by Lucy Diamond
‘Ahh, no, you’re very professional,’ Hayley spluttered, still laughing. ‘I feel like I’m training with . . . Kelly Holmes or someone. Jess Ennis.’
Becca grinned, pushing an escapee tendril of hair back up in her cycling helmet. ‘People are always mixing me up with those two,’ she said, and consulted her phone, trying to gather together the last shreds of her dignity. ‘Okay – just five seconds before another sprint. Get ready – go!’
Towards the end of the hour, it was hard to say which of them looked more exhausted as they went through a series of cool-down stretches in the back garden – Hayley or her trainer. Both of them were red in the face and sweaty, and weak from all the laughter too. ‘That was fab,’ Hayley said, undoing her ponytail and shaking out her hair. ‘Really good. Nice one!’
Becca was delighted. ‘Do you mean it?’ she asked.
‘Yeah! I’ve never laughed so much during an exercise routine – and it was a bloody good workout too. Thanks.’
Becca could feel herself beaming. ‘Well, thank you. Thanks for being so nice and not . . . well, not judging me on sight, basically. Giving me a chance. One of Rachel’s other clients last week actually took one look at me and told me not to bother, so—’
‘You’re joking! How rude.’
‘I know.’ Becca sighed. ‘The worst thing is, he’s only gone and apologized, so Rachel’s insisting that I carry on with his sessions, starting Thursday.’ She made a sick face. ‘Looking forward to that one, like a hole in the head. Anyway! Enough moaning, I’d better go. Great to meet you. Same time next week?’
‘Definitely,’ Hayley said. ‘I’ll look forward to it. See you then.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dear Violet,
Forgive me for writing out of the blue. We met at my father, Terry Farnham’s funeral last year, and ever since then I’ve been mulling over some of the things you said at the time, particularly about my mother, Emily. When you mentioned ‘the trial’, I was confused and didn’t know what you meant, but I have since done a bit of research and found a clipping from the Evening Post, from 1978, with reference to a charge of child cruelty and negligence. Obviously this came as something of a shock . . .
The children were at school, Becca had gone to meet Hayley, and Rachel was typing one-handed at the laptop. Her mission to speak to Violet in person might have failed but the unanswered questions about her mother were still buzzing around her head. She had to get some answers, dig deeper to uncover the truth, if only to distract her from her injuries.
After they’d had that peculiar conversation at the funeral, Rachel had decided to put the whole thing out of her mind. She just didn’t want to know, she told herself; sometimes you were better off remaining ignorant. Besides, she had a lot of other things on her plate in the coming months: grief, her marriage breaking down, unemployment, all that fun stuff to be getting on with. But the other woman’s words would come back to her every now and then like whispers in a dream, tantalizing her with what had been left unsaid. I was with your dad, you see, when it all happened. Did he really not mention me?
The temptation to find out eventually wore her down and so, almost a year after she’d spoken to Violet, Rachel eventually cracked. After one too many glasses of wine one night, she had turned to Google and typed in her mother’s name. A second later, up had come the damning report from the newspaper archive, as if it had been waiting quietly there for her all this time. ‘Mother Abandons Tot on 24-Hour Binge’, read the headline. And in that moment of discovery, Pandora’s box was cracked wide open. No going back now.
The article referred to beautiful, doting Emily as drunk, aggressive and thoughtless; it detailed how, one particular December Friday night, she had left two-year-old Rachel all alone in the small flat where they lived while she went out dancing. The police had been called by a neighbour when they heard the baby crying the next morning – ‘Pitiful, it was,’ the neighbour, a Mrs Ruth Farraday, had said, ‘like she knew she’d been abandoned’ – and the police had ended up breaking the door down to rescue the little girl. Her.
Seeing those words, that story, in black and white newsprint had devastated Rachel. It was as if someone had picked up everything she thought she knew about her past and tipped it upside down. She told herself at first that it must be a mistake – a coincidence, maybe, a second Emily Farnham. It couldn’t possibly be true. Her mother had loved her! My little Dandelion, she’d called her; written the words herself on the back of the photograph, in that distinctive sloping handwriting.
