by Paula Daly
I go to speak, because I want to talk more about the inconsistencies in Eve’s life story. I want to know if she continued her studies at Salford when she was thrown off her course at Manchester. I want to know about her time in the States. I want to know what is real and what is fake. But Sharon holds up her palm, indicating for me to keep quiet for a moment longer. She’s working something out.
‘Married for seven years, you say?’
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘And for that time living permanently in America, as far as I know.’
She nods. ‘That’d make sense. It’s about the last time I saw her.’
‘She’s been back and forth to the States most of her adult life,’ I tell her. ‘She told me she was moving there because she didn’t get along with her dad’s new wife. She told me you had died.’
Again, this doesn’t seem to shock her. ‘Eve never knew her dad.’
I nod in agreement, though not letting on that I’ve spoken to Eve’s grandmother. Sharon is clearly a spiky woman and I don’t want to antagonize her unnecessarily. She may not take kindly to the fact that her mother let a total stranger inside her house.
‘We tried tracing Eve after she disappeared the last time,’ she continues, ‘but it came to nothing. It was like she was wiped out, never existed.’
‘How is that possible?’
‘You tell me. I’ve no idea how a person disappears off the face of the earth.’
‘That must have been awful,’ I say. ‘Did you think she was . . . you know, dead?’
Sharon turns, taps her cigarette in the sink and runs the cold water for a second to rinse away the ash. ‘To be frank, I wasn’t bothered if she was dead, but I needed to get something to her.’ And she looks away, suddenly evasive.
I wait for her to continue, careful not to fill in the break in conversation with chatter which may stop her from revealing useful information.
At last she speaks. ‘I needed to tell her something important. Anyway, the upshot of it was I couldn’t find her. Tried social services, the police, that kind of thing. A year later, when we still had nothing to go on, I got my friend at the hospital to look at her medical records, but that came to—’
Again Sharon stops suddenly.
‘I’ve said too much,’ she whispers. She puts her hands up to her mouth to try to cover her gaffe.
‘Don’t worry,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll keep it to myself.’
‘I promised Anne I’d never tell a soul. Bloody hell.’ She’s shaking her head at her ineptitude. ‘She could get sacked for this . . . she could get worse than sacked for what she did for me.’
‘Sharon,’ I say firmly, ‘I won’t say anything. You have my word. What did Anne find?’
‘Nothing.’
‘No medical notes for Eve after she disappeared?’
Sharon gives a sarcastic bark of laughter. ‘Nothing from before she disappeared either. There was not one single scrap of information on her.’
‘How can that be possible?’
‘It was as if she’d never existed,’ Sharon says. ‘Not even files on her operation from when she was a baby, none of the—’
‘Oh, yes,’ I say, remembering, ‘the aneurysm in her head. That’s why she had to retake the first year of university.’
‘That’s what she told you?’
I nod. ‘Yes. She got an infection and—’
‘Eve had an aneurysm clip fitted when she was a baby, that much is true,’ Sharon says, flicking her ash behind her again. ‘But there were no complications later on. That’s not why she missed the year at university. Like I said, everything – and I mean everything – out of that girl’s mouth is utter tripe. She’s told so many lies, I bet she can’t even remember that . . .’ She pauses. ‘Never mind.’
I can see there’s something Sharon doesn’t want to reveal, and I don’t want to push her too far lest she closes up on me.
‘What made her like this?’ I ask.
And Sharon’s spine straightens in defence. ‘You’re asking me if I was a bad mother? If she was neglected? If she wasn’t looked after properly?’
‘No,’ I exclaim, horrified she thinks I’m being critical. ‘No, I don’t mean that at all.’
‘It’s fine,’ she says. ‘I’ve asked myself the same question about a thousand times. Where did I go wrong? Why did she turn out the way she did? I even asked my GP what was wrong with her, and he told me to go and read up on narcissism. I thought he was joking.’ She laughs at the memory of this. ‘He told me they used to think female narcissists came about from bad parenting, that they were driven by their need for affection. Turns out it’s a load of rubbish . . . now they reckon it’s the opposite way around.’
