The Family, page 27
‘We’re going to be your new mummy and daddy,’ the lady whispered. ‘Where you’ve come from. What you’ve been through. It only makes us love you more. Want you more.’ She cradled him to her chest with such tenderness. ‘We have chosen you.’ Something that had shattered inside me began to fuse back together and I couldn’t help it, I began to cry. My mum could have had a termination after she was raped. She could have given me away, but she chose not to. Casting my mind back I couldn’t think of one single instance where she made me feel unwanted. Unloved. I walked back to the dorm I was sharing and stuffed my belongings back into my rucksack. I had realised that no matter how far I travelled I was never, ever going to escape myself. Mum had been an easy target for my anger, when really it was me I was angry with. It dawned on me that I could have lost her too.
It was time to put things right.
Restack my Jenga life one block at a time.
I wrote three emails.
One to Mum, one to Aunt Anwyn, and one to Rhianon.
Aunt Anwyn never replied. I don’t think I’ll ever see her again. Rhianon and I are texting, just general stuff. Nothing too profound but our connection is still there and it’s strengthening by the day. And Mum…
Today I am full of nerves and trepidation and yet there is a sense of underlying excitement. I check the map once more. Mum’s new cottage should be at the end of the lane. I stop for a moment. Gather my thoughts. A queasiness in my stomach and a bunch of chrysanthemums in my hand. My sorry without saying sorry. I don’t know what exactly I’m apologising for. For falling in love with Alex? For pushing her away? For lying? For Dad? For something else? Something worse.
A few days before Dad died – I’m not sure if I should even call him Dad anymore, but Gavan is too weird and Dad is still how I think of him – I had been to the cinema on my own like Billy-no-mates. It was freezing when I came out. I texted him and asked if he could pick me up but he said sorry but no. He was at the Walker Street site working late. I had literally just read the text when I walked past that posh new Italian that Mum wanted to eat at, but Dad said they couldn’t afford, when I saw him. Sitting opposite this trampy-looking blonde. Although the restaurant was dim, flickering candles on every table, I could see he looked so happy.
As I stood watching them I didn’t notice the cold anymore, just a hot, angry feeling deep in my belly. The jalapeños I’d eaten with my nachos bursting into flames. They couldn’t take their eyes of one another. I swear, they wouldn’t even have noticed if a bomb had dropped or something. Dad held out her coat and she put it on. When she turned around and hugged him I ran away.
I sat on a bench in the bus station and rang Rhianon. Although we’d begun to drift apart, I had no one else to talk to and okay, I guess there was a part of me that thought a bit of drama might bring us together again. That she might feel sorry for me.
‘My dad’s having an affair.’ Burst out of my mouth as soon as she answered the phone.
‘You have to tell your mum,’ she said and, panicked, I cut the call. I couldn’t let Mum know. I couldn’t be responsible for her feeling like me, betrayed and confused. I was alone with the posters covered in graffiti and the chewing gum stuck to the floor and an empty, empty heart.
When I got home, Dad was there.
‘How was work?’ I hoped the tone of my voice would tell him that I knew where he had been. He would laugh and offer me a reasonable explanation. Reassure me that he wouldn’t leave like Katie’s dad had. That he and Mum wouldn’t get divorced but instead he answered, ‘Fine.’
I waited for Mum to ask him why he smelled of garlic. Why he said he didn’t want any dinner. But she didn’t, and by failing to tell the truth my dad had turned me into a liar.
I jumped every time Mum’s phone buzzed, terrified Rhianon would tell Aunt Anwyn and she would tell Mum. I’d be from a home as broken as I felt. The days rolled into each other and I could hardly bear to look at Dad. I couldn’t talk to him, snapping whenever he tried to make conversation. Mum asked me what was wrong and I almost told her, wanting her to make everything okay again the way she had when I was small. Dad made an extra effort with me. Just when I began to think that maybe I was mistaken, he announced he was going out with Iwan for a drink one evening. But the way he carefully ironed a shirt, splashed aftershave onto his cheeks, told another story.
