The Lies We Tell, page 36
She smooths down her purple sari in a slow, deliberate fashion, as if giving herself time to think. ‘I am the kind of person who tries to see all sides. Your son was influenced by that other boy. I have to confess that I am struggling to forgive both of them. But you, you are different. No one else can understand the bond between mother and child apart from another mother.’
The lump in my throat is so big I can barely swallow my saliva. ‘Your daughter-in-law and your grandchildren,’ I gulp. ‘How are they?’
She looks at me with sad eyes. ‘How do you think?’
It was a stupid question but I had to ask it. ‘Are you managing?’ I add.
‘We all live together, with my parents and my husband’s parents. In my family, we look after each other.’ Her voice takes on a hint of disdain. ‘We do not send our old people away for strangers to look after them.’
I think of Gladys, who, according to Steve, is doing well. Is he saying that to comfort me?
Then she stands up. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Wilkins. I wish you well.’
And she is gone. I know, without her having to say, that she does not intend to return. She has said her piece. And more importantly, perhaps, made her peace too.
If only I could do the same.
65
One of the things about being headline news, even for a short time, is that you get letters from people you don’t know. Complete strangers who have read about you in the press, and feel the urge to express their views.
YOU BITCH, says one in uneven capital letters. YOU MIGHT AS WELL OF KILLED THAT MAN YOURSELF. YOU SHOULD HAVE GIVEN YOUR SON UP AT WUNCE.
Another, in shaky handwriting, offers to take me out to dinner when I am released. I like your picture.
There is one from a woman who says my story has made her wonder what she would do in my position. I get the feeling she might actually be in it right now, in which case I hope she doesn’t get traced. Then I catch myself. Perhaps she should be found.
There’s a letter from a PhD student who is doing some research into the effect on the parents of murderers. The tone makes Freddie out to be on a par with Jack the Ripper. ‘My son is not a killer,’ I say out loud in my cell, as I tear the typed letter into shreds.
But the end result had been the same, I remind myself. Death.
There is an envelope with a French postmark. The letter inside is folded so that I can see the signature at the end before I take it out.
Dearest Sarah,
I read about you in the paper. I could hardly believe it! What a terrible thing for you to have gone through. But I’d have done the same for my girls.
Still, at least I know where you are so I can get in touch with you again. I should have tried much harder to find you after Tom said you’d left him, but Alex persuaded me not to, saying I needed to make a clean break with my past. I think he was worried that you might all persuade me to go back to Hugo.
I know what you’re thinking. That’s not the Olivia you knew. You’re right. Turned out that Alex was a bit of a control freak. It’s hard to really know what someone is like until you live with them, isn’t it?
He wasn’t that great with the girls, either. He didn’t understand teenagers. But I wanted it to work. I felt too ashamed to say I’d made another mistake with a man. But finally I worked up the courage to leave him. By then, the girls were at uni and so I took myself off to Europe on an adult gap year with only a backpack.
I paused for a moment, trying to imagine my glamorous friend with walking shoes and a cagoule, instead of a fully coordinated wardrobe and a make-up bag bursting with ‘essentials’. It made me smile.
Again, I know what you’re thinking! That’s not Olivia. But it was, actually. I’d found the real me. I’d never been without a man before, yet it was strangely liberating. That year of doing what I wanted and going where I felt like was heaven. I put a few pictures on Facebook, hoping you might see me. I even sent you a message.
I felt a pang of regret. Olivia wasn’t to know that I hadn’t touched social media when we ran away to Cornwall, for fear of being traced.
But then an old friend got in touch. Remember how we talked about our first loves one night in a wine bar?
I could almost hear Olivia’s girlish giggle.
I told you about that handsome young French boyfriend I’d once had – the son of family friends. And how I’d checked him out online and found he was fat and bald with two marriages behind him.
Why do I know what’s coming?
Well, he sent me a message and asked if I felt like visiting him in his chateau in the Dordogne. So I thought, why not? And here I am all these years later! In fact, we got married last year. You’d love Dominic. He’s funny and overweight and he doesn’t care. He loves the girls and they love him and all his six children from those previous marriages. In fact, he’s still in touch with his wives and we have these fabulous family barbecues. You’ll have to come and visit us when you’re out.
I’d been so hurt by Olivia. But I can also understand.
I’ve never had a friend like you, before. And I never will again. You and I are bound together, Sarah. We each knew what it was like during those long years that we were married to the wrong men, hanging on for the sake of our children. Please come and see us. Meanwhile, I hope you are all right in that awful place.
Sending oodles of love,
Olivia xxxxx
That’s Olivia to a tee. A born survivor. But she’s right. We had been bound together through those years of bringing up our children. Friendship like ours endures for ever. I want to see her again. And maybe I will.
And then, a week or so later, there is another letter, beautifully written in round swirly flourishes, from a woman called Marigold.
I read it on my narrow bed at night.
The opening line gets straight to the point:
You may not remember me.
I recognized the pendant you were wearing in one of the photographs. She made a similar one for me too out of shells and stained glass. Such a distinctive style!
