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

by Rona Halsall

  Martha was stunned. She’d been hoping Izzy would stay for a few weeks, but forever? Well that was a different matter entirely. Fantasising about things was one thing, but for it to become a reality so quickly – it was like hankering after an outfit in a shop window, then trying it on and finding it looked awful.

  Izzy’s voice brought her out of her thoughts.

  ‘Sorry, I missed that.’ Martha gave her a quick smile.

  ‘I was just saying we should sort out your mum’s room next.’

  Martha nodded. It would be good to have a bit of space to get her thoughts together, she decided, without Izzy staring at her. Work out how this new bit of information might change things. How long do I want Izzy to stay? And why didn’t she tell me she’d quit her course sooner? There’d been no mention of it in their conversations, not even a hint, and it was a drastic thing to do when she was so close to finishing her second year.

  Izzy stood up. ‘Come on, then, let’s go and have a look, see what needs doing.’

  A weight settled in Martha’s stomach at the thought. She knew it was the room that needed the most work, but she was tentative about entering even though her mum wasn’t there.

  They stood in the doorway for a moment, shoulder to shoulder. Martha’s eyes scanned the chaos, until they rested on the bed, which had been stripped. She frowned. ‘Oh, you’ve started.’

  ‘I thought I might as well put a wash on,’ Izzy said, not looking at her as she moved past her into the room, hands stuffed into the pockets of her jeans. ‘The bed was a right state, wasn’t it? No idea when it had last been changed, but… Anyway, I didn’t think you’d mind.’

  On one level, Martha did mind, felt that some sort of line had been crossed, but on another level, she liked the fact that Izzy had a willingness to get stuck in and take control. She saw what needed doing and just got on with it. So different from her mum, who would dither for days over an issue, put off jobs until there was a crisis and they had to be done.

  ‘Right, thanks,’ she said, deciding to keep her reservations to herself. Izzy had done an amazing job in a short space of time and she didn’t want to dampen her obvious enthusiasm. There was an awful lot still to do, and if she was having to go over to the hospital and back every day, she wouldn’t have much time to contribute. Martha decided to let Izzy get on with things in her own way, not interfere, and help in whatever way she could.

  She gazed around the room, wondering where to start, but before she had a chance to put her thoughts in order, Izzy was speaking.

  ‘I think we need to clear the floor first,’ she said. ‘Then we’ll do flat surfaces. Then we’ll do cupboards and wardrobes.’

  Martha wrinkled her nose. ‘Stinks in here, doesn’t it?’ She went to open the window a bit wider while she thought. ‘You know, there might be something in here that will give me a clue as to who my real father is.’

  Izzy rubbed the back of her neck, looked thoughtful. ‘There might be a good reason why your mum hasn’t told you the truth. Maybe you should trust her judgement on this? Maybe you don’t need to know?’

  Martha frowned, shaken a little by Izzy’s words. ‘What? Now you say the past doesn’t matter?’

  Izzy started to speak, then stopped.

  ‘Go on, spit it out.’ Martha’s hands gravitated to her hips. She was starting to feel annoyed.

  ‘I was just going to say that… well, it’s different, isn’t it? Greg was a man you thought of as your father. He brought you up for nine years. You had a relationship with him. Your real father… well, you don’t know him at all, have no idea what sort of a man he is. Perhaps he’s a total loser and you’re better off not knowing who he is.’

  Martha leant against the wall, hands burying themselves in her hair as she tried to control her irritation. ‘You don’t understand. Half my DNA is his. Whether I like it or not, he’s half of who I am. And anyway, I’m curious. Why shouldn’t I know? I’m obviously more like him than my mother because, as far as I can see, we’re total opposites. I might like him.’ She looked at Izzy. ‘He might like me and, you know, I’ve really missed having a father in my life, having a man who’s in my corner whatever happens. With Mum, it’s…’

  Izzy looked like she was going to say something again, then pressed her lips together.

