Eager to Please

by Julie Parsons

  ‘I’m waiting.’ The speed of the rocking had increased. The chair creaked. The rubber of the soles of Amy’s shoes squeaked as they peeled off and on the wood of the table.

  Squeak, squeak, squeak.

  The rubber wheels of the pram, backwards and forwards on the shiny wooden floor.

  Hush little baby, don’t say a word,

  Poppa’s gonna buy you a mocking bird,

  And if that mocking bird don’t sing,

  Poppa’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.

  Tiny baby shrieks, little legs that kick and flail, little arms that wave above the swaddling blankets. Go to sleep, Amy, love. Mummy’s here.

  ‘Having problems, are you? Not quite the happy reunion you thought it was going to be? Thought we’d weep and moan and fall on each other’s necks, is that it? Thought it would be like one of those made-for-TV movies that you get cheap at the video shop. Well, Rachel, Mrs Beckett, whatever I should call you, you can forget it. If you haven’t already realized it, get it through your head now. I didn’t want this meeting. I have nothing to say to you. I have no feelings for you. And as soon as I possibly can I’m out of here. For good. Do I make myself plain?’

  The girl’s voice bounced around the room. Rachel felt as if at any moment the windows would begin to shake and rattle, the cups and saucers would crash to the floor, the ash in the ashtray would rise in a fine grey cloud above their heads. She waited until there was silence. Then she cleared her throat, lowered her gaze and began to speak.

  ‘I don’t expect forgiveness, understanding, or love. I don’t want anything from you, Amy. Except that I want you to acknowledge that I am your mother, and that you are my daughter. That is all I want. That is why I have asked to see you. That is all I need. Nothing more. That would be enough for me to take away from here. And if I felt that I had that, I would not need to trouble you any further.’

  She paused and looked up. Amy was blowing smoke rings again. Her face was contorted. Her eyes were cold. Rachel bowed her head and continued.

  ‘I completely accept your relationship with the Williams family. I have never doubted their integrity or their desire to protect and love you. We have both been very lucky with the Williamses. When I went to prison and my role and responsibility as a mother had been taken from me, I needed a family like them to step in. You needed a family too. And I am very grateful to them. I hope they realize that. I know that I have missed out on the most important twelve years of your life and nothing will ever make up for it. But now that you’re almost an adult, that you’re entering a new phase in your life, I just want to know whether there might be some role in it for me in the future. If there is,’ she paused and looked up again, ‘if there is, well, I would be so grateful and happy. If there isn’t . . .’ She shrugged her shoulders, staring down at the table’s grainy surface. ‘If there isn’t, well, I would have to accept that too. But I want you to know, that no matter when or how or under what circumstances you might want me or need me, then I would be there for you.’

  There was a crash as Amy jerked her chair back down on to the floor.

  ‘You mean the way you were there for me that night you murdered my father, is that what you’re talking about? The day you were there for me when you dragged me into the Four Courts to have my picture all over the papers, so I can never be free of it. So every time anything ever comes up about the case, or whenever they’re doing one of those stupid chronicles of the decade, or whatever, there I am, on the fucking telly. All of five years old, crying my eyes out, snot dripping down my face. My teddy bear hanging out of my hand. Do you think I like seeing that? Do you? Do you think I like having to remember back to that time? Are you surprised that I’ve changed my name? That I’m Amy Williams now. That as far as I’m concerned the only Beckett I’ll admit to knowing anything about is Samuel Beckett.’

  ‘You like him, do you?’ Somehow Rachel found herself speaking, saying something, anything to interrupt the flow of Amy’s voice.

  ‘Like him? I don’t give a fuck about him. All those stupid words. Lies, that’s what most words are. Like your words. Why didn’t you just admit that you killed him? Why didn’t you just admit it and plead guilty to it? Then we’d all have been spared the trial and everything that went with it. And then maybe, maybe . . .’

