‘I’ll get us some drinks,’ she said.
‘No, let me.’ I gestured for her to sit down. ‘Green tea?’ Only when she looked at me with surprise did I realise my error. ‘Isn’t that what they drink in Singapore and places like that?’ I added.
She smiled. ‘It is indeed. You have done your research.’ She insisted on paying for the drinks and gave me a twenty-pound note to go up and order with. I enjoyed asking the lanky boy behind the counter for a green tea for my mother. I didn’t enjoy ordering Emma’s caramel latte with an extra shot of syrup, but I had to keep in character.
‘This is perfect,’ I said once we got settled with our drinks. ‘Much easier to get stuff done here than in Birch Grove.’
My mother nodded. ‘I couldn’t concentrate there. Not with Mum feeling so rough. I hate seeing her like that.’
My grandmother’s cough had developed into a slight chest infection requiring antibiotics. However, her recent revelation had left me fuming with her, and I’d found it hard to summon much sympathy.
‘I’m afraid I’ve got to leave at four on the dot,’ my mother said, removing a blue cardboard folder from her backpack. ‘I need to be in London by five.’
‘No probs,’ I said, but her desire for a punctual getaway annoyed me. I was being pretty patient with her, all things considered.
Grace killed her baby.
She didn’t succeed, I’d told my grandmother. I’m here. I’m here.
‘Do you want one of these?’ I offered up the packet of three mince pies I’d purchased with the drinks.
‘No, thanks,’ said my mother, but she looked in need of something to eat. She’d lost weight recently; I could see it in her face.
She opened up the folder and we got down to business. It touched me, the effort she’d made. Exercise sheets to explain and test basic aspects of grammar, stuff I’d done as a kid, but Emma treated each simple rule as a revelation.
‘Wow,’ I said after a ten-minute session on the difference between too and to, ‘I didn’t even know what a proposition was.’
‘Preposition,’ my mother corrected.
I sighed. ‘You must think I’m well thick.’
My mother shook her head. ‘I admire you, Emma.’
‘Me?’
‘You’re getting out there in the world and giving it a go, and you’re doing it all without the support of your parents. I think you’re very brave.’
‘Thanks. I never thought of it like that.’ I gave her a wobbly smile. ‘It’s not always easy doing stuff on your own.’
‘Very true.’ She pointed out more of Emma’s atrocious mistakes and suggested I try to rewrite the statement as a way of consolidating what we’d talked about. ‘Have you got any questions?’ she asked, as she handed me the folder.
I gazed at her, emptiness welling up inside me. Yes, I had questions. Why didn’t you keep me? How can you live with yourself?
‘Hungry yet?’ I said, snatching up the mince pies from the table and tearing off the cellophane wrapping.
She laughed. ‘Oh, go on then.’ She picked up a pie and took a tiny bite. ‘Christmas food already. It’s ridiculous.’
I stirred the cold remains of my latte. ‘Are you going away over the holidays?’
‘No.’ She brushed stray crumbs from the front of her black jumper. ‘I only get a few days off from work, and I’ll have to spend those with Mum.’
She sounded so sincere, so dutiful. As if she hadn’t nearly ditched Grandma and I recently. Ten days ago, unsettled by my grandmother’s revelation, I’d returned to London after my shift and made my way to my mother’s block. I needed to see her. I even considered telling her the truth about myself so we could get everything out in the open. Then she appeared carrying a large rucksack, and I thought she might be off to visit a friend for the weekend. After a cramped journey on the Underground, we ended up at Paddington and together we scanned the departure boards. When she’d headed for the Heathrow Express platform, I’d guessed what she was up to.
‘Are you working over Christmas?’ my mother asked.
‘Yes.’ I’d signed up for the holiday shifts ages ago, hoping to enjoy the festive season with family. When Quentin heard my plans, he seemed disappointed I couldn’t come to Dubai but said he understood how much my new job meant to me.