What?
Your mother was my best friend. She and I met at art school – your dad was in the same year. Afterwards, we formed this group – with some other friends – to make our own jewellery and sell paintings.
You were the first baby to be born on the commune! I’ll never forget it. We were all around you when you were born, chanting and singing and clapping. Your mum made me your godmother. We weren’t the churchy type, but I took my duties very seriously. I showed you how to plant courgette seeds when you were quite small.
Was that why I’d had that feeling of familiarity when I’d taken over Gladys’s garden? Her words bring back a vague memory of a woman with golden hair from my childhood. But it’s no more than that.
I want you to know that your mother loved you very much. But she was young, and none of us were as responsible as we should have been. I encouraged her to go out on a date that night she died. She wanted to stay with you but I said she needed some adult time to herself for a change. If I hadn’t, she might not have died in that terrible car crash. I am so sorry. It was all such a horrendous shock. I’ll never forget your little bewildered face when I tried to explain that Mummy wasn’t coming back. I begged Social Services to let me bring you up.
My mother’s friend had wanted me? My eyes filled with tears.
But they didn’t think I was good enough. So they arranged for you to go to your aunt instead. I tried to keep in touch with you but she wouldn’t answer my letters. I’ve often thought of you, dear Sarah.
I swallowed the huge lump in my throat. Marigold sounded so lovely! If only she’d been allowed to have me instead of my aunt and uncle, my life might have been very different.
I don’t know whether the prison will let you have these, but I’m enclosing a couple of photographs. The bigger one was taken when we all went on a trip to the Scilly Islands. That was such an adventure! We were invited to exhibit some of our paintings there – all expenses paid.
Another piece of the jigsaw was now slotting into place.
In fact, I still have a painting of the island of Tresco that your mother gave me. I will let you have it when you are released.
The prison officers had permitted the photographs to have gone through because they are inside the envelope. I take them out, one at a time. The first is of a couple. Instinctively I know they are my parents. Mum’s very blonde and is wearing a long cream cheesecloth dress. Dad has my jet-black hair and looks like a young Elvis Presley with a denim jacket. They are clearly, from the way they look at each other, madly in love. This is the first time I can see what my dad actually looked like; his departure after I was born had always left a gaping hole in my heart.
The other picture is smaller. It’s of a child who is, at a guess, a little older than Mattie. I know that because I remember my mother taking it. ‘Smile,’ she told me. ‘Show me your beautiful smile.’
On the back, in sloping writing, is a note in pencil.
My lovely little girl. How lucky I am!
And that’s when I cry. Because Marigold’s letter is proof that once upon a time, I was loved. Really loved.
66
Marigold’s letter changed everything.
It gave me roots. It confirmed various memories that, until now, had hung like spiders’ webs at the back of my mind. It allowed me to begin to forgive myself. What chance had I stood, orphaned at such an age? No one to tell me I was wanted. Of course, there are others who have had far worse starts in life and have not made the terrible mistakes that I did. Nothing can ever bring back Emily.
Yet, for some inexplicable reason, I feel a certain peace beginning to settle over me.
I ask the arts teacher in prison if she can photocopy the photographs so I can send them to Freddie. He and I write regularly, even though the prison post can take up to three weeks or more due to security checks. His next reply carries his usual concerns about me as well as his astonishment about the letter.
It’s important for Mattie too, he writes. I want her to know about her family history.
Freddie’s letter also says something else: Steve has written to me. He says you won’t see him. Please think again, Mum.
I can’t. I am too ashamed. I’d betrayed a good, kind man. I’d been as good as unfaithful to him. Hiding my past was as bad as cheating. Maybe worse, in my case.
Then my eye falls on Freddie’s next line.
He says he has something important to tell you.
So the next time a request comes through for a Steve Leather to visit, I accept, although not without apprehension.
It’s been four months since I saw him last. Yet I think of him every day. He could have left me as soon as I’d told him what Freddie and I had done. But he hadn’t. He’d asked his brother to defend me. He’d held my hand during the court case.
He says he has something important to tell you.
When I go into the visitors’ room, I see those cowboy boots below one of the small metal-framed tables. His kind eyes are still the same, although a little tired. He also seems to have lost a bit of weight, judging from his gaunt cheekbones. Is it possible he’s been worrying about me? I wonder what I look like to him. My fringe needs trimming. My prison uniform of navy blue baggy tracksuit and top doesn’t do me any favours. And I’m aware I smell a bit. The showers have been out of action for a while and I am still waiting for my delivery of deodorant. Still, at least there isn’t the same level of violence in this prison as there’d been in the one when I was younger.
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ he says.
The atmosphere between us is horribly stiff. Formal. Yet what did I expect?
‘Is Jasper all right?’ I blurt out.
‘Absolutely fine.’
My heart lightens in relief.
‘He misses you, of course, but he’s cheered up Gladys no end. I take him with me to see her. She sends her love too.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘Freddie said you had something important to say.’
He shifts from side to side. I can tell something isn’t right.
