Her Mother's Lies: A gripping psychological thriller with a stunning twist

by Rona Halsall

  She took one more look at his furious face, turned, opened the back door and ran.

  Two

  Three days ago

  The rain started as soon as Martha stepped off the bus and began her twenty-minute walk home. Her legs were leaden, her heart heavy after the terrible news she’d received earlier, the consequences of it only now starting to sink in. She swore as the wind whipped her hood off and freezing rain blasted her head, trickled down her neck. She shivered and flipped her hood back up, holding it in place while she plodded down the road, her body bent against the weather, cursing her mother for deciding to live in the arse end of nowhere. It was known as ‘the forgotten corner of Cornwall’, situated on the south-east coast of the county, where the roads were narrow and tortuous, the bus service sporadic and the main town of Truro fifty miles away.

  The only redeeming factor was the relative lack of tourism in the area, so at least it wasn’t crawling with strangers in the summer like the rest of the county. The coastal town of Looe was only a few miles away but getting there on public transport was no easy matter. There was a train service from St Germans, a few miles in the other direction, but she’d have to walk there and that took the best part of an hour. Even Plymouth, further to the east and in the next county, wasn’t that far to travel to work… if you had a car. Which she didn’t.

  They used to have a car, but five years ago, after her mum had been banned for drink-driving for twelve months, she’d got rid of it, saying she wasn’t safe to drive any more, her eyes weren’t as good as they should be, driving made her anxious, she couldn’t afford to run a car, and a whole string of other excuses. It had been a bitter blow to Martha because she’d been learning to drive and saving up to take her driving test again. She could have used the car herself, but the opportunity had disappeared without any discussion whatsoever. It had been the source of many an argument, especially as it was Martha who had to put up with a long and tortuous journey to and from work every day.

  She muttered under her breath as she trudged down the road, her temper increasingly in tune with the weather the closer she got to home.

  Their cottage was nice enough: a little semi-detached, stone-built property, with three bedrooms, a good-sized garden at the back and a garage and driveway to the side. The front garden had flower beds and a small lawn and used to be lovely when her mother had enjoyed gardening. Now, her health problems meant she struggled to do much with it, and although Martha did what she could when she had the time, it was overgrown and unloved. Ivy climbed over the front of the house, tendrils starting to creep over the windows and curl under the slates on the roof, making them lift. It was a problem that Martha noticed every time she came home but didn’t have the means to do anything about. She needed a ladder and they didn’t have one, and she was too embarrassed to ask Neil, who lived at the neighbouring farm, for help yet again. The house next door was a holiday cottage, the owner of it also their landlady, Anna, but she didn’t visit very often these days, having retired to Spain, and Martha didn’t like to bother her with problems they should be able to sort out themselves.

  She pushed open the garden gate, her eyes fixed on the wooden board in the front door, where there used to be a pane of glass before her mum had broken it last month when she’d slammed it too hard. The sad truth was there was no money to get it fixed. Between them, Martha and her mother earned just about enough to feed and clothe themselves, and pay the monthly bills with nothing left over for home maintenance.

  If she didn’t drink so much, it would be easier, Martha thought as she fumbled her key into the lock and pushed open the door, dreading telling her mother her news. It had been a horrible, horrible day and her emotions were raw, like a burst blister rubbing in a shoe. Having to explain it all was an ordeal she could hardly allow herself to contemplate. Just getting herself home had been tough enough.

  None of it was her fault – that was the truth of it. But it’s me who’s going to suffer, she thought as she stepped into the hallway and shut the door behind her. Maybe I’ll wait. Tell her tomorrow.

  She stood still for a moment, listening. Silence. That was never a good sign.

  Martha’s mother, Fran, worked from home as a freelance illustrator, and if she was working, there was always music playing in the background. If she was cooking, the TV would be on in the kitchen. If there was silence… it didn’t bode well.