  ‘Christ, I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ Martha snapped. ‘You’re just like my mother sometimes. She does that exact thing all the time and it drives me nuts. If you’ve got something to say, just say it.’

  Izzy gave her a strange look then burst out laughing and the tension evaporated. ‘Well, we wouldn’t want you going nuts, would we? Look, you do what you want. I’m just focusing on getting the place cleared out so your mum can come home.’

  ‘What if I’m not ready for her to come home?’ Martha cringed. She hadn’t meant to say it, and now she had, she knew how bad it sounded. But it’s true.

  Izzy’s eyes narrowed, head tipped to one side. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, that came out wrong.’ Martha flapped a hand, as if to waft her comment away, not sure what she felt about anything.

  Fear, that’s what it is. I’m frightened of what it’s going to be like looking after an invalid.

  ‘It’s just I’m going to be a full-time carer now and she’s… well, she’s very needy. My life will be over when she comes home. That’s the truth of it.’ Martha clamped her jaw tight. ‘It’s been so good, just me and you, I’d like it to go on a bit longer. Not have to worry about her because she won’t look after herself, I know that. And—’

  ‘Hey, come on. Stop with the doom and gloom.’ Izzy walked over and slung an arm round Martha’s shoulders, gave her a comforting squeeze. ‘The fact is, she’s getting better. People get over heart attacks and lead normal lives, and if she’s not mobile, she won’t be drinking, will she? So that’ll make things better. And you can get benefits, and get a caring allowance too, I think. And anyway you’ve got me to help you now. So, it’s not all on you any more.’ She pulled away, put both hands on Martha’s shoulders and looked her in the eye. ‘You will have a life, and if we want to go off for a bit, go and have a little adventure, we’ll get someone to look after her, okay? There must be respite care that we can access, just for a week or two.’

  Without warning, Martha burst into tears and Izzy pulled her into a hug, held her tight while she struggled to stop crying, feeling foolish for being so emotional, when Izzy made so much sense. It wasn’t the end of the world. So why am I getting myself so upset?

  After a few minutes, she sniffed her tears away.

  ‘I love her, I really do, but we’ve always niggled each other, and when she’s not well, she’s impossible and I can’t do anything right.’ She sighed. ‘I’m worried I won’t have the patience to deal with her.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Izzy mumbled into her hair. ‘I told you. I’ll stay as long as you want. Promise.’

  Finally, Martha pulled away. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit all over the place after everything that’s happened these past few days. It’s just been one shock after another. I need a bit of time now when nothing happens. Nothing at all, so I can settle my head down and think about my future. Because that’s what’s going to get lost in all this.’ She sniffed. ‘Once again, I’m going to have to put my future on hold because of Mum, and I’ve got to think of a way round that.’

  ‘There’s always an alternative.’ Izzy gave Martha a reassuring smile. ‘Let’s get your mum home, get her better, then you can decide what happens next.’ Her voice was calm and soothing. ‘Honestly, it’s probably not going to be as bad as you think.’

  Martha swiped her hands across her face, wiping the remnants of tears from her cheeks, not at all sure what she thought about anything any more. ‘Okay. Let’s get this room sorted out. After tonight, we’ve got two days to get the place tidied up. Think we can do it?’

  Izzy laughed. ‘Too right we can.’

  ‘Okay, well, I’ll go and get some more bin bags and we’ll do w
hat you suggested. Floor first.’

  Martha went downstairs, deep in thought, something Izzy had said still not sitting right with her. Why shouldn’t I know who my real father is? Maybe he’ll want to know me? Maybe he doesn’t even know I exist. The thought stopped her in her tracks. Hasn’t he got a right to know? She was annoyed at Izzy for not seeing her point of view. Another person telling her what was best for her. Well, she was an adult and it was up to her what she did.

  My life, my decisions.

