In Another Life, page 8
Bronte screwed up her nose.
‘I’ve only just started,’ she confessed. ‘But Dad told me about Mum’s oldest friend. I’d never heard of her either, but Dad remembered Mum mentioning her. I’ve got a phone number for her.’
‘So you’ll ring her?’
Bronte bit her lip.
‘Yes, but I can’t just blurt out my questions on the phone. I think I need to meet her.’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ agreed Helen. ‘Where does she live?’
‘Wells-next-the-Sea.’
‘In Norfolk? Nice. Will you go and see her?’
Bronte hadn’t got this far in her thinking.
‘I don’t know. I suppose so. I could go at the weekend if this woman is around and happy to see me. Fancy a road trip?’
Helen tutted. ‘I can’t this weekend but if it’s another time then definitely.’
This was all moving quite quickly and Bronte paused to take stock.
‘I suppose I should probably go on my own anyway,’ she mused. ‘What do you think?’
Helen nodded. ‘Probably. Wouldn’t want to ambush the poor woman. Take your running kit, though. There are no hills in Norfolk so you can get some big miles in. What are you going to ask her?’
‘I really haven’t thought. I’d just started investigating when you arrived. What I really want to know is whether Mum actually did have a sister.’
Helen looked thoughtful. ‘If it turns out she did and never mentioned it then you have to wonder why not. They might have had a falling-out. Then again, surely she’d just say they’d lost touch, not hide her existence entirely.’
Bronte agreed. She hadn’t thought her mother was the type for a family feud so that scenario felt unlikely.
‘Maybe she wanted to keep her hidden for some other reason,’ said Helen. ‘Or maybe it was her whole past she didn’t want you to know about.’
Again, Bronte couldn’t see it. But then a few days ago it would never have crossed her mind that her mother might have a secret sister.
Helen looked at the sports watch on her wrist, ready for the run that hadn’t happened.
‘It’s only just gone seven. Why don’t you ring her now? No time like the present.’
The thought horrified Bronte. She couldn’t just ring up like that without any preparation. Or maybe she could . . .
‘What should I say?’ she asked Helen.
‘Explain who you are and that you’re going to be in Norfolk and would like to call in to chat about her memories of your mum. It’s almost true.’
Bronte still felt doubtful.
‘Go on,’ encouraged Helen. ‘What’s the worst that can happen? She says no and you don’t get to talk to someone you didn’t even know existed until yesterday. But she won’t say no.’
Bronte breathed in deeply to give herself courage.
‘Okay,’ she said.
She dialled the number.
18
Liz said yes, she would be delighted to meet Bronte and why didn’t she call in on Sunday afternoon for a cup of tea as she was passing. Bronte thanked her and then put her phone down.
‘Well?’ asked Helen, her eyes wide. ‘What did she sound like?’
‘Nice. Surprised to hear from me but she knew Mum had three kids so she knew who I was. London accent, I think. Well, southern at least.’
‘Was that where your mum was from?’ asked Helen, and when Bronte nodded she added, ‘That makes sense then, doesn’t it? How far is it?’
Bronte opened up the map app, had a look and pulled a face. ‘About four hours’ drive,’ she said.
The distance felt overwhelming, like she was being asked to trek to the far side of the moon. She knew this was ridiculous but when had she ever driven herself so far before? She couldn’t think of a single occasion and her head spun at the idea of doing it now.
Her apprehension must have shown because Helen gave her an understanding smile. ‘It’s not that far if you take it steady,’ she said encouragingly. ‘It’ll be an adventure!’
As it turned out, Bronte quite enjoyed the drive. She bought a new audiobook to listen to and it felt comforting to have Juliet Stevenson’s calming voice in the car with her. It was almost as though the actress was sitting in the passenger seat next to her as heavy goods vehicles thundered past on the A1. Sometimes they drove so close that her little car shook in the downdraught, and at one point Bronte almost commented on how imposing they were to Juliet before she remembered that she wasn’t actually there.
