The Secret Mother(53)

The familiarity of being at the cemetery calms me a little. The weak sunshine gives out scant heat, so I walk briskly along the pathways, the crunching gravel underfoot oddly satisfying. It’s a tranquil place – sixty acres of woodland cemetery, with a Victorian chapel at its heart. The pathway curves this way and that, and it’s a good twenty-minute walk until I reach them, my babies, resting under a sycamore tree. They said we were lucky to get Sam a space next to his sister. If ‘lucky’ is a word you’d use in such a circumstance.

I step off the path and up onto the frost-tipped grass, where a magpie hops away and takes flight. One for sorrow. I give a bitter inward laugh. But then I shake off the bolt of sadness and try to be cheerful for their sakes. They don’t want to see a miserable face each week.

I tidy away last week’s shrivelled snowdrops and pansies, and replace them with buttery daffodils for Lily and a bright clump of barberry for Sam, its miniature yellow flowers spilling out over shiny dark green leaves. Each week I bring them something different, taking my time to select flowers I think they would like. Pathetic, really – I know they can’t see my offerings.

Maybe I’m laying the flowers for myself. For my own comfort. I have this same tussle in my head every week, never coming to any firm conclusion. There’s no revelation. No sign from above. Just me standing above their graves with different bunches of flowers. Maybe if Scott had come with me each week, it would have been different. We could have talked about our children together. Brought them to life in shared memories. Recalled funny incidents from Sam’s past, imagined how he and Lily would have played together. Wondered what kind of adults they would have become. Instead, it’s always been me, alone with my thoughts, trying to remain positive, but failing to prevent the darkness from sneaking in.

I sit on the damp wooden bench opposite their gravestones and try to recall them: Lily’s angelic sleeping face and Sam’s cheeky grin, his occasional scowl, his breathless, hysterical laughter when Scott pretended to be the tickle monster. I push out the later images of his sallow-skinned bravery, lying in the hospital minus his glorious dark curls. The tubes protruding from his body giving him a few more precious weeks of life, but making him less like himself and more like there was some alien creature taking him over.

I stand up and blink away hot tears. I can’t bear to leave, but I’m not strong enough to stay. Not today. I’m unable to conjure up any of my usual chatter for them, my thoughts spiralling off down dark corridors. And instead of my children’s faces, I picture Fisher and his son. It was only a week ago that Harry appeared in my kitchen. Maybe tomorrow, once I’ve been to the clinic, I’ll have more of an idea what’s going on. Maybe then I’ll find some peace.

I send silent kisses to their graves and hold them tight in my mind’s eye before I turn away and crunch back down the gravel path. The familiar twist of guilt tugs at my guts as I leave my babies behind for another week.





Chapter Twenty-Six





Monday morning, the traffic is heavy. Maybe I shouldn’t have driven. But I wanted the peace of this heated tin box, rather than the chilly, crowded bus. And with the luxury of a satnav, I barely have to concentrate on the journey – just follow the green arrows on the dashboard screen while I psych myself up for whatever it is I’m about to discover.

I park in the NCP car park and walk the two blocks to the Balmoral Clinic. Damp, cold air seeps through my clothes while dark clouds threaten rain. I quicken my pace. The building is bigger than I remember, more imposing, and I’m not prepared for the sharp memories that assail me as I approach the place. Remembering how Scott dropped me at the entrance late that night while he parked the car and then raced back. It was exciting, if a little scary. The final day that my life was still on track to be good. Before all my hopes began to collapse. The sliding doors open and I walk inside, my boots echoing on the tiled floor.

The foyer is empty, decked out with seasonal decorations. I walk straight ahead to the curved reception desk, the sudden warmth of the place a little too cloying, mingling with the scent of floral air freshener that catches in the back of my throat. A woman in a skirt suit, an ugly red bow/cravat thing around her neck, comes out of a set of swing doors to my left, her heels clacking. She looks like an air hostess and fixes me with the same brand of corporate smile.

‘Good morning,’ she says, walking over and stepping behind the desk. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Hi. My name’s Tessa Markham. I called a couple of days ago to ask about finding out the name of the doctor who delivered my twins. It was a while ago, and I don’t have his name.’

‘You want to know who delivered your twins?’

‘Yes, please. They told me I had to either put my query in writing or come in, in person.’

‘Okay, hold on a minute. I’ll go and ask admin.’ She disappears through a door behind her and I wait, trying not to think about the fact that this is the place where Lily took both her first and last breaths.

A couple of minutes later, the woman returns. ‘Do you have any ID on you?’

I nod, dig in my bag and pull out my photo driving licence and a council tax bill.

‘Great, thanks.’ The woman takes them, looks at the picture on my licence, looks at me, then examines the bill. She nods, satisfied. ‘If you’d like to come through, our office manager, Margie Lawrence, will help you find what you’re looking for.’ She hands me back my ID and I stuff it back in my bag while following her through the door.