David coughs as he comes into the ward. I try to smile at him but I am filled with an anxiety so thick that it makes it impossible. I’m aware of not having brushed my hair, of looking pale, and having lost some weight and I wish I’d checked my appearance in the mirror. He carries a bag, which he drops onto the floor when he sees me. He doesn’t say anything but takes a few moments to draw the curtains around the bed and I feel immediately hemmed in.
‘Don’t draw them,’ I say, but it’s only a whisper.
‘Good God, I could kill you for what you’ve put me through,’ he says as he bends to kiss my forehead. ‘I’ve been so worried.’
He kisses my lips. He smells familiar but not comforting.
‘Tell me you will never, ever do something like this again. Do you hear me?’
‘I’m … sorry.’
He doesn’t reply. I want him to tell me I have nothing to be sorry about and that he only cares that that I’m safe. But, of course, he won’t.
‘How did you find me?’ I ask. The atmosphere is getting more and more claustrophobic. The air tighter. I want him to pull back the curtains that seal us off from the ward.
He strokes his fingers down my cheek, studies my face, his eyes scanning me as if checking for damage.
‘The newspapers. Your story is all over the place. The Campbells, I can’t believe what they did. I knew they were strange, not normal, and I even had my suspicions about them. But, God, I never thought they were capable of something like that.’
He seems disappointed in himself for not spotting it, as if he has somehow failed, as if it were his mistake that they got away with it.
The lady in the bed nearest mine coughs, a thick rasping cough, which ends with a hollow whimper as she deals with her pain.
‘You can’t stay here. I need to get you home.’
I have to tell him about the baby.
He sighs heavily. ‘I haven’t been able to think with you gone. My work has suffered dreadfully. I assume you got my letter? That you know about Jeffrey. He has struggled to find someone to take over, but I think he has someone at last, thank God.’
The baby.
‘We need to talk,’ I say.
‘Yes, we have plenty of time, first of all I need to get you home, back in our own bed. You need looking after.’
I don’t say any more. I am happy not to have to do it now. He will be devastated. All those times I’d waited for a suitable moment to break the news that there was no pregnancy yet again, preparing for his face to cloud and his scant attempt to cover his disappointment, jollying himself along with a tight I’m sure it will happen next month, when all I’d wanted to hear was that it didn’t matter and that we could stop trying.
The night before Elaine died he suggested IVF. I told him I didn’t want IVF. That the injections, the complications, the pressure of carrying the child to term, scared me. But I could see the resolution in his eyes, the determination, the single-mindedness. And then the next day she died and the subject didn’t come up again. But it is lurking there like a predator ready to ambush. Maybe I should tell him the baby is his. The dates wouldn’t work, but would he care? Maybe it could be unspoken, we would just not address it, pretend the child is his. I’ll never tell and he’ll never ask. We will explain the early birth with a dismissive shake of our heads, and he will have what he wants and I’ll have a husband to look after me. To tell me what to do. To make my decisions.
But then, as this thought drifts into my head, I begin to feel faint.
‘You’ve gone quite green, my darling,’ he says. ‘You need to rest.’
‘Yes,’ I whisper.
‘I’ll stay with you.’
‘I’ll only be asleep.’
He looks doubtful.
‘I’ll call when I wake. Where are you staying?’
‘A hotel in Penzance. It’s seen better days, but then, Christ, the whole town has. Thankfully we won’t be here long.’ He takes my hand in his. ‘And I’ve found a doctor, a therapist, who can see you. You’ll like her and she has a very good reputation of dealing with all sorts of depression.’
‘I don’t need a therapist.’
‘For God’s sake, you tried to kill yourself. Of course you need a therapist.’
‘Kill myself? No … that’s not what—’
‘You threw yourself into the damned sea in the middle of the night! What else do you call that, Bella?’
The name washes over me like a wave. There are no flashbacks, no panic, no recollections of Elaine or The Old Vicarage.
