by Lucy Diamond
Wendy sighed. ‘He should have told you, I agree. I did badger him about it. I even wondered if I should mention something myself, but it wasn’t my place. You’d never have believed me, anyway.’
‘No.’
‘Besides, you know what he was like. Typical man: no good at big emotional dramas. And he loved you, too, of course. He didn’t want to be the one who shattered your heart with the truth.’
Rachel nodded. It all sounded plausible. ‘Oh well,’ she said, trying to shrug it off. Having Wendy being so sympathetic and nice was making her feel uncomfortably vulnerable. ‘I know it’s not the end of the world, or anything.’
Wendy was silent for a moment. ‘She did love you, you know, I’m sure of it. Terry didn’t talk about her very much, but every now and then he would let slip something so sweet.’
Rachel’s eyes felt hot and gritty, as if the tears were just waiting for an excuse to come. ‘Like what?’
‘Oh gosh, let me think. Well, back when Becky was little, your dad was really surprised that I didn’t know the Happy Nappy Song.’
‘The happy nappy song? What’s that?’
‘Exactly. I asked the same. Turns out it was this song that Emily always used to sing as she changed your nappy – I don’t remember the words now – but obviously she’d made it up, invented this whole little routine with you, to make you laugh. Terry assumed that every mother knew it, that it was just this thing we all did, but no.’
Rachel didn’t trust herself to speak for a moment. That was sweet. Personally she’d always been in a tearing hurry to get nappy changes over and done with as quickly as possible, rather than make a song and dance of the occasion.
‘And she made lots of your clothes, did you know that? I think Terry was a bit taken aback when I kept buying baby clothes for Becky, rather than making them myself.’ Wendy sipped her smoothie and looked down at the table for a moment. ‘You know, reading between the lines, I think nowadays she’d have been treated for postnatal depression,’ she said slowly, cautiously, ‘but obviously back then, it just didn’t have a name. You got on with it and coped – or you didn’t. And for Emily, coming as she did from a family of big drinkers, the booze was her way out. Sadly.’
‘Yes.’ There was silence for a moment. Postnatal depression. It did make sense. Rachel knew herself that you could love a baby, and have wanted that baby, and yet feel unable to cope, as if a fog was around you. She’d been lucky enough to have counselling to help her through, but that hadn’t been an option for her mum. Her eyes prickled again at the thought of the happy nappy song, and the home-made clothes. She had been loved, though. She had been looked after, until things went wrong.
‘I’m just sorry that . . .’ Now it was Wendy’s turn to falter. ‘Sorry that you and I never really hit it off when you were growing up. I wanted to be a mum to you, but obviously you can’t simply walk in and take someone’s place, I get that now.’ Her mouth twisted, her eyes sad. ‘I just fell in love with your dad, though, that’s all. I never wanted to make anyone unhappy.’
She had such an open face, Wendy. Behind all the teasing and the banter, there was something so genuine about her, so sincere, Rachel thought. ‘It was my fault, too,’ she admitted quietly. ‘I never gave you a proper chance. The thing is, the night you went away on honeymoon –’ But the next words stuck in her throat, jammed there, hard and painful. Oh God. Could she really do this? Tell them what had happened, after nearly three decades of silence?
‘Yes?’ Wendy prompted.
Rachel took a deep breath and then choked out the story, sentence by horrible sentence. Sonia’s spare room. Frank’s warm hand on her little-girl thigh. The cigarette smoke in her nostrils, a smell she’d never been able to stand since. Her shrill scream of fear . . .
Wendy burst into shocked sobs as the words came out, her shoulders shaking. Becca too had tears running down her cheeks. Rachel, by contrast, felt numb, dispassionate even; the only one of the three not to show any outward emotion. ‘It kind of changed everything for me,’ she finished by mumbling.
‘Oh my darling, of course it did. Of course it did,’ Wendy cried, hugging her, tears dripping onto Rachel’s back. ‘That bastard, Frank! That bastard! I could kill him. I could punch his lights out. What were you, ten? The same age as your Scarlet? The dirty old pervert. I swear, if I ever see him again, I’ll wring his bloody neck. I’ll put cigarettes out in his eyes.’
