Let Me Lie(6)
Ella in one arm, I bounce the pram down the steps before putting her inside and tucking the blankets firmly around her. The cold snap shows no sign of lifting, and the pavements glitter with frost. The gravel makes a dull crunch as frozen clumps break apart beneath my feet.
‘Anna!’
Our neighbour, Robert Drake, is standing on the other side of the black railings that separate our house from his. The properties are identical: three-storey Georgian houses with long back gardens and narrow outdoor passages that run from front to back between each house. My parents moved to Eastbourne in 1992, when my unexpected appearance had curtailed their London lives and launched them into married life. My late grandfather bought the house – two streets from where Dad had grown up – for cash (‘it’s the only currency people listen to, Annie’) and, I imagine, for significantly less than Robert paid when he bought the neighbouring property fifteen years later.
‘I’ve been thinking about you,’ Robert says. ‘It’s today, isn’t it?’ He gives a sympathetic smile and tilts his head to one side. The action reminds me of Rita, except that Rita’s eyes are warm and trusting, and Robert’s …
‘Your mother,’ he adds, in case I’m not following. There’s a touch of impatience in his voice, as though I should be more grateful for his compassion.
Robert is a surgeon, and although he has never been anything but friendly towards us, he has an intense, almost clinical gaze that makes me feel as though I’m on his operating table. He lives alone, mentioning the nieces and nephews who occasionally visit with the detachment of a man who has never had, and never wanted, children of his own.
I wrap Rita’s lead around the handle of the pram. ‘Yes. It’s today. It’s kind of you to remember.’
‘Anniversaries are always tough.’
I can’t listen to any more platitudes. ‘I was just taking Ella out for a walk.’
Robert seems glad of the change of subject. He peers through the railings. ‘Hasn’t she grown?’ There are so many blankets around Ella he couldn’t possibly see, but I agree and tell him what percentile she’s on, which is probably more detail than he needed.
‘Excellent! Jolly good. Well, I’ll let you get on.’
The drive is the width of the house, but only just deep enough for cars. Iron gates, never closed in my lifetime, lie flat against the railings. I say goodbye, then push the pram through the opening and onto the pavement. Across the street is a park, a grown-up space with complicated planting, and signs that keep you off the grass. My parents would take it in turns to walk Rita there, last thing at night, and she strains now at the lead, but I pull her back and push the pram towards town instead. At the end of the row of town houses, I turn right. I glance back towards Oak View, and as I do I realise Robert is still standing on his driveway. He looks away, and walks back into his house.
We walk along Chestnut Avenue, where glossy railings flank more double-fronted town houses; bay-tree sentries wrapped in twinkling white lights. One or two of the huge houses on the avenue have been turned into flats, but most are still intact, their wide front doors uncluttered by doorbells and letterboxes. Christmas trees are positioned in bay windows, and I catch glimpses of activity in the high-ceilinged rooms beyond. In the first, a teenage boy flops on a sofa; in the second, small children race around the room, heady with festive excitement. At number six an elderly couple read from their respective papers.
The door to number eight is open. A woman – late forties, I guess – stands in a French Gray hall, with one hand resting lightly on the door. I nod a hello, but although she lifts a hand in greeting, the laughing smile is directed towards a gently squabbling trio wrestling a Christmas tree from the car to the house.
‘Careful, you’re going to drop it!’
‘Left a bit. Watch the door!’
A peal of laughter from the teenage girl; a wry grin from her clumsy brother.
‘You’ll have to lift it over the railings.’
Dad, directing proceedings. Getting in the way. Proud of his children.
For a second it hurts so much I can’t breathe. I squeeze my eyes shut. I miss my parents so badly, at different times and in ways I could never have predicted. Two Christmases ago that would have been me and Dad with the tree; Mum mock-scolding from the door. There would have been tins of Roses chocolates, too much booze and enough food to feed the five thousand. Laura, arriving with a pile of presents if she’d just started a job; IOUs and apologies if she’d just left one. Dad and Uncle Billy, arguing about nonsense; flipping a coin to settle a bet. Mum getting emotional and putting ‘Driving Home for Christmas’ on the CD player.
Mark would say I’m looking at the past through rose-tinted glasses, but I can’t be alone in wanting to only remember the good times. And, rose-tinted or not, my life changed for ever when my parents died.
Suicide? Think again.
Not suicide. Murder.
Someone stole the life I had. Someone murdered my mother. And if they murdered Mum, it follows that Dad didn’t kill himself either. My parents were murdered.
I grip the handle of Ella’s pram more tightly, unsteadied by a wave of guilt for the months I’ve raged against my parents for taking the easy way out – for thinking of themselves above those they were leaving behind. Maybe I was wrong to blame them. Maybe leaving me wasn’t their choice.