remember what it was like when we shared that bed at Granny’s when we were kids. The answer is ‘bloody uncomfortable’, but actually bloody lovely too. I watched you while you were sleeping and you looked exactly as you had when you were a kid; that tiny ski-slope nose and sweet gentle breath. Dear sis. I shall take the memory with me to my grave. So it’s made me realise that Dove Cottage was probably the place where we were happiest as kids and I think you should go back there and see Grandpa. Dance with the ghosts and revel in the memories.
Oh and have one of those massive ice creams as big as your head that they sell on the pier.
Love you, Bea x.
Lizzie wiped a stray tear from her cheek and put down the letter. Her mother seemed frozen to the spot, tea untouched, her face turned away. As she spoke, Lizzie could hear the sorrow in her voice. It was a sorrow that Lizzie recognised, as deep as the ocean and as wide as the sky. It swamped your body and crushed your soul. It left no part of you untouched.
‘Would you read it again please, Lizzie?’
Lizzie took a deep breath and began again.
Chapter Nine
Late November
The weight of family history was heavy as the sea mist when Lizzie unclipped the gate and made her way up the garden path to her grandfather’s front door. The house looked exactly the same. Lizzie didn’t know why she thought it would be any different. The paintwork was a little chipped around the blue window frames and the brickwork was puckered with blisters due to water seeping in somewhere. Years ago, when her grandfather had it painted, he had declared that, ‘This will be the last time I get it done before I die.’ He was the eternal fatalist, talking freely of his demise for as long as Lizzie could remember. He was eighty-seven now so, given her age, had been fully expecting the grim reaper since his mid-fifties.
Her granny had dismissed these comments with an indulgent flap of her hand. ‘Oh get along with you,’ she’d say. She’d been a twinkling hedgehog of a granny, all white hair and boiled sweets. She had made a career out of caring for her family, particularly her husband. She cooked, cleaned and ironed as her generation demanded and did it without a grouse or a moan. Her husband barely did anything without a grouse or a moan. They had been polar opposites but blissfully happy. ‘He’s not going to change now,’ sang her granny as she picked up another pair of stray socks or put down the toilet seat for the fifth time that day.
Lizzie had asked her mother along today but Stella had made an excuse about commitments at the hospice. Lizzie had been relieved. She had wanted to come alone partly out of curiosity but partly because if there were ghosts to be faced, she would rather face them without her mother and grandfather bickering in the background. They had always had a turbulent relationship and Lizzie knew there was fault on both sides. Her mother was domineering but she had learnt these skills from Lizzie’s grandfather, whom Stella had often declared to be ‘a difficult man’.
Lizzie hadn’t seen her grandfather for a long time but she had kept in touch, sending birthday cards and the odd letter. He had always remembered her birthday and sent cards via Bea for a time containing postal orders and in the last few years a crumpled ten pound note. Lizzie felt nervous as she reached out for the brass door knocker. When her granny had been alive, she had kept the knocker and the rest of the house spick and span. She claimed she did this using the ‘lick and a promise’ method of cleaning. Lizzie smiled at the memory and gave the knocker a firm tap. Her mother had warned her that her grandfather was getting a little deaf. ‘And forgetful. He’s getting quite forgetful,’ she had said as if this showed a weakness of character. Lizzie leaned in to listen for footsteps but heard no sound. She waited a few more seconds before knocking a little louder.
‘All right, all right, I’m coming,’ said an elderly but fierce voice from within.
Lizzie stepped back biting her lip in anticipation. She heard slippered feet shuffling slowly along the corridor and the tap of a walking stick punctuating every step. As her grandfather reached the door, there was a fumbling of keys and a rattling of locks before he yanked it open. He peered out at Lizzie with narrowed eyes through the still-chained gap.
‘Who is it?’ he demanded.
‘It’s me. Lizzie,’ said Lizzie in a soft, friendly voice.
‘Have you come to do my leg?’ asked her grandfather with a wrinkled frown.
‘No, I’m Lizzie,’ repeated Lizzie. ‘Your granddaughter?’
Her grandfather continued to eye her with scepticism. ‘My granddaughter is dead,’ he said sadly.
Lizzie wanted to reach out to him but she also didn’t want to frighten him. ‘I’m your other granddaughter – Lizzie,’ she said. ‘I phoned you last week to ask if I could visit. And I think Mum phoned you too – you know, Stella?’
As if the cogs of his mind were starting to whirr, her grandfather’s face changed and he gave her a confident smile. ‘Ahh Lizzie. It’s lovely to see you. You better come in,’ he said, unhooking the chain and shuffling backwards to make way for her.
