The Secrets of Happiness

by Lucy Diamond

  ‘Thanks,’ Rachel said. With her wrist encased in plaster, held uselessly on her lap, she reminded Becca of a bird with a broken wing. Quite a fierce bird with a broken wing, mind. An eagle in a bad mood. A really mardy vulture who’d peck your eyes out, given half a chance.

  ‘This guy, Michael, he must have read your advert wrong, because he rang up wanting to know how to make Irish stew!’ she went on with a little laugh. Becca couldn’t bear a lengthy silence between two people, it made her nervous. ‘Bless him, he must have got as far as the bit on your flier that said “Can I Help You?” – and dialled without reading the rest.’

  Rachel snorted. ‘I’ve had a few nutters,’ she said.

  Becca felt compelled to defend Michael. ‘Oh, he wasn’t a nutter,’ she said. ‘He was ever so sweet. Just lonely – his wife had died and he was all on his own, not looking after himself very well. So I went round and showed him how to make a stew—’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Becca felt wrong-footed all of a sudden. It was hard to tell with the wiring around Rachel’s jaw, but her last word had had a distinct ring of disdain. ‘I went round there,’ she said, wishing she’d never started on this subject, ‘because I felt sorry for him, that’s all.’

  Rachel looked exasperated. ‘I’m not running some kind of Meals on Wheels affair,’ she said. It was the longest sentence she’d come out with so far, and unfortunately not a pleased-sounding one.

  ‘I know you’re not! And I obviously explained that to him,’ Becca said hastily. ‘I just went off my own bat, while the children were at school, that’s all. In between running around to your neighbours and phoning the police and trying to find out what had happened to you.’ Her voice rose with a sudden burst of defensiveness, and she pressed her lips hard together before she said anything else. Come on, though, Rachel. Honestly! When she’d only been trying to help as well.

  ‘Anyway, no harm done,’ she said. Time to change the subject. ‘So. Do you want to . . . talk about what happened in Manchester?’

  ‘No,’ said Rachel, turning her head to stare out of the window.

  ‘Or even –’ Becca forced herself to go on, even though everything about her sister’s body language was screaming SHUT UP! – ‘what you were doing there in the first place?’

  ‘No,’ Rachel repeated, more forcefully. Then she shut her eyes.

  Becca glanced over at her, wondering if there was any point trying to say anything else. Probably not. She found herself thinking of friends she had with sisters – Lorna, who went on spa days with her sister, sitting around in waffle robes together, putting the world to rights; Michelle, who was so close to her sisters that they’d both been at the birth of her baby recently; Aimee, who went on holiday with her sister still, and told her every last thing about her life.

  Much as Becca had always wished she could have that kind of sisterly relationship with Rachel – even liking each other would be a start – she knew, too, that you could only help someone if they let you. Even though they hadn’t seen each other in ages, even though they’d shared a childhood and lived under the same roof for years, she had the distinct feeling that she was wasting her time. Injured or not, Rachel still somehow managed to make Becca feel as if she was in the wrong.

  The next hour and forty minutes passed in silence and Becca was just parking in the driveway when Rachel’s eyes flew open as if she was remembering something. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘My car.’

  ‘Yeah, I was going to ask you about that. Where is it?’ ‘

  Shit. I left it at the train station,’ she said and made a small noise in her throat that might have been an attempt at a laugh, but could possibly have been a sob. ‘Probably been towed away by now. The ticket was only valid for twelve hours.’

  Becca switched off the engine, silently relieved that she’d actually made it to Manchester and back without needing to top up with petrol or breaking down on the hard shoulder. Thank you, Goddess of Decrepit Old Bangers. ‘Right,’ she replied. ‘Well, I can get on to the station if you want, see if I can track it down for you. Not that you’ll be able to drive for a while, I guess, with your wrist.’

  She had a sudden flash of memory to when Rachel had first passed her driving test. Dad had bought her this knackered baby-blue Mini Metro, which she had blinged up with purple furry seats and stickers stuck all over the dashboard, and Becca – who must have been about eight or nine – thought it was the coolest, most awesomely grown-up thing ever. For a time Rachel had just wanted to drive everywhere – to college, to the corner shop, to her friends’ houses, with her windows rolled down, music blaring. She had even offered to drive Becca to and from Brownies every week that first summer she’d had the car; a rare experience of sisterly bonding. Becca could remember the feeling of the purple furry seat beneath her bare legs even now, the orange-scented air freshener dangling from the mirror; the two of them singing along to Kiss FM at the tops of their voices. She had always been secretly sorry that the journey had to end so quickly.