There was something oddly comforting about having someone so furious on your behalf, even when their threats of violence were worryingly graphic. ‘It’s all right,’ Rachel managed to say eventually. ‘It was a long time ago. I was just frightened, that was all, and freaked out. And I blamed you, even though it wasn’t your fault.’
‘Oh, Rachel,’ said Wendy, her face wet against Rachel’s. ‘I understand. Of course you did. Because I’d taken your daddy away just when you needed him most. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that happened.’
Becca, who’d remained quiet for perhaps the longest period of her waking life until then, came over and hugged them both. And as if it had been planned, as if it heralded some official celestial benediction, the sun chose that moment to slide out from its cloud cover and shine down on them, a small interlocking triangle of women in a suburban garden. It was more than that, though. It was the sound of a slate being scrubbed clean, a new page turned, a unifying pact being made without anyone needing to say another word. And boy, did it feel good.
Chapter Forty-Three
After such a momentous conversation everyone needed a coffee, and Wendy blew her nose three times and passed around some tissues. Then, once they’d recovered and all eyes had been wiped, the talk turned to easier subjects. ‘I was going to suggest you join us for the “Dad dinners” from now on,’ Wendy said, explaining what these were, ‘but we’re moving on – aren’t we, Becky? – so perhaps we should think of something else we can all do together. Girly weekend lunches, maybe, when the kiddies are with Lawrence. Or cocktails in fancy bars in Birmingham – you get some good deals on Groupon now and then.’
‘I would really like that,’ Rachel said. To her surprise, she genuinely meant it. She felt lighter suddenly; an old hurt soothed, an old enmity wiped out. ‘Yes, we must, that would be great.’
Wendy went on to ask about the children and Rachel gave updates on them all, finishing with Mabel. ‘Like I said before, I’m slightly at my wits’ end with her,’ she confessed. ‘We used to be so close. Thick as thieves. She’d tell me everything not so long ago, unpack her entire day for me after school each time and we’d chat through whatever had happened. But now . . .’ She pulled a face. ‘Well, you’ve seen her, Bec. She’s so prickly and angry all the time, so secretive and private. I’m just not sure how to get through to her.’ She hesitated, conscious of the fact that she’d never deigned to ask for help before from either of these women at her patio table, dismissing their opinions without even hearing them. You arse, Rachel. Since when did you know it all? ‘I was wondering . . . do you two have any ideas?’
If Becca was surprised at being consulted, she didn’t let on. ‘I’ve been thinking about her too,’ she said, draining her coffee cup. ‘And I know since I’ve been staying, I’ve deprived her of her own room, now that Scarlet’s in with her. Maybe part of the problem is that Mabel needs her own space, somewhere she can go with her mates rather than hanging around by the river getting into trouble.’
‘A room of her own where she can shut the door on the world and have some privacy,’ Wendy agreed.
Rachel nodded. ‘Maybe I should put Scarlet in with Luke instead,’ she suggested, mentally measuring up Luke’s tiny bedroom for space. They could just about squeeze a mattress on the floor, she supposed, although it wouldn’t give either of them much elbow room.
Becca was gazing out across the garden. ‘I’ve had a better idea . . .’ she said.
Twenty-four hours later, it was almost time for the children to come home and Rachel stood in the middle of the she
d, gazing around it with an air of exhilaration. Everyone needs an art project, Becca was fond of saying – and Rachel was starting to agree. Between them, they had got stuck in on Saturday afternoon, clearing it of all its clutter – toddler bikes that could go to the charity shop; ancient lilos hissing with punctures, fit only for the bin; a cracked old slide that should have gone to the dump years ago – and then sweeping away the dirt and cobwebs.
Becca had had to drive Wendy back to Birmingham at six on the Saturday – ‘I know you’re both going to mock me but I’ve joined the local W.I., and it’s brilliant,’ she had announced, ‘and we’ve got this handsome beekeeper coming to talk to us tonight, I can’t miss it’ – but had returned the following day, with some paint charts and fabric for curtains from which Mabel could choose.
Becca then had to get on with her bridesmaid tiaras for Hayley but Rachel carried on with Project Shed, scrubbing the windows and putting a beanbag and a rug inside to make it look more homely. Now she just had to cross her fingers and hope that her daughter approved of the whole thing.
True to form, Mabel appeared suspicious when she and her siblings arrived home later on and Rachel said she wanted a word with her in private. ‘What have I done now?’ she muttered, glowering.
