The Pull of the Moon (17 page)

It was at this point that she mentioned she had a few items for us in the boot of her car. Trudie had already diverted into the kitchen to tidy up the tea things, but the rest of us followed Mrs
Ivanisovic round to her car – a shiny new Wolseley Six, the boot of which was opened to reveal a treasure trove of goodies.

‘Mason’s pop,’ said Danny. ‘Great.’

In addition to half a dozen bottles of pop, I could see a big tin of biscuits, various canned goods, four or five Party Sevens and a couple of punnets of strawberries. Simon and Danny set about
unloading this booty, while I stood to one side next to Mrs Ivanisovic. Normally I would have helped carry things inside, but I knew I couldn’t bend over the boot without revealing my
knickers, so I stayed put.

We watched them carry their first load in silence. I wished I could think of something to say, and when she opened her mouth to speak, I thought it would surely be to ask why I wasn’t
helping; however I didn’t have time to frame a convincing excuse about a back problem before her actual words rendered me speechless.

‘Stan and I are so pleased to hear that you and Danny are going to get married.’ As my mouth gaped open, she emitted a twinkly little laugh, before continuing, ‘Now don’t
bother to deny it. I know it’s supposed to be a secret, but naturally Danny had to tell us, before you came away.’

A secret, I thought. You bet it’s a secret. So much of a bloody secret, even
I
don’t know anything about it.

‘I just wanted you to know that Stan and I are very happy that Danny has chosen you.’

I didn’t know how to reply. Fortunately I was saved the trouble because my intended and his best buddy reappeared at that moment for another load, profuse in their thanks and delighted to
discover a cache of crisps and Cheesy Wotsits towards the back of the boot. As they carted this new load in through the front door, Mrs Ivanisovic lowered her voice and said in a conspiratorial
tone: ‘I hope you don’t mind my saying, dear, but that little dress leaves nothing to the imagination – and it really doesn’t suit you at all.’

I was beyond speech. It was not merely my embarrassment which threatened to shatter me into a thousand little pieces, right there and then on the drive. I was considerably shocked, not to say
needled, by the whole secret engagement business. She had chosen words which, while apparently bestowing a seal of approval on our forthcoming union, had also implied that I ought to be honoured by
Danny’s choosing me. Apparently that was the way she thought these things worked – Danny took his pick and I had no say whatever in the matter. How dare he tell his parents – as
if everything was all decided – before he’d asked me. Even my compliant nature had its limits.

On reflection I also found it extremely unsettling that he chose to confide
any
important personal things to his parents, in preference to confiding in me. I had convinced myself that I
knew Danny better than he knew himself. I had been coasting along on the crest of a wave, but Mrs Ivanisovic had abruptly grounded me on the shingle. As I watched them embrace while she made her
farewells, I felt completely excluded – a confused outsider who watches tribal rituals not entirely understood – transported in an instant from being the central person in his life to a
mere bystander. She finally got into the car and we watched while she started the engine, then made a series of short darts across the gravel until she eventually got the car facing the open gates.
The steering wheel looked massive: far too large for her tiny delicate hands. She looked over her shoulder and smiled as she gave us a final wave.

‘Bye, Mum,’ Danny called as she turned on to the road, one chrome wing mirror scraping past the lilac, the other almost touching the rhododendron. ‘Wow,’ he said, turning
to me with a broad grin. ‘That was a surprise.’

‘You’re not kidding,’ I said.

SEVENTEEN

The memory of my appearance that day had the power to shame me for many years. Even as I stand in the hall at Broadoaks, pretending to look at a framed print of a hunting
scene, the thought of it is enough to bring a faint warmth to my cheeks. I wonder if Mrs Ivanisovic remembers it as clearly as I do. I imagine she does. Every detail of that encounter must be
etched on her memory – every detail of the last time she saw Danny alive.

Then I remember that the day she came to tea was not the last time. A dangerous thought flares like a lightning strike, illuminating a vision of Danny in a hospital bed, with his mother keeping
her vigil alongside it. He never regained consciousness. Surely that was what they said at the inquest. I fumble out the news clipping, but it’s just a summary of what happened: there’s
nothing absolutely specific.

