The Secrets We Left Behind (28 page)

And then the image melted away, and it was Hannah’s face I could see. That’s when I felt the tears building behind my eyes. I hated lying to Duncan, but above all I hated lying to
Hannah, especially after she’d been so ill, and especially after the conversation we’d had a few days ago. She accepted that Toby couldn’t possibly know that he’d been born
from a donor egg, but now she was beginning to bond with him, she was talking about telling him the truth as soon as he was old enough. ‘But why do you have to tell him at all?’ I asked
her while she was changing him.

‘How could I
not
tell him?’ she said, and the way she looked at me suggested she was genuinely horrified by the idea. ‘It’s his right to know where he comes from. I
couldn’t possibly keep something like that from him; he’d resent it – he’d resent
me.’
She fastened the poppers on his babygrow.

‘But there’s no reason he’d ever find out, is there? I mean—’

‘Mum, Marcus and I have talked about this. We believe in being honest about it, right from the word go. Yes, it would make life easier for us if he didn’t have to know, of course it
would.’ She picked him up and handed him to me to hold while she cleared away the changing things. ‘But that’s just being selfish, isn’t it?’

Being selfish; it was exactly what I’d accused Scott of for wanting to tell her the truth. I don’t know whether it was because I was standing right outside the house, but a memory
flashed into my head of the day after Scott and I slept together for the first time. I was so worried about Eve finding out, and then Scott told her and she was lovely about it. All that mattered,
she told me, was that we were honest, that we told the truth.

Before I went back to the station, I walked through Alexandra Park and sat on the bench by the larger of the two ponds. I watched the pairs of swans gliding through the water; had there been
swans here that summer? All I remembered was seeing the pond water shrink back further and further each day until the hidden detritus of the town was gradually revealed, half buried in the mud
– shopping trolleys, car tyres and bicycle wheels, even an old pram. Soon, even the mud dried up, leaving a baked, deeply cracked crust on the surface. Now the pond was lush and green again,
teeming with life. I felt calmer just sitting there looking out across the water.

I’m not sure how long I sat there, but I was thinking so hard it almost hurt. I kept coming back to that conversation with Hannah; I could see the look on her face and I could hear her
words in my head.
Yes, it would make life easier . . . But that’s just being selfish, isn’t it?
And now, much as I hated to admit it, I understood that Scott was right; I could not
keep this secret any longer. Hannah had a right to know the truth, and so did Duncan.

The journey back seemed quicker, somehow, maybe because I was so preoccupied. I’d parked the car about ten minutes from the station, not far from where Scott lived. I still hadn’t
heard from him, but it was only nine o’clock so I decided to call round there before I went home. I’d told Duncan I might be late back anyway. I was in no hurry to get home, and I
certainly didn’t want to disturb Hannah tonight; I would tell them tomorrow. My stomach flipped again at the thought.

When I pulled up outside Scott’s, I couldn’t see any lights on in the front of the house, so I got out of the car and walked through the gennel round to the back to see if maybe
there was a lamp on or something. But the house was in darkness. I thought at first that he might have gone to bed, but then I remembered him saying that he struggled with stairs now, so he usually
just dozed in his chair. Perhaps he was still in the hospice; maybe he hadn’t been well enough to come home. I turned to go back to the car when the door to the next house – where the
landlady lived – opened and a tiny woman of about my age with short-cropped hair and large dangly earrings came running out, the light from her kitchen illuminating the small yard. ‘Are
you a relative?’ she said; her face was creased in an anxious frown.

I looked back at her blankly. ‘Sorry,’ she continued in a rush, holding out her hand. ‘I’m Brenda. Scott’s landlady. Are you a friend? Relative?’ She paused.
‘Sorry.’ She adjusted her voice. ‘You’re looking for Mr Matthews?’

I nodded. ‘Yes, it’s all right, I’m a friend of his.’ I didn’t know why I said that.

‘A friend. Oh dear.’ She looked flustered. ‘I’m afraid . . . it’s very sad, but . . .’ She inclined her head and rested her hand on my arm. ‘I’m afraid I
have some bad news for you, lovey.’

I looked at her. Was she saying what I thought she was saying?

‘Did you . . . I mean, are you a close friend?’

‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘No, not close at all. Just a, you know, more of an acquaintance, really.’

