The Day She Came Back

by Amanda Prowse

  She wondered if Sarah had lain in her turret bedroom and heard the same from Prim decades earlier; she felt the dull ache of missing her gran in her stomach and wondered if it would ever fade, despite now seeing her gran with the veil of deceit lifted.

  Victoria reached for her phone on the desk and fired off a quick text to Daksha.

  Morning! Arrived. Obvs. So far so good, bit odd, bit awkward, but a nice apartment and Jens seems great. A day of sightseeing, yay! (Just to clarify – this is a genuine yay and not a sarcastic one.) Hope you and Ananya are having a good time and haven’t burnt the house down (bad) or had a party (worse) – right, loving you and leaving you. Speak later. V Xx

  Daksha’s reply came through.

  Too early. Go away. (Just to clarify – this is a genuine go away and not a sarcastic one) D X

  Victoria laughed out loud.

  There was a knock on the door and Sarah poked her smiling face in.

  ‘Morning, sweetie!’ she called, and it made Victoria’s heart lurch. ‘Breakfast ready in about ten . . .’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘How did you sleep?’

  ‘Good.’

  Sarah hovered, as if she wanted more. It would have been a hard thing for Victoria to explain, how she might have been cosy and welcome under her mother’s roof, but these people were to all intents and purposes still strangers and she felt shy about pulling back the duvet and leaping up for the day.

  ‘I thought . . . erm . . .’ It was then that Victoria saw the paper bundle in her hands. ‘The letters I scanned and sent to you. I thought you might like the actual letters, rather than reading them on a screen. I think it will help bring them to life. That’s what Jens said.’ She raised the stack of envelopes, tied with a wide, glossy red ribbon. And having met Jens, she felt none of the flicker of jealousy that he had been privy to her history before her, none at all.

  ‘Oh.’ She wasn’t sure what to say. ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  Sarah walked forward tentatively and carefully placed them on the desk. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then. Ten minutes or so?’

  Victoria nodded and Sarah closed the door behind her.

  She peered at the neatly fastened bundle of correspondence. Taking the stack of letters into her hands, she felt the weight of it in her palm; mail considered so precious by its recipients it had been kept, stored and hidden for her whole life. She ran her fingers over the aged paper then put them back on the desk and stared at them for a bit longer, until, with her breathing calm and her head clear, she pulled the ribbon and shuffled the papers, finding the letter she was to read next and very carefully opening it. She could almost feel the weight of Sarah’s hand on the sheet and her heart twisted at the words written.

  June 2001

  Sarah Jackson

  Henbury House

  West Sussex

  Mum,

  Can you please call me?

  Please. I can’t use the phone. They won’t let me, it’s part of the fucking programme! But you can call me. Please. Please.

  Urgent.

  S

  July 2001

  Sarah Jackson

  Henbury House

  West Sussex

  Mum,

  Your visit was unexpected.

  It felt odd and good at the same time. Thank you for coming all this way.

  I had forgotten just how guilty you make me feel. That permanent look of disappointment on your face that tells me what you are thinking: that if life had gone how you planned it, I would be taking my law degree and you would be telling everyone at the tennis club how marvellously I was doing. Instead, I am in this shitty facility, trying to quash the desire to put heroin into my body. It was getting easier, I felt a shift in my craving, my wants, but since Marcus’s death I am folded in half with grief and I hate that this sadness, which flows through my blood, goes straight into the veins of my unborn child. She deserves better, I know she does, you are right. I hate that this is her start. I have to keep reminding myself that things for her would be a whole lot worse if I were using.

  This I cling to.

  I have just read this letter back, and to read that Marcus is dead – it’s like I hear it for the first time every time and my tears are falling and I don’t want to live without him. I don’t. I can’t care about anything. How can I live in a world where he is not? How could he leave us? My heart is in tatters. I am so broken. I am beaten. I want to go to sleep for ever . . .

  S

  ‘Oh my God . . .’ Victoria whispered into the ether. Her dad died and her mum wanted to join him. The facts were as hard to digest as they were upsetting. Not that this information was new, but to see it written . . .