  She stopped. Tears teetered on her bottom lids making her eyes shine and glitter. Then tears and words spilled from her. ‘And then you wouldn’t have been in prison for so long. They would have let you out sooner. And I would have had a date or a time in the future to look forward to. I could have had a calendar on my wall and I could have crossed off the days with a red felt pen. That’s what I could have done. I could have known when you would come home, that’s what the difference would have been. But I never knew anything. All I knew was that you were a bad woman.’

  Rachel looked at her, at the sudden anguish on her face, an expression she hadn’t seen for years. And when she spoke her voice was pleading. ‘How can you say that? Didn’t I always tell you that I hadn’t killed your father, that it wasn’t me, that I wasn’t responsible for what happened? Didn’t I always say that to you? Every time they brought you in for visits, I always said to you that I was telling you the truth. And I couldn’t lie about it, go along with what everyone else wanted. I told you so many times. And I told everyone else so many times. I didn’t kill him. It wasn’t me. But no one would believe me. I thought perhaps that you might. But I don’t blame you or feel anything other than responsibility for it. Not now. I thought I’d been able to let you know. When I held you and cuddled you and kissed you and played with you, all the time I said to you, Amy, you’re my daughter, my baby, and above all else I love you.’

  ‘But that was the lie, wasn’t it, Mother?’ The sound of the word on her lips made Rachel’s stomach heave and her knees weaken. ‘And I don’t believe your denials. And I don’t believe that you loved me above all else, because if you had you wouldn’t have killed my father. So stop now, no more denying it.’ Amy was on her feet. Suddenly very adult, very composed. ‘Whatever you say, it doesn’t make any difference. What’s done is done. You left me, effectively, an orphan, without even any memories to carry with me.’

  ‘But that’s not true.’ Rachel put her hand in her bag and pulled out a small plastic wallet. ‘Don’t you remember? I gave you one just like this. With all these photographs in it. Look.’ And she opened it, flicking over the plastic leaves, pulling out pictures, dealing them like a pack of cards on to the table. ‘Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Remember, of course I remember, Mother.’ Again the use of the word, again the intonation of disgust and contempt. ‘But the memories that I had were polluted by you. I used to keep my pictures under my pillow. I used to kiss them goodnight before I went to sleep. These strange and beautiful people. This lovely woman, this handsome man, this pretty baby. But then it got to the point where I couldn’t even look at them, because all I felt was the pain that you had caused. So do you know what I did with them, Mother?’

  Rachel watched her, mesmerized. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. She had to keep her eyes on this girl who was turning into a woman in front of her.

  ‘Shall I continue, shall I go on? Shall I tell you what I did, Mother?’

  Rachel nodded, her throat constricted.

  ‘One day I go down to the kitchen, I suppose I must have been about ten or so, and I climb up on a stool and I open the cupboard where Mummy, Mummy Williams, keeps the matches. She keeps them there so that none of her children will get hold of them and light them and hurt themselves. But I find them and I take them back up to my room and I strike them one after the other and I burn my photographs. Of course, I’m old enough to know all about fire and things like that. But when the pictures begin to burn, suddenly they set fire to the bedclothes and, when I try to put the fire out, my pyjamas go on fire too. And I get burned. See.’ And she pulled up the tight sleeve of her blouse to show the striated red and white skin of her forea
rm. ‘They didn’t tell you that was what happened, did they? What did they say? I spilled a kettle of boiling water over me, I got too close to the fire, something like that? Something that would lay the blame on the Williamses. They didn’t want to have to hurt you any more, you see. But it wasn’t their fault. They were far too good at being parents to let something so careless happen. And do you want to know something else? I wanted to fade away, and blacken, and disappear too. Just like the people in the photographs. And afterwards I was sorry that I hadn’t.’

