Reluctantly Home(82)

My baby is dead and he’s never coming back. But your life shouldn’t be over too.

I know what happened was an accident. Robbie just ran out. He was always doing it. I told him over and over, but you know what boys are like. He thought he was invincible and that I was stupid, fussing all the time. When the police came to my door, I knew exactly what had happened. I’d almost been waiting for it.

So, I just want you to know that I don’t blame you. I did for a while. Even after the coroner said it was an accident and the police didn’t take any action, I still hated you. I had to. I was so angry with you, with the police, with Robbie, but mainly with myself for not keeping my baby safe.

But I’m not angry now. And I know none of this was your fault. Robbie just ran out. There was nothing you could do. In fact, it was a miracle more people weren’t hurt.

I don’t suppose it makes much difference to you – maybe you have forgotten all about us – but I wanted to tell you that. I don’t blame you. It wasn’t your fault.

Please don’t write back. I don’t want that. But I just had to do this for myself.

Yours sincerely,

Karen Smith

Pip looked up from the letter, stunned. She couldn’t register any emotions at all. It was as if someone had just wiped her mind clean, like a blackboard in a classroom. The words were clear enough; she understood their meaning, but she was numb. She could find no response to them.

The boy’s mother did not blame her. The mother of the child she killed could see that it had been an accident, a horrible, tragic accident. Pip knew she would blame herself for the rest of her life, but maybe her guilt would be easier to bear knowing that the one person who had the most reason to blame her did not.

Suddenly, Pip needed her own mother. The desire to be with her was so strong that she swept the letter up in one hand and ran from her room, shouting for her as if her life depended on it. Her mother appeared in the hallway at once, her eyes wide.

‘What is it, Pip?’ she asked, anxiety clipping her words short. ‘What’s happened?’

Pip hurtled down the stairs and threw herself into her so hard that her mother took a few steps backwards before she could regain her balance. She wrapped her arms tightly around Pip without asking any further questions and Pip began to sob hard into her shoulder. She could feel her mother’s hand stroking her hair in a gentle repetitive rhythm, like she had done when she was a little girl. There, there, Pip. There, there.

‘She says it wasn’t my fault,’ Pip blurted through her tears. ‘The accident wasn’t my fault.’

‘Well, of course it wasn’t,’ her mother replied softly. ‘You know that.’

‘But she said it,’ Pip sobbed.

‘Who said it, Pip? You’re not making much sense.’

‘The woman. The mother. Of the boy. Robbie. She said it. She sent the letter and she said it.’

‘Ah,’ replied her mother, as if no further explanation were required. ‘Good.’

Pip stayed there, cocooned, until she finally stopped trembling.





48


Project Tidy Up was going rather well and Evelyn was feeling pretty smug. There was still a way to go, and the rooms she had tackled thus far were a long way from perfect, but things were definitely better. She had also figured out how to put her internet shopping on hold, so nothing new had been delivered to the house. She had missed having the delivery driver to share a few words with, but she had replaced this in a new way.

She had left the house.

She had ventured to the little supermarket at the end of the High Street and bought herself milk and bread and a rather delicious muffin. And she had spoken to the girl at the checkout. She had wanted to tell her that this was the first time she had been out and bought her own groceries in years, but that felt like too much information to share, so instead she had passed some inane comment about the weather and the girl had given an equally inane reply, and then she had left.

And it felt amazing.

Nicholas had been virtually speechless when he had made his weekly duty call.

‘Can you help me get rid of these things?’ she asked him as he stood, open-mouthed, gaping at the mountain of black plastic bags. ‘That pile is for charity and that one for the tip. I’d do it myself, but . . .’

‘Of course, of course,’ he said, making a decent stab at enthusiasm, although Evelyn had seen his expression slide when he realised the amount of work that now lay ahead of him. ‘What’s brought this on?’ he asked her.

‘It’s been long enough,’ Evelyn replied simply.

Nicholas seemed to accept this at face value, and dutifully loaded the bags into his car and took them away over several trips.

Pip had taken to popping over in the evenings, and they shared a jug of cocoa and chatted about their lives in London. Even though Pip was a few years younger than Scarlet would have been, Evelyn couldn’t help but make comparisons. If Scarlet had lived, perhaps this was what their relationship would have been like: the two of them chatting easily at the kitchen table, sharing ideas and thoughts. Evelyn couldn’t imagine having that kind of rapport with her own mother, but she liked to think her Scarlet wouldn’t have been as desperate to run away as she herself had been.

Evelyn told Pip about the Winter of Discontent and the freezing flat she had shared with Brenda, and Pip reciprocated with stories about the cases she had worked on. One night, after they had laughed until they cried over a calamitous show Evelyn had once been in, Evelyn sat back in her chair and licked her lips.