by Lana Newton
‘I won’t take up too much of your time,’ she said to Claire when they were seated in the living room. ‘Someone saw you argue with your mother outside her house a week before her murder. Can you tell me anything about it?’ She consulted her notes, went back a few pages as if to double-check something and finally fixed her expectant gaze on Claire, who wondered what other evidence against her was hiding inside the little notebook.
‘I don’t know,’ she stammered, gripping the strap of her handbag so hard, her knuckles turned white. She felt her cheeks redden as if she had something to hide. The problem was, even if she did have anything to hide, she couldn’t remember.
As if reading her thoughts, PC Kamenski said, ‘You need to start remembering, and soon. You are not doing yourself any favours.’
‘If arguing with one’s mother was a crime, you’d have to arrest just about everyone.’
‘Not every mother is found stabbed in her own house.’
‘You think it was me, don’t you? You think I had something to do with it? That I picked up a knife and stabbed the woman who gave birth to me, who held me and nursed me, who cooked chicken soup for me when I was sick and helped me with my homework.’ Claire didn’t know if any of it was true. But the police officer looked embarrassed enough to shrug apologetically and glance away. Encouraged, Claire continued, ‘Do you have a mother? Let me guess, the two of you never had an argument?’
‘Just doing my job. I didn’t mean to alarm you.’
‘I’m not alarmed and you know why? Because I didn’t do anything wrong. So, if there’s nothing else, I have to go.’
‘There’s nothing else,’ said PC Kamenski, pursing her lips as if she wanted to add, yet. There’s nothing else, yet.
While Paul drove in silence, Claire tried to remain calm – and failed – by watching the cars speeding down the M4. Two things were bothering her. Firstly, the police still suspected her. And secondly, they might actually have a reason to. That meant she could have had something to do with her mother’s murder. And that was the worst part – the could have. The not knowing for certain.
Tegan’s house looked weathered and old, its walls hidden behind an onslaught of Boston ivy. The brick, where it was visible, looked like it had been bleached by the sun. The front yard was drowning in dahlias and there was a hint of lavender in the air. Claire had a sudden feeling this house and this garden and these walls and these flowers held the key to her childhood.
With trepidation she stood on the porch, wishing once again that Paul was with her instead of in a nearby café getting breakfast and his fix of daily news. Windsor looked different in the rain, grey and sombre, all the colours smudged together, but she liked the freshness in the air and the crispy feel to it. The castle, like a grim giant, lurked in the background, its outline barely visible in the mist. She was about to ring the bell when the door flew open and a small woman appeared. Claire couldn’t quite read the expression on her face. There was anxiety and surprise, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes, and there was joy, too.
It was as if her mother’s photograph had come to life. Her aunt had the same graceful build, the same blonde hair and grey eyes. Claire studied her, searching for little clues to what Angela had been like, taking in her bright smile and kindly face. Her mind was playing tricks on her, and she almost opened her mouth and said, ‘Mum.’
After a moment of quiet observation, Tegan threw her hands up to her face and said, ‘Please, forgive me for staring like this. I haven’t seen you in so long. Come in, come in.’
Claire followed her aunt down a narrow corridor into the living room. Once there, Tegan turned around sharply and hugged Claire, taking her by surprise. She had expected small talk, a polite conversation one might share with a stranger. What she hadn’t expected was the warmth of her aunt’s reception. It felt unsettling and she didn’t know how to respond. Despite what her father had told her, Tegan seemed kind and genuinely happy to see Claire.
‘Thank you for inviting me, Ms Moore.’
‘What is this Ms Moore nonsense? You’ve always called me Aunt Tegan.’
‘Aunt Tegan.’ Claire repeated the words, tasting them like an exotic fruit she had never had before. Calling this woman her aunt made her feel happy and secure and a little less lonely.
‘We must have tea!’ exclaimed Tegan, her face flushed. ‘Is Earl Grey still your favourite?’ Without waiting for an answer she rushed into the kitchen, adding, ‘Since you turned 14, you refused to drink any other kind.’