  Now tears poured unchecked down Rachel’s face. She wept silently, making no attempt to wipe them away. The drops fell on her hands and rolled off on to her thighs, darkening the blue of her jeans. She heard the sound of the door behind her open. She felt the movement of air past her as Amy left the room. She heard the door close and still she wept. She got to her feet and walked to the window. She looked down into the square below and saw the car that had just driven up. The man who got out and put his arm around Amy’s bowed shoulders as he opened the back door and ushered her in and out of sight. Rachel drew back into the room. She opened her mouth but there was no sound. She hunched herself down, her arms wrapped around her chest, her hands clutching at her shoulders and waited until the spasm had passed. Then she stood up, pulled her shirt from her waistband and used it to wipe her face. Picked up her bag. Glanced down at the pictures still spread out on the table. She walked to the door, opened it, and moved towards the lift. Pressed the button with the arrow pointing downwards. Heard its mechanical whine as it came closer and closer. Stepped into it. Looked at the face of the woman reflected in its polished walls. Stepped out into the lobby. Walked to the glass doors. Moved into the brightness of the afternoon. Breathed in the warm air. Then turned and walked away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE PEACHES LADY, that was what Daniel’s daughter called her. His wife called her something else. She had said her name was Barbara Keane, the first time he asked her who was this woman the kids were always talking about. Now she looked up at him from his desk, the file of newspaper cuttings spread out in front of her, and said, ‘I didn’t realize you’d kept all this stuff. You never told me.’

  He leaned over her, gathering the pieces of paper into a heap.

  ‘In fact,’ she continued, ‘I seem to remember that when I asked you about her you told me you had thrown everything to do with her and your brother and the trial away. So what the fuck is going on? Suddenly this bitch is in my house. And I only found out by chance, when I was looking through the filing cabinet for the kids’ birth certificates. So I could get them their American passports.’

  He soothed her and calmed her, gathered up the file, and told her he would go to the police about her.

  ‘She’s sick,’ he said. ‘She’s always been crazy. She’s probably even worse after all her years in prison.’

  ‘But you told me she’d never get out of prison.’ Her voice was high pitched, on the edge of hysteria. ‘They’d never let her out. So what does she want now? What does she want with me and my children?’

  He had tried to find out what happened that weekend that the woman they called the peaches lady came to stay. But Ursula wasn’t telling.

  ‘Nothing, nothing much. We just had too much to drink. I felt dreadful the next morning, and she took the kids out for a drive so I could sleep.’

  He asked the children.

  ‘We had fun,’ Jonathan said. ‘We went to the amusements. She took us on the bumper cars. We ate popcorn.’

  ‘And candyfloss,’ interrupted Laura, ‘and lots of coke. It was great.’

  Now he checked the house to see if there was anything missing. But everything looked as normal. Nothing was out of place. It was as if she had never been there.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s all right. I’ll take care of it.’ He watched the sudden uncertainty, anxiety on Ursula’s face. And wondered how Rachel had done it so successfully. Had breached their security, their sense of rightness in the world.

  He’d take care of her if need be. He watched her window, parked up on the footpath at the back of the house at night, and looked up at that bright rectangle of light. Watched her go to work and come home. Watched the way her back had straightened, her stride had lengthened, her face and body had rounded and filled out. Saw the smile on her face as she greeted neighbours, stopped to stroke the cat which lay on the steps of the house next door, bent to pull a stalk of lavender and hold it to her nose as she felt in her bag for her keys.

  He thought about the police. How he had never been charged with the murder of his brother. How they had believed his story and the alibi that his mother had given him. Believed her when she said she had heard the grandfather clock on the landing outside her bedroom door chiming the hour. Didn’t know that he had opened its glass front and moved the hands back, then clicked it shut again. Sat with her and played her videos until she fell asleep, then moved the hands of the clock forward again. So easy. So simple. The last thing he wanted was some nosy young copper taking out the case, examining it, looking through the evidence, spotting holes where there had been none before. The last thing he wanted.

  So he’d watch her and he’d wait. And in the meantime he’d go on visiting the café by the harbour where the girl worked. He was getting on well with her. She liked him. She’d told him her name.

  ‘Amy Williams,’ she said, with a shrug and a grimace of distaste.

  ‘Amy, that’s a nice name.’ He leant back in his chair and looked up at her.