As I prowl along the hall, examining the framed prints without registering them, I remind myself that she cannot possibly know anything. If she had, she would have gone to the police – or
at the very least, challenged me with it years ago. Then I think about the promise she made to Stan. Their compassion because they knew I had suffered too. They had perceived my loss as being in
the same league as their own – as if I were already a member of their family.

I might have been her daughter. That’s the theory – the idea she has hung on to for more than thirty years – that I might have married Danny and borne his children. If that had
happened, she and Stan wouldn’t have left Birmingham to be nearer her relatives in Durham. They would have stayed, in order to be close to Danny and their grandchildren. She would never have
come here to Broadoaks. When the time came, it would have been some other nursing home – somewhere nearer to us, her family. All of our lives would have been completely different. I would not
be here now, miles from home, booked into a Travelodge for the evening and missing my badminton night. Maybe there wouldn’t have been time for regular badminton nights, amid the business of
husband and family.

I stop there and rewind back to reality. There would never have been this husband and family. The whole idea of my marrying Danny and becoming Mrs Ivanisovic Junior was a complete fantasy from
start to finish. I had never seriously contemplated marrying Danny. I was just a student in college, for goodness sake. We didn’t know each other that well. He was just my boyfriend. Oh,
we’d talked of loving each other, but love was a state most of our contemporaries fell in and out of every other week. It wasn’t
serious
. It wasn’t like committing to spend
a whole lifetime together. It had never occurred to me that Danny had marriage in mind. He’d never mentioned it – not even as a joke. I remember all too clearly my astonishment when she
dropped that bombshell – but of course, she still believes it. Danny had told her we were going to get married. I hadn’t denied it. No one had ever disabused her of the idea.

Big Bottom emerges from Mrs Ivanisovic’s room, bearing a tray shrouded by a large sheet of green paper towel, under which various lumps and bumps chink ominously. ‘You can go back
now,’ she says. She has a self-satisfied smirk – someone in whom power is vested, telling visitors like me when to come and go.

Whatever unspeakable procedures Mrs Ivanisovic has been subjected to, she looks no better for them. I notice there is a hint of blue about her lips. Somewhere inside this tired old body are the
remains of that graceful young woman, the farmer’s daughter who married Danny’s father, bore his son. Somewhere in there is that woman in the navy and white dress.

I return to my chair and she gestures towards my bag, having evidently guessed where I have concealed her newspaper cutting. I extract it, placing it on the bedside table without opening it
out.

‘It all came out at the inquest.’ I hope my voice is strong and confident. ‘There is really nothing else to say.’

She closes her eyes and shakes her head slowly. ‘Stan and I could not believe it. Danny was so full of life – so happy. He would never have taken his own life – not without a
reason. Katy – could it possibly have been an accident?’

I swallow hard, but the lump won’t go away, so I have to swallow again. ‘No. I’m sure it wasn’t an accident.’

‘How can you be sure?’ Her response is swifter than I expect.

I meet her eyes, keep my voice steady. ‘The evidence. The evidence was of a huge overdose. It can’t have been an accident.’

‘Then why?’ Her voice has reverted to a whisper, which hovers unanswered in the space between us. I struggle to restrain a rising scream. Why doesn’t she stop asking me
questions and just tell me what she knows?

After a while she takes another turn with her oxygen, while I avert my gaze out of the window. There is no one in sight now, not even the bent-backed old lady.

‘A boy came to see us.’ I turn at her words, wondering what is coming next. ‘A boy from the university. He said he was a friend of Danny’s but I don’t believe he
was. He said things about Danny and Simon – terrible, stupid things. Stan threw him out. He could not – could not accept anything like that. It was against his faith.’

She pauses. I wonder if I am expected to reply, or if there is more. Her eyes are closed again. The lids flutter. Is she sleeping? Has she suffered some kind of collapse? Ought I to call for a
nurse – press the buzzer? I am still hesitating when she opens her eyes – carries on as if there has been no interruption. ‘I know that Danny was normal. You and he were going to
be married. And Simon – Simon had girlfriends too – there was that girl in the bikini.’