But Violet had mentioned a trial, hadn’t she? And deep down, Rachel knew in her heart that the story must be true. She had pored over that short news report again and again until she knew it backwards. Then she’d combed later online issues of the newspaper for stories about the court case. Emily was up for child neglect and abandonment, but Rachel could find no further information about it. Had the court pronounced Emily an unfit mother and ordered that her daughter be taken away? Had Emily been punished with a prison sentence, even? What had happened next?
Questions swirled around her head: all the many gaps in the newspaper story, the missing details she wanted to know. What else had Dad not told her? And where had he been, anyway, when the family home was falling into chaos, his wailing daughter abandoned in some scuzzy third-floor flat? Off snogging Violet Pewsey, by the sound of things. He must have taken the decision to gloss over the unpalatable truth of why they’d left Manchester in the first place, airbrushing over it with his confection of lies.
Amidst all the uncertainty, there was one question that beat louder and more insistently than any others. What if Emily hadn’t really died of bone cancer, as Terry had always said? What if she was still alive?
It hadn’t been hard to track Violet down, a year on. Wendy had set up a memorial page for Terry on Facebook and Rachel had ploughed through the archived posts, searching for clues. Before his death, her dad had been quite a fan of social media and as a result, there were many messages of condolences: former colleagues, as well as mates from the cricket team and pub, neighbours, a load of Manchester United fans he’d become friendly with on various forums. Her heart almost thudded into arrest every time she saw that someone called Emily had left a comment, but further investigation ruled them quickly out of contention. Then came the message from Violet.
Violet Pewsey: Such sad news. Terry u were a good man. I’ll never forget the giggles we had that weekend in Blackpool. A star has gone out in the sky. Miss u. xxx
Weekend in Blackpool, eh? Was that what Violet meant about them being together ‘when it all happened’? Had Dad done the dirty on Emily, and she’d reacted by going on a sod-you bender herself, throwing caution to the wind by leaving Rachel alone? Maybe she’d only meant to slip out for a drink. Maybe she was struggling on her own, upset about Terry – just a quick one, she might have thought, quietly shutting the front door of the flat so as not to disturb the baby before sneaking down to the nearest pub. But then somehow it had all gone wrong . . .
Rachel knew herself how tough it was being a single parent – it was the hardest job in the world. She hated to think of her mother cold and heartbroken in the depths of winter, tired and unhappy, with only a toddler for company. Everyone made mistakes, didn’t they? And okay, so if Emily had intended to leave Rachel alone that night for an hour or so just while she had a quick, morale-boosting drink with a friend, then it wouldn’t have been the absolute worst thing in the world, would it? She must have been waylaid, that was all. Maybe even kidnapped! Assaulted in an alley on her way home – it could have happened!
Maybe, though – and this was the darkest thought of all, the one that refused to go away – maybe it had been Rachel’s fault. Maybe she had played up that day, whingeing and whining, winding up her mother until Emily had reached the limit of her patience. Maybe Emily plain old hadn’t liked her, wished she didn’t have a daughter at all, tying her down. Had Rachel been the real one to blame for her mother’s actions?
She leaned back against the hard kitchen chair, feeling miserable. Once she’d discovered Violet on Facebook a fortnight ago, it had only taken a few quick clicks to find out more about the woman. She didn’t seem to have any security or privacy settings on her account, and Rachel had thus discovered Violet still lived in Manchester, worked as a librarian, and was single although, as she said in her own words, ‘Still hoping to meet Mr Right!!!’ She was a vegetarian, a wildlife lover and active within the local Woodcraft Folk group. Within minutes, Rachel had made a few calls around the Manchester libraries to pin her down to the one in Didsbury. Bingo.
Her plan last Wednesday had been to travel to Didsbury and just turn up at the library, persuade Violet to have coffee or lunch and provide some answers, face to face; lay the ghosts – or not – to rest. Of course, one bang on the head and a close encounter with the concrete floor of the train station had put paid to that notion. She wasn’t exactly in a fit state to repeat the journey any time soon, either. But she could send her a message instead, word by word, question by question.
