by Lucy Diamond
Mabel wrung her hands in her lap, looking anguished. ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper and the dog, sensing her distress, went over and put his head on her knee.
‘Perhaps you’d like to tell your mother what happened with Mr Davidson,’ PC Foster said.
Mabel swallowed, and Rachel braced herself for the worst. A bit of teenage mucking about, she had been prepared to overlook. Trying a puff on a cigarette, or maybe a swig of alcohol . . . well, she’d been a teenager herself, she knew these things went on. But she didn’t like the sound of what might have happened by the riverside one little bit. What on earth had they done?
‘Mabel?’ she prompted, dread sloshing through her. She thought of the whiteboard in the kitchen. TODAY WE ARE . . .
MABEL: IN TROUBLE WITH THE RUDDY POLICE!
RACHEL: OFFICIALLY THE WORST MOTHER EVER!
Mabel’s lip curled. ‘He kept having a go at us,’ she muttered. ‘We weren’t doing anything wrong. I swear, Mum! We weren’t in his garden, we were just on the river path. Just hanging out.’
PC Foster raised an eyebrow. ‘We did confiscate a bottle of Thunderbird and some alcopops,’ he said, dobbing Mabel right in it. ‘And there was evidence of cigarette-smoking too, when all the children present were under age.’
Rachel gave her daughter a stern look. ‘What do you think your dad’s going to say about this?’ she asked, for the benefit of the policeman as much as anything else. Two parents involved in her upbringing, all right? No need to make any judgements about me as a single mum, she was saying in not so many words, even though she kind of hated herself for doing so.
Mabel coloured all the way up to her blonde hairline. ‘I didn’t drink anything,’ she said, turning her face to Rachel. ‘I didn’t, Mum, I swear. Are you really going to tell Dad?’
Not if I can help it, Rachel thought. ‘Let’s hear the rest of the story,’ was all she said. ‘Go on. You might as well finish telling me.’
Mabel stroked the dog’s head, her fingers trembling. ‘Well, some of the boys . . . got a bit fed up with him telling us off,’ she mumbled, and PC Foster gave a sarcastic sort of snort.
‘Yes?’ Rachel prompted.
‘And they . . . They threw some of his garden furniture in the river.’ Mabel put her head in her hands so that her final words were muffled. ‘And it all sank.’
Garden furniture in the river? Rachel had a vision of a patio table and chairs sailing through the air and splashing into the Wye, before sinking to murky oblivion. She almost wanted to laugh in hysterical relief. Was that it? Was that all?
Not that she was about to let on to her daughter how she felt, though. ‘Oh, Mabel,’ she said severely. ‘What a stupid thing to do. Those poor people – imagine if someone had done that to Grandad when he was around. That’s really horrible.’
Mabel was crying now, perhaps at the invocation of her grandfather, who she’d absolutely adored. ‘I’m sorry,’ she wept. ‘I didn’t join in, though, Mum. I promise. I wouldn’t do that.’
PC Foster cleared his throat. ‘As you can imagine, the Davidsons are extremely distressed at the theft and vandalism of their property. I am, however, led to believe that your daughter was not directly involved in this, so I won’t be taking it any further with her personally.’ A sob burst out of Mabel, her face still buried in her hands. ‘However, I would advise her – and you – that she appears to have fallen in with a bad crowd. We’ve seen it all before, Mrs Jackson, and let me tell you, the slippery slope cannot be exaggerated. I am sure you understand what I’m saying.’
‘Yes,’ Rachel replied. ‘And I appreciate you bringing Mabel back home and talking to us about this. Mabel, have you got anything to say to PC Foster?’
Mabel scrubbed at her wet eyes and took a gulping breath. ‘I’m s-s-sorry,’ she stuttered.
‘All right,’ he said gruffly, getting to his feet. ‘Consider this a warning, okay? Your mates aren’t getting off quite so lightly as you. Mr Davidson wants to take the matter further and press criminal charges, so I strongly recommend that you steer clear of these so-called friends in future. If the two of us cross paths again, I might not be so willing to let things go another time. Do you hear what I’m saying?’
‘Yes,’ Mabel whispered, shame-faced, pleating her school skirt with inky fingers.