My mother washed down the mince pie with the remains of her tea. The muscles in her long neck moved up and down as she swallowed. On the platform at Paddington, she’d hesitated by the train doors. I’d almost called out, but she backed away from the train and it departed without her. Yesterday morning, I visited her flat and found her rucksack under the bed. She’d tucked her brown leather travel wallet inside it, so I took her passport away for safekeeping.
‘Do you think you can manage the application now?’ my mother said. So sweet, so concerned. Anger bubbled inside me, but I refused to let her see it.
‘Totes, you’ve been so helpful. I feel like I should pay you or something.’
‘Wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘Must be something I can do to say thanks?’
She looked at me for a moment. ‘Well, if you really want—’
‘I do.’
‘I wouldn’t mind a hand packing up Mum’s house. Some stuff I can do on my own, but it’s a big job.’
My anger subsided. My mother had stayed for me. That’s why she didn’t get on the train. She didn’t know it yet but she’d chosen me. When the time came, I’d give her a chance to explain her past actions. Maybe we should talk on her birthday, which, according to her passport, would soon be upon us. I could get her something special. Meet her from work and take her for a birthday drink and finally reveal my true identity.
‘Don’t worry if you’re too busy,’ my mother said. ‘I totally understand.’
‘Nah, it’s fine,’ I said, feigning nonchalance. ‘I’d be glad to help.’
My mother looked so relieved. ‘That’s brilliant, Emma. Thanks. Maybe next week or the week after?’
‘Whatever,’ I said, as if her request was no big deal. As if a new and exciting phase of our relationship had not just begun.
***
After she left, I went to Marks and Spencer and bought loads of goodies for my tea. Kegs had put me on an early the next day, meaning I’d have to stay in Emma’s grotty bedsit, but at least I’d have something decent to eat. At the checkout, I camouflaged my purchases with an Aldi bag so I didn’t give myself away.
I strolled through the precinct, the sky already inky blue. All the shop windows had succumbed to decorations now—snowflakes sprayed on, coloured lights blinking. Despite the efforts of the Harringtons to make each Christmas special, I’d always found the festive period difficult. A family holiday that reminded me I had no family. This year would be different. This year I had my mother and my grandmother.
Infected with festive spirit and buoyed by my success with my mother, I took out my phone and texted Ryan. Sorry… I miss youxxxxxx. I did miss him. Sort of.
Too excited to return to the bedsit, I decided to go to my grandmother’s house. I’d walked past it before, but now I needed a closer look to prepare for my upcoming visit. How lovely of my mother to ask me. Even Emma couldn’t mask the connection between us. My mother felt it, I knew she did.
Grace killed her baby.
Hurrying away from the town centre, shopping bag swinging at my side, I thought again about my grandmother’s words. She must have known what my mother tried to do to me, but she had no idea I’d survived. She’d obviously never approved of my mother’s actions, hence them falling out. I realised taking my anger out on Grandma wasn’t fair. She’d had to keep a terrible secret all these years in order to protect her daughter, as any good mother would. She’d suffered almost as much as I had.
When I reached my grandmother’s estate, I wandered around for a while, bewildered by the identical streets with their identical homes. Finally locating the right house, I opened the tall wooden gate to the right of the fro
nt door and followed the narrow path that led to the back garden. Rotting brown leaves smothered the lawn and the withered remains of plants choked the blue ceramic pots on the patio. Removing my phone from my jacket pocket, I captured a couple of shots of the house before skirting the small conservatory and sidling up to the nearest window. Through the darkness I could just make out the bulk of a table and the shiny curve of a kitchen tap.
A burst of brightness as the light came on. I crouched down, heart thudding, eyes still peeking into the room. My mother stood naked with her back to me. Didn’t she say she had to return to London? Why would she lie? Maybe she just wanted to get started with the packing. Naked packing?
She opened the fridge door, pulled out a bottle of white wine and examined the label. The harsh overhead light showed up everything—the dimples of cellulite on her upper thighs, the freckle on her right buttock, the red scratch marks on her back. I could even see the networks of veins behind her knees—the blue highways of her blood. I snapped away with my phone, taking advantage of the unexpected photo opportunity.