He was lying.
I slipped out of the house after him, following him as he strode down the road. At first I thought he was going to The Cricketer’s Arms where he drank with Iwan, until he turned left at the end of Green Street, instead of right.
‘Dad!’ I called.
He turned. Under the orangey glow of the streetlights I could see him pale.
‘You’ve passed the pub?’
‘I’m not… I wasn’t…’ I’d never heard him lost for words before. ‘Look.’ He cupped my face in his hands. ‘Promise you won’t tell, Tilly? I’m not meeting Iwan in the Cricketer’s. I’m organising a surprise for Mum.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘Have I ever let you down?’
And then I was the one uncertain. Lost for words. I shook my head. He planted a kiss on his fingertips, pressed them against my cheek.
‘Good girl. Go home.’
I turned and walked away but I’d only reached the corner when I threw a glance over my shoulder. He was patting his hair and that small gesture combined with the aftershave made me turn around and follow him again.
I saw her standing outside a hotel, checking her watch. Her face lit up when she saw him and they hugged. She kissed him on the cheek and they disappeared inside. There were no windows I could see through, and there was no way I could risk going inside. I sat on a low wall at the end of the road and imagined the worst. Rain began to fall. A light shower turned into a heavy downpour. I was soaked. Freezing. It was another hour before Dad came out alone. I had visions of her waiting for him in bed. Perhaps he was heading out for condoms. My stomach rolled at the thought. Again, I followed him as close as I dared. At one stage I thought he must be able to hear my pounding heart, but the wind howled and the rain beat down. It was almost impossible to see where I was going. It was several minutes before I realised Dad had disappeared. I looked around in confusion before I realised we were in Walker Street, next to his site.
A crashing sound.
I jumped.
Once I realised it was the wind turning over a wheelie bin I suddenly felt furious. Why should I be the one skulking in the shadows when I had done nothing wrong? He was the one who was going to tear our family apart.
Today, I’m not sure what my intentions were as I tried the front door, and found he’d left it unlocked. I followed him inside, carefully clicking the door shut behind me so it didn’t bang. His footsteps were pounding up the concrete steps. I followed.
One flight.
Two flights.
Three flights.
Four.
The door to the flat roof terrace was open. Dad knelt, fighting the wind for a piece of tarpaulin. Yanking it down only to have it whipped out of his fingers again. Rain plastered into my face, my mouth, my eyes. I stood there and let it wash over me.
‘Dad,’ I said, but my voice was small and carried out into the night. ‘Dad!’ I shouted and this time he heard me. He jumped to his feet and spun around. He was standing so close to the edge.
Too close.
Chapter Eighty-Two
LAURA
It’s been eighteen months since my daughter felt ready to see me and in that time I’ve tried to forge a new life, using the insurance money that almost cost me mine. I skirt on the edge of sleep most nights, waking with my breath rasping, feeling the handle of the knife as I thrust it into Saffron, the resistance before the give, the slight pop before it slid into her abdomen and pierced her liver. I’d expected to go to prison for manslaughter at the very least, told myself it was worth it as I was stretchered to an ambulance. At the hospital, I was told I was lucky that despite the pain I experienced I’d only been grazed by stray pellets rather than taking a direct hit. By the time the nurse had cleaned away the blood and dressed my wounds the sun had begun to rise.
‘Happy Christmas,’ the nurse said. ‘We’ll find you some turkey a bit later.’
Later, I made a statement, firmly relaying the words Saffron had whispered to me before I stabbed her, ‘I pushed your husband from that roof to stop the sale and now I’m going to kill you.’
I was lying.
That wasn’t what she said at all, but I was prepared to do whatever it took to keep that woman away from my daughter, to keep my daughter away from the truth. That black weaver spider in the documentary that had repulsed me, and I aren’t that different after all. As parents we’d go to the ends of the earth to protect our young, wouldn’t we? In light of everything else the police uncovered, Saffron’s death was deemed self-defence. I was free.
Physically free.
Mentally, I’m not sure when I’ll recover.
If I ever will.
