by Rona Halsall
‘Don’t you start, young lady.’ Fran frowned, a sudden anger bubbling under the surface, making her face a darker shade of red. ‘I couldn’t pay the bills, and anyway, it was stupid to have it sitting there when I was banned from driving.’
Martha glared at her. It was easier to be angry than sad and it was good to shout. In fact, she wanted to scream and yell and throw things at the wall but arguing with her mother would have to do.
‘I was learning.’ The volume of her voice edged up a notch. ‘You could have waited until I passed my test.’
Fran huffed. ‘And when’s that going to happen? How many times have you failed now?’ There was a sarcastic tinge to her voice. ‘Oh yes, three times, isn’t it? So even if I had kept it, you wouldn’t be able to use it.’
‘But it would have given me an incentive, Mum.’
Fran sneered. ‘Yeah, that’s right, push your failures onto me.’
‘Well, you’re not exactly a raging success story, are you?’ Martha yelled, the pressure building in her head. ‘I don’t see you making much effort to get work. It’s my wages we’ve been living on, me who’s been keeping the house going, while you drink away everything you earn and lose customers because you forget what you’ve promised them… and miss deadlines and are bloody rude to them!’
Fran slid off the stool and held on to the worktop, her body rigid with anger, spittle flying through the air as she spoke. ‘Don’t you talk to me like that! I’ve devoted my life to you. Left everything I loved to…’ She caught herself and stopped mid-sentence, eyes blazing with indignation.
‘To what, Mum?’ Martha leant towards her, one hand on her hip, the other jabbing the air with the wooden spoon she’d been using to stir the chilli, splattering the floor with sauce. ‘Why did you drag me away to this godforsaken part of the world where we don’t actually know anyone, have no connections at all? Why do we live in the middle of bloody nowhere, eh? Why make it so hard for us?’
Fran glared at her, silent for a moment, her lips pressed so tightly together, they’d all but disappeared. ‘I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.’ She stormed out of the kitchen and Martha stood listening as her heavy footsteps thumped up the stairs and her bedroom door banged shut.
She knew exactly what would happen now.
Fran would drown her sorrows.
She puffed with frustration as she strained the rice and dished up a bowl of chilli for herself. No point putting anything out for Fran. And there’d be no chance of a sensible conversation until the morning. She sat at the breakfast bar and stared at her food, closed her eyes for a minute, regretting her sharp words. Her mum hadn’t deserved that, but it was her grief talking, and unfortunately Fran was an easy target.
Oh, Pete, I’m going to miss you so much. She covered her face with her hands, her food forgotten, her body wracked with a fresh wave of sobs. He’d offered her a future, something she could aspire to, but now that he was dead, her dreams were too. She’d not only lost a dear friend, she’d lost her hopes for a better life.
Three
Fran
Three days ago
Fran glared at the bedroom door as if she could see her daughter through the wood, then sank onto her bed, head pounding fit to burst. Martha losing her job. That’s the last thing we need. She hesitated then reached into her bedside cabinet and pulled out a bottle of gin, unscrewed the top and took a few greedy gulps, revelling in the heat as it travelled down her throat. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, screwed the lid back on and put the bottle back in the cabinet, staring at the closed door before retrieving the bottle and repeating the process.
When the alcohol started to soothe her anger and take the edge off her pain, she lay back on her pillows and let her mind go to the place she couldn’t face visiting when she was sober. Their financial situation. She’d been banking on Martha’s wages coming in this month, had been waiting to ask her if she could spare a bit more for a little while, just to tide them over until the summer holiday season, when there was always more work around. Although Fran was an illustrator, in the last few years she’d lost most of her lucrative clients – the book covers, the occasional storybook, magazine articles, greetings cards. Now she depended on local jobs for her living, and took any sort of graphic design work she could, mainly for the hospitality industry and tourist attractions. But competition was fierce and… yes, Martha was right, she wasn’t always as efficient and reliable as she should be.
She clasped a hand to her forehead. Oh God! Mr Callow will be expecting his money tomorrow. A bit towards the oil bill. To be fair, he’d been very patient, but she was six months behind with payments and he’d told her he’d have to take her to the small claims court if she didn’t pay him something this time. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. It was a mercy that Anna was such a generous person. She had a soft spot for her and Martha, and because Fran did illustration work for her children’s books, they had a bit of a barter system going at the moment – free illustrations in return for a reduced rent.
At least they’d never be homeless, but she owed the bank over £6,000. Maybe more, she couldn’t bear to check. Then there were the three credit cards. And a couple of stupid loans she’d taken from companies she’d seen advertising on the telly. Only small amounts at the time, but with the interest rates they charged, they were now impossible sums of money.
Her chest heaved as she started to hyperventilate, wondering how they would cope without Martha’s wage. Even with Martha getting some redundancy money, the debts were at a critical stage. It was a problem that had to be addressed.
Martha didn’t know what was going on. Well, she probably had an idea that things weren’t great, given how often Fran borrowed from her – a tenner here, a tenner there. Sometimes she’d even taken money from Martha’s purse without telling her. Fran’s cheeks burned. How could I do that? How could I? Stealing from my own daughter. But at the time, it was always borrowing, the intention being to pay it back when things got better. Except they never did. She rubbed at her eyes, trying to erase the thoughts. Hating herself.