She resumed typing, determined to seek out the truth once and for all.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Becca’s second client that day was the elusive Rita Blackwell. In her seventies and now in a retirement home, she had been bought a series of fitness sessions by her daughter, who had rung Rachel, concerned that her mother had become inactive and put on weight as a result. Yet after only one appointment, Mrs Blackwell had phoned with an excuse every single time afterwards. ‘I try to rearrange the sessions, telling her that they’re all paid for,’ Rachel explained, ‘but she’s obviously very busy because she can’t seem to fit me in at any other time, apparently.’
Becca knocked back the rest of her coffee. She was still feeling pleasantly glow-y from the success of that morning’s session with Hayley, although perhaps that was the caffeine. Rachel had actually thanked her for it, though, and said the magic words ‘Well done’, which felt rather like being awarded the Nobel Prize for sisterly achievement. ‘So what do you want me to do? Try to find out why she’s not keen?’ she asked now. Just listen to her, the expert! The sports psychiatrist! But oh, it felt nice to be discussing this with her sister, as if they were a team after all these years. Are you watching this, Dad? she thought, her gaze flicking up to the ceiling. See what a good sister I can be, too!
‘If you can. She rang while you were out to say she couldn’t make the 1.45 appointment as planned because of . . . I can’t remember what it was now, there’s been so many reasons. The dentist this time, maybe. But if you go along there early – say for one – then you might be able to catch her for a chat.’
‘Roger that.’ Becca rather liked the thought of an exercise-resistant client. At least she’d have something in common with this one. It was nice, too, the way that Rachel was speaking to her – almost like an equal, like a colleague. Ever since Rachel had got married and had children, she’d been somewhat haughty and patronizing, as if her life was worth more than Becca’s, as if she was better, full stop. If nothing else, the accident seemed to have made her humbler; more civil. Almost human, in fact.
The retirement home was out on the Ledbury Road, and easy enough to find on the bike. Becca was feeling more confident in the saddle already, and enjoyed being able to whiz past stationary cars at the traffic lights. Forget the clients getting fit, she thought in amusement, navigating her way through town. By the end of her stay with Rachel, she was going to have thighs like Victoria Pendleton and a tiny little bottom. Bring it ruddy well on.
Willow Lodge smelled of cooked fish and ammonia, with a top note of rose air freshener. The light, bright June morning seemed a distant memory to Becca as she was shown through to an overheated lounge where a group of residents sat dully in a semicircle in front of Bargain Hunt. One was knitting, her needles clicking together like the rattle of a typewriter, but the others were slumped in stupefied silence, eyes on the screen.
‘Rita? You’ve got a visitor, love,’ the receptionist said.
It was the knitting lady who glanced up. Becca was rather hoping it would be. She had a round, jolly sort of face with lots of laughter lines, framed by silver-grey curls, and was wearing a white cotton blouse with a rosebud print and navy blue slacks. ‘Ooh dear,’ she said, seeing Becca standing there. There was a mischievous glint in her eye. ‘You’re not from the council, are you? Have I done something wrong?’
‘I’m not from the council,’ Becca said, just as the lone man of the group let out a cackle.
‘They’ve come to take Rita away!’ he cried gleefully. ‘About time, and all.’
‘No-one’s taking anyone away,’ Becca said. ‘I was wondering if I could have a quick word, that’s all. Maybe outside?’
Rita put down her knitting. ‘A word outside! The plot thickens!’ she announced to the group, none of whom responded in any way – apart from the man, who gave another wheezy laugh and slapped his bony corduroy-clad thigh.
‘Here, this way, darling,’ Rita said, gesturing towards a door. ‘We can sit in the courtyard away from all these nosey parkers. We don’t want the likes of Malcolm earwigging on my great lottery win, or whatever it is you’ve come to tell me about.’