‘Okay. Good. Well, I’ll leave you to get on with your evening, then.’
As PC Foster went back out to his car, Rachel noticed a familiar curtain twitching across the street. Of course, Sara Fortescue would pick that moment to beak out of her window and spot their unexpected visitor, wouldn’t she? She was probably already dialling her cronies to pass on the latest bit of gossip. You’ll never guess who’s just been in our street. The police! Dropped back Rachel’s eldest, you know, that sulky one with the blue hair. I dread to think what’s happened now. She’ll be on drugs next, you wait. That’s divorce for you.
Rachel waited until the officer had driven away, and then, giving the house opposite her very best Paddington Bear hard stare, she stuck up two fingers and went back inside.
Chapter Forty
Meanwhile, Becca had absolutely no idea what was going on in the front room as she and Hayley unpacked her bead box in the kitchen and started sorting through the contents. Becca put some music on and poured them a glass of Sauvignon Blanc each, and then they leafed through pictures of various designs Becca had printed off the internet to try and pinpoint the kind of look Hayley was going for.
Hayley eventually chose a fairly simple style with a pattern of beads and crystals, and picked out the freshwater pearls and Swarovski crystals she liked best. Then Becca showed her how to twist silver wire around the base of the tiara and create dainty wire stalks, each topped by a bead, along the rim. It was pleasantly fiddly work, and the wine slipped down easily as they chatted. It was a shame Rachel hadn’t felt brave enough to join them, Becca thought, wondering what her sister was up to; but never mind. One step at a time.
Every now and then, Hayley paused in what she was doing and took a photo of the tiara in progress. ‘For my blog,’ she explained, when Becca shot her a look. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Of course not,’ Becca said, and was just about to ask what blog this was, when they heard raised voices – Rachel and Mabel – through the wall and then the familiar thud of Mabel storming up the stairs. ‘Oh dear. That’ll be the teenager off in a strop. Never a dull moment around here.’
Hayley had nimble fingers, and it took her less than an hour to complete the bead-topped stalks and then add a row of sparkling crystals along the front, all wound in tightly with the silver wire. ‘There,’ Becca said, showing her how to fold in the last end of wire. Once finished, she positioned the tiara in Hayley’s hair and instructed her to go and admire her reflection in the downstairs loo mirror.
Hayley came back wreathed in smiles. ‘I can’t believe I made this,’ she gushed, eyes shining. ‘I absolutely love it – it’s exactly what I wanted.’ She raised a hand gently to her head, beaming as she ran her fingers along the gleaming crystals. ‘Wow, Becca. I’m so cack-handed usually, I never expected anything home-made to look quite so stylish. I’m going to wear this all evening now. Princess Hayley, that’s me. And you – well, you’re just Queen of Awesomeness.’
‘Now, come on,’ Becca said, laughing. ‘Queen of Threading a Few Beads Together, maybe, but . . .’
‘No. No modesty! If you can teach an amateur bodger like me how to make this sort of thing, then you’ve got some serious skills there, believe me.’ She held up her phone and took a selfie. ‘Sorry to be vain. I’m just really chuffed,’ she laughed.
‘Well, I’m chuffed too,’ Becca said. ‘It’s lovely being able to make something for your own wedding. Whether it’s the cake, or dress, or presents for your bridesmaids – even a pair of gorgeous wedding-day knickers – it puts your own stamp on it, don’t you think? Makes it much more personal.’ The happy glow was back, she realized: the glo
w inside that came from flexing her creative muscles. This must be how people like Rachel felt after doing sport, she thought to herself as Hayley texted the pictures to her best friend. It was the craft-worker’s equivalent endorphin rush of joy, although without a sweaty bra to show for it.
‘She loves it,’ Hayley said, as a reply text pinged swiftly back. ‘Ahh, thanks, Becca. Do you know, we’ve shelled out so much money to big companies for this whole do – hotel, caterers, jewellers for the ring . . . even the dress came from a shop and was probably made in China. It’s so nice to have one little part of it – this! – that was made right here in Hereford. By me!’ She finished her wine with a gulp, and then looked thoughtful. ‘Wait . . . did you say wedding-day knickers? Don’t tell me you can make those as well?’