‘Meaning?’
‘That the condition stems from little girls being over-indulged by their parents, from being told they’re special and precious. America’s knee deep in ’em, apparently. Anyway, that was certainly the case with Eve. After her operations . . . don’t forget this was brain surgery she had . . . well, after that, me and my mother spoilt her rotten.’
‘Oh.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘Who’d have thought? Your child turns into a nutter just because you loved her too much. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?’
‘Hardly,’ I say.
And I’m thinking of my own girls. Thinking of what if? What if they turn their backs on me for no good reason? What if they don’t want to know me any more after I poured all I had into them?
‘I’ve had to harden my heart to my daughter,’ Sharon explains, her expression pained. ‘Which hasn’t been easy. But the fact is, I had no choice.’ She takes one last long drag on her cigarette before stubbing it out in the sink. ‘I had no choice,’ she says again, as if it’s something she tells herself, a mantra, to keep sane. ‘I had to do it, on account of Danny.’
‘Danny?’
‘Eve’s brother.’
I nod, not really sure how he fits into all this, but at the same time sensing that Sharon’s demeanour has quickly gone from defensive, an almost warrior stance, to vulnerable.
She’s quiet for a minute and I sense she’s readying herself for what she’s about to tell me. ‘Danny needs extra caring for,’ she begins. ‘. . . He’s got a few problems. Cerebral palsy,’ and she says this quietly, as though she doesn’t want him to overhear. ‘It’s mild, but, you know, he needs me. Anyway,’ she says, gathering herself, ‘it is what it is.’
Before I have the chance to impart anything close to sympathy, Sharon adds, ‘Well, it’s our life. That’s what we’ve got, so that’s what we do.’ She gives a brave smile. ‘And I’m not complaining. Christ, no. I need Danny as much as he needs me . . . it’s just, well, you asked why I’ve given up on Eve and—’
‘I didn’t say you’d given up on her,’ I interrupt.
‘No, you didn’t,’ she replies. ‘I did. And I have given up. Because I had to. In the end, I didn’t have it in me any longer to keep on loving Eve when all she ever did was bring trouble to our door. It was difficult for Danny. To see me upset would make him upset, so . . .’
‘Understandable,’ I say.
As if on cue we hear a door closing, followed shortly thereafter by the sound of the loo being flushed. Sharon turns and busies herself taking the lid off the baked beans, fetches the HP Sauce and tomato ketchup from the cupboard.
Sharon leans towards me. ‘Don’t let on you’re here about Eve,’ she warns, and I shake my head. ‘He misses her. If he hears her name he’ll not shut up about her all night.’
A moment later and a huge figure appears in the doorway. Danny is well over six foot, a big bear of a lad inside a Bolton Wanderers shirt. He has the telltale signs of limb spasticity: his left trainer turns in, almost at a right angle, and his right arm is crooked at the elbow, stuck tightly to his side.
‘Mum?’ he says. ‘What time’s tea?’
‘You finished up Josh’s papers?’ she asks him brusquely.
‘Yeah, I done ’em.’
I’m a little embarrassed she’s not introduced us, so I smile and tell him I’m Natty. Tell him I’ve popped in for a quick chat with his mum.
‘Five minutes till your tea’s ready,’ Sharon says, and he shuffles out. When he’s gone she explains how Danny slides the supplements and leaflets inside the Bolton Evening News. The kid next door does a paper round and Danny helps out, enjoys the repetitive nature of the task. ‘Keeps him quiet for a few hours,’ she whispers as we hear the sound of the television coming from the lounge.
‘I’d offer you something to eat,’ she says, as she lays out the cutlery, ‘but you don’t get a lot a meat in these pies. And Dan’s got hollow legs. He can eat and eat and he’s still hungry.’