  It was time for her to be more assertive, decide what she wanted and go for it. Wasn’t that what Pete had always encouraged her to do? ‘Nobody should stop you from having the future you want.’ He’d said that to her over and over when she’d confided in him about her problems and her thwarted dreams. It was his legacy to her, she realised, and she was determined that his support and encouragement, his faith in her, wouldn’t go to waste.

  If I want to find my real father, I’m bloody well going to do it.

  Twenty-Eight

  Martha

  Now

  Martha ran back upstairs with a new plan in her head.

  ‘I’m going to have a root through the paperwork downstairs,’ she said as she popped her head round the door, throwing the roll of bin bags on the bed. ‘I found a folder with loads of unpaid bills the other day and I need to sort out what’s going on with Mum’s finances. She won’t let me near that stuff, but we can’t have the bailiffs turning up.’ And I might find some clues as to who my real dad is. But Izzy didn’t need to know that was part of her agenda.

  Izzy looked up from the box she’d been emptying in the corner. ‘Okay. If there’s anything I think you might want to keep, I’ll put it in a pile by the window, shall I? Otherwise I’ll bag it up and put it in the garage.’

  Martha looked round the room and grimaced. The floor was littered with shoes and handbags, books and magazines, jumpers and pyjamas and an assortment of underwear. Every flat surface was stacked with piles of clutter. ‘Jeez, it’s going to take a bit of sorting out, isn’t it? I’ll be up to help in a bit, but the money stuff is bothering me, so I need to get to grips with that first.’

  ‘Yeah, off you go.’ Izzy was already busy loading piles of magazines into a bag. She grinned. ‘I’m warning you now though, I’m going to be ruthless with this crap.’

  Martha bit her lip, not sure about letting Izzy loose in Fran’s room now. Her mum was like a magpie, and to be honest, she had no idea which bits were precious to her and which bits could be thrown away. She dithered for a moment, wondering if she should supervise the clearing out, but the pull of her past and the worry about the household finances dragged her away.

  I’ll be quick, she told herself, deciding she’d focus on the top of the table and the various piles of folders and ring binders stacked on the floor, which appeared to be the closest her mum had got to a filing system. I’m looking, not sorting out, she decided, because that would be too big a task. She gave herself an hour, to make sure she didn’t dally and procrastinate, set an alarm on her phone and set to work.

  She found the folder of unpaid bills and put that to one side – she already knew what was in it; she just had to make some phone calls and she couldn’t do that until the morning. Then she started gathering up bits of paper and stacking them into piles: work, admin, personal and junk mail.

  Quickly, the piles grew and the surface became clear, until, half an hour later, it was finished. She looked at her handiwork, pleased in one way because it looked so much better, but in another she was disappointed, having convinced herself that she might find something, some clue as to her father’s real identity.

  She shook her head, annoyed at herself. Why’s Mum going to have anything about my real dad after all this time? You idiot! she scolded, tipping the pile of junk mail into a bin bag for recycling and putting the other three piles into new folders. With that done, and the tabletop reclaimed from the sea of paperwork, she turned her attention to the files stacked on the floor.

  Most of them were archives of work projects her mum had done, and she put them to one side, ready to store them in the loft. Halfway down, though, she found something that was much more interesting – bank statements. She sat on the floor, flicking through, finding that they went right back to when they’d moved to Cornwall.

  The majority of the entries were debits, but on the credits side, her mum had written next to each entry what the payment was for. Most of them were work-related, and Martha realised how much her mum had relied on Anna in those early days.

  She stopped and smiled, remembering how Anna would call her round to test out a new story on her, ask what she thought of the characters and make little changes based on her replies. Yes, she’d always liked Anna, and she used to bake the most amazing chocolate brownies, which she’d give to Martha as a reward for helping, along with a few coins, whatever change she had.