I shake my head and set my mouth. ‘My name isn’t Bella. It’s Morveren Tremayne.’
SIXTY-SEVEN
‘The trust fund you mentioned when you explained Henry Campbell’s will to me, are you able to investigate it?’
‘Investigate it?’
‘You said it was dormant, that nothing had been paid into it or out of it for over twenty years, yet there was a sum of money in it.’
‘The money has been absorbed into the estate, so no longer resides in the fund.’
‘But is there any way of knowing what it was used for? What the payments were for?’
‘Yes, of course. It will mean a little bit of work. Going back that far, looking at accounts that old isn’t as straightforward as it would be using recent accounts. But I can definitely do it.’
‘Thank you. I’d appreciate that.’
‘Can I ask why?’
I hesitate. ‘There’s no reason really. Well, possibly. I suppose with the complications that we’ve spoken about, given my identity and the abduction, it would be helpful.’
‘Yes. To be honest, I imagine the police would ask to see the information in due course anyway. We might as well be ahead of the game. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have any further details.’
‘Thank you, I appreciate that.’
‘Did you go to the house in Bristol?’
‘I did,’ I say, trying not to hesitate. ‘Nothing of interest there. It looked like Henry might have been meeting a woman there. It might not be that, of course, I can’t say for sure.’
I don’t say any more. I haven’t told anyone other than Dawn that Mark Tremayne was living there and that he knew the Campbells had taken me. I am sure there’s a chance he will go to prison when people find out, and I don’t find the thought of this easy to stomach. There’s no doubting that in the past, maybe even still today, he was, or is, a violent alcoholic and a liar, but he is also a broken man, a man with no hope and no self-worth, and he used Henry Campbell’s money to support Dawn and my mother from afar. He’d lived in squalor and, however misguided, had done what he felt best to make amends for his failings. This, perhaps combined with a perverse loyalty to my blood-father, makes me reluctant to hand him over to the police.
My solicitor clears her throat as if dislodging something uncomfortable. ‘Now, regarding the complication in terms of your identity, there is no contest to your claim on the will. The clause he added – which makes sense now, of course – leaves no doubt that Dr Campbell fully intended you to be sole beneficiary of the estate.’
I don’t say anything.
‘Are you selling both houses?’
‘Yes. Both.’
‘In which case, you will need to go to The Old Vicarage and go through their personal belongings and effects.’
‘Do I have to?’ I think about walking back through those gates, across the driveway, and then approaching the house with its clambering roses and its Virginia creeper and lurking ghosts, and fear soaks me.
‘No, you don’t. There are people who do it for you. I can recommend a couple of firms. Perhaps have a think about it and get back to me.’
‘No. I’ll go.’ As I say the words I shiver. ‘I need to.’
SIXTY-EIGHT
The last memory I have of Alice Tremayne is seeing her shivering with fear and shock while those hideous journalists pushed at the door.
‘She’s alright, isn’t she?’
Dawn smiles. ‘She’s fine.’ She puts her hand on my knee. ‘She can’t wait to see you.’
Dawn gets out of the taxi and then takes my hand as I climb out carefully. My ribs are very bruised and hurt with even the slightest movement. I told David I didn’t want him there. Predictably he didn’t want me to go, not without him, but I managed to stand up to him, which made me feel stronger. He doesn’t understand that I need to see Dawn and Alice on my own, that I don’t want the added pressure of him there, of worrying about what he thinks of them, knowing he’d be judging them, the flat, the way they talk. I don’t want him to take over or try to mediate or offer us his sensible advice. It’s not his situation to solve.
I stand for a few minutes and enjoy the warm breeze on my face. I breathe in Cornwall, the salty air, the gorse on the hills, the call of the gulls, the hum of traffic ferrying the visitors in and out of St Ives. I allow my eyes time to take in the front door of the flat with its green peeling paint, remembering what it felt like to stand on the same spot in the rain, adrenaline coursing my veins as I willed myself to knock for the first time, to step through that portal.