  July 2001

  Rosebank

  Epsom

  Surrey

  Oh, Sarah, my love!

  That was not disappointment on my face. It was pain: your pain, because if you hurt, I hurt. You are my child, my only child, and I love you. I will never forget how frail you seem, despite that glorious baby bump.

  I have spoken to the counsellor to tell them of my worries that you might be in danger, and they tell me they are concerned too. You tried to hurt yourself? I wept when I found out. Sarah, my love, I urge you, please think of that little baby – cling to the idea of her and the thought of how your life will change.

  I might not have liked Marcus, but I know you grieve for him and any grief that fills you up is so very hard for me to bear. I can see he had his demons and I feel sad for his family, sad for you, sad for that little baby who will never meet her dad. But I would be a hypocrite if I didn’t also say that no matter how hard it feels right now, this is your chance to start over.

  Don’t give in to the pull of destruction. Don’t you do that!

  If I could take your sadness from you and wear it like a cloak for eternity, I would.

  I only want for you to be happy, and I want this little baby to be happy. You are both my flesh and blood.

  Please hang in there, darling. I asked the doctor if you would be better off coming home, but he said he feared for you if you were not under such close medical supervision. I want you home. I want you home healthy and safe. That is my wish.

  I am afraid, Sarah, possibly more afraid than I have ever been. I fear I may lose you both. I fear that you might, weakened by your grief, do something unspeakable, and the thought of it stops the breath in my throat. Please, please, stay with us. Keep fighting. Please, Sarah! Tell me how I can help you . . .

  I love you. Always, always, I love you.

  Mum Xx

  Victoria wiped her eyes, Sarah was right: there was something about holding the actual letters, written with fingers no doubt gripping pens that trembled with all the writer tried to contain and with thoughts dictated by the situation in which they found themselves. It was moving and draining in equal measure. She looked with longing at the soft pillow and knew she could quite easily have slipped back to sleep. But there was no time for that today; jumping up, she raised the blind and looked out over the morning hustle and bustle of Aker Brygge. People walked at pace with babies in buggies, and others dawdled, engaged on their phones; some had cups of coffee, the steam of which rose in tiny plumes into the morning air. Opening the window wide, she drew in lungfuls of the fresh breeze, cool and clean, blowing up from the fjord. Looking down to the steps at the dock in front of their apartment block, she saw the man who lived opposite, Vidar, fastening a bike helmet strap under his chin, a shiny red mountain bike leaning against his thigh. She liked the look of him and, as she studied him, he looked up and smiled. Her wave was almost instinctive, and he waved back before tapping his watch face and climbing on to the saddle. It felt like a message which she was left to decipher as he cycled off towards the centre of town, but what?

  Gotta go, I’m late! or See you later? Ridiculously, she hoped it was the latter.

  Victoria pulled a hoodie over her pyjamas and took a deep breath before opening the bedroom door, her nerves jangling.


  ‘Good morning!’ Jens threw his arms wide. With a dishcloth looped over his arm, he looked like the most exuberant of waiters, and her nerves settled. ‘Come, sit!’ He pulled out a chair at the table, which was sumptuously set with an array of food: cold meats, various cheeses, yoghurt in pots with indecipherable labels, jam, brown bread rolls and what looked suspiciously like waffles.

  ‘This looks amazing!’

  ‘Coffee or juice?’ Sarah asked, a jug of each in her hands.

  ‘Can I have both?’

  ‘You can indeed!’ Sarah bent forward eagerly to fill both her glass and her mug.

  ‘So, we have a whole list of places we want to take you to.’

  ‘That Jens wants to take you to,’ Sarah interrupted him, giving her a subtle wink. ‘I’d be happy to find good coffee and sit somewhere with a view, but . . .’ She shrugged, as if she had no choice in the matter.

  ‘She always does this, makes my suggestions sound like rubbish, and then if they are rubbish she can say, “I told you so!”, and if we have a great day, she can act surprised.’

  ‘Ignore him. I do not!’ She laughed and Victoria noted the way she tilted her head . . . coy. She again felt like an interloper in this cosy set-up and wondered where her place might be in it.