‘No worries,’ I tell her. ‘I wouldn’t want to trouble you more than I already have. I need to be on the road soon and get back to my own children. Thanks for being so open about everything. It’s made what’s happened a little easier to process. Can I ask you one last thing?’
‘Fire away.’
‘Was Eve ever violent? I never saw it myself, but I can’t help now thinking she might be capable of far worse things.’
‘She was. As a child she had terrible tantrums, couldn’t control her temper, she had that nasty streak you sometimes see in kids when they can’t get their own way. But she did seem to grow out of it. As she got older she liked to take her anger out in other ways.’
I nod, weighing up her words.
‘I do wonder, though . . .’
‘Oh?’
‘I wonder just what did happen seven years ago, to make her need to disappear. I know for certain it wouldn’t have been Eve simply wanting a fresh start. She must have run away from something, and I’ve often wondered what that was.’
Sharon smiles resignedly. ‘Anyway, you say you’ve got kids? Boys or girls?’
‘Two girls . . . sixteen and fourteen.’
‘Nice,’ she says. ‘Are they a handful?’
‘They have their moments,’ I reply. ‘I have the feeling they prefer Eve’s company to mine right now, though, because—’
‘Eve?’
‘Yes.’
Sharon takes a step back, an expression of mild confusion on her face as she waits for me to continue.
‘There was a misunderstanding . . . an accident,’ I stammer reluctantly, not really wanting to admit I was arrested for violent behaviour after just accusing Eve of the same, not wanting Sharon to think badly of me. ‘. . . There was an accident and it meant my husband and Eve have to take care of the girls for a short while.’
‘Oh, she wouldn’t like that,’ Sharon retorts. ‘Eve can’t stand kids.’
I frown. ‘Well, perhaps she’s changed her mind,’ I say, ‘because she’s been trying for a baby. She told me she wanted children but her husband was the one who backed out and that’s why they split up. If things weren’t the way they were, I’d probably feel quite sorry for her.’
Sharon tilts her head as if not quite comprehending. ‘But Eve has been sterilized.’
I shake my head.
‘No, that can’t be right.’
‘It was a while ago,’ Sharon says softly.
‘When?’ I ask. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘I’m sure. I was with her. She was nineteen.’
‘Good Lord,’ I blurt out, my mind racing. ‘Why on earth would she get sterilized at such a young age? It seems so final. How can a person be certain they’ll never want a child?’ I am dumbstruck by this. ‘Surely the National Health Service wouldn’t conduct irreversible surgery on a nineteen-year-old? Surely there must be some kind of protocol for—’
Sharon looks at me straight. ‘She told them she’d kill herself if they didn’t do it, so they didn’t have a lot of choice.’
‘Good grief,’ I say.
My mind is pushed into overdrive again as I begin thinking it through. ‘Still, she was very young,’ I reason. ‘I mean, you have to have counselling for that operation, don’t you? Why didn’t they advise fitting a coil? That would be more sensible. There are lots of options and none of them quite so final as to actually—’
‘Stop!’ Sharon shouts out, and I stare at her.
A shocked silence.
Her face is deathly white, and I realize that, unwittingly, I’ve said completely the wrong thing.
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her, embarrassed. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, I didn’t mean to . . . this really is none of my business.’
‘Eve insisted on that operation,’ Sharon says, her eyes empty, cold. ‘She insisted on it, because she couldn’t stand the thought of having another child.’
‘Another child?’ I whisper.
And Sharon drops her eyes to the floor. ‘Eve didn’t want to take the chance of having another child like Danny.’
31
I LEAVE EVE’S MOTHER’S house feeling very differently to when I arrived. Before, I was so sure Sharon Boydell held the answers I needed to expose Eve. She certainly gave me the evidence I was searching for. Except – what can I do with this information? I can’t do a bloody thing with it.
Danny doesn’t know Eve is his mother; he has no clue. And Sharon warned me that should I open my mouth – either now or in ten years’ time – she will hunt me down and rip my head off my shoulders. (Her words, and I have no reason to believe she is lying.)