She seemed relieved. ‘Oh, well. In that case . . . oh dear, I’m sorry to be the one to break the news, but he passed away peacefully on Monday afternoon.’ She looked anxious
again. ‘You did know he was ill?’

I nodded. ‘Yes, yes I knew.’ He was dead. Scott was dead.

‘But you’re not a close friend, you say? You see, I need to find . . . oh dear.’ She gestured to her open back door. ‘You’ve gone white as a sheet. You’d best
come in for a minute.’

I could feel my legs trembling; I needed to get a grip. ‘No. No, thank you. It’s kind of you but . . . no. I need to—’

‘They want to know who his next of kin is, see. He gave the hospice my name, because there wasn’t no family, except for the little girl who died.’ She shook her head.
‘Proper tragic that, to lose a child. You don’t know of anyone, do you, lovey? Only they need to see to the funeral and so on.’

‘No.’ I shook my head again and hitched my bag up onto my shoulder. ‘No, I don’t think he had any family. As I say, I didn’t know him very well at all.’

‘Well, leave your number anyway, then I at least I can—’

‘Sorry, I have to go.’ I turned and hurried away. ‘Thank you for telling me,’ I called over my shoulder. ‘Sorry I can’t be more help.’

‘Wait up, duck,’ she called, but I was through the gennel and into the car in no time. I stalled the engine at the first try but then I managed to get it started and I pulled away as
fast as I could, in the wrong gear and without indicating. I drove round the corner and pulled up in the next street. I was trembling. I tried to unclip my seatbelt, but I hadn’t even done it
up. Scott was dead; he couldn’t hurt me any more. I felt a rush of adrenalin as the relief hit me. This meant I was free. I’d have to tell Hannah that he’d been here, that
he’d wanted to see her, but I wouldn’t have to tell the whole truth; I wouldn’t have to risk losing everything. I could feel my own heartbeat and I think I was actually holding my
breath while the fantasy sparkled in the air for ten, maybe fifteen seconds. Then it popped like a child’s soap bubble and I started to cry. Of course I had to tell the truth.

*

I sat in the car for a while before I drove home. I wanted to be sure Duncan would be asleep, because I needed to tell them both, together. I made myself some chamomile tea
– I didn’t like the taste, I never had, but Eve always used to say that chamomile would help you through hard times. I went into the dining room, switched on the electric heater and sat
in the comfortable armchair, where I would savour these last few hours. Monty looked up from his basket, thumped his tail a few times and then went back to sleep. In the quiet darkness, I reflected
on how lucky I’d been to meet Duncan. If there was such a thing as God, he couldn’t have sent me a better father for Hannah. But I wondered what would happen now.

I must have dozed for a while, because when I opened my eyes it was light outside and I could hear the floor-boards above me creaking as Duncan moved around.

‘There you are.’ He appeared in the doorway of the dining room and his face started to form a question as he took in my fully clothed state.

‘Can you phone Hannah,’ I said. ‘And get her to come round without Toby – I’m sure Marcus can take him for a couple of hours. There’s something I need to tell
you both, something important.’ I couldn’t hold the tears in. Duncan opened his mouth to speak and started moving towards me, but I put my hand up and shook my head. ‘No, please.
I don’t deserve any sympathy.’

‘Darling, what on—’

‘Duncan, please, just do it. I’m sorry. I’ll explain when she gets here.’

*

Half an hour or so later, Hannah arrived looking anxious; was I ill? she wanted to know, her sweet face etched with worry. I shook my head quickly and took a deep breath, and
then I told them. I told them everything.

Hastings, 1976

The drought worsened. The shops on the seafront were selling T-shirts with the slogan
Save water – bath with a friend!
which caused a lot of sniggering among
teenagers, and some disapproving looks from pensioners. The hot summer had brought a bumper crop of day trippers and holidaymakers flocking to the area, and when Scott went busking near the pier,
or in Bottle Alley, or up in the Old Town, he made more money than he’d ever made before. The dazzling sunshine made people more generous, and the sound of his guitar and the Bob Dylan or
Neil Young songs he sang seemed to fit well with the long days and the languorous mood. At the house, they managed to rig up a system that channelled washing-up water from the kitchen sink straight
out of the window and down to the garden where Eve was growing tomatoes, runner beans and other things in various receptacles – terracotta pots, a stone sink that they’d found hiding
under mounds of ivy and even an old trunk that Jo had found on a skip. As the three of them worked together to make sure the system operated efficiently so that water went to the growing areas and
didn’t spill onto the hard ground, Jo began to wonder how she could ever have considered leaving the house. This was her home; Eve and Scott were her family now; they needed each other. Eve
had said again and again that she was fine about Jo and Scott having slept together; in fact, she’d said it so often now that Jo finally believed her. And a few times, usually when Eve was
feeling particularly tired, Scott would come to Jo’s bed, sometimes just to sleep, sometimes to make love, always with Eve’s blessing. And in the morning, Eve would smile and cheerfully
ask each of them whether they would like tea or coffee.