  It had made Martha feel special, and Anna’s stories were magical, her favourite being about a queen who was secretly a witch, with a naughty son. He was always getting up to mischief and the queen had to go and right his wrongs with her magic, without anyone knowing her secret. It always ended with her casting a spell on him and turning him into a frog or a slug or something else repugnant as penance, and Martha loved those endings. Her mother’s illustrations were pretty special too, she remembered, and decided she’d dig out all the books and put them on display. They were a collection her mum should be proud of, and looking through the bank statements she could see that this work had underpinned their household finances for years.

  Then she spotted something else, a regular payment every month, with the initials MNT beside it. Occasionally there were other lump sums, with Greg written next to it in her mother’s neat writing. So, where did the MNT money come from if the money wasn’t from Greg, and what was it for?

  The initials stood tall in her mind, as she tried to think if she’d ever known a man whose name might fit, but she drew a blank. She went back to the beginning of the statements and flicked through, noticing that the payments had come to an end three years ago. Just suddenly stopped. When I was twenty-one. Then she had an idea – maybe it was an abbreviation for maintenance? The thought clicked in her mind and it all seemed to fit. Her real dad was paying maintenance until she’d come of age. Hmm, it’s a possibility. She took the statement showing the final payment out of the folder, determined to ask her mother about it. With the evidence in front of her, there could be no denials and she’d have to tell her the truth.

  Feeling satisfied with her new discovery, Martha set about tidying the rest of her mum’s corner. A ring of the doorbell made her stop and she wondered if it was Anna. She’d seen her car coming and going but hadn’t really had a chance to catch up with her since she’d got back from Wales.

  When she opened the door, though, it wasn’t Anna, it was a man, with an apologetic smile on his face. Is this the guy from the restaurant looking for his menu artwork? she wondered, nerves pulling at her stomach. She couldn’t imagine who else it would be at this time of night.

  ‘Is this the home of Frances Taylor?’ His voice had the local Cornish burr, his tone pleasant.

  Martha nodded. ‘That’s right. I’m her daughter, Martha. But if you’re looking for her, I’m afraid she’s in hospital.’

  He held out an envelope. ‘Would you give this to her, please?’

  Martha took it from him and was about to close the door when he spoke again.

  ‘I know it’s addressed to your mother, but if she’s ill, you probably need to open that. I’m from a debt collection company and that’s to give you notice that if the debt isn’t paid in the next seven days, the bailiffs will be arriving to seize goods in the amount owed.’

  Martha stared at him, her words stuck in her throat, strangled by a sudden surge of panic. Bailiffs? Oh my God! She watched him walk back down the path, get into his car and drive away.

  Izzy clumped down the stairs behind her, carrying a cardboard box
.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘It was a debt collector.’ Martha ripped open the envelope and scanned the notice, then took a deep breath and read it more carefully in case she’d misunderstood. But it was there in black and white, just like the man had said. She closed the door, leant her forehead against it, her voice sounding as weary as she felt. ‘Mum took out a loan, hasn’t repaid it and it’s been passed on to a debt collection company. Seven thousand pounds or thereabouts. If we don’t pay within seven days, the bailiffs are coming.’

  Izzy sat down on the stairs, the box on her knee. ‘Bloody hell. That’s not what you need right now, is it?’

  Martha thought about the folder of letters about unpaid debts. This was a new one and she wondered where the other correspondence was. There must have been reminders. Probably came by email, she realised, not having looked through the computer. That was her mum’s and password-protected so there was no way of checking. Crap, who else does she owe money to?

  She went and sat next to Izzy, showed her the letter.

  ‘Look, I should have said something sooner.’ Izzy knotted her fingers together on top of the box. ‘But when I was tidying the kitchen earlier, I found a couple of letters from the bank.’ Izzy glanced at Martha, colour flooding her cheeks. ‘They’re in an envelope on the windowsill and I know I shouldn’t have read them, but… Anyway, your mum has exceeded her overdraft and the account’s on hold until she pays some money in.’

  Martha leant against the banister, her head feeling like it was being squeezed by a giant hand, the shock of her mum’s financial meltdown pounding through her veins.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘Well, to be honest, it’s not your problem.’