‘Earl Grey sounds perfect,’ said Claire, even though she had no idea what it tasted like. But who was she to argue?
Unlike her parents’ mansion in North London, this house was small and cosy, with quirky pillows on the sofa and candles on the coffee table. The walls were freshly painted and the furniture seemed new. Everywhere Claire looked, she could see old black-and-white photographs, faces frozen in happy smiles, moments of joy captured and framed. She longed to walk over and study them in detail, hoping to see her mother’s face, herself as a child and, most importantly, her brother. But she didn’t want to appear rude, so she remained on the sofa and waited for her aunt to come back.
Tegan returned with a tray. There were two steaming cups of tea, some strawberry jam, scones and biscuits. Claire wished she had thought of bringing something for her aunt and felt embarrassed.
‘I only ever drink green tea myself,’ said Tegan as she made herself comfortable next to Claire. ‘Anything else is too strong for me. I’m sorry these are from the supermarket.’ She pointed at the biscuits. ‘Had I known earlier you were coming, I would have baked some myself.’
‘These are perfect, Aunt Tegan, thank you,’ said Claire, taking a biscuit and dunking it in her tea. ‘You look so much like Mum. Not that I remember what she looked like. Only from photographs. Like I said in my note, I was in an accident. I lost my memory. I had no idea she had a sister until I found a photo in her Bible. Then Dad told me about you …’ She was blabbering and couldn’t help it.
The cup trembled in Tegan’s hand and she placed it on the coffee table. Her eyes filled with tears. A wrinkled handkerchief appeared as if by magic in her hands and she blew her nose. ‘I’m so sorry. Ever since I found out … I was watching the news one day and I saw … Angela, my darling sister! Since then, I’ve been such a mess.’ She sighed and tried to dry her eyes with her handkerchief but the tears kept coming. ‘I just can’t get my head around it. Angela is my twin. Was …’ She gasped as if in pain. ‘She’s always been by my side, even before we were born. If she’s gone, how can I still be here? How am I alive without her?’
‘I’m sorry, Aunt Tegan,’ whispered Claire, herself on the brink of tears.
‘Tell me what happened. Have they found the murderer? Who would do this? She was an angel. Who would wish her harm?’
‘The police are investigating. They don’t tell us much.’ She wasn’t about to admit to her aunt that she was a suspect. She could barely admit it to herself.
After Claire told her everything she knew about the accident and the murder, Tegan crossed herself and whispered, ‘That’s awful. I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Claire.’
‘Thank you, Aunt Tegan. I’m trying to piece my life back together.’
‘I haven’t spoken to your mother in ten years. Last time I saw her, you were a 16-year-old girl.’
Tegan’s face lit up as she spoke about the past. Enthralled, Claire listened about the day she was born, her first day at school and her first ballet lesson. All the firsts she longed to remember but couldn’t. She learnt that she had a sweetheart when she was twelve and was convinced she was going to marry him. Her room had always been filled with flowers he gave her because his mum was a florist. She found out what food she had loved as a child and how much she had wanted a little sister. ‘Instead, your mother gave you a doll. It was so realistic, it looked just like a real baby. You called your doll Barbara and never went anywhere without her.’
So m
any happy memories but Claire knew there were dark times in her past, shadows looming over her everywhere she looked. And that was what she wanted to hear about. She thought of the red dots marking the diary she had written at 16, like drops of blood announcing another battle lost. She thought of every entry in between, of a teenage girl trying her best to live a normal life, while something terrible was happening around her. She remembered the horror she experienced every time she had the nightmare.
‘Did I have a good relationship with my mum? Did we ever argue?’
‘You were as close as a mother and daughter could possibly be. You told your mother everything.’