Becca laughed. ‘Yeah, I can make wedding-day knickers. I did a load for a friend’s hen party a year or so ago, had everyone making their own knickers and garters. It’s not as hard as you think.’
‘You are seriously clever,’ Hayley said, so admiringly that Becca felt herself blushing. ‘I wouldn’t have a clue. Now, before I head off, how much do I owe you for my bling?’
‘Oh!’ Becca hadn’t thought that far ahead. ‘Don’t be daft. I had the beads anyway, so . . . No, honestly. Purse away,’ she said, as Hayley began digging in her handbag. ‘Call it an early wedding present.’
‘Are you kidding me? Absolutely not. Those crystals alone must be worth a fortune. And actually, thinking about it, I’d love to commission you to make a few more for my bridesmaids. Would that be all right? Do you have time, even, with everything else you’ve got on?’
‘Well, yes,’ Becca said, feeling delighted at this turn of events. More lovely artistic work to get stuck into. Paid work, no less! ‘Tiara-making is way more my thing than fitness training,’ she confessed. ‘I’d love to make some for your bridesmaids. Absolutely!’
Hayley pulled out her purse and withdrew a handful of notes. ‘There you are, then,’ she said, pressing them into Becca’s palm. ‘Call that a down payment for the time being. I’m having six bridesmaids, so let me know how much it’ll cost once you’ve worked out the figures, yeah?’
Becca felt thrilled to bits as she hugged Hayley goodbye a few minutes later. She had work again! Proper, interesting, artistic work; a job that she would really enjoy. Brilliant! Once Hayley had left, she headed straight for the living room to tell Rachel the good news.
‘Hey, you’ll never guess what,’ she said, bursting in. Then she stopped in alarm. ‘Are you all right? What’s up?’
‘It was a policeman at the door,’ Rachel said, her eyes red as if she’d been crying. She was sitting there with her arm around the dog for comfort, drooping against his hairy body. ‘Came to drop Mabel back home.’
‘A policeman? Shit, why? What’s happened?’ Her niece must have been attacked, Becca thought at once in alarm. ‘Is she all right?’
Rachel went off into a story about patio furniture being thrown into a river and warnings from a dour-faced policeman. ‘Well, that doesn’t sound too heinous a crime,’ Becca said tentatively. ‘I know it’s not great, but . . .’
‘The thing is, though,’ Rachel interrupted, voice shaking, ‘it’s bad genes. That’s what scares me. I’ve got them. She’s got them. We’re going to be a family of delinquents, I know we are.’
‘What do you mean? Hey!’ Becca put an arm around her. ‘Come on. You don’t have bad genes. Why are you saying that?’
‘My mum . . .’ And then she broke down, tears spurting from her eyes. Becca bit her lip, feeling nonplussed. Rachel’s mum? Emily, the tragically beautiful one beyond compare?
‘I . . . I didn’t tell you before, but I found out some stuff about her,’ Rachel went on, eyes down. ‘And it’s not good.’
Becca listened in amazement as out came a terrible tale of infant neglect, and how Rachel had only been given the first inkling at their dad’s funeral. ‘That’s why I was going to Manchester,’ she said shakily. ‘Because I didn’t believe it could be true. But it is true. It did happen. And now I’m just paranoid that I might turn into her – and that my children might, too. Mabel’s going off the rails at thirteen, and I don’t seem to be able to stop her. I just . . .’ Her face, already so pale and thin, was despairing. ‘I’m scared that I take after Emily. Alcoholic, couldn’t-give-a-shit Emily. That I’m a waste of space too.’
‘Oh, Rachel, no.’ Becca couldn’t take all of this in. She remembered from childhood the way that Rachel had idolized her dead mother, invoking her memory at the drop of a hat, particularly when Wendy was trying to get her to tidy her room or wear less make-up. My mother would never have said anything so bourgeois, she would yell condescendingly before storming out of the house. (Becca remembered that one in particular because she’d asked Wendy later on what it meant. She means I’m boring and old-fashioned, Wendy had replied wearily. But better that than . . . Well, never mind.)
‘Just because your mum behaved the way she did, it’s no reflection on you,’ Becca went on. ‘Look at your three – none of them are mini clones of you or Lawrence, are they? We’re not always miniature versions of our parents.’
