In Her Wake

by Amanda Jennings

  There’s my support group too. It took me ages to stand up and talk about what happened to me. It does help, although I fought tooth and nail against going at the beginning. I kept trying to tell everybody I hadn’t tried to kill myself, but it fell on deaf ears. It was Dawn who persuaded me to try it, and I’m glad; it helps to hear other people talk about their stories, their issues, the bleak times when they felt they just couldn’t go on. I understand it.

  Greg and I still see each other, not romantically, but for our son. When I told him about the baby, I expected him to run for the hills, but he surprised me. He wants to be involved in his son’s life and he tries hard to be a good dad. He doesn’t always manage it, but he loves Matthew, and Matthew loves him back. Of course, I have reservations. There’s a chance that one day I will have to pick up the pieces, comfort my son if his dad disappoints him, but at the moment Greg is stepping up to the mark and it’s important he and Matthew are allowed a relationship. We live close to each other, so he pops in often, and officially they spend one day and a night together each week. Greg picks him up at ten and drops him back the following morning, always mucky and tired, but with a smile on his face. Greg is excited about teaching him to surf. He thinks he’s got a world champion on his hands … something about his balance.

  I go to the front of the church, my son clasped in my arms. He’s so beautiful. He has blond hair like his dad, not very much but enough, and his eyes have turned a deep, dark brown. He’s as good as gold. I cannot believe how much one person can love another. We had a difficult birth. He was quick. Too quick, and we only just made it to the hospital. Dawn was with me. Matthew had the cord wrapped around his neck. The midwife told me I had to push him out quickly; there was an urgency in her voice that scared me witless. Dawn held my hand and was amazing. She has this calm about her, an inner strength that I envy. It was she who told me, while sobbing with joy, that he was a boy. I would lay my life down for this child. Since having him, I have been able to forgive Elaine a little more. Until he was born I had no idea what loving a child with all your body, heart and soul would feel like, how encompassing it is, how you subsequently regard everything else in relation to that child. I can’t imagine the pain of losing him, of what that might do to me. Losing their children sent my mother and Elaine to the far reaches of their minds, and now I can understand that a little more.

  Mum looks amazing today. She turns to me and smiles when I sit down. Her skin glows and her hair has been curled specially. She’s wearing a wide-brimmed hat. We shopped for it in Truro last week.

  ‘Ready?’ I say to her.

  ‘I am, my darling, and how’s my best boy?’ She kisses Matthew’s forehead.

  Matthew Trystan Tremayne. Our best boy.

  I hand him to her and she cradles him like he is made of eggshell. ‘I can’t think when I’ve been happier,’ she whispers.

  I rub her shoulder.

  The music starts and we turn to look at the back of the church. My stomach is a knot of butterflies.

  Dawn walks with tentative steps along the aisle of the church. I can see how scared she is. Her lips are quivering in the smile on which I told her to concentrate. She has goose bumps, even though it’s June. Her dress is a simple ivory shift, her bouquet a single white amaryllis. Her mousy hair is loosely pinned and a lick of mascara outlines her green eyes. She looks exquisite. I turn to Mum, who’s crying now, and give her a reassuring squeeze.

  The music stops and Craig shifts uncomfortably. His suit doesn’t quite fit properly and I know he can’t wait to get out of it and into jeans and a sweater. He smiles at Dawn and she smiles back. They both look at Stacey, who reaches out to take her mother’s flower. She kisses them and sits down next to me. I take her hand.

  The vicar addresses the small but intimate gathering and Craig reaches for Dawn’s hands. As they begin their vows, Matthew starts fussing.

  ‘Oh dear, I think he’s hungry, Mum,’ I whisper. ‘Do you think I can feed him in here or shall I take him outside?’

  ‘I don’t think the Merrymaid will mind.’ She strokes my son’s head.

  Matthew quietens as soon as he finds my breast. He reaches up and slips his fingers between my lips.

  ‘You know,’ whispers my mother. ‘You used to do that when I fed you.’

  We hold the reception back in the café. There are about thirty of us. I unwrap trays of sandwiches and cakes, and we open champagne and hand it around. Mum stands at the front and chinks her glass with a teaspoon until everyone quietens.

  ‘Dawn asked me to do the speech today. I think she quite likes hearing my voice.’ Mum smiles as everybody laughs, and then she lifts a piece of paper and reads with no stumbling or stuttering and a soporific lilt that seems to sing the words.

  ‘Something happened to our family, the kind of tragic thing that people pray never happens to them. I won’t talk about that, not on this happiest of days, but to understand Dawn and how precious she is, we need to be aware of it. When I was lost, Dawn put her life aside to care for me. It’s something I can’t ever forgive myself for, but sadly I wasn’t strong enough to fight the darkness that took hold of me. I will always be grateful for her deep love and selfless devotion. To know such a person is the greatest of honours. To call her my daughter, the greatest of pleasures. Today marks the start of her future. Hers and her Craig’s. This day is the beginning of their lives as a family. It’s time for her to live for herself, with the man she loves, and their amazing daughter.’ The love she feels towards my sister shines out of her like the beam from a lighthouse. ‘Every now and then the world is graced with an angel. One of these angels stands in our midst. This child came to me as the morning sun rose over the sea and the birds broke into song. My Dawn. My angel. May every day from now be blessed with the love and happiness you deserve.’