Claire was silent for a moment, thinking about her mother, trying to picture her face. Then she realised – she didn’t need to picture it, all she had to do was look at her aunt. As relieved as Claire was to hear Tegan’s words, she realised that her aunt was talking about her as a child. Everything could have changed since then. ‘Aunt Tegan, I need to ask you about the fire.’
Tegan’s face crumbled and for a few moments she couldn’t speak. ‘It was a terrible tragedy. Your brother … He was the sweetest boy. And I’m not just saying that because he was my nephew. He was the kindest boy … Look at me, you came all this way and all I do is burst into tears. I’m so sorry.’
Claire moved closer to her aunt and put her arm around her. Tegan’s shoulders were shaking. ‘My brother never got angry or violent?’
‘Nate?’ Tegan looked up at Claire, her eyes wide. ‘That boy had a heart of gold. What made you think he was violent?’
‘It’s just this dream I keep having. Do you have any photos of him?’ Claire was desperate to see her brother’s face.
‘Of course.’
In an antique chest of drawers by the window Tegan found an old album. It didn’t take long – it seemed it had been placed on top of all the other knick-knacks, like a cherished book read over and over again. Claire put the leather-bound album in her lap and turned the pages slowly. Snaps of a happy family greeted her – nothing but beaming faces and wide smiles. Here was her mother, decades younger – or was it her aunt (it was impossible to tell) – posing outside a skating rink, skates around her neck, arms waving. And the two of them, Tegan and Angela, identical in every way, pushing a pram together. Just like the framed pictures on the walls, these photos were grey-scale, the silhouettes ghostlike.
‘All these photos are black-and-white,’ said Claire.
‘When I was younger, I fancied myself somewhat of a photographer. I thought black-and-white was artistic. Now I wish they had some colour in them.’
And then there was a young boy, with his arm around young Claire, dressed in a school uniform.
‘That’s Nate,’ whispered Claire. It wasn’t a question. She knew her brother as soon as she saw him. With her heart beating violently she studied the face from her dream. Trembling, she touched the black-and-white image, wanting to get to know him, to absorb him through the skin of her fingers. Nate looked delicate, almost feminine. Even though he was taller than his sister, his shoulders wide, there was something about him that seemed fragile. Maybe because she knew that all too soon he would be taken away from her.
Claire looked at her younger self in the photograph, at her brother’s smiling face. They seemed so full of joy, like they didn’t have a care in the world. ‘How old are we in this picture?’
‘Nate had just turned 16. You were 14.’
No longer children but not yet adults, either. Their whole lives ahead of them. Except, Nate’s life was about to come to an end. ‘Can I keep this photo?’
‘You can keep the entire album,’ said Tegan.
Claire watched as once again tears ran down Tegan’s cheeks. This album was the only link she had to her twin sister’s family. It must have meant so much to her. Didn’t twins share an unbreakable bond? What had to happen for that bond to turn into alienation, into nothingness? ‘Aunt Tegan, do you have any children of your own?’
‘You were the only family I had.’
Her heart thumping, Claire asked, ‘Why did you and Mum stop talking?’
‘I didn’t approve of her choices, I suppose. And it hurt her feelings. I should have kept my opinion to myself.’
‘When you say her choices …’
‘I didn’t think your father was the right man for Angela. She was too good for him. I never understood what she saw in him. But love is blind and she refused to listen.’ Claire, who didn’t think anyone was too good for her father, shook her head. Her aunt didn’t seem to notice. ‘The truth is, we fell out long before you moved to London. But being so close to you meant I could still see you. When you left, that was it. I never heard from my sister again.’ Tegan dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘Angela was engaged to a wonderful man when she was younger. If only she married him, everything would have turned out differently.’
‘Who was he?’
‘His name was David. He was kind and sweet, the type of man you would hope your daughter to meet one day. They were about to get married. The church was booked, the invitations went out.’
‘What happened?’