After a couple of challenging roundabouts, which she had to circumnavigate more than once before she identified her exit, she found herself driving down smaller and smaller roads until they were not much more than farm tracks. Finally, a quaint sign featuring a fisherman’s rope and a beach scene announced that she had arrived at the seaside town of Wells-next-the-Sea.
Liz’s house was a bungalow in a quiet cul-de-sac of other bungalows. Bronte pulled up outside and checked her appearance in the rear-view mirror. Her heart banged against her ribs and her hand shook as she applied some lip balm. She couldn’t decide if she was more nervous about meeting a stranger or what that stranger might tell her.
The bungalow was semi-detached, and there was a paved area with a little red car parked on it. Someone seemed to be in, at least. The front garden had been gravelled and was spotted with pots of newly planted bedding flowers that promised to blossom into a riot of colour once the summer took hold. Interspersed between the containers were various concrete figures – some gnomes, a meerkat or two and a little pond with fairies at its edge. Bronte tried not to judge the display, but it was tricky.
She had run through what she wanted to say a hundred times but now she was here her nerve was failing her and it was all she could do not to start the engine and drive away. But then the front door was opening and there stood a woman who she assumed must be Liz.
She was striking, tall with ashy-blonde hair pulled up into a straggly ponytail. She was wearing a pair of linen dungarees in a faded sea-green and had black Crocs on her feet. She didn’t match the impressions that her house created at all.
‘Bronte,’ she called. ‘Hi. Please. Come in.’
Bronte stepped out of the car, smiling broadly and telling herself that there was nothing to be nervous about.
‘Hello. You must be Liz,’ she said. ‘So nice to meet you.’
She walked towards the woman with hand outstretched ready to shake but as soon as she was close enough, Liz engulfed her in a hug.
‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ Liz said.
Bronte let the embrace wash over her and resisted the urge to reply that, by contrast, she had heard absolutely nothing about Liz.
‘Come in, come in,’ said Liz with genuine enthusiasm. ‘I’ll stick the kettle on.’
Bronte’s eye was drawn to the occupants of the garden and Liz caught her looking.
‘My kids keep buying them for me,’ she said by way of explanation. ‘I think the first one was supposed to be a joke but then they just haven’t stopped. I hated them to start with but I’m growing quite fond now.’
She grinned in a way that drew Bronte to her. Everything about this woman seemed to Bronte to be entirely open and honest.
Bronte followed her inside and to the back where a light and airy conservatory ran the width of the bungalow.
‘Please. Take the weight off, darlin’,’ said Liz, indicating the wicker chairs topped with plump but faded floral cushions. ‘What will you have? Tea? Coffee?’
‘Coffee, please,’ replied Bronte. ‘What a lovely home. Have you been here long?’
‘Me and Rich moved up here just before Covid. He was in the haulage game and sold the business to a competitor, so we retired to the seaside. Bit of a cliché but it’s lovely here. I’m a bit too young to be retired, though, so I do some holiday let management to keep busy. There are a lot of holiday lets in Wells.’
She disappeared and Bronte could hear her moving about the kitchen.
‘And where do you live?’ she called through.
‘I’m in Ripon, just down the road from Mum and Dad. Dad,’ she corrected. ‘My brother and sister both moved away but I seemed to get stuck. More of a home bird, I suppose, and there are worse places to live,’ she added, wondering why she was justifying herself to someone who hadn’t shown any inclination to question her decisions.
Liz appeared with a tray and put it down on a footstool, passing Bronte a cup of black coffee.
‘Help yourself to milk and sugar,’ she said. ‘I was devastated to hear about your mum. They broke the mould when they made her. One of a kind she was. It must have been a horrible shock, her passing so sudden like that. Dreadful.’
Bronte nodded.
‘I was in bits, not making it to the funeral, but me and Rich were on holiday. I hope it went well, though.’
Bronte nodded again. ‘I think Mum would have liked it,’ she said.