  Carefully, Martha took off her waterproof jacket and hung it on a hook behind the door, then pulled off her boots and stood them on the rack. Her stomach griped with hunger because she’d forgotten about lunch in the awfulness of the day, and now… she sighed. Who knew how the evening was going to pan out?

  She took a deep breath and readied herself before poking her head round the door of the lounge. Fran was curled up on the settee, mouth open, a patch of damp on the fabric of the cushion where her head was resting. She was a large woman in all dimensions: tall and wide and round, her body bloated, mostly from drink. Her wavy blonde hair was cut short, greying at the temples, her skin shot through with broken veins. Martha scanned the coffee table, but there was only a mug, no glasses or bottles, and she allowed herself to hope for the best.

  ‘Mum,’ she said, peeping into the mug, relieved to see the milky remains of a cup of tea. Fran mumbled, but her eyes stayed closed. Martha crouched in front of her. ‘Mum, I’m home.’

  Daft thing to say, she told herself, because it was obvious, but it’s what she always said when she came home, as though she was saying that everything would be all right now she was back. This time, though, she knew there was going to be trouble. This time, they had a major problem to sort out.

  Fran’s eyes blinked open, blue and bloodshot and bleary. She stared at Martha for a moment before giving her a sleepy smile. ‘Hello, poppet. You’re early.’

  Martha perched on the settee, wondering if she had the energy to explain, or whether it would be better after they’d eaten, when she’d have the stamina to deal with her mother’s reaction. Fran’s arm flopped round Martha’s waist and she pulled her close, eyes blinking as she tried to wake herself up.

  ‘What do you fancy for tea?’ Martha managed a quick smile, careful not to meet Fran’s eye. ‘I’ll make it if you like.’

  Fran rubbed her hands over her face. ‘Would you?’ She sounded relieved and Martha wondered what sort of day her mum had had. Whether she had any work on at the moment, or whether she’d dozed away the afternoon. Maybe she did this every afternoon. Martha wouldn’t know because she was never home this early. She worked for the local vet and always did the afternoon and evening shift because there wasn’t a bus service that would get her to the surgery in time for the early morning start. Often, it was eight o’clock by the time she got home. But today…

  She stood and walked through the dining area, which was mainly Fran’s workspace, with just a corner of the dining table free of clutter. The kitchen was in an extension at the back. Rain splattered against the window and water dripped into a bucket that was positioned by the back door, the flat roof in serious need of repair. Martha was sure she’d mentioned it to Anna last time she was down, and she said she’d get quotes for re-felting it, but nothing had happened. She sighed at the thought of having to remind her. Her mum wouldn’t say anything, didn’t even seem to notice the repairs and maintenance that needed doing, her mind always off in some dreamworld, creating goodness knew what.

  They were very different, her and her mum. Martha was practical and scientific and always needed to know why. Fran was arty and dreamy and impulsive. It wasn’t always a good mix, and as she’d grown older, Martha had shouldered an increasing amount of responsibility around the house. If she was being honest with herself, she felt she was sacrificing her youth to care for her mum. Not that she didn’t want to look after her, but she just wished, sometimes, that there was someone else to help.

  A packet of mince lay on the worktop, defrosting. She checked the fridge and cupboards for other ingredients, finding e
nough to make something resembling chilli, and she set to work while her mind tried to figure out how to explain to Fran that things were going to be different. Life can be so bloody unfair, she thought, jaw working from side to side as she put a pan on the hob and poured in some oil. Just when you think you’re on the up, it slaps you down again.

  She stopped for a moment as a burst of emotion flooded her chest, filling her throat. A tear rolled down her cheek, followed quickly by another as she started chopping the onion, trying not to think about her news and what it meant. Her whole body was aching with the effort of keeping her sadness inside, not yet ready to put everything into words, hardly able to believe that it had really happened. Better to tell Mum when we’ve eaten, she decided as she blinked back the tears. I can’t face it yet. And if she had to talk about it, well, the floodgates would really open.

  She focused on the cooking, blocking everything else out of her mind. Onions and garlic in the pan. She stirred it for a few minutes then added the mince, stabbing it with the wooden spoon as it browned, meticulously breaking it into the smallest of pieces, her jaw clamped so tightly the muscles started to ache.