‘She was working in London and he was finishing his degree in Edinburgh, so they were apart for a few months. He came to see her one day and told her he had slept with someone else.’ The handkerchief in Tegan’s hands was knotted and twisted. There were tiny beads of perspiration on her forehead. She sat in silence for a long time, staring out the window, as if she would rather talk about anything else. ‘People make mistakes. Nobody is perfect. He said it was a one-time thing and he felt terrible about it. That he loved Angela and regretted what happened straight away. That he wanted to be honest with her. He didn’t want a relationship built on lies. He begged her to forgive him but she couldn’t. She thought she could never trust him again. A week after they broke up, she found out she was pregnant. She met your father four months later.’
‘Are you saying Dad is not Nate’s biological father?’
Tegan nodded. ‘Your parents never made a secret of it. Both you and your brother knew about it growing up and it didn’t matter to you at all.’ She took a sip of her tea and stared into space as if lost in thought. ‘But it mattered to Tony. Between you and I, I don’t think he ever loved your mother. He saw an opportunity and took it, exploiting a pregnant woman who’d found herself in a vulnerable position. What does that tell you about his character?’
‘That’s not true,’ cried Claire. She knew her father. He loved her mother more than life itself.
‘He’s been unfaithful to Angela from day one. But your mother refused to believe it. Ironic, really. She didn’t marry David, who would never have looked at another woman again in his life. Instead, she ended up with Tony.’
For a moment Claire couldn’t speak. She was shocked into silence by her aunt’s words. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Intricately carved, its hands moved heavily. The clock didn’t show the correct time. It was two hours late. Tick-tock, heard Claire, as she thought of all the little white lies that defined her life. ‘It doesn’t sound like my father at all. He’s been so kind to me. Mum’s murder broke his heart. You should see him. He’s not himself. That’s not the man who didn’t love his wife.’
Tegan reddened and her hand flew up to her mouth. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. It must be such a shock for you to hear this after everything that’s happened. I’m so sorry. I should have kept it to myself.’
‘That’s okay,’ said Claire, even though it wasn’t. She, too, wished Tegan had kept her accusations to herself.
‘Before you go, I’d like to give you something.’ Tegan left the room but soon returned, carrying a box filled with books, letters and notepads. ‘Everything here belongs to you. You never know, it might help you remember. And I hope you’ll visit me again soon. I have no family left other than you.’
Claire didn’t reply. She stumbled out of her aunt’s house with barely a hug and a kiss g
oodbye. It had taken her by surprise how profoundly unhappy it made her feel to hear someone speak ill of her father. Not that she believed a word of it. Everyone is entitled to their opinion, she whispered to herself in the car. It didn’t mean that this opinion was correct.
* * *
In the box Tegan had given her, hidden among old magazines, photographs and books, Claire found another diary, dated a year before the fire. There were no red dots and no ‘I hate hims’ hidden inside the covers. But that wasn’t what Claire was looking for. She devoured every word, searching for something, anything, about Nate, longing to fill the void in her mind where her brother should have been.
Nate starts uni next month. Mum’s so proud of him, she’s throwing him a party. Hope Kieran is there.
Nate came home from uni on the weekend. He wanted his football jersey back but I refused to give it to him.
Nate’s friends are such dorks. Except Kieran. He’s cute.
Mum said I should be more like Nate. His room is always tidy and mine never is. Not my fault he’s such a clean freak. While he was gone, I made his room look more like mine. Wait till he gets home and sees it.
Nate bought a pizza. Sasha and I waited till he was in the bathroom and ate most of it.
Nate gave me a yearly subscription to the Ballet magazine for my birthday. Best present ever!
As Claire tried to read between the lines, she saw the camaraderie the two of them had shared, how much she had enjoyed teasing her brother and how he would let her because he loved her. How eagerly she had waited for Nate to visit once he’d moved out. And how he spoilt his little sister rotten. What she saw was love masqueraded as sibling rivalry.
That was when she knew – Nate hadn’t been forgotten, for how could he be? Paul was right. He was hidden deep inside her heart, away from everyone she loved, because losing him was the worst thing that had ever happened to her.