‘Nothing,’ Rachel assured her. ‘Don’t look like that.’ She led her into the garden. ‘It’s just that I’ve been doing a lot of thinking this weekend, about mums and children, you and me. And while I’m not about to condone what your friends did last week, I do know that it’s tough being a teenager.’
Mabel made a non-committal noise as they walked across the lawn. ‘Aunty Bec and I were talking,’ Rachel went on, feeling nervous as they approached the shed, ‘and she had the brilliant idea of . . . Well, of this.’
She flung open the shed door, her heart pounding a staccato beat, hoping and hoping that Mabel wouldn’t scoff contemptuously or give her a blank so what? kind of stare, as she so often did these days.
‘It’s an . . . empty shed?’ Mabel said warily.
‘Yeah. And we thought it could be your empty shed. Your not-so-secret hideout. We can get some paint and decorate it. Aunty Bec said she would help make curtains if you choose the fabric. We can wire up some fairy lights, and you could put posters up . . . whatever you want. Then we can get you a padlock for the door, so it’s just your private place, and you can invite friends round and . . .’
The corners of Mabel’s mouth turned up a fraction and Rachel held her breath in the hope of a positive response. ‘Does that mean I’m not grounded any more?’ her daughter asked hopefully.
Rachel met her gaze. ‘You are still grounded,’ she replied, ‘but you can have friends round here. Girl friends,’ she amended, as her mind flashed up an alarming image of Mabel and Tyler locking themselves in the shed for after-school passion. She wanted this to be a nice, safe place for her daughter, not some kind of teen knocking shop. ‘Although . . . Well . . . I suppose Tyler can come to the house too, as long as bedroom doors stay open and . . .’
Mabel gave her what could only be described as a reproachful look. ‘Me and Tyler broke up ages ago,’ she said, before adding something that might very well have been ‘Not that you’d care anyway.’
Oh God. Another mothering fail. ‘I’m sorry,’ Rachel said, feeling wretched. How had she missed this? By slumping on the sofa feeling sorry for herself, probably. You took your eye off the ball, you disengaged, and this is what happened. There had even been something on the whiteboard about Mabel hating boys, she remembered too late – and she hadn’t even joined the dots. ‘Really, I am,’ she said, putting a hand on her daughter’s back. ‘I know you liked him. Are you all right?’
Mabel pushed her lower lip out. ‘Yeah. Whatever,’ she said, which quite clearly meant ‘No.’
First love, first heartbreak – ouch. ‘I’m sorry I’ve not been the best mum lately,’ Rachel said after a moment. ‘I think life just knocked me down for a while, and it’s taken me this long to get back up on my feet. But another time, I will be there, okay? I’m your biggest fan and I’ll always listen if you want to talk to me. I promise.’
Mabel shrugged. ‘’S’all right,’ she said. ‘He’s an idiot anyway.’
Tempted though Rachel was to agree, she knew she mustn’t. Rule number one: don’t slag off the ex. Instead she put her arm around her daughter and gave her a hug. ‘Well, it’s his loss,’ she said staunchly. ‘You should do what your Aunty Bec keeps telling me to do, and paint yourself better. Have a think about what colours you’d like for this shed, and we can pick some up for you.’
Mabel was stiff in her arms initially, but then she hugged her back. For the first time in weeks it was a proper, affectionate hug, one that felt genuine, as if they might just be heading back to a good place together. They stood there in the shed for a moment, mother and daughter, side by side, and Rachel felt peace descend.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Mabel, leaning her head against Rachel’s shoulder. ‘That would be really cool.’
Chapter Forty-Four
‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you – happy birthday, dear Becca, happy birthday to you!’
‘Surprise!’ cheered Luke, as Becca blinked blearily at the vision before her. It was the following Thursday and there at the bedside were the four Jacksons – Scarlet with her violin in hand, having accompanied the birthday chorus, and Mabel, who was bearing a tray laden with a fry-up, mug of coffee and a posy of garden flowers. Rachel was already dressed and smiling rather bashfully, while Luke capered around the bed as if he had the proverbial ants not only in his pants but all the way down his pyjama bottoms and between his bare toes. Even Harvey, who wasn’t usually allowed upstairs, was present, his nose twitching enthusiastically at the scents of bacon and sausage.