  Rachel’s face had fallen. ‘No, I won’t be able to drive,’ she said.

  ‘How about your stuff that got nicked?’ Becca asked. ‘Has anyone cancelled your credit cards or done anything about your phone?’

  ‘No.’ Rachel sighed. ‘Bollocks. Next month’s bills are going to be fun.’

  ‘Okay, well, not to worry, I can get all of that sorted out before the kids come home,’ Becca said, trying to sound positive. ‘You’ve got me for another day, remember, the nurse said I had to keep an eye on you, so you might as well put me to good use.’

  Thank you, she mouthed sarcastically to herself when no such response came. She got out of the car so that Rachel couldn’t see the expression on her face. That’s really thoughtful of you, Becca. Wow, yet another kind thing you’ve suggested on my behalf. I’m soooo grateful.

  She got the door keys out of her bag, then hesitated, momentarily self-conscious. ‘This feels wrong, me letting you in to your own house,’ she said, holding them out to Rachel as her sister emerged slowly from the car. Her shoulders were drawn and her head lowered as if she didn’t want to be seen, although – too late – Becca was pretty sure there had been a sharp twitch of Sara Fortescue’s curtains over the road just then.

  Her right wrist cradled in a sling, Rachel took the keys in her left hand and tried shakily to open the front door. Oh God, it was pitiful, it really was. Of course, if Becca had been permitted to display any outward signs of sympathy, she would have taken the keys from her sister and done the deed herself; they’d be inside within two seconds. Instead, she had to pretend she was taking her time locking the car in order to avoid watching the ordeal.

  Eventually the key turned, the door opened and they were in. ‘Welcome back,’ said Becca apprehensively, hoping Rachel couldn’t smell the faint odour of burned toast that lingered from earlier that morning. She was just about to close the front door and suggest a late lunch when she noticed a familiar figure bustling across the road, blonde ponytail swinging, immaculate white sandals gleaming with each step. Oh, great. Her brand new friend. She couldn’t even wait five minutes to get her beak in.

  ‘Was that Rachel I saw coming back?’ Sara asked, her plummy tone carrying on the still air. Her face was alight with expectation. ‘How is she? What happened?’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Rachel stiffened at the voice and ducked into the living room, out of sight. What had she done to deserve living opposite Sara Fortescue, with her sharp little nose and all-seeing beady eyes? She tried not to groan aloud as she heard the woman calling to Becca in honeyed tones of fake sympathy, barely disguising her breathy eagerness to know the gossip. It was a miracle she’d waited this long, frankly.

  To Rachel’s relief, Becca wasn’t having any of it. ‘She’s fine,’ she replied coolly. ‘Anyway, must get on, so—’

  ‘But she’s all right?’ Oh, Sara wasn’t going to be fobbed off so easily, no way. Rachel could picture her, hands clasped to
gether earnestly, scandal antennae twitching. ‘Everyone’s been so worried!’

  Rachel rolled her eyes. Bollocks, had they. Nosey, more like. Please, Becca, she thought, feeling tired and sore and vulnerable. Don’t let her in. The last thing Rachel wanted was to be gawped at by the Breaking News queen.

  ‘No need to worry,’ Becca said. ‘As I said, everything’s fine. I’ll pass on your best wishes. Bye now.’

  Then came the blessed sound of the door being shut. Thank goodness. Rachel leaned back against the chair, a headache tight around her temples. Through the window she could see Sara retreating to her own house, shoulders stiff, mouth no doubt pursed in a knot of annoyance.

  Becca sidled into the living room again, looking shifty. ‘Er . . . That was the woman over the road,’ she said. ‘I hope I wasn’t too brusque with her, but . . .’ She pulled a face. ‘Well, I wasn’t sure about her, that’s all. Is she really your mate, or just a one-woman neighbourhood watch scheme?’

  ‘She’s not my mate,’ Rachel replied. She paused, and added, ‘Thanks for getting rid of her.’