  ‘So, why are you home this early?’ Fran’s voice broke the silence and Martha tensed before she carried on smashing the mince.

  ‘Oh, it’s a bit of a long story. I’ll tell you later.’ She tipped the tin of tomatoes into the pan and gave it a stir before sprinkling chilli powder and herbs into the mix. Once it was bubbling, she busied herself with preparing the rice, filling a bowl with water, pouring the grains in to soak. ‘You been busy, Mum?’

  Fran snorted. ‘Busy? Well, I’ve got a book cover to design, for Anna, but she’s not happy with anything I’ve shown her.’ She huffed, obviously frustrated. ‘Honestly, I get the feeling she’s just going through the motions with this one. Lost interest.’

  Martha filled a pan with water and put it on the hob to heat. In addition to being their landlady, Anna was a moderately successful children’s author and long-term collaborator with her mother, who did all the illustrative work as well as contributing suggestions to storylines. It had been a working partnership for as long as Martha could remember, but since Anna had retired, her enthusiasm seemed to have waned.

  ‘So, that’s all you’ve got? Nothing else?’

  ‘Well, now, let me see…’ Fran frowned and perched on a stool, leaning her elbows on the breakfast bar that separated the cooking area from the utility room. ‘Um…’ She pursed her lips and was silent for a long moment, gazing at the fridge-freezer as if it held the answer.

  Martha rinsed the rice and tipped it into the pan, her heart sinking further by the minute.

  Then her mother smiled. ‘The Golden Lion.’ She nodded. ‘They want me to design new menus for them.’

  Martha’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. ‘Menus?’ She didn’t mean to sound so dismissive, but really it was a very small piece of work. Nothing that would earn the sort of money they needed.

  Fran looked hurt.

  ‘That’s good.’ Martha tried to backtrack, filled her voice with a hope she didn’t feel. ‘And we’re nearly at Easter. That should help things to pick up, shouldn’t it?’ She glanced over her shoulder, caught Fran’s glare.

  ‘I’m doing my best. You don’t have to be so bloody scathing. It’s not easy being self-employed, you know. Feast or famine, that’s how it goes. And I can’t magic work out of nowhere, can I?’

  ‘No, I know.’ Martha took a deep breath, knew this was the moment to have the dreaded conversation. ‘But Mum, I need to find a new job.’

  Fran sat up straight, her mouth open. ‘You what?’

  Martha stirred the chilli, unable to meet her mother’s eye. ‘I’m not working for Pete any more.’

  ‘He sacked you?’ Fran sounded incredulous.

  Tears stung Martha’s eyes. She shook her head, put the lid on the chilli and turned to face her mum, the story of her day filling her mind. It had been, without doubt, one of the worst days of her life.

  She’d let herself into the practice, as usual, at the end of the morning surgery, pleased to see there were no cars outside; it appeared everything was running smoothly for once. It was the silence that hit her, making her stop and listen, just to make sure. No dogs barking or cats meowing; in fact, no noise at all.

  Weird, she thought, frowning as she hung up her coat.

  ‘Pete?’ She poked her head into the consulting room. He wasn’t there. ‘Pete?’ she called louder, a sense of unease creeping down her spine. He wasn’t in the galley kitchen either. She hurried into the recovery area and stopped when she realised that it was empty. All the animals were gone, the doors of the recovery pens hanging open. Now she knew something was seriously wrong.

  She dashed into the backyard, but there was nobody there.

  Christ, what’s going on?

  Her pulse quickened as she ran up the path to the house where Pete and his wife lived, and banged on the door. It was a few moments before it opened.

  ‘Gemma?’ The woman in front of her looked dishevelled, her face red and puffy and devoid of her usual make-up. ‘Oh my God, what’s wrong?’

  Gemma shook her head, unable to speak for a moment. ‘He’s dead,’ she whispered, as if she could hardly believe it. ‘Pete’s dead.’