She reached for the bottle of gin again, and this time, she didn’t stop glugging it down until it was finished, until the alcohol had dissolved her worries and her mind floated to the place where all her troubles started.
It’s Greg’s fault. It is. It’s all Greg’s fault.
Her jaw set as she thought about her ex-husband and she reached for her phone, found her contacts list and pressed the number Martha knew nothing about. She listened to it ring.
‘Hello?’ His voice sounded so much weaker these days and she wondered if he was as well as he said he was. She tried to visualise him but could only see him as he was on the day he left, a grim expression on his battered face. Apology in his eyes.
‘It’s me,’ she said.
‘I know it is.’
For a moment, she struggled to work out what to say, but the alcohol made her bold and she just blurted it out, surprising herself. ‘We need money, Greg. Martha’s lost her job, my health isn’t great, as you know, with my diabetes.’ She was on a roll now and decided there was no harm in laying it on thick, letting him share in her misery for once, instead of allowing her pride to tell him she was managing fine without him. ‘I can’t work as much as I’d like. We need a bit of money to tide us over.’
His breath crackled down the phone and she wondered for a moment if he was going to answer. Deciding he might need a bit more persuasion, she carried on talking, her words tripping over each other, slurring. ‘You owe it to Martha. You broke up the family, you and your bloody stupid brainwave. Well, it’s payback time. I haven’t asked for much over the years, but now we’re desperate. Now we need you to step up, take responsibility and bail us out.’
‘What’s happened, Fran?’ Silence for a moment. ‘Are you drunk? Is this a wind-up?’
Fran laughed. As if I’d ring him if it wasn’t important. They’d agreed she’d only contact him in emergenci
es. And she’d kept her side of the bargain. Well, most of the time she had. Maybe she’d called when she was lonely a few times. But not that often. Not for a long time. She frowned, trying to think of the last time they spoke. Months, maybe years ago, she decided, although she couldn’t be sure. Sometimes she didn’t remember. Blocks of time disappeared and who knew what happened in those black holes? She tried not to think about it, knew she’d lost customers as the result of ill-advised conversations she had no memory of, calls she’d made when she was all fired up about something and she’d had a bit of fortification.
‘I’m at the end of my tether, Greg, and it’s your fault we ended up here. I’ve got loans I can’t pay, and Martha’s just lost her job and it’s going to take a little while to find something else. We just need a few thousand to tide us over.’ She played her trump card, the guilt trip that had always worked in the past. ‘It’s nothing less than you owe us.’
Greg gave a derogatory snort. ‘A few thousand? What, you think I have that sort of money just lying around?’
‘You told me you were doing well last time we spoke. I bet you’re still at it, aren’t you? Still messing about with your dodgy little dealings. You can’t help yourself. I know you, Greg. I know you’ve got money.’
Silence.
‘You want to see Martha going hungry, do you?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, and the line went dead.
Well, it’s not a no, she thought as she stared at the ceiling. But it’s not a yes either. What she needed was a definite commitment. Her worries crowded back into her head and she pulled herself upright, sat on the edge of the bed for a moment before standing and tottering to the wardrobe. She rummaged on the shelf above the rail of clothes that didn’t fit her any more until her hand touched something cold and she smiled to herself. She held the green bottle up to the light, pleased to see it was half full. That’ll do nicely, she decided as she headed back to the bed, settled herself on her pillows and unscrewed the lid.
I’ll ring him again tomorrow, she thought as she drank from the bottle. Make him promise to send money. He owes me. He’ll always owe me after what he did.
It was strange, this bond they had. Not a loving relationship any more, but they were tied together by their daughter and what had happened in the past. Fran had loved him with all her heart, of that she had no doubt, and even though they’d been apart for fifteen years, she’d never loved anyone else.
Now though, with the gin coursing round her body, swirling her thoughts into a blur of memories, the only thing filling her heart was regret.
She closed her eyes and her mind wandered back to the start of everything. The day that Martha was born.
Four
Fran
Twenty-four years ago
The baby started crying and Fran looked at her mother, who passed Fran the squirming, slimy child, still attached to the umbilical cord. Now there was four of them in the bathroom of their home in Headingley, Leeds: the baby, Fran, her mother and her little sister, Beth, who, at fourteen, was twelve years younger than her sister. The floor was covered in blood-stained towels, the whole experience leaving them all shaken and quiet.
None of them had even known she was pregnant, something which Fran was having trouble coming to terms with. But there had been no swollen stomach, no morning sickness, just the odd pain here and there which had been put down to trapped wind.
‘I’ll just go and get some scissors,’ her mum said as she hurried down the stairs, and Fran wrapped the child in a clean towel, cradled her in her arms. A little girl. A beautiful little girl.
Beth was sitting on the toilet, eyes as round as saucers as she stared at the baby. ‘I can’t believe that just happened,’ she gasped. ‘I can’t.’