  ‘No problem,’ Becca said, with a guilty glance out of the window. ‘Anyway, we should have some lunch. I’m famished, and you must be too. I’ll make us something.’

  Rachel felt her spirits sink even further. Eating was usually something she enjoyed enormously, but it had lost all appeal for her since the operation. All food had to be soft and liquid while her jaw was wired: soup, smoothies, runny porridge, apple sauce . . . nothing that required chewing, basically. Baby food. She had a flashback to all the purees she’d made her own children when she was weaning them – the sweet potato mush and stewed pear, poured into ice-cube trays and frozen for convenience. Bags of them in the freezer, carefully labelled and dated. Those were the days when she thought she had motherhood down pat. Ha!

  ‘I’m not very hungry,’ she lied. ‘I might just go to bed.’

  ‘Have something first,’ Becca insisted. ‘You stay there, I’ll whiz up some soup. Won’t be long.’

  Before Rachel could argue, Becca was in the kitchen peeling and chopping carrots, rifling through the spice jars to find cumin and coriander, and hauling Rachel’s biggest pan onto the hob. Kind as she knew her sister was being, Rachel just found it irritating, having her waltz into her kitchen like that, clanging pots around as if she owned the place. It was only when she remembered that Becca had been here several days minding the fort, looking after her children, that she was able to swallow back her disgruntlement. ‘I’m making enough to keep you going for a few meals,’ Becca commented, as Rachel limped in and lowered herself to a seat at the table.

  ‘Thanks,’ Rachel said, without much enthusiasm. Soup reminded her of Wendy and her ridiculous diets. She’d had them all eating cabbage soup for days on end one January when she was on a new year’s self-improvement bender. The house had smelled so disgusting that Rachel had joined the school athletics club, preferring to be outside every dark rainy evening, running laps on a floodlit track, than at home, being slowly gassed to death by the stench of cabbage and farts.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about you and Lawrence,’ Becca ventured after a while. Her hair was sticking damply to her face with the heat from the soup pan, and she pushed it away. ‘You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want, but . . . Well, what happened?’

  The fingers on Rachel’s good hand clenched into a fist under the table, as Becca began crumbling stock cubes into a jug. Don’t you dare, she thought. Don’t you dare even mention his name to me. She looked pointedly away, willing her sister to shut up, and Becca, for once, got the message.

  ‘Sorry. None of my business,’ she said, sounding awkward. ‘Forget I asked.’ She prodded a piece of carrot with a knife, then drained the pan and whizzed the cooked carrots in the blender, adding pinches of spice and several turns of ground black pepper, before returning the mixture to the hob and stirring through the vegetable stock. Meanwhile, Rachel leaned back on her chair, sapped by tiredness, looking ahead to the moment when school would be out in an hour or so and her babies would be home.

  Of course, Becca couldn’t stay quiet for long. ‘Well, it sounds like you’ve totally been through the wringer,’ she said eventually. ‘But do you know what? You’ve kept going and held things together, and even started your own business when most women would be on their knees crying. Can I show you my admiration with a bowl of spiced carrot soup?’

  Rachel forced a smile. The soup looked and smelled revolting, but she feared she had little choice. ‘Yes, please,’ she lied.

  ‘MUM!’ cried Scarlet later that afternoon, bounding through the front door and into the living room. Wiped out after the journey home, Rachel had retreated to the sofa while Becca did the school run, and must have dozed off. She struggled to sit upright as she heard the door, but Scarlet had stopped dead at the sight of her. ‘Whoa,’ she said, eyes round behind her glasses. ‘Shit a brick, Mum. Luke, come and see.’

  ‘Scarlet!’ Rachel remonstrated feebly. There was no mother alive who actively wanted her ten-year-old daughter to say things like ‘Shit a brick’, but she knew this wasn’t the moment to start carping. ‘Come here and give me a hug. Oh, I’ve really missed you,’ she cried as Scarlet ventured closer and then all the way over for an embrace. Rachel put her chin on her daughter’s head and breathed in the smell of her, feeling her own body relax in response. Now she felt properly at home. This was what she needed – forget soup, forget morphine: the best cure was to have your own child back in your arms, safe and close. ‘How are you? How’s school? Has everything been all right?’

  ‘Your voice sounds so weird,’ Scarlet said, her own voice muffled from being hugged so tightly. ‘Like you’re gritting your teeth the whole time.’