‘Come on,’ says Dawn, unlocking the door. ‘She’s desperate to see you.’
I take a deep breath to prepare myself for the thick, heavy air, but as I step into the hall, I gasp in surprise. I look at Dawn and she grins.
‘It needed doing.’
She has painted the hall a light cream. The brown, wiry carpet has gone and at the end of the hall spans a foil banner in rainbow colours saying: Welcome home!
‘There are floorboards,’ I say.
‘The carpet was awful, wasn’t it? When I pulled it up these boards were underneath. Craig sanded them for me and gave them a coat of floor varnish. They need another really, but we didn’t have time.’
‘I can’t believe how much lighter it looks. And you painted it yourself?’
Dawn holds up her hands by way of explanation. They are covered in cream splodges and I notice the skin between the paint marks is pink, not red and raw.
‘I only had time to do the hall before today. Craig said he’d help with the rest. I think he enjoys it.’
I smile.
‘And I was wrong, by the way,’ she says. I stare at her face and I’m warmed by how lit up she is from within.
‘About?’
‘Change. Mum loves the hall. And thank you for the new television, it was delivered a few days ago. That was kind. You didn’t have to.’
In the kitchen there are flowers and I notice a new tea towel folded over the edge of the sink, fresh and white with little flowers running along the edge. Alice stands beside the table, hands clasped stiffly in front of her, her cheeks rosy, eyes shining.
‘You know something, Morveren Tremayne?’ she says. ‘I’ve spent nearly my entire life worrying about you.’
I walk over to her and wrap my arms around her. Even though she is unrecognisable as the skeletal person in the faded dressing gown, there is still nothing to her, and I hold her gently for fear of crushing her.
‘Oh, my darling,’ she whispers through her tears. ‘Oh my dearest darling.’
‘Morveren?’ calls Dawn from her bedroom.
I drop my arms and step back from Mum, pushing the sleeve of my shirt against my eyes to dry the tears. ‘Yes?’
‘I’ve something else to show you.’
Mum smiles knowingly as Dawn appears carrying a large cardboard box.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
She rests the box on the table and gestures for me to open it. I lift a flap and peer inside. With a small mew, the cat pops both her front paws up on the side of the box and reaches up to touch her nose to my fingers.
‘You were right about her, too,’ Dawn says. ‘I took her to the vet after you left that evening we broke the television. He said it was touch and go. But she made it. They had to take her leg, but otherwise she’s fine.’
I pick her out of the box, careful not to catch the stitches that tie a large line of shaved fur where her leg used to be. I stroke beneath her chin and she starts purring immediately.
‘Poor you,’ I whisper. ‘Three legs, that’s going to take some getting used to, isn’t it?’
‘I wasn’t able to pay the bill immediately, so I was hoping you might be able to help out. Just a loan, though. I’ll pay it back. She is my cat after all. And she can’t go on being called Cat.’
Mum shakes her head sadly. ‘Yes, poor mite needs a better name than that.’
‘Have you chosen one?’
‘I wanted to run it past you,’ she says. ‘I thought Nino. It’s the nickname of John William Waterhouse, the painter who did that mermaid picture I gave you. That or maybe Tripod, which is the only other name that sprung to mind.’
I laugh. ‘Nino suits her.’ I touch my lips to her soft head. ‘Eh, Nino? Do you like your new name? Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.’
We make tea, eat custard creams and chat easily. We don’t talk about the past or about our relationships with each other. There is no talk of regret or missing out. All the time, I hold Mum’s hand, stroking my thumb over hers.
‘I’ve been thinking about what to do with myself,’ Dawn says. ‘Mum and I have talked and she’ll be fine for a few hours a day.’
‘That’s great,’ I say. ‘And I can help, too. Just as soon as I’ve sorted my head out a bit.’
‘I know, but you’ll have other things to think about. You’ve got the baby to deal with. Mum and I aren’t going anywhere.’
‘I keep forgetting about the baby,’ I say. ‘I suppose I’ll get used to the idea soon. So what is it you want to do?’