  ‘Yeah, too nice, too sweet, too pretty.’ She lifted up his cup and saucer to wipe away the crumbs from his pastry.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s subtle and different. It’s like you.’ And watched the flush on her cheek, and the smile that followed it. Now he could see her mother in her. In the way she looked down as she spoke, her gaze flicking back to his for an instant, then away again.

  Patience, that’s what was needed, a bit of biding his time. Martin had been good at that. He could do no better than follow his little brother’s example. Martin had told him often enough: ‘Don’t rush into situations, don’t make snap decisions, bide your time. It’ll be worth it in the end. It always is.’

  Martin was right about most things, he thought. Except for that last time. But now he’d do what he counselled. He’d wait. He’d bide his time. He’d stick it out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE PHONE CALL woke Jack out of a deep dreamless sleep. The best sleep he’d had in months, if not years. What was it that the kids in school used to say? Two kinds of deep sleep. The sleep of the just, and the sleep of the just after. This was definitely the latter. He rolled over, moving Alison’s head from his shoulder, and felt for his phone, hearing the warbling ringing tone. Eine Kleine Nacht Musik played at double time. It was Ruth who did it. She was always fiddling around with it, changing the settings. Like most ten-year-old kids she knew more about mobile phones than anyone else in the universe.

  He was sure he had thought to leave it somewhere findable. Unlike the rest of his belongings, which were scattered inelegantly across the bedroom floor. His fourth night in a row at Alison’s. The weekend spent juggling kids and fatherly duties, but still managing to find himself winding up in Alison’s squeaky brass bed.

  His fingers closed on its plastic case. He looked at the LED display. It was five past nine. It was Sweeney’s number. Shit, he thought, I’m bloody late. And then he thought, no, it’s not that. I’m taking today off, my first free day in weeks. So what is this? It must be trouble.

  The body was still hanging where it had been found, dangling from the banisters, down into the hall, twisting gently in a slow and stately pirouette as the rope around its neck wound and unwound. The housekeeper had discovered it. She had let herself in as usual, just after eight-thirty. She had been looking down at the rug in the hall, thinking, she said, that it was getting very threadbare around the edges. That really she should speak to Dr Hill about it. It would be dangerous so
on, easy to trip on, and really that wouldn’t do with so many people traipsing in and out of the house every day. So she didn’t notice it immediately. It was only when she was right underneath that she saw him. That she saw his feet hanging just above her head. His poor feet, she kept on saying. She’d never seen his feet bare before. He was always so meticulous about everything, always kept himself really well. He has beautiful hands she said, real healer’s hands. But his feet, what a mess. The toenails need cutting, calluses all over his heels, and a corn on his middle toe. Jack met Sweeney’s eyes above her head. He winked and instantly felt dreadful. Sweeney was trying not to laugh.

  ‘So, love, what else did you see?’

  ‘Nothing else,’ she said. ‘I got such a fright I just stood there looking up at the poor man and then I phoned for an ambulance, and when I told them what he had done they said they’d send the guards. Straightaway.’

  The doctor had hanged himself from the banisters on the first floor. Jack looked at the rope. It was clothes line. Faded, orange, exactly like the rope used to strangle his daughter. He had left a note. It was stuck in the pocket of his shirt. A single page, torn from what looked like a prescription pad. His name, address, phone number and surgery times printed on the top. And underneath, in small, barely legible handwriting, the date and the message.

  I did not kill my daughter, Judith, or hurt her in any way. I do not know who did it. But I cannot bear the thought of further shame and humiliation. I know that I will be charged with her murder, that I will be tried and found guilty. I could not go to prison. It’s better for everyone this way.

  It was not signed. Jack watched as Johnny Harris supervised the removal of the body from its suspended position. He leaned against the panelled wall of the hall. In spite of everything, he was feeling wonderful. He could barely keep the grin off his face. He looked at his watch. It was ten-thirty. Alison was doing home visits all day. He had said he would phone her. They might be able to meet for lunch. But anyway she was coming to his flat for dinner and the rest. He closed his eyes. He could still feel her breasts pressing against his chest, her legs wrapped around his hips. Still smell her skin and taste her mouth.