‘Wowzers,’ Becca said, just about recovering her senses in time to have the breakfast tray plonked in her lap. ‘Thank you! What a lovely surprise.’
‘And there’s going to be another surprise later,’ Luke said, bouncing up and down alarmingly close to the coffee. ‘A surprise cake, but it’s a secret ’cos—’
‘LUKE!’ howled his sisters, before he could say any more. ‘Do you even know what the word “secret” means?’ Mabel added, raising her eyes to heaven.
‘Luckily I was so busy admiring the flowers I didn’t quite catch all of that,’ Becca said tactfully, hoping to avoid fullblown fisticuffs over her scrambled eggs. ‘What did you say, Luke? Something about a surprise?’
‘Nothing,’ he said, turning red in the face as Scarlet elbowed him. Then his eyes slid to his aunt’s breakfast plate and he gave her his best hopeful-puppy face, head tilted, eyes wide. ‘Can I have your hash brown, please?’
‘Luke!’ Rachel remonstrated, laughing. ‘No, you can’t. Tell you what, you kids go and get dressed for school while Aunty Bec has her birthday breakfast in peace. Then you can give her your cards and presents, okay? Shoo!’
Becca felt quite touched by all of this fuss. There was an actual lump in her throat, and it wasn’t from the mouthful of too-hot coffee she’d just gulped down, either. ‘Thank you,’ she said, as Rachel perched at the end of the bed. ‘This is amazing.’ It was only then that Becca noticed her sister seemed to be wearing make-up for the first time in weeks. And had she actually blow-dried her hair? Surely this honour wasn’t all for Becca’s birthday, was it?
‘I’ll take the kids to school today, by the way,’ Rachel said breezily, as if this was a perfectly normal occurrence.
‘You’ll—’ Becca almost choked on her food. ‘What? Seriously?’ Her sister still hadn’t managed a single school run, more than three weeks since the accident. The bruising and swelling had finally left her face, but Becca knew she was cripplingly self-conscious about her altered looks, and had been dreading the initial mob of gossips flocking around her like flies after meat – led, no doubt, by that nosey old horror over the road, and Melanie Cripps.
‘Yeah. Today’s the day.’ Rachel gave a nervous la
ugh. ‘So you can stay in bed as long as you want this morning. Enjoy your breakfast. I promise I made Luke scrub his nails before I let him anywhere near it, by the way, so you’re quite safe to dig in without fear of terrible gastroenteritis later.’
Becca didn’t quite know what to say. Today was the day, all right. This was a major breakthrough, right here in one suburban bedroom. This was big, big news. One ten-minute walk outside with the children was the equivalent of one giant leap for womankind in Rachel’s case. Step by step, day by day, her sister was venturing her way back to normality. Brushed hair, make-up, determination . . . it was all starting to reappear, and Becca felt inordinately proud of her. ‘Good for you.’ She saluted her with the coffee mug. ‘And thanks for this,’ she said again. ‘It’s bloody fab. Not just the breakfast but the kids, the singing, the flowers . . .’ She could feel herself getting emotional. When was the last time anyone had sung ‘Happy Birthday’ to her? Such a silly little thing, but oh, it was lovely. It reminded her of how birthdays used to be – waking up with a proper thrill in your stomach, ribboned presents and cards through the post, feeling special all day at school, candles flickering on a cake . . . ‘I feel like I’m part of the family now,’ she confessed.
‘You are part of the family,’ Rachel said at once. ‘God, Bec, you are most definitely part of this family now – you’ve been the heart of this family lately.’ Their eyes met, and then Rachel looked a bit embarrassed and got to her feet. ‘Listen to us, we sound like a pair of cheesy fridge magnets. Kids!’ she yelled, turning and heading for the door. ‘Are you nearly ready?’
It felt such a luxury staying in bed while she heard first Mabel leaving for school, and then Rachel with the younger two children. Becca stretched her arms above her head, patted her full tummy and then wandered through to the bathroom for a leisurely shower in glorious peace and quiet.
Wiping condensation from the mirror, she leaned forward and examined her face. Ever since she’d been a child she’d always expected to see that year’s difference suddenly apparent in her reflection the very moment she had a new age. How can it be, she’d wondered, aged seven, eight, nine, that I’m a whole year older and yet look exactly the same as I did yesterday?