  My mother joins me a little later on the low wall overlooking the harbour, where I am sitting with Matthew, who is fiddling intently with my necklace.

  ‘They’re so happy, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes. They are. And you?’ I say turning to her. ‘Are you happy?’

  ‘The happiest I could be.’

  She reaches over and takes my hand and we both turn our heads and look out across the sea, past the harbour wall and out beyond, to where the waves swell and crash.

  We sit quietly. I don’t tell my mother that I can still feel her – Bella, Tori, the Merrymaid, whoever she is – but I can. She watches me. Deep beneath the heaving grey sea, she is always there, always watching. And sometimes, when the world feels heavy, when its walls begin to inch in on me and my tainted past threatens to eat away at my new life, I walk up on to the cliffs and there, alone with the wind and the gulls, I close my eyes and listen to her singing.

  Acknowledgements

  I am grateful to all those who surround me with friendship and laughter, and I appreciate every one of you, but there are a few people I’d like to mention for having been particularly important while writing this book. Broo Doherty. My agent. Dearest friend. This book belongs to both of us. Karen Sullivan, I am so proud to be part of ‘Team Orenda’. You are a force of nature with a genuine passion for books and authors. Thank you for loving this story, for your invaluable input, and for producing this book so very beautifully. Mark Swan, you have perfectly captured the spirit of my story in your stunning cover and I still get tingles when I see it. West Camel, your eagle eyes are second to none. Thank you for your enthusiasm for this book. David Headley, giver of legendary hugs, thank you for lending me the best bookshop in the world, Goldsboro Books, to launch these books of mine. I am privileged to have the support of many incredible writers. I’d particularly like to thank Iona Grey, Hannah Beckerman, Tammy Cohen, Clare Mackintosh, Lucy Atkins, Cesca Major, Kerry Fisher, Jenny Ashcroft, Susi Holliday, Claire Dyer and Louise Douglas. Thank you to Mari Hannah for sage advice at just the right moment. To Amanda Keats for some super editorial suggestions. Sian, you’ve read this far too many times! Thank you for your i
nput, and also your unwavering support in everything I do, always. I’d like to thank the generous-hearted blogging community, a group of people with a remarkable love of reading who share their passion so keenly. Thank you for getting behind me, and my books. You’re all awesome. Particular mention goes to Anne Cater, Liz Barnsley, Dawn Crooks and Sophie Hedley for their almost constant cheerleading. And writer Edward Ian Kendrick for the same. There are a special group of crime writers, a group that must stay nameless, who have made me laugh every day for the last year without fail. Your (mostly filthy) wit, advice and camaraderie has been unbeatable and never lacking. You’re a wonderful group of people, dear to me, and you know who you are. I’m constantly touched by the generous support of my gorgeous friends. A special mention to Sarah Bell, Nell Williams, Anette Crick, Lucy Jacobs, Sara Crane, Sophie Pentecost, Nacera Guerin, Vanessa Fisher and Polly Kemp. You literally rock and one day you’ll cotton on and ask for a percentage! Thank you for recommending my books and for always asking when my next one is coming. To Dieter Newell, who very generously supported CLIC Sargent by bidding for a character name in this book as part of the ‘Get In Character’ fundraising auction. CLIC Sargent is a fabulous charity with which I am delighted to be involved. Thank you to my family. My rock. My parents, my sister, and my three daughters who take my breath away. My love for you all knows no bounds and is the foundation for my obsession with the delicacy and importance of family bonds. And lastly, to Chris, my soul mate. Thank you for challenging me, for reading every word I write, for your encouragement, and for your love. And, baby, I love you right back.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Amanda Jennings made her literary début with internationally best-selling Sworn Secret. Her second book, The Judas Scar, was optioned by a film and television production company shortly after release. She is fascinated by how people react to trauma and deal with its long-lasting effects, and also the relationships that exist within a family unit. She used to work at the BBC, but now writes full-time and looks after her three daughters and menagerie of animals. She writes a popular blog and is a regular guest presenter on BBC Berkshire’s Book Club. She enjoys running writing workshops, is a judge for the Henley Youth Festival creative writing competition, and is involved with the Womentoring Project, which offers free mentoring by professional literary women to talented up-and-coming female writers who might otherwise not have access to such opportunity. She is a regular speaker at festivals and book events, which combines her love of stage with her love of writing. She likes to keep active, preferably beside the sea or at the top of a snow-covered mountain, and when she isn’t writing she can usually be found walking her dog and enjoying the peace and solitude of the great outdoors.

  Copyright

  Orenda Books

  16 Carson Road

  West Dulwich

  London SE21 8HU

  www.orendabooks.co.uk

  First published in the United Kingdom by Orenda Books 2016

  This ebook edition published by Orenda Books 2016

  Copyright © Amanda Jennings 2016

  Amanda Jennings has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978–1–910633–30–4

  Typeset in Garamond by MacGuru Ltd

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.