She
has
remembered. She has remembered Trudie. Tracer shells erupt somewhere in the back of my head. Is she going to ask me why Trudie was never mentioned at the inquest? Is that the
additional detail she has been puzzling over all these years – why no one mentioned that other girl who had been staying at the house, the girl who was there when she visited us only a few
days before?

‘I know there is something more. Katy – I beg you to tell me everything that happened. All these years of wondering . . . I don’t care what it is . . . or how terrible. I am
ready for the truth.’

I hide my need to differ behind silence. I don’t think Mrs Ivanisovic is ready for the truth – I don’t think she ever will be. Eventually I manage to say, ‘I know it must
be terrible – specially with Danny being your only son.’

Her reply knocks me sideways.

‘He wasn’t my only son. We had another son – Stephen.’

Small wonder I do a double take at this. Danny’s being an only child had been an essential part of him – a cornerstone of his person. The idea of a brother is somehow unthinkable.
Then I catch on.

‘He died too.’ The words slip between my lips on an outgoing breath, entering the room so discreetly that I don’t think she hears them at all. A little more loudly, I say:
‘He died before Danny was born.’ It is a confident statement, but she contradicts it at once.

‘He was a younger brother. Nearly three years younger than Danny.’

‘He was born after Danny? Then why did Danny always say he was an only child?’

‘He forgot about Stephen. We made him forget. It was for the best.’

I wait in silence, still not entirely able to grasp the idea of this other child, yet at the same time thinking how the loss of one child would make the survivor doubly precious.

‘Danny was not quite three when Stephen was born. Stephen was quite different from Danny – fair hair, different features.’ She rested again before continuing. ‘We were in
the garden one day, myself and the two children that is. Stan was at work. I was sitting on the rug, playing with baby Stephen while Danny made sand pies. He kept bringing them over and I had to
pretend to eat them. Then I heard the telephone ringing. I was going to carry Stephen inside with me, but then I thought I would only be a minute and he couldn’t possibly come to any
harm.’

She isn’t looking at me any more. Her eyes are fixed on the opposite wall. I don’t need to follow her gaze, because I can already see the scene, played out before my eyes like a
faded reel of cine film. I see her hesitate before hurrying across the grass, leaving the baby sitting on the rug and the little boy with the dark curls, playing with his bucket and spade
nearby.

‘Stephen was nine months old and he’d never crawled more than a few inches before rolling over and giving up. Everyone said he would be an early walker, because he’d been such
a poor crawler. As I was going into the house, I called to Danny, ‘‘Look after the baby’’ – the way you do to small children. I wasn’t away more than a minute or
two, but when I got back Stephen was gone. Danny was still playing in the sand pit, but I couldn’t see Stephen at all. ‘‘Where’s baby Stephen?’’ I said, and
Danny just stared at me. I had frightened him, you see. He had never seen me afraid, so when I shouted like that, it scared him.’

In spite of myself, I feel my heart beating faster in sympathy with hers. In spite of her dispassionate tone, I stand alongside the distraught young woman of long ago, staring at the empty rug,
the abandoned baby toys.

‘I should never have said it. You should never make a child responsible for their brothers and sisters. I should never have left them alone. I found Stephen in the garden pond. It was my
fault, but I had made Danny feel responsible. It distressed him terribly. He began to have nightmares – to imagine all kinds of things. Stan and I agreed that no child should grow up under a
shadow like that – feeling responsible for something which was not their fault – always wondering whether they were somehow to blame. Everyone else knew it was a terrible accident: but
Danny wasn’t old enough to understand that. We decided the best thing to do would be to forget Stephen. That way Danny would never have to ask himself if he could have saved his little
brother that day. We told relatives never to speak of it – we promised never to mention Stephen again, even between ourselves. We destroyed all his photographs, got rid of the cot and the
pram, gave the baby clothes to the Church Mission – and it worked. After a few months, Danny stopped asking about Stephen. After a year or so, he didn’t remember him ever being there at
all.’