  ‘Tuck in!’ Jens handed her a large white plate and the two of them watched her, like she was a foundling babe they were keen to see take food from a spoon, nodding and smiling as she reached for yoghurt and then slices of Jarlsberg. She half expected to hear a ‘choo-choo’ sound as a bread roll chugged in her direction. Sarah watched her every move and Victoria wondered if she had missed this most ordinary thing, feeding the child she had given birth to, as much as Victoria had missed being fed by her mum.

  ‘Eat up!’ Sarah nodded.

  Victoria lifted her fork and, as instructed, tucked in.

  The eagerness with which Jens marched her around the city was impressive, his enthusiasm contagious. By midday, they had toured the magnificent opera house, which seemed to rise like a ship coming up through ice, and now they were heading over to the Vigeland sculpture park.

  It was a busy space and she noticed that Sarah took the opportunity to place her hand on her arm and guide her through the crowds, mothering her in a way she felt comfortable with or was allowed. It wasn’t that Victoria disliked the contact, not exactly, but rather that she didn’t know how she was supposed to respond. If Prim ever hugged her, she hugged her back, ditto Daksha, but the touch of Sarah’s hand on her arm was an unknown thing and Victoria knew it was made all the more conspicuous by her awkward reaction. It was a reminder that they were still very much in the infancy of getting to know each other. Not that she thought about that now, too drawn by the surreal and wonderful exhibits that surrounded her.

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘Yes, wow!’ Jens was clearly delighted by her reaction.

  Victoria wandered, fascinated and a little overwhelmed by Vigeland’s creations, where human life in all its forms was vividly and thought-provokingly captured in granite, bronze and cast iron. She ran her hands over the installations, which had been warmed by the sun, and it moved her that this warmth seemed to give them life. Victoria stood in front of one particular piece, a bronze sculpture of a woman with her arms crossed safely over her baby as she held him tight, her head bowed, their faces touching. It was a scene so perfect, so moving – the child held snugly in the woman’s arms and her stance screaming, ‘I will protect you, I will love you and I will keep you with me . . .’

  Sarah came to a stop by her side and they both stared, its poignancy lost on neither of them. The two women looked from it to each other and back again, Victoria with a tightening in her throat and words skipping on her tongue, which she swallowed, pushing them down into the bottle where all her deepest, darkest and truest thoughts lived, the newness of their relationship still a barrier to her speaking openly about anything that might help them takes steps across that bridge.

  How could you have left me, Mummy . . .?

  Why did you give me away . . .?

  It was when I needed you the most . . .

  How could you have lied to me?

  You and Prim. I was only a baby, I had no choice but to trust you . . .

  You made a deal and I had no choice . . .

  These thoughts, a reminder of why she was here and why her excitement was still justifiably tinged with a little anger, diluted the emotion that threatened. Sarah shoved her hands in her pockets and looked at Victoria with eyes brimming.

  ‘I find this piece very, erm . . .’ She faltered.

  ‘Me too,’ Victoria agreed. It was hard to keep her tears at bay.

  Jens had strolled up behind them. ‘What are you two staring at?’ He bent forward and, with natural ease, placed a hand on each of their shoulders, doing so with confidence as he peered through at the sculpture, the conduit connecting them. Victoria wondered if anyone looking might think they were a family.

  And this is what my life could be like . . . me, Sarah and Jens. A little family . . . It’s what I have always wanted, but I don’t know how I would cope with losing you again . . . if things didn’t work out . . . It might hurt too much.

  ‘Ah, I see. It’s a thought-provoking piece, for sure.’

  ‘The mother looks so scared, and yet so proud, protective, as if, despite her best efforts, she knows something bad is around the corner.’ Sarah reached up and held Jens’s hand.

  ‘Well, it’s amazing what different people see.’ Sarah’s words had lit the kindling which, despite Victoria’s best intentions, she felt was only ever a match-strike away from flaring. ‘I think the mother looks afraid, complicit and wary.’