Liz took a sip of her coffee and then eyed Bronte over the top of it.
‘So, what can I do for you, Bronte?’ she said.
There was a pause as Bronte considered her questions again. She had been planning to go straight in and ask about the mysterious sister, but now she was here that felt a little too blunt.
‘I suppose I just wanted to hear stories about Mum from when she was young, from people who knew her then,’ she said, stopping herself from mentioning that Loretta had never talked about that part of her life in case Liz got spooked.
Was it her imagination or did Liz relax a little, her body becoming a little less rigid in her chair?
‘Well, now then. Let me see,’ she said.
19
‘We lived in Barnet. North London, as you know?’
Bronte nodded, although she only really knew the bits of London that she’d seen on a school trip – Buckingham Palace, the Houses of Parliament, Trafalgar Square. The parts where people actually lived were a mystery to her. The fact that her mother had lived there, however, was the greatest mystery of all.
‘You’ll have been there, I suppose,’ Liz said, and Bronte shook her head.
‘Mum never took us. That’s partly why I’m interested,’ she said.
‘Well, it was a council estate but not a bad one. No high rises to speak of and we didn’t have riots, not round our way. Plenty of people bought their houses from the council. It was a new thing, folks scraping together the money so they could own their own homes. My mum and dad did it, and your grandma and grandad. Like I say, it was a nice estate.’
Bronte tried to keep the shock off her face. Her mother, the way she talked, dressed, behaved, the way they lived in Ripon. Nothing about any of that spoke of the kind of humble beginnings that Liz was describing.
‘Not that it was easy,’ Liz continued. ‘There wasn’t much money. Your grandma worked in the laundrette, for pennies I should imagine, but your grandad was a welder and that brought in a decent wage. Enough to get a mortgage on the house anyway.’
Liz leaned back in her chair.
‘Funny old time, the eighties,’ she said. ‘People these days seem to think it was all big hair, bright colours and Wham! but it wasn’t really like that. We didn’t have much but we were more accepting somehow. Credit cards were just for the rich. If we wanted something we saved up for it. It took an age but that made you value it more when you finally got it. But we was happy. You didn’t hear half as much moaning as you do these days, people bleating on about rights and what have you. Or maybe that’s my rose-tinted glasses.’
She gave Bronte half a smile.
‘Anyway, we met on the first day of school, me and your mum.’
‘Yes. My dad told me that. Something about you being put next to each other alphabetically.’
Liz smiled fondly.
‘That’s right. Liz and Loretta. Mind you, no one ever called her by her full name. She was Etta to us. Not sure how she ended up with such a posh name. Her mum must have had big ideas for her right from the start. I was always just Liz. That’s what’s on my birth certificate. No airs and graces for me.’
‘And did you stay friends?’ asked Bronte.
‘We did. I left school at sixteen. Most people did. But your mum did A levels. She had to go to college for that. Our school didn’t have a sixth form. But we stayed close. I liked that about her. She could have gone all snotty with her clever new mates but she didn’t.
‘And then she went off to university. Only kid off the estate to do that. We were so proud of her.’
Bronte was surprised.
‘I didn’t think she went to university,’ she said.
‘Oh, she went all right,’ replied Liz, and then something crossed her face. Bronte saw it but couldn’t identify it. All the tension seemed to come back into Liz’s expression. Bronte’s main question was on the tip of her tongue but she waited, hoping that Liz would answer it without her having to ask.
‘You know about what happened to your grandparents, of course,’ Liz said.
Bronte frowned and shook her head and then Liz looked even more nervous. She stood up and crossed the conservatory to look out at the patch of garden outside, passing her mug from hand to hand. She appeared to have clammed up entirely.
‘What happened?’ prompted Bronte.
‘It was a terrible business,’ Liz said. ‘They’d gone on holiday somewhere. France, I think it was. Anyway, there was something wrong with the heating system in this place they were staying. Carbon monoxide. Killed in their sleep, both of them. Tragedy. Your mum was only twenty-one. We were having a party at theirs when the police turned up.’