She told me she’d worked too damn hard to give Danny the happiness he deserved. His whole life she had watched him bullied and taunted. She’d watched him go through painful operation after operation to relieve his limb spasticity. This was the reason she’d been trying to locate Eve seven years ago – Danny contracted pneumonia after one such surgery, and she feared he wouldn’t make it. Later, when it emerged that Eve had made absolutely certain she could not be traced, Sharon decided it was time to say goodbye to her damaged daughter for good. Time to try to forget about her and move on with her life.
Heading north, in the middle lane of the M61, I am thinking that perhaps Eve and I may be more alike than I’d like to admit. I, too, have tried to shake off a past by living a lie. ‘Living inauthentically’ is the polite way of saying one has been spinning a web of bullshit to cover past mistakes. This is simply that lie catching up with me. I deserve this after what I did to Sean all those years ago, my head turned by an arrogant, preppy boy.
And Sean stepped into the role of father, became the best dad in the world, compromising his future for a child that wasn’t his.
And how had I repaid him?
By becoming consumed with building what, from the outside at least, was deemed to be a successful life, a successful business. And by ignoring his needs altogether.
I can see now that the thing, the only important thing, was Sean and I. We formed the bricks and mortar. That’s what supports everything else, and if you don’t give marriage the attention it needs, cracks appear, and there’s sure to be some ruthless woman waiting in the wings, willing to put her integrity to one side, willing to take what’s yours in a heartbeat.
Ahead, the traffic is slowing as we hit the busy stretch south of Preston where the motorway joins the M6. A red glow fills the sky as drivers hit the brakes, and I wonder what it would be like to just let go. What if I were to let the van careen along of its own accord, ploughing straight into the stationary traffic ahead?
The dead, empty sensation inside me makes this kind of tempting, and for the first time it hits me what a fantastically dangerous activity motorway driving really is; trusting that everyone else on the road is of sound mind and without suicidal tendencies. If I so wished, right now, I could take out not only myself, but potentially another thirty other people along with me.
I shudder at the thought and move my foot over to the brake pedal, shifting down through the gears, the heavy clutch sending a hot sciatic pain all the way up to my left buttock.
The van slows to a halt and, though surrounded every which way by cars, I am more alone than ever.
I take out m
y phone.
*
Eve glances around the restaurant.
To the outside world, they are a perfectly normal family: two parents, two children – shiny, happy people – enjoying a meal together.
The place is busy. The requisite bustling atmosphere of the village Italian restaurant is enhanced by Dean Martin singing ‘Volare’ from a wall-mounted speaker over by the door, and the owner is shouting orders through to the kitchen, louder than is really necessary. As he moves between the tables he flirts shamelessly with the middle-aged ladies, and they drop their heads, pretending not to enjoy the attention he affords them.
This could be any Italian place, anywhere, Eve’s thinking. She fingers the red and white checked tablecloth, watches children’s faces beam as they’re served vanilla ice cream in a tall glass, a lit sparkler turning the commonplace dessert into a truly magical experience.
Eve turns her attention to the girls. Alice is babbling, as ever. She’s wearing the most ridiculous outfit – royal-blue crocheted dress over striped pink leggings – and she’s beehived her hair, decorated the auburn up-do with tiny bows and silver butterflies. Eve is at a loss for words.
Felicity wears low-waisted jeans (on account of her appendix scar) and trainers. Eve had asked her to dress up a little and Felicity had told her to go fuck herself. Quietly, though. So nobody heard. Eve had responded to that minor outburst by flashing a nasty smile, which must have put the fear of God into Felicity, as an apology was soon forthcoming. A reluctant one, naturally, but Felicity has not uttered a word since.
Eve is now utterly bored playing happy families and she’s zoning out of the conversation. She’s wondering just how long she’ll have to endure this before she can move on.