‘There’s a course, an NVQ in Health and Social Care, in Truro. It’s not long; I mostly learn on the job. When I spoke to them on the phone they were really positive about me having been a carer already.’
I don’t say anything.
‘Don’t look at me like that. It’s what I want to do. I enjoy it. I’m good at it too.’
‘But—’
‘It’s flexible, I can work it round Mum and the money’s better than you’d imagine.’ She looks at Alice and smiles. ‘I want to do something that’s going to follow on from how I’ve spent my life, not be a full stop to it.’
I look at my sister, overwhelmed by admiration for her. A person so resolute, so sure of herself. From the moment Elaine Campbell carried me unresisting away from my life, other people had controlled me. I was envious of Dawn.
‘The course sounds great. You’ll be brilliant.’
‘You think so?’
‘I know so.’
Later, I am with Mum in her room. ‘You know Dawn thinks it’s her fault I was taken don’t you.’
Alice is quiet.
‘That’s what our dad told her. At least that’s what she said to me. You don’t blame her too, do you?’
‘Of course I don’t,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘How could I?’
‘That’s what I told her,’ I say. ‘She was too young to have been left in charge of me.’
‘She was too young to have been left in charge of herself. I was lucky I didn’t lose her too. But I was so scared he was going to hurt one of you. He was so angry that night. Had such a rage inside him, had the devil eyes. I panicked. I just wanted you away from him until I’d calmed him down or he’d passed out. I was going to leave him. I had this plan that the three of us would move away, live happily somewhere. I wanted a vegetable patch and a dog. I had it all worked out. Best-laid plans, I suppose.’
I touch my fingers to the scar on my arm, the scar Dawn said he’d given me with a lit cigar.
‘I should have been stronger from the start. I let him run roughshod over me. I did everything wrong, never stood up to him properly. And then, after you went, when I should have been there for Dawn, I let my grief destroy me. I should never have put Dawn through what I did. I should have cherished her, every bone, every hair, but I took her childhood. Depression is a dangerous beast, once it gets hold
of you, gets its claws into you, it’s a devil to escape.’
‘Dawn said you never believed I was dead.’
‘Not for one moment. I used to see you everywhere. Walking down the street, on the television, in the shops, on the ferry. My heart would leap for a moment and then I’d realise it wasn’t you and I’d feel dead again.’ She smiles at me faintly. ‘I could hear your heartbeat. If I concentrated hard. I’d spend hours in those early days being still and quiet so I could hear it. I knew someone had you. I knew you were alive. I can only thank God it was her that took you and not a murderer.’
‘I wish I knew why they took me. And how. How did they go to France and come back with a child and nobody notice? I have so many questions but I’ll never know, will I? Not when the only two people who have the answers are dead.’ I pause for a moment or two. ‘Do you hate them?’ I ask then.
‘The “them” who snatched you?’ She raises her eyebrows a little.
I don’t reply.
‘I’m supposed to hate them, aren’t I?’ she says. ‘I’m supposed to hate them with every breath in my body. And in a way, I do. But it was my fault you went. Me that sent you out of that caravan. They found you – God, knows where – and even though they took you they kept you safe. You’re here. Alive. Maybe if they hadn’t taken you, you would have wandered into the sea and drowned? Maybe it’s not as easy as just hating them. Maybe it’s not that simple.’
SIXTY-NINE
‘Do you mind waiting for me?’ I ask David. ‘I won’t be long.’
He nods, though I can tell he’s not happy at being excluded, and then leans forward to turn on the radio. JazzFM blurts out as I climb out of the car and walk up to Craig’s front door and knock.
‘Hello, Morveren,’ he says, in a way that instantly rids my tummy of the fluttering butterflies. ‘It’s good to see you up and about.’
‘Thank you so much.’
‘What for?’
‘For saving my life.’
He shrugs as if it was nothing. ‘I’m not sure any of us could have coped with losing you again.’
In Her Wake Page 31