Bronte was almost thirty and had barely coped with the untimely death of one parent. How had her mother borne the loss of two at such a tender age? Her eyes began to brim with tears and Liz, who had just turned back, saw them.
‘Oh darlin’. You really didn’t know,’ she said.
Bronte shook her head.
‘She never said a word about it.’
‘Wanted to save you the pain, I don’t doubt,’ said Liz. ‘That sounds like her.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Bronte. ‘So, what happened? What did she do?’
Liz tipped her head to one side and shrugged. ‘What could she do? She just got on with it. She was starting this new job so that kept her occupied. I didn’t see as much of her after that. She was so busy, working shifts and what have you. And then she moved down into town and she didn’t really come back up our way that often. We kept in touch though, even after . . .’ Liz caught herself and seemed to change direction. ‘Even after she moved up to Yorkshire. Not regularly. I’ve never been much of a letter writer.’
Her expression suggested that this was a huge failing, but Bronte thought of all the other ways they could keep in touch in the modern world. Her mother had eschewed social media, saying that she was too busy living her life to share the details with all and sundry, but there was always the telephone. Had the two of them not thought to keep in touch that way?
‘I’m not sure Mum really kept in touch with anyone,’ she said, hoping to make Liz feel better.
‘No. I suppose not,’ replied Liz, which Bronte thought was odd. Why wouldn’t her mother have stayed close to the people she liked?
All this information was making Bronte’s head swim. She had come in search of one truth and now she had so much more than she’d expected. Yet she still didn’t know what she had come to find out. There could be no more beating about the bush.
‘Liz?’ she began. ‘I know this might seem like a strange question, but did Mum have a sister?’
Liz went very still.
‘Now . . .’ she said, like she was having to think back, as if Bronte had asked her if Loretta had owned a bike.
Bronte stared at her. What could there possibly be to think about? It was a simple enough question.
Liz swallowed.
‘I don’t recall that she did,’ she said. The answer was stilted, strained and quite obviously a lie.
‘It’s just that this woman showed up at the funeral saying that she was her sister,’ Bronte continued.
Liz shook her head slowly.
‘Well, isn’t that odd?’ she said vaguely. ‘Did she say anything else?’
She was fishing. Bronte could tell from her tone.
‘No,’ replied Bronte. ‘She disappeared at the end before any of us could get to speak to her.’
Liz’s shoulders dropped a little.
‘How very strange,’ she said. She looked at her watch. ‘Well, this has been lovely,’ she added, getting to her feet, ‘but I’m afraid I have a holiday cottage to turn around before three.’
She was smiling, but it was obvious that Bronte was being asked to leave. She too stood up.
‘Thank you so much for your time, Liz,’ she said, with as convincing a smile as she could muster. ‘This has been lovely.’
‘You’re welcome, darlin’.’ Liz’s smile was genuine but Bronte thought that it might be as much from relief as anything else. ‘You look just like your mum, you know?’ she added.
This was true and Bronte agreed.
When they got to the front door, Bronte thanked her again for her time and the coffee.
‘Oh, one more thing,’ she asked as she was leaving. ‘You said Mum had a job in London that kept her busy. What was it?’
‘She was a reporter,’ replied Liz, apparently relieved that this was a question she did feel she could answer. ‘For the Daily Chronicle. It doesn’t exist anymore but it was a big national in its day. Somewhere between a tabloid and a broadsheet.’
‘Wow! I had no idea,’ said Bronte, although she was getting used to these revelations.
‘Yes. She was a big deal, your mum. I was so proud of her. Told everyone I knew that my mate was a reporter.’
Then Liz bit her lip and looked straight into Bronte’s eyes. Something passed between them but Bronte didn’t have a clue what it was.
‘Be careful which stones you look under, Bronte,’ Liz said quietly.
Bronte frowned.
‘Some things might be best left where they are.’
Liz’s words may have been cryptic but what she was telling Bronte to do was anything but.