Beth had always had what their mum called a sensitive disposition. She was squeamish, easily upset and currently looked as though she might be sick, her hands clasping the toilet seat for dear life.
Fran looked away from her sister, hoping she wasn’t going to add to the mayhem by throwing up. She studied the child in her arms. It had been a noisy, frantic couple of hours, once they’d realised what was happening, but now there was a sense of calm. Relief that they’d got through it and the baby had been delivered safely and seemed to be healthy. Fran couldn’t think ahead to what the reality of a baby in the house would be like; she was caught in the moment, bewitched by the little person in her arms.
‘Hello, poppet,’ Fran cooed as the child opened its eyes, a rush of love filling her heart. ‘You’re quite a surprise, you know. We didn’t know you were coming.’
The baby stopped wriggling at the sound of her voice and Fran pulled the towel tighter round the little body. She rocked her to and fro, testing out the movement, not sure what she should be doing. A baby to look after was the last thing she’d expected, having been diagnosed with endometriosis – the doctor had told her that infertility was common with this condition. The news had been a terrible shock, and she’d resigned herself to being childless, but now her heart was positively singing. She glowed with the realisation that her dreams might have just come true, and her mind purred along in overdrive as she mentally reorganised her life.
Her mum came back into the room with the kitchen scissors and carefully snipped the umbilical cord, clamping it with a clothes peg. She looked around the room. ‘We’ll get this lot tidied up, then I’ll go and get some formula for the little mite.’
Fran nodded, happy to let her mum take charge. All she wanted to do was cuddle the baby. Beth watched in silence, clearly horrified by the whole event, the amount of blood, the pungent smells, the mess on the floor.
Together, Fran and her mum cleaned up the baby, gently wiping her little body with warm water, and Fran marvelled at the perfection of her: the tiny fingers and toes, a fuzz of fair hair and a little rosebud mouth. She was everything Fran had ever hoped for and never thought she’d be able to have. But here she was, like a little miracle. A problem in one way, with her sudden, unannounced appearance, but maybe she was a solution as well.
How am I going to tell Greg?
They’d been together for a couple of years now, but his work for a rope access company gave him a nomadic lifestyle, often working away for months on end, travelling all over the world. It was no secret that Fran wanted him to be home more, and they’d had the familiar conversation before he’d headed off to Eastern Europe for three months.
‘I can’t say no,’ he’d said. ‘There’s a whole queue of lads wanting my job and if I start turning stuff down… well, there’re no guarantee he’ll give me more work. You know what Ian’s like. He hates people who aren’t reliable, and at the moment, I’m top dog. I want it to stay that way. The money’s great, you know that, so the longer I stay, the more we’ll have towards a deposit.’
Fran had stared at him, registering the commitment to buying a house together as a positive, but she wanted more. It got so lonely when he was away. She’d stroked his cheek, the stubble rasping beneath her fingers.
‘I miss you so much, though. It gets harder every time you go.’
Greg had kissed her, his go-to solution for every tricky conversation. ‘It won’t be forever, love. I promise. Just a few more jobs, then I’ll have a break.’
He’d been saying that for the last year and there was no sign of any sort of break in his travelling. Fran had often wondered if he was serious about their relationship, or whether she was just someone to come home to. Is it all lip service? Saying things to keep me sweet? He promised her there was nobody else, no flings while he was away, but he was such a lovely bloke, so smiley and happy-go-lucky, people were drawn to him. Not that he was much to write home about in the looks department, but that didn’t matter when you had a personality like his.
Her friends all told her that she was wasting her time on him. He wasn’t the type to settle down, and they’d persuaded her to go on dates with other men – foursomes that were arranged without her knowledge – and some of t
hem had been fun. But none of the men she’d met were Greg – they didn’t have that extra something that made her heart race, or made her feel so connected it was like talking to herself, not another person. All it proved was how much she loved Greg, and it hurt more every time he went away.
Now, though, he had a reason to stay.
She went through dates in her mind, worked out when Greg had been away, her heart giving a flutter of panic. The dates don’t fit. If she was creative, though, she could make him believe that this baby was his, say she had arrived a little early. Then there would be no more excuses. Surely a child would make him decide where his priorities lay.
Thankfully, she was right. Five weeks later, her life had taken a dramatic turn for the better. She was renting a house in Bingley, Greg had moved in and he’d even gone with her to register Martha’s birth. It was a wonderful surprise that he’d taken to the idea of fatherhood so readily. But it was a lie that started a chain of events which would shape the rest of her life.
Five
Martha
Three days ago
Martha listened to the dial tone as Messenger tried to connect her to Izzy for a video call. Suddenly, the ringing stopped and there she was, her face filling the screen of Martha’s phone. She watched Izzy adjust her chunky blue glasses and couldn’t help a smile. They were always wonky or slipping down her nose and she was constantly fiddling with them. She’d only just started wearing them for reading and computer work, and Martha was still getting used to how different they made her look. So serious and grown up. But then Izzy was a bit older than Martha. In her early thirties, she thought, from what she knew about her, although she’d never bothered to ask her outright, as it didn’t seem relevant to their relationship. They got on well, she enjoyed chatting to Izzy and that was all that mattered.