The three of them had fallen into an easy rhythm, moving around the house, cooking, eating, carrying out their chores in comfortable relaxed companionship. And if Jo did turn out to be pregnant
– they used condoms now, but her period was nine days late so she’d started to think about it more seriously – then somehow, they would cope, the three of them would manage and
they would be a beautiful family. She hadn’t mentioned it to Eve or Scott yet, but they’d be cool about it; they were bound to be. And the fact that the rest of the country continued to
hit problem after problem only enhanced this feeling of joyful separateness. It was not how she’d pictured her life, and every now and then she still ached for her mum, but in many ways they
were happy; they were doing all right.

When her period came on the tenth day, a vicious, heavy bleed that made her feel as though her insides were being dragged out, she felt more than a stab of disappointment; and when Eve asked her
what was wrong, she was glad to be able to say truthfully that she had a painful period, and needed to shut herself in her room for the day. After twenty-four hours she felt better, relieved even.
They lived in a squat – looking after one baby was going to be difficult enough; how could she have possibly thought they would manage with two? It had been fun to imagine it, though, she and
Eve, pushing their prams side by side. But it was just a fantasy. She was almost seventeen and she thought of herself as an adult, but she didn’t really feel grown-up enough yet to actually
have a baby. But she still cried herself to sleep three nights in a row.

*

It was late August, and Jo and Eve were at the beach. Jo handed Eve an ice cream that was already melting and sat back down on a towel to flick through a copy of the
Daily
Express
that she’d found sticking out of a bin. Like the radio news they listened to at the house, the paper was full of doom and gloom – inflation was higher than it had been for
years while the pound had hit a record low against the dollar; water shortages were now so serious that there was rationing in some areas and people were having to use standpipes at the end of the
street – the government had even appointed a minister for drought. The continuing heat wave was relentless, causing freak plagues of insects – in some places, apparently, there were
millions of ladybirds, and they covered the roads so thickly that people were crunching them underfoot. Reservoirs were baked dry and cracking; the tarmac on the roads melted under the blazing sun,
and forest fires swept through wooded areas and heathland that were dry as tinder. They forecast a break in the weather soon, but it was hard to even remember what rain felt like.

‘It almost makes you feel guilty, doesn’t it?’ Jo took another large bite of her ice lolly which had started to slide off the stick. ‘I mean, the whole country’s
going up in smoke – literally – and we’re just lying around, getting tanned and being happy.’ They’d been on the beach for most of the day, just reading and swimming.
Scott was bringing his guitar down later, along with some cheese, French bread and black grapes. Then they were going to swim some more, eat the food, drink some cider and smoke some weed –
at least, Jo and Scott were going to smoke some weed; Eve said there had been a couple of reports recently about smoking being bad for unborn babies, and even though she only smoked occasionally,
she didn’t want to risk it.

Eve licked her ice cream thoughtfully. ‘It’s terrible about the fires, and the drought and everything, but we must never, never feel guilty for feeling happy.’ She
absent-mindedly ran her hand in light circles over her bump, which was significant now, and with its coating of Ambre Solaire it glowed in the sunshine like a big brown beach ball. Eve was proud of
her pregnancy and refused to cover it up. Pregnancy was beautiful, she argued, a life made from love; so why hide it under ghastly, tent-like maternity dresses with neat little white collars? It
was clear that not everyone agreed, but Jo no longer felt embarrassed by the disapproving glances of other people on the beach, only anger on Eve’s behalf, especially this morning when one
woman had stared openly at Eve’s rounded belly, shaking her head as she muttered,
‘Disgusting.’
Jo had sprung to her feet, incensed. ‘Excuse me,’ she said,
hands on hips. ‘But what can you possibly find “disgusting” about an unborn baby?’