‘Please,’ I say. ‘Just tell me.’
‘I’ve been keeping the cottage clean for you in your absence,’ he says. ‘Gladys asked me to. She doesn’t want to let it out to any other tenants while you’re in here, in case you want to go back.’
‘How can I return to a place where everyone will talk about me?’ I ask.
‘You’d be surprised how quickly people forget. She says she can’t wait to have you back again.’
‘Does she forgive me?’
‘I haven’t asked her that. But she talks about you all the time, fretting about how you’re doing.’
‘Please give her my love back and tell her that I’m all right.’
‘She wanted to visit but she’s not very mobile at all now.’
This doesn’t sound good. ‘I’ll write to her.’
‘She’d like that.’
There’s another silence. I am too scared to break it. Then Steve speaks.
‘The thing is … that when I did some cleaning in your old room, I found something.’
My heart quickens. Drugs that Freddie might have hidden? Please, no. Surely I’d have found them when I tidied up. Besides, he’d always sworn he was clean.
Steve holds out my old art notebook that I’d been unable to leave behind when we left London. It was full of my sketches.
‘These are amazing, Sarah. I didn’t know you did life drawing.’
I feel the colour rising in my cheeks as I glance at a self-portrait, sketched from my reflection in a mirror. ‘It was part of my old life. It feels silly now, but I was trying to decide whether Freddie and I should leave Tom or not. Drawing someone naked lays them bare. It can help you get to the bones of a person. I was just attempting to get to mine. But then I discovered I wasn’t interested in life drawing any more when we came down to Cornwall.’
‘Why not?’
I struggle to explain. ‘I didn’t like the person I’d become. I’d broken the law yet again. It was a relief to turn to pottery instead.’
He nods. ‘I get that. I had a change of life too.’
‘You did?’
‘I was a lawyer.’ He sounds uneasy. Whenever I’d asked Steve about his past, he’d said something vague about doing a boring office job and that he’d left the ‘proper career’ to his brother.
‘I know we said we wouldn’t discuss our parts, but I wish you could have shared this with me.’
He looks at me with such love and shame and regret that I want to cry. ‘I feel the same about you not sharing with me, despite what we promised. But the truth is that I was embarrassed about quitting. Derek made a go out of it and, though I’m proud of him, I regret messing it up.’
‘Messing it up?’ I repeat.
Steve looks at me steadily. ‘It’s why I wanted to see you. To share my secret with you just as you shared yours.’
‘Go on,’ I say.
He sighs. ‘I was representing a woman who had been accused of neglecting her toddler. The neighbour claimed that she heard constant shouting and yelling next door. The thing is that there wasn’t any hard evidence. This neighbour was known as a busybody. The people on the other side said they didn’t hear anything. Then …’
He stops in his tracks.
‘Go on,’ I say.
‘Then the child “fell” into a hot bath and got third-degree burns. The mother said she always put in cold to begin with but had “forgotten” on that occasion. She was so distraught. I believed her. So did the jury. She was acquitted and allowed to keep her child.’
I sense something awful is coming.
‘A year later,’ he says slowly, ‘she was in court again. This time for manslaughter.’
‘What happened?’ I whisper.
‘She hit her son on the head with a saucepan for no apparent reason. Said she’d just snapped, but she was high on drugs at the time.’
‘That’s terrible.’ I take in Steve’s haunted face. ‘But it wasn’t your fault.’
‘Yes. It was. I’d been so certain that she was innocent. I wouldn’t have taken on her case if I hadn’t thought so. I was sure my client was a victim of discrimination.’
‘But you weren’t the jury. It wasn’t up to you to decide if she was a fit parent or not. And even if you hadn’t taken her on, another lawyer would have done.’
‘I know. That’s what Derek said. But I couldn’t cope with the responsibility any more. I couldn’t handle the fact that a child had died. It also made me question my ability to judge other people’s characters.’
I go silent.
‘After that, I gave up and did odd jobs. I began to drink too much. My wife left me. I wasn’t the man she’d thought, apparently. If it hadn’t been for Derek, helping me to come back to Cornwall, pull myself together and give up the booze, I don’t know what I would have done.’
So that’s what he meant when he’d said the marriage ending was ‘his fault’.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You and he are the only ones who know,’ he says, ‘apart from the rest of the village.’ He makes a wry grimace. ‘But they’re good enough not to talk about it. And if you don’t mind, I’d rather you did the same when you get back.’
‘If I come back,’ I say.
‘Please. Don’t give up on me. But most of all, don’t give up on yourself. We’ll be waiting for you, Jasper and I. Just like your beautiful little granddaughter. Mattie needs you, Sarah. We all do.’
But I am still troubled. ‘You said just now that your terrible experience made you question your ability to judge other people’s characters.’
He nods.
‘I have to ask you, Steve. Does that include mine?’
He hesitates. It’s only a few seconds, but it’s enough. ‘I did have some doubts when it all came out about Freddie. But they went away almost immediately. What you did was different. You loved your child.’