Another figure appeared in the kitchen doorway. I caught a glimpse of his face before ducking to the ground.
John Palethorpe.
I heard laughter and the slam of the fridge door, followed by a loud moan from my mother. Fingertips on the window ledge, I hauled myself up for another look.
John had my mother backed against the fridge. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slack. He’d gained possession of the wine bottle and, as I watched, he pushed it between her legs, teasing her with it. Then he brought it to her lips and made her lick it. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, despite my fear of being caught.
He placed the wine bottle on top of the fridge and carried my mother over to the table, his muscled arms bulging. He had dark hair across his chest and at the base of his spine. He laid her on her back amid piles of tea towels, scattering some of them to the floor. I felt like a time traveller, voyaging back to the moment I was made. He plunged in and screwed her hard, his hands at her throat. I nearly shouted at him to get off, but the pleasure on my mother’s face stopped me. She wrapped her legs around him, trapping him in the vice of her thighs. She cried out for more. She begged him not to stop.
32
Thursday, 7 September 1995
Royal Edinburgh Hospital
I thought I saw a sign. A message from her. I was looking out of one of the barred windows in the day room when I noticed a nest of pigeons on a narrow ledge below me. The nest appeared to be made of melted grey candlewax, but after staring at it for some time I realised it consisted of pigeon shit. Layer upon layer of it.
A baby bird snuggled at the centre, all beak and fluff. The mother hovered over it and retched up something for her little one. When the baby stuck its beak down the mother’s throat, I had to look away.
33
Monday, 7 December 2015
Who is calling me? On Saturday night, after returning from Brentham, my mobile rang. The screen declared the caller unknown, but I answered anyway.
‘Hello,’ I said. A crackling, static silence, followed by the dead tone. Call centre, I assumed. Someone trying to sell me payment protection or inviting me to complete another market research survey. An identical call came thirty minutes later, and another one thirty minutes after that. Computer glitch? Call centre systems dialled hundreds of numbers at a time, didn’t they?
Last night, the calls followed a similar pattern. One every half hour from seven o’clock onwards. No caller ID. I was either caught up in some automatic dialling error or the victim of a very persistent telemarketing company. I switched my phone off at eleven and didn’t turn it on again until arriving at work this morning.
Now it’s 8.15 a.m. and Linda, Barney, Max, Theresa and I are having a meeting in one of the classrooms. Linda wants to discuss ideas for our staff Christmas get-together and the end of term celebration for the students.
‘Let’s get the students done first. Any suggestions?’ she says.
‘Get them to bring in food related to a cultural celebration from their own country,’ Barney proposes, ‘do a sort of potluck lunch.’
‘Christ no,’ Linda says. ‘We want them out of here by lunchtime so we can go and get pissed.’
I laugh along with the others, but my mind is on my phone. When I switched it on again before the meeting, I found not only a string of missed calls but also a voicemail message left at four this morning. I haven’t had a chance to listen to it yet.
‘Tea, mince pies and karaoke Christmas carols,’ Max says. ‘That worked well last year.’
‘Perfect,’ says Linda, ‘I’ll get Wendy to organise the equipment for us.’
‘You up for karaoke, Grace?’ Theresa asks. ‘Bet you did plenty of that in Singapore?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘it was fun.’
‘The students love it when we make fools of ourselves,’ says Barney, who looks glum at the prospect.
‘So, karaoke carols for them, followed by cocktails for us,’ Linda says. We all agree and move on to the issue of the holiday timetable.
‘Grace has volunteered to cover most of the work,’ Linda says, ‘for which I’m very grateful.’ She explains that only a handful of students have signed up for the teaching programme, so there shouldn’t be much prep to do. ‘You can always catch up on admin, if you find yourself at a loose end,’ she tells me.
