Finding Grace(85)

I knew it! I knew our creepy neighbour had something to hide. All this time, Blake has trusted in him, wouldn’t hear a word said against him…

‘Lucie, move!’ I instinctively step aside as he swings a vase at Rhonda’s head. She swerves and lets go of the knife.

Jeffery snatches it up and shouts at me.

‘The police are on their way… get downstairs with Grace!’ He never takes his eyes from Rhonda. ‘We’re taking her home.’

He jumps in between us. I see Rhonda snatch up Angela’s knife and I rush out of the room with Grace just as Jeffery falls to the floor and as I turn, I see Rhonda pull a bloody knife from his back.

I scream, staggering forward with Grace.

My daughter’s eyes are wide but trancelike. If she falls into a diabetic coma, she could die.

We get to the top of the stairs, Grace falling into me. I pick her up to carry her down and jump back at the terrific crash as uniformed officers smash through the door and flood into the stairwell.

An officer takes Grace and we make our way downstairs, into the front room.

Shouting, banging and heavy footfalls echo through the ceiling. I close my eyes against it and hold my daughter close.

The door opens and I see DS Fiona Bean, followed by someone else.

‘Daddy?’ Grace whimpers as Blake rushes across the room to us.

‘I’ve come to take you both home,’ he says.





Sixty





We’re both uncomfortable. Dad sits with his fingers laced before him, looking up at me like one of those cute Facebook videos featuring a dog that knows it has done something wrong.

I’m thinking how I can approach the issue from a supportive angle yet show him I’m shocked. Disappointed.

He’s put us all at risk.

A distant memory floats to the surface. When I was about eleven years old and in my first year at senior school, I got an invite to hang around after school with one of the ‘cool’ groups of kids. They were going to the bowling alley where someone’s auntie worked. I tagged along and ended up buying everyone cans of lager and spending all my lunch money for the week.

I had to come home and admit everything to Dad. He didn’t lecture me, he said he could see I felt bad enough and I was suffering because I felt guilty and foolish. And he was spot on. I never did anything like that again.

Standing here now, our roles are now reversed and it feels wrong. Awkward. I’m trying to think how best to broach the subject when Dad speaks up.

‘I’m truly sorry, love,’ he croaks, his chin on his chest. He looks wretched. Pale and unshaven. I can count on one hand the number of times Dad hasn’t had a shower and shave first thing in a morning.

‘Why, Dad? Why did you let it get so bad without asking for our help?’

He looks up at me, his eyes red-rimmed and sore. ‘It happened too fast. It sounds stupid but I didn’t know I needed help, love. I thought I had it under control but… it seemed to get out of hand so quickly.’

Will it help to lecture Dad? Will it make things any better?

Perhaps not, but it might help me.

I feel like I’ve lived life so long now, biting my own tongue, considering everything I say before I say it. Part of me feels I should tell him how bloody disappointed I am, how he’s put us all at risk.

One of the things I’ve promised myself is to accept the truth of who I am and what I’ve done. Easily said, but it’s a work in progress.

‘There are things I need to say to you,’ I begin, as a heat begins to burn inside my chest.

He looks up quickly, recognising the new, hard edge to my voice.

I realise his blue eyes have paled a little over the years without me really noticing. The lines around his eyes, at the edges of his mouth have deepened. My dad is getting old.

I remember how he put his life on hold to raise me alone when Mum left and then died. How he worked double shifts at the chemical factory for years to give me a decent standard of living.

In my teen years, I’d come home from school and he’d be fast asleep in the chair, still wearing his coat and boots and he’d wake with a start to make my tea when I got home from netball, or art club.

I’ve seen those tired, beaten eyes before.

And I know I can’t do it. I can’t tell him how disappointed I am in him because I’m not.

‘I’m proud of you, Dad,’ I say softly. ‘I’ve always been proud of you.’

‘Proud of me?’ He wipes his wet cheeks with the back of his hand. ‘I’m a mess. My whole life’s a damn mess. After what I’ve done, the trouble I’ve caused everyone, I couldn’t blame you if you never wanted to set eyes on me again.’

‘I’m proud of you for getting help, Dad. I’m proud of you for being such a brilliant dad to me for all these years and a wonderful grandad to Grace and Oscar.’ I sigh. ‘We all make mistakes. I’ve made some terrible mistakes I couldn’t even bring myself speak about.’

‘We all make mistakes, lass. Some of us worse than others.’ He shakes his head and smiles softly. ‘There’s nothing you could ever do that means I’d ever be anything but proud of you, Lucie. I want you to know that.’

‘Thanks Dad,’ I whisper and I take his words and tuck them away in a small, soft place in my heart that I’m nurturing just for me.