Let Me Lie(64)

‘She could make a bit of an effort. It’s Ella’s first Christmas, after all.’

It was somewhere around three, and Mark and Joan were washing up after lunch. I paused on the stairs and dug my socked toes into the carpet. Not eavesdropping, just … listening.

‘She’s grieving, Mum.’

‘I grieved when your father died, but I didn’t give up, did I? I put on my face, and my apron, and carried on looking after you all.’

Mark said something I didn’t catch, and I carried on down the stairs and into the hall, deliberately stepping on the loose board I always made sure to avoid. The voices in the kitchen stopped abruptly, and by the time I came into the kitchen they were washing up in silence.

‘There she is! Here’s Mummy!’ Joan was falsely bright. ‘Did you have a nice nap, dear?’

I hadn’t napped. How could I have done? But I had seized the invitation to do so, as an escape from Mark’s cloying concern and Joan’s increasing irritation that I wasn’t the life and soul of the party. I had lain on the bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing.

It is still racing. Where is Mum now? Did she spend Christmas at the Hope? Is she safe? Why do I even care? The thought of Ella being in the nursery when that brick came through the window is horrific. My mother brought this to our door as surely as if she’d thrown the brick herself.

How can I forgive her for that?

And why, knowing what my father has done, is there a part of me that still wants to see him?

For the last twenty-four hours I’ve replayed the narrative of my childhood with the filter provided by the knowledge that my father was not the man I thought he was. My life is collapsing into foundations that were built on lies.

Faking your death isn’t something you enter into lightly. Mum must have been desperate.

She needs me.

I can’t forgive her.

I need her.

Around and around in circles.

Robert’s drawing room is full of our neighbours. There are a handful of children here, although most of the residents are older than us, their offspring grown and with their own families. I know everyone in the room, except the couple by the fireplace who must be the new occupants of Sycamore – I saw the removal van there last week.

Mark is engrossed in an animated discussion about alternative therapies with Ann and Andrew Booth from two doors down, and Joan has found a comfortable spot on a sofa and isn’t moving. I am walking slowly from room to room. There are pockets of people in the kitchen, the hall and the drawing room, and I drift from one to the other, with a plate of food in one hand, and a drink in the other, as though I’m en route to my seat. No one stops me. I don’t want to stand in a corner and make people feel they have to come and check I’m okay. I don’t want to talk.

Everyone tonight has offered their condolences, even though everyone did just that at my parents’ memorial service. I grow hot as I remember the tears that were shed, the speeches made, the kindness of near strangers who took time out of their week to write a card, make a casserole, send flowers.

What would they say if they knew?

Each well-meaning, heartfelt platitude makes me sick with guilt, and so I keep moving from room to room, avoiding eye contact, never stopping. I move past Robert, who is holding court with the elderly sisters who live in the corner house. Not technically our street, but they make amazing sausage rolls, which ensure them invitations to any communal celebration.

‘… sympathetically designed. I’d be happy to show you the plans.’ One by one, he’s gaining support for his extension. He hasn’t won over Mark yet, but I have no doubt he will.

‘I would, of course, be happy to compensate you for the inconvenience,’ Robert had said, when he came over to show us the plans, which involve temporarily removing the boundary between our properties, and digging up the disused septic tank and sewerage system. ‘I’ll ensure that any planting disturbed is replaced, and a brand-new lawn installed when everything’s finished.’

‘I’m just a little concerned about the light,’ Mark had replied, again.

He’d have got on well with Mum. He could have joined her campaign to stop back-garden development, listened to her arguments about environmental impacts and the integrity of historic buildings. For a second I see the two of them plotting over the kitchen table, and I have to swallow hard to stop myself from crying. Mark would like Mum – I know he would. And she’d like him; she’d like anyone who looked after me the way he does.

I have a sudden picture of Murray Mackenzie with Mark’s business flyer, of my mother’s handwriting on the reverse. I shake it away.

They never met. Mark says they didn’t, and he has no reason to lie. I trust him.

I trust him, but I can’t tell him about Mum. The second I do, he’ll make me call the police. There are no grey areas for Mark; he’s straight down the line. I used to like that in him. I still like it; it’s just … complicated now. I wander back to the kitchen. A neighbour from several doors away catches my eye from the opposite side of the room, and without thinking I smile. I look away, but it’s too late; he makes a beeline for me, his wife following in his wake.

‘I said to Margaret we must catch you before we go, didn’t I, Margaret?’

‘Hi Don. Hello Margaret.’

Having reached me, Don takes a deliberate step back in order to look me up and down, like an absent uncle. I wonder if he’s about to comment on how much I’ve grown, but instead he sighs.