I nod and give an appropriate reply but feel detached from the proceedings, as though watching them from a distance. Who is calling me?
After the meeting, I rush to an empty classroom with my phone. Heart hammering, I ring through to voicemail. At first, there is only silence. Then I detect a faint exhale. A delicate sound, not the heavy breathing that would signify an obscene phone call.
‘Who is this?’ I ask the recorded message that cannot answer back. I sense the caller was angry. The caller wanted something from me but would not ask. The silence returns and continues, weighty and expectant, until the message ends.
***
After finishing work at five, I stand outside the main door of the school, checking my phone for missed calls. None show up. No more messages either. Have I been letting my imagination get the better of me?
Max and Theresa appear and invite me to join them for a drink.
‘Please,’ says Theresa, ‘I’ll be stuck talking to him otherwise.’
‘Cheeky bitch.’ Max tugs Theresa’s black beanie over her eyes. ‘Seriously though, Grace, take pity on the girl.’
Tempting. A glass or two of wine might settle my nerves, but I’m trying not to drink too much, especially with taking the tablets Lucy Anderson prescribed. I only swallow half a pill each night, wary of over medicating myself. Each dose gifts me almost six hours of restless sleep, which is better than nothing.
‘Grace?’ Theresa says, rearranging her hat. ‘Are you coming?’
I invent an excuse about having a yoga class. After we say our goodbyes, I light a cigarette and head up Pentonville Road.
There it is again. That tickle along my spine, the impression of someone close behind. Someone watching me. Since Saturday, I haven’t been able to shake this sensation. As I locked up Mum’s house to leave for the station, I noticed the side gate swinging back and forth, probably blown open by the wind. When I clicked it shut, a shudder ran through me and I spun round, expecting to see a figure in the driveway. I saw nobody, but this nobody managed to hound me all the way to the station.
I look round, but see only the usual mill of rush-hour pedestrians. I pick up pace, stopping at random intervals to glance behind me, as if playing Grandmother’s Footsteps. Eventually, I feel foolish and stop the game. I march on ahead without looking back, determined to beat my paranoia.
Twenty minutes later, I reach Islington. Upper Street is a strip of cheer in the dark evening, the busy shops glowing with festive lights. Shops filled with couples and families doing their Christmas shopping. Mothers and daughters browsing together arm-in-arm. A combination
of longing, envy and sadness propels me away from the bustle towards Goswell Road.
During the final stretch of my walk home, I resolve to call Birch Grove when I get in and check how Mum’s doing. Last night, Kegs reported she’d rallied after the last dose of antibiotics. It seems she’s beaten this mild chest infection, although Kegs warned me it would leave her body less able to recover next time.
The weaker Mum gets the more exposed I feel. As if she has cast an invisible protective shield around me all her life. One I never knew existed. A barrier against the world that is now fading.
I turn into my estate and hurry past the floodlit Astroturf pitch. A five-a-side match between two teams of kids is in progress. The accompanying screams and whistles have an unnerving urgency. I speed up, keen to reach the safety of home.
At the door of my block, I punch in the entry code.
‘Grace.’ A familiar voice behind me. Before I can push open the door, strong fingers latch onto my arm.
‘We need to talk,’ Dan says.
***
We stand at the entrance to the park. In the distance, the dope-smoking teenagers haunt their usual bench, too far away to be of assistance or to witness what might unfold.
‘What do you want?’ I say.
‘The truth.’ He looks older than he did in Brighton. I can see the lines on his forehead now, the grey in his eyebrows.
‘How did you find me?’ I ask, stalling.
‘How do you think?’
The school website. He was waiting for me tonight. Following me all the way.
‘Why did you track me down after all this time?’ he asks. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’
‘I didn’t track you down.’
‘Don’t tell me our meeting was just a coincidence.’
I shrug.
He steps towards me. ‘There must have been a reason? Something you wanted to tell me?’
I needed to work out what was real and what was not, but I cannot tell him that.
She Chose Me Page 12