‘No, but . . .’
‘And throwing a bit of furniture in the river . . . I mean, it’s bad behaviour and yeah, Mabel shouldn’t have done it, but nobody got hurt, did they? It sounds like that copper really shook her up, anyway. I don’t think she’ll be going round terrorizing other pensioners any time soon, do you?’
Rachel dabbed her eyes. ‘No,’ she admitted.
‘Honestly, I don’t think she’s going off the rails. She’s just an ordinary teenager, working through various things – first love, exams, you and Lawrence splitting up . . . It would be more worrying if she wasn’t reacting, you know. At least slamming a few doors and yelling at us means she’s getting her feelings off her chest.’ She reached over and squeezed Rachel’s hand. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your mum. But it doesn’t have to change anything about you or your family. You’re still the same person, aren’t you?’
Rachel nodded, and there was silence for a moment. The light was just starting to dim outside, and Becca could see lamps being turned on in houses across the street.
‘You know . . . Something I feel really awful about is the way I treated Wendy,’ Rachel confessed eventually. ‘Who was a good mum – or rather who would have been to me, if only I’d let her. I need to talk to her. Apologize.’
Becca thought back to the last time she’d seen her mum, out in her small neat garden when they’d not had their Dad dinner. Then something occurred to her. ‘Actually,’ she said slowly, ‘I’ve got a feeling that Mum might have known about your mum anyway. I mentioned that you’d been up to Manchester, and she went all funny. You know what a crap liar she is; I knew something was up, but I couldn’t work out what.’
‘I wondered the same,’ Rachel admitted. ‘She left a cryptic message on the answerphone the other day, sort of hesitant, as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to ask anything outright.’ She sighed, both arms around the dog, who licked her face sympathetically. ‘I wish I’d never found out, to be honest. It’s changed everything I thought I knew.’
Becca patted her arm. ‘Not necessarily,’ she said. ‘Dad was your number one parent and role model, not Emily. And anyway,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s never too late. If you rang Mum and talked all of this through with her, then do you know what? I reckon she would understand.’
‘Maybe,’ Rachel said. There was a moment’s doubtful silence before she added, ‘Do you really think so?’
‘Yes,’ said Becca, looking her squarely in the eye. ‘I really think so.’
Chapter Forty-One
Becca was still pondering the conversation the next morning, thoughts of both her sister and elder niece turning circles in her mind. What Rachel needed was to get her head around these maternal revelations, then make things right with Wendy. Mabel, on the other hand, was an altogether more complicated prospect . . . w
hat did she need? Stability, love, confidence, boundaries – but freedom, too. Rachel had grounded her for a week, plumping for Route One parenting and coming down on her like a ton of bricks. Once Mabel had seen out the punishment, though, would anything have changed? There had to be a new way for them both to get along, thought Becca, frowning at her reflection as she brushed her teeth.
There was no time to work out the nuances of every scenario this morning, though, as she had her next appointment with Rita, the garden-loving lady from the care home, who’d caused Rachel’s phone to ring off the hook last weekend with hordes of other gardening wannabes, apparently. Busted.
‘Please don’t invite any more geriatric plant-botherers to ring me up,’ Rachel groaned when Becca announced that she was off to see Rita. She had slept badly, by the look of her crumpled face. ‘And maybe try to actually follow the exercise plan this week, rather than buggering off to an allotment with her the whole time?’
‘You’ve got it,’ Becca replied, hands up. ‘Lots of stretches and a brisk walk, no problem.’ She wasn’t even lying. She would park the car half a mile away from the allotment – perfect for the brisk walk – and then ensure Rita got stuck into the weeding – lots of bending and stretching. And what Rachel didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, Becca thought, setting off.
This week at the allotment there was a crop of new potatoes to harvest, clumped like golden pebbles; buried treasure on the end of the gardening fork. There were scarlet radishes, more beans than they could pick and the first ripe strawberries, so sweet they made Becca’s eyes pop. The flower bed that Rita’s friends used as a cutting garden was a riot of dazzling summer colour too, with bright orange poppies on feathery fronds, jewel-toned dahlias and rich blue cornflowers turning their heads to the sun.
