The Forgetting(14)

‘But that’s . . . barbaric. Why would anyone do that, least of all to their own child?’

Dominic shook his head. ‘I still don’t know to this day. I asked my mum so many times when I was still living at home and she just refused to tell me. She said once that she’d go to her grave without ever telling me the reason why.’

The story swam in Livvy’s head, too restless to stay still. ‘What about your dad? Did you ever ask him?’

‘I wouldn’t have dared. I’d have probably got a beating just for daring to ask.’

Livvy tried to imagine the scene: a twelve-year-old boy discovering that all his worldly possessions had been disposed of, and the sense of bewilderment when nobody would tell him why. ‘I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how awful that must have been. Or why any parent would be so unspeakably cruel.’

Dominic shrugged. ‘It wasn’t as if that was the only cruel thing they ever did.’ He paused, and Livvy resisted the urge to fill the silence. ‘Every meal was like an endurance test. My dad couldn’t abide people talking during dinner so we had to eat in silence, every single night. I’d get sent to my room if I so much as coughed. And I can’t remember a time my mum ever tucked me up in bed, or read me a story. They were both just so . . . cold. I learnt to take care of myself and tried to avoid my dad’s rages.’

Livvy reached out, took hold of Dominic’s hand. ‘Why have you never told me all this before?’

There was a small shake of Dominic’s head, so slight she might have missed it had she blinked. ‘I think I was ashamed.’

‘Of what?’

For a few moments, Dominic said nothing, and when he began to speak, he kept his eyes trained firmly on the rainbow of spines lining the bookshelves. ‘It’s not easy to acknowledge that your parents hated you so much that they wanted to eradicate every trace of you.’

Livvy moved closer to Dominic, folded her body against his. ‘Whatever your parents did, it wasn’t your fault. You were a child. They were supposed to protect you and they failed. You have nothing to feel ashamed of.’ She felt him wince beneath her embrace. ‘What’s wrong?’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing. I walked into a piece of machinery on site and whacked my shoulder. I’m fine – just a bit bruised.’ He offered her a valiant half-smile. ‘I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to dump all this on you on a Friday night when we haven’t seen each other all week. It’s not exactly the ideal homecoming, is it?’

‘Don’t apologise. It’s your mum’s fault for turning up unannounced. I didn’t know whether I should even tell you, but I didn’t think I could keep something like that from you.’

Dominic squeezed her hand. ‘Of course you were right to tell me. But can you promise me one thing?’ He paused. ‘The stuff I’ve just told you, about how my parents treated me. Can you promise to keep that to yourself?’

‘Of course.’

‘I mean, don’t tell anyone, not even your parents, or your sister.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ve never told anyone those stories before. And the thought of people talking about them behind my back . . . I honestly can’t imagine ever telling anyone other than you.’

‘I won’t say a word, I promise. I’m just so sorry you had to go through all that.’

A faint murmur emerged from the baby monitor and Livvy glanced at the screen, watched Leo turn his head from one side to the other.

‘So what do you want to do about your mum? Just ignore her and hope she doesn’t come back?’

‘I think so. I don’t want to give her the oxygenation of contact – it’s what she wants, having me enmeshed in her life again. If she doesn’t get a response, she’s more likely to leave us alone.’

Leo cried out through the monitor. Livvy looked apologetically at Dominic. ‘I should go and see to him. He’s clearly not going to self-settle. Will you be okay?’

Dominic nodded and Livvy headed upstairs, lifted Leo out of his cot. As she held her son in her arms and rocked him back to sleep, she thought about the events Dominic had just described – like scenes from a horror film which, once viewed, could never be forgotten – trying and failing to understand how any parent could enact such cruelty on their child.





ANNA


LONDON

I stand in the centre of the sitting room, waiting for memories to emerge. I sense Stephen watching me, but I do not turn to look at him, am not yet ready to confront the weight of his expectation.

The sitting room of our house is small, slightly gloomy, despite a bay window at one end and a second window onto a small patio garden at the other. The floors are wooden, somewhat scuffed. Neatly packed bookcases fill the alcoves. A sofa and two armchairs are arranged around a cast-iron fireplace as if in preparation for a cold winter’s night, but they seem too big for the room somehow, as though they have fantasies of belonging to a much larger house. And there’s something austere about the room, unhomely almost, though I cannot put my finger on what it is.

‘Anna?’

I shake my head. There is nothing I remember about this room. No spark of memory. The house I have stepped into might as well be the home of a stranger.

‘Come through to the kitchen.’ Stephen’s voice hovers in a hinterland between encouragement and disappointment. He cups a hand around my elbow, guides me towards the door like I am an elderly relative unsteady on her feet.