It’s been lonely. I’ve moved away. It’s the fresh start I’ve always craved, but I’ve been reluctant to make friends. To trust. I haven’t spoken to Anwyn but Rhianon emails me from time to time. She’s at university now. I wish Tilly would settle.
Looking out of the window for the hundredth time, I see her. Black hair springing as she ambles down the lane. I want to run to her but I’m rooted to the spot. The sky is the brightest shade of blue, hedgerows polished green, but it all pales into insignificance. I can’t tear my eyes away from her. She ducks, disappearing from view, and momentarily I’m confused until she bobs into sight once more, holding a primrose under her nose, inhaling deeply. She always did love flowers as much as me. A memory comes. Tilly must have been around two and it was my birthday. She rushed into my bedroom clutching a bunch of orange and white chrysanthemums in her pudgy hands, tied with one of the red polka dot ribbons I bowed around her pigtails.
‘Flowers!’ I exclaimed as she clambered onto the bed, petals falling like confetti.
‘They’re chr, chr.’ Her face screwed up in concentration. ‘They’re Mum’s,’ she said triumphantly.
‘They are Mum’s flowers.’ Gavan balanced a tea tray containing triangles of toast and thick-cut marmalade.
‘Mummy, ’mell them.’ She thrust the bouquet towards me and I breathed in the sweet, floral smell, and love. I breathed in love. Gavan joined us on the bed, helping Tilly spread butter, spoon sugar into my tea. I had such a feeling of peace. Something I thought I’d never have again since I’d lain bruised and bleeding in the park that night, full of shame and revulsion for the man who raped me. Full of revulsion for myself. And in that instant when Tilly handed me a plate, marmalade coating her fingers – ‘like Paddington eats’ – the disgust I had seen in the eyes of my parents, that had lodged itself into the bottom of my stomach, disappeared. It had all been worth it. For Tilly. For Gavan. I think that was partly why I was always so happy pottering around the florist shop. We’ve all experienced that perfect moment haven’t we? That was mine, and the scent of flowers always brought it back to me.
My stomach is doing the dip of the dragonflies that hover over the pond, swooping low, jolting upwards. I wonder if she’s nervous. My eyes cast around the cottage. The cushions are plumped, wooden floors gleaming. From the kitchen wafts the smell of freshly made bread. I’m an estate agent’s cliché. I tell myself to relax, I’m not trying to sell the place, but I so want it to feel like home for her. In her tiny room in the eaves, Cow the lion rests on her pillow. I’ve decorated in the same shades of lemon and lilac that covered the walls in our last house, even though I know it’s ridiculous. Home isn’t a colour, or a smell, or anything tangible, is it? It’s a series of emotions.
Above the fireplace I have hung the canvas of Gavan, Tilly and I. We’re lying in the garden. Tilly’s dark hair spread over the grass, our two fair heads either side of hers. We all share matching, toothy smiles, flecks of happiness sparkling in our eyes. It takes more than blood to weave a family, doesn’t it? It takes threads of kindness and understanding; love and patience. But is she ready to see him? My fingers twitch with indecision, a small part of me wanting to take the canvas down and hide it behind the sofa with the rest of the secrets and lies. I can feel them, brewing, bubbling, ready to come to the surface.
But it’s okay.
I’ve gone to unimaginable lengths to keep it all contained.
I’ll make sure Tilly never finds out.
Chapter Eighty-Three
TILLY
For eighteen months I’ve been tired. So tired, but sleep won’t come. The memories I’ve been trying so hard to repress fire at me like bullets. I’ve tried to stuff them back inside that box in my head, but again the lid keeps springing off. I’ve lain on my side, staring out into the starless sky until the darkness flickers and folds in on itself, rushing towards me, carrying me to places I do not want to go.
Falling, falling, falling. At first I thought it was me but I was the one watching; feeling the disbelief, the denial, the terror.
Horrified screams ringing in my ears. The sickening thud. The silence. My skin red hot with shame, my stomach icy cold. Why I hadn’t done more. Why were my reflexes too sluggish? Too slow. I had been rooted to the spot as arms stretched out towards me. If only I’d taken the hands that reached for me and pulled, although logic told me I’d have gone over too.