  Jens straightened and rubbed his chin, his tone conciliatory. ‘Well, maybe she’s afraid because that child is the most precious thing to her and she is concerned for its welfare, knowing she is helpless to stop whatever is coming her way?’

  Victoria began to walk away. ‘Or maybe she’s afraid because she knows she is going to get found out.’ She could well imagine their expressions, so she chose not to look at them as she marched towards the exit, having had enough of sculpture for one day. Jens clapped his hands and marched too; seemingly, his good humour and enthusiasm could not be dented. She had to admit, he was nice to be around. He helped calm the maelstrom of confusion and anger in her young brain, a brain that with more years and more life added it to it would see her able to voice rather than act out all that ailed her.

  She had hoped spending time in Oslo might provide answers and insight to help calm her busy head. If anything, however, it only added another layer of questions. It was almost impossible to see how she and Sarah could ever walk across that bridge when Sarah was either fighting the urge to cry or the urge to physically hold her and Jens was busy working like a sweeper in a curling match, doing his level best to remove all and any bumps in the road to ensure day-to-day life for the woman he loved was as smooth as it could be.

  It was easy, Victoria decided, to take her to see the sights, share a joke and whip up a cake. Not that she wasn’t grateful, far from it, but it all felt very much like a bright, shiny distraction, getting her to look to the right so as not notice what was going on to the left.

  Afterwards, the trio had continued to zip around the city, fuelled by good coffee, fresh pastries and Kvikk Lunsj, which Jens had insisted she try, as it was a Norwegian staple. She ‘oohed’ her enthusiasm, not wanting to offend and so deciding not to tell him it was, disappointingly, exactly the same as any old KitKat she could get at home. Despite keeping her guard up, wary of her muddled emotions run through with grief, which skewered even the most pleasant of experiences, Oslo had surprised and welcomed Victoria. Like the sculpture that had so touched her, the city and its people had wrapped their arms around her and she felt at home. Not that she would ever consider leaving Epsom, or Rosebank for that matter, but she could certainly understand how when a boy had come along and looked at Sarah and she had looked at him and they had f
allen, Norway must have been an easy choice when all they had to do was find a place to be together.

  Jens’s enthusiasm for his place of birth could not be dampened by fatigue or the post-lunch dip and after eating he was still keen to show her the best of the stunning city. They packed in the sights: the understated cathedral, the accessible royal palace and the many beautiful parks, and each experience was a surprise.

  Not before time, they took a rest stop at the Kafe Oslo, which looked to Victoria to be part café, part bookshop; people sat inside and out, either with books open in their palms or newspapers spread wide on the table, sipping at hot chocolates or stopping to take bites of fancy macaroons. It was a wonderful atmosphere with a great view over the park.

  ‘So, no university for you?’ Jens quizzed her.

  She shook her head and sipped her hot chocolate. ‘Nope.’

  He drew breath. ‘I think better to say, “Not right now”, because who knows what is around the corner?’ He spoke sincerely and she liked his interest.

  Victoria made a ‘tsk’ noise. ‘Trust me, no one knows what’s around the corner – I mean, look at us’ – she extended her index finger and drew a circle at chest height – ‘who would have thought only weeks ago that this is where we’d be?’

  ‘Not me!’ Jens smiled his agreement while Sarah stayed quiet. ‘But aren’t you glad?’ Jens enthused. ‘I know I am! Very glad!’

  She liked him very much and she liked the way the couple interacted with each other, taking note of how Sarah often looked to him for reassurance, as if he was her mentor, her protector, her good friend, as well as her husband. But it wasn’t overly deferential: there was balance. Sarah made him laugh, teased him.

  ‘Oh, hello, Mr Careers Advisor! How can you give her advice on university or studies? You were a nerd who wanted to be a lawyer since the age of five! Blinkered! There was no room for artistic expression, you were so focused.’ Sarah shook her head at him mockingly. ‘I bet you had a briefcase and a little suit when you were five too.’

  ‘Well, actually, I did!’ He laughed, and they all joined in. ‘But as for having no room for artistic expression, I take offence at that. Do I have to remind you that I chose the cushions for our couch!’