As Lizzie entered, she was immediately transported back to her childhood. Nothing about the house had changed. From the grandfather clock just inside the door, to the brass pot containing a fern next to her grandparents’ wedding photograph on the hall table, it was all exactly as she remembered it. She resisted the urge to run from room to room like a version of her five-year-old self; she couldn’t wait to take it all in again. Lizzie had loved summer holidays here. She and Bea had spent a week staying on their own with their grandparents every summer after she turned five. Her parents would invariably come to stay for an additional week but Lizzie remembered it being more fun when they stayed on their own.
The house always smelt of holidays. The smell immediately conjured up images of pebbles and broken shells collected in a bucket, sandy feet and the room she had shared with Bea, sleeping side by side in a springy double bed with one of her grandmother’s ancient satin quilts thrown over the top and the books, those wonderful books that had been her mother and uncle’s. Her grandmother would read them picture books or a fairy tale and the girls loved it because she did all the voices. They made up a song for their favourite story, The Terrible Tiger, and would sing it, bouncing up and down on the bed, whilst their grandmother laughed and their grandfather shouted up to complain that they were about to come through the ceiling. It was always still light outside and after she and Bea had whispered treasured stories of their day, her eyelids would droop and she would fall asleep to the ca-coo-coo, ca-coo-coo of the roosting wood pigeons.
She paused for a minute to breathe it in again. It made her feel melancholy; as if she was coming across something she longed to regain but which was just out of reach. Of course, as a child she hadn’t realised how fleeting these golden moments were. Like any child she thought that they would last forever; eternal summers bringing never-ending joy. She thought about herself as a child and had an overwhelming longing to be that girl again, just for an hour or two.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ asked her grandfather. ‘I was just going to make one.’ He turned and started to walk towards the kitchen. He looked much smaller than the towering man she remembered lifting her onto his shoulders so that she could see the Punch and Judy show on the sea-front. She followed him down the little dark corridor with the step leading to the kitchen. Lizzie almost gasped at the sight of the room. She half-expected to see her grandmother flouring the work surface before she rolled out a wedge of pastry for another of her legendary pies. She would always save some end-pieces for Bea and Lizzie to mould into a little pastry animal, giving them currants for eyes. Her grandfather was lifting the large battered kettle onto the range.
‘Do you need a hand with that?’ asked Lizzie.
‘No thank you, Stella,’ he said. ‘I’m not past it yet.’
Lizzie wasn’t sure whether to correct him or not. The sharpness of his tone suggested that the comment was probably intended for her mother. She decided to let it pass as her grandfather busied himself with cups, saucers and the teapot. She looked around the room and noticed a photograph of Sam on the fridge. It was a school photograph, possibly taken a couple of years earlier. Sam was grinning out at her, showing a gap where his lower front teeth had been.
‘That’s a lovely photo,’ she remarked. Her grandfather looked round to where she was pointing.
‘I have no idea who that is,’ he scowled.
‘It’s Sam – Bea’s son. He’s your great-grandson,’ explained Lizzie patiently.
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sp; Her grandfather pondered this for a moment before turning back to his tea-making. ‘Make yourself useful and fetch the sugar will you, Stella?’
Lizzie searched in two cupboards without success. Her grandfather tutted loudly. ‘Honestly, you’d think you’d know where the sugar was in your own parents’ house!’ he declared. ‘Over there, to the right of the sink!’
Lizzie found the sugar and handed it to him. ‘I’m not Stella, Grandpa. I’m Lizzie,’ she said gently.
Her grandfather had arranged everything he needed on a tea tray ready to carry into the living room. He stopped what he was doing and looked at her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I get a bit confused sometimes. It’s what comes of living on your own for too long. But don’t listen to your mother. I’m not doolally.’
‘I know,’ said Lizzie. ‘Let me carry that tray for you.’
He stepped back to let her pick up the tray before leading the way into the living room. This room was a little different, although it still contained the glass-fronted dresser proudly displaying all her grandmother’s wedding china. There was a new three-piece suite and a large modern television where she remembered the small black and white version had been.
‘I like your TV, Grandpa,’ said Lizzie.
He smiled. ‘Joe helped me set it up. I’ve got Sky as well now. Means I can keep up with the football. Mind you, it would be better if the Blues were on a bit more often,’ he chuckled. He took the cosy off the teapot and turned the pot before adding a splash of milk to each cup and pouring the tea with a shaky hand. Lizzie reached forwards to pick up the cup and saucer for fear he might insist on passing it to her. ‘So,’ he said. ‘How have you been?’
Lizzie hesitated. It was difficult to know where to begin. She felt sorry that she hadn’t been to see her grandfather for so long. Their relationship had been a casualty of the fall-out with her parents and she regretted this now. ‘I’m okay thanks, Grandpa,’ was her uninspired reply.