It wasn’t my fault.
It was an accident.
‘Dad!’ I had called as he teetered too close to the edge.
I remember darting forwards full of hate and rage and sorrow and fear.
I remember raising my hands as he stretched his towards me.
I remembered nothing else until Mum found me crying in my bedroom.
But I don’t want to remember, even if the memory might prove to me once and for all I wasn’t to blame.
But even as I tried to convince myself it was an accident I recall the letter I had written at the celebration.
I am a murderer and I feel sorry.
My subconscious remembers.
It knows.
But I do not know whether it was my fault because I was there. If I hadn’t called his name. Made him jump. He’d never have lost his balance, would he?
Or was it something else?
My palms tingle as they often do.
Did I push?
I can’t have pushed him, can I? He was my father and I loved him. But Dannii?
I don’t believe I have evil in me. The truth is I just can’t remember and it scares me that in my dreams there is always someone falling.
Dad.
Dannii.
Faceless figures. Their screams echoing through my mind. I wake up drenched in sweat and I doubt myself.
Did I push?
His hands cupping my face. ‘I’m arranging a surprise for Mum.’
Mum was asleep in hospital and I was curled up next to her bed, when the nurse brought over an elderly man and a younger woman.
‘Hello.’ The man cleared his throat. ‘I’m Dafydd. I can’t apologise enough for what you’ve both been through on my property. This is my daughter, Carys.’
I recognised her straight away. The woman Dad had met for dinner. The one I thought he was having an affair with. It was Dad who agreed the sale with Carys that would net our family a lot of money.
I’m arranging a surprise for Mum.
And he was.
Now, my thoughts drift away as I realise I am here. Mum’s cottage is chocolate-box pretty. It reminds me of Alex’s cottage in the woods. The gingerbread house. But I can’t think of him. I won’t.
I push open the garden gate but my feet don’t want to carry me inside.
Chapter Eighty-Four
LAURA
The rusted garden gate squeals as Tilly opens it. I throw a last, lingering glance at the picture.
Gavan she had called him at Gorphwysfa, his name coated with poison. Even now I can’t think of that place without feeling cold. I’ve heard it’s still unsold. Falling to ruin. Dafydd is now settled in Australia with Carys. He avoided charges, insistent he had always kept the shotgun locked away in a cabinet. Leaving it loaded and accessible was another thing blamed on Saffron. And the dead can’t defend themselves, can they?
But enough of the past. Today is about the present. The future.
Should I take down the picture of Gavan?
My nerves are zinging. Why is she taking so long?
I fling open the door.
She lingers at the bottom of the path. The sight of her causes happiness to burst from me. A meteor shower of joy.
I spread open my arms. She walks towards me falteringly. First steps. First words.
‘Mum.’ She can’t meet my eye, instead she thrusts a bunch of chrysanthemums into my hands.
‘Tilly!’
‘Matilda,’ she says quietly as she steps inside. She drinks everything in. I hold my breath as her eyes rest on the picture.
Her body begins to shake before she crumples into tears. I hold her gently because she is precious and fragile and I’m scared that she will break.
My eyes close as I bury my nose in her hair, inhaling as much as I can. Johnson’s baby shampoo had long since been replaced by the apple shampoo I always favoured, but now there’s something unidentifiable to me, but it’s still there; the unmistakable smell of my daughter. The essence of Tilly. Her fingers dig into my shoulder blades as she clings on. I am the floating branch in her torrent of pain. I won’t let her drown. I am buoyant enough for the both of us, although I too am crying now.
‘It’s okay,’ I murmur. ‘I love you.’ Over and over. ‘It’s okay.’
I am reassuring her.
Reassuring myself.
Eventually her grip releases. She wipes her face with her sleeve, glancing at the photo again.
‘Dad,’ she says. The three letters dripping with her pain.
I cast my mind back to the last time I heard her call him that. The night he died.