  All the strength went out of Martha’s legs and she crumpled against the wall, her mind numb with disbelief. Dead? How can he be dead? He was the fittest man she knew, always off running marathons somewhere, out training at the crack of dawn before work and in the evenings.

  ‘He had an aneurism last night. More or less instant, that’s what the doctor said. He wouldn’t have known anything about it.’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry, I should have called you, but I just… I haven’t…’

  Martha looked up and saw the desolation in Gemma’s eyes, knew she should say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Sadness blossomed in her chest, filling all the space so she hardly had room to breathe, let alone speak.

  Gemma carried on talking. ‘He was out running, as usual. Mr Creasy found him by the side of the road.’ Her voice cracked and she leant against the door frame, body shaking as grief consumed her. Martha rubbed her shoulder, feeling helpless as her own tears began to flow.

  Pete had been more like a father to her since she’d started working for him three years ago. He had two daughters of his own who now lived away, and it was clear he missed them; Martha’s friendship had seemed to fill some of the gaps their absence had left in his life. They’d got on so well – he wasn’t just her employer, he was one of her only friends, her mentor, a man she admired – and she could talk to him about anything. He’d paid for her to go to college to start her training as a veterinary nurse on a day release basis, and had even been talking about sponsoring her through university if – once she passed all her exams – she came back and helped him in the practice. There was more work than he could cope with locally, and he could do with a second-in-command to give him a break. That was their plan, what they’d been working towards.

  Now, she looked at Fran and shook her head, unable to find an easy way to say it. ‘No, Mum, he didn’t sack me, he…’ Her face crumpled, eyes squeezed shut, her voice a whimper. ‘He died.’

  The reality of it slammed home and she sagged onto a stool opposite her mother, the pain of her loss churning round her stomach, gripping her heart.

  Fran’s eyes widened, her hands covering her gaping mouth. ‘No! Oh my God, no.’

  Martha nodded. ‘It was an aneurism. Gemma’s had to close the practice while she sorts everything out.’ She let out a breath that was laden with sadness and worry. On top of dealing with her grief, the loss of her job meant they had a big problem to sort out and there was no quick or easy solution. ‘Since he was the only vet there and I’m just a helper, not even fully qualified, there’s not a lot I can do without him.’ Martha swallowed, her eyes firmly fixed on the floor.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart. Why didn’t you tell me as
soon as you got home?’ Fran slipped off the stool and wrapped Martha in a hug, pulling her to her ample chest. ‘How awful! I know how fond you were of him.’ She tutted, squeezed Martha tighter. ‘Such a lovely man as well. And poor Gemma.’

  ‘They’d been married for thirty-six years.’ Martha clung to her mother, burying her face in her neck. ‘She’s completely devastated.’

  Fran stroked her hair while Martha’s body shook with big, ugly sobs, all the sadness she’d been keeping inside shuddering out of her like an emotional mudslide.

  Eventually, she pushed away and blew her nose, wiped her face, aware that their meal would spoil if she left it any longer. She stirred the chilli and checked the rice while she sniffed her tears to a halt. ‘Her older daughter’s coming to help her sort everything out. Wants her to go back to London, Gemma said, and I think that’s what she’ll do. She’s never going to manage that big house on her own, and I really don’t think she’ll want to be there without him. She’d rather be close to her daughters.’

  Fran sat back on the stool, and when Martha glanced at her, she could almost see the cogs whirring in her mind. She wondered how long it would be before her mother understood the implications but decided not to wait. Better to lay it out there and get the thing over with.

  ‘I’ll be paid for the rest of the month, and there will be a little bit of redundancy money, Gemma said.’

  Fran nodded, her bottom lip clamped between her teeth.

  ‘That’s why I was asking how much work you had on. Because it’s not going to be easy finding another job.’ Martha’s voice sounded weary, but there was a tinge of frustration as well. ‘Not when I can’t drive and the bus runs to such a stupid timetable and we haven’t got a car any more.’