  Rachel released her a fraction and stroked her daughter’s freckled cheek. Precious girl. Precious, funny, tell-it-like-it-is girl, she thought. ‘That’s why I didn’t phone you. I know it’s a bit hard to understand what I’m saying, but you’ll get used to it, I promise. Hey, Luke,’ she added, seeing her son sidle into the room. ‘Hello, lovely. Are you all right? It’s still me, under the bruises, don’t worry.’

  He was staring saucer-eyed, hanging back in the doorway as if he was scared of her, as if he didn’t quite trust that it really was her.

  ‘Come and look, Luke, you can see all the stitches and bits of metal where they fixed Mum,’ said Scarlet, who was far less squeamish about such things.

  ‘Did you have a fight with someone?’ Luke asked, coming a few brave steps closer. ‘Does it really really hurt?’

  Rachel tried to make her eyes smile, because she knew her mouth wasn’t up to moving in the proper directions just now. ‘It does hurt a bit,’ she admitted, ‘but I’ll be all right. That’s the main thing, okay? I’ll be fine. And how are you? How was school? Tell me all about your day.’

  It took a minute or two for them to get over their shock at seeing her so wounded and unlike her usual self, but eventually she had both of them nestled against her on the sofa, telling her stories about their day at school, catching her up on all the important news she’d missed – that Scarlet had nearly taught Harvey how to roll over at the weekend, that Luke had been invited to a swimming party next week, that Scarlet had got a new best friend, this girl who’d just joined the class, called Lois. ‘Oh yeah,’ said Scarlet, as if tacking on an afterthought, the least important thing to have happened, ‘and Luke went to hospital on Thursday.’

  ‘Yeah, Mrs Keyes took us in her car,’ he said, ‘and had to jab me in the leg, but she did give me a lolly and said I was really brave.’

  Rachel couldn’t speak for a moment. WHAT?, she wanted to screech.

  Becca came in just then, catching the tail end of the conversation, and her creamy freckled skin flushed pink. ‘Ahem, yes, I was going to tell you about that,’ she said guiltily, setting down a tray of orange squash and a plate of cut-up apple pieces. ‘I’m so, so sorry, Rach. It was all my fault. I didn’t know he had a nut
allergy and I gave him some of a Snickers bar. But he’s fine, it was dealt with really quickly and there was no harm done.’

  ‘Apart from the jab in my leg,’ Luke pointed out.

  ‘Apart from that, yes,’ Becca said, chastised.

  Oh my God. Rachel felt dizzy with horror. She stared at her sister, wondering if this was some kind of joke. Judging by the pleading light in her eyes and the way she was clasping her hands together so nervously, it wasn’t.

  ‘I helped,’ Scarlet said importantly. ‘I took him to the office.’

  ‘You did,’ Becca said. ‘Scarlet was very cool in a crisis.’

  ‘And I was brave,’ Luke prompted, determined to hang onto the spotlight.

  ‘You were brave.’ Becca bit her lip, gazing at Rachel. ‘And I’m really sorry. He’s absolutely fine now, obviously. I just . . . didn’t know.’ How was I supposed to know? begged those blue eyes.

  ‘Right,’ Rachel said, lost for anything else to say. Thankfully, the front door opened again then and in came Mabel, with a ton of make-up on (banned at school), her wrists jangling with bracelets (banned at school) and her skirt hitched up to mid-thigh level (banned at school). ‘Hi, love,’ Rachel said, wondering whether or not she had the stamina to take her daughter up on any of these crimes. ‘Did you have a good day?’

  Mabel stared at her. ‘Oh my God, Mum, you sound like Stephen Hawking,’ she said, reaching for her phone. ‘Hey, can I take a photo of you to put on Instagram?’

  Rachel was not used to being an invalid. All her life she’d been healthy and strong, sleeping well, eating well, loving to run, swim and dance. Growing up without a mum for years had taught her to be independent, to look after herself and others. She’d been so terrified of the same fate befalling her children that she’d done her utmost to stay fit for their sakes as much as her own. It was only really when she’d gone through childbirth and the immediate aftermath that she’d had the experience of being looked after, and even then, she’d insisted on getting up and carrying on as soon as possible. No need for any assistance, thank you very much.