Let Me Lie(59)

‘I thought I was losing my mind!’ The shout startles Ella, and I make myself calm down, for her sake.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What were you doing here?’

Mum closes her eyes. She looks tired, and so much older than before … before she died, my head still wants to say.

‘I came to see you. I was going to tell you everything. But you weren’t alone – I panicked.’

I wonder how many times she’s used her key, slipping in and out of the house like a ghost. The thought makes me shiver. I shift Ella from one hip to the other. ‘Where have you been?’

‘I rented a flat up north. It’s’ – she grimaces – ‘basic.’

I think of the uneasy feeling I’ve had over the last few days. ‘How long have you been back?’

‘I came down on Thursday.’

Thursday. Twenty-first of December. The anniversary of her … not her death. She didn’t die. I repeat this fact to myself, trying to make sense of it.

‘I’ve been staying at the Hope since then.’ She flushes slightly.

The Hope is a church-funded hostel near the seafront. They run the food bank, collect donations of clothing and toiletries, and offer temporary accommodation to women in need, in exchange for domestic chores. She sees my face.

‘It’s not that bad.’

I think of the five-star hotels my parents enjoyed, and imagine my mother on her knees cleaning loos in return for a bed in a dormitory of down-on-their-luck women.

Mum’s looking at Ella. ‘She’s beautiful.’

I wrap protective arms around my daughter, as though by hiding her from view I can shield her from her grandmother’s lies, but Ella arches her back and fights my embrace. She twists to see this stranger in our kitchen, this thin, ill-kempt woman who stares at her with filmy eyes I will not acknowledge.

I will not.

And yet my chest aches with a heaviness that has nothing to do with what my parents did, and everything to do with the pain I see on my mother’s face. The love. A love so tangible it arcs between us; so tangible I’m convinced Ella feels it. She reaches out a pudgy hand towards her grandmother.

A whole year, I remind myself.

Fraud. Conspiracy. Lies.

‘Could I hold her?’

The audacity takes my breath away.

‘Please, Anna. Just once. She’s my granddaughter.’

There’s so much I could say. That my mother relinquished any familial rights the night she faked her own death. That a year of lies means she doesn’t deserve the reward of Ella’s chubby hand in hers, of the talcum-powdered scent of a freshly washed head. That she chose to be dead, and as far as my daughter is concerned that is how she will remain.

Instead I walk towards my mother and hand her my baby.

Because it’s now or never.

Once the police know what she’s done they’ll take her away. A trial. Prison. The media circus. She had the police out searching for Dad, when all the time she knew he was fine. She claimed his assurance money. Theft, fraud, wasting police time … My head spins with the crimes they’ve committed, and with the fresh-found fear that I am now an accessory to them.

My parents brought this on themselves.

But I’m not a part of it. And neither is Ella.

My daughter shouldn’t be punished for other people’s actions. The least I can give her is a cuddle with a grandmother she’s never going to know.

My mother takes her as gently as if she were made of glass. With the ease of experience, she nestles her into the crook of her arm and runs her gaze across every detail.

I stand inches away, fingers twitching at my sides. Where is my father? Why has Mum come back now? Why come back at all? A hundred questions run through my head, and I can’t bear it any more. I snatch Ella back, so swiftly she lets out a cry of surprise. I shush her in my arms, pressing her against my chest when she tries to turn back towards her grandmother, who sighs softly – not in admonishment, but something more akin to contentment. As though her granddaughter were all that mattered. For a second my mother and I lock eyes; we agree on that one thing, at least.

‘You need to leave. Now.’ It’s more abrupt than I intended, but I no longer trust myself to stick to the script. Seeing my daughter in my mother’s arms is softening my heart. I feel myself wavering.

She lied to me.

I have to do the right thing. I have to tell Mark, the police.

But she’s my mother …

‘Ten minutes. I want to tell you something, and if you still feel the same then—’

‘There’s nothing you can tell me that—’

‘Please. Just ten minutes.’

Silence. I hear the grandfather clock in the hall, the call of an owl from the garden. Then I sit.

‘Five.’

She looks at me and nods. She takes a deep breath and lets it slowly out. ‘Your father and I haven’t been happy together for many years.’

The words fall into place as though I’ve been waiting for them. ‘You couldn’t split up, like normal people?’

Lots of my friends had divorced parents. Two houses, two holidays, two sets of presents … No one wants their parents to separate, but even a child can learn to understand it’s not the end of the world. I would have coped.