Outside, they settled themselves on a bench in the sunshine. The courtyard was small and rectangular, surrounded on three sides by the home, and Becca could hear the sounds of someone washing up through an open window nearby as well as the faint rumble of traffic from the road. The fourth side of the rectangle consisted of an ornamental wooden barrow, planted up with purple geraniums, and a path leading out onto the main garden. A fat wood pigeon strutted around the lawn beyond, chest puffed, as if it owned the property.
Becca explained who she was and why she was there, and Rita’s cheerful expression immediately faded to one of guilt. ‘Oh no! I’m sorry,’ she said, with an embarrassed laugh. ‘You caught me out. I don’t really have a dentist appointment later,’ she confessed, looking up through her lashes. ‘Just like I didn’t have a doctor’s appointment the week before. I’m a terrible woman, aren’t I? I’m an ungrateful old baggage, I know.’
‘No!’ Becca cried. ‘Absolutely not. And I’m certainly not here to tell you off or make you feel bad. We just want to know why.’
Eyes down, Rita appeared every inch the penitent. ‘You see, the thing with Carol – my daughter – is that she means well but she doesn’t always take the time to think things through properly. I’m sorry, but I’m just not sure this exercise lark is for me. There. Now I’ve said it.’
‘You didn’t enjoy the session you had with Rachel before?’ Becca asked. ‘Not your cup of tea?’
‘No! Not at all.’ She glanced unhappily at Becca. ‘No offence to your sister, I’m sure she’s doing her best, but . . . Well, she had me doing star jumps and jogging on the spot, out here in the gardens. Where all and sundry could see me! It was ever so embarrassing. Malcolm – that’s the old goat you just saw in there – kept calling me Jane Fonda. For weeks afterwards! He’s only recently stopped, and I’m hoping he’s forgotten about it now. Alzheimer’s, he’s got. Forgets our names, half the time. Typical, that was the one thing he did remember – and boy, didn’t he enjoy teasing me about it, as well!’
Rita was quite pink in the cheeks by now, and Becca felt sorry for her. If she’d been forced into huffing and puffing through public star jumps and jogging, in front of all the people she lived with, then she’d have hated it too. ‘Okay, point taken,’ she said. ‘Tell me how you kept fit in the past, then. Is there something else that we could try instead? Swimming, maybe, or cycling? I’m not the fittest person in the world either, as you can probably tell, but I’ve quite enjoyed getting back on a bike recently. We could have a go at that if you wanted, find a nice flat cycle path without any cars . . .’
A look of relief had passed over Rita’s face as she realized Becca was not about to bully her into a round of press-ups, right there and then, in her slacks. But now she was shak
ing her head. ‘Cycling? I haven’t been on a bicycle for twenty years, love,’ she said. ‘I’d be a bit scared to take it up now as well, after my fall. That’s how I ended up in here, see – because I fell over on my own kitchen floor like an idiot, and broke my hip. Carol and her husband decided I was too old and feeble to live by myself any more. Too old! I’m only seventy-seven, thank you, that’s practically a teenager compared to most of them in here.’
Becca felt a bit sorry for her. ‘You don’t seem very feeble to me,’ she commented.
Rita’s chin jutted. ‘You’re telling me, kid! I’m not! I can’t bear being stuck in here,’ she said. ‘When I think about the new people in my house now, letting my garden get overgrown – oh yes, I went back and had a look to see what they’d done. And they’ve cut down my pear tree, the savages, and concreted the front right over. How could anyone do such a thing?’
Becca didn’t know what to say. ‘Sorry to hear that,’ she ventured. ‘You liked gardening then, I take it?’
‘Oh yes. I’d be out every day, I loved it. I shared an allotment with friends too, so I’d be busy there as well. Nothing like being outside, seeing something grow, feeling the seasons change.’ Her eyes misted over. ‘I miss it.’
Becca looked around. The courtyard had a few large pots – one with lilies in, another couple with olive trees – but down the path and beyond the building there was the garden itself, with herbaceous borders and mature trees. ‘Can’t you do some weeding and digging in this place?’ she asked. ‘I’d have thought they’d love you to help. And I keep reading what good exercise gardening is, all that bending and stretching.’
