Let Me Lie(68)

I don’t mean to go to the Hope, although I suspect it was inevitable. My feet find their way there, and I don’t fight it.

It’s an unprepossessing house, rubble-rendered in grey, and wider than it is tall. I ring the bell.

The woman who comes to the door is still and gentle. She stands like a ballerina, with her feet in first position, and her hands together at her waist.

‘I was wondering if I could see Caroline …’ I hesitate, deciding not to use her surname. ‘She’s staying with you.’

‘Wait here, please.’ She smiles and closes the door again, gently but firmly.

I wonder if bad people come here. Abusive husbands, wanting their wives back home. I doubt this woman smiles then. I wonder if Dad’s looked for Mum here. I look around. Has he been watching me? He must have done, to know that I went to the police. I start to shake, my fingers gripping the handle of Ella’s pram.

‘I’m afraid there’s no one of that name here.’ She’s back so quickly I wonder if she went at all, or whether she simply stood behind the door for a moment. Perhaps this is a stock answer, delivered regardless of whether the owner of the name is in residence.

It’s only when the door closes again that I realise my mistake. Mum wouldn’t use her real name – first or last – not when she’s supposed to be dead. I walk away, wondering if I should go back and describe her; wondering if it is a good thing I didn’t find her here. If it’s meant to be this way.

‘Anna!’ I turn around. Mum is stepping out of the door, wearing the same clothes she wore on Christmas Eve. She pulls the hood of her coat over her head. ‘Sister Mary said someone was looking for Caroline.’

‘She’s a nun?’

‘She’s amazing. Fiercely protective – she’d have said no, whatever name you’d given.’

‘I did wonder. I’m sorry – I didn’t think.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ We’ve fallen into step, walking back towards the seafront. ‘Angela.’

I look at her, momentarily confused.

‘The name I use now. It’s Angela.’

‘Right.’

We walk on in silence. I didn’t go to the Hope with a prepared speech or plan. I feel awkward. Tongue-tied. I take my hands off the pram handle and move to the side and, wordlessly, Mum takes over, and it’s so easy – so right – that I could cry.

I can’t send her to prison. I want her – need her – in my life. In Ella’s life.

There are more people on the pier. Children race up and down, letting off steam after days cooped up inside. I see Mum pull her hood tighter and keep her head down low. We should have walked somewhere quieter – what if we see someone we know?

The helter-skelter is covered over; the coconut shy boarded up for winter. We walk to the end and look out at the sea. Grey waves throw themselves against the legs of the pier.

We are both trying to think of something to say.

Mum goes first. ‘How was your Christmas?’

It’s so ridiculously mundane, I feel laughter welling up inside me. I catch Mum’s eye, and she starts to laugh too, and suddenly we’re crying and laughing and her arms are wrapped tightly around me. Her smell is achingly familiar. How many embraces have I had from my mother? Not enough. It could never be enough.

When our sobs have subsided, we sit on a bench and pull Ella’s pram close.

‘Are you going to tell the police?’ Mum speaks quietly.

‘I don’t know.’

She says nothing for a while. When she speaks, it comes out in a rush. ‘Give me a few days. Till the New Year. Let me spend some time with Ella – let me get to know her. Don’t decide until then. Please.’

It’s easy to say yes. To delay my decision. We sit in silence, watching the sea.

Mum puts her arm through mine. ‘Tell me about your pregnancy.’

I smile. It seems like a lifetime ago. ‘I had awful morning sickness.’

‘Runs in the family, I’m afraid. I was sick as a dog with you. And the heartburn …’

‘Horrendous! I was swigging Gaviscon from the bottle by the end.’

‘Any cravings?’

‘Carrot sticks dipped in chocolate spread.’ The look on her face makes me laugh. ‘Don’t knock it till you try it.’ There’s a warm glow inside me, despite the wind that whistles across the pier. When the women in our NCT group moaned about the unwanted advice from their mothers, I thought how much I longed for pearls of wisdom from my own. How I wouldn’t care how much she interfered; how I’d value every visit, every call, every offer of help.

‘All I wanted when I was pregnant with you was olives. Couldn’t get enough of them. Dad said you’d come out looking like one.’

My laugh dies on my lips, and Mum quickly changes the subject.

‘And Mark – is he good to you?’

‘He’s a great dad.’

Mum looks at me curiously. I haven’t answered the question. I’m not sure I can. Is he good to me? He’s kind and thoughtful. He listens, he helps out around the house. Yes, he’s good to me.

‘I’m very lucky,’ I tell her. Mark didn’t have to stick by me when I fell pregnant. Lots of men wouldn’t have done.